#{{more spikes to add to the leather if anything}}

[angelsforthenight]

screen babe, mean babe, guess who’s gonna cream babe!

camgirl!vi x reader (part 1) pt 2 here!

summary: you spend every night in the safe confines of your room hopelessly jerking off to your favourite camgirl, PinkSage. but what happens when your family is providing accommodation to the same damn woman in your house for the summer?

cw: mdni, long fic, pornstar!vi, bratty sub!vi, switch!reader, vi’s name is revealed later in the fic, parasocial, delusional and obsessed reader 😭, cursing, bitchy!reader, bitchy!vi, voice fixation, vi has nipple piercings, nipple play, licking & spitting, use of dildo, embarrassing moments be aware….

a secret. you had a secret. and no, not one of those teensy-weensy mediocre secrets such as you still wet the bed or that you steal from pharmacies — this one is big… or at least it feels big.

each and every night, whenever the clock hits eleven, you find yourself sitting on your bed: cursor hovering over www.butchbabes.com - a website you had frequently, frequently visited before. you click on your following and patiently wait for your favourite camgirl to start streaming, who’s always on time.

PinkSage is a muscular woman who never dares show her face on camera, concealed with a leather cat mask that takes up half of her face. what may come across as bothersome, is enjoyable to you and her many other viewers instead. the fact that you’re not able to see her is what adds to the thrill, the mystery. it’s all a massive tease, and you can’t even count the amount of times you’ve came to her, at one point even damaging your computer because you squirted all over the keyboard!

unfortunately, you live in a world where women are chastised for their desires. easily stigmatised, unlike their male counterparts: where it is normalised for men to be perverted. while a man is just a man for getting off on watching women getting beaten, slapped and choked, women are revolting creatures for masturbating to even the tamest of pornography.

fear crawls up your spine at the thought of anyone finding out that what you masturbate to are masculine camgirls, or at least one camgirl in particular. as a result, you go out of your way to feign complete innocence to the outside world. as far as anybody else knows, you’re a uni girl focused on her studies; nothing more, nothing less. behind closed curtains, however, it’s nobody else’s business that you beseech filthy pleads underneath your breath as you’re close to reaching your climax — as if PinkSage could hear you through the screen. that you anticipate pay-check day, not to spend the money responsibly but instead using it all to gift her; your heart spiking in your chest whenever she’d personally call you out.

“always treating me so good your_user, love you.” she’d say, her voice lilted in a sultry drawl: quiet yet faintly cooing. you hang onto every single word, brandishing them in your head so it lingers for days and days. ��always’. PinkSage recognises you as being a frequent gifter. you’re so happy, as if you won the goddamn lottery.

you’re obsessed, tremendously obsessed.

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hence, here you are: 10.59 on the clock as you constantly refresh her page to see if she’s on live yet. clock strikes eleven and you see big glowing red letters flashing ‘ON LIVE.’ your stomach flutters in excitement, a feeling you never tire of, and your fingers rapidly fly to click it.

there she is, in all her glory, wearing a tight dark tank top and playboy boxer briefs. the leather cat mask sits comfortably over her eyes as always. you gush at the sight of her. she’s pretty close to the camera, hand hovering over the mouse as she watches all the viewers and comments gallop in like it’s a stampede. her plush lips crackle into a grin, flaunting those perfect teeth. teeth you want nothing more than to suck on. and those fucking fingers?? you’ve never wanted anything stuffed in your mouth more.

“hey guys.” comparable to warm honey: satiny and velvety. you could drown in her voice. “missed me?”

and here goes the comments,

lezout69: YES WE MISSED UUU

tipsyflower: God I was waiting all day

m4niacan0nymous: can you show us ur feet

dykeyfamgirl: today felt long as hell I’m so happy to see you ;—;

orchidstar_: I missed u pinksageeee

girlongirlfanman: Start playing with your nipples now

bluesage111: IMS O FUCKING EXCITED HOLYSHIT IM

they all pop in at the same time. you, however, don’t comment anything, because you know that she’s going to respond with:

“fucking hell you guys need to relax… you saw me last night. freaks.” she snickers. it’s an ongoing bit that PinkSage makes fun of her viewers. audiences always eat it up: they like the idea of being degraded by her, humiliated. you? maybe on certain days. most of the time, you’re not so sure. why make fun of people that gift and pay to watch you all the time? it always rubbed you the wrong way, but because you worship PinkSage like she’s an angel, you choose to not dwell on it too much. after all, some things are for some, other things are for others.

“can you flex your muscles…” PinkSage reads. your heart does a backflip at the sound of the amused chuckle that follows right after. you’ve always admired how much fun she has doing her streams.

“fine. i’ll even do something extra.” she reaches for something on her desk, which culminates in her moving even closer to the camera; pierced nipples hidden underneath her tight top being paraded for everyone to watch. your tongue fleetingly swipes across your bottom lip, an unconscious movement that you find yourself doing each time she does subtle teasing movements like these.

she comes back with pink satin ribbon. “this is for the coquette bitches i see in my comments.”

she curls up her arm, wrapping the ribbon into a sweet little bow around her bicep. she then flexes her arm hard, making the flimsy ribbon tear apart in mere seconds. the comments go crazy.

wiccanyindigo8: OH MY FUCKING GOD???

sullenlambgirl: CAN SHE DO THIS TO ME PLSSSSS

tipsyflower: FUCKCKKCKCK

girlongirlfanman: Nah that shit was fake I swear

angelsforthenight: LMFAOOOOIWANTYOUTOFUCKMESOBADOOOOO

bluesage111: my neck next plz !!!!!!!!!!

m4niacan0nymous: yeayea can you show us ur feet now

abracadabragagafan27: I’m cumming🤤🤤

dykeyfamgirl: SHSJDKDJDNAK

bluesage111: @girlongirlfanman stfu

sweetdazekid: P U S S Y I N B I O 👅🥵💦

you have fun reading the comments, as it’s always a goddamn story; entertaining as hell. these people cannot be real. you have the hypocritical habit of differentiating yourself from these desperate swines, as if you’re not secretly worse.

and of course, PinkSage is already gifted a generous amount from a handful of viewers for that move and that move alone. you’re happy for her, so much so that you’re smiling with her. yes, you’re heavily parasocial, but do you care? no!

“should we move onto the real deal now?” she coos, leaning back on her desk chair and mindlessly swinging it from side to side. she has a flair for wrapping everyone around her finger: amassing almost a million subscribers. there’s six hundred thousand people watching her stream right now. she’s like a mother bird about to feed her children, having all the little baby birds screech and strain for a sliver of attention.

“been so fucking frustrated all day, i need this…” she mutters, her breathing palpably growing heavier as she lifts up her top above the swell of her breasts. you most likely have her boobs memorised in your head, but every time she reveals them it’s like you’re seeing them for the first time. pink buds with metal shoved in between. fucking euphoric.

she catches one between the pad of her thumb and forefinger, slowly rolling it, the tip of her finger rubbing the edges of it too. low groans do not fail to leave her lips immediately. they’re so sensitive that she’s visibly twitching. one of the gifts tell her to flick her nipple and she does what she’s told, a little ‘ooh’ weaselling out of her. without hesitation, the flood gates of your pussy open up, and you shift uncomfortably in your seat. you’re only going to touch yourself when she starts to touch herself.

for now, she showers attention on the other nipple; her needy noises growing stronger. you imagine how wet she must be right now, teasing herself like this for the sake of pleasing her viewers. poor thing. your undying empathy for her is why you’re willing to ignore how drenched your panties are, refusing your touch yourself until she starts to pleasure her cunt.

“fuck, i’m so wet.” she whines. her voice always starts off low, but the more desperate she gets, the higher it becomes. the sexiest thing in the world. the tip of her nails are dragging down her deliciously toned stomach, slowly slipping underneath her waistband. you lean back, wriggling comfortably against your pillows as you mirror her actions. despite PinkSage basically having no idea who you are, you’ve always felt so intimate masturbating with her, going along with her pace. in a strange way, it feels like you know her.

you can see her knuckles protruding from her boxers, stroking her clit in tight circles underneath.

tipsyflower: she’s alwaysssss teasing us i swear 😩

the familiar gift noise pings through, a sound of coins jingling.

abracadabragagafan27: (GIFTED PINKSAGE $5.99!) Take the underwear off!

“your wish is my command, baby.” PinkSage twinkles, making a show of slowly pulling her boxers off, inch by excruciating inch. her pink happy trail (yes, the curtains do match the drapes, duh) marshal into the beautiful alcove of her mound, her bush glistening from how soaked she is. she resumes her movements, slender fingers slipping inside her pussy with ease. her knuckles flex as she goes deeper and deeper inside, her jaw slack and eyebrows furrowed.

all this and you know she isn’t actually going to cum. she’s merely stretching herself out for the actual real deal. you’ve always thought on why PinkSage appeals to you so much… maybe it’s the fact that she conceals her face, so there’s that uninterrupted enigma and that you’ll probably never know what she looks like. a cruel tease.

or maybe it’s the fact that in a world where butches and muscular women are expected to be dominant and rough, PinkSage has no problem exhibiting herself as someone who leans more onto the submissive side: pliant and self-abasing, whilst simultaneously being mean and not taking anybody’s shit. in a way, it feels revolutionary. PinkSage stands out, and that’s why she’s currently at number one in your trusty ButchBabes website, and why you refuse to watch anyone else.

“i’ll let you filthy bitches pick for me, okay?” despite her catty language, her face is flushed and her chest is heaving. she did just edge herself after all, and in tandem, so did you. she reaches for something below her desk and pulls out two toys. a pink vibrator wand and a clear glass seven inch dildo — each in one hand. she waves them, a smug grin settled on her lips.

“vibrator?” she playfully licks a stripe up the wand, “or dildo?” she does the same, her tongue dragging across the shaft. she knows exactly what she’s doing, she always does. every movement is coordinated: done on purpose to elicit reactions from her audience.

you’re too lost in the haze of your lust to reach for the keyboard, so you merely watch as the majority of the viewers pick the dildo. you couldn’t care less on which one they picked, as long as you got to watch PinkSage pleasure herself.

“good choice.” she praises, throwing the wand away and leaning back in her seat, spreading her legs and giving the viewers an accessible view of her pretty pussy. she rubs the dildo down her slit, smearing her arousal. but she isn’t done: she brings the dildo up to her lips, dribbling spit down the model to lubricate it enough. your breath catches in your throat at the sight. you need to touch yourself, thighs trembling and squishing together, but you compel yourself to wait.

her breathing is palpable, loud and rapid enough to tell that she’s excited. sometimes you wonder if this is all an act, or if she genuinely forgets about the camera and pleasures herself without a care in the world.

she finally sinks the toy in, starting off with short and rapid strokes. the sounds of her sopping cunt are obscene: a drawled low moan leaving her lips as she tips her head back. “fuuuck.”

your own fingers start to move again, a strangled moan buried deep in your throat threatening to loom to the surface. PinkSage is just so perfect, her hips bucking and twitching; lower back arching as she starts to fuck herself with the dildo deeper. low groans quickly alter into high keens and destitute whines, her fingers flying to her nipple and pinching it to increase the stimulation. you curse under your breath at the smutty sight.

an idea suddenly zips through you and suddenly your fingers are out of your pants and on the keyboard. you’re gonna gift her. just as she’s about to cum, you’re gonna gift her and she’s going to orgasm thanking you. how fucking smart is that?

and luckily, the universe hears your wishes.

your_user: (GIFTED PINKSAGE $24.99!)

you settle back, fingers flying back to your pants as you bite your lip, waiting in anticipation for the loud jingling noise to catch her attention. and you’re blessed when it does.

“oh fuck!” she mewls louder at the sight of your gift, the dildo moving faster, “fuck, your_user, th—mmnfg—thank you so much, i’m cumming… fuck, your_user…”

with that, she keens loudly, head thrown back against the desk as she creams all over the toy. in tandem, you cum so hard you see stars. you cannot believe that happened. PinkSage huffs loudly, slowly pulling the dildo out. incomes the white pearly froth spilling down from her pussy and onto the seat. in your post orgasmic daze, you think you’re dreaming, but you dazedly watch the comment section and they prove otherwise.

dykeyfamgirl: wait i’m so jealous???

galadbdhs22: No fuckijf way

wiccanyindigo8: another hot orgasm yet againnnn

tipsyflower: I HAD NO IDEA SHE CAN DO THAT

bluesage111: i gotta try this next.

sallyfacefan: Will she give us another one? i need my name spilling from her lips

jerkheroff: THATS NOT FAIRRRRR

a dopey grin finds itself on your lips. everyone’s jealous. she said your user aloud — your name, mind you, whilst reaching her climax, but not theirs. you’ve been a fan for ages, you know she hasn’t done that with anyone else. you’re special and they’re not.

“no, i’m not giving you guys another. shoulda gotten there before your_user did.” your stomach flutters so hard you might as well float away. “thanks for watching, see you later filthies.” she puts her fingers in a rock and roll sign, her signature goodbye before logging off stream. you stare at the black screen with the white words reading ‘Live Ended’ for a long minute. dare this be the best night of your life?

you sleep extra well that night, replaying that moment in your head over and over again until it lulls you asleep, fantasising on what you would do if you two had ever met. if you had her right in your palm.

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the following morning, you awake with a smile adorning your lips. birds are singing outside, branches of the eucalyptus tree are rustling from the warm breeze. the sun is kissing your eyelids… besides, PinkSage literally orgasmed screaming your name last night. that’s your first pleasant thought of the morning; the way her face scrunched up, eyes half-lidded as she babbled your name. sure, it might’ve sounded like her words clustered together just as she was on the precipice of climaxing, but you alongside the rest of the 600K viewers heard it loud and clear. phenomenal. you almost hate yourself for not screen recording, but you don’t fret; sensing that it’s tucked in each and every crevice of your brain. shit, you’d inject the moment into your bloodstream if you could.

you yank your phone off your charger and take a look at social media. after mindlessly swiping through instagram stories and checking your tiktok notifications, your thumb glides over to twitter. your feed refreshes, and the first tweet is PinkSage’s.

PinkSage @PinkSagee420

hey guys going on hiatus for a bit </3 sorry no stream tonight and more nights to come :(( love y’all tho!

your face has never fallen faster. you sit up, blinking repeatedly and praying that your eyes are somehow proving you wrong. but no matter how hard you try, there it is: imprinted on your screen. going on a hiatus for a bit… love y’all tho! you furrow your brows. you bet she was smiling whilst typing that tweet. she so doesn’t give a fuck. what the hell are you meant to do now? was her hiatus so impromptu that she couldn’t have mentioned it on stream last night? instead of a half assed tweet? love y’all tho! ending the tweet like that is what grates on your nerves the most. if she really loved you, she wouldn’t go!

ugh. you quickly realise you’re being stupid and selfish, and you cringe at yourself. for fuck’s sake, PinkSage could be going through something serious and personal for all you know. you’re just freaking out because it’s the first time she’s ever taken a break. you’ve become so used to your nightly routine, so embedded in your grotty secret that you can’t help but feel as if you’ve been thrown off course. jesus, it feels like a break up.

your mind quickly diverges to solutions. PinkSage already posts some pretty smutty stuff on her Twitter, and then there’s the ButchBabes website — but you’d have to be a premium member to watch her pre-posted, long videos. as tempting as it sounds, having a subscription to a porn website just sounds… ew. you’re not that down bad. then again, there’s PinkSage’s patreon…

the sound of your door swinging open snaps you out of your thoughts, and you jerk your head up to see your dad resting his arms on your doorframe.

“morning. what’s with the long face?” he murmurs. you didn’t even notice your face was stuck in a frown since you read the tweet. “nothing. what’s up?”

