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

[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!

[gabessquishytum]

Even though dreamling’s together now, having reunited after 33 years and exchanged all their apologies and explanations and confessions of feelings, Hob still occasionally dreams about the missed 1989 meeting, of waiting and waiting and losing hope but still determined to continue waiting rather than risk missing him. It’s not quite a nightmare per se, as it mostly just leaves Hob feeling a little sad upon waking.

When Dream discovers this semi-reoccurring dream, he’s very tempted to simply banish it, until he’s suddenly struck with the notion of replacing it with something more pleasing and enjoyable…

So the next time Hob dreams of 1989, he’s not left waiting for long before a full 80s goth Dream marches in and immediately climbs into Hob’s lap, kissing the daylights out of him. He then proceeds to sit on his cock and ride him for dear life, right there in the middle of the crowded White Horse.

Hob wakes the next morning laughing and crying a little at the gesture, and agrees that it’s a much better version of the dream, though it should probably be repeated a few more times to ensure that it thoroughly replaces the old memory.

-🪽anon

This is so very sweet 🥺🥺 I love the way Dream would fully understand the importance of the dream, and not simply try to erase it. He just wants to help Hob deal with the memory in a more comforting way that is reflective of their current circumstances <3

Hob has definitely fantasised about what Dream would've looked like in 1989. Would he have showed up in full, flamboyant New Romantic era fashion? Or would he have embraced the tradgoth style, painting his already pale face even whiter and layering on tonnes of eyeliner and black lipstick? Of course Dream goes for the latter - he enjoys the spikes on his black leather jacket, the enormous platform heels on his boots, even the huge silver crucifix necklace. He keeps all the jewellery on while he bounces in Hob’s lap, so that the necklace bounces between them, and Hob can take the safety pin early between his teeth and tug.

It's quite the inspiration for Dream to add some pizazz to his outfits in the waking world, too - Hob REALLY likes him in fishnets. All of the 80s gear is surprisingly soothing for Hob, who had begun to subconsciously avoid anything associated with the decade. Now, he can even put on an 80s playlist when he takes Dream to bed... "Shattered Dreams" has a different meaning altogether when Dream is gazing up at him, panting through an orgasm with his pink lips curving into the most satisfied of grins, legs spread wide and unable to quite catch his breath... <3

[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?”

[ashintheairlikesnow]

🧤 Invasive/Uncomfortable exam for Rafael

CW: BBU, medical whump, medical setting, dubcon touching (nonsexual), discussions of dubcon/noncon, BBU, pet whump

-

"What seems to be the nature of the problem?" The doctor isn't asking him. No one ever asks Rafael questions - he's just a pet, after all, barely human.

A human-shaped sex toy. Like a vibrator that needs to be fed three times a day. He hums, a sound like a flat vibration, and then smiles, a little dreamily, at the internal joke.

Everyone ignores him.

"Someone went rough on him last night," Boscoe says with a shrug. His master's favorite and highest-level servant, paid a small fortune to handle these sorts of things in his absence, pretending that it wasn't him who went so rough, that he isn't the reason Rafael is here right now.

Rafael slept alone in the big bed last night, once Boscoe was done with him, and he barely slept at all. The ache still throbbing and spiking through his lower half has as much to do with that as the loneliness.

The clinician looks at Boscoe with eyebrows raised above her glasses, waits a beat, and then primpts, "Any more detail than that?"

"Nope." Boscoe shrugs again, gives a half-cocked grin. "Sorry, I'm just the household manager. Mr. and Mrs. Isbell went on vacation in Europe."

They had kissed him, each of them, and then left him lying in the bed, trying not to cry. Boscoe had come in an hour later, and told him to make noise, as much as he wanted.

So he did.

He never tells his masters about Boscoe hurting him when they're gone, because only with Boscoe is Rafael ever allowed to scream.

"Fine." The doctor looks Rafael over, without distaste or judgement but with absolutely no feeling at all. It's almost nice, to have someone who doesn't need to tell him he's pretty, or that he looks like a good slut, or any of the things the people around his masters seem to believe are compliments. "All right, you, lay down on your back for me and just scoot those hips right to the edge."

"Yes, ma'am," He responds, laying back on the padded exam table easily, even allowing his back to arch with graceful, perfectly feigned thoughtless seduction as he slips his heels into the leather stirrups and moves his arms slowly over his head, shifting until his ass nearly hangs off the edge.

"Good boy," The doctor says absently. Rafael shivers a little with pleasure at the praise, keeping his eyes closed and biting down on his lower lip. It's a trained reaction, one that's thoughtless by now, but it's never really instinct.

