#but either way those feathers are gonna smooth out those shapes

[cozylittleartblog]

Do you have any tips on drawing the Swatchlings?

frankly i am happy that i have gotten good enough at drawing these bird boys (gender neutral) that someone wants my opinions. anyway

i see a lot of fun ways to draw swatchlings tbh and i don't really know what you want tips on Specifically so i will just make notes on a few of the main things i think about when i draw them, most importantly: just make them bitches broad and fluffy, man. they're all canonically Ripped, but an important thing to remember is that they are likely completely covered in feathers! that's going to smooth out those muscular details, so you wont be able to see them, just the broadness of them.

my style is all based in gesture and shapes, so i use a lot of blocks so they look nice 'n sturdy. it's okay if you don't nail the anatomy on the sketch, i am constantly nudging things around all the way into the coloring phase trying to get the shapes right. frankly i would probably bulk out even this Example Bird if i were drawing them all the way. i usually add more fluff or muscle or chub or whatever when i detail them but the absolute bare bones of them is dedicated to blockie

i give mine these sort of vestigial wings on their arms to make them look softer, and i think about how feathers move and stick out on real birds to help inform how they'll sit on these birds, too. and i carry the soft, pointed feather shapes into the fingers so they also look soft.

tip for drawing Soft: don't get caught up making too many individual strands or feathers, soft things tend to come together in big tufts. you want big gentle shapes, not a bunch of little ones. unless you want your bird to look wet or scared in which case you're doing a great job and you've probably just drawn spamton instead

their faces are really tricky so i think of them as these kinda... non-euclidean semi-hollow pentagonal cones. there's five "planes" with the top two dedicated to eyes and the bottom three dedicated to mouth placement. sometimes you can see the far eye even though, in real life, you would not be able to see that "plane" of their face. you don't always have to understand things sometimes they just look cool, especially when characters are cybernetic birds made out of Magical Darkness. there is no rule about when to draw one or two eyes. it's just whatever looks better.

biggest and bestest tip of all about drawing swatchlings! very important! write this one down in your most favorite gel pen and Really Big! give them either tails, or tail coats. i don't care that canon has neither, canon is wrong. you can switch it out, even - my birds have tail coats as part of their standard uniforms but they can wear their real tails out on special occasions.

lastly, if you want to stick closer to a canon interpretation, i would not try to make the birds too unique, when they're on the job anyway - they like being coordinated! tasque manager is very particular about keeping them coordinated as well. but if you just want to have fun then you can make your birds as fun and unique as you want :) even though i draw them all about the same i personally love love love seeing super funky swatchling designs, making them different colors and species and such.

course summary:

make them Large. make them Fluffy. use really broad, blocky shapes and draw big, thick tufts of feathers instead of trying to detail them too much.

their heads are silly magic nonsense. draw a triangle and get funky with it. no rules, only vibes. if it vibes it stays

they always need some kind of tail or tail equivalent and i don't care what Anybody else says

if you want to follow canon, draw all the birds except swatch just about the same. if you're just here for a good time, throw that out completely and have fun with it.

#deltarune #swatch #swatchlings #tutorial #art #ask #anonymous #anon #and now everyone knows about the funny little flap birds have on the back of their pants to fit their tails through #i have explicitly gotten better at broader bodytypes just by drawing birds and i am thankful for it every day #i guess there's some other smaller stuff like i try to make their uniforms more on the fitted side #because the birds apparently like to be Looked At and be Showoffs so fitted uniforms are better for that #but im not sure if my style is detailed enough for that to come through on anybody but swatch #specifically tailored their vest to accentuate the Donbonhonkeros 👌👌👌 #aaand it's okay if they lean a little more chubby than tanky sometimes because practical muscle and fat can look a lot alike #but either way those feathers are gonna smooth out those shapes #and they're wearing many layers of clothes on top of that! #once again i am not the Utmost Authority On Birds and this is just some stuff *i* think about when i draw them #if anybody does it differently or You want to do anything differently that's totally okie dokie :)

[bookobsessed1412]

Homestuck creature au

The trolls are still trolls, but the kids/guardians are secretly magical/mythical creatures.

Based off a scene in We Were Made for Another World by Princex_N on AO3, where Dirk jumps into a lake to catch fish with his teeth!

You can make this sburb or no sburb. Either way, the faces the trolls would make when they find out the people they thought to be human secretly aren’t would be hilarious!

Normally I would have each of them be their own creature based on their individual elements. However, it’s a lot harder to do for the post-scratch kids, as their elements are all different gasses, and you don’t tend to see mythical creatures based on gasses. Instead I’ll base them off other things. Mostly their aspects and/or how they live and/or their personalities and hobbies. Maybe. Also, it would be weird to have the parent-child combos be different creatures. Like, how did this person get this creature when there’s nothing in their ancestry to receive it? Shouldn’t they be the same as at least one of their parents? Or a mix of both of them? Why are they a completely different creature? It don’t make sense.

Dave and Dirk are sirens. Basically merfolk with bird wings, and the supernaturally beautiful voices they can use, though they do have normal voices too. The supernatural voices utilize a different set of vocal chords, and are usually used for far distance/underwater communication, and the languages generally sound like whale song and bird song, but, like, more beautiful to the power of 10. Their songs and/or second voices do not automatically hypnotize people. In order to do that, they need to add magic to their voices. Also, the normal amount of magic added to voice doesn’t actually have a hypnosis effect, though it does manipulate emotions. The hypnosis effect needs a metaphorical fuck ton of magic. Also, the other vocal chords do not actually create an entirely different voice than their human vocal chords. They don’t sound like entirely different people when using them. Okay. Scale and feather colors are the same as their hair and eye colors. The patterns are colored the same as their eyes, while the rest are colored like their hair. They have clear inner eyelids that are used to see while both underwater and flying, and they have those cat-like pupils to help with seeing in both near total darkness and in bright light (though their eyes do still hurt in bright light because of their iris colors). Their nails are actually claws and their teeth are almost fangs, while still looking at least sort of like human teeth, and are capable of growing back multiple times. I picked this for their combined affinity with birds and music, along with the fact that Dirk is stuck on a flooded earth and should be allowed to easily explore underwater. They also totally befriend all the birds they can, and maybe even some marine animals (mostly the larger ones, because they tend to be harder to safely hunt).

Rose and Roxy are carbuncles (which can be depicted with a few different forms, but I’m going with cat for this one). I think I’ll make it so that they are size-shifters, capable of shifting as large as a tiger to as small as a singapura. This is mostly because carbuncles tend to live in caves, I think, and I wanted them to be able to fit inside even really small crevices and still be able to have the abilities of big cats. Carbuncles have a gem on its forehead, usually flat and/or smooth so it reflects light like a mirror, but sometimes it’s shaped more like a horn instead. Sometimes they’re said to glow with an internal light. I’m gonna say that their fur patterns also glow like luminescence. Carbuncles are known for being the guardians of treasure, which makes sense what with how insanely rich the Lalondes appear to be. I decided on a cat form for their combined like and affinity with cats, along with the fact that cats are deeply connected to magic and the supernatural. They are often very mysterious and secretive (a connection to void), but are also connected to luck (light) and Sight (though their sight would probably be more doom or heart than light).

Jade and Jake are wolf or dog creatures. Other than that, I’m not really sure, seeing as there are apparently not very many easily found mythical canines that would fit them. For some reason most mythical canines tend to lean towards malevolent. Maybe they’re shifters (by that I mean something similar to twilight werewolves)? Or maybe wolf or dog Yokai similar to the Yokai of Inuyasha? I decided on canines because of bec, and because they both have an excitable personality similar to a dog, I guess. Jade was very easily fit to a canine, but Jake would be a lot harder to figure out, so I just stuck with canines.

I have no clue what to put for John and Jane, other than some kind of trickster style creature. I suppose they should be a humanoid creature like Dave and Dirk, have an even amount between capable of shifting into a full on animal and not doing so. Maybe fairies?

[quindolyn]

hi hi i have a req- remus and/or sirius where the reader has like bigger boobs w like stretch marks and stuff (bc theyre natural!!) and shes insecure ab them so the boy(s) make her feel better

Stripes || Wolfstar

A/N: I am not particularly fond of this piece all that much but it is what it is. I tried not to mention breast size too much because I know not everyone has big tits and I want as many people as possible to resonate with my work. Tits of all shapes and sizes can have stretch marks, they are completely natural and beautiful.

Warnings: smoking, it's not too too smutty I'd call it more fluffy smut, tit sucking, mentions of love bites, all acts are consensual and there is an established safe word

Word Count: 1,928

“We could go again,” Sirius offers as he lights his cigarette, leaning up against the headboard, guiding the fag to his lips he inhales deeply and you can’t help but be mesmerized as you watch his lips wrap around it.

Pink and soft, they're swollen from the night's previous activities, thinking about how they got that way sends a shiver down your spine, do yours look the same? Exhaling, you watch the smoke curl out his nose before dissipating into the air.

“Don’t know Pads, you think you could get it up again?” Remus stretches to reach his wand on the bedside table quickly and silently spelling you all clean.

Grey eyes flash with annoyance as he lifts the cigarette back up to his lips, though you must’ve watched him smoke hundreds of times you still can’t manage to tear your eyes away.

Maybe it's the way his fingers manipulate the small object as he plays with it absentmindedly that draws you in, the joints and muscles in his hand shifting under pale skin which looks almost as soft as it actually is.

Every now and again he’ll catch you staring at him, like now for example. His eyes flicker downwards finding your optics already fixed on him, “You want a hit Princess?” He raises his eyebrow, gesturing with the hand holding the smoke.

You nod your head, it’s not every day you’re included in their little smoke breaks post coitus, “Please.”

“Please,” Sirius mocks you as he leans down to hold the cigarette to your lips. You barely have the chance to taste the tobacco before it's being pulled away, this time to your right where Remus takes his time enjoying his smoke.

You can’t help but whine as it departs your lips and you’re met by the shit eating grin on Sirius’ face, clearly taking pleasure in teasing you so mercilessly.

“No whining Princess, smoking isn’t good for pretty girls is it?” Letting his hand cup the side of your face his thumb runs along the soft cushion of your bottom lip, applying just enough pressure to tease you.

In your peripheral vision you catch the cig being handed over your head, exchanging between the two boys as you nod your head once more.

“Good girl,” He coos, before taking another hit.

As the smoke leaves his nostrils he’s dipping down to find your lips. He tastes of smoke and something about it coming from his lips makes it all the more sweet, it’s probably better than the real thing.

It’s intensified as his tongue delves into your mouth, you can practically feel the smoke in your lungs, you’ve never been a match for him and simply let your tongue be manipulated by his before he pulls back, connecting the two of you with a strand of saliva that when it breaks falls onto the side of your face.

“Messy girl,” He murmurs, smug smirk on his lips, as he wipes away the mess, in reality his efforts only work to smear the spit on your cheek rather than clean it up.

“So what do you think baby?” Remus asks, sitting up and pulling you with him so you’re both upright, “You wanna try and go again?”

“I don’t know Rem, you think Siri can get it back up or is my wrist gonna cramp trying to get him hard?”

“You two are cruel,” No matter how hard he tries to hide it you can see the slight smile pulling upwards at his lips, “You’re even hiding your titties from me, mean.”

He gestures towards your chest, he’s right, you’d subconsciously clutched the sheet to your chest, crossing your arms to keep it in place and your breasts covered.

Heat rushes to your cheeks as the realization dawns upon you, it wasn’t that you were intentionally guarding them from either boy but you realize that that is how it looks.

“No it's not that Siri I just, I usually keep them covered. They’re… they’re… “ You stumble over your words, only increasing your embarrassment.

“They’re what puppy?” Remus asks, lightly brushing your hair behind your ear so that he has access to your temple, smearing his lips across the soft skin.

“I don’t know,” As you grow shy your voice drops to a mere mumble, “They’ve got all sorts of marks on them.”

This proves worrisome enough for Sirius to set down his fag, letting it sit in the ashtray on the nightstand.

“You mean stretch marks Princess?”

You try your best not to cringe at those words, stretch marks. It's not a dirty word, somewhere inside you, you know that but that has never stopped you from being insecure by them. Deliberately choosing tops that side the ones that sprout from the tops, near your under arm before traveling down the curvature of your tit. Making sure your lingerie always has some sort of extra covering where they’re most visible.

You feel Remus’ hold on you tighten from behind at your pained silence, it's telling enough.

“Just don’t like them.”

Your words have Sirius climbing closer to you, throwing your legs around his hips so the two of you can sit face to face while Remus holds you from behind.

“May we see them, Puppy?” Remus’ elegant fingertips dance along the top of the sheet which resides just a few inches below your collarbone. You shiver at his dainty touch, his fingers are light as feathers, slowly coaxing you into trusting them with this.

“It’s okay,” Sirius’ hand delicately grasps your knee over the soft sheet, “Wanna see our pretty girls but it's alright if you need a moment puppy.”

“No, s’okay.”

Sirius gives you a small smile that only grows as you drop the sheet, letting it pool at your waist.

He spares you a glance before slowly extending his arm, giving you time to tell him to stop or pull the sheet back up, and even though you want to do both those things and more you love Siri. You love Rem. And you know that they’ll be gentle and patient with you.

So instead you steel yourself for his touch relaxing as you feel Remus’ sizable hands wrap around your waist, resting on your tummy.

Your shoulders bunch back up as the tips of Sirius’ fingers,  nails having been painted black just a few hours ago. His touch is steady as he finds a particularly predominant mark tracing along the curve of your tit.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous (Y/N), can’t believe I get to touch you.”

“You’re silly Siri.”

“Not silly, you’re just fucking breathtaking. You got the nicest tits.”

“Just all marked up,” You shrug your shoulders, Remus takes the opportunity to smooth his chapped lips along your joint.

“No,” Remus contradicts, “They’re marked up when we sink our teeth into them and leave pretty bruises all over them,” His hands travel from your waist to explore your tit before stopping on the top of your left one where he remembers having sucked rather fervently just an hour before, “Like right here.”

His pressing down on the flesh pulls a squeak from you as a shock of pain shoots up your spine, leaving your body tingly and the specific spot where his fingers rest pulsing.

“These,” He continues, dragging his fingers over the small indents in your skin, “Are your stripes.”

Sirius leans down, capturing your nipple in his mouth as his hands go to support the weight of your breast. The angle’s a bit awkward but it seems to do little, if anything, to discourage him.

Gently capturing your nipple with his teeth he sucks harder, nuzzling at your chest as he does so. The pleasure that you derive from such a simple act has your head falling back onto the solidity of Remus’ shoulder, pulling whimpers from your throat as you jutt your chest out.

“So fucking good,” Sirius growls as he regretably lets go of your titty, “Pretty nipples,” He accentuates his point by twisting them each between his fingers, “Pretty stripes.”

Leaning down he drags his tongue along one of your stretch marks, beginning in the valley between your breasts before extending upwards.

“They’re completely natural, Puppy,” Remus’ voice is subdued as he runs his hands up and down your waist, “Lots of people have them on their tits, Siri and I have them in other places too.”

“S different on you , Remmy,” You try to explain, “You two are perfect.”

“Does it bother you when we see them during sex baby?” He asks with genuine curiosity in his voice, the thought of making you uncomfortable when you’re so open and vulnerable leaving his stomach twisting.

“Not always, no,” He remains silent, urging you to continue, “You make me feel beautiful Rem, both of you, I just can’t help but not like them, don’t like the way they look, or the way they feel.”

You hear him suck in a deep breath and you can practically hear the gears in his mind turning as he contemplates just what to say.

His hands move to hold both sides of your face in his palms as his forehead falls to rest against yours.

“Let us show you how beautiful your tits are, will you let us do that?”

“You don’t have to-”

Sirius cuts you off, releasing your tit from his mouth, “We want to (Y/N), let us,” He dips his head back down, delicately kissing the top of one of your breasts, “Please.”

He murmurs the simple, one syllable, word against your skin, the sensation sending shivers through your body. He rolls your hardened nipples between his fingers, it's nearly enough to have you mewling as you kneel at his feet. Maybe another time.

Before you can register what’s happening, strong hands are softly pushing you back so that you’re laying down on the bed.

You feel the steady weight of your breasts bouncing on your chest before they’re being grasped by hands that just by touch you recognize as Remus’. His thumbs run along the insides of your breasts where more faded lines reside, creating swirling patterns that Remus seems to thoroughly enjoy.

“You know why you got these right?” Sirius questions, raising his brow.

You shake your head.

“Because you got big fucking tits Princess, look at them!” Smoothly he replaces Remus’ hands with his own, letting their weight settle in his hands, “Bigger than my hands, bigger than Rem’s, they’re fucking gorgeous.”

He drops onto his bum as he reaches over you to pick up his fag, raising it to his lips as his eyes fixate on your bare tits, a wicked smirk on his lips. Instead of feeling uncomfortable under his eyes the feeling is something equivalent to the sun’s rays shining on you, warming you all the way down to your core.

You can’t help but smile at the sincerity in his voice, the absolution with which he speaks pulling at your heart strings. How did you get so lucky as to deserve his love? Though he’s not as chatty you know Remus believes every word out of Sirius’ mouth, tenderly he takes your hand in his, absentmindedly playing with your fingers while your two hands rest in his lap.

“It’s just hard to believe you guys sometimes, m’your girlfriend, you gotta be nice to me.”

Gently Remus guides your hand to his crotch, you’re met by his aching cock which you’re just now realizing is standing fully erect, aching, weeping red tip smearing precum against his lean belly.

“Believe us now?”

tag list: @randomoutsiders @weasleyposts @amourtentiaa @kittykylax @superbturtlemakerathlete @oliviashea05 @pinkandblueblurbs @dracofknmalfoy @itsmentalillness @zzzfour @gubleryum @advictedtohim @marauderswhore07 @st0nesnglitter @priii @miraclesoflove @shadesofvelma @ashlovesthemarauders @artemis1orion @skaratjung @ava-brooke-blog1 @fairyprettygirly @padfootswife @roonilwazlibswhore @swearingsolemnly @jamespotterslover @lolooo22 @adrianscumslut @jeannelupinblack @wh0reforthemarauders @myalupinblack @ashesandstars @remugoodgirl @planet-wolfstar @saintlike78 @i-love-scott-mccall @cedricisnotdead @pretty-pop-princess-hs  @sunshinexweasley  @saggyb1lls @trashyvicks @sprucewoodlover @slut4drvc0 @1-800-amortentia

#wolfstar #wolfstar x reader #wolfstar x you #wolfstar x y/n #wolfstar smut #wolfstar fluff #wolfstar fanfic #wolfstar fanfiction #wolfstar imagines #wolfstar imagine #sirius black #Sirius Black x reader #Sirius Black x you #Sirius Black x y/n #Sirius Black smut #Sirius Black fluff #Sirius Black fanfic #Sirius Black fanfiction #Sirius Black imagines #Sirius Black imagine #remus lupin #Remus Lupin x reader #Remus Lupin x you #Remus Lupin x y/n #Remus Lupin smut #Remus Lupin fluff #Remus Lupin fanfic #Remus Lupin fanfiction #Remus Lupin imagines #Remus Lupin imagine

[thiswasinevitableid]

since i am obsessed <33333 with the sternclay fill you did for this prompt, can you do 57 with indruck nsfw?

Here it is! Note: this mentions mating talk.

57: we’re fighting over the last box of half-off valentine’s day chocolate and end up in a “who has it worse” battle

This is it. Duck’s new low. Standing under the high ceilings of Wal-Mart at two in the morning, trying to decide if his dignity can take the hit of someone seeing him scale the shelves to grab the lone leftover bag of valentine’s candy.

Fuck it, those are Ghiradeli caramel squares, he deserves them after today.

Just as he’s choosing his foothold, a large, feathery shape rounds the corner. It figures that the one other customer in the store would need to be in the exact same place as him. He’ll just wait the mothman out.

Duck’s mostly used to seeing random monsters around town; back in the fifties, an interstellar gate opened up in Kepler, making it the home of a small population of cryptids know as Sylphs. When he was younger, he hated the fact he grew up in such a weird-ass place, but these days his brain barely differentiates them from the other Keplerites. They come to the national forest where he works, order their dinners in line ahead of him and, apparently, come to big box stores in the dead of night.

“Ah, excellent.” The mothman chirps, grabbing the bag of caramel squares from the top shelf.

“Hey!”

The antenna-topped head swivels, owl-like, and red eyes regard him with surprise, “Yes? Oh, apologies” he tucks his wings in “I didn’t mean to block your way.

“That ain’t it. I was gonna buy that.” He points at the bag.

The creature cocks his head, “But it was still on the shelf.”

“Yeah, because we ain’t all seven feet tall. I was about to grab it.”

“It’s not my fault you’re short.”

Duck bites back an unkind retort, sighs, “will you just give me the damn bag?”

“Absolutely not. I’ve had a very bad day and this is my conciliation prize.”

“You’ve had a bad day? I went out to a singles night for the first time after gettin dumped a month ago. Figured I’d finds someone to take home, but not a single fuckin person OR Sylph was interested. If anyone needs that candy, it’s me.”

A haughty flick of antenna, “I see your disappointing evening and raise you a reminder that it’s been five years to the day that anyone’s wanted to touch you.”

“Please, this town is crawlin with monsterfuckers, you can’t find someone to mess up those pretty feathers, that sounds like a problem with your personality.”

The mothman chirrs, annoyed, “There’s no need for such remarks. Wait, what was that about my feathers?”

Okay, so maybe Duck has jerked off to mothman porn once or twice. Or a few dozen times. He’s not about to admit that here.

“Uh, I, uh, fuck, I don’t not know, fuck-” he grabs for the bag, hoping to distract the Sylph. It works, but the mothman simply raises it above his head. Duck growls, too committed to his bad idea to back down now, and jumps for it.

A toothy grin, “Since we’re speculating, maybe everyone you encountered tonight was simply in search of a taller partner.”

“Fuck you, I’m five six.”

“What was that? It’s rather hard to hear you down there.”

“That’s it fluffball” He jumps again, fingers grazing the bag before it’s passed to the mothman’s upper set of hands. Mid-leap, he can tell he’s going to fall on his fucking knees, and a broken bone is the last thing he needs. His body acts on panic and wraps his arms and legs around the only stable thing.

“What in the world are you doing?” The mothman trills, lower hands catching Duck’s legs so he doesn’t slide straight to the floor.

“Tryin to get what’s mine.”

“This is ridiculous.” He keeps the candy out of reach as Duck tries to climb him.

“I know, but I ain’t about to let you win.”

“Gentlemen.”

They stop grappling and stare at the beleaguered employee at the end of the aisle.

“Please just get out. Don’t even worry about paying for that, it’s like two bucks and that is not worth dealing with you for.”

They both mumble an apology. Then he lunges up, snatching the bag while his opponent is distracted and bolts for the door. He’s without his car, so he’s half a block from the store when a shadow glides overhead and drops down in front of him.

“That was rude.”

“So was insultin me.”

“You started it.” The cryptid looms over him, “and you only have minor ego bruising to blame for your short temper and poor judgement. I spent the entirety of my day arguing on the phone with government officials until one of them finally listened to me about a dam bursting north of here. I, I deserve something nice.” The last part is said more softly, as if he’s not sure he believes it. That slaps Duck back to his usual sensible state.

Duck sighs, reaches for the cryptid’s arm, “Look man, how about we-”

When his hand makes contact the mothman purrs, then flattens his antenna. Duck runs his hand up the smooth chitin, making the purr double in strength.

“I, I apologize. I didn’t even know this could happen with a human so I did not check the futures for it.”

“For what?”

“I, my kind use playfighting and chase as a mating ritual. Which, combined with those gentle touches just now, means my body thinks you’re a potential partner.”

A thrill creeps up his spine, and he pets the Sylph once more just to hear him purr, “So, uh, what should I do?”

“I suggest you take the candy and” he shudders, “walk home, and we both pretend this never happened.”

“What happens if I run?” Duck sets his hand on the down of the cryptids chest, shivering as it sinks into the fluff.

The mothman looks at him, confusion warring with desire on his face, “I chase you. And since I foresee you asking, if I catch you I will take you then and there unless you tell me not to.”

“Got it.” Duck steps back, smiles when the cryptid tries to follow his touch and then catches himself. He could just walk home and wolf down his hard-won candy. But they’re right by his shortcut through the forest to his house and no one has wanted to chase him for months…

He takes off into the trees.

For the first few yards there’s no sound but crunching leaves and his breathing. Then soft, determined wing-beats glide through the treetops. The canopy is thick here and no one but him knows this path, so he likes his odds of making it home. He even knows where the most troublesome roots are so he won’t trip and lose ground.

Duck’s nearly home when nature betrays him; a deer springs across his path, startling him and sending him to the ground. He scrambles up, listening for signs of the Sylph’s location, but the wingbeats are gone. Did he give up? Is he lying in wait up ahead? Did Duck actually lose him?

The questions spin through his mind as he scans the treetops. There’s nothing, only shadows and bark.

“You know” a voice lilts, coiling around him, “I’d think someone who worked in the woods would know many moths excel at camouflage.”

Red eyes appear in the branches to his right. He gets out a single “fuck” before the mothman swoops down and knocks him into the leaf litter. The candy hits the dirt a few feet away as he’s roughly rolled onto his stomach.

“Holy fuck.” He pants as clawed hands undo his pants and push his shirt up his back, “holy fuUUUuuck, oh christ that’s good.” He rests his head on his forearms as the mothman drags his tongue up his back again.

“Mmmmm, what a lovely little mate I’ve caught.” One set of hands pulls his pants and boxers to his knees while the other caresses his ass, “all dressed up too. I cannot imagine why others passed you up tonight but I am glad they did. Hmmm” claws prick his inner thighs as they’re pushed as wide as they’ll go, “you’re a bit aroused already-”

“Wonder why.” He teases.