“our guest is coming soon. earlier than expected, surprisingly. guess she’s eager to see us.” he smiles. she. at least it’s a woman this time, and one person. the last guests you had were a group of college boys, scruffy and loud and disrespectful, as if they were toddlers. they left your house a mess after!

that’s right, you’re a host family. offering a home and support to international/exchange students or volunteers. well, you don’t really do anything. whilst your parents offer them a bed to sleep in, give them meals and help them transport their way around your area, you do so much as smile at them, occasionally greeting them if you happened to bump into them. most of the time, however, you’re locked in your room. at some points you even wait until the living room is empty for you to go downstairs to eat. you’ve never been interested in making friends with your guests. they’re just there for a house, and you have enough friends.

“better get dressed.” your dad curtly pats the door before slipping away. you sigh, slumping back on your bed to wallow for just a little longer. you’re still very much bummed about PinkSage’s hiatus after all, and not even a female guest could lift your mood.

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you tip toe down the corridor, holding your breath as you try not to make a creak in the old floorboards. you peer down the staircase, straining your ears to hear the conversation taking place.

the guest is here, and she seems to be a goddamn comedian with the way she’s making your parents laugh. even your usually stony mother is dying laughing. just who is she?

you regret not getting ready earlier, because now you’ll have to awkwardly step downstairs, suffer through the silence before everyone’s attention will be on you. you steel yourself, slowly descending down the stairs. you predicted the pause in laughter and chatting before it even came.

“she’s alive!” dad says as you reveal yourself. how embarrassing! you want to flip him off, but you’d get killed.

“oh, is this your daughter? hey!”

your eyes flash up to the woman as quick as light. is— wait, are you tweaking? okay, maybe the PinkSage withdrawals are hitting faster than you think, because that voice and that hair…

“i’m violet, but you can call me vi.” she approaches you and extends her hand, those fingers. nah… no fucking way.

you realise you’re staring at her hand for too long when your mother clears her throat. “y/n…”

“sorry, aha.” you take her hand. she has a firm grip. you dare a glance at her face again. powdery blue eyes and a little amused smile. PinkSage smiles like that…

“she gets shy. oh, and you two are the same age actually!” your dad grins. you cut him a glare, wishing he could shut up. does he revel in your embarrassment?

“are you a student?” you find yourself asking. since when did you give a shit?

“nah, i’m volunteering. animal care.” vi replies, and she sounds very proud of herself. you nod quietly and smile, suddenly feeling dizzy.

“okay. if you don’t mind i’m going to do homework now, nice meeting you.” you mutter with haste, padding back up the stairs. your mother tries to call for you to come back, probably deeming you as disrespectful.

“it’s chill, ‘girls got homework to do.” you hear her say. she sounds so cool, so… suave. PinkSage would say something like that.

you immediately scrounge for your phone once back in your room, whipping out PinkSage’s profile to scrutinise her. there’s plenty of women with pink hair, and vi was wearing a navy oversized jumper, so you can’t even tell if she has the same muscles or not. but her that… her fucking voice. you zoom in on PinkSage’s hair. her way of styling it is very unique, and similar to vi’s. eerily similar. your heart starts to pound in your chest. what if…? you want to be aloof, in fact, you’re genuinely trying to prove yourself wrong. okay, you’ve fantasised about what you’d do if you met her, like, an innumerable amount of times… but they were fantasies for a reason! who was expecting for her to live in your house for whoever the fuck knows how long!?

your fingers are trembling, and you’re months down on her posts. it sure is a weird coincidence that PinkSage is on hiatus, and suddenly there’s a woman that sounds and maybe looks like her in your house! is this a sick joke? is the universe having fun?

a tentative knock that sounds nothing like the ones of your parents (they never fucking knock) scares the shit out of you, making you whip your head too quick and because your head was too close to the headboard, you banged against it.

“fuck! i-i mean, come in!” you frantically call out. vi is visibly holding in a laugh when she peers through the door.

“are you good?” oh my god, she heard that. your ears burn alongside the pain mingling through your head.

“yeah, i’m—i’m good. breezy.” you close your eyes and nod like a bobble head. what the fuck is breezy?

“…right. you probably already know this but i’m sleeping next door. i was wondering if it was cool if i use your bathroom? i wake up at night.” she smiles sheepishly. you blink at her.

“sure! yeah, that’s completely fine! it’s not even my bathroom per se, i mean my parents just say it’s my bathroom ‘cuz i keep all my stuff there and it’s right across my room and they use the downstairs one, but you’re… hah…” you’ve been rambling so much you’re out of breath! vi giggles. maybe she’s just a really good PinkSage impersonator. that could be it. yeah.

your eyes follow her nervously as she steps closer inside the room, gazing at your cork-board full of polaroid photos, calendars and photo booth strips. her fingers graze the cd player below it, and then she skims through the cds on your crate as if she’s in a music shop. she’s pretty comfortable touching your stuff without even asking…

“nice.” she whips her head to glance at you, staring at you up and down. you swallow.

“i thought you were doing homework.”

you brow settles in a furrow. “… i finished.” you lie through your teeth.

“do i make you uncomfortable or something?” the swift delivery of that question sweeps you off your feet, and you find yourself speechless.

“i would hate to make you feel that way. to be fair, i think i’d also hate people in my house.” she continues, as if this is all so casual. that i-don’t-give-a-fuck mindset is something you’re not so sure you’re rolling with.

“what? that’s— that’s not it.” you sputter, blinking repeatedly. vi smirks in return. “good, then.”

she turns around and leaves, whilst you sit there: dumbfounded. good, then? this vi girl sure is conceited, skimming her fingers over your stuff just to leave like that? what is this, a movie? and leaving your door open, no less! where’s the decency? you bet she was going to use your bathroom regardless if you had said yes or not.

you don’t want to think of vi as PinkSage. whilst the camgirl enacts cockiness as something sexy; playing it off well, this vi woman just comes off as arrogant. they’re different women, they must be. you open your phone to the post you left off at: one of PinkSage’s mirror pics, showing off her back tattoo. you linger on it, feeling like a housewife that’s had her husband leave for war. you miss her already.

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you discreetly wait for vi to be finished with dinner so she can piss off to her room whilst you can eat without her amused gaze burning your retinas. as if your entire existence is funny to her. could you blame her? you’ve embarrassed yourself more times than you can say ‘i.’

it’s eleven. PinkSage would be streaming right now… but alas, she’s gone - not even specifying how long she’s away for. you feel a pang of sadness. you eat your food, watching a video essay in the empty living room. parents are sleeping by now, and vi’s upstairs. despite the faint sounds of your fork hitting the plate and the murmur of the youtube narrator, it’s really quiet. you wonder if vi is asleep by now too.

you pad back up the stairs after eating. vi’s door is open and you have to pass by her room to get to yours. a little peek on what she’s doing wouldn’t hurt would it? especially when she entered your room and touched your stuff without hesitation.

but as you fleetingly side-glance, your stomach churns in a way that makes you want to throw your dinner back up. you catch vi in the middle of putting her sports bra on, but it’s not even that: it’s what you see on her back, down to her triceps. the same fucking back tattoo. the same cogs, same plumes of steam, same machine parts… PinkSage. that’s Pink-goddamn-Sage, and you can’t even deny it anymore. evidence is all there: nobody else has a tattoo as specific as that one, nobody else styles their hair like she does, nobody else has that sensual ass voice: inviting and erotic. your favourite thing about her.

“holy mother of god.” you find yourself saying aloud, distractedly. vi yelps and whips around to glare at you.

“jesus, do you knock?” she huffs, grabbing her tank top and yanking it over her head.

“i… i know who you are.”

pt 2 now here!

a/n: very loosely inspired by this fic on ao3 so check it out! it’s been a while since i done a series omg!!! so excited for u guys to read this one ahhh >< i’m thinking of doing three or maybe four parts to this series.

[lay-z]

Just a sneak peek of a concept that has taken root in my brain.

TF-141 x fem!vampire!Reader. Aye?

"If we're gonna do this, we're gonna do this my way, sunshine. Am I being clear?"

Sunshine. You don't know if you should scoff or laugh about the pet name. Is it because you're anything but a ray of sunshine or because it's one of the few things that can actually harm you? A reminder that you're not indestructible perhaps?

"Very clear," you purr, adding, "Johnathon."

Captain Price wrinkles his nose at that and you find it incredibly endearing, the way he both hates and desires you; knowing about the latter, because you can clearly pick up the tiniest hint of arousal in his human scent.

"Rule number one," he grumbles, tightening his crossed arms over his bulky chest, "I'm sir, Captain or Price to you from now on. Rule number two, you answer to me and you'll learn to respect me. Especially in front of my men. Understood?"

You regard him in silence for a moment, gazing up at him with sharp, ruby eyes while you're sitting perfectly still in the chair in front of his large and very cluttered mahogany desk. A desk so messy, it makes your fingers itch to clean it up.

"Honestly, I feel like you'll only come up with more rules and I should probably write all of this down," you retort, obviously wanting to taunt him as you feign looking for a pencil on his desk. "I have terrible memory, you know?"

You never forget anything and you couldn't if you tried. It's both a blessing and another curse that's part of your condition. A side effect, one could say.

And you anticipate him slamming his mammoth palm on the desk with an exasperated growl even before it connects with the wood with a loud smack. You heard the spike of his pulse, the way his muscles flexed and synapses in his brain fired when his temperament made him react to your teasing.

Captain Price is such a prime male human example; being with him almost makes you feel giddy in a way that you haven't felt in decades, and this whole arrangement that is slowly starting to come together only adds to the long forgotten feeling of excitement.

"This is all a bloody joke to you, innit? Meanwhile, I'm over here, taking a huge fucking risk turning to someone like you for help!"

Your eyes zero in on the thick vein in his flushed neck as he yells at you, throbbing and alive, and you can feel your mouth water with saliva as the urge to bite and feed on him, to make him yours, starts growing in your chest cavity.

As you let out a soft, breathy laugh, completely unbothered by his outburst that probably has his soldiers cowering, you flash him a charming smile. "Pardon me," you chuckle softly and relax back into your chair, "I'll be good now, Captain."

Captain Price narrows his steel blue eyes at you suspiciously as he slowly lowers himself back into his office chair and the old leather creaks under his weight.

"I highly doubt that, sunshine," he sighs gruffly, rubbing a hand over his tired face before dropping it on the desk again, glaring at you once more. "But I'll take my chances with you."

"You want your little Sergeant back, don't you?" You ask rhetorically, because this is why you're here, why he brought you back all the way from Urzikstan to the UK after you'd stumbled into the scene, had your hungry self been lured in by the thick scent of blood and death that day.

The Captain stiffens in his seat at the mention of Soap, the man who got captured by their enemy after being shot and left behind in some tunnel.

You don't need a verbal answer from him to know that you're right.

"Exactly," you coo, letting out a little laugh. Giddy. Excited. Just happy to be involved, honestly.

" and I can bring him back. No biggie."

[ohnoitstbskyen]

hello mr skyen... might i ask for opinions... for an elise thing im doing

Oh, this is interesting! I am not 100% sure what kind of opinion you're looking for - is this meant to be a skin idea or a full-scale redesign of the character? I'll give you some thoughts, with the caveat that these are off-the-dome impulsive reactions, and whatever I bring up is not meant to be prescriptive "this is wrong do it different" criticisms, they're just me bouncing ideas off of what you are presenting.

If anything I say is useful, then hooray. If it is not, or if it misses the point of what you are trying to do, please discard it without a second thought.

Bringing in some 1920s and 30s fashion energy is an interesting idea. Elise is meant to be this high society socialite who has literally been around for centuries and killing people, so there is definitely a solid idea in using an aesthetic which would be olde timey to modern eyes, but also a bit anachronistic and odd and instinctively a bit out of place in a high fantasy military state like Noxus. I think that's really interesting, and definitely more interesting than the somewhat directionless black leather lingerie her base design keeps her in.

We're playing around with gender presentation it looks like, which I think is a really solid play. Elise is generally presented as a fairly standard type busty sexy video game babe in League of Legends, with Legends of Runeterra opting to show her as a bit more spindly and flat chested. I think her general archetype definitely requires a level of sexiness, sensuality and seductiveness, she is an archetypal Black Widow character, but I don't think that means she necessarily needs to be stereotypically femme in body and presentation. Plus, the LoL universe has more than enough classic femme fatales already, anything that adds variety would be good.

I very much like the red and black fashion - she looks very credibly like an eccentric Noxian socialite, especially in the first two outfits.

I kinda feel like I'm missing something up around her collarbone and chest? A necklace? Tattoo? Cosmetic? I can see the idea of having the collar be exposed flesh for the allure of it, but I feel instinctively like it's conspicuously "empty" next to the highly made up and elaborate makeup and hair, and then the fashionable costuming.

Given that Elise is a transforming character, you could futz around a bit with her proportions? The shoes extend her legs by lengthening into points already, which is a good thing to carry over from the base design, but I think given the importance of long spindly legs to spiders, you could push it even further. think something like Bayonetta for example:

additionally, you could use something like a wrap-around collar, or a necklace, to play around with extending her neck, too, to make her even taller, and push a bit into the uncanny if you want. covering the neck up makes it easier, in my experience, to lengthen it without it looking too obviously odd.

it sort of depends on the impact you want her to have though. very tall, very slender, very long proportions are striking, and carry a vibe of the ethereal, maybe slightly mystical. height also often codes for power.

if you want her to be a more down-to-earth presence in her human form, though, especially if you want her to pretend to be harmless and/or vulnerable as part of her seduction and manipulation play, making her shorter is usually a better shortcut to achieving that vibe

hm... what else...

Well, the spider leg spikes on her arms are cool - I really like the idea of concealing them as some sort of high fashion eccentric accessory, although it's not 100% clear to me from the art here exactly how they are attached to her?

I really like the fashion design of the middle idea. I like giving her trousers and going right up to the edge of letting her have a naked upper body. It's a good way to play with the tease, I think, the allure of almost seeing what is hidden.

I'm not 100% sure about the green markings on the body. on the one hand, she DEFINITELY needs something Shadow Isles coded in her design, since that's where she draws her power from, on the other hand having it that much out in the open feels maybe a little... obvious? at least in her human form?

Of course, this again depends on the intention with the design. if you're designing this as a design to appear in League of Legends, whether as a champion update or a skin, then making her source of power obvious on her body is actually crucial, it's really important for in-game visual language. If it's for something like an appearance in Arcane, you could probably dial it back a couple of notches and make it more subtle.

Like, maybe the same idea of glowing tattoos that light up when she uses her powers, but they are subtle little spiderweb patterns on her skin that look like elaborate decoration when not in use? something like that?

anyway, that's all I can think of as a reaction just off the top of my head. this is really cool, I hope you keep working on it!

[arlequinelunaire]

Verthandi in the Middle Ch. 1.1

SV Next>

CW: The first couple of chapters involve a serial killer.

_ _ _

Because I’m the one who gets stuck with the serial killer, aren’t I?

…Okay, guess I should back up. Long story short, short-ish anyway, I go by Vera Norin, well down here I do. I’m one of the three owners, okay, one of the only three employees of the Wyrd Sisters Agency in Stockholm. Says a lot that my older sister Ruth told us we’d all have equal say, but then named the agency after herself. Er, after one of her alternate names.

Put simply, we control fate. No, we don’t just see your fate like a fortune teller, and unlike them we’re the real thing. Control it. Wanna go from rags to riches with us as your fairy godmothers, send someone you don’t like from riches to rags, or avoid your appointed death? Arranged all that and more thousands of times, and big sister Ruth even gets to control the past. Because of course she gets everything.

