#you do not even have that sharp of a beak to stab with

[a-book-of-creatures]

It’s been nagging at me for a while, so I’m going to try to put together my thoughts on the Quetzalcoatlus sequence in Prehistoric Planet 2. In the grand scheme of things it’s tiny, insignificant, and I loved Prehistoric Planet, but I’m not going to turn down the opportunity to talk at length about scavenging birds.

(Spoilers (?) for Prehistoric Planet 2 ahead. Go watch it!)

I’m talking about the part where a Tyrannosaurus is driven off from an Alamosaurus carcass (presumably carrion and not killed by the tyrannosaur). The tyrannosaur is expressly stated to be concerned about losing an eye to those Whopping Big Beaks. The pterosaurs aggressively fly over it a few times and honk angrily until the tyrannosaur walks away in Shameful Defeat, leaving the carcass to the pterosaurian pterrors.

And that confused me.

Before I go on, I want to point out that this is not a Who Would Win discussion, I’m not going to argue for or against one or another. Not going to discuss if Tyrannosaurus should really have won because of the massive weight advantage and lack of fragile bones/wings, or if the big landlubber had it coming and the numbers and aerial advantage was too much. I’m not arguing about Quetzalcoatlus being scary or not either (it’s scary as all hell).

No, the issue I had was with the beaks.

This is the Quetzalcoatlus as it appears in the show.

Impressive beak, isn’t it?

But it’s not the beak of a flesh tearer.

Let’s back up a bit. Birds that eat meat by tearing it into manageable chunks typically evolve sharp, hooked beaks to make up for the lack of teeth. Like this eagle for instance.

Majestic. They make the cutest sounds too. Look up golden eagle sounds, don’t believe the red-tailed hawk propaganda.

Raptor bills look intimidating, but they’re not there for killing. They’re cutlery. The talons do all the work, and then the beak tears up the meat into delicious gobbets of protein.

Even shrikes get in on the act. They don’t have killer feet, so they use their ripping bills to impale prey and tear at it.

Aw, look at it, it thinks it’s accipitrids.

The Quetzalcoatlus’ bill, though, doesn’t have that hook. It doesn’t look like the bill of a bird that dismembers its food. The closest thing I could think of to compare it with was stork bills. Specifically the marabou.

Ol’ pickaxe-for-a-face. This is the beak of an animal that stabs smaller prey and swallows them whole with minimum processing.

But a bill this long and pointed, turns out, is good for stabbing but not for tearing meat. Marabous are scavengers, but they won’t tear apart a carcass on their own. The “[b]ill [is] not well designed for dismembering carcasses, so [it] normally steals scraps from vultures or snatches up morsels that are dropped” (del Hoyo, Elliott, and Sargatal, 1992).

As you can see, vultures retained the hallmark accipitrid steak knife face, and are much better at Ripping and Tearing. This one (the lappet-faced vulture) generally goes first, being big and strong enough to Rip and Tear tough hide and get to the fleshy interior.

In fact, “[d]espite its huge bill, the [marabou] stork can rarely dominate a carcass and normally stands by the much more numerous vultures and nips in from time to time to snatch morsels which are dropped by others, though Tawny Eagles (Aquila rapax) in turn often steal food from the stork. The bill is not apparently very effective for cutting up meat and dismemberment is normally carried out quite simply by pulling” (del Hoyo, Elliott, and Sargatal, 1992). And if marabous have trouble with the average carcass, I wouldn’t imagine Quetzalcoatlus would fare much better with a titanosaur, which presumably has rather thick skin too.

One big happy family. That’s a much smaller carcass being shared (with the obligatory squabbling) by a whole bunch of dinosaurs. Neither vultures nor marabou are trying to monopolize it.

So... I don’t see why the big stork pterosaurs would chase away a perfectly good meat processor. I know everyone wants to see Big Prehistoric Animals Fighting With Lethal Intent, and everyone wants to see Tyrannosaurus Getting Knocked Down A Peg By The New Hotness, but I think it would have been a more interesting and believable scene - not to mention more in keeping with Prehistoric Planet’s attempt to be as scientifically believable as possible - if the pterosaurs acted like marabous the size of giraffes, both them and the tyrannosaur keeping a respectful distance of each other, and snapping up bits of meat left behind. And maybe the pterosaurs pulling the dinosaur’s tail for good measure, the way ravens bully eagles.

But it would make for a much less exciting scene. Who wants to watch a bunch of scavengers milling around a carcass and honking at each other as they jockey for the best morsels and settling their differences in ways that involve as little risk as possible? I mean, I do, but I don’t assume the average viewer does.

And that concludes my altogether far too long opinion on a single scene from a great series. Of course, I’m not a paleontologist and never will be, I’m only approaching this with what I know about birds, so please feel free to let me know if there’s any details of Quetzalcoatlus anatomy that do in fact suggest it could rip and tear!

References

del Hoyo, J.; Elliott, A.; and Sargatal, J. eds. (1992) Handbook of the Birds of the World, Vol. 1. Lynx Edicions, Barcelona.

#prehistoric planet #prehistoric planet 2 #dinosaurs #pterosaurs #quetzalcoatlus #birds #paleontology #paleoblr #long post #disclaimer: I am not in any way throwing asparagus at Prehistoric Planet 2 #I'm not panning it in any way #tyrannosaurus #azhdarchids

[thenorthsource]

"Do you sing?" Gilly rearranged her furs, and she moved the babe from one breast to the other.

Sam blushed. "I . . . I know some songs. When I was little I liked to sing. [...] but my lord father never liked me to.”

Sam remembered the last time he'd sung the song with his mother, to lull baby Dickon to sleep. [...]

Gilly's babe had gone to sleep. He was such a tiny thing, and so quiet that Sam feared for him. He didn't even have a name. […]

He wondered what his father would say if he could see him now. I killed one of the Others, my lord, he imagined saying. I stabbed him with an obsidian dagger, and my Sworn Brothers call me Sam the Slayer now. But even in his fancies, Lord Randyll only scowled, disbelieving.

[…]

Clumsily, Sam sank to his knees. "Old gods, hear my prayer. The Seven were my father's gods but I said my words to you when I joined the Watch. Help us now. I fear we might be lost. We're hungry too, and so cold. I don't know what gods I believe in now, but . . . please, if you're there, help us. Gilly has a little son." That was all that he could think to say. The dusk was deepening, the leaves of the weirwood rustling softly, waving like a thousand blood-red hands.

[…]

Sam made a whimpery sound. "It's not fair . . ."

“Fair." The raven landed on his shoulder. "Fair, far, fear." It flapped its wings, and screamed along with Gilly. The wights were almost on her. He heard the dark red leaves of the weirwood rustling, whispering to one another in a tongue he did not know. The starlight itself seemed to stir, and all around them the trees groaned and creaked. […]

“Go," said the bird on his shoulder. "Go, go, go."

Sam ran, puffs of frost exploding from his mouth. All around him the wights flailed at the black wings and sharp beaks that assailed them, falling in an eerie silence with never a grunt nor cry. But the ravens ignored Sam. He took Gilly by the hand and pulled her away from the weirwood. "We have to go."

“But where?" Gilly hurried after him, holding her baby.

#samwell tarly #gilly #the night's watch #the free folk #asoiaf #asoiafedit #valyrianscrolls #valyriansource #edits #thenorthedit #ours #by jacoby

[raayllum]

Very non-consequential, but still fun question: what animal do you associate with each of the main trio? (plus anyone else you feel like doing!)

I overthought this question because I couldn't just do animals in general and had to go with specific species so:

Callum is a bird, obviously. The boy loves his Ocean arcanum too but birds have the wings, and the intelligence and mating for life bonds (more often), and sharp little beaks that can gouge your eyes out. Man has teeth. Let's leave them there.

From there it was whittling down which bird to pick, so I learn towards either a standard Rock Pigeon or a Clark's Nutcracker bird.

Rock Pigeon

Rock pigeons for a few reasons.

Elegant but not overly pretty, which fits Callum pretty well. He's grown into a handsome boy but he'll always have a tiny bit of awkwardness, and the green sheen nicely ties into his eyes

Callum's name means dove, and pigeons and doves are very similar overall. However, Callum is less squeaky clean/outright peaceful than just a dove would indicate, so pigeons have a more grey/black down to earth colouring felt right. "Dirtying yourself with dark magic" and all that

They mate for life, which is a memo re: Rayla Callum has definitely gotten on board with lbr here

Pigeons are very smart, remembering faces, see the world in complex colours (artist anyone) and able to navigate complex routes to find locations / their way home (hence why they were used as messenger birds during wartime).

At his best, Callum is very communicative, has a great memory, and will eventually learn to navigate his own path away from others' imposed destinies on him

Clark's Nutcracker

They're in the Corvidae family like crows and ravens, which makes me happy, as those are two of my favourite birds

Again has the intelligence that our boy needs/deserves; these guys in particular are very good at prying seeds apart with their beaks, which gives me key of Aaravos / Callum unlocking secrets vibes

Sharp pointy beak to bite/stab people with. It's what he deserves

They also mate for life hell yeah

I also feel like they somehow match him better aesthetically but Idk why so grain of salt

Rayla I defaulted pretty easily to either a wolf or honestly more likely an arctic fox.

I wanted something smaller and more solitary than a wolf, since even within her village community Rayla has always been an outsider

Also very influenced by aesthetic (white, fluffy, slim) in addition to being loyal the way canines tend to be + a hunting animal bc like look at her swords

They also change colours as their coats update with the seasons, which felt very on par with how Rayla has transformed her wardrobe colours and herself / tries to take on different faces and identities depending on where she is on her arc

Constantly shifting like the moon amirite?

They are described as playful, cunning, cheeky, and curious

Bc they're heavily arctic animals / places with long winters, they depend more than other animals on hiding and stowing food away for later, which makes me think of how Rayla is pretty consistently carrying secrets / stashing the coins away in Stella's portal

Ezran to me is a Strawberry Poison-Dart Frog.

I chose this one cause I feel like an amphibian of some sort would best reflect Ezran, given his associations of being torn more explicitly between two worlds and two things. On the one hand, he's a child and should be treated/respected as such, and on the other hand, he's also a king and should be treated/respected as such. So amphibians having water and land, the way that Ezran does well both in times of conflict and times of peace (the latter being something Rayla really struggles with in particular) is well reflected. Also Bait, obviously

I went with orange > red even though Ezran wears the latter, cause orange feels warmer than the danger! zone red puts in, as well as mixing well with Ezran's brown hair. The touch of blue is for his eyes and his connection to Zym, and a tropical lil guy who likes sunshiney weather. Frogs are also pretty slippery and fast and Ezran (esp pre-series) is pretty wily and mischievous, getting into nooks and crannies he shouldn't be and then getting out of hot spots later on in show, so that matched up in my head

Other notes:

Viren always makes me think of serpents, and Claudia and Aaravos always make me think of spiders, so I'll toss those two in as well (although I feel they're more self explanatory symbolism wise / more offered within the text itself).

#requests #fandom crack #at least partially #imminent-danger-came #brotp: we're in this together #thanks for asking #the dragon prince

[ikeromantic]

Hello!If you cannot do it ,it's alright. I only just found the requests are open.I really love your writing and I wanted to ask for a secretly swords-woman Belle who defends herself when she was in the battlefield ,because of what the princes called firsthand experience, leaving everyone shocked. If you can please include all the suitors

Hope you have a great day♥️

Thanks for the ask, anon! I don't think this is exactly what you meant with this request, but it IS what came to my little brain. I hope you like it ^_^ Approx. 3000 words of secret-swordswoman Belle!

Chevalier

“King Highness,” the soldier collapsed to his knees before Chevalier. Blood was matted in his hair and he was trembling. “The rebellion sent a force at our base camp. Toward our supply lines and your - your -”

“Librarian,” Clavis supplied, his Cheshire cat smile wide. “Whatever will you do, dear brother?”

Chevalier sighed with heavy annoyance. “We cannot allow our supply lines to be compromised.” He ignored the soldier as he mounted his warhorse. “Leave the bulk of our army here. My personal forces are sufficient.”

Clavis followed along, still grinning. “And of course we are only there for the supplies.”

His brother did not reply, only rode toward base camp with a grim expression

They arrived in good time, coming up behind the Obsidian troops and catching them by surprise. The base camp was already in flames and armored men were cutting down anyone who tried to flee.

Chevalier rode into the melee like a stormwind, blowing the chaff before him. Blood-spattered, he made his way to the nexus of resistance. Enemy soldiers held back from a tent by a handful of Rhodolitian guards. One of whom was petite. Narrow shouldered. Her hair held up in a bun. 

The former Belle danced through the gaps between armored men, her blade whip-thin and sharp as razors. Where she danced, she left spatters and streams of crimson. 

Clavis laughed in delight. “An unexpected turn, King Highness!” 

Chevalier arched a brow, his expression still and cold, though his eyes never left his beloved’s figure. “Unexpected by you, perhaps.” He turned his mount. “There are more forces coming. Let’s see to them.”

Though his glacial calm was unchanged, it belied the fire in his heart. Chevalier felt a strong urge to crush the remaining Obsidian soldiers and pull Belle onto his horse. And kiss her. Breathless. Senseless. Reckless fool that she was. 

Clavis gave a sly grin. “Is that so? Then I suppose we best keep them back before they endanger your lover. Ah, librarian I meant to say, of course.”  

“Fiancée.”

At that, his brother’s jaw dropped. It was no easy thing to surprise Clavis. “You proposed?”

“Not yet,” Chevalier gave him a thin, sharp smile. 

Nokto

“We need to run,” Nokto whispered. He reached for Belle’s arm, intent on dragging her into the narrow, dark corridor that led to their escape.

She moved out of his grasp. “We can’t outpace them. We have to fight.”

“With what?” Exasperated, he reached for her again. 

Belle didn’t answer. The traitors were on them and there was no time to talk. 

Nokto wouldn’t leave her behind, but she wasn’t even trying to run. Instead, she pulled two thin, long knives from her skirts and took a wide stance. Not half as wide as his eyes though. She looked as if she knew what she was doing.

That impression grew as she knocked the first assailant out with a hilt and stabbed the second through his throat. Her hands moved fast, little birds with long silver beaks. Deadly and beautiful. 

He stood there a moment in pure shock. When and where had she learned to fight? Like this? Nokto felt for his own blade but remembered he wasn’t wearing it today. He rarely did, preferring less obvious weapons. But he couldn’t let her defend him. It just wasn’t . . . princely. 

He snagged a candleholder from the wall and bashed one of the attackers over the head. The heavy silver clanged dully as the blow landed, and then the bloody thing split apart. 

The Belle laughed. “I wondered if that would really happen!”

“Well, it did,” he grinned. “When were you going to tell me you’re a famous swordswoman, hm?”

“Thought I’d keep it under wraps. Til I needed it.” She cut down the last of their pursuers. Five men in all. “We should probably go, in case there are more.”

Nokto leaned in and pressed a kiss to her lips. “I didn’t know how sexy a fighting woman could be. Don’t suppose I could talk you into pulling those out next time we -” his lips turned up in a hungry smile.

“Could be fun,” she replied, her eyes lit with dangerous promise. She cut his top button off and it pinged to the floor. 

“As if I needed more reason to hurry home.” 

Clavis

Clavis snuck up behind the Belle, a shard of ice clutched in his hand. It had been no easy task sneaking the ice past Sariel’s sharp gaze in the festival hall, and then getting around Rio who watched his mistress like a hawk. But here he was and there she stood, gazing out from the wide balcony. 

He grinned as he crept closer. This would be hilarious. His hand stretched out, the ice a mere fingerlength from her bare skin, the slight gap between her dress and her back was just wide enough for him to slip the ice -

The Belle turned and grabbed his arm, tugging him forward as she moved back. A steel blade gleamed in her right hand as her left held him against the balustrade. The sharp edge of her knife pressed against his inner thigh.

Clavis dropped the ice and held his hands up. “Caught me?”

“Holy - Prince Clavis! I didn’t realize it was you!” She let him go and tucked the dagger away in her skirts, blushing furiously.

“Ah and here I thought you reacted like that because it was me.” He grinned widely as he straightened up. His heart was pounding hard in his chest and he could feel adrenaline sing in his veins. “You’re pretty good with that.”

She shook her head. “Oh, n-not really. Can you just forget the last five minutes or so? Like it never happened?” The Belle sighed. “If you promise to never mention it again, I’ll even let you put ice down my back.”

Clavis chuckled. “Now what fun would that be with you expecting it, hm? No, I’m thinking there are much better pranks we can play on my brothers. Together.” His eyes landed suggestively on the hidden pocket she’d tucked her blade into.

“Oh no. No. I don’t like where your mind is going.”

He settled a hand on her shoulder. “Now now, you owe me one. At least one, after threatening my life. I was so frightened. You will have to do something to cheer me up.”

The Belle sighed. “Why do I have the feeling that whatever your thinking is going to get me in a world more trouble than just confessing this accident to Sariel now?”

“Probably because it will. But we’ll have such a good time.” Clavis’ smile spread even wider. There were so many ways he could use her little surprise skill. And what else might she be hiding from him? He couldn’t wait to find out.

Luke

Luke stood at the mouth of the alleyway, his honey-cake held in one hand, forgotten. He was supposed to be fetching the Belle back to the palace. She went shopping alone and Sariel was really mad about it. He’d been so mad he threatened Luke with a whole week of no sweets if he didn’t bring her back. 

So here he was, and there she was and she didn’t need any rescuing. There were three men trying to steal her purse - or worse - and two of them were already on the ground, groaning. The third looked like he wanted to run.

Belle held her sheathed sword toward the last thief. “You are going to tie up your little friends now.”

“Like hell I am,” the man shouted, and tried to lunge away.

Her sheath caught him in the knee and as he fell, her hilt clunked into the back of his head. The thief fell to the ground with a groan. Belle sighed. “Great. You couldn’t just do what I asked. Now I have to lug your big, stupid body around and tie you up too.”

“Uhh?” Luke stepped forward. “I could . . . help.” He stared down at the three men, all much bigger than Belle, with scars and callouses that told a story of their hard-lived life. 

“Luke!” She rushed forward and hugged him. “I am so glad to see you!”

He rubbed his head with his free hand. “I didn’t know you could fight. Guess you don’t need much protecting, huh?”

“There’s all kinds of ways to protect someone, remember? But . . . I probably shouldn’t run off on my own. Knowing how to use a sword and using one are different.”

Luke smiled and patted her. “That’s right.” That was when he noticed the slightest tremor in her hands, a shiver that went down her spine.

He pulled her closer and settled his chin on top her head. “You know, I don’t think a plan matters. Let’s go.” Luke handed her his honey cake and picked her up.