“-but I ought to make sure you’re ready to take my cock.” A long, flexible tongue traces circles on his folds. He groans, pushes his hips back in hopes of getting more. The Sylph grants his wish with a purr, thrusting his tongue in hungrily. Duck moans, then snickers into his arms.

“‘At’s ‘o ‘unny?”

“F-feathers, ticklish.” Is what he manages to get out before the tongue curls and finds his G-spot, making it impossible to focus on anything but the being behind him. But the Sylph only gives him a minute of delicious sensation before pulling back.

“There, now you’re ready. I, ah, I suggest you hold on.”

“To whatAHFUCK, fuck, jesusfuckingchrist” his fingers dig into the earth and dead twigs scrape his knees as the Sylph grips his hips and shoves in all at once. The upper set of hands drops to either side of his head as the cryptid hunches over him, snapping his hips while sharp trills and chirps fill the air.

“That’s it sweet one, goodness, years without a partner and the first warm hole I can catch is a tight one, I, I do so love fucking humans for that reason alone, but you, you feel exquisite, ohyes, yesyesyes” he chirrs triumphantly and Duck moans; he’s never been able to feel a partner cum like this. When he glances down his torso, he’s surprised to see the droplets shimmering in the moonlight as they drip down his thighs.

“That was fuckin incredibleAH!” He’s flipped onto his back, the mothmans body blocking out the sky.

“Did you think we were done?” He’s grinning again, the expression as charming as the starlight on his feathers.

“Kinda? Not, uh, not that I mind if you wanna go again.”

“I do.” The cryptid lifts his legs, removing his shoes and clothes as he adds, “again, and again, and again. After all, look how much it likes you” He adjusts so Duck can see his dick. It’s not the size that startles him; it’s the series of ridges on it and the fact that it’s fucking pulsing like it’s got a mind of it’s own.

Duck spreads his legs, “Only it likes me?”

“I’m beginning to share it’s opinion” The tip presses in and the purring intensifies, “though I must say you’ll need to be far more polite and submissive a mate to make up for your--ohgoodness--earlier behavior.”

“Yeah?” Duck smirks, dragging his hands up the soft feathers of his chest, then glides them out to stroke his inner wing “how’s that for a start?”

The Sylph’s chirrs change, growing needier the more Duck pets him, “So very good. No, no one has touched my wings in years.”

Duck studies their sheen, the little speckles of grey and white, and digs his fingers deeper, “Damn shame.”

A soft trill accompanied by three demanding thrusts and then cum spills into him once more.

“Heh, you like when I compliment your feathers? Ohfuckyes” He moans as the Sylph starts thrusting, slower than before but made far more obscene by the sound of his cum being fucked back into Duck’s body.

“I, I do.” He drops his forehead to rest above the top of Duck’s head, “it’s been so long. As you said, this town is full of people who would gladly take a werewolf to bed but have...reservations about one such as me.”

“Their loss” Duck nuzzles the ruff of feathers around the Sylphs neck, runs his hands greedily along his wings, “these alone are so fuckin gorgeous there oughta be a line of folks beggin for the chance to mess ‘em up while they ride you.”

The mothman whimpers, chirps when Duck leans sideways to trail kisses along his right wing. His hips are moving lazily in time with the roll of Duck’s own and he sighs with every thrust, as if Duck is his favorite place to be.

“Got some broken feathers.” He murmurs.

“A peril of fast flights and living alone. It’s better if someone else pulls them free and grooms them for you.”

“I could do that.”

A hungry moan as the mothman noses his hair, “You’re making me wish I hadn’t caught you so soon; had we played longer, my ovipositor would have joined the fun, and you’re so wonderful a mate I ought to lay in you.”

“Jesusfuck” Duck fists his hands into his chest feathers, bucking his hips.

“Oh, do you like that? The thought of being a handsome little hole for me to stuff my eggs in?”

“Yes, holy fuck yes.”

The thrusts turn demanding, “Just one more way in which you’re perfect. You’re strong, you’ve a lovely shape” one hand runs possessively across Duck’s belly and chest, “and it only takes a little bit of vigorous fucking to make you well-behaved and willing to be properly mated.”

“Fuck, fuckin christ that’s goodOH, ohfuckrightthere” one of the ridges is catching his dick, pushing him towards orgasm, “please don’t stop, don’t you dare fuckin stop-”

“Never” it comes out in a growl, “I want to see you be a good little human and cum on my cock while I fill you up. Oh yes, yes” he smiles down at him, “it seems you’re about to oblige meAHhnnnn, goodness you tighten so nicely when you finish” he speeds up, jostling Duck as his climax renders him limp, “yes, yes sweet one hold out just a moment, nnnf, oh, ohyes” He spills into him, Duck’s body unable to contain it all and sending it running down the cryptid’s shaft and the humans thighs. Then the mothman eases out with a low chirp and sits back on his heels.

Duck flops his arms about until he finds plastic, pulling the bag of candy to him as he sits up. He yanks it open, undoes the foil, and freezes. The cryptid isn’t looking at him, isn’t making any noise. He’s just hunched forward, antenna flattening.

“You okay?” Duck finishes freeing the chocolate square.

“Yes” there’s a sniff, “yes I’ll be fine.”

“That ain’t quite what I asked.” He holds the candy out. Antenna twitch, but the mothman keeps his head down.

“I apologize, I, I meant to wait until you left but I, I got overwhelmed. You were so sweet, you let me do all that and I, I don’t even know your name.”

“That’s an easy fix. I’m Duck. It’s a nickname.”

The cryptid finally looks up, takes the offered treat between his claws, “I’m Indrid.” He pops the candy in his mouth and chews miserably.

Duck pulls his boxers on to avoid getting any more pine needle pokes on his ass, then scoots closer, “So, uh, Indrid. Is there somethin special we need for groomin your wings? My place makes the most sense as a next stop, but if there’s a special tool might be better to go to yours.”

Indrid blinks, cocks his head, “You...you want to groom them? I, I thought that was just dirty talk.”

“Can be. But I was serious; now that I got a taste of those wings, I wanna touch ‘em whenever you’ll let me.”

“This is the least likely timeline.” Indrid whispers to himself

“What’d I do in the other ones?”

“Thanked me for a good time and left.”

“See, I thought about that” Duck tentatively moves forward, smiles when Indrid allows him into his lap to stroke his face, “but then I thought, ‘this fella’s fuckin mind blowin in bed, but I wanna get to know what he’s like the rest of the time. Can’t do that if I up and leave.” He offers another chocolate. Indrid eats it out of his hand, then wraps his wings around him.

“I, ah, there’s a special oil for my feathers.”

“Should we go get it?”

“We could. Or” he smiles, hopeful, “we could go to my place tomorrow morning. After we rest at your home and you let me buy you breakfast.”

Duck kisses his fuzzy cheek, “Yeah, let’s do that.”

#indruck #indrid cold/ duck newton #trans duck newton #meet ugly #terato

[moody-blues-requiem]

Birdbox (Harpy Narancia x afab reader

For the final Halloween fic and the winner of the poll, we have Harpy Narancia!! It’s a perfect monster for him, but one I’d never even considered writing before this. I hope everyone enjoyed their holiday and these fics, and thank you so much for participating! 

n/s/f/w under the cut, warning for some light orgasm denial

"BRUUUNNNOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

A loud screech echoed through the Passione base, easily identified as belonging to Narancia Ghirga. You were reading a novel in the living room while Bruno worked on something in the kitchen, keeping a large pot from boiling over. When you heard Narancia scream, your eyes met his.

"Narancia?" Bruno called. "What's wrong?"

The young man sprinted, quick footsteps could be heard dashing down the hall. He blew past you in a flurry of orange and tan, headed straight for the kitchen. A second pair of footsteps, slower than his, followed.

"LOOK AT WHAT FUGO DID TO ME"

Looking at him from the back, had it not been for his tuft of messy black hair, you might not have recognized him. Everything from his neck to his knees was covered in tan-orange feathers, some with small dark spots and others with snowy white tips. His outstretched arms were covered by wings. From the knees down his legs were bony and... scaly, almost, with three toes each and sharp spurs on the back.

Fugo emerged from the hallway, panting. "I CAN EXPLAIN! I CAN EXPLAIN, HE ASKED FOR THIS!"

“I ASKED FOR WINGS, YOU TURNED ME INTO A WHOLE-ASS BIRD!”

Bruno stepped between the two boys, knowing a fight when he saw one, and stopping it early. “Let’s all take a breath,” he said calmly, looking at both the young men to make sure they were breathing with him. “Okay, Fugo, you first, would you like to explain what happened to Narancia?” 

Fugo, the alchemist-in-training, huffed. “Bird-brain over there begged me to give him wings. I warned him that messing with humans and bodies and shit is pretty advanced work, but he persisted, and I gave in. The spell… He was just supposed to get the wings, but…”

Narancia’s tail feathers flicked in annoyance. “AND NOW I’M A FUCKING HARPY! LOOK AT ME!” The wings had replaced his arms, though he had hand-like claws on the ends of them. Bruno sighed, nodding his head. “I… don’t know if I’ll be able to fix this.”

“Abbacchio is a witch, right?” Narancia chimed up hopefully, with a mumbled “warlock” added by Fugo. “He can change me back!” Bruno seemed unsure, though. “I don’t know if he knows anything about…. This, but, I’ll give him a call. He’ll be out on a mission for the next few days, so I’ll see if he can help by phone. Fugo, would you mind seeing if any of your books have suggestions or resources or… anything?”

Fugo grumbled, starting back to his room. Narancia had turned to you, snuggling up next to you on the couch. It was clear he was scared, but you did your best to calm him, petting his hair and smoothing the feathers down his back. They were surprisingly soft, especially up towards his neck, where the baby feathers looked like the down stuffing from a pillow. “In the meantime, Narancia… try not to get into any trouble.” Bruno shook his head. “I don’t know if we would take you to a hospital or to a vet.” 

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

The click-clack of Narancia’s talons as he paced across your bedroom floor was an odd sound, filling the otherwise silent room. He would stretch his impressive wingspan, letting all his feathers show beautifully, before pulling his wings in tight to his body and ruffling up, like a bird in the winter chill. 

“Maybe a shower would help clear my head,” he said, thinking out loud. “But…. I don’t….”

“The feathers,” you spoke his thoughts for him. 

“Do you think I can shampoo them, or what? What about that one part of my back I can’t reach?”

“How about I shower with you?” you offered, earning a smile from Narancia. It was nice, a little sense of intimacy and normalcy, Narancia was comforted by your presence. Even through, well, whatever this was, you were by his side. In the bathroom Narancia stripped down while you ran a hot shower for you both, but you froze when you heard him gasp. 

“Nara?”

Narancia’s shout rang throughout the entire base. 

“FUGO GAVE ME A PUSSY!”

The silence that followed was deafening. Sure enough, his dick was still there, but his balls had been replaced by a slit and some folds, covered in a tuft of soft feathers. It… it looked like a pussy. A muffled shout came back from across the base, “It’s called a cloaca! Research it!”

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

It had been a few nights since the Feather Incident, and Fugo was no closer to finding a way to reverse Narancia’s body back to normal. Giorno had called in some foundation his extended family was connected with, who allegedly had access “to like, all knowledge, they’ll find something”, but who knew how long that could take. For now, Narancia was snuggled in your arms, unable to quiet his mind down enough to fall asleep. The change in his body was just too weird. It didn’t feel wrong, exactly, but it wasn’t right either. His nervous shifting caused you to stir from your rest, opening your eyes, gazing at him softly. “Can’t sleep?” 

Narancia shook his head. “Brain won’t shut up. Freaked out that Mista might call me birdbrain for the rest of my life.” You chuckled in reply, pulling him up a little closer so you could reach him for a soft, sleepy kiss. You could feel your boyfriend relaxing, practically melting in your arms. “Little better?” you asked, once you had both pulled away for a breath. 

“A little,” Narancia replied, before a little grin crossed his features. “But I think I could go for a little more.” 

Soft kisses and gentle caresses quickly grew into bold makeouts and full-on groping. Navigating around Narancia’s new wings and tail was a bit of a challenge, and he had to touch carefully so as not to scratch you with his claws. At least you didn’t have to worry about his hawk feet-- Fugo had whipped up a knitted pair of thick, wooly socks, shaped perfectly for talons. “Consider them apology socks,” he had grumbled. 

Narancia pulled away from your kiss, a little breathless and cheeks flushed pink. You could feel the tent in his sweatpants, but… something was on his mind, you could tell. 

“Question,” he asked. “You know more about, well, these kinds of parts than I do.”

“I know nothing of cloacas, but go on.”

“Right, but. Uh. Does it always feel this weird and sticky when you’re horny? I want to be horny, not sticky.” 

You let out a sharp peal of laughter. “Yes, I mean. I don’t know if ‘sticky’ would be my first word to describe it, but yeah, sticky works. It doesn’t sound as hot though.”

“You put up with so much for me,” he whispered lovingly, before you two fell into a shared fit of giggles. 

“It’s worth it, I promise,” you replied, leaning in to kiss him. “In fact…. I think I might be able to show you.”

Narancia watched carefully as you rummaged through your nightstand drawer, producing a black bag with a golden tie. A present, one Narancia had gotten for you a year or two back. Big but not too thick, long but not painfully so, it was your favorite vibrator. 

“Ok, bef--”

“I want to try it!” 

You were silent. Here you were, about to go on a spiel about how Narancia didn’t have to do it if he didn’t want to. “When am I gonna get the chance for something like this again?”

He had a point, it wasn’t like he would have a cloaca for much longer. Hopefully. It looked like a vagina to you, but with his penis where a clit would be. With a happy shrug you removed the vibrator from its pouch, running your fingers over the purple silicone, smirking at your boyfriend. “Get those pants off, then, and let’s get started.” 

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

Narancia was soaked through. His slit leaked a clear, viscous fluid, similar to your own arousal. It tasted, well, a lot like his cum, salty and a touch metallic. His cock twitched when you ran the curved tip of the toy over his slit, pushing the feathers back so his skin could feel the cool silicone. You pushed it in, just a little. Narancia huffed, eyes squinting shut. It was new, you two had played with the idea of pegging but this was different. Less painful stretch, more desire to be filled. His hips rocked forward, taking the toy just a bit deeper. 

“Eager?” you asked, swirling the toy inside him and getting a quick nod in return. You pushed the you in more, past the halfway point, backing out a little, and repeating, a steady in-and-out until the dildo was buried to the hilt in Narancia, only a little bit of purple plastic peeking out from between his feathery mound. 

“Do you like it, Nara?” you cooed, moving the toy just a bit, causing the boy to whine. “Does it feel so good to be this full?”

“Please,” he whispered, eyes squeezed shut with pleasure. “I need you to move, please--”

His back arched off the bed as you began thrusting. The pace was quick, but he took it so well, writhing from the feeling of being filled, the curves and ridges of the silicone cock rubbing against him so well, your other hand coming up to grab his cock--

“Wh-- hey!” he whined. Your fingers held tight around the base of his erection, a makeshift ring. “What’s what for!”

“For this,” you said, pressing a button, the vibrator whirring to life. Had it not been for your fingers, Narancia would’ve fallen apart right then and there. Instead, white spots danced in his vision, his dick twitching in your hands, painfully hard. Just the warmth of your fingers felt so good, he only needed a little more of your touch, he was so damn close! You grabbed the ribbon from your vibrator’s bag, securing it around the base of Narancia’s cock. He wriggled, the pleasure and pressure from the vibrator still fogging his mind. “Please,” he whimpered out, hips bucking. “Come on babe, please…”

“Please what?”

“Please… ngh, you know!” 

You clicked the vibrator up another notch, making Narancia’s back arch. “Babe, th-- fuck, this is cruel! Cruel and unusual puni-- NGHH!” Narancia was cut off by a squawk as you pulled the vibrator from his hole. It was drenched in his juices, just begging to be licked clean… but you had a job to finish. 

“P-PUT IT BACK!” Narancia yelled, wings flapping a bit in protest. “LET ME CUM, PLEASE!” 

There it was, the magic words. In one swift motion you slid the toy back into Narancia’s needy hole, and with the other, you tugged the ribbon free from around his cock. After a split second of twitching he erupted, hot cum shooting up his abdomen, coating his tanned skin, almost high enough to land on his face. His back arched off the bed in a harsh c-curve, wings flapping wildly, blowing your hair out of your face. You weren’t sure if you’d ever heard him moan so loud. 

As quickly as his orgasm had hit it subsided, Narancia’s lithe form collapsing onto the bed in a tired slump. His hair and feathers were equally disheveled, and his chest was coated in his own warm seed. 

“So being sticky’s worth it, huh?” you teased, poking his thigh with the slick-coated toy. 

Narancia nodded in return. “I can already tell that cleanup’s gonna be a bitch, though.” The poor boy sounded exhausted, you made a mental note to grab him a glass of water. “I’ll take care of it, don’t worry.”

Before you could move, Narancia pulled you to his side, resting his head on your chest. “Stay with me first,” he said softly. “Cleanup can wait a few minutes, cuddling needs to be now.”

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

By the morning, Giorno had pulled through with a way to reverse the transformation, but Narancia elected to hold off. “Give me a little more time with it,” he had requested, eyes darting to you, a small smirk on his lips. “There’s still a whole lot that I want to try.”

#Narancia Ghirga #jjba #vento aureo #golden wind #jjba narancia #my writing #va #n/s/f/w #halloween spooktacular

[banshee1013]

Fic - Sticky Sweet

Yesterday was the #DeanCasWedding, which of course means today must be - the #DeanCasHoneymoon! Written for the SPN Family Discord Valentine’s Exchange, this was not necessarily written as a honeymoon fic, but it works! Enjoy! 

Title: Sticky Sweet Rating: Teen Tags: Castiel/Dean, Camping, Tooth-rotting Fluff (literally) Word Count: 1768 Summary:  Dean has been introducing a newly-human Cas to human things - the latest: camping under the stars, complete with tent, campfire, and s'mores -- but Castiel has a surprise for Dean as well. AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29422437

==========================================

Dean holds on to the thin thread of his patience as he threads the tent pole through the seemingly unending number of loops running over the top side of the tent, grumbling to himself as he has to back the pole out due to missing a loop. Finally, the tent poles are in place and he uses the ties at the pinnacle of the tent to anchor where the tent poles meet and then stands, dusting off his knees. Starting at one corner, he pops the pole end into the tent foot, making his way around to all four corners until the tent is finally upright. He stands back and crosses his arms to admire his work, then looks around for Cas and smiles fondly when he sees him.

While he was pitching the tent (the thought makes him grin, of course), he had sent Cas out to find some firewood and to build the fire pit, handing him a small evac tool (basically a mini-shovel) to clear the ground where the pit would go and instructing him to find some nice round river rock from the small creek nearby to line it with. Cas had done spectacularly, a substantial stack of various sizes of tree branches and a three-ish foot circle of ground cleared nearby. Currently, the former angel was crouched on the ground next to a small pile of oval-shaped stones and was placing them in a ring around the cleared space with the precision one usually associates with engineering a spacecraft.

“Hey, Cas, that looks great! Can you come help me with the tent cover please?”

Cas looks up from his ring of stones, smiles and rises to his feet; but his brows pinch together as he looks past Dean and at the tent. “That does not look very secure, Dean. Are you sure it will remain stationary?”

Dean laughs and pulls Cas in for a hug as he approaches, then turns him around to face the tent, keeping an arm over his shoulder. “When we put the top cover on — that keeps moisture from rain and morning dew from getting inside — we’ll anchor it with those tent spikes,” he motions toward the four silver rods lying at each corner of the tent. “But I need help getting the cover on evenly.” Cas nods and heads toward the tent, Dean following and he can’t help but admire the view.

Dean has finally managed to rid him of the ubiquitous trench coat, suit, and tie, replacing it with a royal blue hoodie the color of his eyes and dark grey Henley, the sleeves pulled up to expose muscular forearms; and dark blue jeans that hug his surprisingly slender form — and does wonders for Dean’s libido. The fact that the trench coat and ill-fitting suit hid his drool-worthy body all this time is a travesty that Dean continually laments — but is glad to have rectified, especially as the jeans draw tight around those remarkably muscular thighs when Cas crouches down to inspect the tent spikes.

The sun is just starting to dip behind the trees and just then a shaft of light streaks through the branches, backlighting Cas in yellow-orange light and setting his dark brown head glowing like a halo, and Dean gasps at the sight. He’s absolutely gorgeous, how have I been so blind? Cas glances over his shoulder, head tilted and a puzzled look in his eye, the same shaft of light striking and turning them into blue fire.

Dean suddenly realizes he’s the luckiest sonuvabitch alive.

“Dean? Are you alright?”

Blinking, Dean shakes his head and smiles, moving toward the tent. “Yeah… I’m great, Cas.” Kneeling down next to him, he takes Cas’ face in both hands and kisses him, soft and chaste… but the next thing Dean knows, he’s on his back with Cas over him, groaning against his lips as he deepens the kiss.

Cas finally breaks the kiss to gasp for air, and even though it’s literally the last thing he wants to do, Dean gently pushes him back. “We’re losing the light, sweetheart, and we gotta finish putting this tent together,” he gasps. Cas sighs and rises to his feet, offering a hand down to pull Dean up. They quickly get to work and in no time, the tent cover is pulled over the top and the tent staked down securely.

“Cas, can you finish with the campfire? I’m gonna get the rest of our camping stuff.” Dean rushes to the car to grab their sleeping bags, cooler, and Coleman grill — no way was he going to attempt to cook an actual meal over a campfire — while Cas finishes placing the stones around the cleared area and setting some of the firewood he’d gathered inside; smaller sticks on the bottom and tenting some of the larger pieces over the top. By the time Dean has returned and placed their sleeping bags inside the tent, Cas already has a nice fire going. Dean smiles as he sees Cas perched on the smooth log he’d managed to find, placed in front of the fire for them to sit on, and digs into the bag next to the cooler for the surprise he brought.

He joins Cas at the fire with his treasures in hand — two long metal sticks with handles, a bag of jumbo marshmallows, a box of graham crackers, and several fun-sized Hersey chocolates. “Ever had s’mores, Cas?” he asks, setting the items down by the log before taking a seat next to him.

Cas leans over and glances at the items by Dean’s feet with that adorable head-tilt Dean loves. “I don’t believe I have.”

Dean smiles and leans over to kiss him quickly. “Well, then, you’re in for a treat.” He tears open the bag of marshmallows and plucks one out, spearing it on the stick and holding it over the fire. “The trick is to get it close enough to the fire for it to melt and char a little. Don’t let it stay still or it’ll burn and that’s no good.” He demonstrates, twirling the marshmallow over the fire until it’s golden brown.

“Now, grab one of the graham crackers, snap it in half, and unwrap the chocolate.” Cas follows his instructions as Dean pulls the marshmallow from the fire. “Okay, place the chocolate on one half of the graham cracker…” Cas does and Dean maneuvers the marshmallow over the chocolate and cracker, “... now pinch it with the other half of the graham cracker.” With his free hand, Dean reaches over to cover Cas’ hand with his own to show him how to squish the marshmallow between the graham crackers and chocolate and pulls the stick free.

Cas looks at the s’more in his hand, turning it this way and that as chocolate melted by the hot marshmallow begins to drip. “Quick! Eat it!” Dean nudges his hand toward his mouth and Cas takes a big bite, the gooey marshmallow and melted chocolate squirting out from the other side and onto his hand.

Cas finishes the bite, but then frowns. “It’s very good,” he comments, the frown intensifying as the chocolate and marshmallow start to slide down his arm, “but it’s also very messy.”

Dean is not about to miss this opportunity, grabbing Cas’ arm and running his tongue up it, lapping up the melted marshmallow and chocolate, his eyes never leaving Cas’ face and feeling the flush crawl up his neck at the heat reflected there — and not just from the proximity of the fire. Taking the remaining portion of the s’more into his mouth, he sucks the remaining marshmallow and chocolate from Cas’ fingers, running his tongue in and around them and taking immense pleasure in the way Cas’ breath hitches.

No sooner has he finished swallowing the bite than Cas has him on his back in front of the log, mouth on his and licking the sweetness from it; his body warm and firm against his, and Dean can’t stifle the moan that follows.

Cas finally pulls back, his cheeks flushed and breath harsh. “I would like another, please.”

Awhile later, sated on s’mores and kisses, Dean leans against the log between Cas’ knees, head resting on a thick thigh as Cas runs a (thankfully clean due to the wet wipes Dean had the foresight to pack) hand through his hair. His eyes are getting heavy and the last thing he wants to do right now is move.

Cas has other ideas.

“Dean, I need to get up.” Dean groans and grips his thigh in protest, but Cas is insistent. “I won’t be long, I promise.” With an exaggerated sigh, Dean releases his grip on Cas’ thigh and lifts his head, and Cas rises from the log and disappears into the darkness behind them. He hears the trunk of the Impala open, a rustling of fabric, and the trunk shutting again; then Cas is back. Dean watches as he lays a blanket on the ground on the other side of the fire opposite the log. Sitting on the blanket with his legs spread, he pats the area in between.

Dean gets the message. He crawls around the fire to where Cas sits and nestles himself in the proffered area on the blanket, his back to Cas’ broad chest, and leans back, closing his eyes. From behind them, he feels Cas’ arms reach behind on either side, pulling something up over his shoulders.

“The thing I miss the most since losing my Grace,” he says quietly, haltingly, “is holding you with my wings.” He sighs, and Dean hears more rustling, this time sounding like… feathers? The rustling pulls around them, followed by encompassing warmth; and Dean opens his eyes gasping at the sight of black feathers wrapped around him, brilliant blues and greens and scattered flecks of gold shining in the firelight.