Er, guess I’m not being much of a saleswoman here, am I? Hey, I’m still the best of my sisters in that department, probably. Like Ruth would just tell you a bunch of flowery mythic-mystic bullshit before getting to anything important, while my little sister Svea would just prefix everything with ‘SUPER-’, ‘AWESOME-’, and ‘EPIC-’ and add a whole bunch of exclamation marks and a digi-cyber-guitar solo. Wait no, not epic, nobody says epic that way anymore, unless they start doing that again in the future when it’s retro. Huh, you’d think Svea of all people would know the actual meaning of the word ‘epic’, given we were there when the old sagas were being written. Then again, the past is Ruth’s domain- oh shit, I’m giving too much away, aren’t I?

Right, I take it you’re thinking if we’ve got power over fate itself, why are we letting mere humans have a say with this agency? Er, fellow mere humans, I mean. Simple, come the 21st century, someone as stuck in the past as Ruth has finally learned about democracy, and not just the barely-counts Ancient Greek kind. If we’re gonna hold this much power over people’s lives, the least we can do is actually give those people a say in things. That’s part of why I’m sharing this with all of you. Not that there aren’t conditions and restrictions of course, we’re still judge and jury, been doing this for millennia- ah, for years after all. Though I assure you, Ruth’s just as strict with us as she is with you, way more so. She’s had thousands of years to hammer into us “You can’t do that”, “Such is unbefitting of us”, “No using your power for your own gain” and on and on.

Okay, what’s this about me getting assigned a serial killer then? It started when a bunch of teens, you know the type, pimply, dour-faced, arms perpetually crossed, would’ve worn baseball caps backwards in past decades, lurched their way right into our office. “Wait, this is the place? Thought a ‘fate-writing’ place would be all dark and spooky, y’know all haunted castle. But this looks like where my parents work,” one of them whined.

“Fate-weaving, kid,” I muttered. Actually, we were still renting this basic white walled, brown carpeted office, and this kid reminding me of that got him on my nerves even more. Granted, freedom to decorate would give Ruth full reign to make everything all lacey and doily-draped and Svea to put spikes everywhere and drown it all in black paint. I shuddered at the thought. But speaking of her, “Svea, you know these guys?” I called out, since they were about high school age. Not that there’s only one high school in Stockholm, but eh, no harm in asking.

“Awesome, you guys saw my flyers!” Svea’s voice rang out all through the room. Which at least showed I was right, even if my ears throbbed. She ran up to them dressed in the exact opposite attire your standard office would demand. With her black hair uneven, leather coat clearly too big for her, knee-high combat boots ringed with spikes, it showed restraint that she didn’t enter the room to a guitar riff. Of course, I showed up to work in my usual anorak and jeans, and Ruth normally arrives in full Victorian garb, so we’re hardly any better. “Alright, so what can Verth and I do for you guys? Anything fate-related, that’s us!” Svea said with an ear-to-ear smile and both thumbs up.

“…Yeah, knew the loudmouth to be behind this. The handwriting on that ad was so bad, couldn’t be anyone but her,” one teen said, rolling his eyes. Huh, since when did stroppy teens care so much about handwriting? Oh yeah, as an excuse to bully Svea they do, though it looked like that remark only got a twitch out of her, on the surface anyway.

“So, if you people really can control fate,” another of the teens began as a smirk crept across his face, with me facepalming at what he said next, “Prove it by making the hottest girl in class fall desperately in love with me.”

“Not happening,” I wasted zero time in telling him. There was no way I’d risk Ruth coming into the room and hearing that one of her biggest rules was in danger of breaking. “We can weave what a person does or what happens to them into their fate, but not how they feel about it. Emotions are a person’s own domain.” It’s a testament to how much Ruth drilled those words into us that I could repeat them on the spot.

“Pfft, sounds to me like you can’t ‘weave fates’ after all,” that teen had to say, his smirk somehow even wider. “Or that hearing about hot girls reminds you how plain and drab you are, anorak,” he snickered like he thought I couldn’t hear, I then winced as Svea snickered with him. The little shit was so lucky that I was in a professional service environment right now and so couldn’t just deck him. Though any more talk like that, and he may find fate has decreed for him quite a few fists to the face. Or worse, decreed for him a life in retail.

“Hey, we can still do a whole bunch of stuff. Like with my domain, I get to decide who lives and who dies-” Svea began, before I put my hand right over her mouth.

“Oh no, you’re not putting that power in these losers’ hands,” I hissed in her ear. And on top of… the obvious, did she have to use the term ‘domain’? I then turned to the brats and told them, “How about sticking to your own fates, okay?”

But then one of them, an even more morbid type who’d been slinking in the shadows so far, had to ask, “What if you fated someone who really deserved it to die? Like a serial killer.”

Now that had me thinking. Obviously there’s been debate after debate on if killing someone can ever be justified, even the oh so brutal Viking Age still had Althing meetings over this sort of thing. On the other hand, like I’d shed the slightest tear over the death of a serial killer. On the other other hand, I was in no mood to become a bunch of snotty teens’ own assassin for hire, let alone foist that on Svea.

So I wussed out and went the rehabilitation route, how Scandinavian-justice-system of me. “How about we just fate it so that they never succeed in killing anyone again?” I offered. Naturally, I said that before knowing who and how bad this serial killer even was. Of course, Svea promptly frowned right at me.

“Fine. Just as long as, y’know, you actually do something involving fate already,” the first teen said. “Oh right, and that you don’t charge too much, we’ve been here long enough.”

Long enough? Since when’s a few minutes ‘long enough’? Not that I can’t sympathise with being strapped for cash, as Ruth won’t let us fate-weave ourselves rich since we ‘can’t use fate-weaving for own advantage’. But at the same time, who the Hel’s this kid to tell us how to run our business? Still, a compromise came to mind as I smirked back at him, “Our price is the satisfaction we get when you all concede that we really do control fate. How’s that?”

“Deal,” the teens said in unison, their faces still sour. Hey, I’d be happy to get this whole thing over with too. The one in the shadows then kept scrolling on their phone until they went, “Yeah, this guy looks like the right candidate.”

“Wait, you mean you didn’t have an actual killer in mind till just now?” I asked them, mouth agape. Just when I thought these teens couldn’t annoy me more. And they flat out ignored what I just said and held the phone up to my face. “Anastasios, surname unknown, the ‘Scarecrow’ killer,” I read. So named for his scrawny, nigh skeletal looks and the way he ties up his victims. Main stalking ground is… all the way down in Athens? These kids were absolutely sure they didn’t pick this guy at random? Then again, a serial killer’s a serial killer, and I like to think I’m more principled about death than Svea. “You got it, this guy’s killing days are done for. Check the news for any more reports on him if you don’t believe us,” I said with a smirk of my own. “Oh, and when that happens, make sure you tell all your friends just how wrong you were about us. Now scram.” Not the best thing to tell your customers, but Ruth wasn’t around, so as if I cared at this point.

“You mean you’re not gonna let us see your actual fate-writing, weaving, whatever process?” one of them had to blurt out.

This again. “Look, a nuclear plant isn’t gonna let you hang around radiation, we’re not gonna let clients hang around the destiny threads. They’re the whole of a person’s time on this Earth, maximum caution required. Now scram,” I said as I shoved them one by one out the door. Hel, ‘scram’ was me holding back, my first instinct was to tell them ‘Fuck off’. Then again, scram is what you say to kids, too Sesame Street reminiscent, while fuck off is what you say to adults, and I didn’t fancy treating them like that.

Then the second I’d dusted my hands of them, I turned around to see Ruth as prim and proper as a 19th century nanny staring right back me into my soul. Oh come on, I didn’t even hear her come in. Well, that’s typical for her, why announce your presence when you could make your sisters fear you’re always watching? “Vera,” she said looking down at me, like that word was all she needed to say.

“Hey, it’s just us three now, you do know you can use my real name?” I said first, then actually replied to what she’d implied with, “And I’m doing my job. I kept putting up with those kids till we reached an agreement, and now we’re gonna change fate per their request. What more do you want?”

“For you to start treating our customers with respect, to begin with. It would not do for our business to be saddled with a bad reputation,” Ruth said as she loomed closer over me. She then placed a hand on Svea’s shoulder as she kept chewing me out, “And in addition, you insulted the very customers your little sister invited. Think about how she must feel, after she put in all the hard work of advertising.”

I was about to point out to Ruth that, had she not shown up at the last minute, she would’ve heard these kids insulting Svea too. But as the future’s not my domain, I’d failed to foresee that Svea would betray me. “Oh yes, Verth was really mean, and to me too. She kept telling me no when I had any idea about how to give our clients what they wanted,” Svea said as she ‘cried’ at Ruth.

“Because Svea wanted to let teenagers order a guy’s death,” I hissed. Don’t know why I did, because if Ruth didn’t ignore me, she probably would’ve manufactured some excuse to defend Svea. Anything for the ‘baby’ of the family. So I then said, “Hey, we’re the only fate-weaving business on Midgard, in all the Realms even,” …as far as I knew, “We’re the last people who need to be worried about customers leaving for the competition.”

Ruth sighed down at me. “We know that, but they do not. To those more superstitious, any charlatan with cards and a crystal ball could be just as valid as we. To those more skeptical, we could be yet more quacks. We cannot afford to drive away clients, Vera. And even if we could, such behaviour would still be utterly unprofessional,” she said through gritted teeth. Then she softened her voice and used my real name, “Verthandi, as the past is not your domain, I don’t know how well you remember this. But in the Eddas, in all the Sagas too, any time our names were said, it was in fear or hatred, and that was when they chose to acknowledge us at all. The last thing I want is for that same fear and hatred to follow us into the 21st century. And that is why manners matter,” she huffed as her voice shot back up to its normal volume.

“…I know,” is all I said to her about our, well, past infamy. I seethed at her thinking all those things said about us didn’t still hurt me. I mean I get it, if you hear someone else controls your fate, it makes sense you’d be resentful of them. But I never asked to be shat on just for doing my job.

Though now she mentions it, if restoring our rep’s so important, doesn’t us using aliases defeat the whole point? Especially when they’re so paper-thin anyway, though I was at least grateful not to get stuck with the proposed ‘Bertha’.

Oh, and since Ruth had just ‘wrecked’ me, Svea of course had to stick her tongue out and pull down an eyelid at me. Yeah, that’s ‘manners’. And how is Svea going ‘killing is totally awesome’ not as harmful to our reputation as me saying a swear word to some kids? “Let’s just weave this fate already,” I settled on.

Guess it’s no use still trying to hide who we are, huh? Even Ruth’s gone and used my real name. Right, I’m Verthandi, Norn of Present Time. And if you’ve so much as squinted at a Norse mythology book, I take it you’ve figured out Ruth’s Urth of the Past and Svea’s Skuld of the Future. Told you our aliases were flimsy. We’re the Nornir and we’re, er, hard to describe, and that’s coming from one of them. We’re not goddesses, let’s make that clear, even if we do have to hang out with them. Urth tells us we’re Jotnar, which gets translated as ‘giants’ despite her only being six foot four, Skuld being a shrimp, and me being average as always. Yeah, you can argue the exact difference between Jotnar and Gods is pretty flimsy, but trust me, you really don’t want to compare the two to their faces.

Of course, my domain being the Present and not the Past means my memory’s kinda hazy, so I only have Urth’s word for it that I even am a Jotun. Hel, I don’t even know my own parents, think I heard Dad’s someone called Mogthrasir? He’s a real deadbeat, whoever he is. But I guess Urth’s telling the truth, like what would she have to gain from saying we’re Jotnar specifically?

Anyway, the fate-weaving. The three of us walked over to a corridor as bland and unfurnished as the foyer, till we came to a door no mortals could see. Or at least, they better not see, if all the runes we scribbled on it are working right. Our local fate-weaving room… how to even describe it? Have you heard of a tesseract, you know, a four-dimensional cube? Picture a whole cavern of four-dimensional spiderwebs, where each dewdrop reflects a moment from someone’s life, from big things like birth, graduation, and death, to the smaller stuff like that one time traffic was real bad, or it rained when the forecast said it’d be sunny. These webs of fate are also this room’s sole light source, with a person’s past shining white, their future shrouded in hazy black, and their present a smushed pallet. Or so it looks like to me anyway, if my sisters see their domains differently they’ve told me squat. Though I think Skuld wouldn’t want her domain to be any other colour than black, like her soul~.

While we didn’t have any super strong leads, knowing some basic information on this killer did help in tracking down his specific thread of fate. As Skuld and I approached the threads, our hands as usual morphed themselves into instruments akin to a spider’s pincers. Yet another reason we don’t humans watch us fate-weave, they’d be sent screaming seeing us turn semi-arachnid. Still, it’d help a lot if I could actually use an opposable thumb for all the tricky, obnoxiously precise bits.

I got to plucking out all the murders the Scarecrow killer ever would’ve committed from this point; I suppose I should’ve felt disturbed seeing them but well, I’m thousands of years old. I may not have the best memory, but the seriously bleak things from the past are all too good at sticking in the mind. Meanwhile, Skuld got the even more laborious job of lengthening all the threads of his future victims, now their fated deaths had changed. And all the while, Urth just… stood in the corner. Watching us do all the work.

“We are tampering with the web of fate enough,” Urth told me as soon as I glared at her, “Were I to get involved and rewrite the fates of his past victims, we don’t know how drastically we would complicate the web.” Which yeah, was exactly the response I expected. Again, alive for thousands upon thousands of years, I can’t fathom how many times she’s told me that. Although, makes sense we couldn’t show those kids we’re the real thing if the killer never even got to kill in the first place. “Not to mention-”

“The gods of the dead don’t like us taking those who’ve already died back from them, I know,” I said. Though it wasn’t like those three could afford to lose a soul or two, especially Odin. I then dusted my hands and said, “Anyway, we’ve got all these fates sorted. Let’s hope our next client asks us for something more pleasant.” And has more money to throw around.

“Oh no, we are not done yet,” Urth said as she looked right at me again. “You’re to watch over this Scarecrow to see how he reacts to having his capacity to kill taken away.”

“What? Why?” I asked, as I instantly assumed she was having me do this out of spite. “We know he’s not gonna kill any more, so what’s the point?”

“Yeah, and how come Verth gets to meet a serial killer and not me?” Skuld had to ask.

“Because Verthandi, you should know by now that the consequences for reweaving fate are nothing you should ignore. And seeing the reweaved in person is to remind you that these are fates of people we deal with, not dolls,” Urth told me, then turned to Skuld and said, “Skuld dear, I will absolutely not let you meet a serial killer. It simply isn’t healthy for you.”

“Why isn’t it?” I actually found myself coming to Skuld’s defence for once. “We can’t weave ourselves into his or anyone’s fate, but even then he still can’t kill her. Can’t kill the future after all. Not to mention some gods she’s met are way worse than serial killers,” I felt the need to keep my voice low for that line.

“Yeah, so lemme meet the killer. Why does Verth get all the fun?” Skuld kept whining.

“Verthandi, this is your little sister you are talking about!” Urth snapped at me. She then steadied herself with a deep breath and said, “Besides, while he may not be able to kill her, there are still plenty of awful things, physical and mental, he could still try on her.” Then she turned around and went, “Skuld, why don’t you and I go out for ice-cream instead? Maybe we can bring your hoverboard to the park?”

Oh, so suddenly those ‘awful things’ are okay when I’m the one in the crosshairs, are they? Yeah, Skuld’s stuck in permanent adolescence, but she’s still been in existence since, like, forever. Though I could immediately imagine Urth replying to that with ‘as have you’.

But if I said all that, it turned out Skuld wouldn’t have my back anyway, as she instantly said, “Ooh, ice cream!”

By the way, if you wonder why we make Skuld go to school even though she’s an immortal, well, one part that permanent adolescence, her being future potential embodied, but also Urth’s whole ‘gotta know the people’ thing. Everything I’d heard about school just made me glad Skuld got stuck with the Future and not me.