The nurse, an older woman, doesn't even look at him as she takes her place at the end of the table. The doctor grunts as she puts on blue latex gloves and smears clear lubricant on her fingers. "Hold steady, pet. This might cause some discomfort."

Rafael wants to ask her if there is anything you can do to him that doesn't.

He keeps his mouth shut, though.

Boscoe is still watching him with his arms crossed where he stands against the wall. Rafael chances only the slightest glance, looking away when he sees Boscoe's eyes trailing over the welts left along Rafael's ribs from the night before, the bite marks so deep they've bruised in the shape of teeth on one hip.

"His owner signed off on the use of his body?" The doctor asks as she slides the first finger inside. Rafael bites his lower lip harder to keep himself quiet, because it doesn't feel uncomfortable - it stings, torn skin protesting yet another invasion.

"Yes," Boscoe lies easily. Then, to add a kernel of truth, "They often allow their friends or business partners to use him."

Not their employees, though, but that's never stopped Boscoe. And Rafael knows how to keep secrets, knows how to trade his silence in front of the masters for the ability to weep when they're gone.

One finger becomes two, then three, the pain rising, and Rafael can't hold back the softest whimper no matter how hard he tries. "Ma'am-... Ma'am, I-"

"Sssshhh," The doctor shushes him harshly, and Rafael swallows back any thin, weak protest against her touch he might have been able to manage. "I know. I can tell this is hurting you."

She doesn't stop, though. She gets a small silver tool out, rubs it over in the same lubricant, and then forces that inside, too.

When Rafael cries out, the nurse slaps a hand over his mouth to muffle him, glaring down at him at his vision blurs with tears. His chest heaves, panting with the need for this to stop, to stop hurting, just to give him a minute to prepare himself for it.

But no one listens to him.

It's not like he's a person, anyway.

[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 🥰

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Resistance II

A Dystopian AU. Please don’t ask how much there’s gonna be. I’m not sure. But I might add more characters/readers if there’s interest.

Warnings: Violence, dark elements, tags to be added as we progress, tags will not be exhaustive so be wary.

Summary: A part of the underground, you fall into the hands of the authority you seek to derail.

Character: Bucky Barnes

Note: I always love feedback in any form so don’t be shy. Thank you for reading and for all your support. 💗

Inspired by the LEWK.

Your head pounds with the thumping against the side of the truck. Your breath puffs a cloud into the cold air of the compartment, the chatter in your teeth rattling down your spine. Now the wheels have stilled, you can get your feet under you, using the wall to push yourself up.

You’re sore and dizzy from the violent turns, not stupid enough to presume they were unintentional. Each veer sent you rolling or flying across the cramped space, clattering into the side violently. You stand straight and face the doors, the long bar grinding from without as you watch, bracing yourself.

You ball your hands in the cuffs behind you, ready to fling a foot out in defense. As the doors swing out, there’s an odd pop and a weight crashes into your chest, knocking you onto your back so the wind drains from you. You cough and wheeze again, that same dull struggle from the alley fills your bones.

You roll onto your side and heave. You stare at the beanbag as you feel the bruise rising to the surface already. Heavy footsteps hop up and you’re hauled off the floor. The man in the blue uniform of the Triarch drags you out and you stagger onto the ground, hitting your knees as you struggle to get a full breath.

“Shit, that looked like it hurt, minxy,” Bucky’s voice grates in your ringing ears, “I wish I could say it’s the worst you’re gonna deal with but… I’m anything but a liar.”

You scoff and spit on the pavement, the towers of the compound looming in your peripherals as the iron gate grinds shut noisily behind the consul. You narrow your eyes on him as he comes into focus. You have no illusions about what comes next. You’ve seen the bodies hung from the walls, the heads planted on spikes along the main ways.

“Fucker,” you cough.

You’re flung back again as his tread hits your chest. You groan as you land on your hands, crushing your fingers painfully. You sneer and hiss through your teeth. Cardinal was lucky, a quick end. No interrogation, no humiliation.

This was always a possibility. Always the likely end. Still, the doom swallows you up and drains you of your will. You have to move forward, keep moving until it’s over. Don’t let them see your fear.

Bucky bends over you, staring you in the face as he grabs your chin with his large hands, the leather glove cold against your skin. He makes you look at him, the silver hairs along his beard catching the grey morning light as the dimples in his cheeks deepen with amusement. He smirks and gives your face a tap.