Her protests were so cute, he thought. His Belle was strong and smart and sweet, but she always pushed herself too hard. Too much. It was up to him to protect her from herself.  

“If you don’t put me down right now, I’ll - I’ll -”

Luke kissed her. She tasted sweeter than honey and hotter than a cake fresh from the oven. Her arms tightened around him as she kissed him back. When he pulled back for a breath, he smiled. “You’ll what?”

She smiled. “I’ll kiss you. Again.”

Leon

Leon wandered the halls, looking for the Belle. She wasn’t in her room or the gardens, not in the library or kitchen, and Sariel hadn’t seen her. He needed to ask his brothers. She had to be there somewhere. 

He stepped into the training room, searching for Licht. His brother wasn’t there. None of the princes or their officers were. But the training room wasn’t empty. The Belle wore a pair of tight trousers and a shirt with a leather vest, practical clothes for practice. And sword practice was what she was doing. 

She held a sword in both hands, a bastard blade that looked too big for her. But she moved with it gracefully, her skill obvious as she stepped through several guard and strike postures.

Leon peeled off his coat and picked up a practice sword. 

The Belle jumped at the sound of it as he pulled it from the rack. When she saw him, she tried to hide the blade behind her back. “Ah, Prince Leon! You um, I was just . . . gosh, this um, this sword is so heavy. I probably shouldn’t be playing with it.”

“Didn’t look much like you were playing.” Leon smiled. “You don’t have to be shy around me. Or embarrassed.”

She blushed and looked away. “It’s not the kind of thing a lady is supposed to be doing in her freetime. Sword play isn’t exactly cross-stitch.”

Leon laughed. “It definitely isn’t. Why don’t you show me what you know? I’d love to practice with you.”

“I’m sure you’re much better than me. You’ll get bored. And I’ll be embarrassed even more.”

He shrugged. “Nah. It will be fun.” Leon took up position across from her. “Let’s go.” 

Jin

Jin looked at the bandits surrounding his small camp. There were too many for him to take on alone and he didn’t have back up. It was just him and the Belle. He leaned over to whisper in her ear. “I’m going to distract them. When I do, you run. Get to the horses and ride back to town. Got it?”

She frowned at him. “Like hell. I’m not going to leave you here.”

“That’s sweet, but if we both stay, you could get hurt. Or killed. I can’t take on this many men on my own.”

“Then it’s a good thing you’re not alone.” The Belle flashed him a smile and laughed at his look of surprise as she slid two sharp knives from her skirts. 

Jin could only stare for a moment as she leapt at the nearest bandit and cut him down, then spun to the next. She was fast. Darting like a serpent into the midst of their enemies. He would have liked to just watch. 

There was something seductive in this new and dangerous aspect. But he’d have time to explore that with her later. In depth. Right now, there were bandits awaiting his attention.

Licht

The battle raged around him, a storm of steel and blood. Licht fought for his life as much as his country and his men. The Obsidian soldiers had them surrounded and outnumbered, but that meant nothing to the prince. He pressed forward, tenacious and determined.

They broke through the enemy line, finally catching sight of the border tower that was their objective. Licht stopped and stared for a moment as the scene came clear. A Rhodolitian force was already there, fiercely engaged. The prince saw only one knight, backed up to the stone battlements fighting for his life.

“There,” he shouted, and pushed for that position. Licht wasn’t sure how that one soldier got separated from his force but alone, he could only hold so long.

His troops formed a wedge and together, they made their way to the tower base. Licht could not help but stare as the lone soldier parried and blocked, moving through the fight with light, careful steps. It was a style familiar, but made strange by the elegance of the soldier. They moved with ease, agile and smooth. Narrow-shouldered and short, the lone soldier didn’t look all that intimidating but clearly knew their business.

The lone soldier still held their ground, holding back the tide of Obsidian forces, so Licht’s men were able to take them from behind. When the tower’s base was clear, the prince approached the soldier. “You there! What is your name? Who’s force are you with?”

They took off their helm.

“Belle?” Licht felt as if the world spun upside down. The lone soldier was the Belle. 

She smiled and wiped a drop of sweat from her brow. “Ah, yeah. Sorry. I meant to stay with the rest of the column but . . .” She shrugged.

Licht blinked. “You were supposed to be at the palace. Safe.”

“I couldn’t just sit there while everyone else was in danger.”

“You - you -” Licht closed the space between them and pulled her into a tight hug. Their armor clanked as he held onto her. He didn’t care. He didn’t ever want to let go.

Yves

Yves and the Belle stood back to back in the village square, looking from the face of one Obsidian spy to another. The prince took a breath, feeling his throat catch as he tried to find the words that would fix . . . this.

One of the spies called out. “Just give up and come with us. We’ll let your girlfriend go. Promise. No one needs to get hurt.”

“Yet,” someone else laughed.

“I . . . I will, but you have to let her go first,” Yves replied, sounding stronger than he felt.

The Belle reached for his hand. “No. You don’t have to do this,” she whispered.

“I do. I’m going to keep you safe.”

She squeezed his fingers. “We’re going to keep each other safe.”

“What?” Yves tried to glance back at her, but she was already moving. 

The Belle released his hand and pulled a rapier from a hidden sheath. “You aren’t taking him,” she said.

Yves had no choice but to follow suit. He pulled his sword as well. “That’s right. No one is leaving with you.” He hoped she had some plan.

The Obsidian spies attacked. For a moment, it was all Yves could do to hold them off of him. He was terrified they would hurt Belle and angry that they would try. But when he cleared the space around him, he saw his worries were unfounded.

She was a whirlwind of steel and ferocity. The Belle lunged and struck, stepped and spun. Behind her, men fell bleeding or unconscious. 

Yves felt . . . inadequate as he looked at his own opponents. Two men he’d managed to fight off. And she had taken five. Five! “I didn’t know you could fight,” he said, unable to hide his pouting lips. 

“A bit,” she smiled and flicked the blood from her blade. She slid it back into the sheath.

“You might have said.” Yves looked down. “I thought I was keeping you safe. But you didn’t need me at all.”

Belle laughed softly and hugged him. “I always need you, Yves. I didn’t want to tell you I could fight. I thought you might not like me so much if you knew.”

“What? Something like that could never make me love you less!” Yves hugged her back, suddenly feeling very warm. His heart galloped in his chest.” In a quieter voice he added, “You really do need me?”

“Always. I couldn’t imagine life without you, Yves.”

“Good. Because I can’t either.”

Rio

“Bring your arm up. Put weight on your back foot.” Rio’s blue eyes were sharper and harder than usual. His lips pressed firmly together.

Belle followed his instructions, trying to keep it all in her head all at once. 

Rio nodded as his eyes followed the tension in her body. “Good. Good. Now-” He struck with lightning fast speed, moving the practice sword as if it were a part of his arm.

She held him off, barely. 

“You’re getting better!” His face relaxed into an easy smile as he let up on his attack. “I think you might be a natural.”

“You think so?” The Belle smiled back at him. “I wonder where you learned it though? Sword fighting. Maybe you were a soldier?”

Rio’s expression went flat for a moment. “Maybe. I don’t remember.” Then he smiled brightly again. “It doesn’t matter. I’m just glad I can help you like this. I want to make sure you stay safe even if I can’t be right by your side.”

She laughed. “It’s just the palace, Rio. I’m sure I’ll be fine, with or without the sword.”

“I’m not. The palace is a battlefield.” He paused, blinking, then laughed. “No, of course you’re right. I’m sure you’ll be safe. Let’s put these up and go fetch something good to eat.” 

Rio would make sure the Belle stayed safe, no matter what. He didn’t want her to worry or to be afraid. 

Sariel

Sariel handed the Belle a fine, slim blade. The guard was a lily with gold etching, limned with tiny diamond chips that sparkled in the sun. 

She looked at it with wide eyes. “What? Sariel, what is this?”

“Don’t play coy with me. Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” His lips thinned to a line of firm disapproval. 

“I . . .” Her shoulders fell. “Fine. I guess I’m not surprised. What gave me away?”

“The callouses on your palm. The way you react to surprises. The way you hold your dinner knife. Honestly, if you wanted to keep your sword skills a secret, you ought to try harder.” Sariel sniffed. 

The Belle sighed. “I didn’t know I was so obvious.”

Sariel’s smile returned, thin and sharp as the edge of the blade he held. “We’ll work on that too. Now take this and replace that common steel you’re carrying. This is the palace and I won’t have our Belle using substandard arms.”

She took it from him and exchanged the dented, worn blade in her hidden sheath. 

“Good girl. Now come along. I’ve arranged for a tutor to show you better how to disguise those skills. I want to make sure I can use you to the fullest.” His smile was unsettling and something wicked gleamed in the depths of his eyes. 

Sariel knew he’d picked the perfect Belle for these noble beasts and she only kept proving him right. Perhaps, he thought, I will even keep her employed after the new king is chosen. She’s good to have around. For many reasons . . .

#ikemen prince #fanfiction #fanfic #otome #otome guys #fluff

[chiropteracupola]

(ask game) 🪱~*.*.* w o r m s f i c *.*.*~ 🪱

worms time worms time worms time!

we have discussed the wormsfic I am sure. basically, I woke up one morning, said 'undead Keith? undead Keith.' ...and then proceeded to go on the most mind-bending three-week writing quest of my life, best summarized as What If I Carefully Described Rot and Sorrow and Tenderness and Had Lots of Emotions About Having A Human Body for a very very long time. that's it that's worms.

and here, some fresh worms (and scavenging birds!) for you under the readmore:

Keith is jolted back into consciousness by a sharp pressure above his eye, and the sudden sensation as of a weight being lifted from his face. He grimaces against the stab of pain and throws up his hands, flailing aimlessly at the bird which has found its perch at the crown of his hat. It caws and flutters back at him, beak and wings colliding with Keith’s hands as he attempts to dissuade the scavenging raven from going after his eyes a second time. Unable to see his target, he lands a blow on his own face nearly as often as he does on the bird, and by the time he stands, collecting his hat from the ground, he is more than a little dizzy from the ringing slap he had put across his own nose.

Pressing his back up against the tree, he rubs the back of his hand against his eye, feeling for injuries until he satisfies himself that it is mostly intact. Keith squints out at his assailant, and finds a sleek raven staring back at him from the branches above. It cocks its head, interested and insouciant, and watches him with gleaming dark eyes, as if waiting for Keith to still himself again so that he can be pecked at further. The thing looks well-fed — on carrion, no doubt, thinks Keith. There had been feasting enough for the ravens in the year he had spent in Scotland, and he did not doubt that there would be more before the summer had burned out into autumn.

“I’ll be damned before I’ll be a meal for birds,” snarls Keith, the words hissed through his tied-shut mouth. His sentence ends before he means it to, for is he not half damned already? Even so, he can do this one thing to strike out at his predicament, perhaps let some of that built-up anger catch and flare, send up a flurry of sparks in his heart again.

Keith scrabbles at the ground for a stone and flings it upwards, relishing the thud of its collision with a branch even if he misses the raven itself. The oak above him turns to a fluttering of black wings, a full flock of ravens rising into the grey-white sky. Keith stands stiffly as they fade into the distance, the shiver of feathers like slivers cut from night until the clouds close over them again. He has not had his eyes pecked out that morning, it is true, but the effect of the experience has discomfited him more than he can say.

He will walk, then. If he stays too still, he seems a corpse in truth, and he would rather not become prey to scavenging things, though it would perhaps sooner free him from his own rotting-out body. At that thought, Keith winces, and feels a new itch beneath his skin as some creeping thing winds its way up the edge of his eye socket without surfacing. Pressing his hand against it, he tries to push it back down again, and is unsuccessful. His hand drops back to his side, loose and limp, and, setting to ignore it if he cannot mend it, Keith Windham finds his course again and walks on.

#em writes stuff #heronposting #yeah I think quest is the right word for it #and what is a quest but a fungus about honor that gets into your mind and makes you act weird. hm. #yes a few of you have seen most of this bit before but I think it's one of the parts that's most ready to be shown off #also one of my favorites! I had a lot of fun writing it #which has been rather on and off for wormsfic. mostly I feel like I'm being dragged around by some kind of creature.

[derpinathebrave]

for the writer questions - 13, 25, 32 as well :D, and 36!

Hehe yay questions

13. What do I find difficult to write about. Well, aside from horror, I find it really difficult to do slow-burn past a certain point and soul-mate AUs. I also find it really difficult to write dark no happy ending angst, it feels a little "what's the point" to me.

I find it easy to write fluff. And i usually find it easy to write snappy flirty stuff.

25. A weird hyperspecific detail about a character that's irrelevant to the rest of the story.... in Finders Keepers, Sundown participates in street races in his free time ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

32. I really love Edgar Allan Poe and the line that always lingers with me is "Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door! Quoth the Raven, Nevermore"

Its silly but that one tree house of horror episode introduced me to that poem. And then I fell into a whole rabbit whole of Gothic literature.

That line stays with me because it's so desperate. The whole poem is about grief and the way he yells to take the sharp, pricking, stabbing thing out of his heart, that's just the perfect description of grief to me. Desperation to have it stop and leave you alone. But it never really will.

36. What do I Know.... I know that milk for a cappuccino should ideally be steamed to 60 degrees c. I know that fluffy warm things are incredibly important and worth treating yourself to. I know that people who love you won't ask you to sacrifice parts of yourself to love them. I know that even when you're sure your heart is breaking and irreparable, one day you'll see a sunset and realise you fucking love life, and your heart is actually still working and able to love.

#derp answers #writing questions

[silly-scribblesnrandom-writings]

Drowning

cw! drowning, cw! monsters cw! death, cw! body horror, cw! night terrors cw! depressing thoughts, cw! gore

Dead Dove Do Not Eat

I hope you enjoy! And please mind the tags~ Please only read if you're 16+

Drip... Drip... Drip...   

You hear it again.   

That small, repetitive sound. Like chalkboard scratching next to your ear.   

How many times have you had this same dream? This same feeling?   

Like a movie randomly popping up on the same TV channel, despite not being popular anymore. The dream appears at odd times. Times just like this.    

You’re inside a cave, facing the sea as always. A fishy smell permeating the air around you. The salty fog stinging your perpetually chapped lips. You couldn’t even lick them for a moment of relief if you wanted to.     

In this dream, you’re always paralyzed, after all.    

And yet you still feel the fatigue of standing completely straight. Completely still. For however many hours you manage to get to sleep that night.  

Are you even breathing right now?      

You can’t tell.     

You do know that you never blink, however. Not even given the ability to close your eyes and imagine you’re somewhere else.     

You’re just stuck. Frozen, cold, tired, and alone. In this damn cave.   

Damp walls covered in moss, stone floor littered with debris and granules of sand. The intermittent dripping of water from the stalactites above. Every moment you spent here felt like an eternity.     

You hated this reoccurring dream. Nightmare more like.    

And yet you couldn’t do anything but suffer in silence. Patiently waiting for the dawn to arrive.    

If you could right now, you’re sure you’d be crying.    

Why did you have to go through this?     

Why didn’t any medication work?    

What is this?     

The only answer you had for yourself was torture. Pure torture.    

Sometimes, you even had the selfish wish of having someone trapped here beside you. At least you wouldn’t be alone, with only the rare sound of seagulls chattering amongst themselves to keep you company. Or the occasional shift in the weather above. Sun shyly showing its face from between the clouds, its dainty rays filling you with momentary warmth. Only to vanish once again, leaving you in the endless foggy gloom.   

If someone else was here, would they make it all more bearable?    

Drip... Drip...   

That sound returns again, snapping you out of your string of thought.   

They were such pathetically selfish thoughts, anyway.    

Then something amazing happens.     

You can hear a new sound, faint- but it’s there.    

The small sound of wing beats, the fluttering of feathers, ignite a flurry of unfiltered excitement from deep in the core of your bones.     

Finally! Something new!    

A black bird flies into the cave, dripping with seawater, fish squirming desperately in a sunrise-yellow beak.   

You watch it carefully with your peripheral vision, as the white-cheeked avian downs its meal, shifting its prey before swallowing it whole in one large gulp.    

Isn’t this lucky?      

How long had it been since something different, something interesting happened?     

You watch with glee as the large bird takes a curious glance at you. Bobbing its head around as it waddles closer.    

Hesitant steps, one, then two.    

And then-   

The shrill screech of the surprised animal stabs your ears like the sharp blade of a knife.   

Its body stolen away in a single blink.     

Your human eyes just barely able to capture the sight of a chameleon-like tongue wrapped around the feathery creature. The bird now in the position of writing, flailing prey.    

And before you could convince yourself that it was all a hallucination in the first place. That the wing beats and the bird were just the agonizing loneliness gripping your brain like a stress ball-   

The sickening sounds of something uncanny, inhuman, wrap their slimy presence around your pitiful mind.    

The messy, squelching chomps reminding you of someone messily eating a watermelon with voracious gusto.     

The splintering sound of snapping bones encases your body in a cage of nausea.    

With one last scattered cry, the avian lets out a strangled shriek.    

A warning to you.   

Eyes snapping awake, you feel your consciousness slowly pulled from the nightmare, like trying to get out of a pool of honey.    

Lucidity flickering as your groggy eyes take in the room around you.    

Ugh…   

What the hell was that?   

The slimy feeling still hadn’t left your skin. ...It seemed the nightmare still had a grip on you even in reality.   

Damn it!     

A quick glance at the clock had you scrambling in seconds, as you rushed to throw on proper clothes for school. The next few minutes a dizzying blur of shoving on shoes, stuffing papers into your backpack, and getting a few bites of food into your empty stomach, before flying out the door in a flurry of haste.    

The walk to school was a challenge, as your mind sank into a sludge of mental exhaustion, while your body ran like your life depended on it.    

The sticky feeling following you around like a shadow.    

Making it late to school, classes flash by like leaf litter in a river, goosebumps coating your skin all day long.    

Everything seemed to go by way too fast. Like everything was always racing to the end. The end of the day. The end of the month. The end of high school. Time melting, overlapping, and fading into itself as your childhood was coming to a close.  

You push off the unhappy thoughts. Unsteady eyes trained on the teacher. As you remember the homework you forgot to bring with you today and hear the teacher announce another important test you have to study for, a heavy weight settles on your spine. The soles of your shoes melting into the floor.    

Dread worming its’ way into your gut, latching on like a parasite.    

Tired. So tired. And tired all for what? A constant stream of testing and work. Days you can’t enjoy, washing over you in unending waves.    

As you helplessly cry out choked, “Wait! Slow down-“s into the soulless waters.   

You force your heavy eyes open. The weight of all these feelings turning into a tight pressure in your skull.   