“Even though they were not corporeal, and not technically consisting of cormorant feathers, I knew you could still feel them — and this was the best representation I could find,” he said as he spreads the blanket of feathers fully around them, pulling Dean close and laying his cheek against the crown of his head.

Dean’s breath catches in his throat as he’s suffused in the warmth of the feathers and Cas’ body. His hands grasp Cas’ wrists and pulls him tighter.

“This is amazing,” he says, his voice barely audible above the crackling of the fire. “I love you so much, Cas.”

He feels Cas’ smile against the top of his head, then lips pressed against his temple. “And I, you, Dean.”

#destiel #fic #deancas honeymoon

[yandere-daydreams]

Another Yandere!Dabi/Reader piece for the very lovely @goretillery​, as a spiritual continuation of this commission. For the sake of clarification, assume this takes place after the manga’s current arc is over, when Dabi is left with a few more issues than friends. For the drama alone, really.

Word Count: 1.7k

TW: Minor Spoilers, Mention of Injury, Implied Death, Imprisonment, and Wing Clipping. 

It was all you could do to stay still.

The pain hadn’t faded, not in the slightest. Your fight with Dabi had been hours ago, days ago, maybe. You couldn’t be sure of time down here, splayed across a bare mattress in the basement of one of the League’s hideouts. True to his word, he’d found somewhere so deep and so desolate, even the air carried a lonely chill, your cell absent of window or clocks or much of anything, spare a few of your captor’s personal items, mundane and sentimental and meaningless to you. Entertainment wasn’t a problem, though, not right now. Two broken ribs ached in your chest, a dislocated ankle limiting your movement to short, stumbling steps. Minor scratches and bruises made it so you never had to search for a new source of petty irritation, but you could hardly summon the energy to care about any of that.

Your wings were all you could focus on.

Or, what was left of your wings, rather.

Dabi hadn’t been careful. He was angry, he was furious, and he wasn’t thinking. You could only be glad they hadn’t been completely incinerated, really, considering just how hot everything had felt in the moment. The roots of each were charred and blackened, stripes of burnt down and insulating-feathers drawn across the once perfect pair. He’d pulled out handfuls at a time, leaving sporadic, bare patches littered across your appendages, scarred over flesh currently struggling to heal itself. If your arches hadn’t been broken in the struggle, it would’ve been a miracle, considering the fractures that seemed to run through every other microscopic bone. You could hardly roll over without bringing yourself to tears, let alone moving your wings in any meaningful way. You’d tried to fold them, when Dabi first left you alone, tuck them into your back in order to wallow in your self-pity a little more comfortably. You thought it couldn’t be too bad. That even if they were hurt, the numbness should've set in, by then.

You’d started crying as soon as you made the first crease. You hadn’t really stopped, yet.

If Dabi felt any sort of sympathy, he didn’t make a show of it. You heard the solitary door close in the distance, but any greetings or footsteps were lost on you, your pulse still beating deafeningly in your ears. He clicked his tongue as he saw you were still curled into the same ball he’d left you in, and space your body could’ve taken up occupied instead by your outstretched wings, laid sloppily across any surface they could think to cover. He tapped your shoulder as he passed, watching as you recoiled and winced, before moving on seemingly unaffected, dropping whatever he was holding onto a splintering, decaying table, one that looked like it may collapse under more than a handful of pounds.

“Still pouting?” You didn’t answer, curling further into yourself, and he sighed, shaking his head. If you didn’t know better, you’d say that was his interpretation of an empathetic response. “Must really hurt, then.”

There was a rustling of plastic, the scratch of rough fabric against leathery skin. The room smelled like a bonfire, after a few seconds. How’d you ever get used to the burning smell? Did he even notice it, anymore? You felt the mattress dip under his weight, Dabi seating himself behind you, reaching over the small space and hooking his arms under yours, dragging your crumpled body onto his lap. You hissed as he did so, every bone under your skin rejecting even the smallest movement, but Dabi didn’t seem to take notice, only positioning you to sit facing him, left to lean against his chest and hide your face in his shoulder. He supported himself on the bare wall, in return, leaving your dependency mercifully unspoken.

“It doesn’t really stop. The pain, I mean,” He admitted, running an idle finger down the length of your spine. You reacted before you could think, operating off instinct and letting your wings tense at your sides, straightening despite the sharp, jagged needles that seemed to embed themselves in your skin. You didn’t dare let them drop, fearing the inevitable outcome, and he seemed satisfied with that, draping an arm over the crock of your neck and tracing meaningless shapes into whatever his hand landed on. “Everything heals over, or… scars, I guess. You learn not to whine about it, but it won’t go away. Not if it’s bad enough.” He paused, sighing. “It doesn’t hurt as much, though. You’ll start looking forward to it, eventually. Anticipating it.”

“I don’t want to enjoy it,” You mumbled, your voice muffled by a soot-stained shirt. “I want it to stop.”

He chuckled, softly, his fingers closing around one of the smooth, glossy feathers that covered the exterior of your wings. He gave it an experimental tug, and you whimpered, but Dabi acted before you could spit out protest. One harsh, steady pull was all it took to drag the feather out by its stem, the sting etching itself into your flesh, seeping downward with each passing second. He brought it to your side, letting you peek at it out of the corner of your eye. Bent and broken. You weren’t sure what you’d been expecting. “Then you’ll have to tear it out,” He explained, finding his next target. A newer one - a blood feather. It barely put up a fight, when he plucked it. “The faster you get rid of whatever hurts, the faster everything else’ll get better.”

You groaned as his attention shifted, moving towards your left wing. With his free hand, he jabbed at the peak of your arch, and you screamed as the appendaged drew back, leaving the points of each within arm’s length. You grit your teeth, your eyes already beginning to tear up. “Someone should’ve flayed you, in that case,” You grunted, fighting to keep your voice even. “I’d be happy to do it now, if you’re up for it.”

“Aw, baby, you know how riled up I get when you talk like that.” Nails scraped against the base of a primary feather, sending a shudder up the length of your spine. You noticed you were trembling, then, shaking like a leaf in the wind, but steeling yourself wasn’t an option. Instead, you grit your teeth and told yourself Dabi hadn’t noticed, yet. “I used to do this kind of thing for a friend of mine. One of those real laid-back guys, the type to take worse care of himself than you do.” He paused, stopping to think. “You’ve heard of Hawks, yeah?”

“You know I have,” You said, your irritation making itself apparent. “Everyone has.”

He didn’t seem to care for your tone. Dabi chose that moment to reveal what he’d been hiding, and suddenly, you weren’t sure how you hadn’t noticed it before. The shape in his pocket, long and pointed, a handle just the right to fit the shape of Dabi’s hand at the end. It didn’t take you long to identify the tool, already preparing to ask him why he’d brought a pair of scissors, but something was off. They were longer than an average pair, sharper. More similar to garden shears than anything. “He was a stand-up guy, wasn’t he? A hero, an idol…” He trailed off, slipping his fingers into the grip tentatively. As if he wasn’t sure what he was going to do with them, yet. “I’m sure you looked up to him. Similar quirks and all.”

You did. You’d been convinced you were going to be just like him, when he was still a rising-star. Quirks like yours were so rare, and considering how fragile wings tended to be, only a handful of Flying Heroes had ever made it into the spotlight, even with the secondary abilities they tended to have. But, Hawks was gone, now, and you wouldn’t be surprised if you followed a similar fate, sooner or later. You shinked into yourself at the thought. “He was amazing.”

“He was,” Dabi confirmed, his touch ghosting over your waist. Remembering the minor weapon, you attempted to straighten your back, to move and get away from him, but your muscles were already growing sore at the thought alone, every cell in your body rebelling violently. Dabi only chuckled, taking hold of the thin root of your left wing, where the appendage attached itself to your back. You didn’t doubt that he could shatter the delicate bone with his bare hands, if he tried.

“And I’m sure you wanted to be just like him.”

You nodded. You couldn’t think of anything else to do. “I didn’t--”

“You’re nothing like him.” There was a new fire in his voice, passionate and firm, but he dragged you into him regardless, holding you tight as he made a grab for your wingtips. “He was a liar, and a spy and a bastard. The only person he ever cared about was himself and his little Hero Commission.” The words were spat with enough disdain to startle you, your struggle taking a turn towards a full-blown frenzy. Dabi only bared his teeth, his silent threat doing more than enough to pacify you. “You’re nothing like him. You’re not gonna fly away the moment something better comes along.”

The shears were raised, the clippers, and you stopped trying to hold yourself back, sobs racking through your chest and choking you, your terror as obvious as it was ugly. Luckily, that seemed to reach Dabi’s cold, shriveled heart, but all it earned you was a fleeting kiss to the top of your head and a soft hum, neither doing much to comfort you.

“Let’s call it a ‘safety measure’, alright?” You felt him choose his target, the closest feather to your wingtip, sharp edges soon entrapping it on either side. One of many that’d soon be cut short. “Just a little something to ease my mind. It can't hurt worse than what I tried last time.”

He was lying. You knew he was lying. All he ever did was lie.

But, all you could do was hold still and make sure the damage wouldn’t be permanent as the blades snapped together, a severed feather falling silently to the floor.

You wondered why you’d ever bothered trying to leave the ground in the first place.

#yandere #yandere love #yandere x reader #yandere imagines #yandere prompt #yandere x you #yandere oneshot #yandere drabble #yandere scenerio #boku no hero academia #boku no hero academia imagines #my hero academia #yandere boku no hero academia #yandere boku no hero academia imagines #yandere my hero academia imagines #my hero academia imagines #yandere my hero academia #bnha imagines #yandere bnha #dabi x reader #yandere dabi #yanderecore #yandere core

[aloha-cowgirl]

The Color of Free Will

This was written for the SPN Stay-at-Home Challenge. @bend-me-shape-me @helianthus21 @pray4jensen   

Monday 1: Feather (Read it on AO3) 

[1915 words - Hurt/Comfort, Wingfic, First Kiss]

From the library, Dean heard the slam of the heavy bunker door. It was late in the evening and he hadn’t been expecting anyone, however, the groan and crashing stumble made him hurry from his chair.

When he crossed into the war room, he froze. At the top of the staircase, was a crumpled creature. Black feathers stood at odd angles as the creature’s wings curled around its body. Dean reached for the gun he kept tucked beneath the map table as he cautiously approached the stairs.

But when he reached the bottom step, he shoved the gun back into his waistband before running up the stairs two at a time.

“Cas!”

The angel’s wings shifted. Beneath them, Cas lay unconscious on the floor, battered and bruised. Dean wasn’t sure what to do; Sam had taken Jack on a simple salt and burn case in St. Louis for some field experience, so Dean was on his own.

He wasn’t sure how to approach the delicate black wings, so he was forced to wrap one arm under his back and the other beneath his knees in a bridal carry.

“Man, you’re heavy,” Dean grunted as he carefully took the steps one-by-one.

When he reached the bottom, he hauled Cas into a chair, wings drooping out to either side. It didn’t look very comfortable, Dean thought, but there were more important things to focus on right now. He bent over him, cupping his face with one hand and patting the opposite cheek with the other hand.

“C’mon, Cas... C’mon, dammit,” he pleaded under his breath, “wake up. Wake up.”

Cas groaned and Dean let go of a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He kneeled on the floor so Cas wouldn’t have to lift his head.

“Jesus, Cas! Hey, wake up, buddy. What the hell happened to you?”

He could see Cas’s eyes struggling to open and mentally cheered when he finally saw impossibly blue eyes gazing down at him.

“Angels,” Cas croaked. “I—they—I don’t—”

“Hey, hey, it’s alright.” Dean shook his head consolingly. “We’ll figure it out later. We gotta get you put back together, though. Think you can make it to a bed?”

Cas nodded.

Dean pulled one of Cas’s arms around his neck and tucked his own arm around his back and beneath his wings.

“Does—does that hurt? I mean, is this okay?” Dean asked as he positioned himself to support Cas’s weight.

“It’s fine,” Cas answered weakly.

Dean’s room was the closest with a clean bed, so they traipsed through the library and down the hall. Cas leaned heavily on Dean’s side, but at least he was awake now. When he was safely perched on the edge of the bed, Dean took the opportunity to grab a med kit and a few towels.

He rolled his desk chair in front of Cas, bracketing his legs between his own knees as he laid the open kit on the bed. Cas stared somberly at the floor.

“So… I have a few questions, obviously,” Dean said, trying to lighten the mood as he dabbed at a cut over Cas’s eyebrow. “First off, where were you?”

Cas sighed. “I was in Heaven. I was trying to come back home, but there were three angels and...”

He trailed off, so Dean worked quietly, anger building as he butterfly-stitched the cut and let Cas work out the details in his head.

“They attacked you?” Dean finally asked, a sharp edge to his voice.

Cas shook his head and looked up from the floor, locking eyes with Dean. “I attacked them.”

Dean took a deep breath, letting his hands slide from Cas’s face to his neck, checking for injuries. Cas let his eyes close.

“Is that why you couldn’t, y’know,” he gestured at the bruised and bloody mess, “mojo yourself back together?”

“I suppose,” he answered, flexing his wings out behind himself. The glimmer of deep purples and greens as the black feathers moved caught Dean’s attention.

“And, uh… the wings?” he asked.

“The wings,” Cas sighed again.

He stretched them and the tips of the longest feathers brushed the wall behind him. This time, however, among the iridescent black feathers, Dean spotted dark red.

“You’re bleeding,” he said, automatically moving from the chair to the edge of the bed beside him. He reached for the wing but stopped halfway, realizing what he was about to do.

Dean reminded himself that these were wings. Not like the tie or the trench coat that Dean had come to know as an extension of Cas. No, these wings—these gorgeous wings—were an actual part of him.

“Can I…?”

The air in the room seemed to thicken. He’d figured that touching an angel’s wings, usually unseen and untouched in the ethereal plane for all of eternity, was probably a pretty intimate thing. From Cas’s reaction he thought he may have been right.

Cas nodded, a slightly anxious look on his face. “Um. Yes, you can—you can touch me.”

When his wings appeared in this plane of existence, they seemed to have burst through his clothing, leaving it shredded on his back. Dean helped him shrug off his ruined coat, using the knife he had tucked in his boot to cut the fabric until they could pull it off over each wing. They repeated the process with his jacket and shirt.

“You wear too many layers,” Dean groused, earning himself a quiet chuckle from Cas.

When the shredded clothes had been tossed aside and Cas was left bare-chested, wings spread out behind them, now unencumbered, Dean’s breath caught at the sight. 

He grabbed a pillow and tossed it toward the foot of the bed as Cas positioned himself, laying on his front, wrapping his arms around the pillow. Dean approached slowly, then carefully reached out. As soon as his fingertips touched the soft feathers, Cas flinched. Dean pulled back.

“Sorry,” he said quickly. “I won’t—”

Cas shook his head, looking up at Dean. “No, it’s—it’s okay. It’s just… no one has ever touched them before.” His cheeks flushed.

Dean nodded and reached out again. This time the flinch was much more subdued, followed by a slow exhale. Dean absently stroked the smooth feathers as he looked for injuries. Cas let his head fall forward onto his arms, eyes closed.

Dean traced the edge of the right wing. It was mesmerizing. When he finally came across the blood again, he carefully moved the undamaged feathers aside to assess the damage.

“Looks like a puncture,” Dean said.

Cas hummed in agreement. “Angel blade.”

“Attacking a bunch of angels on your own probably wasn’t your best move,” Dean grumbled as he tore open a package of alcohol wipes.

Cas turned around to face him, eyes bright under a furrowed brow. “You don’t understand.”

“Well, enlighten me, Cas,” Dean challenged, staring back. “Why would you—”

“They didn’t want me to come back,” Cas barked, cutting Dean off. “They think I’m interfering in God’s grand plan. They were trying to keep me in heaven. Keep me away from—from you.”

Dean was rendered mute.

“I think that’s why they fixed my wings,” Cas continued, his voice faltering as he turned back toward the pillow. “They fixed my wings in hopes I’d stay. But when I refused, something… happened. I can’t hide them. I can’t heal myself. I—I don’t know what to do now.”

He held his face in his hands, leaning on his elbows. His wings resumed their relaxed position so Dean could reach the inky black feathers again.

Dean stroked them gently, smoothing where they’d become ruffled.

“We’re gonna make it work,” Dean promised, carefully cleaning the wound that had thankfully stopped bleeding. He tossed the alcohol wipe aside and returned to combing his fingers soothingly through the feathers. Cas let his head fall forward again, breathing deeply.

“I, uh—I’m just glad you decided to come back.”

Cas’s wings lifted and fell as he blew out a deep breath.

Dean admired the way the feathers changed color as they moved in the light. “So, black wings, huh? I thought all you angels had those fluffy white wings with matching halos.”

“They weren’t always black,” Cas said reminiscently. “As a loyal soldier of God, they were white. They began to gray when I first defied orders. It was the first sign that I was ‘broken,’ as they called it. And, well, now—”

“They’re perfect,” interjected Dean.

Dean could feel the tension releasing as he ran his fingers through the feathers. Cas’s head dropped back down onto the pillow with a sinful groan. The corner of Dean’s mouth flickered up into a smirk as he lightly scratched at the wing beneath his fingers.

“That feel good?” he asked.

“Very much so,” Cas said into the pillow.

He repositioned himself, straddling over Cas’s hips, holding himself up on his knees. Like this, he could reach both wings at once and there was no one here to judge him anyway. Dean noticed some of the bruises on Cas’s back and shoulders were already beginning to improve in color. Whatever the angels had done that had zapped all Cas’s grace was wearing off, he thought.

He started at the center of Cas’s back, running his hands gently over the base of the wings. Cas arched into the touch and Dean felt a rush of adrenaline. He traced his fingers along the bony edges, sliding them down into the small, soft feathers underneath, careful to avoid his wounds.

Cas shivered beneath him. Dean would be lying if he said this whole scene hadn’t spiraled into something completely different than what he had told himself it was—that he was just soothing an injured friend. But the energy in the room had evolved. There was static in the air now. Cas had taken on Heaven and the angels to be here with him—to stay here, maybe permanently.

He let himself slowly slide lower on Cas’s back, now half sitting, half kneeling over him. He stretched his arms wide, leaning forward to reach as far as his fingers could. He was nearly laying on top of Cas now, close enough to feel the pull of his gravity. Cas tilted his head back. Dean responded by angling his own head forward to feel the warmth of Cas’s scalp against his forehead. They stayed that way for a minute before Dean spoke in a low tone.

“Cas… why? Why come back?”

His strength clearly returning, Cas turned, nearly dumping Dean right off his back. They were now sitting on the bed facing one another. Cas’s bruises had definitely healed more, though Dean’s attention was locked on the blue eyes boring into his own.

“Dean,” he said in a near-whisper, “you know why.”

Dean swallowed, his eyes burning with the potential magnitude of the moment.

“Is it worth it?” he asked, wringing his hands.

Cas reached forward, taking Dean’s hands in his own.

“Yes.”

Dean wasn’t sure who moved first, but they met somewhere in the space between them. Their bodies crashed into one another, lips against lips, arms wrapping around one another. There was a flicker of lights, and then they were lost in the darkness, enveloped in glossy black feathers, surrounded by the color of Castiel’s free will. In this world where Heaven and Hell were out to tear them apart, here in the void of Castiel’s wings, it was only them.

And it felt like home.

@rauko-is-a-free-elf @petrichoravellichor @crack--attack @katekarnage7 @ladygotsoul @all-or-nothing-baby @moderatelypanickedbiromantic @dammitsammy

#spnstayathome #destiel #fanfic #destiel fanfic #hurt/comfort #wingfic

[f-nodragonart]

Vertebrate Wings, PART 2: Membranes and Feathers

Return to main post + TOC >>HERE<<

Membranes and Feathers TOC

  Membranes

  Feather Arrangement

  Feather Layering

  Feather Shape

  Combinations

Membranes

A common question I see in relation to bat-like (and sometimes pterosaur-like) wings: Can a creature fly if the wing membrane only attaches to the armpit of the wing? Can massive wings make up for the lack of membrane?

Short answer: No.

Long answer in the form of a numbered list of problems with these sorts of wings:

 1)      Wing membranes (and feathers) need to SUPPORT and STABILIZE the whole animal’s body in the air. Without membrane attached along the length of the body, the torso is left to dangle limply and awkwardly below the wing shoulders. This couldn’t work because:

    a.      As I explain in more detail in the Full-body Integration section, flight is a ~primarily~ horizontal affair (the obvious exception being hoverers, but I cover this in the Flight section). A limply-hanging body would increase drag and air resistance to an absurd degree compared to the typical streamlined body position of a flying bird or bat. While flight is primarily driven by the wings, it really is a full-body affair.

    b.      The weight of the ENTIRE creature would be localized to the wing shoulder, which would make for excruciatingly painful flight at the VERY least. The membrane helps distribute the weight of the body over a wider surface area so that no one centralized point is pulling too much weight. (again, hovering flight is an exception to this, but this is largely due to the tiny body weight of a typical hoverer)

 2)      ~Generally~ evolution is lazy. The theoretical length of the wings necessary to make up for the lack of membrane would use up a ridiculous amount of energy—energy that evolution isn’t likely to waste. Especially considering that the length of these theoretical wings would have to be accomplished through lengthened fingers, which are more complicated and use up more developmental energy than simple membrane extension.

 3)      These lengthened wings would theoretically be freakin’ MASSIVE to make up for the lack of membrane. I can only imagine they’d be too heavy and/or too long to realistically function. They’d more likely drag uselessly along the ground as the animal attempted to use too-long muscles and tendons to lift them up.

 4)      “The creature wouldn’t be able to flap their wings when flying. Wings act like a lever; the less wing membrane you have close to the body, the further out lift and air resistance act on them and the more force you need for each wingbeat. If you attach wing membrane at the armpit, then so much force would be needed that the dragon would have difficulty moving them on ground, never mind during flight. Adding more arm strength to overcome it is not an option because there’s only so much muscle you can add without running into many more problems,” thank you Rahjital~

This all applies to feathered wings as well—bodies need support during flight, and these sorts of feathered wings aren’t gonna provide any.

The back edge isn’t the only important part of the membrane—the front edge is highly important as well! This section of the membrane is known as the propatagium.

It provides a smooth, sloping curvature to the front edge of the wing (something the bare arms could not provide on their own), and helps stabilize the position of the wing through the tendon connecting the shoulder and wrist (or thumb/pteroid, depending on the wing).

This structure is present in ALL vertebrate wings—bats, pterosaurs, and yes, even birds.

It’s simply not very apparent in birds because this membrane is covered by feathers. Remember kids, bird arms aren’t rounded noodles—it’s the propatagium that gives bird wings their smooth outline!

Bats wings have hair-thin muscles across their membranes to help tense and otherwise manipulate the wing shape as needed. I actually had a hard time finding good diagrams of these muscles, sans this one EXCELLENT reference for the muscles and major veins (+skeleton) via edited versions SammyTorres drew of photo of a museum reference.

(had to cut it off to preserve image quality, but u can see the original reference photo at the link)

As for pterosaur wings, there’s still debate over how exactly the membranes were structured, but there is at least agreement on the existence of multiple layers of actinofibrils embedded in the membrane. As quoted from exdraghunt, “Pterosaur wings were stiffened with unique fibers called “actinofibrals”. These fibers can be thought of as being like the wooden battens of a paper fan, or the quills of bird’s feathers. They allowed the wing to spread out to full span, or to fold up tightly against the body, while keeping the membrane stiff enough for flight. These fibers became shorter and less regular closer to the body, so that the membrane closer to the body of the animal had more flexibility compared to the parts out at the wingtip. The fibers start out perpendicular to the arm, and shift to parallel with the wing finger out at the wingtip.”

(via)

This made pterosaur membranes much stiffer than bat membranes, but still more flexible than bird feathers in terms of delicate maneuvering and camber-control.

Also, here’s a cool diagram dissecting the layers of pterosaur membrane~

Feather Arrangement

The first thing we need to get straight here is that the main flight feathers of a wing—the remiges (singular: remex)—sprout EXCLUSIVELY from the “hand” and lower arm sections of the skeleton.

The shoulder may be the source of thrust in the wing, but the “hand” and lower arm are the actual “paddle” used to beat against the air. As we can see in the below diagram, the tertiaries (which are embedded in the FLESH of the upper arm, NOT the bone) simply fill in the space left between the remiges and the main body.

In my own research (of Googling reference photos), I’ve found that the secondary remiges tend to gradually decrease in length closer to the elbow, tapering down until the tertials are able to fill in the gaps. This may not necessarily be true for all wings, but this is the trend I’ve picked up on.

idk what the deal is, but there are almost zero references for the underside of a bird wing, so I took the liberty of making my own reference, traced/edited from these photos of crow wings. (“edited” in that I emphasized a few feather bits that aren’t quite as “pronounced” on actual crow wings, but were drawn in for the sake of illustrating their general position. the axillaries, for example, were referenced from plovers.)

The coverts (when it comes to flight) exist to smooth out the transition from arm to remex, covering the entire arm/hand section and then some.

It’s important to note that the lesser/median primary coverts DO EXIST on the dorsal side of the wing, they’re just reduced compared to the much longer greater primary coverts, so the lesser/median coverts are usually covered by the alula (this is another detail I emphasized/edited in the above ref—the lesser/median primary dorsal-side coverts aren’t actually visible with the current position of the alula on a crow wing). I don’t have references for why the feathers in this section are sized/arranged in this manner, but I think it may be due to the presence of the alula. Either way, you can usually get away with not including the lesser/median primary coverts in most wings/positions, but it is important to know they exist for those special occasions they do make an appearance.

(via^)

The alula is the section of feathers that sprouts from the “thumb” of the underlying skeleton (this can be seen in the remex skeletal of the wing I posted higher up), and helps to increase lift by smoothing out air flow over the primaries. The feathers of the alula are situated on the topside on the wing, over the primary coverts and under the secondary coverts.