With me left with nothing but to groan, I followed Urth out into the scrubby patch that passed for our backyard. There, she picked up a rune-adorned old clay jug of water and held it aloft in the air. Everything shook as a massive, twisting root came down from out of the sky to drink from it. That’s our other job, attending the World Tree Yggdrasill. Well, ‘Yggdrasill’ is just what it’s called now, after Odin hanged himself from it. Its real name is… huh, I don’t think I even know. Maybe Urth does, but if she did she’d probably find some excuse not to tell me.

Anyway, even a root this size was still a minor root for Yggdrasill, nowhere near the three big ones, but it’d do for my assignment. “Ah, the Norns, what can I do for you today?” the tree’s personal squirrel chirped as he scurried his way down the branch, his alien green eyes letting you know this wasn’t your standard red squirrel. Well, that and the little reporter's hat and jacket he was wearing. And the voice thing.

“Nornir,” Urth had to correct, as if the fuzzball at all cared.

“I just need a lift to Athens, Ratatosk. That’s all,” I told him quick. I was about to tell him not to dump me on the outskirts, but knowing my luck that would probably be where the killer’s hiding.

“Why, you three already bombing in Stockholm?” he had to say. Him being the only one amused, and then having to dodge a can thrown by Skuld, he followed with, “Okay okay, your ride to Athens is ready. All aboard.”

I then took hold of the end of the root, and with that was pulled through creation all the way from Europe’s north to its south. Nothing I hadn’t done a bunch before, but I could only imagine how terrifying the experience would be for a regular human, especially for their arm.

And now you know all about how I got assigned to babysit a former serial killer. Here’s hoping he won’t be too much of a headache to deal with in person, I could use less of those in my life.

[rippleclan]

RippleClan: Moon 42

Carnationspeckle recovers from birthing strains. Fennelspot does his best to prop up Spike’s body and feels growing concern at the rancid smell coming from the broken and twisted part of Spike’s back.

[Image ID: Carnationspeckle sits in the back while Fennelspot looks after Spike. Under Carnationspeckle, it says - CONDITION: RECOVERING FROM BIRTH. Under Spike, it says + INFECTION.]

Lavenderpaw was curious about Spike. Why wouldn’t he be? Shadowdrop, who had only recently come back from his punishment for causing one molly’s death, saves the life of another? A molly that most likely knew Cinderella?  Lavenderpaw was no historian, but it was quite the story! Of course he wanted to know more!

Despite that curiosity, Lavenderpaw didn’t get much of a chance to see Spike. Scrubmask loved to keep him busy. StarClan, that warrior was tighter than a leather strap! Every day, it was “Lavenderpaw, here’a why we patrol” and “Lavenderpaw, warriors help where needed”, there was no time for fun! Lavenderpaw’s littermates seemed to enjoy their apprenticeships. Palepaw learned from everyone she could about being a meditator. Wasppaw and Puddlepaw got to have fake arguments and pick apart famous trials of the past. Ripplepaw had a mentor that could interview ghosts! What could Scrubmask do? Snap at Lavenderpaw for humming?

Lucky for Lavenderpaw, his mother was deputy. While Weedfoot was still sick, she could boss cats around again. That’s how Lavenderpaw ended up Fennelspot’s apprentice for the day.

“Bubblemoon and I are some of the only living clerics to have dealt with broken backs,” Fennelspot explained as he darted about the medicine den. “We’ll be talking at the half-moon meeting for a while about Spike’s condition. I need to know that you can handle any sniffles or complaints the Clan may bring up while I’m gone.”

“You’ve given me a lot of medicine to help,” Lavenderpaw said, eyeing the vast assortment of ointments and powders along the walls. “If I have any questions, I can ask Palepaw.”

“And if it’s a true emergency, send Scrubmask to collect me,” Fennelspot reminded him. He placed a small jar into a leather pouch, tightened the twine around it, and slid it around his neck. “Carnationspeckle should be coming in sometime tonight for something to stop her milk. The kits stopped nursing a while ago, but Carnationspeckle’s still producing milk. I have a sage and parsley she needs to add to her next meal, give her the small pouch next to Spike.” Fennelspot and Lavenderpaw glanced Spike’s way. The loner spent most of her days lying quietly in her nest, silently watching visitors or turned to the wall. The latter was true that day.

Lavenderpaw leaned close to Fennelspot and whispered, “Should I do anything with her?”

“Just keep your eye on her and get her anything she needs,” Fennelspot said. “Spike? I’ll be back early in the morning. Lavenderpaw will help you while I’m gone.” Spike shifted her paw, the only sign she heard Fennelspot at all. Fennelspot sighed. He touched noses with Lavenderpaw and trotted out into the chilly winter sunset.

Lavenderpaw examined the den. Being cleric for a day would be fun! Just looking after the Clan, just like he already did. He had to admit, all the medicines were certainly interesting. He trotted up to Carnationspeckle’s prepared bundle and studied each herb and concoction. As his thoughts drifted, he settled on a song.

“Come join claw in paw, brave warriors all,

And rouse your bold hearts at fair liberty’s call;

No tyrannous acts, shall suppress your just claim—”

“Or stain with dishonor the dear Ripple’s name.” Lavenderpaw’s head spun toward Spike.

“You know The Movement’s Call?” Lavenderpaw gasped. Spike grew still. “Don’t go quiet on me! I love The Movement’s Call! How does a loner know that song?” Spike sighed deeply.

“Help me face you,” Spike muttered. Lavenderpaw bolted over. He carefully helped Spike stand on her front paws and, keeping her back straight with the brace, slowly spun her around. Lavenderpaw could smell the infection in Spike’s heavily covered wound. He wondered if Spike could groom herself with her injury. Surely Fennelspot was grooming her. So why was her fur so rough and ragged below her wound?

Lavenderpaw set Spike down with a thud. Lavenderpaw flinched as Spike hissed. 

“Sorry!” Lavenderpaw gulped. “Let me find something for the pain.”

“No, it’s fine,” Spike groaned, waving Lavenderpaw off. “I’ll tell you if it gets worse.”

“How do you know a Clan song?” Lavenderpaw asked, sitting beside the injured loner.

“Because, long ago,” Spike sighed, “my father lived in the Clans.” Lavenderpaw scooted closer. “I don’t know what else you expect from me. He knew the song, so he taught it to me.”

“Who is he?” Lavenderpaw asked. “Is he still alive? What Clan did he come from? Were you coming to join us when the horse trampled you?”

“You’re asking too many questions,” Spike huffed, her body tensing.

“You turned to talk,” Lavenderpaw pointed out. His smugness was as strong as the horse’s blow.

“My father is still alive,” Spike said, rolling her eyes. “He and my mother raised me until I was six moons old, at which point he went back to wandering. He stops by our den a couple times each moon to see how my aunt, mother and I are faring. Were faring. Until my aunt got pregnant and started bringing back all these Clan teachings my father never thought to share with us.”

“Cinderella was your aunt,” Lavenderpaw gasped. “We thought you were related!”

“And now I’m in the Clan that caused her death,” Spike muttered. She placed her head between her paws.

“In our defense, Shadowdrop got Cinderella pregnant. We had nothing to do with it. We helped you, didn’t we? We aren’t so bad.”

“You helped a dead cat. You have many skills in the Clans, but even you and your ancestors can’t fix an infected spine. I don’t get the dignity of dying around my kin, just like Cinderella.”

“You’ll see your parents again. I promise.”

“And who are you to make that promise?” Spike’s cold eyes hardened Lavenderpaw’s resolve.

“The deputy’s son, thank you very much.”

“Is that supposed to impress me?” Lavenderpaw stuck out his tongue. For the first time since he met Spike, the injured loner chirped softly, whiskers twitching in a quiet mirth.

“Oh, when my sisters were sick,” Lavenderpaw explained, “we visited all the time to keep their spirits up. Fennelspot said it helped them recover faster. Maybe if we spend some time together, your infection might go away.”

“I don’t believe that’s how infections work.”

“Please? I want to hear stories from a real loner, someone who knows what life is like out there right now.” Lavenderpaw couldn’t help but wiggle his flank in anticipation. Spike sighed once more, stretching out the breath until Lavenderpaw thought he would explode from the wait.

“What else do you want to know?” Spike groaned.

“Truthfully,” Lavenderpaw chuckled, sitting in a loaf in front of Spike, “I want to continue singing The Movement’s Call with you. You have a good voice!” Spike rolled her eyes, but cleared her throat.

“In freedom we’re born, and in freedom we’ll live;

Our hearts are ready,

Steady, Friends, steady.”

(Lavenderpaw: 8, male, warrior apprentice, bold, likes to sing)

(Fennelspot: 99, male, cleric, insecure, trusted advisor, incredible runner)

(Spike: 17, female, loner, wise, good speaker, lore keeper)

Scrubmask can’t imagine what her life would look like without Downstar. They both spend time with Mosskit, who has greencough.

[Image ID: Scrubmask and Downstar face Mosskit, who has + CONDITION: GREENCOUGH written under him. Downstar says “Tell us that story you were so excited about, Moss.”]

(Scrubmask: 59, female, warrior, gloomy, fast runner, good hunter)

(Downstar: 101, female, leader, adventurous, trusted advisor, very clever)

(Mosskit: 3, male, kit, bullying, stares at fire)

Tempestkit disappears from camp as a blizzard begins to pick up. Downstar leads a patrol after the wayward kit.

[Image ID: A patrol marches through the snow. From left to right, the patrol includes Rustshade, Fennelspot, Wasppaw, Mousesong, Puddlepaw, Shadowdrop, and Downstar.]

---

Fennelspot predicted it the day before; a massive blizzard tearing into the territories, cursed by Stormfoots, those twisted Spirits of Shadow born from their namesake in the Dark Forest. Downstar was quick to act and ordered the caretakers to lead preparations around camp. She disappointed Wildclaw, who thought it meant reprieve from kit duty, when Downstar put her in charge of shoring up the nursery. Carnationspeckle worked with the artisans to find the best spot in camp for a bonfire; they would need the warmth. Clammask darted about, making sure everyone had a den to fortify or a job to do in prepping for the storm. Even James got off his lazy flank and helped out.

“If we cook the prey we have into dishes like pemmican,” Downstar muttered, studying the fresh-kill pile, “we can feed the Clan with well-preserved food throughout the storm.”

“Do you suppose it will be a long blizzard?” Weedfoot asked. Her voice was congested, the symptoms of whitecough still clinging to her pelt and slowing her down, but she could largely do her job now.

“That’s what Fennelspot predicted,” Downstar sighed. “He was right about the darkhound, so I assume he’s right about the storm. Wildclaw, where are you going?” Downstar looked over at her daughter, who walked with Trumpetkit and Tempestkit away from the nursery.

“Mom, I’m just escorting them to the dirt place!” Wildclaw groaned. “The nursery’s ready for the snow.”

“Good,” Downstar sighed, nodding as Wildclaw ushered the two black mollies around the shipwreck. 

“You seem more like yourself today,” Weedfoot hummed. “More like you were when we founded RippleClan.”

“I work well in a crisis,” Downstar admitted. A snowflake danced over her whiskers, making her shiver.

“StarClan, the snow’s starting already?” Weedfoot groaned, looking up. “Fennelspot said the storm would start in the morning. It isn’t even sunset yet.”

“Hurry, everyone!” Downstar yowled to the scurrying cats around camp. “We have less time than we thought. Focus on the essentials. Rattlepelt, Rabbitjoy, Carnationspeckle, start cooking and make sure the fires are lit!”

“The apprentice’s den isn’t ready for the snow,” Puddlepaw called, sticking his head out.

“You’re sleeping in the nursery with the elders then,” Downstar barked. “If the snow will be as strong as Fennelspot says, I don’t trust the shipwreck to keep us warm. Weedfoot, get Oilstripe and Mosskit into the warrior’s den.”

A sudden caterwaul caught the Clan’s attention. It came from the dirt place.

“Tempestkit!” Wildclaw yowled. Shadowdrop, who had been bundling leather pelts at the edge of the warrior’s den, bolted past Downstar. Downstar and Weedfoot joined him in the race to the dirtplace.

When the trio turned the corner, Trumpetkit’s tiny teeth were buried in Wildclaw’s leg. The tip of Tempestkit’s tail slipped through the thorns that covered the top of the rocks, keeping the dirtplace separate from the rest of the world. Oilstripe had Trumpetkit by the scruff and finally pulled her off.

“Tempestkit, get back here right now!” Shadowdrop roared. He soared onto the rocky border, but the hole in the thorn wall was only big enough for a kit; Shadowdrop stuck his paw through and frantically waved about, but Downstar could see Tempestkit’s fluffy pelt streaking toward the forest, snowflakes catching on her black fur.

“Trumpetkit, what are you doing?” Oilstripe snapped, throwing Trumpetkit down. “That’s your aunt!” 

“You nearly drew blood!” Wildclaw groaned, licking her back leg.

“Tempestkit wanted to go on an adventure like Aunt Duskkit did when she was our age,” Trumpetkit whined. She sunk into the sand, big golden eyes bouncing between each panicked adult. “She said if I distracted Aunt Wildclaw, she’d bring me back a gift!”

“During a blizzard?” Weedfoot hissed. She looked between Trumpetkit and Tempestkit’s hole in the wall. Shadowdrop continued to frantically claw at the hole, as though if he stretched far enough, he would snatch Tempestkit’s tail. Shadowdrop screamed and jumped off the rocks.

“You’ve been staying in the den next to the dirt place for moons!” Shadowdrop roared at Oilstripe. “Didn’t you see this hole in the wall?”

“I don’t watch cats use the dirt place, Shadowdrop!” Oilstripe hissed. Downstar had enough of it. She raced back into the main clearing, where the Clan was nervously waiting to hear what happened.

“I want all our codekeepers with me, now!” Downstar yowled. “Tempestkit has run off. We need to bring her back before the blizzard grows.”

“Does that include our apprentices?” Rustshade asked as Mousesong shook out her pelt, ready to go. Downstar nodded. Wasppaw and Puddlepaw hurried to their mentors. Wasppaw stood proud beside Mousesong while Puddlepaw rubbed against his father, searching for answers in James’ face.

“Mom, I’m coming with you.” Shadowdrop ran up beside Downstar, leading the rest of the crowd out of the dirt place.

“No,” Downstar huffed. “Trumpetkit and Mosskit need you.”

“I am coming with you!” Shadowdrop snapped. “She is my daughter, it is my responsibility to look after her.” Downstar hesitated. How responsible could Shadowdrop be when his kits came about from such a selfish act? 

“Oh…” Downstar groaned, jaw tense, “Wildclaw, don’t let the other kits out of your sight!” Wildclaw stood to the side with Trumpetkit and Mosskit, who had stumbled out of the quarantine den. Wildclaw pulled them both close. “Fennelspot, with us! The longer we wait, the further she gets!” Downstar’s patrol formed around her as she hurried out of camp. A cold wind ushered them out as the sky above darkened.

Fennelspot and Mousesong beat the patrol to the other side of camp where the dirt place wall gave way and Tempestkit made her escape. Mousesong sniffed the ground and growled. 

“All I smell is the dirt place,” she said, nose curling.

“She ran that way,” Shadowdrop said, pointing his tail toward the forest.

“Tempestkit!” Wasppaw called. “Tempestkit, it’s cold out here! It’s not that exciting!” Another sharp wind blew in Downstar’s face, sending a barrage of snow into her eyes.

“Pray to our ancestors she has the good sense to turn around,” Downstar growled. “Follow her trail.” 

At their leader’s command, the patrol charged into the growing blizzard, calling Tempestkit’s name.