Only to be met with the sight of the open ocean.    

The familiar scent of salt stinging your lips.    

The granules of sand under your feet.    

The…rotting smell of…   

Meat?   

Drip…drip…drip   

You can feel yourself breathing.    

Drip…drip…drip   

You can feel your hands shaking.   

Drip…drip…drip   

You feel like you should run.   

A warm breath of air meets the skin on your back.    

You don’t take the chance to find out what’s behind you- forcing your legs into a sprint, every muscle dedicated to getting out of this rocky prison.   

You can hear the thing trailing its' slimy body after you, the sounds of claws scraping across the stone floor, of a wet mass hastily dragging itself towards its designated prey.     

The thumping of your heart begging you to just. move. faster.    

Your mouth gapes open, lungs striving for any drop of oxygen. Your legs not gifted a moment of relief.   

As the exit to the cave draws closer and closer, so do the creature's distorted snarls.   

The bright foggy air only a whisker away, you’re here, on the edge.  

 The edge of the cliff.   

With no gradient to safely slide down onto the beach with, your heels are forced to stop. Skin scraping on the unforgiving, rugged surface.   

A muffled cry is swallowed down, as you make the quick decision, forcing your stinging feet to jump off into the depths below.    

Momentary weightlessness surrounds your senses, as you look out into the sea, the beautiful rays of the sun igniting your skin, and your mind, with newfound hope.   

The calming sound of the ocean waves washing onto the shore. The slight prickle the breeze brings onto your skin. Your lungs given a moment to breathe. Your legs given a moment to break away from the heavy responsibility of carrying your fleshy body. Your mind given a chance to wrangle free of the fears that had stalked you just moments before.   

Adrenaline rush fading from your bloodstream, you start to question what just happened.    

How did you get here?    

In a sharp cry of pain, the peaceful moment you had was snatched away, your leg caught in the tight hold of a slimy tentacle. Your lungs once again seeking solace, air prematurely forced from its grasp.  

You struggle to escape from the monster’s grip, flailing your lower limbs in feeble attempts to shake off its' tentacle, hands desperately trying to reach up to release yourself. Abdominal muscles crying out in burning pain as you strain your torso in frustrated movements.   

All in vain.  The back of your legs and thighs, scraping against the jugged cliff walls. Jutted out roots taunting you with sadistic glee.      By the time you’re back in the cave, if you weren’t already before, you’re now a complete mess of yourself. Dirt and tears staining your face, mud, wet sand, and blood, caked into the gaps of your toes, sea spray soaking your hair.  

Forced to meet the creature eye to eye, or eyes to eyes, you gulp as a sinking feeling makes its way into the pit of your stomach, your guts forming knots of nausea.     The thing is a writhing, pulsating amalgamation of bulbous eyes, pointed pincer-like claws, tentacles, and teeth. Rows and rows and rows of sharp, jagged, teeth. Perfect for the ripping and tearing of limbs.  

Your anguished sobs do nothing but rouse the creature even more. It’s cold eyes watching you pathetically struggle in untainted interest.      An interest cut off all too soon as your grappled leg is pulled into one of its many mouths. A beat of denial, of horrified shock, passes. And yet for a brief moment you could feel its long, scratchy tongue scrape off bits of your flesh. Before it’s ripped off with a wet, sloppy, crunch.    

Your pained howl echoes through the cave walls. As you’re forced to watch the being chew your flesh with a smarmy look etched into what you think makes up its wriggling mess of a face.       Distracted by its snack, you make use of its loosening grip on your body, hastily dragging yourself to the edge of the cliff. Throwing yourself off once more, hugging your pained body into a cannonball-like position, trying your best to ignore the lightheaded feeling you have from the rapid blood loss.   

Maybe I could find some seaweed to help stop the bleeding or something.   

Your thoughts are cut off by the angry hisses of the creature above, as it tries once again to snatch you into its steel grip, and luckily for you, failing.  Relief flooded into the core of your bones as its tentacles gripped onto empty air.  It was short-lived, however, as the agonizing sting of saltwater on your mutilated limb nearly caused you to faint. Your screams eaten up by the tide, salt invading your mouth.   

Still though, piecing together your fortitude, you remained determined.   

Preparing to swim to shore, you watch in frustration as the creature recreates your movements. Jumping into the sea with heated fury.       Damn it, damn it, damnitdamnitdamnit-      Your life, as if being balanced between life and death by a fucking feather, on the line, you push your broken body, once again, against the waves. No longer caring if you breathe in water, determined to grasp any scrap of life in a smothering choke hold.     The terror and exhaustion and pain drilling itself into your being, you don’t even have the strength to cry out as your body is captured once again. Instead channeling the remaining strength you had into scratching and tearing at any of the monster’s eyes you saw through the murky water.      Satisfaction washed over you as it wailed in pain, much like you had earlier.      Ripping away from it to steal a breath of air, you were yanked back down under the wrathful waves.  But you were ready, preparing to steal a bite of one of its’ limbs, just like it had done to you.  

Snap   

With one sharp movement, your spine was split in half.       Snap   

The bones in your arms, broken beyond repair.       Snap       Snap       Snap    

Your hopes, your determination, your strength, every single bone in your body. All left shattered.       Hah. Well weren’t you just pathetic?       The monster’s remaining eyes seemed to mock.      Your body ever-so-slowly slid into its’ wide, toothy, maw.      The hopelessness and despair turning into droplets of fat tears stolen away by the sea.     Your eyes stung by the salt that surrounded them, but unable to look away from the gruesome sight. As if you were still holding onto your last shred of pride.      Just like in school.      You had tried so hard.      And in the end, for what?   

Just to prolong your suffering?      Your face twisted into a screaming, defeated mess. Your voice swallowed up by the ocean. No one to even know of the suffering you were being forced to experience. Not even a disfigured corpse to remember you by.      Your other leg was gnawed off, the grinding of bones and the sight of crimson red flesh greedily scraped off, sinking permanently into the folds of your brain. Maybe, thankfully, at least you wouldn’t have long to remember the scene.      Your pelvic bone broken off like a stick being snapped in two, your watch in numb horror as your pale pink guts, decorated with blood, slip out from their original positions.      The creature’s form doing a small wobble of happiness as it sucks on your intestines like they were noodles.      You can feel your lungs running out of air now.       Finally.   

You'd never thought you’d want this familiar feeling of drowning to wash over your body. The breathlessness, the stifling build-up of pressure, your body crying, screaming, at you to breathe.      The instinct to not breathe underwater, broken long ago, is broken once again by involuntary breaths, occurring in rapid earnest. Your body now forcing you to take in ‘breath’ after ‘breath’, saltwater unforgivably burning the walls lining your lungs.      Your suffering ending, the blood loss and drowning, and never-ending exhaustion now taking their toll.      Your consciousness flickers and wanes, your mind claimed by the sea. 

#cw body horror #cw gore #cw death #cw monster #cw drowning #cw depressive thoughts #cw nightmares #cw night terrors #original fiction #original writing #creative writing #horror stories #horror fiction #horror writing #original work #dead dove do not eat #dead dove club #dddne

[gutsandgoregalore]

Black Dahlia

CW: Mild gore

The sun was bright that day. It mercilessly scorched the vast pale dunes, the sand burned with all the wrath of an angered god. The air was dry and still, void of any movement as the heavy heat sapped at the strength of anything unfortunate enough to exist in this realm. 

Although, it seemed that some creatures were unaffected by the dreadful sun or simply didn't mind it. The sand began to twitch as the temperatures reached their highest before it parted, revealing what looked like large white crows with beak and talons too sharp to be anything natural. 

The birds took a moment to shake the sand off their glistening feathers before taking off with a few powerful flaps to the one place in this endless desert that would always offer them a fresh meal.

At the end of the birds' long journey awaited a bound angel with sorrowful apprehension. The thick chains all over their body keeping them firmly in place clattered a cruel symphony as Damaris shifted in a pitiful attempt to give themselves some protection against their ravenous attackers, so close that they could hear the fervent flapping of their wings - freedom that would've made Damaris jealous and sick with longing if they still had it in them to care.

Soon enough, the feathered punishers arrived and gleefully began their feast. Damaris did not have the energy to cry anymore, when hundreds of claws stabbed into them, or when beaks began to greedily tear bits and pieces of their flesh, or when the sun and the sand hurt their open wounds even more. Stupidly, they thought that these birds reminded them of home - with their uncanny resemblance to big white doves, but with claws as sharp as an eagle's and beak as skilled and merciless as a vulture's. Their eyes failed to hide the malice and hunger that drove them to this place every day. 

Damaris did not know how long their assault had lasted on that day. Minutes blended into hours that blended into days and it took them too long to realise that, at some point, the birds had ceased their feast and were instead only looking at them intently. Damaris focused all the energy they had into moving their head around, despite the protests all over their body, and froze when they were met with an iridescent white robe they never wished to see again. 

"Have you come here to gloat?" They tried to keep their voice cold with the contempt that suddenly filled them, but it came out weak and shaky. Curse them.

"Can't I pay my old friend a visit every once in a while?"

You're not my friend, Damaris wanted to snap, but thought better of it. "Why are you here, Samael?" They weren't in the mood for this, whatever it was. It wasn't enough that their body ached all over, now he was here on top of it all.

"How long have you been here? A couple of decades, perhaps?"

"A century."

"Already?" He made a soft sympathetic sound, but the corners of his mouth twitched up. "How sad a fate you have met with."

"You did this to me," Damaris bit. It came out raspy, hurt. Bleeding all over, just like them.

A shadow fell over Samael's face, his gaze growing dangerous, his voice soft. "You brought this upon yourself. No one goes against the Shepherd and escapes unscathed." It seemed he was making a conscious effort to restrain himself, indicated by the stony calmness that suddenly overtook his features. "Did you think I wouldn't catch up with you? That you could betray him and get away with it?"

"No." They wanted to quip something scathing, but their brain buzzed and it was all they could do to keep their voice remotely steady.

"No," Samael echoed. "And yet, you still tried to fight us. I've always found that interesting in you. I don't think I've ever had to fight for anything in my life." He grew wistful, like he was curious what that struggle, that desperation, felt like.

"It seemed the right thing to do, at the time." Damaris's voice grew weak, unconvincing, even to their own ears. "Being willing to die for the greater good and all that."

"And look where righteousness got you." He had that damned sad expression again. "I warned you, Damaris, and I gave you a choice."

"Join me or feel the wrath of the Shepherd," They mock-mimicked his voice. "As if I ever would." Their voice cracked along with their resolve. "You were my friend, Samael. You betrayed me. You abandoned me here."

Samael scoffed, a soft scolding sound like Damaris was a perfect pupil that had disappointed. One of the birds jumped closer and pecked at an open wound as punishment. "I never abandoned you, dear. I'm here, aren't I? And my offer still stands."

"What?"

"You still have a choice. I can save you, give you the life you were always meant to have. You need only say the word."

"And if I choose not to come with you?"

"Well," Samael grinned, all teeth, "in that case, you'll find there are much worse fates than this."

Damaris swallowed, considered their options. Samael could be bluffing. They didn't think he was bluffing. The Samael they knew was a man of action, willing to do anything to get what he wanted, with little restraint or consideration, though he would never go so far as to harm Damaris. The Samael before them was volatile and unpredictable, a corrupted reflection of the man they once knew. He might as well have actually been three seconds away from following up on his words with something horrible as proof that he was serious. 

They looked up. Samael was calmly gazing down at them with his arms crossed, a small satisfied smile playing on his lips like he already knew Damaris's answer. 

Damaris knew better than to test his patience.

They squeezed their eyes shut. "Y-yes." They were so unbelievably screwed. "Yes, I'll come with you. Please get me out of here." Digging their own grave deeper with each word.

Samael lit up. "Great!" With a snap of his fingers, the chains binding Damaris to the ground melted into dust, and the awful birds burrowed back into the sand with one final caw. He hoisted the angel up, waited patiently for them to steady themselves on their feet, shaking from the strain and lack of use. After that, everything went black.

Damaris found themselves in an unfamiliar place that looked half house and half garden, teeming with flowering plants that all gave way to a sizable tree heavy with fruit.

They were left momentarily stunned and stayed rooted to their spot as their tired mind struggled to keep up with the pace. When they finally willed themselves to look around, Samael was already somewhere deep in the coils of this new place. Fortunately, before Damaris could panic and get lost in their search for the other angel, Samael returned with a bundle of cloth in his hands and pep in his step. 

"I thought you'd like a change of wardrobe," he said as he reached Damaris and grabbed their hand. "I don't have many clothes your size, but this'll have to do. We'll get you washed up and then you're going to try it."

They sputtered. "I- wait what? We?!"

"Yes. Or would you rather I left you covered in all that blood and sand? I'm fine either way."

Damaris felt an overwhelming urge to cry. They hung their head low.

"That's what I thought. Now come on, I don't have all day."

#writing #creative writing #original content #black dahlia #damaris #samael

[arjaandsimoni]

The Raven Rebellion

A long time ago, a ruin off the coast of Ireland

The man coughed and gasped for breath, four massive ogres standing around him as they sneered down at the warrior. All the fight was beaten out of him, his body aching. “Yez ’ad enough then Fullmoon?” laughed one.

The man snarled and tried to scramble to his feet, aiming an iron dagger at the monster’s leg and stabbing it forth, only for one of his fellows to stomp hard on his back, causing him to drop it as he gasped in agony.

“Cease…” came a voice. A tall faerie strode forward, his body hidden under a long cloak, his face round as a full moon with a large sharp black beak and wide black eyes.

“Roight you are, yer owlship.” nodded the lead ogre, stepping away from him.

“Do you know who I am, mortal?” asked the faerie, leaning down.

The Fullmoon man snarled, “You’re the Lord of Owls… you’ve been preying on people in this area for months now.” he spat.

The faerie cocked his head, turning it almost upside down as he did so, “People? They are but chittering mice and rats to me… mere vermin for my talons.” the faerie replied.

The man growled, “You’ll have to kill me. I am of Clan Fullmoon! The Maven, the Raven Queen, has claim on me! You can’t take me.”

The fae stood, haughty and proud, “HAH! I laugh at your claim Fullmoon man! What is a raven to an owl but more prey?” he sneered, turning, and waving an arm as an archway in the ruin behind him began to shimmer, then transformed into a pathway into the Hedge. “Bring him, he will serve well as one of my guardsmen.” commanded the Lord of Owls.

The four ogres each grabbed one of his limbs, lifting the man up as he cursed and screamed, struggling against their strength, but even the strength of Clan Fullmoon had its limits.

They carried him through, and then the door slammed shut… and all was silent…

Castle Fullmoon, Present Day

Franklin Fullmoon stared out the window of his office. He should feel satisfied, accomplished. Eliza’s prophecy had been thwarted, Arja and Simoni may still be alive but they had been rendered powerless. They could never stand against him now… and yet…

… they were still alive.

The cyclops was too strong, he had to retreat. Claiomh Dorcadas was a good sword in its own right, but a cyclops was a mighty foe even for a member of Clan Fullmoon, and the magic devouring powers of the blade could do nothing against a being who didn’t use magic to begin with!

He’d heard reports of what had happened to Roger, and he knew he should feel furious at his fate. Roger was his son after all… and yet… he didn’t. He felt nothing for his death. He hadn’t felt anything for any of the lives lost in his attempts to stop Eliza’s prophecy from coming true.

The only time he felt anything was when he looked upon the works of magic, on the supernatural, and then he felt nothing but a blinding fury and a desire to destroy whatever his gaze fell on.

A knock came at his door.

“Enter.” he said.

One of his aides came in, carrying a folder of reports. “Sir. We have a situation.” he said in an urgent tone, “We’re getting reports from across the globe. Fullmoon agents abandoning their missions and going dark, we’ve lost radio contact with over one hundred and fifty of our men… whats more, there are reports that their homes are abandoned. Their wives, sons, daughters… all gone.” he said.

Franklin’s eyes narrowed, “Are we under attack?” he asked. He’d half expected this, the Vanara to retaliate after what he had done… but across the entire world?

“We don’t believe so Sir… every one of them sent the same message back before breaking off contact.” he held up a report, “It said, ‘the Ravensguard stands against the tyrant.’”

Franklin turned, his eyes narrowed, “… Ravensguard… are any of them making for Jaipur?” he asked.

The man hesitated, “We don’t know… but, we believe that some may be… and we believe that they may be accompanied by… um… Jeannie.”

He scowled, “… sister…” he whispered under his breath.

Jaipur India

Nelen, Dawn, Arja, and Simoni raced through the streets, heading for Hanuman’s temple. Arja couldn’t believe what the monkey had told her, after all this they’d been mad enough to come back?!

“Gonna burn burn buuuuurn them…” she snarled, gritting her teeth.

Simoni nodded, she had no problems with that, if anything she was fed up with her family. She’d rather throw away that heritage and remain in India forever now.

Nelen however seemed to think something else was up and, with many very loud protests from Drusilla, had insisted it just be the four of them.

They made their way through the dense jungle to the temple grounds to find a half dozen Fullmoon men standing firm around someone, making a circle to shield the person between them. Their weapons were not drawn, but they were not standing down. Surrounding them were three times that many Vanara, wielding spears, talwars, and other weapons of war.

“WHY HAVE YOU COME HERE?!” demanded Arja as she walked into the ruins, her body erupting in golden fur as she transformed into her Vanara form. "Did Franklin send you to finish the job? HE FAILED! WE GOT OUR POWERS BACK AND I’M GOING TO USE THEM TO INCINERATE EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOU!” she roared in fury.

As she did however a voice came from among them. “Aye, I dunnae doubt ye mean it ya wee monkey… but stay yer flame. Me ‘n me boys mean ye no harm.” it said.

This gave Arja pause. She’d heard that voice before… but not on this plane of reality. Rather deep below, after a train ride that she still sometimes woke up in a cold sweat remembering.

“Eliza?” she asked, tilting her head in confusion.

The voice chuckled, “Nae, but ah have been told ah got ‘er voice. Stand aside boys…” she said.

The men parted their circle, and a woman walked out. She was an elderly thing, with a face like a raisin and silver hair bound behind her head, wearing a long green dress. She used a cane to walk, a long wooden one with a handle like a stylized raven’s head. “Ye be speakin’ o’ me late mother. I’m Jeannie, heir to the position of Matriarch before that bastard of a brother o’ mine usurped it.” she nodded, looking to Nelen.

Nelen nodded back, “Its begun then?” he asked.