As a side note, the wing reference I drew is just a BASIC guide to feather arrangement. Depending on the shape and flight style of the wing, the feather “sections” can vary quite a lot, as can be seen below.

The reference I drew is just a guide to help you identify these sections of feathers in other wings more easily, even if they look quite a bit different than the wing I drew.

Feather Layering

Now for the information I’m sure you’ve all been waiting for—the detail that artists the world over struggle desperately with: feather layering.

I could just tell you all that the LEADING edge of the remiges is seen on the TOPSIDE/DORSAL view, while the TRAILING edge of the remiges is seen on the UNDERSIDE/VENTRAL view, and that will be correct.

(via^)

HOWEVER, I find that I much more easily retain design information if I know WHY a particular structure is designed that way in the first place. So, here I leave you a very informative analysis of remex arrangement and how it effects flight.

While I do highly suggest watching the whole video—especially for the helpful animations—I understand that it's a long sit with dry delivery, so the main takeaway is this:

Remiges are arranged as they are in order to minimize drag on the upstroke by allowing air to filter through the feathers and under the body, thereby pushing the body up in the process.

If the remiges were theoretically arranged opposite from this, they would filter air AWAY from the body on the upstroke, thereby sucking the body down and rendering the thrust on the downstroke null.

Now, it’s important to keep in mind that this reasoning applies more strictly to the remiges compared to the other feathers. While it’s incredibly important for the remiges to be in proper arrangement, the coverts are a little more lenient, considering they just smooth out the wing. The median/greater coverts do follow the arrangement of the remiges per which side of the wing they sprout from (and lesser coverts are layered in a more-or-less “shingles” pattern), but real-life coverts tend to be a lot messier than “ideal” coverts.

Covert arrangement (particularly that of lesser/medians) can be “goofed” a little without too much problem; It’s remex arrangement that can make or break flight.

Also note how this feather layering effects the layering of wing “sections” when the wing folds up (which will be discussed in more detail in the Positions section).

Feather Shape

Feather shape is also a critical factor in wing design (and even full-body design), BUT to tackle shape, we must first understand some basic feather anatomy.

There are quite a few bits here that I’m not rly gonna get into (mostly because I myself understand feathers more in the greater scheme of a wing/body than individually), but it is important to note a few specific features, here.

The shaft is the base upon which the barbs sprout from, and where the feather itself connects to the body via the calamus(quill). Note that the barbs (at least in the pennaceous portion) ALWAYS sprout from the shaft at an outward angle. They do NOT point at a 90 degree angle straight out from the shaft, nor point backwards towards the quill, but FORWARDS towards the feather tip. This is most likely a mechanism for both reducing drag and creating a more stable interlocking of barbs.

The pennaceous portion is what’s visible to the open air, so the barbs must be designed to handle what is required, such as a relative stability/stiffness for the remiges of the wings, a drag-resistant design for feathers of the body, etc. etc.

The plumaceous portion is typically hidden beneath other feathers, so isn’t necessary to draw in most designs. It’s just important to know about the fluffy plumaceous bits that exist underneath for those occasions that the feathers are lifted apart.

*note-- not all feathers have an afterfeather/shaft as shown in the first diagram-- this is most common to grouse, and is kind of like having extra down.

This is just a basic rundown of feather anatomy I’d reason to be useful to artists, but if you’d like a more in-depth discussion of feathers, I suggest this page.

Now knowing this basic feather anatomy, we can look at the diverse shapes and forms feathers can take. As has been shown in the feather types above, feathers can vary quite a lot depending on their purpose. The primary remiges, in fact, have a unique set of anatomical terms to help describe the shapes they can take.

(via^)

It’s important to note, here, that at least part of the reason that the primary remiges in particular are so diversely shaped is due their being the “flight manipulation” feathers of the wings. While coverts smooth out the wing and secondary remiges provide ample surface area, it’s the primary remiges that really determine a bird’s particular style of flight (I’ll get into some of these basic flight types more in the Flight section).

It’s also important to note that the “drag direction” for any feather—remex or otherwise—is essential in planning their shape (it’s just much easier to identify in remiges). See how the barbs on the leading side of these primary remiges is much shorter than the barbs on the trailing side?

(via^)

This is because the leading side, as can be assumed, must meet air resistance head-on, so the shorter barbs provide a stiffer, more stable surface to push against oncoming air currents. The trailing side, on the other hand, provides the main surface area of the feather, so the barbs can be longer.

This asymmetrical balance of barb length changes depending on where the feather is on the wing, so it’s no surprise that the primary remex barb lengths are much more asymmetrical compared to the secondary remex barb lengths, since these barbs don’t directly push against the air on either side of the feather.

(via^)

Though keep in mind that the shafts still “lean” more towards the leading edge here, so as to properly tilt against the air on the upstroke.

This feather diversity doesn’t just apply to different feather types—even the exact same feathers of the exact same basic type can vary DRASTICALLY when compared between different species. Just look at the differences between the above wood duck primary remiges and the primary remiges of a sharp-skinned hawk below.

(via^)

Thus, when designing the feathers (particularly the remiges/rectrices) of a creature, you need to understand the creature’s specific form of flight, and the purpose of certain sets of feathers.

(The USFWS Feather Atlas provides EXCELLENT scans of the remiges and rectrices (main tail feathers) of TONS of different bird species, if you’d like to see more scans like these.)

Combinations

Combination feather/membrane wings are somewhat popular, and while they’re improbable I wouldn’t say they’re impossible. Improbable, because evolution would likely choose one or the other for a full wing (taking into account the energy available during development, as we’ve discussed). Or, at the very least, make the feather bits more fur-like than the rounded, complicated designs of typical coverts.

The only impossible combo-wings I could think of are webbed wings that have ALL the wing feathers—remiges included. Remiges are meant EXCLUSIVELY for flight—if the wing already has a membrane (a membrane which takes up much more energy to build than feathers), then there’s no need for additional remiges. In fact, these lengthy feathers would detract from what makes the bat wing so practical—its ability to “collapse” and otherwise bend and stretch in precise movements. Remiges would only block the bat wings’ ability to properly bend.

Not to mention, these feathers would break up the smooth/streamlined quality of these wings if they were to reach that far out over the membrane. Think about it—bird wings only have one layer of remiges, creating one smooth surface, and bats only have one layer of webbing, also creating a single smooth surface. Webbed wings with remiges on BOTH sides (or even on ONE side) would create multiple surfaces that would somehow need to lay flat against each other (but likely wouldn’t due to their nature). And that isn’t even to mention that remiges need a stable bone base to properly attach to, which the bat wrist/hand couldn’t provide, considering it already must support the fingers themselves, let alone primary remiges.

Covert feathers, on the other hand, are mainly there to create a smooth transition from the front edge of the wing to the remiges (and are embedded in flesh rather than bone). Thus, I could see their potential use in bat-like wings for the same reason, so long as they aren’t large enough to interfere with membrane/finger flexibility.

-Mod Spiral

#wings #anatomy #mod spiral #membranes #feathers

[make-it-mavis]

Homesick (prologue)

Next->

In Los Aburridos, California, off Route 83, in Litwak’s Arcade, inside a tiny wall socket, a disgraced, despised, thought-to-be-dead king paced.

Not in a hard set, back-and-forth motion, but in a wide, loose path, like an oval. The motion felt marginally soothing to him, having driven thousands of races on an oval track in his life. But the shape was the only resemblance. He was agonizingly slow, going only as fast as two legs could carry him. Aside from his shoes clapping against the floor and Litwak shuffling in the outside world, there was no sound at all. No screaming crowd, no roaring engines, no gamers laughing. There was no room for any of that in the lonely hole in the wall. 

The dead wall socket served as an abandoned cord station. It was cold, isolated, torturously quiet, and had barely enough electricity to sustain his physical form. It was also Turbo’s last safe haven in the world. It would keep him hidden from those who would punish him for his murderous crime. It would give him time to figure just how in the hell he would ever return to society and make something resembling a life again. But it would offer no distraction from the hellfire scorching his mind. And he knew that in a matter of minutes, he would be handed a hefty canister of fuel to only further feed the inferno. But most things were fuel in recent memory. Nothing was going to make him feel better. Really, it was the anticipation that drove him to pace.

Any minute now, she would show up. And she would bring him the truth of what became of the world he left behind, and of what that world did to her. Or, more to the point… what he did to her.

Ever since they had been reunited, there was something in Mavis he did not recognize. He had always known that she did not exactly have a happy life. He could recall even early in their friendship, the moments that her fear would seep through. In those moments, she would almost always react defensively, by fighting him or running away. Often, he would go to sleep with her and find her gone in the morning. 

But since being reunited, her night terrors had been different. She would shriek, and wake in a sweaty, terrified mess, but instead of running away, she would simply… break. Clutch onto him and not let go, weeping openly. Always refusing explanation. 

It seemed impossible for either of them to move forward in their partnership, criminal or otherwise, until they were both completely on the same page. So, finally, Mavis promised to deliver the truth, which, she told him, she already had in writing.

There was a faint flash down the entrance corridor when a static crack broke the relative silence and snapped at Turbo’s mind like a whip. He jolted and froze, gazing down the wide corridor at the wooden barrier that they had been slowly building to deter any possible wanderers from finding his hideout. It was tall enough to obscure her, but he knew she was there. And sure enough, after a brief pause, he saw Make-it Mavis rise up over the barrier, hovering with the feathers on her boots.

As usual, he felt an odd mess of emotions when he saw her. Mostly, he felt his heart echo sickly down through his stomach and guts. 

After clearing the barrier, Mavis lowered a short distance into the corridor, seeming almost reluctant to enter fully. When Turbo met her halfway, he noticed immediately that she would not meet his gaze. She was not angry, or even resentful. Just reluctant. A little sad. Maybe even afraid. 

Unsure of what to say, he breathed hoarsely, “...Hey.”

Mavis cleared her throat a bit. “Hey, T,” she said quietly.

She stood straight, rigid, one hand clutching the strap of her messenger bag and the other keeping its pouch close to her body. Jutting out from the top ever so slightly, he could see just the corner of a book. That must have been the truth she promised the night before, because upon noticing him eyeing it, she held it just a bit further away.

“You…” he spoke carefully, “you still wanna do this?”

“Yeah,” she said quickly, almost interrupting him. “Yeah, I do, it’s just…”

Finally, she lifted her gaze to his, but her eyes were so guarded, like she was one word away from turning tail and leaving. “Turbo…” she said slowly, “you’re really not gonna like what you read.”

He sighed through his nose, brow furrowing sympathetically. “I know. I never expected to.”

“And I,” she spoke just a touch louder, “I say some real mean stuff about you in this.”

Half a snicker escaped him. “Oh no. You’ve never been mean to me before.”

“Okay-- Yeah, okay, but this is different,” she half-smiled anxiously.

At that, she reached into her messenger bag and pulled out a ringed notebook that told a hundred stories with its appearance alone. Turbo felt a twinge of gravity in his stomach as he looked it over in her hands. Its cover was splattered with dry paint and bore many deep, scribbling scratches carved with a ballpoint pen. Many pages were dog-eared and a fair amount were stained and warped. Even the plastic ring binding seemed to be barely holding everything together.

Turbo wanted to make a smart remark to lighten the mood, but he was coming up empty. There was something in the way that she looked at the notebook that struck him silent. She had not yet offered it to him, instead keeping it close to her body and regarding it with a grave sort of disbelief.

“I just…” she shook her head a bit, “when I wrote this, I never… ever thought you’d actually read it.”

Morbid curiosity pounded Turbo’s brain, the kind that he was certain would bite him in the ass later. He was unsure what to say at first, but after Mavis did not continue, he prodded, “I mean… I don’t have to, if that’s--”

“No,” she interrupted, shoving it into his arms, “no, you really do. It’s-- it’s just easier this way. It’s all in there already, and I promised, so just take it.”

Turbo blinked, catching the ramshackle notebook. She interrupted him again before he could reply, her voice quick with anxiety.

“There. Take it. I gotta get back before they close the gates. Read as much as you want. I’ll come back once the arcade closes. Okay? Good. Enjoy. Bye.”

She turned, and just before she could get away, Turbo grabbed her by the wrist. It was enough to stop her from fleeing the emotional situation as she so often did, but she did not turn to look at him. Once it was clear that she would merely listen, Turbo realized he was not sure what he wanted to say. 

“Mav,” he finally said, “don’t think that I don’t know what a big deal this is. I know this probably goes against every digit in your binary to show me this. I get it. So… let me at least say thanks, before you go flyin’ outta here.”

Mavis sighed, but he could see from the curve of her cheek that she smiled for a moment. She said slowly and earnestly, “If we’re gonna be partners… If we’re gonna work together, then you gotta trust that I’m in it for the long haul. If you want proof that I won’t ditch you, then you’ll find it in that book… or some supporting documents, at least.”

Turbo could hear his heart in his ears, but he let out a slow breath and loosened his grip on her wrist. As his hand fell, Mavis caught it in hers.

When she finally turned her head towards him again, he saw a bit of a glisten over her blue eyes, and the saddest, sweetest smile he had ever seen. 

“Just make sure to read to the very end,” she told him, “and to trust me.”

Forcing out a small smile of his own, he nodded. “Yeah, yeah.”

For a moment, they lingered.

But after a single squeeze of his hand, Mavis flew back over the barricade, and another static crack indicated her departure. Silence closed in around Turbo again, but there was something about the book in his hands that felt so loud. As he wandered back into the station proper, he ran his fingers over the cover, one that had once been perfectly smooth, but after being exposed to Mavis, now bore a myriad of ridges and bumps and gritty textures. Stepping over the worthless junk strewn on the floor, he found himself a seat on one of the dusty old couches, and tucked one finger under the cover.

He paused, taking a moment to breathe and steel himself to whatever was to come. As he lingered, he could feel in his gut that the story he was about to read could quite likely change his relationship with Mavis. Perhaps even with himself.

But he had survived far worse than a book already.

Flipping open the cover, Turbo began to read.

#fanfiction #fanfic #wreck it ralph #homesick #turbo #make it mavis

[daesungindistress]

Been awhile since I posted about Chickbang! Here’s the whole gang! It isn’t often that I can catch them together in one photo. This one was taken about two weeks ago, so already they look a little different because yep! They’re still growing. 18 - 20 weeks old. No eggs yet. It could be any day now or we could have months to go. Who will be the first? I suspect Dae or VIP. We’ll see!

Putting the rest behind a cut 🐔

The pecking order in Chickbang is still a little unclear to me, but I think it goes something like this. From top to bottom: GD, Tabi, Bae, VIP, BB, CL, Dae, Gwisun

Fortunately, Dae doesn’t bully Gwisun quite like she used to. Just a quick peck here and there. It sends Gwisun running, sure, but she doesn’t seem too flustered. In fact, Gwisun has really come into her own recently. Where she used to be a wallflower, now she’s quite feisty and runs circles around the rest. Still the smallest of the bunch, but not by much. Here she is having a little skirmish with GD:

Tabi has become pretty bossy and I think of her as the Head Hen. She’s a bit mean toward Dae, who is consistently last out of the coop each morning, seeming afraid. They do alright while inside the run, but when I let them out in the yard where there’s more space, Tabi likes to chase Dae all over the place. For fun? Maybe she just likes to watch her run. It isn’t very nice of her, but I can’t help laughing... because isn’t that so ToDae? The chasing, I mean.

And again...

Can’t stop won’t stop...

Sneak attack!

So yeah! Here are some recent pics. First, Tabi, the inquisitive and friendly:

Dae, who also likes to join me on my chair. But she might just be trying to get away from the others: 

Little Gwisun looking so stylish now that her crest is filling out! I recently noticed she has little heart shapes on a few of her feathertips:

CL, who is rather aloof these days:

VIP looking... very grouchy under those bushy brows. She’s super easy-going though. Hey, look, her feathers have little hearts too!

Here’s Bae photobombing a shoot I was having with GD. That’s nothing new. She’s always putting herself in front of the camera when I’m on the ground trying take pics...

As for BB... Had some problems with BB recently. One morning she didn’t come out of the coop with the others -- highly unusual. She wouldn’t move, just sat inside on the roost all day long. When I let them out into the yard that evening, she followed them, but did so slowly. She was lethargic and picking at grass half-heartedly. Kept herself away from the others with eyes closed, and it seemed all she wanted to do was sleep. Definitely not normal, healthy chicken behavior. I was worried I might lose her.

I looked her over but didn’t find anything out of the ordinary. Put her in a dog crate and brought her inside the house to a dark, quiet room where she could be calm and comfortable. Where she could rest and (I hoped) recover. Rather than expend energy keeping up the appearance of being well around the rest of the flock (sick chickens get picked on). Throughout the first day, every time I checked on her she was either asleep or on the verge of it. Here she is falling asleep with her head in her food bowl:

Burying her head in the towel bedding...

I offered her various foods that she and the other chickens have devoured before... but she wasn’t interested. Bought a liquid vitamin supplement for poultry and tried giving her that with a dropper. Well, it must have tasted awful because she wasn’t too tired to resist that, and together we made a mess, lol, but I got some of it in her. Finally, I gave her the yolk from a boiled egg -- a good, nutritious food for recovering chickens -- and to my delight, she loved it! She took to it right away, and by the next morning the bowl was empty.

By the end of her second day inside she was back on her feet and cluck-clucking at me quietly when I entered the room. One time I opened the crate door and she tried to walk right out! That night I let her rejoin the flock, and within a few days she was back to her old self! Never did figure out what was wrong with her, but here, have a gif of her digging in the dirt the day I let her back outside with the others:

...and enjoying a little dirt bath.

And then there’s GD. Chickbang’s leader sure has filled out nicely:

Look how chesty he is! How tall and upright he stands! How proud his posture is!

“I’m sexy and I know it.”

He reached sexual maturity about two weeks ago and has been trying his very best to have his wicked way with the ladies... with, uh, limited success. They haven’t reached laying age yet (shouldn’t be long though!) and want nothing to do with him, lol. He has managed to mount them a few times, but for the most part it’s just him harassing them and grabbing at their necks while they squawk and run away.

His little mating dance is pretty funny though. He drops a wing and walks into it sideways, almost like he’s tripping. Weird? Definitely. But whatever works for chickens...

Beautiful though he may be, I’ve finally decided it’s time. Time to find him a new home. The main reason being his half-bald head. Sadly, the feather picking has been an ongoing problem for months, one I’ve been unable to solve. I’ve tried everything short of separating him from the others -- something I just don’t have the heart to do. It would take at least a month for his crest to grow out enough that they might stop picking at it. Putting the pinless peepers (blinders for chickens) on the rest of the flock, which I hated doing btw, bought him three weeks of new growth. For a while I thought I had found a solution. Then, one afternoon, they went wild on him and picked his head smooth again. Well, nearly.

I’ve given up on trying to regrow his crest. He needs to go somewhere else, to a kinder flock that doesn’t have a history of feather picking. Mine have been doing it to him almost their whole lives. It’s a bad habit I can’t break.

That’s right. GD is being booted out of Chickbang 😔

The other reason is, of course, his constant crowing. It was okay when he only did it a little in the morning and evening, but now he’s LOUD and he crows all day long, every hour of the day, on and on... also any time he hears my voice. Which means I can’t have conversations, not even over the phone, as long as he’s around because he crows incessantly in the background. Not sure what my neighbors think of it, but frankly, it’s getting to me. I keep the chickens close to the house and it’s just not working out. Sorry, bud. You’re gonna need to sing your song elsewhere.

It will be a bit sad to see him go because, yes, I’m attached to him, and he’s easily the most visually interesting (and entertaining) member of the flock. He probably takes up more space on my camera roll than all the others combined! It’s been a lot of fun watching him grow and mature in appearance and behavior, including his teenage terror phase. Also educational in terms of learning how to tell a male apart from the females.

But it’s just been one thing after another with him... and it was never my intent to keep a rooster anyway. Hoping I can find him a good home where he can have a nice (non-abusive) harem to watch over and for whom he can crow his little heart out as often as he likes, loud and proud.

#chickbang

[snippydippy]

Whoops cringe culture is dead and I wrote a Hazbin fan-fic excerpt.

I mean, technically I wrote it back in November, but whatever. Am I embarrassing myself? Probably. Do I care? Marginally. Will I get over it if I just drink? Absolutely. Like what you like, cringe culture is dumb.

Description of hotel layout might be inaccurate, I hadn’t actually looked at the correct layouts for the place until after (thanks VRchat). Oh well. Also a little long for an excerpt but oh well!

———-

Leanne had died recently. Just about a year ago on the day if her tracking of time could be trusted. It was nearly impossible to tell how many hours, days, or weeks had gone by down in Hell. There was no day or night. Just the perpetual, sinister red glow of the pentagram symbol carved into the rock sky that encased every sinner inside this final destination.

Her tracking of time was rough, but she did suspect a year. A year of unending misery, anger, and confusion.

Leanne didn’t understand why she was dammed here. She died young, barely 21, due to circumstances she herself wasn’t ready to face quite yet. Thinking about it made things worse. Her death was an accident, and that’s all she felt comfortable telling others and herself.

She had truly believed herself a good person in life. Sure, she swore like a sailor, and perhaps told a few small lies in her years, but who hadn’t? She had never done anything with the intention of hurting anyone. Never done anything heinous enough to deserve...This. Sharing an afterlife with ruthless thieves, pedophiles, and murderers.

She often tried to cope by telling herself that the criteria for heaven was just impossibly strict. No one got in up there. One must have had to be a perfect cherub who never left their home from birth to make it on that list. Surely. Obviously. There was no other explanation.

Leanne heard about the Happy Hotel on the news like everyone else. She had been sitting at a bar with a mysterious substance in her glass for two hours, not taking a single sip. She would never choose to drink whatever liquid it was they poured into these mugs. She simply didn’t have anywhere else to go that felt any safer. A bar was neutral ground for demons and sinners. No turf wars happened here. You couldn’t die in hell, but you sure could feel everything, so she had been careful to avoid fights.

The idea of the hotel seemed ridiculous, an idea reaffirmed by the laughter that filled the building after the Princess of Hell, Charlie, had given her foolishly passionate speech. A place sinners could go to better themselves? A second chance at redemption? Yeah, right. No one got second chances down here. Your one and only chance was the life you lived. How ridiculous. How absolutely insane. Impossible! Leanne thought all of these things as she hurriedly paid for her drink with the pocket change she had, gathered her tattered coat, and headed for the door.

It could never work. You didn’t leave hell once you got here. There was no way. But...maybe. Just maybe. Leanne didn’t belong here anyway, right? So going through this “program” at the Happy Hotel could actually (but probably not) make things right. She could explain to her majesty that there had simply been a mistake anyway, so staying at the hotel would just be a formality until it was all resolved. That’s exactly what would happen once she arrived. It would have to.

———

Leanne’s doubt only grew the closer she got to the hotel itself. On her way, she had passed by a group of Demons huddled by a radio, listening as closely as they could to the static ridden channel. It seemed the Princess had more to deal with than folks around here laughing at her ideals. She had gotten into a fight with Katie Killjoy, the news anchor on the station. It had started with what sounded like more laughter at her idea, then yelling, then what could only be the sounds of a smack-down.

Leanne drew in a deep breath, let it out with a grimace, and kept walking. It would probably take her a while still to reach the building. Two days, maybe more, but it’s not like she had anywhere else to be.

———————-

When she arrived at the towering building, she was both surprised at its sheer size and confused with the sign alight on top. The bright bulbs held up by wooden frames read “Hazbin Hotel”. Leanne could’ve sworn Princess Charlie had said it was called the Happy Hotel.

She glanced in all directions to see if she had missed anything. Though, based on the fact that this was the only building standing for miles of this size, and the only hotel she knew of that existed in Hell in general, she had to assume she had the right place.

Once she walked up to the front doors, Leanne’s hesitations nearly took over her. Behind those doors, decorated with stained-glass images of apples, was either the solution to all her woes, or the confirmation that she had, in fact, been sent to the right place. And that there was nothing anyone could do about it. Proof that she belonged in Hell.

She touched the golden handle with a hand that had once been human. She closed her eyes, hating being reminded of what her body was now. Her once delicate hands with smooth, human skin had turned into a dark blue, scaled and clawed nightmare. Spreading across her temples now were the same colored scales, and right above her ears now sat a pair of wicked, black spiraled horns. Her nose that she had hated so much in life now looked more akin to a bear’s. Her skin that had once been a healthy tan, now a dull grey, lifeless in hue. A long and thick lizard like tail nervously swished behind her. Even though Leanne was a beast, she supposed she had been more fortunate than others. Most of the dead down here you’d hardly recognize as anything that had ever been human. At least Leanne got to keep her basic human shape.

Enough thinking. Leanne pushed open the door and was met by the smell of an old floral perfume and the sound of a charming tune playing on a piano somewhere deep within. She had stepped inside and waited to hear the door click behind her before opening her eyes once more.

Once she did, Leanne was amazed, frozen in shock for a moment. The place was impossibly clean, practically immaculate. Not a single spec of dust, cobweb, or splatter of blood in sight. The long hallway in front of her seemed to stretch on for half a mile, painted comforting shades of deep red with gold trimming. It was far too nice to be a place in Hell. Leanne even noticed how the temperature was the most comfortable she had felt since she died. Warm enough that she could take her coat off, but cool enough that she wouldn’t sweat with it on.

Dozens of portraits of Princess Charlie, her family, and their associates covered the halls. Leanne stepped over to a painting of who she assumed was Charlie’s father. The name etched into the wood frame at the bottom read “Lucifer~1789”. He looked friendly enough for the ruler of hell. Very pale skin, deceptively rosey cheeks complimenting a charming smile, well coiffed blonde hair, and deep black eyes. He looked so much like the images Leanne had seen of Charlie.