(Fennelspot: 99, male, cleric, insecure, trusted advisor, incredible runner)

(Downstar: 101, female, leader, adventurous, trusted advisor, very clever)

(Weedfoot: 90, female, deputy, charismatic, steady paws, formidable fighter)

(Wildclaw: 34, female, caretaker, fierce, trusted advisor)

(Puddlepaw: 8, male, codekeeper apprentice, thoughtful, morbid curiosity, oddly observant)

(Trumpetkit: 3, female, kit, nervous, plays in mud)

(Tempestkit: 3, female, kit, troublesome, loves to eat)

(Oilstripe: 46, female, historian, charismatic, ghost speaker)

(Shadowdrop: 34, male, warrior, sneaky, good teacher, eloquent speaker)

(Rustshade: 86, male, codekeeper, sneaky, learner of lore)

(Mousesong: 18, female, codekeeper, loyal, keen eye)

(Wasppaw: 8, male, codekeeper apprentice, strict, interested in clan history, eye for detail)

[Image ID: Shadowdrop, Downstar, and Tempestkit cuddle close as snow falls around them and Downstar says “I will die as many times as I need to keep you both warm.”]

---

Tempestkit shouldn’t have been far. She was still a kit, unfamiliar with the territory. The forest wasn’t thick yet. Tempestkit should have been leaving the scent of the dirt place  in her wake. But as sunset arrived, the snow grew thicker. Downstar’s paws grew numb. And the patrol was no closer to finding Tempestkit than they were when they set off.

Shadowdrop yowled as the thickening blanket of snow under his paws sent him tumbling forward. He smashed his chin against the cold ground. Puddlepaw and Rustshade helped him up. 

“This is ridiculous!” Shadowdrop groaned. “Where could she have gone? How have we not found her yet?”

“It’s the Stormfoots,” Fennelspot gulped. He stared into the harsh blowing snow. “They’re hiding her in their snow. I just know it.”

“They aren’t taking my granddaughter from me,” Downstar hissed. “We keep going. We don’t go home until we find her!”

“The snow’s starting to collect on the ground,” Puddlepaw pointed out. “We’ll start seeing pawprints sooner or later.”

“We don’t even know if we’re still following her,” Mousesong huffed.

“Then we split up,” Rustshade said. He glanced around and added “If you were a kit on an adventure, where might you go?”

“I would go see the river,” Wasppaw said. “I was curious to see it when I was little.”

“You didn’t grow up with stories about your dead mom,” Mousesong grunted. “Wouldn’t you want to see her grave for yourself?”

“Maybe she’s not thinking,” Shadowdrop said, casting a cold eye at Mousesong. “Maybe she just picked a direction and wondered what was out there.”

“Fennelspot, I know what you’re going to say,” Downstar groaned, “but I think we should split up.”

“That is an awful idea!” Fennelspot gasped. “The storm will only get worse. This is the sort of weather that gets cats killed!”

“And my daughter is out there,” Shadowdrop hissed, tail thrashing. “If my mother thinks we should split up, I’m following her.” 

“We don’t know where Tempestkit went,” Downstar reminded the group. “It’s more important to find her and make sure she’s warm than worry about ourselves. This is what we train for.” Wasppaw nodded, gaining a second wind. Mousesong copied her apprentice, tail brushed against his side. 

“Howlingwind, Celestial of snowfall, hear us o Blessed One and repel these Stormfoots from our shores.” Fennelspot squeezed his eyes tight as he prayed.

“Fennelspot, take Wasppaw and Mousesong to the Great Northern River,” Downstar ordered. “Rustshade, Puddlepaw, head south. Shadowdrop and I will continue west.”

“We have to go back to camp when it gets too dark,” Fennelspot huffed. “I mean it, Downstar. We can’t find Tempestkit if we freeze to death.” Downstar stayed silent as the snow tried to tear Fennelspot’s voice away. Shadowdrop curled into himself as he braced against the wind. His eyes met his mother’s. There was a quiet agreement no plea could break.

“Be quick, everyone,” Downstar ordered. “Find her!” Shadowdrop and Downstar joined each other’s side and hurried against the screaming snow. From that moment on, they might as well have been the only cats in the territory.

If the situation wasn’t so dire, Downstar would have thought the storm to be a beautiful thing. Soon the snow would drag the pine branches low and cover the ground in a white blanket that reached Downstar’s chest. But the storm had only been blowing for a short time. When Downstar ran over the snow collecting on the dead grass, she could once again see the grass through her pawprints. The dark trees were dusted rather than smothered. But the lack of thick layers meant nothing when the falling snow tore at Downstar’s eyes. She didn’t feel when her paws hit the ground and her face was ready to fall off. 

Downstar wasn’t sure where they were in the territory. The snowfall turned the world white. Shadowdrop and Downstar scoured each area they found, calling Tempestkit’s name and searching in each little cranny. Sometimes Downstar forgot whether they had searched a certain bush or tree yet and Shadowdrop had to redirect her. She prayed it was her worry clouding her memory and not the freezing fangs of frostbite.

“Pawprints!” Shadowdrop finally shrieked. “I found pawprints!” Downstar had been checking under a large exposed root when Shadowdrop called for her. Sure enough, there was a small trail of kitten sized pawprints emerging from a bush and hiking through the snow.

“Tempestkit!” Downstar yowled, jogging alongside the tracks. Shadowdrop kept his nose to the ground, searching for a scent amidst the churning storm. The wind screamed and knocked Downstar off-balance.  As she steadied her paws, she spotted a large stone jutting out of a gentle slope. A small hole broke through the haze of white that slowly turned black in the coming night. The fading pawprints led straight to it. Downstar shoved Shadowdrop and turned his gaze to the hole.

Downstar and Shadowdrop fought to squeeze inside. From the size of it, the hole may have been a fox den, although if it was, all trace of its creator had vanished. The more concerning feature of the den was the black kitten huddled in the back, shivering so hard Downstar thought she would hurt herself.

“Tempestkit, what were you thinking?” Shadowdrop groaned. He wrapped himself around his daughter. Downstar suddenly realized that between all of Shadowdrop’s new duties and the Clan’s effort to help Tempestkit and her siblings find their place in the Clan, she had never seen him properly curl up with his kits. It seemed natural for him. He’d endured his punishment with dignity, he wanted to be a father. Perhaps Tempestkit noticed that. Perhaps there was more to her misadventure than following in the pawsteps of her long-dead aunt.

“I’m cold,” she whined, pressing into her father’s shoulder. Downstar licked Tempestkit’s fur the wrong way, trying to warm her up. She was so cold, she didn’t feel alive.

“We need to start a fire,” Downstar muttered, glancing out into the storm. The world suddenly turned a deep, unbreakable blue, shifting into dark grays in the snowfall. 

“With what?” Shadowdrop huffed. “Everything is wet. Mom, Tempestkit needs warmth. Come here. Please.” Downstar crawled beside her son and granddaughter. She pressed into both of their dark pelts and tried to pour what little heat remained into them.

“I’m ready to go home now,” Tempestkit muttered into her father’s fur. “I had my fun.”

“I don’t think we can move,” Shadowdrop said. “I… I don’t know where we are.” Downstar pushed her son closer. Shadowdrop nudged Tempestkit between them, giving her the majority of the extra warmth.

“We’ll sleep here tonight,” Downstar sighed. “I’ll keep you both warm.”

“Focus on Tempestkit,” Shadowdrop huffed. “She needs it more.” Downstar wrapped her front paws around Tempestkit, but squirmed closer to her son.

“I will die as many times as I need to keep you both warm,” Downstar promised.

The world screamed her to sleep.

(Shadowdrop: 34, male, warrior, sneaky, good teacher, eloquent speaker)

(Fennelspot: 99, male, cleric, insecure, trusted advisor, incredible runner)

(Downstar: 101, female, leader, adventurous, trusted advisor, very clever)

(Puddlepaw: 8, male, codekeeper apprentice, thoughtful, morbid curiosity, oddly observant)

(Mousesong: 18, female, codekeeper, loyal, keen eye)

(Rustshade: 86, male, codekeeper, sneaky, learner of lore)

(Wasppaw: 8, male, codekeeper apprentice, strict, interested in clan history, eye for detail)

(Tempestkit: 3, female, kit, troublesome, loves to eat)

[Image ID: Fennelspot looks up at smoke in the sky, saying “Everyone, follow the smoke!”]

---

Fennelspot ordered Wasppaw and Mousesong to head back to camp when Wasppaw reported an unshakable chill seeping through his body. Standing beside the freezing river, searching for a missing kit, would only tear apart their skin and hurt them more. They simply had to turn back. Rustshade must have had the same thought, as he and Puddlepaw were already home when Fennelspot’s group returned.

Downstar and Shadowdrop didn’t come home that night.

“Downstar!” Fennelspot yowled, his voice muffled by the thick snow. “Tempestkit!” 

The storm had finally subsided shortly before dawn, leaving the world smothered in snow. As soon as the weather cleared, Weedfoot picked a few well-rested trackers like Scrubmask, Halibutdusk, and Carnationspeckle and sent them back out with Fennelspot to find their missing Clanmates.

“You said they went west?” Carnationspeckle huffed, breath frosting around her as she stood by Fennelspot.

“The storm is over, why aren’t they coming home?” Halibutdusk groaned from his lookout point on a low oak branch. “Shadowdrop! Shadowdrop!” Scrubmask stayed quiet, focused on scenting the air. 

“I’m going ahead,” Fennelspot sighed. “I need to pray. Yowl if you see anything. Downstar’s still alive out there.” That was an indisputable fact. The storm was strong, but not enough to take all of Downstar’s lives. Not yet, at least. Fennelspot had to hide his gaze, however, at the thought of Shadowdrop and Tempestkit. 

The rest of the patrol kept calling out, but Fennelspot found a quiet spot under a pine. The weight of the snow dragged it off the branches, leaving huge, awkward piles around the trunk but bare needles above. The pine sat beside a small opening in the forest canopy, revealing a bright gray sky. Fennelspot closed his eyes. He had to keep his ears sharp. At a time like this, StarClan surely would not stay silent.

A storm within a storm gives the dark a chance to shine. Look to the sky for the call to action.

Fennelspot gasped, eyes fluttering. This was it! The moment of the prophecy! Tempestkit was the storm in the storm! Shadowdrop went to find her, he was the dark. The second half… Fennelspot locked his eyes to the gray clouds. The sky was still.

“I’m looking,” Fennelspot begged softly.

The color of the clouds shifted. A slimmer of darker color slipped into the corner of Fennelspot’s gaze. It rose into the high clouds. The aging cleric realized it wasn’t just another cloud. His eyes could follow the trail back into the trees.

It was a smoke stack.

“The smoke!” Fennelspot yowled. “Everyone, follow the smoke!” He didn’t wait to see if the others head his cry. He ran into the trees, towards where the drifting smoke disappeared. His feet skidded in the fluffy snow and his legs had to push against its weight. As usual, Scrubmask was right behind him.

He saw the fire before he saw Downstar. It was a small fire composed of the barest of essentials. Heavy smoke drifted from the burning branches. Downstar had cleared away the snow around the fire and placed Tempestkit beside the flames. Downstar stared into the fire, unaware of Fennelspot’s arrival.

“Downstar!” Carnationspeckle dove through the snow, snowballs knotting in her leg fur. Downstar snapped out of it as Carnationspeckle wrapped herself around her former mentor. “StarClan, you’re so cold!” Fennelspot focused on Tempestkit. Somehow, the little kit didn’t seem to have frostbite or any major damage from the cold.

“Have you been with her all night?” Fennelspot asked. Downstar nodded softly, her focus returning to the fire.

“Is Shadowdrop still with you?” Scrubmask asked. Downstar did not reply.

“Tempestkit, how do you feel?” Fennelspot asked the young kit.

“Like I’m in a lot of trouble,” Tempestkit gulped.

“We kept her warm,” Downstar muttered. “We kept her warm.” There was a den behind Downstar. Only two sets of paws left the den in the heavy snow.

“Carnationspeckle, care for Tempestkit,” Fennelspot gulped as Halibutdusk finally joined them. 

Fennelspot slipped past Downstar. His nose quivered in the chill. He braced himself and stepped inside. His eyes quickly adjusted to the light. Shadowdrop was still inside. He laid with his back to the exit, curled around cats who were no longer there.

He would not be joining his mother and daughter by the fire.

(Fennelspot: 99, male, cleric, insecure, trusted advisor, incredible runner)

(Carnationspeckle: 44, female, caretaker, compassionate, fish-like swimmer)

(Halibutdusk: 34, male, warrior, gloomy, masterful storyteller, clever)

(Scrubmask: 59, female, warrior, gloomy, fast runner, good hunter)

(Downstar: 101, female, leader, adventurous, trusted advisor, very clever)

(Tempestkit: 3, female, kit, troublesome, loves to eat)

Halibutdusk is grief-stricken at the loss of his brother.

[Image ID: Halibutdusk faces Downstar and Wildclaw. Under Halibutdusk, it says + CONDITION: GRIEVING. Under Downstar, it says LIVES LEFT: 6.]

---

Halibutdusk couldn’t stop wondering; did his mother lose a life first, or did Shadowdrop growing cold push her over the edge? Who left their body first? Whose death resulted in the others? At least Tempestkit survived. At least he had that vague comfort. 

Downstar called Halibutdusk and Wildclaw into her den while Fennelspot prepared Shadowdrop’s vigil. The trio hadn’t talked much since they brought Shadowdrop’s body back to camp. Wildclaw had been busy reuniting Mosskit and Trumpetkit with their wayward sister, Downstar had to make sure the vigil went according to plan, and Halibutdusk… he couldn’t really think.

When the two surviving littermates entered their mother’s den, Downstar paced around her nest. She showed no signs of the cold that stole one of her lives. Halibutdusk shifted awkwardly as he waited for Downstar to speak. Wildclaw beat him to it.

“This is my fault, right?” Wildclaw huffed. “That’s why you called me in here. I let Tempestkit get out of camp, and Shadowdrop died.”

“No,” Downstar growled, clawing the ground at the very thought. “I will never blame you for this.” Wildclaw was stunned into silence. “I didn’t punish Oilstripe for letting Duskkit sneak out all those moons ago. This is more Tempestkit’s fault than your own, and even she’s realized what she did was wrong.” Halibutdusk distinctly remembered Downstar tearing into Oilstripe for letting her adventurous daughter slip around her, but Halibutdusk didn’t have the heart to bring it up. 

“Then what do we do now?” Wildclaw groaned. 

“There’s nothing to do, Wildclaw,” Downstar sighed. She sat in her nest. “We just mourn. I brought you in here because…” Downstar took a deep breath, closing her eyes and collecting her strength. “There is a chance Shadowdrop… might not make it to StarClan.” Halibutdusk didn’t know his heart could fall any further.

“Why not?” Wildclaw hissed, the fur on the back of her neck prickling. “How do you know?”

“Duskkit greeted me in StarClan when I lost my life,” Downstar explained quietly. “She told me Shadowdrop would be put on trial when he entered StarClan for how he handled the situation with Cinderella.”

“We already put him on trial!” Wildclaw snapped with a thrash of her scarred tail. “He’s already been punished! He’s done so much good, he doesn’t—” Wildclaw stopped herself, jaw tight. “I’m going out. I’ll be back for the vigil.” Downstar let her daughter go, leaving Halibutdusk standing alone before his mother. 

Halibutdusk slowly approached his mother. Downstar scooted over. Halibutdusk slipped into the nest beside her. He pressed into his mother’s side.

“They’ll let him into StarClan,” Halibutdusk gulped. “They have to.”

(Halibutdusk: 34, male, warrior, gloomy, masterful storyteller, clever)

(Downstar: 101, female, leader, adventurous, trusted advisor, very clever)

(Wildclaw: 34, female, caretaker, fierce, trusted advisor)

[beaconfeels]

WIP Wednesday

Thank you to the marvelous @lucky-bishop for the tag this week. I’m tagging @clareguilty @nickcharleswife @punchedbymarkesmith and @mirrorthoughts if any of you are working on something you want to share :) Here’s a random snippet from a steter fic I’m working on:

Christmas is bittersweet for Stiles. He loves it, but there’s always an edge of sadness to it too. He supposes it’s probably that way for everyone who has lost people, and even a lot of people who haven’t.