“Aye lad. Its begun. Our men are makin’ themselves scarce. The Ravensguard willnae support Franklin nae more. Explosives in broad daylight, riskin’ mundane deaths, workin’ with criminal mobs, ‘n raisin’ ‘ell at a protected site?” she frowned, “Franklin goes too far, ‘e risks exposin’ us ta mundane society. Me brother’s obsession with yer sister ‘n ‘er gelfriend has driven ‘im even madder ‘n he already was.” she frowned.

Arja blinked at Nelen, looking between the two, “Wait, you knew who they were?” she asked.

Nelen shrugged, “I had a hunch. Loren told me about Jeannie and her Ravensguard and how they were wanting to try to overthrow Franklin but lacked the power to do it.” he said. “They were trying to spy on him as much as they could, but Franklin tends to keep them out of the castle as much as he can, and Jeannie is too suspicious to spy effectively.”

Arja growled at that, turning on Jeannie, “And you couldn’t have stepped in when he was trying to kill Simoni BEFORE all this happened?” she demanded.

Jeannie looked at her, and she looked truly old as she did, old and very weary, “Nae, though I wanted to. She’s me great niece ye wee monkey… but there ain’t a hunter alive who hasn’t had ta make a hard decision ta save people. My faction o’ th’ clan is comparatively small… most are too afraid o’ Franklin or too loyal to ‘is ‘kill ‘em all’ horseshite. But ‘is recent actions ‘as made enough o’ th’ fence-sitters finally choose their sides. Franklin will see nae more ‘elp from us, ‘n when th’ time comes… we’ll stand with ye gel.” she nodded.

“Why do they care though? I thought Franklin’s magic-eating sword couldn’t hurt them!” she snarled, jabbing a finger at one of the men next to her.

Jeannie frowned, “They care because they know what th’ clan SHOULD be.” she snapped, “What it was before Franklin began his mad campaign, when we stood by our men ‘n brought th’ storm to those what threatened th’ world… which is why he wouldn’t go after THEM… he’d go fer their wives ‘n daughters.” she nodded.

Simoni put her hand on Arja’s shoulder, nodding, “Yeah… I figured it out a while ago after we found out about Claiomh Dorcadas. It can’t steal their inborn strength, the magic changes them in the womb and then vanishes, after that they’re no more magical than the next guy… but Clan Fullmoon keeps records of all the family. Franklin is using their families as leverage, just like he did with me and my mom.” she nodded.

At this Arja’s expression changed, “Oh… um… I mean…” she hesitated, straightening up as her fur vanished, going back to her human form, “That’s… yeah, that makes sense…” she muttered, her fury draining away as she realized just how twisted Simoni’s family had become under her grandfather’s rule. “Sorry… I didn’t realize…”

Jeannie nodded slowly, “Nae, ya got every reason in th’ world ta be furious with me family gel, ‘n believe me I’m none too happy with a good lot of ‘em now either… but there’s another reason I’m ‘ere… Franklin decided ‘e wanted insurance, incase ye somehow regained yer powers…” she warned.

Simoni paused at that, looking at her as Nelen frowned. “He didn’t…” muttered the warlock.

Jeannie nodded sadly, “Aye, yer mum has been taken by Franklin’s loyalists. She’s at Inishmore by now.”

When the Void Rain occurred in times long forgotten, the meteors carrying the baleful metal used to make the Mundane Blades would leave massive impact craters where they landed. The debris and metal left by their strikes would seed the land around it, creating a sort of dead zone for magic. No spells could be woven, no magic could be worked. It would only seal it as long as one remained in the crater but seal the magic it did.

When the meteor landed in Ireland, it struck the island of Inishmore, and the Clan Fullmoon of the day realized the use of such a place. They worked in secret to cover the crater over, disguising it as an ordinary hillock, and inside it… they built a prison.

Even though Clan Fullmoon were the original holders of Claiomh Dorcadas, they used it only rarely and with the current matriarch’s express permission to do so. It was too powerful a weapon to abuse. Instead, many of their foes who could not be defeated outright were imprisoned.

This prison was intended for all those creatures that the clan faced that could not be killed, would not remain dead, or were simply so powerful that they could only be contained. Locked away inside the prison on Inishmore Island, robbed of their powers, they languished in the dark… alone and forgotten.

Frankin had seen other potential in the prison however… those witches who stood against his rule faced imprisonment there. He had turned Inishmore, a prison only meant to be used against those that could be dealt with no other way, into a political prison to hold those who attempted to usurp his control.

The prison had no name, it showed up on no maps, all that the clan knew was that, on occasion, someone would “go to Inishmore.”

… and more often than not, they would never be heard from again.

Jaipur, the Barjar Residence

Simoni sat on the couch in the rec room, her face in her hands, her mind full of horrible thoughts. The last time she had seen her mother in person was when she had that fight with her the day she fled to Jaipur… and now she was locked away in Inishmore?!

She’d been back to Cincinnati since then, but it had always been too big a risk with Franklin watching her home… she really knew what Nelen meant then about why he couldn’t go home. Arja sat near her, giving the garuda a hug, “At least we know your dad didn’t get caught.” she replied.

That had been blind luck. Their father, Gregory, had been away on a business trip when this had happened. He had returned home to an empty house and a crime scene and, after being questioned by the police, was put under their protection. He was clearly afraid for his family, but for the moment Franklin couldn’t risk exposure and take him too… though there was a large question mark over how long he would care. Gregory was a mundane, just an ordinary businessman. Had he been there he would have likely wound up hospitalized or dead. Judging by the state of the house Catherine had decided to join her daughter’s opinion of ‘to hell with the magic moratorium’ when Franklin’s agents came, apparently the building was quite the mess.

Stephy was sitting next to her, the faerie ‘princess’ trembling himself. Catherine had been one of the few Fullmoons who had ever been truly kind to him and had even tried to protect him from his father’s abuse rather than ignoring it… the idea of her languishing inside Inishmore was every bit as intense as it was given Simoni’s own fear feeding it.

Tex saw this, then nodded and walked behind the bar, taking out the box his mother had given him…

In either case though, they had a big problem. Drusilla was their only fighter who didn’t use magic, and she would have to go in alone…

“I tried contacting Loren, but she went into hiding with the rest of the Ravensguard. She was already a vocal opponent of the magic ban, probably wants to show her support as much as anything.” he nodded, “But still, even with how strong you are Drus, against a whole prison’s worth of Fullmoon guardsmen… you can bet they’ll be the best loyalists Franklin has.” he frowned.

“HAH! Bring ‘em on! I’ve been wanting a new belt anyways.” she grinned widely, “If they’re anything like that wussy patriarch I’ll just have to roar and they’ll all turn and run!”

Nelen frowned, “Drus, half the reason Franklin retreated was because he’d gotten what he wanted. These ones will stand their ground and you will be outnumbered…” he warned.

“Well she ain’t goin’ alone.” came a voice.

Nelen looked over to see Tex standing over an open box at the bar, pulling back the slide of a Barretta M9. “Mom figured ah might need it more 'n her... I can’t use mah deck in there, but nothin’ magic ‘bout gunpowder.” he grinned.

Nelen smirked, “A kid from Texas with a handgun… we’re saved!” he snorted, then ignoring a loud ‘hey!’ from Tex he turned back to the center of the room, “We need something else… some help… guys. We’re hitting the damn bar.”

Drusilla looked at him, “Pre-fight drinks?” she asked.

Dawn grinned, “Hiring some backup.” explained the cat, her tail swishing, “We’re going to the Wulfshead.”

The Wulfshead Club, a few minutes later

Nelen walked into the bar that night with Arja, Simoni, Dawn, Tex, and Drusilla following behind. Sammi and Stephy had elected to stay behind along with Natasha, who couldn’t come as it was daytime, and Lupe, who wouldn’t come without Natasha.

Nelen looked around, then went up to the stage and cleared his throat. As soon as he did someone shouted ‘FREEBIRD!’ and he sighed and rolled his eyes. There was always one. “No karaoke tonight for me guys. I’m looking to hire. Who here is up to raiding an anti-magic prison?” he asked.

Immediately a sea of faces turned away from him, the Fullmoon man’s eye twitching in annoyance… but he couldn’t blame them. The vast majority of the Wulfshead’s clientele was like him and his allies. Either they couldn’t fight without magic or, in some cases, needed it to survive. He’d hire out further if he could, but the only ones he could think of off the top of his head were lunatics like Suzie Shooter from the Nightside (also known as ‘Shotgun Suzie’ or ‘Oh fuck! Its her! RUN!’) and he’d rather prefer not to have to take any of his own allies home in a bucket.

However… one voice spoke up, “What anti-magic prison?” they said.

Nelen looked out through the haze into the smoky bar. Smoking was prohibited in bars in most countries these days, but in a place where the clientele regularly broke the laws of reality, nature, and decency nobody was going to thank them for not smoking… besides, if you weren’t hard to kill you were probably in the wrong bar.

“Clan Fullmoon’s, on Inishmore Island.” he said.

From the back of the room, someone stood up and walked forward. “I’m in.” came a voice. A woman strode across the dance floor towards the stage, a black woman with her hair tied into cornrow braids with colorful beads at the ends of each, going down just past her ears. She wore a designer top in a deep purple and black leather pants, a pair of black leather knee-high biker boots on her feet, and at her hip was a longsword with a curved blade, a scimitar. Aisha De Lane, up and coming fashion model out of New York to the mundanes of the world, but to the supernatural realm heir to the line of Sir Moraen, born in Morocco Africa and a devout Muslim his entire life, the only black man to sit at the Round Table of King Arthur. The True Black Knight.

Nelen raised an eyebrow, hopping off the stage, “Seriously Aisha? You’re in just like that?” he asked. “I mean I ain’t gonna complain about having your sword backing us up… but I gotta ask, why?”

Aisha nodded to him, “Mmmhm. Just like that Fullmoon. I got beef with your family as much as ya’ll do.” she frowned. “Been lookin’ for a way into that prison of theirs for two months now.” she said, following him back to the booth where the rest of the team sat, letting Nelen introduce her. The booths in the pub were massive things, big enough even for their bigger clientele, so even Drusilla could sit comfortably (it helped that they didn’t have to worry about the buildings on the other sides of the club. Nelen was pretty sure the bar wasn’t actually part of the mundane world.)

“Well, we’re going in after my mother. My loon of a granddad took her, hoping to use her as leverage if he needed to come back to India after our team.” he said.

Aisha took out a cigarette from her pocket, Arja leaning over and snapping her finger helpfully as a flame appeared on her index fingertip. Aisha blinked in surprise, then smirked and leaned in, puffing on it a few times, “Thanks girl.” she grinned, then took a pull and let the smoke slowly waft upwards. “Sounds like we all in the same damn boat then Nelen.” she replied, “Assholes got my sister.” she frowned.

New Orleans City Park, Scout Island, Around Two Months Ago

The agents lay scattered around the field, groaning softly as they struggled to their feet. Standing nearby was a woman idly spinning a cane in her hand, wearing a long red dress and a broad brimmed straw hat, her eyes sparkling with something akin to moonlight.

“Ya’ll think ya can come inta my city ‘n cause trouble boys?” she grinned, “Oh no no no… You wanna come down to N’awlins ‘n have a lil’ fun, maybe sample some crawfish then fiiiiiiine… but ya’ll better BEHAVE.” she snapped, smacking one of them across the chops with her cane. “Mind. Yer. MANNERS!” she added, hitting him each time for emphasis.

Hiding nearby was a group of changelings that the men had been after who had been sneaking hedge fruits to some of the more impoverished areas of the city to help out families. It was an old deal, the families left anything they didn’t really need on the rooftop, slightly worn shoes, a few coins, a bit of bread, and the changelings left the fruits that helped them stave off the pains of arthritis or the ravages of addiction… but apparently someone in the local medical community had begun wondering why he wasn’t making as much money from that part of town as he had been before, and knew just enough to tip off the wrong people.

Terri DeLane. Unlike her sister, the rest of the DeLane family didn’t really follow the path their ancestor had set down in Camelot. She stuck with the family’s current business… namely, Vodou practitioners, protecting those in New Orleans who couldn’t protect themselves (yes, Vodou. Everyone always spells it wrong.)

She stood, her cane clacking down onto the ground next to her with a sound like a judge’s gavel, as she slipped a pipe into her mouth and smirked, the coals in the bowl lighting up her face… and for a moment it appeared that she looked… different… older… nastier… but the kind of nasty you wanted on your side. The person you’d rather be standing behind than infront of.

Unfortunately for her… someone was behind her.

“LOOK OUT TERRI!” cried one of the changelings, the young girl with large beetle-like eyes and gossamer wings almost leaping from cover as the other two pulled her back.

The vodou girl’s head snapped up, and she turned a second too late as two electrical leads snapped into her side, then a jolt of electricity powerful enough to stun an elephant arced through her body!

Terri DeLane’s eyes bulged as she screamed in pain, her knees collapsing out from under her as her cane fell from her numb hands, her pipe bouncing on the sidewalk as she went down in a heap, her limbs twitching as she gasped for breath, trying to get her lungs working again.

As she lay there she swore she felt her heart stop… and then a voice whispered in her ear…

Oh hell naw… ain’t ya’ll time yet girlie… none of THAT now!

And she gasped as her heart started up again… but her patron loa could only keep her alive… that jolt had been enough to kill her SEVERAL times over! She couldn’t move, she could barely see or hear, her body still crackled with stray voltage. She was helpless…

“Son of a bitch Brandon! That’s the stun gun we use on fucking werewolves!” came a man’s voice.

“She took out four of us! What was I supposed to do?! I… hang on… SHE’S ALIVE?!” said another, but Terri’s vision swam, she couldn’t see their faces anymore.

“… she fucking survived that… she should be a slab of beef jerky in a dress!” came the first man’s voice, but it sounded so far away…

“No choice then… she’s coming back with us. Call it…” she heard as her consciousness began to fade, “… Inishmore Island…”

Wulfshead, Present Day

Drusilla glared across the table, cracking her knuckles. She didn’t say it, but everyone could read that expression.

“The changelings she was protecting escaped while they were draggin’ her off. They got word back to my family… but by then their boat had already left the harbor.” Aisha frowned. “My sister is a mambo, patron is Kalfu of the Crossroads. He won’t let her die until he’s done with her.” she nodded.

Nelen nodded, “Yeah… that’d be the usual policy. If it can’t be killed, won’t stay dead, keeps putting itself back together, splits into two, or whatever… in it goes.” he growled. “Now we’ve got two people we need to get out of there.”

Arja looked thunderous, “So… wait… those changelings were helping people?” she demanded, her fury at Clan Fullmoon only growing by the day anymore.

Aisha nodded, “Mmmhm. Hedge fruit got all sorts of uses. They had a deal with the poor families, something small ‘n convenient for ‘em to give away, hedge fruits to keep ‘em healthy in exchange. Way I get it that thing they was given didn’t really matter, the changelings got some sorta magic fuel from the act of th’ exchange.” she said.

Tex nodded, “Yeah, Stephy told me ‘bout stuff like that bit ago. Gives ‘em a bit o’ glamour without havin’ ta hunt it up. Like them ol’ faerie stories ‘bout leavin’ out a bowl of milk ‘n bread ‘n some brownie’ll clean yer house.” he replied.

Aisha snorted, “Mmm, but some jackass with a fancy lab coat ‘n a buncha letters behind his name noticed his kickbacks from Humana ‘n Aetna suddenly started goin’ down ‘n looked inta why.” she frowned, blowing a plume of cigarette smoke out her nose.

Nelen nodded, “… and he got word out that something was helping his patients in a way that wasn’t FDA approved.” he sighed, rubbing his forehead, “Bloody fucking… people can’t just leave well enough alone… And of course, once Franklin heard about it then he’d send someone to sort them out. I swear he despises everything supernatural… but if has anything to do with Arcadia he really loses his shit, even by his standards.”

Aisha rolled her eyes, “Yuuuup… so yeah, ya’ll doin’ a jailbreak from that island. I want my damn sister back.” she nodded firmly.

Nelen frowned, “That still leaves just two of us who can fight in the cave…” he warned.

Tex cleared his throat.

Nelen sighed, “… two of us and one kid with a damn pea shooter.”

Tex frowned at him and started to stand…

Nelen put his hand on Tex’s shoulder and shoved him back into his seat. “Kid, I get it! You think I did this…” he held up his hand to show the gauze pad wrapped onto his palm, “… because of the fucking RETIREMENT PLAN?” he growled. “You saw how little that thing did to my uncle remember? What the hell makes you think it’ll be useful NOW?!”

Tex frowned, then sighed, “Look, I just can’t stand by… That’s my lil’ filly’s aunt in there…” he said.

“Tex, I’m not saying stay back… I’m saying stay OUT of the damn prison. Magic works everywhere else on the island and once Drusilla and Aisha start raising hell inside someone will sound the alarm and contact Castle Fullmoon for reinforcements.” he nodded. “They go in, the rest of us stay out and hold off any other Fullmoon agents that show up!”

Tex blinked, “… oh.” he said, then nodded slowly. “Okay, yeah, why didn’t ya’ll say that in th’ first place?” he asked.

Nelen frowned, “We’re about to go to a stronghold of Clan Fullmoon, with their elite guarding it, in order to stage a daring rescue of my mother, that will likely not only draw my grandfather’s attention but could very well alert him to the fact that the attack on Hanuman’s temple failed completely and that Arja and Simoni got their powers back.” he replied, “I’m a TINY bit stressed out here…” he sighed, “Anyways… here’s what we’ll do.” he started, taking out his tablet and opening Google Maps…

A Hidden Cave on Inishmore Island

In the middle of the island, somewhere between Kilmurvey beach and the ruins of the ancient fortress of Dun Duchathair, was a hidden cave. The entrance sealed with a large iron gate and a sign reading ‘Danger! Area unstable! Keep out!’

The area was covered in ancient ruins from Irish history, nobody would notice once more… nor did they seem to notice that the gate was very well kept or made from wrought iron instead of steel or some more durable material.

The inside of the cave was a spiral leading downwards, cut into the hill, each of the cells with cold iron bars built right into the rock… and most of the cells were occupied.

Inside one sat Terri DeLane, nursing a headache. Being cut off from Kalfu’s voice was akin to the kind of phantom pain one gets when you lose a limb, but the nature of the cave meant the loa couldn’t reach her here… no matter what she tried her voice couldn’t cut through the influence of the void iron fragments seeded into the ground so long ago.

In another sat Catherine Fullmoon, still in the torn outfit she had on the day she was dragged from her home in Kentucky. She fought bravely, but in the end she was overpowered… the middle aged woman wishing she’d run off when her daughter did, but it was too late for regrets now.

In another cell however, something much older than both sat… appearing to all the world like an elderly old woman in a dirty white dress, her body shriveled and weak. She could tell something was happening, the guards were more on edge now than they’d ever been… it hadn’t happened yet but… well… she’d been waiting over a thousand years… what was a few more days?