“I like you already,” he says, “you got that quiet sort of fuck you energy.”

He latches onto the front of your jacket and pulls you up with him, putting you on your feet with a startling force. You wobble as he steadies you. His hands linger and he jerks you closer.

“You’re gonna be a fun one, I feel it,” he dusts off your shoulders, “I mean, I’ve been through the ringer a few times but they’re usually bawling by now. Or snarling and snapping like a rabid dog.”

You watch him, fighting to keep your composure. You hover between those two extremes, ready to fracture but the fear only seems to numb you. In that odd way where you’re watching yourself from the outside. 

“I like to get them going, you know, ease you into the nasty bit, but for a gal like you, well, we need to make a grand entrance,” he lets his eyes wander down, “it’s too bad, Lynx, you could’ve had a good life on the right side. Champagne and chiffon, instead of…” he pauses and rubs your dirty collar between his fingers, “swamp water and wool. Ugh.”

“I wouldn’t waste your time,” you rasp, “put me on the wall.”

“Shhhhh,” he pushes his finger to your lips, “don’t ruin the moment, minxy.”

He slides his finger down your chin and tilts your head up. He turns you, taking in your features as he gives a thoughtful hum.

“You got nice teeth, I won’t start with those, how about that?” He pets your cheek, “I like a pretty face around. And those eyes, eyes made for tears. Oh, I can see them now, gleaming for me.”

You curl your lip and he tuts as he retracts his hand. He lifts it before you, pulling off his glove inch by inch. He reveals the dark metal digits and stretches them wide. He turns his hand, showing it off.

“What do you ya think? Hm? You feelin’ talkative yet?” He taunts. “I think it could wipe that shitty fucking look off your face.” He presses his palm to your cheek and you lean away from it, “a girl like you should smile. Come on and give me a smile there, minxy.”

You seal your lip and bite down. His eyes search yours and he sighs. He clicks his tongue and shakes his head. He drops his hand as the humor disappears from his face.

“Here’s your first lesson,” his voice grits in his throat, “I don’t fucking ask for nothing. I say it, and it happens.”

The impact of his metal hand across your jaw sends you stumbling. You fall onto your ass, barely keeping your head from meeting the tarmac. Your eyes nearly roll back from the sheer force and your skull thrums as your vision blurs.

He’s on you quickly, bending over you as he frames your skull in his hands, his breath warm as it fans over your trembling lip, “smile, minxy…” he purrs, “I know it’s been a while but you remember manners, don’t you?”

You taste iron and lick your bloody teeth, swallowing the mouthful of metallic spit. You clear your throat and slowly curve your lips, the split in the lower one leaking hotly. Your cheeks twitch as you fight to hold the manufactured expression.

“Good girl,” he lifts you to your feet again and claps your shoulder, “you can’t meet my friends with a scowl. They aren’t as tolerant as me.”

[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.

[kuromi-hoemie]

Could you post a step by step on how you make chokers? They're really nice

it's kinda complicated 😭 or just tedious lol I don't go into it with a set design in mind and just kinda do it as a creative expression (⁠ ⁠◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠ ⁠) i can give u a high level rundown though, the order I generally do things is:

1. take polyester strips, cut them as long as i need them to be for the choker, punch some holes in it at the end so I can add the rivets and buckle.

2. I take a leather sheet I've marked and cut out a rectangle from it. this is for the neck brace(?) part. i use actual leather for this so it has better structure overall and let's me add anything heavy later on bc polyester alone is Very soft.

3. then i use these other leather cutting tools to round the edges of the rectangle. that gives u a shape like this

4. the next step is to join the two strips together. i tend to make my holes for studs and rivets one inch apart (making sure i mark all the holes instead of eyeing it. around here is where u start taking creative liberty with it but the more important point of this is getting ur center in place and secure. in some chokers that's 2 rivets and a D ring (first pic), in my newest one i opted to just add 2 rivets (4 actually, second pic) bc i was gonna add my center piece in a different than usual way way

5. from here the steps are pretty different bc they're two different chokers. for the one with the two O's and a bell, next step is getting the other spikes in place for whatever arrangement Feel Right. Add some more D rings on the side for you to drape chains from

6. then you actually lay out some chain and start connecting them for whatever u want, u gotta feel it out n eye it, but wanna be symmetrical (or i do anyways. there's beauty in asymmetry though (⁠ ⁠◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠ ⁠))

connecting the chains together can be simple or complex, I like to use multiple rings for security and aesthetics. here's some pics of them connecting

(adding more bc i hit the pic limit. hang tight!)