When he was younger, he tried to cover it up with frantic, jolly energy. Dragging his dad or his friends to multiple holiday events, laughing too loud, drinking too much spiked eggnog, and buying extravagant gifts he couldn’t afford for crushes who didn’t appreciate him.

It’s different now. In the past couple years he’s let himself feel it more, and the holiday season has settled down into something less sparkling, but also more genuine.

Right now he’s meandering through the woods with Derek, looking for things to use for a wreath.

Derek’s carrying a big straw basket with a red and green plaid bow on the handle to put things in. It’s adorable. He loves that his alpha is a Christmas nerd, and he loves even more that he’s able to enjoy the holiday again after so many years of pain.

“So, are you and Chris going to do anything over Christmas?” Stiles asks.

Derek’s cheeks immediately flush. He always blushes when Stiles asks about them at all. It’s hilarious.

“Allison is going to hang out with some friends on Christmas Eve so uh, he invited me over.”

“Ooooh Christmas Eve together? That sounds seeeerious,” Stiles teases.

“Do you think so?” Derek asks, looking kind of terrified.

“Would that be a bad thing?”

Derek looks down and smiles a little, cheeks flushing even more red. “I don’t- it would- it’s cool,” he finishes lamely.

Stiles laughs as he picks up a particularly nice pine cone and adds it to the basket. “Hey, I’m happy for you, you know? You deserve it.”

“I like him a lot,” Derek admits, that shy smile growing even as he still refuses to meet Stiles’s eyes.

His alpha is such a marshmallow under all that leather. He loves it.

“Hey, what do you get someone for Christmas who can buy themselves whatever they want?” Stiles asks a few minutes later.

“Thinking about Peter?” Derek asks.

“What? No. I mean. I didn’t say that.”

“Uh huh. Well I think that ‘someone’ would like something personal from you. Something he—I mean ‘they’ since obviously I have no idea who this mysterious person is—couldn’t just buy with money.”

“I take it back. You’re not adorable at all.”

Derek’s eyebrows lift. “You never said that in the first place.”

“Well I thought it,” Stiles says, pouting, “and now I’m taking it back.”

“What a tragedy,” Derek says, “However will I get over it?”

[thehomophobe]

Damn it! Why did this have to happen?!

Your crumpled form wriggled in pain. The fires slowly die down, leaving ashes and darkness. That explosion nearly killed you. Aw, you wished it did; you wouldn't be in pain while those lunatics run around. You tried crawling your way from the facility. Soot choked your lungs, making it harder to breathe. Pieces of shrapnel scratched your skin. Your blood smeared the ground. Everything hurt like hell. Your ribs were definitely broken; had it not been for the cushions you landed, you would've broken your spine.

"C'mon c'mon!" You panicked, "I have to get out of here before they catch me." Your mind shouts, but your body doesn't listen.

Those damn idiots! A simple mission turned into a complete fiasco because of them. Someone thought it would be a bright idea to let an arcanist with an explosive epithet come infiltrate a firearms facility. You ground your teeth. Damn them. Damn them all!

You kept fighting, trying to survive. Prison is the last place you want to be. You rather bleed to death than suffer from a lethal injection. C'mon (Y/N), push. Push harder!

"RRrrrhh.." New wounds were starting to form, blooming onto your skin. The blood trail spread in a perfect road of red. They'll find you. And they'll bring you to the Prison of Radical Arcanists. And the chief would sentence you to your death.

And you'll never fulfill his promise.

"Soren...I'm...sorry..."

The colors started to fade. Everything started to turn hazy and gray. You couldn't feel your legs. Your arms. Your aching back and your sore throat. Every breath cut you like daggers until you couldn't feel yourself inhale anything. Your eyes close in defeat.

"hey..."

"hey...get up..."

"...hello?"

"hello...?"

"wake up!"

"WAKE UP!!!"

You jolt awake. Jeez... whoever was yelling did NOT help with the ringing in your ears. A pounding migraine emerges with your awakening; shit... Your eyes scan the room—the outside area where you are currently lying. Nothing but hard, smooth concrete with occasional patches of grass. Neat shrubs and bushes line the edges of a metal fence. Flowers and vegetables bloom peacefully. A pond with a bubbling waterfall adds serenity to the lot. However, your view is obstructed by a group of people. Expressions of anger, curiosity, and neutrality are present among the group. With you in a kneeling position, everyone stands tall and imposing around you. By your side is a soldier clad in grays and whites. His face is covered by a metal mask with a single thin line that emits a flickering light of emotion.

"Stay down, criminal." The soldier ordered as a heavy hand clutched the back of your head. Once again, your face hits the pavement.

"Hey don't hurt them! They're already bruised enough." Said one woman; the shortest-looking one in pink. Her hair was pure white in a long bob. Hands on her hips made the chain link of candy hearts jingle. Animal print leg warmers, mismatched jewelry, chunky boots with a delicate skirt and sweater, purple eyes with wilted light brows, clearly she's more concerned about your wellbeing than anything.

Unlike the brolick guy next to her.

A rich brown like western coneflowers, the man's form was revealed to the world. All that lies are green jumpsuit pants and combat boots covering his lower half. The rest of the jumpsuit was tied to his waist. Star-shaped sunglasses perched on his head as red eyes stared daggers at you. The guy fiddled with the toothpick in his mouth. "What's the point? We're gonna kill 'em anyways." He rumbled.

"Make it quick. I still have work to do." A woman of smoky quartz growled. She's taller than the other one but shorter than the guy. Arms crossed over a red sports bra. A leather jacket studded with silver spikes and buttons covered her shoulders. Ripped black jean shorts had equally ripped fishnet stockings underneath. She too had defined muscles, which seemed to flex with annoyance. Wild silver hair was contained in a ponytail except for a kinky green strand. Despite all that, she wore heavy makeup. Golden yellow eyes pierced through your soul as if they cut it to shreds.

Standing fearfully with a bit lip, an incredibly tall guy shuffled his feet. He looked like he wanted to protest, but he was afraid to get scolded by his peers. As said before, the guy was tall and lithe. The red balloon pants he was wearing only acted as a distraction. The rest of the outfit consisted of a yellow vest with a golden sun brooch shining in the light over a white collared shirt, blood-red gloves stopping at his arms, and shin-high boots with crooked ends. A red stewardess's hat was tilted over short blonde hair. Through his blue eyes and pale freckled face laid worries.

Next to him stood an equally lithe man. His face appeared incredibly gaunt with a deathly pallor, resembling a ghost or an overworked employee. Navy blue bangs fell in curtains over his eyes while the rest spilled over his clothes. A billowing cloak enveloped his entire body, making him seem more burly than he likely is. Not even his arms or legs are visible, just a mass of deep blues and inky blacks. Through the thin strands of his hair, he glares daggers at your form with blood-red eyes. "Pathetic" was the insult that his face conveyed to you.

"Calm down everyone. We shall make this trial brief for everyone's sake." A calming voice soothes the tension rising in the plot, yet from where you lay you couldn't find the source. It sounded commanding despite the tone, like a father lecturing his children. You tried squirming around but the soldier hovering over you halted your "attempted escape".

"Oi! Quit it you! The leader of the Glam League is speaking. Show some respect!"

"That's enough soldier." The calm voice demanded. The silver soldier obeyed by removing his elbow from your spine and directing you to the voice. Walking along the paved lot, a burly man with a large pilot jacket stretched down to his ankles, sashaying at the ends with each step. A simple but decorous lieutenant uniform with woolen combat boots was his attire for this trial, yet the little stuffed teddy bear linked to his breast pocket made the outfit a little informal. You looked into the calming blue eyes of the commander; you felt safe in them, like a warm hug from a parent. Only if you were born into a different life should you experience that feeling, otherwise, it was a fantasy to you. The commander stopped at the side of his comrades; they all still looked to him for further orders. Their leader hummed, rubbing the scruff of his beard hair as he eyed you.

"So you are the infamous Apprititionist." He stated, "We've heard much about you."

You clicked your teeth. "What do ya wanna know?"

"Ah, but that's your job."

A groan can be heard from one of the members, the coneflower man. "Quit flirting an' let's get this over with." He cracks his knuckles, "I say we kill 'em." His verdict made the shortest girl and the blonde flinch. The silver-haired woman scoffs in disdain.

"Can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm with Monty on this."

"You two are heartless!" Argued the blonde with a hand clutching his aching heart. "Let's at least give him a chance to prove his innocence. He's human, just like us. We shouldn't sentence him yet." The blonde looked at you with a soft gaze and a bright smile. Clearly, this guy has no idea what you've done in the past. And it isn't as simple as robbery. You've gotten yourself knee-deep in filth and blood crusted permanently inside your fingernails. You've killed a man once or twice or dozens of times. It's true what the headlines say: "The Apprititionist, a sociopath, an anarchist, an icon for all arcanist." Many people worship you, as many people fear you and hate you as well. But sometimes, one's man terrorist is another man's freedom fighter; who's to say you're not doing this for you alone? And him. Him too.

"Sun, do you even know what you're talking about? This is the same guy who implanted black smog grenades underneath a hospital." Said the dark sorcerer next to the blonde.

"Still, Moon, this is a trial. Everyone deserves one last chance." The blonde---Sun---smiled at his darker twin. Moon---the sorcerer--glares at his counterpart.

"And a chance is what we'll give him." The burly leader waved a palm to the soldier. The tin man allowed you to rise from the hard pavement to observe the temporary judge properly. "Now before we begin, tell us your name."

"The Apprititionist." You snickered. As if you tell this guy your real name.

"Now, if you keep jesting like this, our judgment may not be as lenient as you would like." The leader chastised like a parent. Too much like a parent. It was starting to get irritating.

"Shut it, fuckwad."

"Oi! That's enough from you." The soldier was ready to knock you out again, but the leader halted the attempted violence. His patience was ungodly, a little scary in your head.

"Violence isn't going to fix things. As this is a trial, we should remain civil and mannerly. From both sides." The leader's blue eyes lowered towards you. They almost looked...sultry. Almost attractive. Now that you mention it, he's sexy as hell. The burliness and brawn of his stature, the way he moves, the sound of his voice...God damn was he fine.

Wait wait wait wait, you can't be thinking about this right now. Your head is on the chopping block.

"Let's start things over." The man clears his throat. "My name is Fredrich Fazuras, the leader of the Glam League." A hand was placed on his chest in chivalry. "And these are my favorable comrades." He gestures to the five other members.

"Chica Satoshi." The short girl waves at you cheerfully like you're the new neighbor from down the road.

"Hi ya! You're a lot shorter in person than I thought." Gee thanks, little bitch.

"Montgomery Blackman." The coneflower man only gruffed at you. You can't blame him, his leader turned this trial into an employee interview.

"Roxanne Willowclaw." The silver-haired woman glared at you.

"Raymond "Sun" Celeste." The blonde smiled and waved.

"And Wayne "Moon" Celeste." The navy-haired man grimaced even more.

"Wow, you guys are a colorful bunch, " you quipped. The soldier hit you on the back of the head. You weren't wrong, though. It seemed everyone had a theme. Fredrich's cool blue eyes looked at you again.

"Go on now, tell us your name." He cooed.

"Why'd you need my name so bad?"

"For your grave once we execute you." Moon---Wayne---said bluntly. His brother gasped and scolded at his unnecessary reaction. Honestly, now that you look at it, he's got a nice face. A nice, punchable face. A really nice...really handsome...punchable face...You're spiraling again (Y/N), get a fucking grip!

"Are we gonna begin the trial or what?!" Said Roxanne.

"Settle down, Roxy. We will begin the trial now," Fredrich said calmly. "Today, the Apprititionist is on trial for numerous crimes against the Federal Arcanum Agency and the human government, including larceny, arson, embezzlement, identity fraud, and, of course, murder." That sounds about right. "While the Supreme Court might give you a more authoritarian trial, we will be lenient with you since you are one of our own," Fredrich concluded his opening speech. "The evidence will be presented shortly."

Suddenly, as if summoned by a wave of his hand, another tin soldier humped over with files in hand. And damn, was it thick. Shit... did you really do that much in the past six months? The leader spread the workload among his peers, scanning through the evidence they had somehow collected while you were off the grid for most of the time. As you watch the members sift through the files, exposing the horrible crimes you've committed, you can't help but gulp. A cold sweat trickles down your skin, slowly falling from your temple to your cheek.

Get your shit together man! A mantra you always shout at yourself to man up. For fuck's sake, get a grip. Your head is on the chopping block, and it doesn't matter that all these guys are kinda hot. Just...stay calm. Everything is gonna be fine. That's what you always said to Soren.

"Illegal arms dealing, racketeering, jaywalking?!" Sun gasped in distress. God this guy was annoying...it didn't help that his expressions were so cute though.

"Shit man, you blew up half of a hospital?" Montgomery raised a brow at you.

"Should've blown up the whole building," Moon stated, earning him a smack upside the head from his brother. You started to wonder what side he was on.

"OK, clearly this guy's a sociopath." Roxanne declared. "Which means he's guilty, so we should kill him."

"Hold on! I didn't give my side of the story yet!" You shouted. You had enough of these so-called authority belittling you without giving you a chance to speak. You gritted your teeth; damn oppressors!

"Fine then, explain why bombing half a hospital is considered good?" Montgomery hissed.

"Ever heard of the Stillclaw? Turns out his visit wasn't for his checkup. That jackass tried to kill the mayor's daughter after her car crash. I was only trying to save her."

"You know you could've taken less drastic measures," Sun advised. "There are better ways to save others than blowing places to smithereens." You rolled your eyes; if only it were that easy. Nowadays, humans are giving you a bad name. You've been abused, mocked and ridiculed by them, all because you're different. That you were born with Arcanum. And not them. In their eyes, an act of fairness was in order, but of course, some people like to take their own drastic ways to even the playing field. The media, the press, the riots and raids. All to find a way to kick you guys out. Some arcanists, like Stillclaw, took the enmity and made himself a villain. While others, like yourself, had tried to erase those lies from the world. But it only made matters worse.

"Look, I might be the bad guy to you all, but I'm just trying to prove a point. You've seen the news: "Wild Arcanists on the Loose. Chaos Roams Through the Streets as They Run About. Human Government Tries to Punish These Lunatics for Their Crimes." I don't know how close you all are to the government, or humans for that matter, but I'm sure, as arcanists, you understand how damaging this looks for us. Our image is being destroyed here, and I'm trying to fix it." You furrowed your brow. "You could kill me if you want, but it won't make you any better than them."

"Spare us the ultimatum. You just said the image of arcanists is being destroyed right? What makes you think you're doing any good? If any, you're making things worse trying to be a hero." Roxanne spat. "It's better if your ugly face was wiped off the planet than them."

"So you think killing uncontrollable arcanists is going to fix things faster? Sheesh, I didn't know you guys hated our kind. I thought you were freedom fighters, not the secret police."

The members' eyes widen at your comment. You know you're right; seeing as these guys are local freedom fighters, they must agree with you. You could hear Fredrich hum, a deep bellowing noise emitted from the burly man.

"You calling us traitors, dickhead?!" Montgomery stomped towards you. Your shit-eating grin fell as he scowled at you. A kick to the face led you to the ground. He kicked your jaw before stomping against your right ear. More hot blood fell from your face. You could feel your jaw shift back and your teeth stinging with pain.

"Monty!"

"Yeah, get his ass!"

The man kept pummeling you to submission; your blood spat around the pavement. You would've used your arcane skill if it was for the cuffs."Monty, that's enough!" Once again, you were saved by Fredrich's command. Monty stopped his curb-stomping, clicking his teeth before spitting on you. "Perhaps...he has a point."

"WHAT?!"

"Freddy, are you serious?!"

"You want to keep a criminal alive?!