Next Story

Previous Story

#supernatural adventures #fiction #modern fantasy #lgbtq

[unmeisenshi]

Zane would bring Cadenza into their room. Arceus had told Zane the location of Ritornello, and wanted to share the information to the Zeraora.

"I got word from Arceus. Ritornello is deep in the woods of Honeysuckle, to the east. Word is that he was throwing Pokemon into portals while we were away. My friends were able to rescue them, but couldn't find Ritornello anywhere."

Cadenza closed her eyes, and sighed. "We need to take him out, before he hurts anyone else. Let's get going."

"Wait. I'm coming along with."

Zane turned to see Phoebe standing in the doorway, staff resting on her back. "No." Zane stated firmly, "You're still inexperienced, and you're going to lose control of yourself if you aren't careful."

"Come on, Dad!" Phoebe whined. "It'll be the first time I'm in a fight. I'll be fine!"

"No, Phoebe. That's final." Zane was very firm in their answer, one that made the Lycanroc walk away with a huff in her breath. The Marowak then turned back to face Cadenza. "Let's set off now. Be ready for anything."

Cadenza looked back to the doorway, and nodded. "Alright. Let's go."

-

Deep in the woods, a Tyranitar sat under a tree, wrapping his arm with bandages. His arms had holes just above the wrist, holding something sharp in them. "Damn rescue teams. Kept me on the run for days. If only I were faster, I could have thrown them into Ultra Space..." He chuckled, ripping the bandage and standing himself up. "But once I find that girl... I can go back to what I was doing before- huh?"

Ritornello heard a twig snap, but couldn't identify where it came from. He was then thrown off by a swift punch to the gut by Cadenza, who then delivered an even stronger kick to the back of his head. She raised her paws, lightning enveloping her body and Zane's. "Increasing Gain! Zane, you're up!"

Ritornello didn't have time to react before getting another electrified punch from Zane, who pushed the Tyranitar back. "Ritornello... Come quietly with us... Now."

The Tyranitar looked at the two, and began chuckling. "And why should I? You attacked first... So I should respond with just as much force!" Ritornello thrust his arms forward, sharp blades protruding from the tops of his wrists. He began swinging wildly in all directions, forcing Cadenza and Zane to jump away.

Zane drew their blade, and fired a Stun Edge at Ritornello. The attack missed, discharging on the ground. The Tyranitar responded by kicking Zane into a nearby tree, knocking the wind out of them. Cadenza would respond with her own Stun Edge, one that hit Ritornello but seemed to have little effect. He slowly turned around and smiled at Cadenza.

"There you are... Little girl." He chuckled menacingly, "I figured you would have died, since I threw you in."

"You would think... But I was saved thanks to the rescue team Team Destiny. As much as I want to kill you... I've been told not to. I just have to ask... Why? Why do all this damage? Why hurt all of the Pokemon and their families?"

Ritornello smiled, and looked at Cadenza. "Because I got bored. The day to day crap of going into Ultra Space... For absolutely nothing. We never discovered anything... Nor traveled to other dimensions. It got dull. So I decided to spice it up, and have some fun."

Zane stood back up, though leaning on their sword for support. "What kind of twisted form of fun is this? Separating families is fun to you!?"

"Of course it is! Seeing their sad and depressed faces never failed to make me smile! If I can't be happy in my job, then no one can be happy at all!"

Cadenza charged at the Tyranitar, "What a bullshit reason! Making everyone just as miserable as you won't change anything about your current situation!"

Ritornello turned to stab Cadenza, but another shadow jumped out of the trees, and red lightning formed into the beak of a bird, before it connected with the Tyranitar's arm. He had to move to block the attack from a Lycanroc with a pole. He pushed her back into the same tree that Zane crashed into.

Zane's eye widened. "Phoebe! Dammit, I told you not to come out here!"

"I know, but I couldn't leave just you two to fight this guy. You needed the extra help!"

Zane couldn't exactly argue. She was correct, but they didn't want their daughter to get hurt. Ritornello turned to look at Phoebe. "Stupid girl. You're in over your head. Now you'll pay."

The Tyranitar grabbed a small vial filled with purple liquid and poured it onto his arm blades. The blades sizzled and a purple haze rose off of them. Phoebe attempted to stand and failed to do so. Her back was in pain, and she couldn't move as Ritornello ran towards her. She looked down, waiting for a sharp pain, but when it never came she looked back up.

Zane stood in front of Phoebe, a blade through his back and belly. He looked at Phoebe with a worried expression, before coughing up blood. "Hah! Not my intended target, but still worth it in the end!" He then lifted his arm, raising Zane's limp body and throwing it off of his arm blade.

"Dad!" Both Phoebe and Cadenza shouted. The Zeraora went to tend to Zane, and Phoebe munched on an Oran Berry and stood back up. "You asshole!"

Ritornello took on a fighting stance. "I'll deal with Cadenza later. First to deal with you."

Phoebe's silver eyes shimmered, and she twirled her staff in her paw and took her own fighting stance. "Fine. You won't be conscious long enough to fight her."

#rainbow gravity: zane #juno: phoebe #freewill: cadenza #act ii: hyperspace

[beautifulbows924]

Of Gods and Men

Marc Spector & Steven Grant x Gender Neutral!Reader

Masterlist

A/N: This is the longest fic I’ve ever written- I’m so proud of it. The first part has elements of a request I got from @fangeekkk and the second half closely follows the events of Moonknight episode three. As always, I hope you enjoy. Feel free to leave any feedback you have in the comments and if you like my work consider leaving a tip! Thanks:)

Word Count: 3K+

Warnings: MAJOR MOONKNIGHT EPISODE 3 SPOLIERS, Khonshu x Reader if you squint, Angst, Several mentions of death, Reader is self destructive and critical, Layla is in this part but is Marc’s ex-wife.

Summary: You’ve been friends with Marc your whole life, always secretly wishing you could be something more. So when he goes missing for months and suddenly turns up at your door asking you to help make sure one of his alters, ‘Steven’, doesn’t find out about the mess his life has become- of course you say yes. But what does that mean for you and Marc? Especially, when you’ve started to fall in love with Steven too.

Previous Part: Reflections

Next Part: White Lies

The moon taunts you, serving as a constant reminder of Marc and Steven.

Your nights are blending together again. You spend them awake and worried, a painful ache in your chest that never goes away.

It hurts. You don’t know where they are- if they’re safe.

You assume as long as Marc is needed that Khonshu will keep him alive, but what happens when their work is done? Will he simply leave him to rot?

You try not to think about it.

You wish you knew where they went. You’re no mercenary, but you can hold your own in a fight. You trained with Marc for years in case you ever needed to protect yourself. He was always terrified he would somehow put you in harm’s way.

You’re certain that’s why he didn’t tell you where he was going, and why he refuses to take any of your calls.

You’re calling him again, unsure how many voicemails you’ve left, but you don’t care. You’ll call until the end of time if you must.

It rings, over and over again, until it stops. You try again.

The last ring has the phone meeting the wall in front of you with a loud smack, leaving a dent behind. The impact shakes the mirror above where it hit, the same mirror privy to everything that happened between you.

You’re angry still, not thinking of the consequences of your actions. Your chair scrapes against the kitchen tile.

You walk towards the mirror, intending to destroy it, hoping it will alleviate some of the hurt you’re feeling. You’re mainly furious at yourself, upset you didn’t tell Steven the truth when you had the chance, heartbroken you may never get the time to explain.

Your hands clasp the mirror, bringing it down to you and your reflection makes you pause.

You haven’t slept or eaten since Marc forced you to go that night, and you can tell it’s taking a toll on you. You know he’d be mad that you’re neglecting yourself if he was here and the thought has you sinking to the floor, hugging the mirror like it’s the last thing you have of both of them.

“Good, I don’t need to intervene”, a low voice says, the sound filling the entire room. Your eyes dart around, trying to find the source, but all you find is open air.

“I'm certain Marc wouldn’t want his pet injured, even if they themselves were the ones to cause it”, it continues, close enough to make you jump.

You breathe in shakily, tilting the mirror up, and directing it towards the empty space beside you. A grey beak nearly leans on your shoulder, sharp tip close enough to stab you in the eye if you turned slightly to the right.

"K-Khonshu?”, you stutter out, certain he’s the only god who would pay you a visit.

The beak moves, allowing you to see him more clearly. “I will only say this once”, he tells you, “Marc refuses to ask for help, human pride. Instead, I do it for him”.

“I offer you a deal. When Harrow is dead, I will leave them alone. If and only if, you make yourself available to be mine”.

You’re not entirely sure why he wants you as his avatar. You’re certainly not as capable as Marc or as intelligent as Steven. You feel overwhelmingly average when compared to them, despite your obvious advantage over the general population.

“Tick Tock, little one. Remember, I will not ask again”, he chides you.

You think it over. It’s clear they’re both being heavily affected by all of this, and you don’t want them to have to carry this burden any longer. All you want is for them to be able to rest.

“Yes”, you tell him, “I’ll do it”, as soon as the words leave your mouth, you feel a searing pain directly beneath your collar bone. You bite your hand not to scream in agony, and when the burning subsides you raise your gaze back to the mirror, but nothing is there.

All that’s left behind is a crescent moon branded into your skin, marking you as his. And when ‘Cairo’ bounces around your head like a thought, it’s without question who put it there.

People bump into you, clambering to buy all sorts of trinkets and items, but none of them have what it is you’re looking for.

You’re about to give up, when suddenly, you notice him. It looks like he’s trying and failing to get information out of the civilians.

You see Layla come up behind him, seemingly out of nowhere. You can see he’s irritated that she’s there, and you decide that this isn’t the best time to reveal yourself.

You remember her from when you went to their wedding. It was one of the worst days of your life, seeing the person you love getting married to someone else.

Seeing her again makes jealousy boil in your blood.

You know Marc said he was done with her, and it’s not like you have any say in the matter- you’re not even sure what you are to him and Steven, but seeing them standing so close to each other makes you feel like you’re having your heart ripped out all over again.

You follow them. Disguising yourself as a part of the wedding party on the small boat they get on.

You hold your breath when one of the passengers calls Marc’s attention to your end, but he doesn’t notice you. He seems wrapped up in something Layla is saying and it makes you want to throw them both overboard.

You restrain yourself.

You make sure to get off first, trying to not bring any unnecessary attention to yourself. Neither of them notice you, even when you hang back a bit to listen to their conversation. You decide to keep an eye out for Harrow’s men, you assume whatever Marc is doing has to be important and you want to buy him as much time as possible.

It’s a decision you regret.

A man entirely in black sees you, some kind of security for the party.

“What’s your name?”, he asks you.

Your certain you could knock him out but there’s too many people around.

The way he’s looking at you makes you think you’ve taken too long to answer. And suddenly, he’s made the decision for you, gripping you tightly by the shoulder, dragging you where Marc and Layla disappeared earlier.

You can see them held at gunpoint, before the man who grabbed you is throwing you to your knees next to them.

“One of yours?”, the man in the red robe asks Layla.

She doesn’t respond.

Marc turns to you, and if you thought he was angry to see her earlier, he looks absolutely livid to see you. But he keeps his mouth shut.

The man across the way, who you can only assume has to be Arthur Harrow, begins to walk toward all of you.

“Each one of you has so much more in common than you know”, he says, “Layla, you keep thinking that distance will prevent the wounds from your father’s murder from reopening. But something stands in your way. Your husband doesn’t tell you the truth”.

Ex-husband, you want to correct him, but you don’t.

He continues speaking, “And Marc, you don’t tell her because you know that if you do, she’ll see you exactly as you see yourself, as unworthy of love”, you’re not sure what he’s referring to, but you assume it’s bad.

He ignores you completely, he must have no idea who you are.

“You piece of shit”, Marc grinds out angrily.

“Anton.. the lore that surrounds these relics, I offer proof that it’s real”, he says, holding up his cane, the eyes of the crocodiles glowing purple with power.

“This sarcophagus doesn’t belong to anyone”, the lights begin to flicker, wind whipping around you, “Anton, would you like to see for yourself?”.

“Yes”, the man responds, “I do”.

Harrow starts chanting in a language you’ve never heard before and the sarcophagus is destroyed, the man looks at him in awe.

“That’s just a taste of the godly power I offer” he says as he walks away, your eyes following him.

“He’s gone!”, one of the security shouts, gaining your attention. Marc has disappeared from the spot he was next to you.

Your eyes search for him, finding him atop one of the glass pyramids. He’s described his suit to you before, but it’s nothing like seeing it in person. He swoops down, knocking over a man that’s trying to shoot him.

You and Layla pick up guns, killing the line of men trying to shoot you. She acknowledges you, nodding her head in admiration.

You hear more shots coming from behind you and Marc drapes you both in his cape, covering you from heavy gunfire.

“By us some time”, she tells him.

“I can do that”, he responds, his glowing eyes flickering from yours to hers.

As soon as he turns, uncovering you, you’re running behind her into one of the pyramids.

“Help me find these”, she says, holding up some kind of fabric.

You find all the pieces you can, until you’re satisfied you have them all. Turning around, a man stands behind you, smug look on his face, like he’s been looking forward to this.

Layla picks up glass throwing it in his face, before kicking him in the gut. You grab him by the upper arms, trying to hold him in place for her, but he flings you off of him.

Your back hits the ground and it knocks all the air out of you. From your position, you can see him try to stab her, but she gets the better of him.

She yells for you to help Marc, that she has it. So with all the strength you have left, you run to him.

He’s been impaled several times and you can tell he’s hurting. You try to get to him faster, but you get knocked in the head by the man in the red robe.

You fall to the ground. You can faintly hear Marc yelling your name, but everything is fuzzy.

He’s running to you when you’re impaled by a metal rod.

You scream in pain.

“Don’t worry I will mend their wounds, just as I do yours”, you hear a familiar voice say, and you blackout.

You wake up to both of them standing over you. Marc is clearly distraught, he’s not even looking at you, pacing like a maniac.

“Hey”, you say, letting him know you’re alive.

He’s on you in seconds checking you over for wounds, but when he notices the mark underneath your collar bone, his eyes narrow.

“What the hell is that?”, he spits out, “is that why he healed you?”.

His chest is heaving, eyes unwavering, as he waits for your answer.

“Probably”, you tell him softly, your voice failing you.

“Probaby, probaby!”, he mocks you.

His words come angrily, but his intentions are good. You can tell he’s worried, upset that you got hurt when he was right there. His fingers come down and trace the newly formed scar, reassuring himself that you’re still here.

“Hey, I’m okay”, you remind him, forcing him to look at you, “I’m okay”.

He’s calm now, pulling you into his arms, “You can’t do that to me again, I thought I lost you”. He buries his face into your hair and you both let yourself enjoy the moment.

Your bodies mold into each other, trying to explain what words can’t.

You’re deep in the sands of Egypt, fitting the pieces together to make a constellation. You can see Marc getting frustrated as he puts his head in his hands, trying to calm himself.

“Marc, we need Steven”, Layla says, you’re surprised she knows who Steven is, but you don’t let it show on your face, “He understands all of this, I really think it’s worth giving him a shot”.

“She’s right”, you tell him, “we need him”.

You can see her send you a thankful glance in your peripheral.

Marc seems to be thinking about something, then he grunts in anger, ripping the car mirror from the door. He collects the pieces, walking a bit away, before raising the mirror and letting Steven take control.

“Cheers, thanks a lot”, you can hear him say, starting to put it all together.

You crouch down next to him, “Steven?”, he looks at you for a full moment, like he’s expecting you to disappear, before he starts speaking again, “Egyptians invented modern navigation. There’s not a lot of landmarks in the desert, so they came up with a way to get about using the sun and the stars. It’s bloody genius isn’t it?”.

He looks back at the fragments, using tape to put them all together, before handing it to you, “Et voilá”.

“This is amazing Steven”, you tell him, “I could kiss you right now”.

He looks away at your words, gods- he missed you.

He wants to tell you how sorry he is for getting so angry with you. He knows you were only abiding by Marc’s wishes.

You stand up, walking back to the car. Layla takes the star from you, “Whoa”, she says, “How do we use it?”.

Steven grabs it back from her. “I’m not quite sure, but I think- hang on wait a minute, you see that? You see those little pinpricks there, those are constellations”, he tells both of you.

She gets closer to it, “We should be able to triangulate the stars into coordinates, right?”, she asks, moving to scan the stars with her device.

“Well- um, actually… Unfortunately, it’s not that simple.”

You stand behind her, looking at the screen, “Yeah, it’s not working”, you tell him.

“Why is it not working?”, she says, annoyance seeping through.

“Yeah, yeah- you see Senfu- Senfu marked that tomb, like, 2000 years ago”, he says, and you interject, “And stars drift over time, not much, but still, enough”.

He looks at you like you’re the most beautiful thing in the world, like you told him you hung all the stars just for him.

He looks away, realizing he’s staring, and scratches the back of his neck sheepishly, “Yeah, they’re right- it could mean the difference between looking miles and miles away from where we’re supposed to be looking. So unless we know exactly what the stars looked like that night, we’re buggered”.

You sigh heavily, hand running through your hair.

“I remember that night”, A voice booms, both you and Steven look in its direction as it continues, “I remember every night”.

Steven turns his head and gapes at you, “You can see him?”, he looks shocked and horrified at the same time.

“I guess I can now”, you mutter, following in the direction the god is walking.

You wonder if you died earlier, and that’s why you can see him now- since it seems only people who died or have been brought from the brink of death can see the gods.

“Khonshu?”

You search the area for him.

“I can turn back the night sky”, he tells you.

“How?”, you ask.

“It will come at a cost and I cannot do it alone”, the wind starts to pick up around you and some of the sand gets pulled into the strong current.

Khonshu appears behind Steven, towering over all of you, “When the gods imprison me, tell Marc to free me”, he tells him.

‘And if he can’t, you must’, his voice rings in your head.

A white suit forms onto Steven’s body, the same glowing eyes that Marc has when he’s wearing it.

“Do what I do”, he instructs you both.

You lift your hands up, holding the stars in your grasp and start to turn.

“Oh man, this is mental!”, you hear Steven yell.

The stars begin to whip around you in a kaleidoscope of colors as they move back to a time long before any of you.

“This is the night”, the spinning pauses, and you can tell the stars are in a different place than before.

“It’s working!”, Layla yells, using her device to triangulate the coordinates.

“It’s working, yes- good”, Steven groans.

A few minutes pass before anyone speaks again, and you can feel every last ounce of energy you have leaving your body.

“I can feel my energy leaving me”, Steven grinds out, voicing your thoughts, as if he could somehow hear them.