She moved on from the picture, searching for any kind of check-in desk, not quite brave enough to call out for assistance. The first opening to her left thankfully read “Concierge” above the open door frame.

Inside the room were a few old, but comfortable looking chairs that sat empty strewn about, a fire place to the left radiating a calming glow, and at the far end of the room was the concierge desk. Three deer skulls hung on the wall above the desk’s canopy, and below them three signs that struck Leanne as very odd. The middle read “Welcome!” while the two on either side read “Gambling!” and “Booze!”. Wasn’t this place supposed to be about avoiding sin? Maybe they were just a gag.

Leanne couldn’t see anyone at the desk. She saw a silver call bell and instinctively went to ring it, her hand stopping to hover over it. She suddenly thought about bailing right then. There was no guarantee that this place could help her. No knowing for sure if the Princess was even really looking to help anyone. She could just be looking for souls to collect. This whole thing could be a trap-

Her thoughts were cut off by the sound of the bell she had tapped without realizing. She heard an annoyed groan from underneath the counter.

“Fuck, what? I already wiped down the god damn counter.” A demon with a husky voice pulled himself to a standing position to face Leanne. He looked like some sort of cat and owl hybrid. Mostly grey fur with a white face and chest. He had large eyes with dark red scleras and yellow irises, long red eyebrows that extended off his face on either side, an amusing heart shaped nose, and lovely red wings protruding from his back that had what appeared to be card suit markings along some of the feathers. Between his two tall and slender feline ears sat a top-hat of equal height, and a black bow tie rested in the fluff of his chest. He looked at Leanne for a moment in confusion. She couldn’t find the nerve to say anything. He croaked out, “Well, you’re not my boss. You here to check in?”

Leanne felt her tail nervously wrap around her waist as she fiddled with her hands at her chest. She opened her mouth to speak, but instead only quietly cleared her throat and nodded.

The cat-owl demon raised an eyebrow at her before producing a clipboard and pen from the drawer in front of him, “I’m gonna need your name first, lady.”

“Uh..I-It’s, um..Lee. Leanne.” As the man started writing her name down on the paper, Leanne’s head suddenly exploded with questions.

Wait! How does this all work? Was she going to need to tell him how she died? Confess her sins? Would there be some kind of test to see if she could stay? She remembered she had no money. How was she going to pay for this? Had she thought anything through at all!?

Just as Leanne sucked in a panicked breath to tell the other demon to wait, both of them jerked their head towards the sound of a squeal in the doorway. A young girl stood there wearing a white button up shirt with black suspenders, and a smile Leanne thought didn’t belong down here. She was very pale, with beautiful rosey cheeks complimenting a radiant smile, long and well kept blonde hair, and deep black eyes.

Princess Charlie rushed over to Leanne in the blink of an eye. She practically bounced as she spoke, taking Leanne’s hands in her own, “Are you checking in?? Please say yes!”

“Y-yes! Uh, I mean..I-I think so? I would like to?” Leanne bit the inside of her cheek. She’d ramble on forever if she didn’t get a grip, “I-Um. I just have a few questions.”

“Of course! Whatever you need we are here to help with!” Charlie let go of Leanne’s hands and snatched the clip board and pen from the other demon. He grumbled, but didn’t seem too bothered to have his job done by someone else. “What was your name?”

Charlie’s infectious positivity made it impossible for Leanne not to give the faintest of grins, “It’s Leanne, your..majesty? Highness? Princess?” Leanne had no idea how to address royalty of such a place as Hell. It didn’t help that Charlie seemed so different than what she reasonably should be.

The demon princess laughed without a hint of malice, “Just Charlie is fine, Leanne.”

Charlie was madly writing unknown information down on the clip board, and Leanne couldn’t help but notice the other demon eyeing her suspiciously. She tried not to make eye contact, just wishing for Charlie to talk again.

“Okay! Since you are one of our first patrons,” her voice shifted into a sing-song tone, the friendliness a sound Leanne didn’t know she had been craving until this moment, “I put you in one of our sweets!~ Room 331.”

“U-Uh, sorry, but I don’t have any money.” Leanne pulled her hands back to her chest, her tail tightening ever so slightly. She laughed joylessly, “I didn’t really come prepared for this, I guess.”

Charlie tucked the clipboard underneath one arm and took Leanne’s arm in the other, “Well then it’s a good thing you don’t have to pay for this! Husk, hand me her keys please?”

The husky voiced demon who now had a name went to the wall of keys behind him to find 331, tossing them to Charlie when he did.

Leanne was about to speak when Charlie tugged her along to the doorway and out into the hallway. The princess was pulling her toward the sound of the piano, “You’re going to LOVE it here! I’m so happy that my little, ahem, argument issue on the news didn’t keep you away!”

“Right.” Leanne didn’t have the heart to tell her it almost did. “S-So, uh, the questions that I had?..mainly about how I pay for this-“

Charlie held up a hand to silence Leanne, letting go of her arm to lead rather than pull, “You don’t! As long as you are showing progress towards your goal of redemption, you don’t owe anything! Just keep showing us your best behavior! Sound fair to you?”

“Sure,” Leanne tried to sound trusting, smiling the best she could remember how to, “Sounds fair.”

They had finally reached the source of the piano music. It was coming from behind two heavy doors with ‘Ballroom’ written on a sign above them. Along with the instrument, a voice could now be heard. It sounded as though someone was listening to an old 1930s radio host singing a song while playing along to it.

“I’m going to introduce you to my co-manager. He’ll be excited to see we have a second patron!” Charlie sang and pushed the doors open while Leanne thought about how there were only two guests in this ginormous place.

“Alastor, we have a new guest!”

The music stopped abruptly as Charlie spoke, and the one playing the piano stood from the bench and turned towards the two she-demons.

Leanne was terrified of him. Instantly and morbidly. Something about him sent a sub-zero chill down her spin that then went cascading out through her limbs. Her hands felt numb, her mouth felt dry, her head swimming. It was not unlike the feeling right before you wake from a terrible, horrific nightmare. Her tail coiled back around her waist as she tried to calm herself

Alastor was very tall, handsome, and incredibly thin. He wore a deep red pinstriped suit with a black tie in the shape of an upside down cross. His hair was shaggy, red on the top with a line of black around the bottom. Atop the Demon’s head were two small deer antlers, along with two tall tufts of hair that looked like they could be deer ears, matching red with the rest of his hair and tipped black on top.

His eyes were huge, dark red sclera with light red irises. His smile was even bigger, sharp yellow teeth stretching sinister from ear to ear. His skin was a grey similar in dullness to her own. He adjusted the monocle in front of his right eye as he looked over Leanne. His eyes glowed dimly.

Alastor suddenly threw his arms up in an exaggerated show of glee, “That’s wonderful news, my dear!”

His voice was the host Leanne thought she’d heard before. The demon spoke with a transatlantic accent, and it sounded as if there were an old radio transmitter in his throat. “The more the merrier as they say!”

He stepped forward, the sound of tap dance shoes clacking against the floor accompanying his footfalls. Leanne wanted to run away from him. Her mind was screaming at her to leave, forget this whole idea, and never come back. However, her body wouldn’t cooperate and Alastor had an arm around her and Charlie’s shoulders before she could do anything anyway, “We’re so delighted to have you, sweetheart! This place has been so very dull lately with just the few of us mucking about!”

He seemed friendly enough, so what was it about him that made Leanne’s heart feel like it was going to pound out of her chest? She hated him. His energy felt...bad. Wrong. Dangerous. She’d never felt worse about anyone, and that included the other demons she’d met down here. Her hands had gone from numb to sweaty, and yet she felt terribly cold now. This fear was all consuming, and it was touching her shoulders.

“So, what’s your name, mystery doll?” He tilted his head in the most uncanny way, staring down at her with sharp teeth and eyes unblinking.

Leanne’s tongue felt like a lead brick in her mouth, “I..uh...I-It’s-I’m, uh-“

Charlie gave a concerned chuckle, “Her name is Leanne.” She slipped out from under Alastor’s arm and gently touched the other girl’s shoulder, “Are you okay?”

Leanne was thankful to look at Charlie instead of him, and even more so to feel Alastor’s arm drop away from her as he took a step away.

“Y-Yes. Sorry. I’m just..” She glanced at Alastor, and instantly regretted it. His eyes were focused hard on her, his grin wide and full of teeth. Leanne could tell he knew she was feeling this way, “I just, um, g-get nervous around new people. That’s..that’s all.”

Charlie opened her mouth, but Alastor boomed over her, “Well that’s perfectly fine, sweetheart! I was being rude anyway. My name is Alastor, and I’m the co-manager of this fine establishment! I’m sure being here long enough will help you burst right out of that pretty shell of yours!”

“Yes it will!” Charlie clapped her hands together with a little hop, “We have so many activities planned for everyone who comes to stay here! Ice breakers, games, classes, you’ll never be bored and you’ll never not have people to talk to!”

“Assuming more folks do come by, of course!” Alastor added smugly, causing Charlie to shoot him a look.

“More will come, Al. Have a little bit of faith.” She walked passed Leanne to the door way, “If you follow me now, Leanne, I can show you to your room!”

“O-Okay.” She didn’t need to be told twice, grateful to get away from that radio-voiced Demon. She went to follow the princess out the door.

“I can already tell by looking at you, dear.” Alastor started, causing Leanne to stop for a moment. She wouldn’t look back at him. The static in his voice cleared as he spoke, “You’re going to be a very entertaining guest.”

#would it take two days to get to the hotel? idk #idk how big hell is #just needed to give it enoigh time #for the interview to be over and for Nifty to clean and everyone to settle in and shit idk #not mich thoight went into this #shut your trap snippy #my writting #hazbin hotel #alastor #charlie #hazbin #HH #Hazbin fanfic #fanfic #hazbin alastor #hazbin charlie #hazbin husk #hazbin OC #OC #long post

[thiswasinevitableid]

sea monster indruck nsfw? maybe including one of them masturbating while fantasizing about the other one and confessing all their dirty thoughts as they're actually having sex? scary protective monster is also always hot if you're down for that

Here you go! I wasn’t able to fit in everything, but this one was fun!

This is all the hangman's fault. 

Indrid could be pleasantly dead right now, not trapped in a gibbet on a clifftop, if the man had bothered to check his ropes ahead of time. But no, instead he failed to see the rats had been gnawing on them and the blasted noose snapped clean off the instant it took Indrids weight. To the villagers, this was a sign that Indrid was indeed a witch (and the son of a demon, a rare charge that drags his poor, deceased mother into this mess). To Indrid, it meant a new set of bruises and the worst possible death. 

They locked him in the gibbet, the Atlantic crashing in angry, grey waves far below them. The man on his right is dead, eyeballs already plucked out by an enterprising bird, and the man on his left is getting there. If his visions are accurate, Indrid has a good five days of suffering the elements, the wild-life, and his own hunger and thirst before he joins them. 

A lifetime of visions breeds resignation in the face of fate, so he closes his eyes, follows the futures of luckier men as a temporary escape. The screams of his neighbor rouse him with a start. Their source is wholly unexpected. 

Looming at the edge of the cliff is an immense monster. From his vantage point, Indrid spies the creatures’ lower body still submerged in the sea, making it well over a hundred feet tall. It’s skin is green, it’s fingers webbed, and it’s crowned by a frill of wave-shaped spikes. The face is humanoid, with green eyes and hair of black water and a squid-beak where a mouth should be. Strange tentacles appear and disappear along its torso, as if they have not made up their mind as to whether they wish to exist. 

The monster sighs, “Fuckin hate it when they leave their dead like this. Unsightly, and I ain’t sure it’s good for the seagulls to be eatin humans.”

“The dead and, ah, almost dead do not enjoy it much either.” 

Upon hearing Indrids voice, the creature peers into his cage, “Huh, guess you ain’t dead. Either of you.” He turns his eyes on the other condemned man, who starts screaming again, “why’d they stick you here?”

“Witchcraft, specifically foresight and dabbling in ‘black magic.’ Well, that and a failed hanging” He tilts his head to show the visitor the rope mark. 

“Damn, that looks like it hurts. Wonder if I can..” the tip of an immense claw extends towards him. There’s a crackle of power that makes his ears pop, and the monster pulls his hand back, “nope, fuck, was hopin it’d be a small enough thing to do.”

“I beg your pardon?”

The monster sighs, “Long story short, my kind ain’t able to interact in an, uh, altruistic fashion with humans unless they’re acolytes. Can’t even open that damn cage without gettin zapped. Never mind that some of us don’t even wanna be old gods or whatever the fuck, still ain’t allowed to help. Maybe if I get a real big stick..”

“How does one become an acolyte?” Indrid presses his face to the front of the cage.

“Uh, you gotta swear loyalty and servitude to me, specifically, and the ‘old gods’ in general, live in a place I set up for you, and do stuff when I need you to.”

“Very well, are there specific words of the oath or…”

“Whoah, hold up now” the creature raises his hands, “this shit is real bindin’, rather you not rush into it.”

“Given the alternative is death, a rush is rather necessary.”

“All I’m sayin is you might wanna think for more than two seconds before you agree! And there might be other ways for me to get you out.”

“Do..do you not want an acolyte?” Being rejected by a sea monster feels like a fitting end to his life. 

“Not really. It ain’t personal or anythin; I’m just now leanin into the whole god thing and I still ain’t all that comfortable with parts if it. Last thing I want is an acolyte who saw me as ‘not as bad as death.”

“And the last thing I want is to die of exposure, so we are at an impasse.”

The monster clicks his beak once, “Okay, here’s what I’ll do. You take until sunset to think over whether you wanna be stuck servin’ this” he gestures to himself, “for a long-ass time, and we’ll go from there.”

“Very well.” Indrid resigns himself to several more hours of misery as the creature sinks from view. He glances at the other prisoner, “what do you think? He seems very considerate for a sea monster and I for one would like to keep living.”

The man stares, babbles incoherently for a moment before shouting, “You, you conversed with a devil! You are a witch, just as they say!”

“He spoke to both of us.” Indrid blinks, puzzled. 

“I closed my ears to his lies, you offered yourself to his wickedness! Speak no more to me from your black tongue.”

“Hmmph” Indrid does his best to ignore the ongoing beration. He’s not sure the creature is a god, but then again the creature seems uncertain on the matter himself. Serving a maybe-god seems no worse than serving the king, a life among the depths no less tolerable than his small home in a town torn to pieces by accusations of witchcraft. 

After a time, the storm clouds fulfill their purpose, a downpour battering him from all angles. Then a shadow falls over his shut eyes, and no more rain touches him. 

“Seemed awful rude to leave you stuck in the rain while you thought things over.” The god explains, one massive hand shielding the human. 

“Many thanks. Ah, I do have one concern about being your acolyte. Would...would I have to hurt anyone?”

“Don’t think so. I ain’t fond of hurtin folks, and if someone did need to be hurt, seems real strange to make the tiny human do it.”

Indrid puts on his most hopeful, charming smile, “I am very cold, very hungry, and my whole being feels as though it’s been stomped on by a team of horses. Perhaps I could give my answer early?”

A chuckle, like bubbles in deep water, “Hard to say no to that face. Okay, you got a deal. I checked with Joe while I was gone, to make sure I knew the right thing to do if you said yes. I’m gonna say the oath, and you’re gonna repeat it.”

Indrid nods, makes his way laboriously through the incantation in a gurgling language he does not know. The god patiently guides him along, cracks open the cage when the last word is spoken. 

“Do I get to know your name? If it was one of those words, it will take me some time to master it.”

The monsters’ cheeks rise, suggesting a smile, “You can call me Duck. It’s a nickname. C’mon” he holds out his hand, “let’s get you outta the rain.”

“One moment.” Indrid moves to the other gibbet, undoing the lock, “you can get free if you wish. If anyone asks how, tell them it was the witch.” With that, he settles in Duck’s cupped palms, the skin smooth and cool to the touch. 

“Down we go.” Duck sinks. 

“Wait, how will I bre-” water fills his mouth, but only for a moment. A clear bubble forms around him, let’s him gulp in air as Duck dives further into the sea. More jarring than the spell is the sight of the monster unfurling behind him. He assumed Duck had legs, but instead his lower body is that of a sea-serpent, green with bronze rings and undulating in the dark waves. 

“Like what you see?”

“Yes” he wonders what touching that tail is like.

“Yeah, this is a real beautiful part of the sea. If you want, some time I can take you further out; some spectacular lookin creatures out there. Here we go, home sweet home.” They surface at the base of a much shorter cliff, Indrid woozy from the change in depth. Three cottages--one red, one gold, and one blue-- stare back at them from a grassy hill. 

“Let’s see if I can do this” Duck sets Indrid on the ground, closes his eyes, and hums. The world shudders and splits, and then a fourth, emerald green cottage sits alongside the others. 

“Ha! Pretty damn good for a first effort.” His frill flickers with silver light.

“It’s wonderful.”

“All yours. You get yourself settled, I'm gonna go find out from the others what else needs doin’ now that I got an acolyte.” He lowers himself so the two of them are roughly face to face, “see you soon, Indrid.”

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

The cottage holds more possessions than Indrid’s ever had in his life, including a large feather bed that he stretches his aching body across before falling asleep and dreaming of seaweed twining up his legs. 

Voices from the window rouse him some hours later. At the side of the red cottage sit three other humans, two of whom are at work in a vegetable garden. Indrid ventures down to introduce himself. 

“Hi!” One, a woman with golden hair, waves to him, “you must be Indrid. I’m Dani, this is Barclay” she points to the bearded man harvesting potatoes, then to a tattooed man polishing a pile of gold and silver jewelry, “and that’s Boyd.” 

“Pleased to make your acquaintance. You are all acolytes as well?” His stomach rumbles and Barclay pauses his digging to slide him a basket containing bread and cheese.

“Help yourself, those are leftover from lunch. And yeah, we are. Or were, in Dani’s case.”

Even with foresight, Indrid is surprised when the woman says jokingly, “Got promoted to ‘wife’ a few months.”

“Congratulations.” It seems the appropriate thing to say, given her smile, “ah, what exactly do you all do for your gods? Duck is rather unclear on the details.”

“Some of it is spellwork. Beings like Duck have some innate power, but they can get more of it from an acolyte doing rituals or making offerings. Joseph, that’s my monster, Duck, and a few others aren’t sold on the idea that they’re meant to destroy humans, so they spend a lot of time keeping other monsters from doing just that. Our spellwork gives them an edge. Other than that, it really depends on who you’re working for; I spent a lot of my first month helping Joseph understand that hauling himself up onto a random dock to ask questions is not the best way to learn about humans. Boyd spends a lot of time maintaining Ned’s treasure.”

“Only because he bloody tricked me into workin for him. Just bidin my time until the deal runs out. You hear that Chicane!” Boyd yells towards the water, “don’t care how much you steal, I’ll get my share and run one of these days.”

To Indrid’s ear, the sea laughs in reply. Boyd grumbles and returns to his work. 

“He’s just annoyed because he and Ned thought they could outwit each other; Boyd was on a prison ship bound for Jamaica and Ned offered him an out. Apparently they spent hours haggling over the terms.” Dani leans closer, whispers, “Boyds left twice, comes back every time saying he’s bored without someone to challenge him.”

They talk a while longer, Dani promising to bring Indrid some hens and a goat from town, Boyd giving him some firewood, and Barclay explaining the network of sea caves in the surrounding hills. When there’s a knock at the door, he opens it expecting another human and jumps when this is not the case. 

“Evenin’” Duck smiles as he slithers into the house, “brought you a few more things.”

“You got smaller.” 

“Can change my size some, though this is about as small as I can get.” He’s still two heads taller than Indrid, who notes that the ceilings are just high enough to accommodate him, as if the god built the cottage with visits in mind. 

Duck sets a bucket of fresh oysters in the kitchen along with a large slab of butter, some milk, and some sugar, “Had one of my human friends bring me these. And, uh, I made you this” he holds up a cloak in the same colors as his tail. It fits Indrid snugly, shutting out the chilly air and making him feel rather grand indeed. 

“C’mere” Duck pats a kitchen chair, “lemme take care of your neck.”

Indrid sits, shudders when webbing and claws rub sticky balm into his skin. The gods hands easily encircle his neck, a realization that stirs heat deep in his stomach. Duck talks as he works, a meandering story about a shipwreck, and Indrid finds he enjoys his manner of speech. The initial discomfort of the touches subside, the balm washing the pain in his neck away like a wave erasing a message in the sand. Cool hands wrapped around his throat turn as comforting as the fire crackling in the stove. 

“That looks like it healed. Good” Duck’s beak fondly nips his ear, “gotta make sure my servant is in good condition.”

“Mmmm” Indrid bumps his chest with his head, hoping for more; tomorrow he’ll ask the others if it’s commonplace for an acolyte to lounge in the coils of their gods lap like a housecat. 

The beak touches his ear once more, biting it lightly with little kissing sounds.

“Huh'' two tentacles catch Indrid as he tips sideways, his body deciding that the earlier nap was not enough rest, “didn’t think you’d find that soothin. Did it by accident, it’s how my kind show affection.”

“S’very nice” Indrid mumbles, dimly aware of being carried. 

“I’ll keep that in mind. Y’know, in case I need to reward you for somethin.” Duck lays him in bed, pulls a thick blanket over him, and bids him goodnight. Indrid is sound asleep before the door closes. 

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

“Ngahka miskato--ah! Give that back” Indrid wrenches his spectacles free from hold of a far too inquisitive octopus. The creature squirts him with water, then disappears back into its pool. 

Each of the gods has a sea cave in which their acolytes perform their rituals. Since the processes involves ancient, dark magic, all manner of strange sea life makes its way to the caves. Some, like the octopus or the seals that bob in the distance or flop on the rocks to nap, are known to him. Others might be classified as indescribable horrors from the deep, though Indrid thinks they look like crustaceans with a few too many limbs or the offspring of an eel and devil fish. 

His oath to Duck allows him to read the spells, and his pronunciation is improving. Duck’s requests center on defense; letting himself take greater damage from an enemy, be better able to protect his friends, that sort of thing. Indrid even found a ritual that gives the god new cloaking abilities, which he’s used to make the cottages disappear on the hillside and thus keep curious townsfolk away.  He also found one that allows Duck to remain out of water for well over a day.

The Duck who visits him in the cave and the one who stops by his home may be radically different sizes, but his disposition is constant. He talks about the kelp forests and the animals, about his annoyance with his supposed destiny as “destroyer of all man.” He conjures fine clothes from seaweed, furniture from driftwood, and brings Indrid newly made grins embedded with fresh pearls. 

“Aren’t I supposed to be the one serving you?” Indrid will tease.

“Way I see it, we serve each other. Don’t care what that fuckin oath said.”

Indrid is feeding his hens one evening when his luck catches up with him; his human friends are all standing at the edge of Dani’s house, peering anxiously around it’s corner and down the hill. Joining them, he sees a crowd marching with torches and an assortment of lethal farm equipment. 

“What the fuck are they doing? You were just in town today and everything was fine” Barclay glances at Dani, who shrugs, worried.

“My visions tell me that as they get closer we will hear them yelling about witches and that I will recognize many of them. I suspect my fellow gibbet-occupant told them about Duck.” He sighs, “I’ll try to lead them on a chase, get them away from all of you.” 

Indrid runs into the evening before the others, or his own common sense, can stop him. Keeping to the cliffside, he lets them glimpse his hair and his red glasses, both used at the trial as proof of his wicked nature. His plan is to take a secret tunnel down into the caves, but his visions alert him a moment too late to the fact there are two, not one, groups of villagers. He’s outflanked on the cliff, holds up his hands to show he means no harm.

“I understand my continued existence alarms and confuses you, but that is no reason to go running about with weapons. Would you kindly leave me alone?”

“No, witch, we will not.” The head of the party shouts over the wind. 

“I have a name, you know.” He grumbles, looking behind him and wondering if his status as an acolyte grants him immunity from death by falling in the water. 

“You have already confessed to your black work, and we have on good authority you have made a pact with the devil. There is nowhere to run, and if you come quietly I promise we will hang you properly this time.”

“And if I do not?”

“We shall see to it that your body is scattered about this cliffside before the night is out.” The mob moves forward and Indrid stumbles back, the earth giving out beneath his feet. 

He lands with a yelp in a smooth, large hand. As Duck rises more fully from the waves, the crowd freezes, struck dumb with fear. 

“Y’all ain’t gonna touch him, y’hear? Indrid’s under my protection and in case it ain’t obvious, I could smoosh the whole damn bunch of you without breakin a sweat. So, what you’re gonna do is turn around and go back to your village, and I’ll forget this ever happened. If you come after him again, I’m gonna start taking out ships in your harbor. We clear?”

The panicked flight of the mod downhill suggests he’s made his point. 

Duck carries Indrid home, joining him in the cottage once he can fit through the door. The monster follows him upstairs, pulling him into his arms.

“Thought I was gonna lose you.”

“That makes two of us.” 

Duck nuzzles the top of his head, “You mind if I stay here tonight? Little worried some of them might get it into their heads to come back and hurt you.”

No futures show this, but Indrid nods all the same. Duck curls up near the bed, not leaving until the morning sun shines through the window. He does the same the next night, and the night after that, and soon it’s been two weeks of the god talking softly with Indrid as the human falls asleep. 

When Indrid shyly asks if Duck will join him, his monster lays as comfortably as he can on the right side of the bed. Indrid is now used to waking up with a tail looped around his leg or a tentacle clinging to his arm. 

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

Indrid is just drifting off when the covers slide aside and weight slithers up the bed. He opens his eyes; Duck is on his side, facing him, annoyed. 