"Settle down everyone. I have my reasons." The burly man calmed his peers. "What this arcanist may or may not have done is deemed unethical and immoral, as it breaks the social contract, but he is right; this execution would only prove their point. Our kind are not monsters or rabid animals."

"The press says otherwise." Moon hissed.

"While the news may be run by humans, there are other, arcanist-led media derivatives, besides UTTU. And it does seem to give arcanists a sense of acceptance in this world. We've been interviewed and reported countless times. The Glam League has become a symbol of hope among our kind and a sign of change among humans. Chica, you've seen our friends from the downtown district."

"Oh yeah, Donna and Mrs. Cherryvine. And the triplets from down the road." Chica's eyes lit up.

"Yes, all of them." Fredrich smiled. "And there's more of them out there, fighting and celebrating us."

"Alright alright we get it, not everybody hates us. That still doesn't prove this guy innocent." Monty huffed. "Who's to say he's not gonna blow this place up?"

"Which is why I suggest instead of an execution," Fredrich turned to you, "we should hire you, Apprititionist."

"Hire? ME?" You bug-eyed. It ain't an execution, but you didn't feel like getting a job today. You always worked better alone in an open setting where no one oppresses or suppresses you as some bosses do. It's exactly why you couldn't get a job; living in a dingy apartment isn't that bad though. You're friends with the landlord, meaning you get free access to a small studio apartment filled with black mold and a free pet rat named Harriet. Your job was freedom fighter and activist. Not corporate arcanist for hire. "Sorry Fredbear, but I ain't for hire. I'm a free man, not a money-hunger bum."

"Oh, I know. You seemed like someone who wouldn't be here for the money. I believe an example of a transformed arcanist would help promote our cause."

"If you wanted an ad, buy a billboard. They're just them anywhere nowadays."

Fredrich only chuckled at your quip. "Well then, I guess we'll let you go then. I'll go on and have someone dismantle the room we built for you. It would be such a waste though."

Your eye twitched. Damn it...Well, guess a...free place to stay with food and running water ain't so bad. "All I gotta do is be nice an' shit?" You clicked your teeth. "Fine by me."

"Excellent." Fredrich smiled before heading inside the building. Before you continue to follow him, he stops and turns back to you. "Welcome, (Y/N) (L/N), to the Glam League Headquarters.

[duncanor]

WAIT PLEASE CONTINUE TALKING ABOUT THE LEGATO BDSM AESTHETIC FROM THOSE TAGS IM SO DEEPLY INTERESTED (I care legato so much)

First off, I’m truly sorry for how long I took to answer ya. I often forget I even got an Ask-box ahah!

As to my opinion on why “The Leather/BDSM-like aesthetic is important to Legato’s character”...

I know my original post was a bit vague but it’s truly less about how “cool” he looks, and more about the symbolism of it. Legato outfit is outwardly menacing. It's a silent threat. Similar to those birds who evolve to have brighter colors to warn off predators.

And sure the metal skull looks sick, but it isn't as bone chilling (ah-ah). When he's first introduced, everything just Stop so you can take it in the Danger reeking from him. He’s bound by leather straps, got giant metal spikes coming out of his shoulder like some sort of fucked up pauldron, as well as bits of a real human skull directly sewn into the hard leather of his coat.

(Adding to that my UNPROVEN suspicions that the skull belongs to Legato’s abuser..)

And that’s just his outfit. He’s surrounded by similar things. His weapon is truly the less subtle example of this.

A mix of different truly lethal weapons in the form of an Iron-maiden/sex-toy/stress-Toy. The face of the weapon bound in leather with only one of her eyes being visible. (similar to how Legato usually only got one eye visible because of his hair).

It’s blatant and disturbing. It’s depraved Flesh and deadly Metal.

Then, he gets his spine broken by Knives. And where does that put him?

In a metal sarcophagus pretty similar to (once again) an Iron-maiden. He stays there for the most of the story. Bound to it, stuck, mangled. Yet he’s still as terrifying as ever if not more. Sometimes portrayed similarly to a butterfly cocoon, waiting to hatch and release something more powerful..

And finally, his resident-evil goons.

They aren’t really interesting nor are they developed as anything more than Legato’s barely human servants. They got no dialog, no personality, no free will.. Nothing but an imposing mass of flesh in hard leather binding them, blinding them. They look like they come straight from an Hellraiser movie.

Even Legato’s powers themselves are a manifestation of his trauma. They’re metal wire used to fully control bodies against the will of their owner. Making them slaves and most often than not leaving them as a mass of mangled flesh.

Even Legato’s name itself meaning “bound” in Italian. (Thanks to @jackalandhare for this information btw)

In conclusion,

Legato's whole aesthetic reeks of his trauma. It's suffocating, eerie, menacing and binding in seemingly debilitating ways at times, as well as kinda sexual in undertones. It’s Legato abuse and pain on display. And I think all of these details, this aesthetic is a big insight on Legato Bluesummers as a person and what he went and is going through.

HOWEVER, that is not to say Stampede approach will be uninteresting! The symbolism is still strong with Orange. They tend to channel it through a more solid World Building.

We know they planned to add lore on colored hair in link with sexual slavery. And the design of the metal skull as well as his arm, probably implies some sort of body modification more similar to the other Eye of Michael experiments.

I just think it’s a bit unlucky that the change in aesthetic made us lose this much symbolism wise..

[tab00-t33f]

Holiday headcanons (Dio’s Deck x Reader)

Disclaimer: Alessi is missing simply for the fact that he gives me the heebie-jeebies, I’m (really not) sorry Alessi lovers, but I cannot match yall’s freak. Ever.

—————————

Steely Dan

What You Receive: Something flashy and expensive (but likely stolen), like a designer handbag, a diamond bracelet, or anything that screams “I spent money on this!” (even if he didn’t).

What You Gift Him: A stylish leather jacket. He appreciates anything that makes him look prettier, though he’ll never outright say thank you.

Holiday Activities: Steely Dan is the guy who “forgets” to help decorate but takes credit for the results. He’ll try to charm you with mistletoe and sneak kisses while subtly hinting he expects you to spoil him.

—————————

Daniel J. Darby (Elder Darby)

What You Receive: A rare collectible—perhaps a vintage card or figurine he “legitimately” acquired. He’ll smugly explain its rarity and value to impress you.

What You Gift Him: A deck of high-end playing cards or a set of poker chips with a custom design. He’ll consider it a worthy addition to his collection and might even smile.

Holiday Activities: A quiet evening by the fire, playing card games where he tries to teach you strategy (and maybe subtly hustle you). He’ll pull out his favorite vintage wine for the occasion.

—————————

Telence T. Darby (Younger Darby)

What You Receive: A custom gaming console or controller in your favorite color, loaded with games he’s convinced you’ll enjoy (or at least ones he can win).

What You Gift Him: A limited-edition game or memorabilia from his favorite series. He’ll light up like a kid and immediately add it to his shelf of prized possessions.

Holiday Activities: An all-night gaming marathon, complete with snacks and competitive banter. He’ll let you win a couple of rounds but will smugly dominate overall.

—————————

Hol Horse

What You Receive: Something thoughtful but slightly chaotic, like a cowboy hat in your size or a hand-tooled leather belt. He genuinely wants to impress you but doesn’t overthink it.

What You Gift Him: A polished gun holster or a bolo tie that matches his aesthetic. He’ll grin ear to ear and immediately show it off.

Holiday Activities: Hol Horse is all about having fun—he’ll drag you to a lively holiday party full of spiked eggnog and dancing. Later, he’ll promise to lasso you a star (and mean it, in his way).

—————————

Rubber Soul

What You Receive: Something flashy but ultimately cheap—like a knockoff designer accessory he swears is worth a fortune. When you inevitably call him out, he’ll fumble with excuses and promise to get you something better… eventually.

What You Gift Him: A quirky or novelty item, like a loud graphic sweater or a custom mug with a cheeky slogan. He’ll laugh it off at first but secretly love it and use it more than he’ll admit.

Holiday Activities: He’ll overpromise on his plans —then spend most of it messing things up in increasingly ridiculous ways. Expect chaotic decoration attempts, and him scrambling to fix things when they inevitably fall apart. Despite the mayhem, he genuinely wants you to have a good time, even if it means you laughing at his expense

—————————

Oingo

What You Receive: A hilariously bad handmade gift (like a poorly drawn portrait of you), followed by something he actually bought, like your favorite snacks or trinkets.

What You Gift Him: A new sketchbook to help with his disguises. He’ll be genuinely touched and swear to use it well (though results may vary).

Holiday Activities: Oingo loves pulling off goofy surprises, like sneaking silly decorations into the tree. He’ll want to watch movies and create a lighthearted, comedic holiday vibe.

—————————

Mariah

What You Receive: Something sleek and trendy, like high-end headphones or a designer accessory. Mariah has excellent taste and makes sure your gift is both stylish and practical.

What You Gift Her: A bold necklace or earrings to complement her aesthetic. She loves statement pieces and will proudly show them off.

Holiday Activities: Mariah enjoys luxury, so expect a spa day or shopping spree as part of your celebration. Later, she’ll share drinks and laughs with you under the twinkling holiday lights.

—————————

N’Doul

What You Receive: A carefully chosen piece of handmade jewelry, like a bracelet or pendant, crafted from materials with unique textures or natural elements. He doesn’t need to see you to know exactly what you’d love.

What You Gift Him: Something practical or sensory-focused, like a high-quality scarf or scented candles. He’ll quietly appreciate it and keep it close.

Holiday Activities: He prefers quiet, intimate moments—listening to music, sharing stories, or simply enjoying your presence. While he isn’t one for traditional festivities, he makes the effort to show he cares in his own understated way.

[the-kr8tor]

Dunno if this would go into anarchy but I was doing a brief read on punk culture and the DIY ethic so in my opinion it still counts>:) (My excuse for Hobie helping the girls make their own accessories) Daily Hobie HC! Week two, day six You watch from the kitchen, as you cut up some fruits and slid them into bowls, Hobie giving the girls their own experimental cloths. He was teaching them how to pierce with spikes, sew, simple embroidery, and much more to personally design their own clothes as they liked. A warm sense of deja vu washes over you as you remember your own cloth, the one which Hobie had given you when you was teaching you how to personally design clothes just in case, and you never even once dismissed that memory in your mind. It always came in handy, especially when you learned that Hobie preferred handmade gifts, though anything from you? He was happy with. Hobie meets your fond gaze with his own, helping Ramona out with holding out her cloth while she slowly pierced the needle through and pulled it until the knot hit the bottom. From then, Hobie guided Ramona loosely to make a simple cat face with the thread. Billie watched closely as Ramona poked the needle through and pulling the thread along, copying her. Hobie watched his girls closely, his attention going towards you as you begin to walk into the living room with the three fruit bowls. You placed one down to Hobie, and the two down next to Billie and Ramona. Before you could go, Hobie stopped you with the gentle tug of your sleeve, beckoning you to come stay and teach with him. You couldn't even begin to try to say no as he gives you the iconic puppy eyes, and sat down next to him Hobie smiled warmly as you leaned into him with the bowl of fruit in your lap, his large palms gently rubbing your back, pinching your side playfully every time he caught you stealing his blueberries from the bowl. After experimenting was finished, it was time to move onto the real thing. Billie and Ramona had gotten some plain coloured shirts to design to their own personal liking. Hobie and you watched over them as they planned out what will go where and what to add, making sure that the girls don't hurt themselves while using the equipment. Everything was going calmly until you hear Ramona, who both you and Hobie were convinced that she was a more calm and quiet angel until this point, turn to her sister with 'we should totally sew 'fuck the cops' into them like Dad'. Billie enthusiastically agreed while Hobie coughed from choking on his own saliva, probably causing an earthquake somewhere with how aggressive it sounded, and you bursting into laughter, falling into him. Hobie stared at the two kids, murmuring a 'no swearing, kiddos' before managing to convince them to not sew that into their clothes for the sake of their safety in the world. Instead, Hobie managed to satiate his spawnlings with some spare patches he found, allowing them to pick which ones they liked and sew them into their clothes. Both Billie and Ramona were spiky enthusiasts, clearly getting inspiration from Hobie's iconic leather vest, however Ramona had spent more time embroidering designs and some patches while Billie adding some rips and frays to the bottom of her shirt and edges of her sleeves. After a few hours, Billie and Ramona finally finished their shirts, and until they held them up, Hobie hadn't realized that they were matching. Ramona's shirt was also ripped at the bottom and the edges of sleeves, with the embroidery being a 'devil horned' hand gesture that referencing was obviously used. However, the girls did the embroidering in such a way that the thumbs being curled upwards came into a heart when the shirts were closer together. Hobie couldn't help but feel a sense of pride rush over him as he hugged the two girls close, excited at the entire of having Billie and Ramona give you a little fashion show with their new clothes when you woke up from your unexpected nap on the couch. -🐦‍⬛

Yeess diy is very much a part of it since you don't participate in capitalism and consuming unethically made things

Daily Hobie HC ❤️❤️❤️

Ahhh yes the asian way of saying 'i love you' by cutting up fruit and giving it to you 😆

Iwhxjwdhhwjd HOBIE IS SLOWLY PASSING DOWN HIS SKILLS TO HIS FAMILY 🥹🥹🥹 R being taught by Hobie before they had the girls is peak romance it's such a great detail

Awwww they're having fun and experimenting with designs!!!! Hobie is having a lot of fun too I bet (after the small sobs from either girl after getting poked by a needle)

BAHAHAHAHHA billie and mona didn't hold back 😂

Spawnlings 🤣🤣🤣

THE HEARTS THAT ONLY SHOW UP WHEN IT'S PUT TOGETHER 😭😭😭😭 MY GIRLS THEY'RE SO SWEET 🥹 the shirts are so cute 🥰

[dullgecko]

Heyo so u wanted to come if on anon for a while now but also wanted to have another headcanon or idea to share when I do, but I think I’m pretty taped out for new ideas.

Anyway here I am surprise 🎉

I still regularly check out your page and I always enjoy seeing the new posts and responses plus any updates to the chaos horde au.

Also I know I said I’m out of things to share at this moment but I did have one small thing for my new favourite of Tiktik;

I remember a post about goblins having very strong opinions on fashion and the idea that once they find a look they like they stick with it and go full force with it.

So Tiktik decides to stay in elmville for a while just to visit the gang, particular her pretty cleric and see how they just generally live their lives etc.

Part of this is going to a mall or clothing store to get her solace appropriate clothing. My initial thought was to Tiktik was going full goth mode since she’s used to wearing dark clothing anyway like most goblins do to blend in with shadows and night and I imagine her loving the intricate shiny jewellery, studs and spikes she can add.

But then I thought hang on, for the first time in her life she doesn’t have to worry about camouflage or standing out to much or she’ll possibly be eaten, and now has access unlimited to all these new and exciting clothes (Fabian offered to buy her anything she wanted and get it tailored to her size later, he claims it’s just a welcome gift but secretly it’s more of a thank you for helping get me and Riz together gift).

So she goes for the brightest most gaudy clothes she can find, I’m talking rainbow leggings, several different kinds of bright plastic bracelets on each arm and necklaces along with the loudest patterned shirts and skirt/shorts anyone’s ever seen.

She comes out of the dressing room and while everyone saw the clothes she picked out it’s still a shock to actually see it all together and before anyone can say anything to try and talk her out of her fashion choices, Kristen does her best impression of a suggestive/impressed goblin growl genuinely finding the outfit she’s wearing to be HOT (she wears tie dye and a yellow tracksuit, her fashion sense aren’t the best).

Also thing honestly was only meant to be a small thing but it kinda got away from me 😅

Xx

God i love it so much but also AHHH HI <3

The goblins up in the mountains actually have fairly nice clothing. They might not have cotton, but they have a kind of silk harvested from creatures they farm in the darkness of their caves. Very strong and rip-proof so it can withstand their claws and it feels wonderful against your skin. Adventurers used to find bolts of the silk in goblin caves and attributed it to them stealing it from elven settlements.