Khonshu falls to his knees beside you. You can hear him groaning in pain, trying to hang on to what little strength he has left.

“God, I don’t know how much longer I can do this”, Steven tells Layla.

“I got it!”, she yells, “29 degrees north, 25 east”.

The power holding you and Steven upright wanes, causing you to fall, him no longer wearing his suit.

You watch from the ground as Khonshu fades away, crackling apart until nothing remains.

You help Steven up, trying to stand, when he throws his head back, falling into you.

“Steven!”, you scream, terrified, holding him in your arms.

You try to wake him, but nothing is working.

“Where are you?!”, you yell, sobbing into Steven’s shirt, “Please- you have to be okay, he promised me”.

“Steven, Marc!”, you cry into the night, “You can’t do this to me”, you tell them, but no one responds.

It’s quiet.

Thanks for reading! Let me know if you want to be tagged or un-tagged down below <3

Moonknight Taglist:

@captainwans @s1xthirty @losers-club6 @axen-gers @erideight @chrisevansfleshsocks @ajeff855 @astrays-random-stuff @jokai00 @crystalchrysalis19 @fangeekkk @atzlena @jay-alison @anon1412 @simonsbluee @darkened-writer @midnight-sparks-studio @i-wish-everything-would-be-okay @delusionally-loveless-by-choice @ahookedheroespureheart @dweeb-central @bibli0thecary @saturdaynightzemo @admin-in-residence @elliaze @alexlovesskili @dopeqff @darklyndivinely @mymarvelmasterlistblog @marrigold-2002 @sparky22122

#Marc Spector x Reader #Steven Grant x Reader #Marvel #Moonknight #Marc Spector #Steven Grant #Layla #Khonshu x Reader #Mr. Knight x Reader #Moonknight x Reader #Spoilers #Moonknight Spoliers #Double the Trouble #Marc Spector x Gender Neutral!Reader #Steven Grant x Gender Neutral!Reader #Gender Neutral Reader #Angst #Fluff #Established Friendship #Maybe More #Fanfiction #Fanfic

[kaygee-doodles]

Dark Waters (formerly titled ‘Nautilus’)

Sequel to this: Part 1

So my plan is to get out chapter one in its’ various parts on tumblr, then move it all over onto AO3.

For more information about the Spooky Water Skull, go check out @uhhbananafrappe, there is an entire cast list of creatures to love on.

It looked up at you with one bright red eye, the pupil shaped like the typical fat barbell most cephalopods sported. It was assessing you, watching you squirm in it's grip.

You couldn't fight it off, but maybe if you proved too much trouble to eat? Surely a human would be too small, not worth a big fight. There was a large gap, a large bashed out area taken out of its' head you could go for, but you didn't really want to get that close to those teeth, bared in a frozen smile up at you. Assuming it ate from it's head. It might have a beak under all those arms and the head was a decoy. You didn't think so though, not the way it's skull-like face shifted as it watched you...and it wasn't worth the danger. This sea-monster was built sturdy, no doubt to weather the deep sea pressure it had come from. It's top half had a thick, boned appearance, like a human skeleton only moreso. Less gaps along what you could only call the ulna and radius, it's ribs wider and flatter, clustered closer together, and an oddly plated skull. The bottom half was...well, one time an octopus had felt threatened by your presence and grabbed on to your leg. That had been enough trouble. The arms and tentacles looked similar, a tough leathery exterior covering pure muscle, and, typical of squid, the tentacles were armed with hooks, only these were the size of your pinky finger. Or more. This thing was a tank. You had your diving knife, but it was designed for netting, or banging against air tanks to make noise, a whole three inches of fairly benign stabbing power.

Actually.

You did have something bigger. And it had already proven capable of cutting through both your dive suit and your own flesh. Still sharp and serrated after millions of years.

You ripped open the bag on your hip, the velcro sounding horrible underwater.

This was either going to make it angry and ensure your death, or convince it you weren't worth the trouble and save your life.

You...you dropped it. In your stupid, panicked fumbling, the megalodon tooth slipped right out of your shaking fingers. Your stomach dropped as quickly as the fossil did. Tears stung your eyes as one of the sea-monsters' arms, the humanoid ones, caught your prize, your last hope, turning it over in it's fingers curiously.

Your previous scream had dislodged your regulator, and you swallowed a mouthful of salty, disgusting sea water as your body instinctively tried for more air as you twisted and tried to pull away, a last ditch effort for survival.

“Ble-hurk?”

You jolted in surprise as the back of your head was grabbed with a long, dexterous octo-arm, cradling you still, sans-suckers, and your regulator was shoved unceremoniously into your mouth in one quick movement. You swallowed one last dredge of water with a shudder before sucking in a lungful of sweet, sweet oxygen. Dazed, confused, and now shaking from an adrenaline rush, you watched as color bloomed below you.

The dark purple that had allowed this deep-sea dweller to hide to thoroughly was shifting, rosettes of orange blossoming across it's octopodic half.

You don't really know what that means. There wasn't any point in trying to hide at this point, so it wasn't camouflage. Pale colors signaled a retreat. Dark colors were for intimidation. 'Neon Orange' was not really anything you had seen or studied, since before this you were honestly more interested in sharks.

Around you, the water moved. You were either pulled down, or the sea creature moved up, it was hard to tell but it ended with two hard, boned hands gripped at your waist either way. You jerked, a reflexive reaction to an obvious predator coming so close, so fast. You didn't exactly get very far, and

the half-kracken, half...skeleton? had the gall to look annoyed. You were pretty sure that style of eye roll was universal. A third hand grabbed at your leg, disrupting the foggy cloud of red that was your blood. That was...a lot of blood.

The lone red eyelight flicked from your face, mostly obscured by goggles and breathing apparatus, to your leg, cut and bloody with a skinned foot and stinging like a bitch.

In his fourth hand, he rolled your impromptu weapon around in his oddly sectioned palm, your removed flippers' strap looped around his pinkie.

You almost wished it would just..do whatever it had planned. You were so scared, so stupidly, stupidly hurt, and now...so tired. You were going to bleed to death. You were going to run out of oxygen. You didn't...you didn't want to die.

Please, you pleaded silently to the behemoth, please just let me go. I'll volunteer on ocean clean ups, I'll never go in the water again, I'll bring you a big ass tuna from the market, whatever!

The sea monster, as it turned out, was not psychic, as you were not let go.

Instead, it's colors shifted abruptly, chromatophores flaring into a dark, greyish purple as it shifted its' grip.

The world lurched, spinning dizzily as you instinctively braced for some kind impact, hands colliding with something warm and hard, textured like tumbled stone as your diving computer gave a warning beep. Even with your eyes closed, you could tell the waters were getting deeper, colder, as you were dragged down into the dark waters.

#so this is a thing now #myth monsters #Nautilus #x reader #monster x reader #plz yell at me #if i get something wrong #i am not a marine biologist #i just wanted to be

[stargaze-sunflower]

More Dewey and Louie bonding!!! Hope you like it!!! :]

Summary: After the events of Emma Glamour's party, Dewey and Louie have a lot to talk about.

Ao3 Link     Word Count: 4138

Louie really should’ve known that things wouldn’t go according to plan, but despite everything that had happened to him and his family, he had still managed to hang on to some hope. He was sure that he’d collapse into a puddle of despair and shame if he ever let go of hope entirely, and that wasn’t the type of life that he wanted to live. It was hard sometimes, because hope was fragile, and Louie himself felt easily breakable, most days.

He hadn’t wanted his scheme to be as vulnerable as he was. Seeing the angles was supposed to be the thing that he was good at, the one thing that was his. In a family full of adventurers, he’d thought that he had finally found his place as the strategy guy, as someone the others could trust to be on top of things. Someone that they could rely on, rather than someone they merely tolerated.

Emma Glamour’s party had been a chance to prove himself. A chance to finally show that his schemes weren’t all dangerous and harmful and worthy of getting him kicked out of the family selfish. He had wanted so badly for it to be a success. He’d thought that if he just tried hard enough – Scrooge was always telling him to just try – then it would all work out fine, and he’d finally stop feeling like there was something wrong with him. He’d stop feeling like everyone was always trying to fix the parts of him that they didn’t like.

It was a failure. But then, his schemes usually were, weren’t they? They brought nothing but bad things – caused nothing but trouble. At least The Caballeros got to play at the party, even though they hadn’t made the It List. Even though Louie had done nothing right.

Dewey had been the one to save the day, in the end – ever the hero – and Louie was proud of him, he was, but there was still a pit in his stomach growing bigger and heavier and harder to ignore.

.

(“You’re nothing new.

You’re not original.

There is nothing ‘It’ about you.

So tell me, why would I ever listen to you?”)

.

Louie sighed deeply, just the memory of the words enough to send sharp, aching pains bursting in his chest. He gripped the glass of water in his hand a little tighter, trying desperately to ground himself. But just like the rest of the ideas he’d had that night, it didn’t quite work out.

Currently he was standing behind the desert table, leaning against the wall and trying to pretend that he wasn’t hiding. Quite a few of the party guests had left already, but some had stayed to listen to the music that José and Panchito were playing – Uncle Donald had gone to sit at a table to talk with Daisy – and to enjoy the free food. Multiple people had even gone up to Dewey to congratulate him for winning the approval of Ms. Glamour. Something that Louie had not been able to do, at all, in any capacity. But he was fine. It was all fine.

He took a deceptively calm drink of water, trying to stop the rising wave of emotion that threatened to clog his throat and spill out of his eyes. He supposed he could only lie to himself for as long as he could ignore his feelings, and he was admittedly having trouble with that, at the moment.

“Thirsty?” a voice asked brightly, way too close to his right ear, and Louie almost choked on the water he hadn’t been able to swallow yet.

Dewey was standing next to him, smiling widely and rocking slightly on his feet, probably still absolutely ecstatic about the attention he’d received for his yo-yo ‘tricks’.

“Did you sneak up on me on purpose?” Louie asked, half accusing and half resigned.

“No,” Dewey said, grabbing a cookie and taking a bite out of it. “I called your name, like, twice before I got here.”

“Oh,” Louie said, any other possible response having fled his brain.

Louie set his glass of water down on the table in front of him as Dewey popped the rest of his cookie into his mouth, finishing it in record time.

“Still aren’t listening to me, huh?” Dewey teased, although there was something genuinely questioning in his tone.

The knot in Louie’s stomach twisted sharply at the reminder of how he’d treated his brother that night. Dewey hated feeling like he wasn’t being listened to, or acknowledged, or seen as useful. Louie knew that, and still he’d spent most of the night ignoring everything Dewey had tried to suggest.

“I guess not,” Louie replied, guilt tangling in his stomach and crawling up his throat. “I’m really— I just—”

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his suit, but it didn’t bring the same comfort as his hoodie might have.

“I…I’m sorry,” Louie finally managed, and he felt like it wasn’t enough, like he it would never be enough. “I didn’t mean to— Well, I did, but…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dewey said, waving him off, and Louie glanced at him in nervous surprise. “I mean, I’m not gonna say that it didn’t hurt, because it did. You know how I am with, uh, that sort of thing.”

Dewey rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, and the guilt in his stomach turned into sharp stabs.

.

(“Look, your plans, your schemes, they only lead to bad things for your family.”)

.

“But you’re not normally like this, all high-strung and whatever, which— which makes me think that maybe something else is bothering you,” Dewey continued, and Louie gaped at him in shock, his hands falling out of his pockets to hang still at his sides. Dewey’s brow was furrowed, and he was staring at the table in front of them intensely, obviously in deep thought. “And that doesn’t make it okay, but like, it makes it understandable? I don’t know.”

Dewey shrugged, shaking himself a bit before turning towards Louie with a little smile.

“I forgive you, you know, in case you need to hear it,” Dewey told him, and there was no trace of a lie in his eyes or deception in his voice.

Louie had to blink back tears at that, at the pure, sincere way that Dewey had just spoken to him, at the way he just understood Louie and his emotions, and how he was willing to forgive the mistake he’d made, especially when he already felt terrible about it. Dewey was his brother, who could apparently tell when something was bothering him, and Louie was both intimidated by that and thankful for it.

.

(“If you want to be a part of this family, you’ve gotta stop.”)

.

“Thanks, Dew,” Louie said, his voice softer and calmer than it had been in hours.

“No problem,” Dewey said happily, and he reached up to ruffle Louie’s hair before he could protest.

Louie glared sideways as he fixed his hair, not actually all that mad. Dewey just grinned at him, but a few seconds later it softened around the edges, and something concerned crept into his expression. Louie winced.

“You wanna talk about what was going on with you tonight?” Dewey prompted, nudging his shoulder lightheartedly, and Louie huffed.

“Not really, no,” Louie said.

“You sure?”

He turned to Dewey with his beak open, fully intending to repeat himself with confidence and grace, but the words died in his throat. Dewey was looking at him too honestly, too concerned, too ready to listen to him when Louie had done nothing but ignore him for the whole night, and it was enough to change his mind. Dewey deserved an explanation, and Louie was tired of lying, anyway. Because apparently - according to Emma Glamour - he wasn’t very good at it.

“No,” Louie admitted, voice strained as he practically forced the words out. “This is just… I really wanted things to be perfect, and I guess it kind of got out of hand.”

Him and Dewey took a moment to take in the messy room and remember the hostage situation. None of that had been Louie’s fault, really; sometimes it felt like chaos just followed their family around wherever it went.

“Why was it so important to you?” Dewey asked eventually. “Like why tonight, you know?”

Louie frowned deeply, brow furrowing as he tried to think of how best to explain how he felt.

“You know how Huey is super into being a Junior Woodchuck?” Louie asked, deciding to just wing it, and Dewey gave him a strange look, but nodded. “Okay, so, that’s his thing. He wouldn’t mind if we did it with him – he even wants us to, sometimes – but if we were better at it than he was, I think he’d lose his mind.”

Dewey chuckled a little, and that was enough to tell Louie that he was still listening, so he barreled onward.

“And then there’s— You’ve got that talk show thing, Dewey Dew-night, and that’s something that’s yours. But if I made my own talk show, like, uh— like Lunar Louie or something—” Dewey snorted, and Louie couldn’t help but smile a bit, even as he kept going almost frantically. “If I did that, and my show was more popular, then you’d feel like you weren’t— you’d feel bad.”

Louie trailed off into silence, and Dewey didn’t try to fill it, possibly sensing that he wasn’t quite done, but needed some time to think.

“I… I do schemes. That’s my thing. It’s basically the only thing I can do—”

.

(”This is the one thing I’m good at. Why can’t you see?”)

.

“—and then you kept telling me that you could do more to help, but I was scared that if I let you, then you’d be better at it than me, and if you’re better at scheming then me then what even— What else can I do? I’m not—"

.

(“You’re nothing new.

You’re not original—“)

  .

“I don’t know,” Louie finished. “I just— I wanted to prove myself I guess.”

“To who?” Dewey sounded like he’d been punched in the stomach. Louie avoided looking at him.

“Everyone, I guess. Mom, Uncle Donald, you.” Louie put his hands back in his pockets, attempting to conceal their trembling. “Myself, most of all.”

“Louie, you— you don’t have to prove anything—”

“But I do!” Louie whipped around to face him, suddenly irrationally angry. He was surprised to find that the tears in his own eyes were reflected in Dewey’s. “Our family are a bunch of adventurers, Dewey. That’s what they do. And I can’t— I—”

Dewey reached out for him, but Louie backed up a step, not ready to be comforted.

“Uncle Scrooge thinks I’m lazy, and Mom thinks that I— that all I do is cause bad things to happen, and I just— I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” Louie said, his voice ending in a broken whisper, and he pulled his hand out of his pocket for the sole purpose of wiping at his overflowing eyes. “I can’t do anything right. Or—or good.”

Dewey stared at him for a few long, agonizing seconds, and then his trademark expression of determination took over his face, stronger and more serious than Louie had seen it in a while.

Oh, boy.

“C’mon,” Dewey said, leaving no room for argument, and he grabbed Louie’s sleeve on his way by, dragging him along behind him.

Louie glanced nervously around them as he was tugged along, taking note of Uncle Donald, who was still sitting at a table with Daisy on the other side of the room. And speaking of tables—

Dewey stopped next to an empty one. Just like the others it was covered in a long white tablecloth that touched the floor, and Dewey gestured downwards pointedly. Louie raised an eyebrow, which was probably a strange expression on someone who had just been crying, but whatever. Dewey just gestured again, a bit more forceful, and Louie sighed before dropping to his hands and knees. He crawled under the tablecloth and Dewey followed, letting it fall back into place behind him when they were both in.

They were left sitting in soft lighting, on a squeaky-clean floor – Daisy probably wouldn’t have settled for anything less – and Louie had to admit that it was less overwhelming than standing at the edges of a large room feeling sorry for himself; feeling sorry for everything.

“Okay, look,” Dewey said, sitting there in his DJ Daft Duck suit and still managing to sound like he meant business. “You remember when Uncle Donald was racing against Uncle Gladstone ‘cause of that weird luck vampire thing?”

Louie could only nod.

“And he was gonna give up, but you stopped him. You kept him going. You inspired him,” Dewey said, every word said clearly and sincerely. “You’re good at that.”

“Yeah, but—”

“And what about that time with Mom,” Dewey continued, “when you were able to convince her to go back to help Uncle Scrooge and the others stop the moon invading? We may never have left that island – or gotten home in time to help – if it weren’t for you giving her a pep talk.”

Louie exhaled shakily, remembering how stressful that whole situation had been. Dewey grabbed his hand and held it gently between them, even as he kept talking, looking at him with warm eyes.

“You helped Webby when she lost her optimism, and you were able to make her start believing in people again. You were able to help her remember that there are good people,” Dewey said, and he squeezed his hand, smiling gently as Louie blinked against the moisture in his eyes. “There are good people, Lou, and you’re one of them.”

Louie sniffled, wiping at his face with his free hand as he avoided eye contact.

“It doesn’t always feel that way,” Louie said.

“I’ll believe it when you can’t,” Dewey said simply, and Louie finally looked at him.

Dewey was staring back at him with a slightly nervous expression, like he wasn’t sure if he was saying the right things or not, like he was worried that he wasn’t being helpful. The knot in Louie’s stomach and the pain in his chest finally abated, and he tried out a small smile.

“Thanks, Dew,” Louie said softly, and he wasn’t feeling up to a full-on hug just yet, so he leaned his side against Dewey’s and squeezed the hand he was still holding.

Dewey exhaled quietly, his shoulders dropping as he relaxed.

“Anytime,” Dewey told him, and he sounded like he meant it.