“What troubles you, my dark excellency?” Indrid nudges Ducks’ lower belly with his toes. He’s taken to calling Duck increasingly absurd things, and the monster calls him “faithful servant” or “esteemed attendant” in reply. 

Tonight, Duck just sighs, “Y’know how I was supposed to do somethin important tonight, bein’ that it’s the second full moon in the month? Turns out that somethin was, ‘spread my seed among the beds of men’ so our kind will gradually overrun the surface.” He clicks his beak with a snort, “don’t that sound fun?”

“No.”

“Smart little thing, ain’t you?” Duck teases, cups Indrid’s chin, “Yeah, I said no. Problem is, apparently a second full moon makes my whole body wanna fuck, which is why that prophecy was supposed to happen tonight.”

Indrid looks down, sees something rippling under the skin at the upper part of Duck’s tail. 

“I’m gonna try sleepin it off.”

His visions give him courage; Duck turns him down in most futures, but none of them end in death or bodily harm, which at his point in his life is all he asks. 

“Or you could, ah, allow me to help you.”

Green eyes blink, slow and calculating, “‘Drid, that ain’t part of your job.”

“No…” Indrid scoots across the sheets, tentatively runs his fingers up Duck’s side, “but that is not why I’m offering.”

“No?” The rest of his tail joins them on the bed, curving so it traps Indrid against him, “Then why are you offerin, sweet human of mine?”

“Because I, ah, I want, that is I would very much like to know you in that way, and I thought it was allowed based on the others, I apologize if it’s not, I did not mean to-” He freezes as Duck cups his face, nipping his ear and throat with a kissing noise.

“‘Drid?”

“Y-yes, my lord of the depths?” He’s breathless, drowning in Duck’s gaze. 

“Stop apologizin and take off your clothes.”

Indrid flails until nothing is between him and his monster. 

“Thats better” Duck’s voice deepens, washing over him like rough waves, “now, come serve your god.” He pats what Indrid thinks of as his waist, the point where his human qualities disappear entirely. 

“As you wish” Indrid tries for a coquettish smile as he straddles him, but it gives way to surprise as the slit in Ducks skin parts. 

“I was not expecting tentacles. Which, given the rest of you, was naive.”

“Not usin that future vision of yours to see what’s comin’?” The webbing of Duck’s fingers is like velvet as it caresses Indrid’s chest.

“It is difficult to focus on such things when you are here. You command my attention. You always have.”

Duck flicks his tongue across Indrid’s lower lip, “Now that kind of devotion I could get used to.”

“It is yours whenever you want it.”

A tentacle emerges from his side, petting Indrid’s face, “My Indrid. You been so good for me, so faithful and true. Letting me babble about seaweed and when my claws through that pretty hair. And you just keep gettin better.” 

“Please” Indrid rests his head against Duck’s chest, hugging him as best as his size will allow, “please teach me how to serve you this way too.”

“I can do that. You don’t gotta lift a finger.” Several of the tendrils that comprise his cock twine together to form a single appendage. The tentacle on his face gains a twin and the pair slide down to his ass, parting it.

Indrid’s thighs are uncooperative, struggle to get and keep him in the right position to sink down. He curses, reaches down to adjust only for a thicker tentacles to bind both wrists and yank them up above his head. 

“Uh uh, I said no finger-liftin and I meant it.”

Indrid moans, his cock filling as he discovers there’s no way to free himself. He expects Duck to guide him into place with his hands. The end of his tail encircles Indrid’s hips while his claws trace arcane shapes on his skin. 

“I, I did not know it was quite so dextrousOH, oh god.” The tip of that strange cock pushes in, pulsing little by little to stretch him open without pain. 

“Right here.” Duck nibbles his hair with that same kissing sound, “I got you. Take such good care of my faithful human.”

“Oh god” Indrid can’t come up with anything else to express the sensation of Duck sinking deeper into his body, of how safe he feels stretched out and stretched open in the monsters hold. He tips his head back with a cry as Duck bottoms out and his cock moves fluid and disjointed all at once. It’s pulsing, thrusting him full on each inward push, yet it’s individual tendrils curve and curl within him independent of the whole. 

“More, oh god, please, please never ever ever stop.”

 A fond chuckle, “That good huh? Maybe that prophecy was wrong. Maybe what I’m supposed to do is fuck you full and then drop you in town so you can spread the word of how good my dick is. Be my consort and prophet all in one. Get everyone clamorin for the chance for me to fuck them.”

“No” Indrid squirms, petulant, “you’re my master. Not theirs.”

A louder laugh this time, “You gonna take the amount of fuckin I was supposed to do to a whole town yourself?” A tendril curls around Indrid’s aching cock. 

“Yes” He wails, rolls his hips “you may have me as often as you please, I want you too, I’ll, I’ll be your faithful servant always.”

“You’re already somethin better; you’re my ‘Drid.” Duck twists the tendril and Indrid’s lost, his orgasm knocking breath from his chest and tears from his eyes as white spatters the green of Duck’s abdomen. 

“That’s it darlin, lookit you bein so good, cummin for your master. Think it’s time for you to make good on your promise to take whatever I give you.” The tail lifts Indrid up and down as Duck cums, the monster not so much as pausing before thrusting his hips harder, “fuuuck that’s good, my perfect servant, my ‘Drid, takin me so well.”

Indrid sobs as another burst of cum enters him and a strange feeling fills his chest; he’s buzzing with blindingly bright power. It’s coming from Duck, he knows this, and in the haze of his submissive state he understands the depth of his divinity.

“Duck” he whimpers as more tentacles twist around his limbs, the god losing himself in his pursuit of pleasure, filling Indrid until his belly twinges and his eyes fight to remain open. When the god groans out the humans name a final time, Indrid is so enveloped by him he wonders if they’ll ever fully disentangle. 

The monster carries him to the washroom, Indrid still squirming on his cock, and gently pulls him free to set him in the tub. A flick of his hand fills it with warm seawater.

“You okay?”

“I doubt I will be able to walk tomorrow.” Indrid smiles to show he relishes this fact.

“Guess I’ll be spendin tomorrow waitin on you.” Duck joins him in the tub, coiling protectively around him as he washes his chest and thighs.

“I thought I was the servant here?” Indrid cuddles closer, kissing Duck on the tip of his beak.

“Nah. Far as I’m concerned, we take care of each other.”

#indrid cold/duck newton #Indruck #monster march #reader requests #monster boyfriend #the author says "fuck HP Lovecraft

[iya5rt]

Kalopsia Project [Bakugo Katsuki x Reader – Tokyo Ghoul AU]

Chapter 4 – A Day of Encounters

Chapter Summary: Between two ghouls attempting to kill you, men dressed in white uniforms that you knew all too well, and even a childhood friend – it was a day of encounters to remember.

Kalopsia Project Masterpost

***

Glossary:

Bikaku – one of the four types of kagune; typically has a tail-like appearance and is released around the tail-bone. It is good for medium-distance attacks and has decent offense, defense, and speed.

(excerpts taken from the Tokyo Ghoul Wiki)

***

Great. Fantastic. Absolutely perfect.

I swear there has to be some law that claims after encountering a ghoul once, you start running into them every day for the rest of your life. And I’ll personally murder whoever came up with this.

Sure, sarcastic commentary in your head was anything but a normal person’s first thought when they were cornered by two very deadly men. Then again, your life had spiraled far out of the realm of normalcy the moment Monoma had revealed himself to be a ghoul.

Sarcasm was always a good way to make yourself seem braver and prepared to commit. Only on the inside though.

Meanwhile, back in the real world, you were still trying to push your back harder and harder against the door. For all you knew, with enough force it was going to cave in and open the wrong way even. What a dreamer you were…

“Now, sweetheart,” the blond man spoke. The “pet name” made a shiver run down your spine. What was up with ghouls that wanted to eat you and pet names anyway!? “How come we haven’t seen you here before, huh? We make sure to swing by quite regularly too...” He faked a pout. It suddenly dawned on you – they must’ve seen you at the cafe and decided to wait for you out at the back. Had they known you would have been there? And why hadn’t you seen them?

“Oi, don’t turn around but there are two creeps staring at you. Just ignore ‘em.” Bakugo’s words echoed in your mind.

Thank you for looking out for me back then, Bakugo-kun, but I’m afraid we have a bigger problem now…

“You just gonna stay silent? I prefer meals when they’re feisty but the temptation’s too great.” He leaned closer and in that moment, something creeped around your hand. You flinched and looked down, as your captor straightened with a satisfied smirk – he knew you had nowhere to run anymore.

After all, he’d managed to release his kagune and wrap it tightly around your arm. Your heart sank.

He managed to keep his bikaku low while keeping my eyes on him. He’s smarter than he looks… And I’m more screwed than I thought I was.

Your mind was drawing a blank. You had to escape his grasp somehow. Either that, or signal one of the less hostile ghouls working at Yuuei with you for help.

A sudden cry in pain broke you out of your racing thoughts. There was the sound of something akin to flesh being sliced in two, as a few droplets of blood hit your cheek. The men in front of you backed away, glaring somewhere to the side, the face of the blond in front contorted in pain.

That’s when you noticed.

Your arm had been freed.

Well, not exactly freed – the kagune was still wrapped around your wrist, but it had been severed from its source and owner.

And one look to the side told you all you needed to know.

“The hell do you think you’re doing, shitheads?” came a gruff and familiar voice. And with it, your chest was filled with a sense of relief. “This is Yuuei’s territory and you got no business snooping around on it.”

In an instant, Bakugo was beside them, aiming a kick at the drunk black-haired man, causing him and his companion to knock heads and stumble as they groaned.

“Shit,” the sand blond muttered and grabbed the other, jumping off into the distance. Your eyes trailed them, as they soon disappeared beyond the roofs of a few buildings.

Bakugo was standing with his back to you and his shoulders slumped as he let out something of a mixture between a sigh and a groan. He lifted a hand to run through his messy hair.

“Oi, you good-” he turned to look at you, but paused upon witnessing a peculiar scene.

Your eyes seemed to be focused solely on the kagune protruding from his back, this childish sense of awe and wonder making a small light flicker in them. Watching it carefully, you seemed to be studying every change in hue, every little shape. Your hand, now free from the intruder’s kagune, which had soon lost its grip and fallen limp to the ground, was inching closer to your object of observation, almost touching it, before you felt a pair of eyes on you and turned to find Bakugo staring at you silently.

You jumped and retracted your outstretched hand, a faint red hue rising to your cheeks. “Ah, I-I’m so sorry, I got a little careless there for a second...” You rubbed a hand behind your neck, looking somewhere of to the side. With a nervous laugh, you awkwardly played with your hands, waiting for Bakugo to get annoyed, upset, even angry – you’d just have to grit your teeth and bare it. What were you even thinking, really? Sure, they’d welcomed you in nicely but you had no business getting all cozy like that with Yuuei’s ghouls. Not yet, but probably not ever either.

“Whatever, I guess...” Bakugo cleared his throat and turned to look away from you again, making his next words come out a little muffled. “You can touch it if you want, doesn’t matter,” he muttered and, though he couldn’t see it, your eyes lit up.

“Wait, r-really?”

Bakugo shrugged. You all but jumped in glee, moving a step closer, where the bright and colorful kagune was. There was a brief hesitation in your movements, as you reached out a hand once more, this time a lot more conscious of it, as though you were waiting for Bakugo to give you a sign that it was alright. He never moved though, so you inched your hand closer and closer.

You’d heard about the different types of kagune from your parents – what their strengths and weaknesses are, how to evade them, wound them, render them useless. It was, much like everything you’d ever heard about the ghouls themselves, all told as if the picture of this elaborate story was painted purely in black and white. And the ghouls and their kagune were the deepest darkest shades of black in it. No wonder the ghoul investigators’ uniforms were white then.

Why had no one thought to ask what kagune looked like? How the colors all blended together and created those marvelous gradients? What it felt like just to touch it with your bare, human hands?

Of course you would be surprised upon witnessing one up close. All this time, for you kagune had been a grisly weapon of a grisly murderer. You wondered if perhaps your stance was changed too quickly after only two days spent at Yuuei.

The moment your fingers touched the kagune, Bakugo visibly tensed. He let himself relax a little when you began tracing all the different shapes you vaguely saw the colors form. It was much like staring at a cloudy sky – you could make out anything among those colors, so long as you would let yourself believe that it was there.

The surface beneath your fingertips was soft, yet hard. Smooth, yet textured. It was simultaneously like the feathers of a bird and the smooth skin of a snake. To put it simply – it was like nothing you had ever felt before. Which only made it all the more fitting – a seemingly unreal feel to the kagune belonging to a seemingly unreal species.

For a minute or so, the only sound was that of the nearby traffic and the occasional clanking of cups and muffled conversation from inside the cafe. You were the first to break the silence.

“What does it feel like?” you asked, voice low and almost as quiet as a whisper. With how you were standing, there was need to speak much louder anyway.

“Just like another limb. A bigger and more dangerous limb. But a limb nonetheless,” he explained, cranking his head up to gaze at the vast sky above you.

It was late in the afternoon and the sun was slowly but surely hiding away behind the horizon. With it, vanished the bright blue up above, only to be replaced with a beautiful harmony of yellow, orange, and red, much like the colors of the kagune which you were still gazing endlessly at with that same sense of wonder in your eyes. Soon those bright and pretty hues were going to be replaced by the darkness of the night though.

“It’s getting late. Let’s head back inside,” Bakugo ushered and stepped away, then turned to face you. In the blink of an eye, the kagune disappeared, and the only tell that something had ever happened were the few suspicious drops of blood still splattered on the ground, and the small chunk of your attacker’s kagune left at the scene.

You nodded and moved to open the back door, while Bakugo, walking right behind you, threw the lone piece of evidence into the dumpster with the cafe’s other garbage. Just before you swung the door open however, you paused and turned to give him a smile.

“It was really beautiful!” With that, you practically skipped back inside the much warmer and safer building. Bakugo, on the other hand, was forced to reason with himself that the small blush he had felt was only his imagination.

Darn you and your clueless compliments awaiting him at every corner.

***

That evening, you’d been advised by just about everyone to take a long and proper rest. Shake off everything that had happened since your fateful and unfortunate “date” and let your body take a break.

You showered Midoriya with gratitude, realizing that your shoulder was healing incredibly fast and well. It had given you little to no trouble all throughout the day, and if it weren’t for that nasty scar it bore, you might have even let yourself forget that it was ever there in the first place.

Of course, going to bed always brought about this new wave of overwhelming thoughts and crippling anxiety that swallowed you whole. You couldn’t shake them off even if you tried, so you chose to go along with them instead.

How long were you going to stay cooped up in there and hide from the rest of the world? It had only been two days – the weekend, nonetheless, but that annoying voice in your head told you that you didn’t want to make that change. You didn’t want to put an end to your mundane but satisfying life.

Sure, the other day’s encounter had thrown a small wrench in that plan – namely, you were now involved in a particularly big and dangerous secret, but did that really mean you had to vanish off the face of the earth too?

No. No, it didn’t.

What was all that about the second chance that you’d been given? No way were you going to waste it hiding away for your remaining days.

It didn’t take much reasoning to figure it out. You’d never thought you’d conceive such a sentence. Ever. But even still.

You wanted to go back to class.

The next morning, you woke up bright and early, opting to help clean the tables, as Ida’s classes started much too early. Half an hour later, everyone who was still free got to work, while you ran back to the room upstairs (the one Aizawa had been so nice to offer you to stay in while you were still healing and requiring the occasional check-ups), and gathered some necessary items.

With that, you headed out for class (much to the surprise and even protests of your new-found friends).

Needless to say, Bakugo had not been happy when you showed up either. Though he’d opted only for some silent looks, since, to the rest of your classmates, you two were nothing more than acquaintances, at least the last time they had seen you.

You were faced with a handful of concerned questions when Monoma never showed up. And all through them, you had to fake some sadness and explain how you hadn’t seen him since your date on Friday. A few girls gasped and worriedly whispered how the news claimed the second ward’s binge-eater to have taken yet another victim.

So it seemed they had already written Monoma off as dead. You scoffed to yourself. You wished.

When classes were over, Bakugo had finally taken to scolding you for being reckless yet again, though you reasoned that nothing bad had happened and, now that he was with you, nothing bad was going to happen. He had only groaned in response.

The two of you soon made your way back to Yuuei and with that, it was time for yet another shift.

You were quickly becoming used to this new job, though the occasional screw-ups still occurred. Like for example today, when you had accidentally gotten the order of a regular a little wrong. The old lady had fortunately offered you a warm smile with a dismissive wave of her hand, and assured you that you’ll get it right next time. She mused she wanted to try something new anyway.

Your day was going by. And it was surprisingly normal. Still way out there, compared to what life had been like for you up until just recently, but much better by the unfortunate standard you had somehow set over the past three days.

And then, of course, something came around to shake it up.

As you prepared to bring an order of two coffees and a sandwich to a couple laughing with each other on one of the tables outside, Aizawa approached you and pointed towards the back room.

“[L/N], go to the back to help out Todoroki and Midoriya.” You opened your mouth to question the sudden decision, but was interrupted. “Now.”

Something in his voice told you this was urgent. You nodded and called for Uraraka to take over your position for a second. As you swiftly made your way to the back room (appointed as the small kitchen), you caught a glimpse of two men clad in white and carrying a briefcase each. You closed the door before you had been spotted though.

You knew what you had seen.

Those uniforms. The briefcases.

You’d spent eighteen years of your life seeing them dressed much the same way too. Thought their careers had been cut a bit too short. But for those guys to show up at Yuuei? This could not have been good.

Surprised by the unexpected visitor, Midoriya and Todoroki looked up to find you gazing at the door, as if you were hoping to see through it somehow.

“[F/N]-san, is everything okay? I thought you had a shift right now?” Midoriya motioned for Todoroki to continue working on the small pastry, as he walked up to you. He was probably worried that your wounds had opened up again, so you were coming in to ask him for help. You shook your head.

“The investigators…” The two boys suddenly looked at each other. So that’s why you were sent here. “Do they come her often?” You finally turned to face them, as they thought for a moment.

“Not really,” Todoroki said, moving back to fetch some new ingredients. “They come by every once in a while, though not often enough for us to suspect they know something.” Midoriya nodded along too.

“Yeah. They just see a nice cafe and sit down for a break, I guess. Aizawa-san probably sent you here to make sure you aren’t seen though.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Even if we’re doing a good job keeping our secret here at Yuuei, none of them are very used to working beside another human yet. He probably didn’t want them messing up and letting something slip.”

You cocked your head to the side.

“Them?” Midoriya’s eyes suddenly widened.

“Well, I mean – us! But also, uh, them! Because, you know, I’ve met and talked with a whole lot of different people so I’m kinda used to it? Yeah, that’s it...” he awkwardly trailed off. You figured out he must be hiding something but decided against pushing his hospitality. If he deemed it important, he was going to tell you the moment he trusted you enough. It’s not like you were being all that transparent either – you doubted anyone beside Bakugo was aware of what your parents used to be and what had supposedly happened to them. And you hadn’t even told Bakugo yourself.

“Is that so...”

For the next half an hour (those investigators were sure taking their sweet time chatting it up in there – weren’t they supposed to be working!?), you had helped the two with whatever you could manage. In the process, you’d been taught a little about what went into making Yuuei’s adorable small pastries, though you still had a long way to go before you hoped to even match Todoroki’s decoration skills. When you’d inquired about this curious interest of his, he’d mentioned that his mother taught him. There was a fond smile as he spoke, so you smiled along with him. For the ghouls to have a loving family (or so you had assumed anyway) – how nice that sounded.

At the worst of times, the door had practically slammed open, as Bakugo called you back. Needless to say, he didn’t seem too pleased to find Todoroki helping guide your hand in placing some fragile chocolate decoration accordingly. You wondered why he had seemed so upset and had snapped at him without a second thought.

You were only left to sheepishly apologize though, as Bakugo dragged you out of the small room and back to your duty. With a desperate need to leave the awkwardness behind, you quietly spoke up.

“So, what were they looking for?” Bakugo looked up at you, and his eyes might or might not have been criticizing you for ignoring work and settling for lazily conversing with him instead. Though he went along with it. It was now affecting you too, so you deserved to know.

“Dunno. Maybe they were slacking off from work like a certain someone here,” he emphasized, while you pretended not to hear that last part. “If anything, they should be feeling more relaxed with one less active binge-eater.” You hummed in agreement.

“I guess. Though they’re probably still looking for him.” You leaned your cheek on your hand resting on the counter, and looked out the cafe’s windows at the busy street. There were so many people just going about their lives out there… “If you say he’s still alive, he probably still needs food too. Meaning, he must be out there somewhere.” You found your eyes trailing to the tray Bakugo had put up in front of you, as he produced two coffee cups from underneath the counter and, along with some cream and a few small packs of sugar, placed them on it. “I wonder where he might be.”

“Don’t concern yourself with that shit. Trust me, you don’t need to know. And neither do I, not to mention that I don’t really care.” He motioned with his hand for you to stand up. “Now, go take this to that loud-ass group over there,” he gestured to one of the bigger tables beside the wall. You could hear the loud conversations and excessive laughter coming from them, though you only giggled.

Aw, Bakugo-kun’s getting annoyed at a group of fellow students. He’s like some old man or something.

You complied though, and brought the tray to them. You counted four people, some with interestingly colored hair. You were sure at least two of them had dyed it, while a blond was still in question.

As you stopped beside them and opened your mouth to ask who the coffee was for however, a surprised exclamation came before it.

“[F/N]-chan!? I haven’t seen you since middle-school but – it’s you, right?”

You looked up to find a redhead with a big toothy grin and excited red eyes looking back at you. Of course your recognized him too. You had a habit of remembering faces, and especially those of your friends, regardless of how long you hadn’t run into each other. Your smile mirrored his.

“Kirishima-kun! It’s been a while, huh?”

Seems like the new encounters were still far from over.

***

[CLASSIFIED INFORMATION]

Protocol K78152112

Subject #22

Real Name: N/A

Background: Death row inmate.

Results: Disfigurement, particularly around the face. Subject lost control of his limbs and had to be restrained.

Signs of success were overwhelming; Subject successfully developed a k***** but damage to the rest of the body was too great, leading to his death just 17 hours later.

(scribbled in pen) That thing was horrific to look at, just get it out of here already. Younger subjects it is.

***

Author’s Note: Encounters, encounters, encounters. And they’re not even over yet, just you wait.

This was a bit of a transitional chapter I feel like, but I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless. Let’s be real, were it not for the threat of being murdered, everyone would be crazy for the chance to look at a ghoul’s kagune up close – those things are beautiful.

I hope you had a great week! Please drop a comment and share your thoughts with me – I’d love to hear any theories or ideas you guys might have! Thank you so much for reading and I’ll see you all again next week! Bye~

(Psst, @afuckingunicornn  @creativedogs  @chims-kookies  - thank you for the support and here is the next part!)

#bakugou x reader #bnha x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #bnha tokyo ghoul au

[yourdeepestfathoms]

time to play your dead man’s hand (Day 1)

Life is Strange AU!!!! I don’t even have the first chapter done. It’s too long for Tumblr all together.

Also part one is kinda a test. I don’t know if I’ll continue this, but it people like it I will. But if this only gets, like, 10 notes then I’m not gonna slave myself over the LiS script to write this correctly.

Also also: I literally had no idea who should be Anne’s stepdad, so “Edmund” is just a filler name. If anyone knows someone who would make a good step father for her, please let me know!

One more thing- The Anne in this is Bowman!Anne! Because I like her more than Millie even though her character is supposed to be punkish

TW: Gun violence, death

——————

Part One- Chrysalis

The first flash of lightning wakes her. She cannot really recall falling asleep, but she is certainly awake now. The sky turns white again and then the rain, hard and relentless, begins. Another flash of lightning and, this time, thunder accompanies it. The massive boom shakes her to her toes and makes her feel small in comparison.

Her senses are a mess. She can hardly smell through the rain, and all she can see is the dark until the lightning intermittently burns the sky.

She’s lying face-down in the mud. The brown sludge slides down her face, slippery and grimy. It coats her clothes, but the rain is quick to wash it away and replace the drench with some of its own. She nearly slips as she’s pushing herself up to her feet, suddenly shivering.

The thunder cracks again, but this time she hears something inside of it. A shout. Several shouts, like the wail of anguished souls. She sees lightning, and then in the fading light, she sees shadows leftover.

She’s on a sloped path that has turned into a river from the rushing water. Her shoes and socks are soaked in an instant, already rubbing her feet raw and chafing blisters against her ankles. She tries to speak, but her throat is closed up in horror.

Where am I? What's happening? She thought, looking around. A storm? Why am I in a storm?

A burst of lightning torches the sky, splitting it in two in a magnificent silver slash. It illuminates the towering shape of the lighthouse just up the hill.

Wait... There's the lighthouse... I'll be safe if I can make it there... I hope...

Wind whips at her at dizzying speeds and the rain drives hard enough to push her to her knees. It is only through force of will and sheer luck that she manages not to be thrown clear as she began to stagger up the slippery path and to the cliff where the lighthouse is situated. She could scream, but the storm screams louder and its cries are deafening.

Time ceases to mean much as the storm pummels her and the world around her. She cannot see more than a hand's span in front of your face- she’s having to shield her head and squint so those subzero jerks couldn’t stab her blind. She’s exhausted by the short trek and is nearly prepared to give in to the whims of the storm and let it blow her where it will when she pulls herself up to the top of the incline.

Before her is the ocean, as dark as wine, and atop is a massive tornado. It was much too large to be real, but there it was, caged in flashing bolts of lightning and thick gales.

And it was heading right for Whitby.

Holy shit...