The stereotype of a goblin wearing threadbare rags is only because adventurers were constantly encountering them after destroying their homes and trying to exterminate them. Textile arts take time and if you're constantly running for your life and moving you dont have time to make any new outfits. It gets put on the backburner even more so if your species doesnt have much of a taboo about nudity.

Its almost always dyed mostly greens and dark browns so their camoflage doesnt get disrupted too badly but it's all tailored to fit well, and tight, so it doesnt get snagged on anything.

Other than the silks they'll usually also have leather clothing. There's plenty of it to go around since they hunt for 99% of their food so its usually what smaller kits wear since they'll grow out of it fast.

Tiktik comes to Solace and there's just SO MANY different fabrics and colours, so she spends hours just wandering around a store running her hands over things to test how they feel (some of the textures are repulsive and Riz agrees). She finds some stuff she likes and goes a little wild on the colour choices ands up stepping out of the changing room and its just like

Riz is kindof glad he's wearing light-filtering glasses.

[nethhiri]

1(food),10(object),4(appearance) for killer or kid or both

I’ve been falling behind on the kid/killer/reader series but hopefully I’ll have more time to read soon! : D

You are gonna be in for a treat when you have time to catch up! 😁

What flavor would your character say their personality is?

Kid:

Spicy! Like a crazy hot pepper.

Killer:

Savory and perhaps a bit umami. Like a juicy meatball.

Is there a type of object your character doesn’t like?

Kid:

Anything that isn't metal because it inconveniences him.

Rusty tools. If something in his workshop has even the smallest speck of rust because someone improperly put it away or left it in the rain, god help them.

Killer:

Flat irons. First of all, the heat is very damaging. Second of all, Kid has burned him by accident way too many times.

Pre-made dough/noodles. What's the point of cooking if you aren't going to make it from scratch?

Does your character have a favorite material they like to wear?

Kid:

Anything that adds texture to the outfit: feathers, fur, leather, studs, spikes, etc.

Metal for obvious reasons, but also because he likes the cool metal against his skin when it shifts.

Killer:

Good old-fashioned cotton. Breathable. Sweat-wicking. Soft. Practical.

Loves denim. It brings out the blue in his eyes. Not that you can tell.

[ink-flavored]

ask game ask game! 🐙🧠👩‍💻

thank you! gonna do P&J since it's what I've worked on most recently

🐙 share a snippet where the character is being a brat/smartass

Envy narrowed her eyes, ashy smoke pouring over her flawless platinum curls. “Listen, I didn’t come here to bitch, but I’m great at it.” “Oh, please,” Pride scoffed. “I can bitch way better than you. I’m the bitchiest. I can bitch you in circles. Bitch.”

I used to have a joke about "the Bitch King of Angmar" in there before I realized Pride wouldn't know what Lord of the Rings is.

🧠 share a snippet where the character realizes something important

“I also have a good time goading people into public arguments. Come on, you knew who you were inviting.” “I know, I guess I…” Justice leaned against the wall, brow furrowed. “I was trying to prove something to myself.” “Like what?” He didn’t answer right away, picking at his nails. “I know you don’t want a relationship with God,” he said, slow and deliberate, “and that’s fine. I would never ask you to. But I don’t think that means you have to be abandoned by me—by us. We can still get along, we don’t have to be separate to coexist. Does that make sense?” Pride worked his jaw for a second or two. “Not really.” Justice slumped, wearing a resigned smile, and he rushed to add, “But thanks. You know. For trying.”'

Pride realizing people care about him for real <3

👩‍💻 share a snippet that you worked on for a long time or struggled with

Problem is that most P&J things I have written are in a partial state of completion—but here's the most recent thing I've written that I've wanted to write for a long time but for some reason just didn't until like last night lmao

Pride rolled the offered cigarette between his lips, letting his lack of lungs make up for the fact that he didn’t know what to do with it. The woman slouched back, sighing a cloud of smoke, and carded a hand through her short, electric blue hair. He inspected her a little more, up close and personal with a human he didn’t immediately despise for the first time. Sitting next to her, the blunted tips of spikes on her the shoulders of her jacket came into view. All the colors and odd shapes were patches sewn into the leather. A flag with rainbow stripes sat on top of her shoulder. Another flag on the opposite shoulder had pink, blue, and white stripes. A small white circle on her chest read SHE/THEY in black thread. He scanned the collection of patches he could see—ACAB, read one. NAZI PUNKS FUCK OFF, read another. PROTECT TRANS KIDS, “QUEER” AS IN “FUCK YOU”, symbols with arrows, fists, and a large “A” in a circle. Pride had only the vaguest idea what any of it meant. “What?” she asked, guarded. “Nothing,” Pride replied. He tried to copy her, blowing a cloud of smoke. “I like your jacket.” Whatever she’d been guarding behind her intensity, it melted away. “Thanks. I made it myself.” “All of it?” “Most of it—basically anything with a picture I had a friend help me with, I can’t draw for shit.” She pointed to the patch with the drawing of a fist, raised to the sky. Pride nodded along. “Cool.” “Yeah, thanks.” She stuck out a hand suddenly. “I don’t think I ever got your name. I’m Olivia, friends call me Ollie.” He took the hand to shake. “Pride.” It must have been a weird thing to say. Olivia gave him a funny look. “’Pride’ like—” “Like the sin.”

[send me a snippet ask]

[deathfavor]

@ashrifts said: 😊 (let ran put some makeup on izana 🩷)

send 😊 for my muse's reaction to yours holding their face for some reason BONUS: ADD DETAILS & WHY

It is an honor to be allowed to lay hand upon the king. Should the wrong person attempt it, it would be a mercy to merely have all the bones in their hands crushed. Ran, however, is allowed such an honor without the need to fear retribution.

It does, admittedly, feel a bit silly with his head between Ran's hands. Lily white eyelashes flutter at the warmth that seeps from his palms, and it threatens to stir something awake that he'd long crushed under his heel like all of the people who stood in way. ( Izana stood a king among the people , untouched and far from anyone's reach , warmth forgotten in winter's frigid blizzards that he used to protect himself. To feel it now is strange. ) Wisteria eyes focus on Ran, a simple smile painted upon his face. Anyone who didn't know might think him something delicate and fragile. ( He feels like he must look like that in Ran's hands ). He remembered the snickers when entering juvie, the comments on how pretty and delicate he looked, and how quickly superiority others had felt turned to fear under him. But Ran knows better, they all know better, even when the king allows them closer. The warmth is nice.

" Ran. " Izana interrupts Ran's commentary on different looks they could go for considering the lace and leather outfit that Izana has gone for tonight. His voice doesn't raise, he isn't upset. Instead, he allows a rare, single note of genuinely soft laughter to leave his lips. Not mocking, not cruel, not cold, but warm. It is something to ease any concern that his interruption might have caused to spike. " I trust your judgement. " This is far more Ran's territory than it is his.

He lifts one hand to gently rest it against the back of Ran's left hand as it cradles his face. " Do what you think would look best in your opinion. " His touch lingers before he returns his own hand to his lap. " You know what you're doing. I'll allow it. My accessories as well you have free reign over. " It is a small act and yet the gesture is enormous - more so that even Izana himself consciously realizes. For a man who demands control of everything with bared fangs and vicious relentlessness, he now hands it to Ran without demand or constraints. As if it were natural when it is anything but to him.

[matoitech]

HELLO for the one character design ask thing: glance, motion, canvas, bling, and favorite for elle!! ALSO not exactly one of the asks but for your ocs in bands: how do they dress onstage vs day-to-day?? :0

HI YIPPEE ELLE QUESTIONS! also that band one is rly interesting.. lemme do elle first

glance: At first glance, what stands out most about your OC's appearance? What's their distinguishing feature?

good question.. maybe her thick facial stripes? she has very fluffy cheeks and i like her hair too so maybe that. she has a kind of sleepy looking face

motion: How does your OC move? How does their clothing help or hinder their range of motion? Are they flexible, coordinated, clumsy?

she tends to 'stroll' would be the best way to describe her slower gait i think, or 'stride' and move with purpose! she leads with her shoulders and has heavy footing i think. not particularly coordinated but not super clumsy, her only flexibility comes from doing stretches pre workout and her arms/fingers/wrists move easily from being a musician playing bass. i dont know if her clothes rly help or hinder her range of motion she just wears like normal person clothes. they might seem kind of constricting to blue if he tried something like a button-up (he hates buttons) but their styles dont rly match up theyre both masculine in different ways

canvas: Does your OC have any scars, piercings, tattoos, or other markings? Do they display or cover them up at all?

she probably does have scars here and there just from living life but i wouldnt specify them on a ref sheet or really add them in drawings i think, but she doesnt have tats or piercings atm. she likes the look of them she just isnt really interested in them for herself. i think if she did get tattoos she wouldnt care about displaying or covering them she's just walking around

bling: What jewelry does your OC wear? Does it have any meaning?

she doesnt usually wear jewelry she'd probably just motion to her hearing aids and say they count. she may wear rings sometimes but likely not anything else. sometimes she might borrow or wear blue's dog tags (that can signal MANY different things in their relationship or lack thereof at the time)

favorite: Does your OC have a favorite article of clothing or accessory? What is it? What's the meaning behind it? Do they wear it all the time or do they wear it sparingly to keep it safe?

shes probably got cool work boots she likes that she wears constantly! she also wears cowboy hats sometimes so shes probably got some favorites she got in texas she keeps with her. i dont think she wears them a lot though

---

now for the other question, how my ocs in bands dress onstage vs day-to-day.. its a good question i think it rly just depends! ill go thru them tho.. its mostly blues band with a couple other ocs tossed in there, not all my musicians but not all of them perform on stage and also quite a few of them r newer characters or r going thru design changes so it might not stick if i did include them anyway

blue: it does depend on the show but typically i do think he dresses up more on stage but its mostly in like leather harnesses and spiked wristbands and stuff, maybe more of his piercings in and necklaces, tail bands and stuff. underneath maybe shirtless or in a tank top/black t (that he'll probably throw off at some point) with leather pants maybe, shoes that r comfortable to run around on stage for a few hours in. at home hes just in like a tank top and sweatpants lol. he is not dressing up at home. archetypal masc fits

elle [blues band]: she dresses slightly punkier (wristbands or jewelry maybe) or leans into her country roots more on stage than just day-to-day where she probably wears button ups or something. i could see her dressing kind of like an old southern man ngl lol

dakota [blues band]: ive been struggling w their clothing style at ALL tbh at first i thought i wanted smth more feminine for them then i leaned more masc at the moment im thinking maybe like goth-y punk-y emo androgynous SPECIFICALLY the kind of androgynous associated with that scene. on stage probably lots of black and layers, spiked collar and maybe a leash, etc. dakotas fur color palette is pretty grayscale so i think they lean into that with a lot of black outfits, maybe with splashes of electric blue like their eyes. probably that teal harness sometimes i drew them in on their th

malani [blues band]: shes goth as fuck and she loves skulls i honestly dont think her style changes that much i think she dresses up in her full goth getup to go to the grocery store. shes probably careful about her jewelry on stage tho bcuz shes the drummer and doesnt want her shit to go flying off or tangling with anything when she gets into it

kaisa [blues band]: kaisa probably leans punkier during shows than she does in her general life but not too hard, she likes green too much to commit to an all black ensemble and their music also doesnt like, require that anyway lol. she might wear camo or something on stage more than in her daily life. she likes layering her clothes but doesnt as much during shows cuzit gets WAY too hot

cain: he leans a lot more 'hardcore' in his shows than he does inhis daily life hes giving like hard fem black spikes tall boots but i have no idea what he wears in his daily life his whole thing is being a mystery. he IS fem in his daily life too but he leans into it strongly and in a VERY specific way with how he comes off to the public and how hes decided to take control of being perceived

griff: honestly probably dresses wilder in his daily life than he can at shows but i know his ass is going crazy at his shows too. he is all about the performance and his stage name should probably be icarus. maybei should change it.. it would be on the nose but i dont think it would be the way he'd view himself or name himself at all so

damn those were the only ones.. i always think i have so many musician ocs that perform but i guess i DO have an excuse to make more.. -> doesnt look at the characters that just need design changes n stuff

[petrifiedcrange]

Izzy got caught in the side during their last raid — not a big deal. As it turned out later, the cut required stitches but wasn't very deep and didn't seem to damage anything so Izzy clenched his teeth and rushed right back into the very thick of the fight, just in time to kill some bugger who'd tried to have the drop on Blackbeard because some other fucker managed to slam something heavy into his bad knee, distracting him, and then, after the fight died down, saw to it that the whole crew came back to the ship, the injured were tended to, the loot deposited safe down in the hold and Edward laid up in his quarters with his knee supported and a hearty dose of laundanum in reach for the pain. And then, Izzy went down to his own cabin and had a look at the wound in his side, quickly stitched and bandaged it, and went back up to deck because there was work to be done, ignoring the pain still radiating from his side.

He'd pushed through another three days, despite the fact that the pain didn't seem to abate in the slightest until it became to sort of... go numb, which Izzy knew to be not a good sign, but their ship was damaged in the raid so there were minor repairs to be overseen, which had to be done as soon as possible so they could move on, not to mention the matter of appraising loot and other regular duties of the first mate to be fulfilled.

On the third night, he started to feel feverish but that was also the night Edward's bad knee, now also fucked up in the raid, flared up and he ended up spending the majority of it by his side, massaging his knee and humming lullabies and other melodies that came to mind in hope it would soothe Ed enough that he'd be able to have some rest. Returning to his own little cabin in the wee hours of the morning, Izzy examined the wound, noting with a lack of concern that should have worried him if he wasn't so bloody tired that it did, indeed, get infected, cleaned it as best as he could, applied fresh bandages and fell into uneasy sleep for about an hour or so, which, upon waking, actually made him feel even more wrung out.

But the last straw to his endurance came unexpectedly when he emerged from below deck ( even though wearing black leather under Carribean sun wasn't particularly comfortable on a regular day, and add to that the fact that he was already overheated from the fever... he felt like hell, literally more than metaphorically ) with a cup of coffee, eternally gratefully they had some of that stuff left, to greet the day and make sure everyone was doing what they were supposed to be doing only to overhear one of the strong guys they picked from the raided crew so the repairs would be done quicker and easier trash talk Edward and say some other things... Izzy knew a mutiny in the making when he heard one – after all, he was at Edward's side when he led the mutiny against their previous cap... Izzy couldn't even bring himself to call him that, Hornigold – so, without much preamble, he killed the man right there on the deck, making sure everyone knew just why the fucker was run through by their first mate's sword... and right when he was pulling the sword out, Izzy felt wet warmth suddenly bloom beneath his shirt and half-numb pain spike sluggishly and knew that he must have torn the stitches, reopened the wound.

It was worth it, though, he thought even as his vision blurred and darkened around the edges, as the sword fell from his suddenly clumsy fingers ( and that was the most concerning sign of how poorly he felt of all, because Israel Hands would never let his sword touch the deck, he cared about it too much ), as the deck tilted in his mind and he swayed, barely catching himself on the rail to stop himself from going overboard, his other hand coming up to lay against the wound but barely applying any pressure, as his ears rang and he felt like he might throw up but then a voice addressed him – the voice he would recognise as Edward's even at death's door, even though he couldn't decipher the words spoken – and he started turning towards his captain to ask him to repeat what he said, to explain what happened, why he killed that bastard, but the moment he opened his mouth to speak and let go of the rail to turn fully towards his captain, his vision darkened out and consciousness finally fled.

[ OPEN for Ed, set about a year or two after the mutiny, so they already settled into their new life but Edward is still far from being bored of how things are going ]