They sat in silence for a few seconds, the sounds of the party muffled through the expensive tablecloth. There they were in fancy clothes, at a fancy – wrecked – party, and they were hiding under the table like they used to hide in clothes racks at the store as little kids. Louie suddenly couldn’t help but chuckle a bit.

Dewey turned to look at him, possibly a little confused, but as soon as their eyes met, they both lost it. They sat there giggling on and off for at least two minutes, and every time they’d almost calmed down, they’d make eye contact and burst out laughing again.

“This isn’t funny,” Louie said helplessly, wiping away tears of mirth. “We shouldn’t be— Why are we laughing?”

“Would you rather cry?” Dewey asked, grinning like a loon.

“I am crying, Dewey.”

“That’s good crying, though,” Dewey pointed out. “You’re smiling at the same time.”

Louie shoved at him playfully, and Dewey started giggling again, swaying with the force of Louie’s push before popping back upright.

“I could comment on how weak of a shove that was, but I’m not going to,” Dewey said, with a teasing lilt to his voice, and Louie rolled his eyes.

“How gracious of you,” Louie said, words dripping with sarcasm. “I’ve been insulted enough for one night, anyways.”

Louie leaned back on his hands, finally feeling relaxed and mostly at ease. It was amazing what Dewey could do, really, when he put his mind to it.

And speaking of his brother, Dewey was suddenly being creepily silent. Louie turned to check on him with a raised brow, and Dewey was looking back at him with confusion and a sort of vague concern.

“What do you mean?” Dewey asked, dead serious, and Louie blinked.

“Uh, what do you mean what do I mean?”

“The insult thing you just mentioned,” Dewey clarified. “What did you mean by that?”

“Oh,” Louie said simply, trying to buy himself time to think of how to distract Dewey from the subject, which his brother was picking up on, if the narrowed eyes were anything to go by.

“Don’t lie to me,” Dewey said, somewhere between a plea and a warning.

“Look, it’s nothing—”

.

(“You’re nothing new—")

.

Louie cleared his throat and tried again. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” he said. “It’s not even worth mentioning.”

“Your hands are shaking, Louie,” Dewey said pointedly, and he grabbed the one nearest to him to hold it once again. Louie huffed in frustration and glared at his traitorous appendages.

“I’m doing jazz hands,” Louie deadpanned, and Dewey snorted.

“No, you’re not.”

Louie sighed resignedly, and Dewey squeezed his hand.

“Tell me?” Dewey asked, and Louie forced himself to meet his wide, pleading eyes. “Please?”

Louie groaned, tilting his head back to stare at the bottom of the table, because now he absolutely had to explain himself, or Dewey would go around looking like a kicked puppy for days. Louie couldn’t have that on his conscience; it already had enough to worry about.

“You remember when I went to talk to Glamour, right?” Louie began, sitting up, and Dewey nodded. “Well, she definitely had some interesting things to say about what she thought of me.”

Dewey’s hand tensed in his. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“…Like what?”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Louie rushed to say. Emma Glamour was one of the people that Dewey looked up to, and he was reluctant to crush his dreams, and maybe even a little afraid that he would agree with her. “It— It wasn’t anything that isn’t true.”

“What did she say?” Dewey reiterated, and Louie figured that he couldn’t put it off for any longer.

“Just— Just that I was, uh—"

.

(“You’re nothing new.

You’re not original.

There is nothing ‘It’ about you.

So tell me, why would I ever listen to you?”)

.

“—that I was nothing special. And not worth her time, or— or even worth listening to,” Louie said haltingly, doing his best to pretend that he wasn’t bothered. “She had me all figured out, and she— she didn’t think that what she saw was very impressive. Or ‘It’, as she put it.”

There was complete and total silence after he finished talking, Dewey unnaturally still next to him. Louie breathed slowly and deliberately, trying to calm his nerves.

Without warning, and certainly without grace, Dewey suddenly stood ramrod straight next to him, shooting up so quickly that Louie dropped his hand and leaned back in surprise. Being under a table, of course, Dewey didn’t make it very far before bumping into the bottom of it, hitting it with such force that the whole thing rattled; Louie very faintly heard a fork fall to the ground a few feet away. Dewey dropped back down onto his knees with a grunt of pain, rubbing the top of his head.

“Dewey, what the—”

“She can’t talk to you like that!” Dewey exclaimed angrily, already changing course to crawl out from under the table. “She just— I can’t believe—"

Dewey continued his nonsensical furious rambling as he made it out from under the table, Louie following behind him frantically, getting the vibe that his brother was on his way to do something stupid.

“Dewey, wait—” Louie grabbed him by the wrist, keeping him from storming off. “She was well within her rights to call me out on trying to con her—”

“There’s calling you out, and then there’s straight up mean—"

“She was right, though, okay?” Louie said desperately, his arm shaking with the effort it was taking to hold Dewey back. “I needed to be taken down a notch.”

“You’re eleven, Louie! None of what she said was helpful, she just— She’s an adult and she said that to a kid!”

Dewey was still attempting to barrel onwards, and he was very slowly making progress. Louie groaned in frustration and leaned even farther backwards to try and slow him down.

“Okay, but— Dewey, what are you even gonna do?” Louie asked. “You can’t just flat-out attack her at her own party, and Uncle Donald already yelled at her ‘cause of Daisy—”

“She’s about to see my yo-yo skills way up close and personal,” Dewey said, almost muttering, and he stumbled a bit from the persistence of Louie’s grip on his arm.

“Dewey, stop,” Louie said sternly, although there was an element of begging in there, too. “Dewey, please.”

His brother finally came to a halt, and though it felt like they’d been going for hours, they’d only made it about five feet from the table they’d been hiding under. Dewey turned to look at him, his gaze fiercely protective and maybe a little lost, and Louie kept his grip on his sleeve, just in case.

“It’s not worth it,” Louie said quietly but clearly.

“Yes, it—”

“It wouldn’t change anything,” Louie amended, and then he tried for a smile, although he was sure it looked awkward. “And Huey would be disappointed in us if you got arrested.”

“Huey would already be throwing punches,” Dewey said, but some of the tension in his shoulders was gone.

“Please,” Louie said lightly, “he’d give a stern lecture at worst.”

“Agree to disagree,” Dewey shot back, shrugging a little, a small smile forming on his face, reluctant but persistent.

Louie huffed a laugh, looking around nervously to see if anyone was staring at them. He ended up making eye contact with Uncle Donald, who was staring at them with his brow furrowed in concern, already halfway out of his seat. Louie grinned, infusing as much reassurance as he could into it, and gave a thumbs up with the hand that wasn’t latched onto Dewey’s wrist like an octopus.

Their Uncle hesitated for a moment, obviously conflicted, but then he sunk back into his chair, shooting them a look that clearly said ‘Be Good’. Louie sighed in relief and turned his attention back to Dewey.

“You sure you don’t want me to avenge you?” Dewey asked, a bit teasing but with an undercurrent of truth. If Louie wanted him to, he really would give Emma Glamour a piece of his mind.

But Louie had had enough drama for the day – maybe even for the rest of the week – and just knowing that Dewey was ready and willing to defend him made him feel lighter and happier than he had been in a while.

“Nah,” Louie said, finally releasing his hold on his brother. “I think we’ve caused enough chaos for one night.”

“Barely,” Dewey said jokingly, and Louie rolled his eyes.

After a moment of comfortable silence, just enjoying each other’s presence, Louie couldn’t help but yawn. Dewey glanced at him in amusement.

“Tired?” Dewey asked, and Louie just shrugged. “D’you wanna leave now? I think Launchpad would come get us if we called him.”

“What about Uncle Donald?”

“I don’t think he’d mind if we left without him,” Dewey replied, jerking his head to indicate where their Uncle was sitting with Daisy, listening to her talk with rapt attention. “He seems pretty busy.”

“He’d freak if we left without telling him, though.”

“Yeah.”

“…So who’s gonna tell him?” Louie asked, and Dewey huffed.

“Why can’t we do it together?”

“Because one of us has to call Launchpad.”

“We can do that together, too,” Dewey said, beginning to grin.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Efficiency, Dewford,” Louie shot back, already pulling his phone out of his pocket.

“Ugh, you sound like Huey,” Dewey complained, but his tone was light.

“One of us has to,” Louie said, dialing Launchpad’s number.

Dewey stared at him as the phone rang, and Louie raised a single eyebrow as he stood with it held up to his ear. Dewey groaned.

“Fine.” Dewey threw his arms in the air, turning away to hide his smile. “I’ll go tell Uncle Donald we’re leaving.”

Dewey walked off, and Louie finally allowed himself to grin fully. Nothing could quite cheer him up like lighthearted bickering with one of his siblings, and no one could pointlessly argue for as long as Dewey and Louie could. It was something that Louie felt was special; something that was theirs. Maybe it was nothing new, but it mattered.

And that was enough.

#ducktales #ducktales fanfiction #ducktales fanfic #dewey duck #louie duck #my fic #louie's eleven #aaaaaaaa #the words didn't want to come to me for this one #i had to fight for every sentence in this fic #but here it is sjaksdjf #i hope you like it #once again it is after midnight #i guess i only write about dewey and louie now asdkjfsj #but i love them so i am not complaining #feel free to let me know what you thought of this :] #thanks for reading!!

[randomwriteronline]

(part 1)

“Please - Skull Kid, can you- Fae-doll!”

The child stills their excited bouncing.

“Please don’t move so much,” Hyrule asks -- no, begs them. “I can’t do the basting if you keep jumping around like that.”

“Why not?” they ask.

He fights to hold the still somewhat separate glove pieces together on their little arm: “Because I don’t want to stab you with the needle while I do it.”

“Oh, I won’t feel it,” Skull Kid assures him.

“I’d rather not take any chances.” the traveler replies.

The imp hums unhappily (though a bit too dramatically to sell the emotion as real), tenses the little scrawny legs and finally sits back down, not moving another muscle. The healer huffs, a little smile breaking the concentration of his face, and focuses on the waves the rough thread draws on the underside of the fabric as the thin metal tool pierces it before emerging again. He gets the first of the gloves ready in about ten minutes, fifteen if he’s being slow; as the child flaps it experimentally, he moves to the other one, beginning to work its left side.

He’s not even halfway to the wrist that the arm flies upwards, escaping his gentle grip, and in an infinitesimal moment of panic he nearly sews right through it.

“Skull Kid!” he reprimands, “I said don’t move!”

The child remains blissfully deaf to his words: “It’s the wrong side up,” they say innocently, grazing the fabric. “Did you know it’s the wrong side up? The glove is inside out like this.”

Hyrule catches their wrist again in an attempt to keep steady: “I do know that,” he replies.

“Why did you do it then? It’s inside out, this way.”

“Because this way, when I turn it back on the right side, it hides the stitching. You didn’t notice that on your old gloves?”

Skull Kid shakes their head. “I don’t think they had stitching.”

“Really? Where did you find them?”

They shrug.

“Did you make them?” tries then the traveler. Again, they don’t seem to know. He furrows his brow: “Then what? Were you born with them?”

“Maybe,” they concede, not sounding even remotely joking or bothered by their own statement.

“Maybe.” the healer repeats.

Except he sounds on the verge of a breakdown.

The imp’s free fingers rub on their palm, against the pleasant texture of the finished glove: “I don’t know. I wasn’t really born I think, but I don’t really remember not having them. Or losing them. I think they were burnt. Or maybe they withered and vanished away, like the other Skull Kids. I wasn’t paying attention when the gloves stopped being there so I don’t really know.”

Well, them coming into existence fully clothed wouldn’t be the weirdest thing about them, nor their wardrobe changing as it pleases without them even realizing it; so Hyrule can easily entertain both ideas and save himself a headache from trying to figure what exactly happened.

(He completely ignores the ‘technically not born’ part because very frankly he lacks the time, will and insanity necessary to unpack any of its implications.)

He manages to get past the wrist, beginning the basting along the forearm, and soon enough he’ll get to the proper part. The sharp mouth clacks close after a yawn; little fingers wriggle, ball up in fists, and then relax again.

“I think I missed them,” Skull Kid muses. “My gloves. Like my beak.”

“I didn’t know you had a beak.”

“I had feathers too, but no wings. Sea’s friend Medli has a beak and feathers and wings because she’s a Rito.”

“He’s friend with a Rito?” Hyrule interrupts his work to ask, dumbfounded, because he remembers very well that’s a second name of the Fokka, and as far as he can tell from his adventures a large hostile avian-person isn’t exactly what he would consider friend material.

But Skull Kid just nods: “She’s very nice,” they say, “She plays songs.”

Huh. Guess the sailor has a way to win over a murder chicken barreling towards him at high speeds. The more you know.

-

Truth be told, it had taken them a little before actually even just cutting the fabric. Not having any actual design in mind beyond “no sleeves” made for problems like not knowing how much cloth they would have needed and how much they could have left behind without the risk of mangling the whole thing into oblivion, making everybody’s efforts eventually useless.

In the end, through surprisingly civil discussions, they settle on cutting a pair of squares with holes for the arms and see where that took them from there.

Legend flaps them and smooths them over with his hands, then stops. He looks upon them for a few minutes, and finally from his mouth comes a meek, mortified: “Oh no.”

“What’s wrong?” the captain perks up.

The younger man hides his face in his hands: “I measured it wrong,” he whispers as if that was the worst crime one could have possibly commited. “It’s too long.”

“Oh, we can work with that! It would be a bigger problem if it was too short,” Warriors reassures him. “How much excess is there?”

The other holds up his fingers to show him.

“Hm... How much would that be in terms of Skull Kid length?”

“About eye-height.”

The soldier processes the information with a small lag.

“About what-height.”

Legend’s face completely disappears behind his arms: “I measured it wrong on both sides,” his quiet wail comes out muffled from its shield of skin and fabric, “First I included their legs in the measurements, and then I somehow cut the arms holes too low.”

Ok. That could be a big problem. Could.

Warriors checks the damage himself to see if he can do anything, brain-gears turning to figure out a solution. The idea of a scarf comes back to him - it could be a safe way to solve the conondrum without cutting away too much, but how... Meanwhile the veteran has curled upon the ground and begun giving long yowling sobs.

“I’m an idiot,” he howls inconsolably, “A mindless cretin. I messed it two times. In a row. And I didn’t notice it until it was all ruined.”

“Come on, don’t beat yourself up - it’s still salvageable...”

“Who makes two errors like that and doesn’t notice?! I must have not even been thinking for something this stiupid to happen! I shut off my damned head when I should have been paying attention and now it’s-!”

“What if...” the captain interrupts him. Words fail him for a moment: “Scarf shirt.”

The laments stop immediately.

Legend rises from the depths of his despairing self-deprecation to look up at him like he’s absolutely insane.

“Listen to me. It’s a scarf,” Warriors explains, “But it comes with the shirt. It’s stuck to it. Like... A really, really tall collar, but warm, and not open on the front or the back or anywhere else, and also not really stuck to the body? A little larger. We can make the actual collar loose enough and it should work.”

The veteran digests the halphazardly exposed information slowly, with a face that tells of uncertain understanding and wild confusion.

“We would still need to cut the excess on both sides,” he argues.

“Not necessarily. And! Even if we did, the waste would only be half the amount.”

Legend waits in silence for a moment.

He tilts his head, honestly impressed: “So when you remember to put your brains back in your thick skull you do actually have good and sensible ideas.”

The captain flips him off; he is (lovingly) flipped off himself.

#linked universe #hyrule lu #Skull kid #skullkid #warriors lu #legend lu #tloz #random writing #so... despite my hatred of many posts. i will have to make 2 more chapters bc otherwise it will get too long #wars got genuinely sorry that leg got upset at himself and went into 'nooo we can fix this dont worry' mode #then leg gave him a backhanded compliment and he was like 'ah ok hes fine again {:)' and told him to fuck off #they care abt each other <3 they will also not hesitate to hit each other with a steel chair given the chance #hyrule meanwhile has to deal with a very excited rambling child #he can do it! he does feel like hes going a little more insane as they go on #i cant remember where i heard it but like. i think the rito appear as enemies in the tloz 2 the adventure of link #so he hears abt medli and he goes HUH. #FOUND THE SOURCE AGAIN. TURNS OUT THEYRE CALLED FOKKA #FIXED IT

[fairyreaper22345]

Bokuto Being A Happy Owl, 5 Times in a Row

❤ ao3 link in reblogs ❤

ship: bokuto koutarou/akaashi keiji

words: 2625

tags: 5+1 Things, Established Relationship, Mentioned Kuroo Tetsurou, Kuroo Thirdwheels BokuAka, One Shot, Fluff, Cuddling & Snuggling, Owl Bokuto Koutarou, Owl Akaashi Keiji, Akaashi Keiji is Soft for Bokuto Koutarou, Non-Sexual Shower Sharing

summary:

5 times Bokuto was a happy owl, and 1 time Akaashi was too.

---

1 - Taking Food Without Feeling the Need to Hide or Show Aggression

“Akaashi! Akaashi!” Bokuto sang, like a bird repeating a tune - it hardly still sounded like a name. He said it so often, crowing it repetitively like a chick in the nest, that it felt more like a gust of wind or a poem in a foreign language.

“Mmm?” Akaashi hummed, indicating he was listening to his boyfriend, but his eyes were still trained down on the paper plate in his lap as he sliced the yakiniku into edible strips of pure, thick, barbecued meat. Kou’s favourite. Kou had a lot of favourites, he was frankly very opinionated - he had a favourite multiple of 7, even (49) - but his favourite person, favourite teammate, favourite thing in the whole wide world, was Akaashi Keiji, and he made sure Akaashi knew it.

“Did you see that AWESOME cut shot I did the other day? Didya? Didya Akaashi?”

“Yes, Bokuto-san,” he continued, still not looking up, stabbing a piece of meat with his plastic fork and lifting it up to Bokuto’s mouth. Bokuto took it between his teeth eagerly, chewing, continuing to talk, “it was a fluke! I bet I could do it again though Akaashi. You gotta let me try again!”

Akaashi nodded, sort of listening and sort of not, still slicing meat to feed to his overactive boyfriend.

“Come here,” he said, positioning the meat in front of Kou’s face, staring subconsciously into his golden eyes. With a bright, beaming, 24-karat smile, Bokuto opened his mouth as wide as he could.

“Really guys? There are first years here,” muttered Kuroo, tired of third-wheeling their overly wholesome relationship. He was slightly jealous of how easily they displayed affection in public, but mostly he was just… so, so tired. Like, c’mon guys. We get it, you love each other. Jesus.

Through chewing, Bokuto somehow managed to reply, “you wish you had what we have.”

Kuroo really, really didn’t.

Okay, maybe a little, but that was a whole other thing.