Suddenly, the storm whips up a large boat that had been thrashing in the waves near the beach. It was sent flying, crashing into the lighthouse and causing the top half to come crumbling down, down, down-

————

Maggie awoke with a start. Cold sweat is beaded on her brow and runs like slick snail trails down the back of her neck. She doesn’t scream, thank god, because she realizes that she’s in her art class at school. Warm rays of sun are bleeding in through the window, casting grand, golden shadows across pastel canvases and abstract parchments and colorful tapestries strung up along the walls. There was no sign of a storm in sight.

Woah, She thought. That was so weird.

A line of sweat starts to make its way down her pale face and she quickly swipes it away. Her heart is still racing, pounding painful inside of her chest. She tries to steady it and just focus on the calming voice of Mr. Tudor, the art teacher.

Okay... I'm in class...

At the table in front of her, Agnes Tylney’s pen falls on the floor and she reaches down to pick it up.

Everything's cool... I'm okay...

Catherine Aragon throws a paper ball at Joan Astley.

“Now, can you give me an example of a photographer who perfectly captured the human condition?” Mr. Tudor is saying.

Jane Seymour’s phone vibrates.

I didn't fall asleep, and...that sure didn't feel like a dream... Weird.

“Diane Arbus.” Jane answers. Her voice is like honeyed venom- sweet but stinging. Maggie knew the potency of the poison in her words all too well.

“There you go, Jane!” Mr. Tudor praised, “Why Arbus?”

As Jane was explaining, Maggie looked down at her table. Her basic school needs-pens, pencils, journal- were scattered out on the blacktop, along with her camera and a photograph. When she picks it up, she looks upon the horrid image of her standing in front of dozens of other pictures tacked on her dorm wall.

Look at this crap! How can I show this to Mr. Tudor? I can hear the class laughing at me now.

She sighed and set it back down. Her eyes cast over to the analog camera and she carefully picked it up as if it were a baby bird. She was always so cautious with the old thing.

Her thumb grazed over the washes out yellow top portion before gently pressed a button. The camera flashes in her face, taking her by surprise.

“Shh, shh, shh,” Mr. Tudor piped up. “I believe Maggie has taken what you kids call a "selfie"... A dumb word for a wonderful photographic tradition. And Maggie...has a gift. Of course, as you all know, the photo portrait has been popular since the early 1800's. Your generation was not the first to use images for ‘selfie-expression.’ Sorry. I couldn't resist. The point remains that the portraiture has always been a vital aspect of art, and photography, for as long as it's been around. Now, Maggie, since you've captured our interest and clearly want to join the conversation, can you please tell us the name of the process that gave birth to the first self-portraits?”

Maggie grits her teeth and tried not to sink into the bottom of her chair and evaporate into the abyss. Eyes were boring in on her from all sides. Tiny flames light up in her ears.

“I-I did know!” She stammered. “But I kinda forgot...”

Mr. Tudor narrows his eyes. He usually looks so lax and kind, so seeing him bring out the Disappointed Look cut deep.

“You either know this or not, Maggie.” He said, frustrated, “Is there anybody here who knows their stuff?”

“Louis Daguerre was a French painter who created ‘daguerreotypes’ a process that gave portraits a sharp reflective style, like a mirror.” Jane said, as boot-licking as always. She swivels her head around to Maggie, her eyes gleaming like a hungry tiger that just found its next meal. “Now you're totally stuck in the Retro Zone. Sad face.”

Maggie’s spine chafed painfully against the back of her chair as she hunches her shoulders in to seem smaller. Her ears were fully on fire, now- she hopes her hair is hiding them.

Just as Mr. Tudor is finishing his lecture on Jane’s answer, the bell rings. Students are instantly leaping up and scampering out of the classrooms.

“And guys,” Mr. Tudor says, “don't forget the deadline to submit a photo in the "Everyday Heroes" contest. I'll fly out with the winner to London where you'll be feted by the art world in the Tate museum. It's great exposure, and it can kickstart a career in photography. So, Agnes and Maud, get it together. Catherine, don't hide. I'm still waiting for your entry, too. And yes, Maggie, I see you pretending not to see me.”

Maggie stands up slowly, unfurling her shoulders from their hunched position. As she’s waiting for the muscles to stop aching from the sudden uncoil, she sees Jane beeline to Mr. Tudor’s desk. Maggie rolls her eyes.

Jane doesn't waste a second kissing ass...

She gathers her things and heads for the door. Before she could make her escape, however, Mr. Tudor’s smooth voice rang out.

“I see you, Maggie Wyatt. Don't even think about leaving here until we talk about your entry.”

Maggie tenses and then gives in. She turns around and approaches the front desk. She does her best to avoid Jane’s drilling gaze.

“I'd never let one of photography's future stars avoid handing in her picture.” Mr. Tudor said.

“Do I have to? I just don't think it's that big a deal.” Maggie said.

Jane snickers. Mr. Tudor has an almost-sympathetic look.

“Maggie, you're a better photographer than a liar...” He said. “Now I know it's a drag to hear some old dude lecture you... but life won't wait for you to play catch-up. You're young, the world is yours, blah blah blah, right? But you do have a gift, you have the fever to take images, to frame the world only the way you envision it. Now, all you need is the courage to share your gift with others. That's what separates the artist, from the amateur.”

Maggie can only bob her head shyly and mumbled a soft, “Yes sir.” Mr. Tudor takes it and lets her leave.

Stepping out into the hallway from the art class was like stepping into a hurricane. While the art class was serene and peaceful and illuminated by the sunshine’s warm glow, the hallway was a tiled jungle with fluorescent suns. Student were weaving every which way like colorful, talkative birds of paradise and the teachers peering out from their classrooms were the watchful jaguars. Dozens of conversations were going at once, laughing came from every direction, and the clatters of lockers were white noise for the cacophony. Everyone seemed to know what they were doing, boldly showing off their tail feathers and wings without a care in the world. Everyone except Maggie, that is. She sighed and shoved in her earbuds before she could hear Aragon from across the hall finish her statement about someone being “so fucking shy.”

Her destination was the bathroom, where she needed a serious timeout to unwind from her classroom embarrassment. She made herself as small as possible, narrowly avoiding the rushing figures of other students. Her awkward swivels and side-steps definitely earned her a few odd glances, but she tried to ignore them until she finally got into the safety of the bathroom.

Empty. Good. Nobody can see my meltdown. Except for me.

Maggie washes her face using one of the sinks, letting the chill of the tap water sink into her cheeks. She keeps her hands there for a moment before sighing and dropping them. She takes out her polaroid photo after turning the sink off.

Just relax. Stop torturing yourself. You have “a gift”.

She stared and stared and stared at the photo, but it just seemed to appear worse and worse the longer she looked.

Fuck it.

She tears apart her photo and drops it on the floor. The way the pieces fall to the ground are as delicate as the flutter of the butterfly’s wings that just flew in from an open window. Maggie blinks and follows it. It lands on a bucket behind a stall and spreads its emerald green wings into the light bleeding over it.

Holy shit. Maggie thought. Well...when a door closes, a window opens...or, something like that. She takes out her camera. Okay girl, you don't get a photo op like this everyday...

Maggie slowly approaches the butterfly and takes a photo of it. At the flash, the butterfly takes off, flapping in a blur of brilliant green that almost seems to glow in the air. As it dashed for a safe landing, the bathroom door opens and closes and a guy walks in. Maggie recognizes him as Thomas Cromwell, the richest, most pompous kid on the campus, from his slick hair and letterman jacket. He does a quick scan of the bathroom, not noticing Maggie hiding, and then began pacing. His pale, bat-like face is twisted with enraged horror. He looks like he was about to shatter at any second

“It’s cool, Thomas... Don't stress... You're okay, bro. Just count to three...” He was muttering to himself. “Don't be scared... You own this school... If I wanted, I could blow it up!” He laughed. Craziness oozed from the fractures in his voice- or maybe directly from his fragmented brain. “You're the boss.”

A moment later, the door swings open and a girl strides in. She’s a little heavier set, but carries herself with great pride and power. Her dark eyes are impish and on fire. Green is spilled out over the top of her hair, long, dyed tendrils of emerald coiling with brown locks. When she speaks, her voice comes out in a (familiar) confident growl.

“I hope you checked the perimeter, as my step-ass would say.” She said while checking the stalls. Maggie has to back up in her hiding spot- it’s a wonder neither of them have caught her, especially with how she’s peeking out to watch. “Now, let's talk bidness—”

“I got nothing for you.” Thomas said. He’s trying to keep his composure, Maggie can tell just by listening to him, but it’s about as cracked as his sanity.

“Wrong.” The girl said. “You got hella cash.”

“That's my family, not me.” Thomas grits. He’s grinding his teeth now.

The girl laughed. “Oh, boohoo, poor little rich kid!” Her tone becomes serious. She marches over to Thomas, who is hunched over the sink, bracing himself. “I know you been pumpin' drugs 'n' shit to kids around here... I bet your respectable family would help me out if I went to them.” She leans into his ear, “Man, I can see the headlines now—”

“Leave them out of this, bitch.” Thomas snarled.

“I can tell everybody Thomas Cromwell is a punk ass who begs like a little girl and talks to himself—”

Thomas rounds on the girl. There’s now a gun in his hand, which he must have been hiding in his jacket. The girl backs up into the wall, the fire in her eyes going out in an instant, and Thomas stands in front of her, one arm against the wall beside her head and the other pointing the gun at her stomach.

“You don't know who the fuck I am or who you're messing around with!” He roared.

“Where’d you get that? What are you doing?” The girl babbled. Her fearless mask has dropped in an instant at the presence of a weapon. “Come on, put that thing down!”

“Don't EVER tell me what to do! I'm so SICK of people trying to control me!” Thomas howled. Whatever was holding the crack in his brain together has broken apart at the seams and every bad thing is pouring out at a horrifying rate.

“You are going to get in hella more trouble for this than drugs—” The girl grunts. She can feel the biting metal of the gun’s muzzle press against her stomach. She’s so rigid.

Thomas leans into her ear. His voice is curled with dark ice. “Nobody would ever even miss your ‘punk ass’ would they?”

“Get that gun away from me, psycho!!”

The girl shoved Thomas away from her and makes a break for the door. Her sudden movements jar Thomas and he pulls the trigger. Blood splatters against the wall and from the girl’s mouth as the bullet passes through her stomach.

“NO!!” Maggie screamed.

She’s running out from her hiding spot without realizing it. She stretches out her right hand, as if she thought she could actually do something to help. The gun and the girl are falling to the ground in slow motion. Maggie’s breathing picks up. Everything becomes blurry. Black and white and grey splotches haze her vision. Every nerve is filled with painless liquid fire, buzzing inside of her. Red is the only other color she can see- the dark red of hot blood. Of her blood, maybe. She can’t tell anymore, but, suddenly, awareness returns to her- intense shock fades and leaves behind wet adrenaline in its wake, soaking her to the core. She opens her eyes- when did they ever close?- and finds herself in the art class again.

Warm rays of sun are bleeding in through the window, casting grand, golden shadows across pastel canvases and abstract parchments and colorful tapestries strung up along the walls. There was no sign of a storm- of a gun- of a dead body-

Whoa! What the fuck?! Maggie’s body lurches back in her seat. A few kids glance curiously at her before focusing back on Mr. Tudor, who was giving his lecture on Alfred Hitchcock and photography. How- how— I— She looks around again. I was in the bathroom... He shot that poor girl... I held up my hand...and now I’m back here.

Agnes Tylney’s pen falls on the floor and she reaches down to pick it up.

I already heard this lecture...

Catherine Aragon throws a paper ball at Joan Astley.

Now Joan is being hassled again... And if Jane’s phone rings...this is real.

Jane Seymour’s phone vibrates. Maggie’s heart leapt in her throat and her body flinches as if her fear had taken a physical form and punched her. Her clumsy limbs scramble awkwardly and one arm knocked her camera off the desk. It breaks into pieces upon hitting the ground.

Shit! Oh my god, I cannot believe this... Okay, if I'm crazy, I might as well go all the way... Can I actually reverse time?

Maggie holds up her right hand and, like an instinct knowing when to be triggered, her vision turns grey. She feels like she’s floating, maybe vibrating, and she watches as her broken camera pieces itself together and rises up to sit in its original position. When Maggie releases the force, Mr. Tudor is just getting to his Diane Arbus question. However, Maggie can barely hear him or Jane’s know-it-all answer. She was too busy staring in awe at her hand.

Holy shit. Holy shit! I’m a human time machine! H- how— Okay, okay, don’t freak out, Maggie. Not yet.

She looked at her newly-repaired camera and picked it up. She presses the photograph button and the flash momentarily blinds her. Just like before.

“Shh, shh, shh,” Mr. Tudor pipes up, “I believe Maggie has taken what you kids call a "selfie"... A dumb word for a wonderful photographic tradition. And Maggie...has a gift. Of course, as you all know, the photo portrait has been popular since the early 1800's. Your generation is not the first to use images for selfie-expression. Sorry.”

The teacher’s voice is barely processing in Maggie’s mind. She just couldn’t get herself to care about what he was saying. She was too worried about the girl she had seen die.

If I can go back in time...what if that girl isn't dead yet? Can I save her?

“Now Maggie,” Mr. Tudor is rounding on her, just like he did last time. “since you've captured our interest and clearly want to join the conversation, can you please tell us the name of the process that gave birth to the first self-portraits?”

Maggie opened and closed her mouth for a moment. The words are thick at the back of her throat.

“I-” It’s hard to enunciate properly. If she wasn’t so worried about that green-haired girl, she might have been more embarrassed over her squabbling. “I'm sorry, Mr. Tudor, I feel sick. May I be excused?”

“Nice try, Maggie, but you're not gonna get away that easy. We can talk more after class.” Mr. Tudor said.

Maggie swallowed hard. As much as she loved Mr. Tudor, she really wanted to slap him right about now. She wasn’t feigning illness- she genuinely felt sick to her stomach with anxiety and fear. She was sure she was ghostly white, too. How could Mr. Tudor not see that?!

“Is there anybody here who knows their stuff?” Mr. Tudor asked.

“Louis Daguerre was a French painter who created "daguerreotypes" a process that gave portraits a sharp reflective style, like a mirror.” Jane answered like before. And, like before, she looked at Maggie mockingly and said, “Now you're totally stuck in the Retro Zone. Sad face.”

“Very good, Jane.” Mr. Tudor praised. “The Daguerreian Process brought out fine detail in people's faces, making them extremely popular from the 1800's onward.”

It was Jane’s snide remark that snapped Maggie slightly out of her worried trance. She side-eyed the blonde and clenched her jaw. She decides to test out her new power again and ‘rewind’.

“Now Maggie,” Mr. Tudor said, marking the ability a success once again. “since you've captured our interest and clearly want to join the conversation, can you please tell us the name of the process that gave birth to the first self-portraits?”

“The Daguerreian Process.” Maggie said, practically reciting Jane. “Invented by a French painter named...Louis Daguerre. Around 1830.”

Mr. Tudor looks a little surprised, but smiled at the girl. “Somebody has been reading, as well as posing. Nice work, Maggie.”

Jane gives Maggie an annoyed look, which she can’t help but feel empowered about.

“The Daguerreian Process made portraiture hugely popular, mainly because it gave the subjects clear defined features. You can learn more when you actually finish reading the assigned chapters. Maggie is so far, way ahead of everybody.”

The bell rings. Maggie practically flies out of her seat and began collecting everyone as quick as she could.

“And, guys, don't forget the deadline to submit a photo in the ‘Everyday Heroes’ Contest!” Mr. Tudor said, “I will fly out with the winner to London where you'll be feted by the art world in the Tate museum. It's great exposure and it can kickstart a career in photography. So Agnes and Maud, get it together. Catherine don't hide, I'm still waiting for your entry too. And yes Maggie, I see you pretending not to see me.”

Maggie, you are not crazy. You are not dreaming. It's time to be an everyday hero.

Instead of trying to leave, already knowing she’ll be halted, she hurries over to the front desk. Joan watches her with those lamb eyes of hers from where she’s still seated.

“Excuse me, Mr. Tudor, can I talk to you for a moment?” Maggie asked.

“Yes, excuse you.” Jane said, narrowing her eyes at Maggie.

“No, Jane, excuse us.” Mr. Tudor said. He turns to Maggie. “I'd never let one of photography's future stars avoid handing in her picture.”

“I’m not avoiding, just...”

“Biding time, waiting for the elusive ‘right moment’?”

“Exactly.”

Mr. Tudor chuckled lightly and said, “Maggie, my dear, don't wait too long. John Lennon once said that ‘Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans.’ Go on now, don't let me stop you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Maggie exits quickly and delves right into the jungle that was the hallway. She pushed through the brambles of students to get to the bathroom, making it there in record time.

Okay, Maggie, retrace every step... I washed my face- She washes her face. I shredded my photo- She shredds her photos. Then the...butterfly flew in- The butterfly flies in. And I took a photo...

The camera flashes. The butterfly leaps up from the bucket and flaps away. The bathroom door swings open. Thomas Cromwell strides in.

Maggie stays hidden behind the stall, listening. She hears Thomas mutter darkly to himself, then that girl enters. She unknowingly taunts Thomas and he soon snaps. By the sudden yell, Maggie knows the gun was out.

She began looking around as the terrified yelling rattles through the bathroom. She dreads the gunshot that was soon to come if she didn’t do something.

She notices the fire alarm on the wall. Grabbing a fallen hammer by the bucket, Maggie smashes the glass encasing the alarm and pulls it. The siren began to wail.

“No way...” She hears Thomas mutter. Then, he grunts in pain as the girl knees him in the groin and shoves him away. Maggie watches in relief.

“Don't EVER touch me again, freak!” The girl yelled before running out.

Thomas totters on his feet for a moment before picking up his fallen gun. He growled softly, noticing the photograph scraps on the floor.

“Another shitty day...” He mutters before walking out.

Maggie emerges from her hiding spot. Cold sweat is prickling on her brow, sliding into her bulging eyes. She doesn’t even bother to wipe it away.

That did not happen! This cannot be real! I just saw a girl get shot and then saved her! What the fuck is going on?

She waits a moment before exiting the bathroom. Outside, the hallway is empty, aside from a few fleeting figures of running students. And the school’s security guard.

Edmund coming at Maggie nearly startled her back into the bathroom. He’s upon her in an instant, his sharp voice tearing strips off of her before she can even think of something to say.

“Hey, do you hear that fire alarm? That means you should be outside.”

“I had to use the bathroom...” Maggie said.

“Girls always use that excuse.” Edmund rolled his eyes.

“Excuse for what?” Maggie said, slightly ruffled.

“For whatever you're up to. Your face is covered in guilt.”

“The alarm tripped me out!”

“Then trip on out of here, missy. Or are you hiding something? Huh?”

Maggie was about to consider crying to get herself out of that situation when Principal Dudley emerged from his office and called out.

“Thank you, Edmund, the situation is under control. There's no emergency here.” He said. “Leave Miss Wyatt alone and please turn off that alarm, since that's your job.”

Edmund didn’t argue, but he did give Maggie a suspicious look before lumbering away. Maggie sighs in relief and starts for the front doors to leave and evade the incessant siren, but Principal Dudley stops her.

“You look a little stressed out, Maggie.” He said. “Are you okay?”

Maggie chewed on the inside of her cheek. “I'm...I'm just a little worried about my...future.” The lie was horrid.

“You're sweating pinballs.” Principal Dudley points out. “Is that all you're thinking about? You can always be upfront with me, Maggie. Or have you done something wrong... Is that it?” He’s making Maggie even more anxious with his prodding. “Well, Maggie? Talk to me.”

Maggie clenches her jaw, then let’s the truth spill out. She had to tell- Thomas was a danger to the school!

“I just saw Thomas Cromwell waving a gun around...in the girls' room.”

Principal Dudley’s eyes go wide, but then his brows furrowed when he really processes what had been said to him.

“Thomas Cromwell. You sure?”

Maggie is shocked at his doubt. Sure, it may be normal to ask for complete sincerity, but Principal Dudley doesn’t seem very convinced at all. He must be swayed by all the money the Cromwell family has. Even then, could he not see how Thomas was breaking apart at the seams?!

“Yes!” She said. “He was in the bathroom talking to himself with a gun. I saw everything! He was babbling like crazy—”

“Okay, slow down, slow down.” Principal Dudley said. “So you saw this...without him seeing you?”

“I was hiding behind a stall.” Maggie said. Impatience and desperation are oozing into her voice. “I have the right to be there. It's the girls' room—”

“I know, I know.” Principal Dudley said. “I just want to be completely clear what happened. Mister Cromwell happens to be from the town's most distinguished family. And one of Blackwell's most honored students. So it's hard for me to see him brandishing a weapon in the girls’ bathroom. So what happened next?”

Maggie went to tell him about the girl and their conversation, but stopped herself. She didn’t want to make herself a suspect if this all blew up in her face.

“Then...then he left. I ran out here wondering what to do.” She paused. “Are you going to bust him?”

“This is a serious charge.” Principal Dudley mutters. “I'll look into the matter personally. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”

Maggie nodded. She wished Principal Dudley would do more than that, but she should have known. The Cromwell family practically owns Blackwell Academy. She just hopes she didn’t just throw her entire scholarship down the toilet.

She steps outside and is immediately bathed by the warm rays of the golden-orange sun. Beams of light hit the Blackwell campus in just the right way to show off how grand and pristine it was. It was a private school, after all.

As Maggie is walking down the front steps, she notices some papers scattered out on the ground. She picks one up and reads it.

MISSING- KATHERINE HOWARD

MISSING FROM: Whitby, Yorkshire

DATE MISSING: Monday, April 22, 2020

OTHER:

Age: 15 years old

Height: 5’0 Weight: 110lbs

Hair: Blonde, dyed pink Eyes: Hazel

Katherine Howard... She looks so hopeful and pretty. I wonder what happened to her...

Maggie set the paper back down and started to walk to the dorms. As she does, she gets a text from Cathy Parr, a good friend of hers. The girl was asking if she could have her flash drive back. Maggie texts back saying she will and would meet her in the parking lot. However, getting the flash drive was a lot harder than she expected, starting with the way Jane and her goons, Aragon and Jane Rochford, were lounging on the steps to the girl’s dormitory like watchful hawks. When Maggie approaches, Jane stands up with a wide smirk.

“Oh, look, it's Maggie Wyatt, the selfie ho of Blackwell. What a lame gimmick. Even Henry-” She slips for a moment, but corrects herself quickly. “Mr. Tudor—falls for your waif hipster bullshit. ‘The Daguerreian Process, sir!’ You could barely even say that. I guess you got your meds filled.” Behind her, Aragon and Rochford laugh. “Since you know all the answers, I guess you have to find another way into the dorm. We ain't moving. Oh, wait, hold that pose!” Jane snaps of photo of Maggie and sneers. “So original. Don't worry, Maggie, I'll put a vintage filter on it right before I post it all over social medias. Now, why don't you go fuck your selfie?” She sits back down on her perch.

Maggie steps back, grinding her teeth. She looks around the dorm’s courtyard, trying to find something to help her. Anthony Lee and Peter Meutas were throwing a football ball to each other, but Maggie didn’t dare approach boys in their primal sport. Maud was reading on one of the benches and Joan was sitting all alone near the shrubbery, but she didn’t want to bother them, either.

And then there’s a rattle from above.

The school’s most well-known janitor, Duke, is up on a ladder painting. The bucket of white paint he’s using is supposed to be hooked on the side of the rungs, but Maggie watches as it falls and splatters all over Jane.

“No way! No fucking way!” She screeches.

Aragon and Rochford leap up in an instant. Their eyes are wide- a look of such shock is unusual on them.

“You okay, Jane?” Aragon asked.

Jane glared at her. It’s enough of an answer.

“Hold on, hold on, we'll get some towels!” Rochford said. “We'll be right back!”

“So move your ass, before I dry!” Jane barked.

Aragon and Rochford scramble inside. Maggie waits for a moment before slowly approaching Jane- or, rather, the door, but she got dragged into a conversation anyway.

“Uh...hey, Jane...”

“What do you want, Maggie?” Jane hissed. Her eyes are narrowed in a warning.

“I’m sorry about what happened. That was an awesome coat...”

Jane blinked at the passivity of the younger girl’s comment. She loosened up a little and stopped baring her teeth like an enraged white tiger.

“It was.” She sighed. “But there will be another.”

“Well...” The conversation was actually going smoothly. Might as well keep it up and try to get on Jane’s good side so she’ll lay off. “you always seem to know how to pick the right outfits.”

“I do have some talent. Mr. Tudor told me-” Jane stops herself. Maggie is sure she’s biting her tongue.

“I've seen your pictures.” Maggie said. “You have a great eye, Richard Avedon-esque.”

“He's one of my heroes...” Jane’s eyes, usually so judgmental and cruel, scan Maggie without an ounce of mockery in their gaze. “Thanks, Maggie.” She looks over her shoulder at the doors to the dorm. “I hope those sluts get me a towel before they hang a sign on me.” She turns to Maggie again. “You deserve a better shot. Sorry about blocking you and...and the ‘go fuck your selfie’ thing.”

“That was mean...but pretty funny.” Maggie admitted, laughing slightly.

“Just one of those days, you know?”

“I know exactly what you mean, Jane.” Maggie said. “I'll see you later.”

“Au revoir.”

Maggie notices that Jane offered her a small wave. She returns it with a slight smile before stepping into the dormitory.

The dorm building is about as basic as one could get- a long hallway full of doors with one branching path that led to the bathroom. Maggie walks down the corridor, glancing at the slates beside each dorm that could be written on. Hers was blank when she got to her room at the end. She didn’t think much of it and stepped inside.

Home, sweet home. My favorite cocoon...

Her room is a basic setup- bed in the corner near the door with a fuzzy ferret stuffy sitting atop the pillows like a duvet guardian, lanterns strung around the ceiling for lighting, a drawer with a radio at the foot of her bed, a desk, a bookshelf with a few potted plants, a small couch, a guitar, her closet, dozens of photos tacked on her wall. It was cozy, and it was home now.