2 - Gently Using Beak, Feet and Talons

Bokuto liked being little spoon. He felt safe, with Akaashi's arms wrapped around him like a mother goose protecting a gosling. He liked when Akaashi nuzzled his nose into the crook of his neck.

But he liked being big spoon, too - he was a big guy, 6'1", 78 kilos of pure muscle - and he felt so powerful when his huge, muscular arms cradled Akaashi, a nest of blankets above them, his face breathing warmly into Akaashi’s space. When Akaashi’s feathery locks brushed his nose, he felt so safe, and felt like Kaashi was safe too.

He wasn’t the most… immobile cuddler. Something about the way Bokuto was meant that he really struggled to stay still - so when he snuggled with Akaashi, his boyfriend, light of his life, protagonist of his world, he couldn’t help but fidget, his feet twitching occasionally, his fingernails running lightly over Akaashi’s tummy and drawing shapes and writing names gently on his skin. His nails weren’t sharp, exactly, but they were pointed, and when he would slightly scratch how much he cared into Kaashi’s flesh, the marks would stay a little while, even though they never hurt.

Kaashi’s skin was fragile, see. He bruised easily, often ending up with bruised legs and no idea how the bruises even got there (turns out Bo kicked calmly when he dreamed). Keiji having such sensitive skin was both a joy and a pain in the butt - Bokuto loved it when he could see his biting kisses still on his setter’s shoulders from the night before, but more than once it had led to uncomfortable confrontations in the clubroom.

Kotarou was always very placid with his angel; he feared harming this delicate, not frail exactly but certainly not robust, beautiful dove of a man. Akaashi was a clear, ripple-less lake, a cloudless sky, a gliding bird, a swan in flight, and Bokuto treasured every raindrop of time they spent together.

When they huddled together, on a couch or in Akaashi’s too-small bed, Bokuto always was so, so patient with Akaashi, so gentle, his hands roaming less like jeeps and more like kingfishers searching for a flower to drink from. His feather-light kisses trailed from Akaashi’s cheeks, to his neck, to his forearms, all the way up his long, talon-like fingers, where they rested ever so carefully against the pads of Akaashi’s fingertips.

With Bokuto curled so meticulously, so caringly around his spine, Bo’s arms like powerful wings extending from his body and curled flush around his torso, Akaashi felt safe. He felt loved. He felt, as Kotarou’s biceps pressed just a little too heavily against him, that he belonged with those dull nails against his tummy, and the bouncing feet against his calves, and the kisses lighting sparks in his heart. He belonged there, with Bokuto. And there he planned on staying.

3 - Allopreening

Another practise match against Nekoma. Another narrow victory.

The team captain squatted on the gym floor, his body so low to the ground, but just high enough for him to tuck his feet underneath himself. Sweat stained through his uniform - it was lucky they wore black, or the marks would be more than obvious - and his hair gel was slipping, horns deflating with exhaustion rather than emotion.

Akaashi couldn’t help but stare at him. He was only sitting two or so feet away, on the bench, chugging water from his bottle, admiring the glistening of Bokuto’s arms, the way his broad chest heaved with hard breaths, the way his slick hair started to fall from it’s heavy-sprayed position.

Keiji loved Bokuto’s hair. Sure, it was pretty when it was down, but Bokuto never felt more like himself than when his locks were shaped into a crown, with his face like a bird's nest settled comfortably in the crook between branches. It was more genuine, like that - he just wasn’t himself when his hair was down. He even slept with the horns, for goodness’ sake - it can’t have been good for his hair, but he liked it that way. With his hair up like that, he was just so unapologetically Bokuto , and that was all that Keiji wanted, and all that Keiji loved.

Kotarou’s golden eyes looked up to find Akaashi, not glaring exactly, but he always had that harsh face. In reality, he was looking with infatuation, obsession, a love so overwhelming it consumed his every moment. Bokuto had gotten used to this. At first he thought the looks were aggressive, or reproachful, but he learned with time that those hard, expressionless looks simply meant that Akaashi valued him above everything else. Above volleyball, above gold, above the future and the world - to Akaashi, Bokuto was worth all of it and more. His heart was pure, and it belonged to Bo, and to him alone.

“Hey,” he offered, still attempting to catch his breath, his hair elevating ever so slightly as his eyes locked with his setter’s.

“Hey.”

His hand reached out, gentle as water on a lake, to close the distance between them. His nails landed just above Akaashi’s hairline, wiping sweat away from his face haphazardly, trying not to mess up his fringe.

“You had some sweat there.”

“I’ve got sweat everywhere, Bokuto-san.”

Kotarou smiled, just a little, lifting himself so his face was in Keiji’s, and he started using the hem of his shirt to mop at Keiji’s pinking face.

When he lifted the cloth, his abdomen poked out, his belly button searing itself into Kaashi’s vision, the chiseled and tight muscle - born from hours upon hours of workout routines - seeming to reflect the artificial golden light from the gym’s strip lights and making him look a little more blessed than usual. With a body like that, Kotarou could do whatever he wanted, seduce anyone he wanted, play any sport or perform any role (that was, assuming said role was of a member of the Greek pantheon). He was just- he was- that torso- if the gods have ever visited Earth, then Bokuto, with his wings and his horns and his claws and his abs (oh man, his abs) was their last true descendant. His swan-like grace as he flew up to spike, and that eagle’s eye precision… he was a tengu , for sure.

And then the shirt lowered, and Akaashi snapped back into focus, and now he was sweating more, only this time it wasn’t from the game.

4 - Preening, Feaking and Bathing

Was it unusual for Kotarou to sing in the shower?

No.

Was it unusual for Kotarou to leave the door unlocked when he showered?

Also no - apparently he was paranoid about slipping in the tub and ending up dead on the tile.

Was it unusual for Kotarou to attempt to write songs as he showered, the door wide open, cawing loudly about Akaashi’s eyes?

Yes.

He stood in Akaashi’s bathroom (he was staying with him for the weekend - Keiji’s parents were thrilled to see Bokuto again, and he was allowed to use their shower whenever he pleased), soap suds all over his body, massaging his pecs with moisturising body wash. He wasn’t wearing clothes, and Akaashi knew he shouldn’t stare, but with the way he was smiling and singing- “and his EEEEEEEYES, they’re like… uh, hold on, what rhymes with eyes-” and his body was covered with bubbles, Akaashi couldn’t really help it.

“Akaashi!”

Keiji took a second, and then realised Bokuto - oh, beautiful, handsome, magical Bokuto, Bokuto who moved like the wind, Bokuto who smiled like the sun and kissed like flower petals and laughed like birdsong - was talking to him, gesturing, flapping his hand and suggesting Akaashi joined him.

“C’mon! Can you help me with my hair?”

Keiji felt his cheeks flare up - Bokuto asked him to share a bathroom, to stand together with nothing but hot water and steam between them, and- and he asked him to touch-

Letting out a strangled hum of agreement, sounding like a chick that hadn’t yet found its song, Akaashi pushed himself forward, stripping down and filling his hands with shampoo. As Bokuto knelt down, so Keiji could better massage the shampoo into his hair, Akaashi couldn't stop himself from dwelling on the stretch marks on his biceps and thighs, where he'd gained so much muscle in so little time that his body just couldn't keep up. The slightly purple, pulled skin just made his wingspan look larger, the muscle more toned and defined  (not that he needed it), the strong body even more beautiful and unique and Bokuto .

Bokuto played enthusiastically with the bubbles as Akaashi’s long fingers ran through his iridescent silver-black hair, using them to make it look as if he had the world’s fluffiest beard, and then covering his hands in bubbles and pretending they were some form of water magic.

It was so endearing. He was so at ease, and the world seemed to follow - the shower water wasn’t as harsh and biting as it was when Akaashi was alone, and the sunshine from the small frosted window kept making a dappled spotlight flicker on and off Bokuto’s statuesque arms.

Massaging lotion into his boyfriend’s shoulders, Akaashi thought to himself.

Hm, he thought. When Michelangelo sculpted his masterpiece, this must’ve been what drove him.

5 - Content Vocalisations and Standing on One Foot

The whistling of the kettle filled Bokuto’s small kitchen, the high pitch interrupted as Keiji lifted it and poured his and his boyfriend’s morning tea - calming chamomile for him, berry for Bokuto - and the placid tune of the radio drifted hazily through the room like a mating tune for dawn-rising birds. The windows were open, and the dew that rested in the air felt clean as the slight breeze from outside dusted it on Akaashi’s face. Sipping from his favourite mug (novelty - huge, shaped like an owl, with black and gold glittery eyes), Bokuto hummed lightly to himself, bouncing on the tips of his toes. The music felt comforting to him, and occasionally between sips he’d try and whistle along, or sing a couple of the words if he remembered them - every time he did, Akaashi gave him one of those special smiles, the ones where his ice-eyes melted from sub-zero to a warm bath, and his mouth tugged up into a crescent moon.

Akaashi’s smile was the moon, and Bokuto was nocturnal.

Soon enough, a song came on that Bokuto knew, and his grin stopped for just a moment; and then it was back, wider than ever, as he haphazardly placed his mug on the counter, his heart in Akaashi’s hands, and the lyrics in his throat. Kaashi was in his arms as he pranced through his kitchen, caroling to a song Akaashi would treasure, throwing his legs into the air and doing clumsy pirouettes on his linoleum floor. The chorus felt like a love spell - or perhaps a curse of passion - and Akaashi was under it, with the way he tried to swerve underneath Bokuto’s impressive wingspan as they made up a dance as they went.

The tune finished, but Kotarou continued, fingers darting up Akaashi’s arms, then to his hips, then twisting him around like a ribbon in a traditional Chinese dance. He’d laugh, and whistle, and just make little noises as Akaashi played along, and when he put him down Keiji all but jumped into Bokuto’s arms.

“It’s like I was flying,” he said, tucking his arms in as close as they could get to Kotarou’s strong back muscles, trying to not to let Bokuto stand on his feet as they twisted in patient harmony.

Bokuto saw that smile again, that crescent-moon smile that he thrived under, and couldn’t restrain himself from kissing it like that was all he had.

Akaashi tasted like chamomile - a chamomile crescent.

+1 - Comfortable Playfulness

Bokuto was his own brand of chaos - uncontrolled, unpredictable - and in a way, Akaashi was too. Akaashi was controlled, and patient, but had a way of making the weird seem normal and the normal seem weird. When Kaashi relaxed, stopped overthinking, put his heart before his head and pushed all his responsibility aside, he was a handful, playful, an exhibit of unrestrained joy.

It was no mystery that this version of him existed only when Bokuto sat beside him.

“Kaashi,” started Bokuto.

“Bo.”

Bokuto stopped, knowing he’d just been interrupted.

“Akaashi-” he tried, starting again.

“Bokuto.”

Squinting, Bokuto smiled, and tried a third time.

“Keiji-”

“Kotarou.”

“You’re playing a game! You’re messing with me, aren’t you!”

Restraining a polite snort, Akaashi looked up, his eyes intense and humoured, his brows furrowed in a way that was almost avian. “Me? Never.”

Bokuto, ever so gently, pushed Akaashi, just to see if he’d comply.

Akaashi damn-near grinned, before shoving Bokuto as hard as he could.

“Oh, it is so on,” Bokuto said, jumping out of his position on the couch and running after Kaashi as he dashed to the door.

“Catch me first!”

Akaashi might tease Bokuto, and he might pretend to be cold and empty and he might sigh with discontent as Kou fell into one of his slumps, but as they chased each other around the house, taking chips from the fridge and eating a few before throwing them at each other, politely tapping each other to say who was “it”, fixing each others’ hair after messing it up with kisses, adjusting their shirts and laughing to each other as they fell in a heap on the floor, Kaashi knew there’s not a single person on Earth he’d rather hold.

In this life, and every one following, in every reality, Akaashi and Bokuto were in love.

Akaashi and Bokuto were both handfuls - but that’s why they held each others’ hands.

#bokuaka #bokuto koutarou #bokuto haikyuu #bokuto #haikyuu!! #haikyuu #bokuto kotarou #bokuto kotaro #akaashi #akaashi keiji #akaashi haikyuu #My writing #akaboku

[hyperpsychomaniac]

Bonding Exercise - Chapter 1

DT 17 Fanfiction

Summary: Scrooge is sick of Della and Launchpad fighting over the Sunchaser, which is costing him money, so he sends them on a 40 hour flight and orders them to sort out their differences.

***

Della stabbed a finger into Launchpad’s chest. “You can crash my plane. You can shove your half-chewed chewing gum in her intakes. But don’t you dare take my son up and there and teach him your bad habits without my permission!”

They stood toe to toe in the Cloudslasher’s hanger, the plane itself sitting on a barely perceptible lean but with a very perceptible scuff mark marring her side.

Launchpad frowned. “I thought you wanted Dewey to learn to fly?”

“Yeah. Fly. Not crash. I want him to learn how to fly a plane well. You can’t even land!”

“Mom…” Dewey tugged at her sleeve. “I’ve had worse crashes learning with you…”

Della didn’t look at her son as she put a hand on his shoulder and gently pushed him back. “Not now, sweetheart.”

Launchpad’s scowl deepened and his gaze hardened. There was that look, the one he’d been resorting to over the past week. The usually happy-go-lucky Launchpad had slowly been replaced by an irritated and passive-aggressive one. Della knew they clashed over the maintenance of the plane, and they’d been arguing more than usual lately. But damn it, she’d tried. She’d tried to let Launchpad do things his way, she’d recognised that was sometimes going to be different to hers, and that he did have the more recent experience. They’d managed to work out a system.

That system was avoidance. They didn’t need to fly the Cloudslasher at the same time. Della took her out on adventures with her family. LP took her out on other errands. He took care of most of the maintenance, which seemed fair as the majority of the damage was his fault. They only interacted when Launchpad showed Della any modifications he’d made to the plane and she wanted to understand what it was so she didn’t mess with it and break something that could’ve been avoided. They managed to keep that interaction to a minimum.

Della glared back at him and her fists bunched at her sides. “What is it, huh? You’ve been snappy all week!”

“I’ve been snappy! You’re the one who’s yelling at me just for trying to help Dewey…”

“Guys…” said Dewey.

“You’re not helping, LP. Just… just stick to flying errands!”

Launchpad flung his arms wide. “That’s all I ever do! That and put this plane back together all the time. That last adventure you took her on, the repairs took me days. And I’ve hardly taken her up properly in weeks!”

“So, what, you thought you’d get my attention by goofing around with my son?”

“He’s my best friend! I was trying to teach him, and you know what, forget it. You expect me to do almost all the maintenance. And the stuff you do you just undo what I’ve done…”

“Only when you mess with the Cloudslasher!”

“It’s just a stupid aeroplane!” Launchpad exploded.

Beside her, Dewey drew in a sharp breath.

Launchpad blinked, then turned to the plane. “Sorry, girl, I didn’t mean it.”

Della put a hand to her face. “And you’re apologising to the plane.”

“The Sunchaser…”

“That’s not her name! She’s not yours, LP.”

“You know,” Launchpad said coldly. “Technically she’s not yours either. She belongs to Mr McDee.”

“How dare you…”

“Speaking of whom, ‘Mr McDee’ is wondering why his plane is still grounded. And why you two haven’t left yet.” Scrooge stood in the door to the hanger. He leaned on his cane, a scowl creasing his beak.

Della flung a hand at the Cloudslasher. “Someone hasn’t finished repairing her after his little stunt with my son.”

Scrooge eyed the scuff on the side of the plane, then raised an eyebrow. “She looks airworthy to me.”

Launchpad folded his arms. “Hah.”

“Though it remains a mystery how she remains so after what you put her through, Launchpad.”

Della smirked.

“Seriously!” Scrooge exploded. “I’m not paying you by the hour.”

“You’re not paying me at all,” said Della. “Come to think of it…” And as the thought hit her she knew she shouldn’t. Whatever Scrooge wanted Launchpad to do, it was probably just the mail run or something and she should let Launchpad have it, even just to stop him whining. But she’d had enough of him messing with both the plane and her son. Scrooge could’ve hired some courier service to do whatever it was, but he’d likely worked out using his own plane and pilot was cheaper. “… that’s why you should let me take her on this one.”

Scrooge raised an eyebrow. “You want to fly all the way to Australia, by yourself, to pick up a bunch of sheep’s wool from my station in the middle of nowhere?”

Della winced. “Um… yes?”

“Well tough luck. You'll just end up falling asleep, crashing, and losing all my wool!”

“You don’t want the plane to crash but you want me to bring Launchpad? If we need a second pilot I’ll bring Dewey. I can teach him a few things. You know, from a real pilot.”

Launchpad had been watching the exchange between her and Scrooge, arms tightly folded. He swallowed hard and looked away.

Scrooge jabbed his cane at them both. “I asked why you two haven’t left yet. You’re both going.”

“What?" said Della. "Since when?”

“Since I just went over my maintenance costs for the Sunchaser…”

“Cloudslasher!”

“… the bucket of bolts that does not need a bloomin' name! The maintenance costs have nearly doubled since you two have been fighting over it. I’m sick of it. It’s a twenty-hour flight, one way. You share the flying. Della lands the plane. Make sure they don’t overcharge you for fuel when you refuel. And learn to work together! Or at least stop bickering like a pair of children that want to play with the same toy!”

“That’s not fair, I don’t need to learn to fly with him. We’ve already worked out doing it separately. And he’s been the one messing with your maintenance and costing you money…”

“You hardly let me take her up and…” Launchpad butted in.

Dewey thrust himself between them both. “Alright, that’s enough! Uncle Scrooge is right! You both like aeroplanes, you’re both pilots… you should be friends, and helping each other, and not fighting the whole time!”

“Dewey, I was just worried that…”

“No, Mom. I… you’re my mom. And LP, you’re my best friend. I want to be a pilot like both of you and I want you two to just get along. I don’t want to have to worry about whether hanging out with one of you in the… the aeroplane is going to upset you.”

Launchpad looked at Della sheepishly and then dropped his gaze. “Aw, Dewey, I’m sorry. I don’t know we were making you feel bad.”

“I’m sorry too,” said Della, fighting down the part of herself that was annoyed Launchpad got his apology in first.

Scrooge glanced between the two of them as they awkwardly stared at the floor. “Well. That sounds like an even better reason for you two to sort yourselves out, now doesn’t it?”

***

Author's note: I thought Launchpad and Della should have had more interaction in the series, and that there would’ve been more conflict over not just the Sunchaser, but also more than one pilot and not enough adventures between them. Hence, this fanfic.

***

Chapter 2

#dt 17 launchpad #launchpad #launchpad mcquack #della duck #ducktales 2017 #ducktales #ducktales fanfiction #dt17 #dt17fanfic