While she’s searching for the flash drive, Maggie noticed a sticky note on her desk. When she picks it up, it reads, “Hey girl,”-the I has a heart instead of a dot, a little something that made Maggie’s touch-starved heart flutter-“I borrowed your drive so I can watch some flix while I study. If you need it back, just track me down! XoXo, B.”

So it’s in Bessie’s room...

Honestly, Maggie didn’t mind. Bessie Blount was nice to her and super sweet, despite having obvious baggage of her own. She was strong and smart in a way Maggie wished she could be.

As Maggie leaves her room, she sees Maria de Salinas charge out of Bessie’s dorm and lock the door. She leans against it as Bessie knocks loudly.

“You can't get out now, Bessie! So tell me the truth, or rot in there!” Maria growled.

“Let me out, Maria! This is so stupid! You are ridiculous! If you don't let me out, I will scream!”

Maggie blinked. She approaches slowly, but Maria doesn’t glare at her when she gets near.

“Hey, Maria,” Maggie said. “Is everything cool?”

Maria rolled her eyes. “Oh, yes, Maggie. I've locked Bessie in the room because we're ‘cool’.”

“What did she do?” Maggie asked.

“What didn't she do?“ Maria’s anger bubbles up again. “Shes been sexting with my boyfriend, that’s what she did.”

“No I didn’t!!” Bessie yelled from inside the room.

Maggie winced. “Ouch. How did you find out?”

“Uh, why do you care?” Maria said. “Why are you even asking me? You never talk, just zone out with your camera.”

“That's why I'm talking to you now.”

Maria crosses her arms. “What's my last name?”

She’s being tested to her an answer. Maggie blinks.

“Maria de Salinas. Duh!”

Maria is surprised. “I'm flattered. I didn't even think you knew my name at all.”

“Of course I do. Just because I don't talk a lot doesn't mean I don't care. So, how did you find out about them?”

“According to Jane, Bessie would do anything to date a football player.” Maria explained. “She saw the sext. And William won't answer his phone. Once Bessie admits it, she can go. Straight to hell.

“Maggie, I swear I didn't do ANYTHING!” Bessie cried from behind the door. “But I bet Jane did! I know the proof is in her room!”

Knowing that she couldn’t go to Cathy without the flash drive; Maggie agrees to do a little trespassing and snuck into Jane’s room, which was about as pristine and neat as she expected.

After printing an email Jane sent to Aragon about the whole ordeal going down, Maggie returned to Maria and showed her the evidence.

“Of course...” Maria muttered. She turned and opened Bessie’s door. “I'm an asshole. I'm sorry, Bess.”

“You are, and I hope so.” Bessie’s eyes softened. “You really think I'd mess around with William?”

“No. But I get stupid jealous. I owe you dinner. Still love me?”

Bessie smiles and chuckled. “And you do my laundry.”

Maria turns back to Maggie with a relieved look. “Thanks, Maggie. You're like the Blackwell Ninja. Now let's see what William has to say about Jane...” She storms out of the dorm.

“You set me free!” Bessie laughed. “Thank you. Cathy’s flash drive is on my desk.”

Maggie retrieves it quickly and heads out to the main campus. However, she stops when she sees Edmund stalking towards a very scared-looking Joan.

“...so don't think I'm blind!” The security guard was saying. “I see everything here at Blackwell! Do you understand what I'm saying?

“No!” Joan cried. Her eyes are glistening with tears. “Leave me alone!”

“You can't fool me. I know everything about this school. I cover the waterfront. So you better figure out what side you're on...”

“Please, leave me alone!” Joan is crying, now.

Edmund is about to say something else when there’s a flash from a few feet away. He notices Maggie holding her camera and grits his teeth before storming off. Maggie instantly went to Joan’s aid, but the blonde didn’t seem to be in the mood for pity.

“Hope you enjoyed the show.” Joan grits, wiping away tears. “Thanks for nothing, Maggie.”

Maggie watches her run to the dorms with a frown.

Poor girl...

#life is strange au #six the musical #anne boleyn #jane seymour #henry the eighth #catherine of aragon #maria de salinas #maria on the drums #bessie on the bass #jane rochford #thomas cromwell #catherine parr #katherine howard #tw: gun violence #tw: death

[grimmseye]

A Bird in the Hand: Chapter Nine

Read on Ao3 here!

Rating: M

Fandom: Critical Role

Relationships: Mollymauk Tealeaf/Essek Thelyss, Mollymauk Tealeaf/Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast (eventual),

Chapter Characters: Mollymauk Tealeaf, Essek Thelyss, Jester Lavorre

Chapter Tags/Warnings: Molly Rez, Amnesiac Mollymauk, Oh My God They Were Roommates, Acrophobia, Violence, Tarot, Bed-sharing

— — —

Essek goes silent in the days leading up to the peace talks. It's an affair Mollymauk only faintly understands, static-filled memories informing him of something, some tension in the air of impending violence and fear. There's a memory of his own voice urging them to get out, there's a reason he doesn't want a Name, attention is fine but being known is not.

This is going to determine the immediate fate of two countries. The lives of their soldiers, thrown to the slaughter for a cause Mollymauk could not comprehend, could be saved. And that was good, yes, in a distant and grand sort of way. It was too big for him to fit it into a scope he could understand.

Essek, he was sure, knew that scope, and yet Mollymauk doubted that was the source of his stress. There was something else under the surface, that connected to the way his ears started to droop when the conversation swung to the Mighty Nein. More concerning, though,was the fact that Essek had started to disappear. Where Mollymauk had previously heard a muffled voice from the tower's door, there was now silence, the kind that emerged from an absence of a person to be quiet. By the time Mollymauk took notice of it, the absences were regular enough to be timed.

Let the world feel a shudder wrack its spine when Mollymauk Tealeaf produced the beginnings of a plan.

It would never go beyond those beginnings — he wasn't the planning sort. Essek disappeared, which meant that his room was empty and unguarded, which meant that if Mollymauk was going to break into his space, it would have to be now.

He didn't even wait to be sure. A minute spent double checking was a minute sooner Essek would return, so the moment that silence made itself known, Mollymauk was already crossing the tower's bridge. He checked the lock for anything that would explode if he tried to pick it, found nothing, and grinned to himself as he slipped a homemade set of thieves tools into the slot.

Molly's triumph was short-lived. The hook found nothing, no tumblers to leverage into place. It was like the inside was perfectly smooth, but when he tried the knob, it refused to turn.

A grimace stole his face. "Wizards," he growled. A vague sense of someone disappearing in the middle of a fight, off to who the fuck knows where — but that hadn't been a wizard, had it, no, that was the odd drawling voice that asked after Molly's swords and he didn't feel a lick of guilt spinning a lie on the spot because it made relief light in Fjord's eyes and wasn't that a good thing, better to comfort someone with a lie than torment them with a meaningless truth.

Fjord. Taller than Molly with a frame that suggested a strength he really didn't have. Sneaking up behind him and dunking his head under the water and laughing as the man began to sputter, that'll show him. Warmth in the chest as — that was the wizard, yes, the one who froze amid fire and didn't even know how to skim off the top — as someone offered a gorgeous sword to him that let him flit out of one space and into another. "Mister Mollymauk."

"Mister Caleb."

The words fell from his lips, thick as honey. His hand slipped from the doorknob, and he felt a soreness in his palm. How long had he been gripping it?

Mollymauk shook his head to clear it, grinding his thumb against his temple. Door was locked, so —

Windows. He could always get in through a window.

The brick of the towers were uneven enough to climb, though falling from that height without a net to catch him would not end well. Right about now he would kill for a sword that let him teleport. Or Nott's feather spell to catch his fall. Yasha, who he knew would throw herself off a ledge to catch him, and be just fine when she hit the ground.

His chest felt tight, the aching loneliness clawing to the surface. Suddenly he regretted not telling them, these people who were blurred in his mind but make the space beneath his ribs feel hollow.

He drew a sharp breath. The Nein meant something to him. Essek, no matter how much Molly liked the man, was doing something to harm them.

The first brick was cold under his hand. He wasn't the strongest individual, but he knew how to climb. Molly kept himself level with the bridge so if he did lose his grip, he wouldn't fall all the way to the ground below. His muscles ached far sooner than he would prefer. He might have to start doing strength training on top of his stretches. But his hooves took to the narrow brick, his tail working as a counterbalance, and it was only in the moments where he had to ease away from the safety net of the bridge that his pulse really began to race.

The window was positioned where a drop would send him directly to the ground. Much as Molly wanted to stop and catch his breath, freezing now wasn't an option. He dragged in slow breaths to try to calm his palpitating heart. Hand then foot then hand then foot. Sweat on his fingers made his grip slide, panic washing cold over his back as he seized the brick and panted against it. The pitching sensation continued, his body screaming at him for this foolishness. He'd dug himself out of the dirt twice only to break himself from a fall. It likely wouldn't even kill him, just crush his bones, sternum crunched into his lungs for him to bleed out his mouth until he either expired or Essek returned to find him.

He nearly sobbed when he felt the cold of the window against his fingertips. Molly braced his hand against it, palm sliding over the glass with a squeak. Nausea rose in his throat. Did the window even open? Was it locked, or just stuck from disuse?

Grinding his teeth, Mollymauk braced as much weight as he dared against that hand, trying to muster the leverage to force the window up — gods he'd break it it necessary —

A loud crack split the air. Molly's hand slipped.

He watched the tower fall away and blur, too quick to feel anything but shock as he hit empty air. And then something else hit him, knocking the wind out of him as he tumbled, stars spinning to earth before coming to a halt clutched in Essek's arms.

Molly wheezed and clung to him, the position awkward — Essek's shoulder dug just between his ribs, but he was more than happy to sling legs around his waist and claw at his mantel for a handful of material. In the haze of his manic vision, he saw branches of light — spectral wings that extended from Essek's shoulder blades, flapping periodically to keep them aloft.

The descent made Molly squeak and cling tighter. Sweat was dripping from his temples, shaking violently as Essek stooped down to force his hooves onto solid earth with a grunt of exertion. Even then, Mollymauk didn't let go of him, just clinging to his arms instead.

Essek yanked himself away. Molly let him go, wrapping his arms around himself. He forced a grin, saying, "Good — g-good save, Mister Thelyss."

Molly had never seen anger on Essek's face before. It was a quiet thing, simmering beneath a frigid surface. The pin of his ears, the tremor in his hands, the clench of his jaw, those were the things that tipped Molly off to just how badly he'd fucked up here.

"What were you doing?" Essek asked, voice dangerously steady.

Mollymauk even considered telling the truth. Then he remembered how Essek had physically crushed a person's body into an unrecognizable mash, and said, "Well — let me tell you — that was not worth it." It let his brain race ahead as he lifted a finger and played up his breathless state. Not snooping, not spying, just — "I even forgot to actually bring the paints with me."

"The —" Essek's anger faltered. "Paints?"

Molly gave him a grin, rubbing the back of his neck. His legs were trembling too violently to remain upright, and he let himself collapse into the grass instead. Play up the pity angle. He's just a frightened, helpless tiefling, nothing to see here. "I was gonna paint a dick on your window."

Blue, blue, blue. Blue skin, blue hair, but she danced with every other color. A streak of mischief that Mollymauk adored, and he'd snarl in infernal just to delight in her laughter, the best audience he could ask for.

Essek's eyes took on the same hopeless adoration that Mollymauk felt. His shoulders slumped, and he ran his fingers through his hair. Then again. On the third time, his fingers caught, and he tugged at the white strands, for Molly to push himself upright with a "Whoa, hey —" and then to pitch forward as black spots flitted in his vision.

He landed against Essek again, and wheezed a laugh. "I need to sit down. Like, now. Come on."

Molly grabbed Esseks arm and fell back onto the grass, yanking the drow with him to bully him into lying down. It was tempting to just burrow against his side, bask in pressure and warmth. Instead he just let their arms brush where they splayed in the grass.

"These are expensive clothes," Essek said.

"And you can magic the dirt off them, can't you?" Mollymauk looked to the stars. He wasn't sure if they were different here than in the Empire. He thought he remembered somebody pointing shapes out to him, an art not unlike the cards he dealt. You could be born under certain stars, but Molly didn't know them. No matter how many times the lines were traced, he only saw a field of pinprick lights.

"That was stupid, you know," Essek murmured. "Climbing the tower. At least Jester can catch herself if she falls."

Mollymauk scoffed. "Who needs magic? Well, their own magic, anyway. Apparently I've got a wizard at my beck and call."

"Oh, gods," Essek rasped, and Molly cackled. "I should have let you hit the ground."

"It was your fault I lost my grip, anyway," Molly snorted. "Is teleporting always that loud?"

"Yes. Something to do with the displacement of air." Essek raised a hand, curling his fingers through the air. "If you had not been scaling my tower, you would not have fallen."

"Now let's not go pointing fingers." Molly smirked as he grabbed Essek's hand to force it back down to the grass.

The moon smiled down at them, lopsided and thin. A cloud skimmed past it, stealing away the light that bathed them. Mollymauk wasn't particularly devout, but he had to wonder if it wasn't Her blessing.

The Peace Talks arrived almost without Mollymauk's awareness. They were only heralded but the shift in Essek's attitude, from a quiet that was uncharacteristic even for him to snappish remarks, banishing Mollymauk from any space the two of them just happened to end up in together. That was only when he made himself visible at all, still shutting himself away in his towers, shielded from prying eyes.

Mollymauk still wished he'd managed to get in, but whatever was coming, he would have no say in it. And really, that was just fine. Molly really wasn't one to interfere, only to react.

Just waiting had his nerves twisting up, and he found himself slipping things into a bag throughout the day. Swords in their scabbards, the sturdier outfits Essek bought him, gold pieces stolen unabashedly from a cloak left hanging up to be washed later. He hardly realized he was doing it until there was no more room, and he was having to stretch the chord to fit it around the button.

A sigh pushed from his chest. Mollymauk set the bag aside and reached for his supplies. He had a card to make.

The Eclipse was joined with Fractures. Upright, it meant convergence, the joining of multiple parts. Reversed, it was separation, a breaking point. One of the more straightforward symbols, and one that felt right as he began to sketch the pieces.

The sun, and the two moons, overlapping in a line of three. At the edges where they met, they shattered.

Molly, Molly, what does that one mean, is that you?

He was smiling before he looked up. Jester was practically sprawled over his back, her hands falling on his shoulders as she peered at the cards he'd laid out.

"Naw," he grinned. "It's us."

He was being facetious, but there was a sliver of truth tucked into it. Jester gasped, "Us? Us like you and me or like all of us?" A grin spread across her face as she pressed her cheek to his. "Molly," she giggled, saying his name like Mawl-ee with that curling accent of hers, "do you have a crush on me?"

Her giggling said it was a joke but he purred, "You know I do, dear." And again, he sort of meant it. Not really, not like how she obviously pined over Mister Fjord, but Mollymauk gave his heart easily, and if almost anyone of this ragtag group wanted to hold his hand or take him to bed, he'd be happy to follow along.

"Okay okay okay, but you only have one," Jester points out. "What are the rest?"

"You want a full reading?"

He was already reaching for his cards as Jester swept a chair to his side and threw herself into it, tail curling with excitement. "Of course," she scoffed, and then perked up. "But first, what's that one?"

"The Eclipse," Mollymauk told her. "So if you take this as the past for the Mighty Nein, this is very literally just our meeting. It's the convergence of multiple parts into a singular whole, see? Now, for present..."

He spread the remainder of his deck on the table. Molly reached for her, saying, "Here, take my hand. Since this is for all of us, the more guiding our hands, the better." And if maybe he nudged them to his own pick, all that mattered was that Jester didn't realize.

He guided her hand to the middle of the arc, then drew and flipped a card. This one was an image of two coins, one gold and one silver, balanced on opposite ends of a scale. "The Coin," he announced. "Reversed. Also known as Risk. Things are uncertain right now. We may be headed for misfortune — but it's not defined just yet."

"What kind of misfortune?" Jester asked.

"Well, they're not exact," Molly chuckled. "But maybe the Future will tell us?"

"Oh!" Jester perked up. "Can I pick it?"

Molly laughed and leaned back, offering her the table. With Eclipse out of the way — and more importantly, Fractures — there wasn't much that could give her a terrible reading —

Jester pulled a card towards the end of the deck, flipping it with a "Hah!" and all but slamming the card on the table.

Even though he was the one to make it, Mollymauk felt his gut twist at the sight.

"The Broken," he announced. The image looked like a web, twisted, jagged spokes of a wheel that ran into one another. "Upright, this card calls for..." Tragedy, specifically. Not always, but often. "Harrowing times. Loss. It looks like we've got our work cut out for us, Jes."

Molly looked at her, feeling his heart skip at the crestfallen expression on her face. He reached for her hand, giving it a squeeze. "So it's good we're together, yeah?" He cajoled, bumping his shoulder into hers until she started giggling.

"Yeah. Yeah, you're right. Thanks, Molly." She stood up and, sensing the cue, Molly went with her. It was entirely unsurprising when she wrapped her arms around him. Their tails twined together, mutual purrs rumbling in their chests as they swayed back and forth. Then she stepped back, going, "Okay okay okay. Do me, now!"

"I already gave you a reading."

"Yeah but that was age-s ago!"

"Alright, alright, but it'll cost you."

The cracking sound of a teleportation spell snapped Molly out of his reverie. He gasped, sitting bolt upright and gouging into his work. His face was wet. The card was ruined.

Cussing, Molly wiped at his eyes. He tossed the card aside, not the least bit satisfied by its tap against the wall as he headed for the door.

Night had long since fallen, keeping the halls dark as he nudged the door open. From below, a sound made his heart skip: a heavy thud, and rasping breath.

Molly froze for just a second, then grabbed one sword before rushing downstairs. The moment he hit them, he could make out Essek's collapsed form, small and shaking. Snippets of his voice were muffled by the curl of his own body, unintelligible muttering between panting breaths.

"Essek," Molly started, "what the hell —"

"Leave me alone, Mollymauk." His voice was a whisper. Essek draw a sharp breath and started to force himself to his feet, the legs quaking so violently they threatened to give out.

"You're a wreck," he shot back, reaching for Essek's arm. "You —"

Essek snarled. Gravity impacted Molly's chest, spots flying in his eyes as he was clawed away from Essek. He collided with a table, the panel of glass screaming against its metal stand, the sound of a crunch as pressure fractured it down the middle. A hot, throbbing pain settled in his back where he'd impacted.

Molly stared at Essek, where the drow stood, a hand still outstretched. His eyes were wide, pupils blown and ears pinned back. A croaking down dragged from his throat.

Molly groaned and staggered to his hooves. His hand dipped to the handle of his scimitar, lips peeling back as he glared at Essek through narrowed eyes.

"Mollymauk," Essek panted, a tinge of shock in his voice. His hand wavered and then fell, he took an aborted step forward.

Molly prowled towards him. Essek gave no fight as Molly drew his sword and walked him back against the door. Essek's feet were flat on the tile, putting him low enough for Molly to crane his head up into his face.

"Are you done," he asked, voice dripping with derision. "Or do you have to break something else to feel better?"

It was satisfying to watch the shame drip into Essek's face, a horrified light behind his eyes. He didn't speak, only stared, chest heaving.

It was a testament to how rattled Essek had to be that he didn't put up a fight. Molly didn't think he could take him one on one. The man could skip through the air, twist his mind like puddy, turn his body into a puppet on strings if he needed to. But he only shrank against the wall, lips trembling, looking an inch away from crying.

Molly could push him that extra inch.

"Answer the question."

"I'm — sorry —"

Molly cut off his gulping with a, "I didn't ask if you were sorry. I asked if you were done with your tantrum." He pressed a hand to Essek's sternum, intentionally trapping him against the wall. "Well?"

Embarrassment flooded Essek's cheeks, staining his ears as he looked away. "Yes," he rasped. "I... I am done. And I am sorry."

"Care to explain what the fuck that was about?"

Essek took another breath, sharp and shallow. A second. A third. Molly could feel his heart pounding under his palm.

"I..." His voice faltered, and he licked his lips. "I. Today. The Nein discovered my betrayal. That... that I stole one of the Beacons of the Dynasty, and handed it over to the Empire to be studied."

Mollymauk studied his face, Essek's pale moon pupils. There was a sheen to them, not yet crying, but close. He could hear each breath, pulling in and hissing out, feel the heaving us his pulse. He eased up on the pressure, letting Essek stagger away from the wall.

"Alright," Molly said, "that certainly sounds like a lot."

Essek glowered. "You don't even know what that means," he sneered.

Mollymauk bared his teeth in return. "Enlighten me, then."

It didn't take much. He remembered what the Dynasty had done to retrieve their Beacon, the collapse and the panic, the call to war. Essek just drew the line between the dots Molly already had.

As they spoke, more and more of that brief spark of life drained out of Essek. He sagged against the wall, cheek turned away from Mollymauk to speak to the air beside him.

It was bad. It was really, really bad. Worse than anything Mollymauk had forgiven before. Still, he listened, as Essek's voice shook through each word, until they broke into a sharp sound and lapsed into silence. And then it was just Essek, eyes squeezed shut, hands clutching at the wall as he gasped for breath.

Mollymauk drank the image in, and let out a sigh. "Okay," he murmured. "C'mere." He cupped Essek's jaw, drawing him down to press his lips to his forehead. A gasped wrenched from Essek's throat, and Molly hushed him. "Shhhh," he soothed. "Shhhh-shhhh-shhhh. Come on."

Mollymauk took him by the arm, guiding him up the steps. It was slow going with how Essek trembled, and when they reached his bedroom door, Molly had to remind him to open it. Whatever enchantment kept Molly from breaking in parted the way for Essek.

His room was exquisite. Four-poster bed, large enough to comfortably fit two, maybe three. Satin pillows, dramatic curtains framing the window, a shelf of organized components, the rest heavy with books. A bathroom was attached, and gods did Molly want to spy on what was in there.

That was a good idea, actually.

"Have you eaten anything?" Molly asked, unsurprised when Essek shook his head. He didn't say anything else for the next few minutes. Instead, it was spent figuring out how to undo his mantel. First the material, falling away heavier than expected. The metal that guarded his neck came apart in two pieces. Then earrings, Essek's ears twitching away from his touch. Essek stood still, letting him do as he pleased.

"Can you get the rest?" Molly asked, tugging his shirt for emphasis.

Essek took a solid moment to process it, and gave a single nod. He reached slowly for the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head.

"Great," Molly smiled. He cupped Essek's face, making sure their gazes met. "You take a shower. Just rinse off, you don't have to do anything else. I'll be back up with dinner for you. Alright?"

"... Alright."

"Wonderful." Molly gave his cheek a solid pat and pushed him towards the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He didn't wait to head down the stairs, but listened for the spray of water as he scrapped a meal together.

He made two trips, one for a pitcher of water and glasses, the other for two bowls of soup. By that point, Essek had emerged from the shower, dressed in a long robe and seated on the bed, staring at the floor. He was mostly dry, but his hair was messier, so Mollymauk had to assume he'd magicked the water off. That was a good sign.

Molly set one bowl down on a dresser to click his fingers. "Hey," he said, voice sharp in a way that wasn't meant to snap, just to catch his attention. Essek glanced up, and Molly handed the bowl over. "That's yours. Eat as much as you can."

It was good soup. Simple, but good. That was most of what Molly knew how to make.

The first few bites were a visible effort, but they seemed to awaken Essek's hunger, as he hurried through the bowl, only breaking to take sips of water. When their bowls were empty, Molly set them aside and banished Essek to the sink to brush his teeth, vanishing to do his own.

He ended up having to pull Essek away from the mirror with a huff of, "Come on, no getting existential before bed."

When he pulled the covers back, Essek only stared at him. A raised eyebrow got an explanation: "I do not need to sleep."

Mollymauk squinted at him. "Right." He drew the word out. "You meditate. Well. Can you meditate laying down? Like, you have a bed. If you're not using it, then you will give it to me. Capiche?"

Essek stared through him for another few moments before absently nodding, and climbing into the bed, letting Molly pull the covers up around him.

"There we go," Molly smiled. "Snug as a bug in a rug."

"A bug in a rug would likely be hopelessly lost," Essek murmured. His eyelids were already drooping.

"Oh hush," Molly snorted. He hesitated for only a moment before saying, "Now, I'm gonna ask you a question here. No judgement, alright?"

Essek heaved a sigh. "That is always a good start."

"I said hush, no more sass." Molly flapped a hand. "Do you want me to stay here tonight?"

That got his attention. He looked more alert than he'd been since leaving this morning, just gazing at Mollymauk without saying a word.

Molly gave a faint smile. "Let's make this easier. Do you want me to leave?"

A moment's pause, and then Essek shook his head.

"Great. Will you flip out if I get in the bed next to you?"

Another shake, this one with an eye-roll to boot.

"Excellent," Molly purred, and wasted no time in sliding into the bed. He immediately seized a pillow to bunch under his head, stretching out with pleased sound. "Oh, fuck, this is wasted on you. Wasted." What was the nicest bed Molly had ever slept on? It didn't matter, this won.

Essek gave a quiet, breathy sort of laugh. "Your turn to hush," he murmured. "I... am exhausted." And it showed.

Molly made a show of theatrical offense, before settling back down and tucking just one lock of loose white hair back into place. "Alright, then. Goodnight, Mister Thelyss."

The sounds of their breaths became the ambience of the room, amid the cool breeze outside, nighttime dwellers singing their songs. Amid it all, Molly very nearly missed Essek's whisper, muffled and half-slurred as it was: "Goodnight, Mister Tealeaf."

#mollymauk tealeaf #essek thelyss #shadowmauk #cr #cr fic #my writing