#Making whirlpools

[sbnkalny]

Making whirlpools, eddies, and foaming rapids; tearing at the sandy banks; Carrying away masses of shore and willow-clumps; And forming new islands innumerably which shift daily in size and can only perform tasks for which they were created? to us, But We can do it!

[eowynstwin]

peristalsis - ii.

selkie!soap x reader. depression. suicidal ideation. strangers to "lovers." . Running away from life to the Scottish Hebrides, you meet a man who won't leave you alone. . Masterlist. Ao3.

previous

You sleep long enough that, when you wake up, you have enough energy to cry.

It’s a big one. The kind of cry that threatens to turn your throat out, with how hard you sob. Alone in the cottage, far away from anything resembling civilization, you wail like wounded animal, choking on your own tears and mucus, losing track of your body buried underneath the covers—

But it happens at a remove. You watch yourself implode from someplace deep inside, not entirely sure why it’s happening at all—but long past trying to figure it out.

This is how it’s been for a while. There’s nothing special about it anymore. Nothing urgent. Most of the time, you are a blank space of a person, a vacuum where joy or rage or fear should be, but occasionally some maelstrom or another kicks up to fill it in, and your only course of action is to ride it out until it ends.

You’ve stopped trying to fix it. And you’ve stopped hoping anyone else can, either.

So you cry, until at last, you’re empty again. Or you’re too tired to continue. The difference is negligible, but functionally irrelevant. Once it’s done, you get out of bed.

The pressure in the shower is as weak as Johnny reported, but the water is indeed warm when you turn it on; you stand naked under the flow, arms hanging at your sides.

The day stretches itself out before you with nothing to occupying it, just as you’d planned. Nothing to work towards; no effort to put forward. Nothing, thanks to your choice of locale, to feel guilty about not seeking out.

A day of peace and utter quiet.

Suddenly—violent banging, somewhere in the cottage. It startles you; you jump so sharply at the noise that you smack your wrist on the soap caddy attached to the shower wall. The banging comes again—annoyed, you realize with no little bemusement that someone is at the front door.

You wrap yourself in a towel and hobble out of the bathroom to answer it, a piece of your mind on your tongue, dart-shaped and ready to fly—

Of course it’s Johnny.

Johnny, big and burly in a sweater, kilt, and pelt once again, two paper cups balanced in one large hand and a grocery bag hanging from the other. Whose dark brows shoot up his forehead as his eyes travel with surprise, and blatant appreciation, down the dripping length your body.

“Well, good mornin’, bonnie,” he purrs.

��What,” you grunt. A cold breath of wind chooses that moment to force its way through the door, gasping across the shower water still running in rivulets from your hair to the rolled edge of your towel. Goosebumps erupt from your bare skin in millions of simultaneous pinpricks—you flinch bodily at the chill.

“Ah, hell’s bells, don’t just stand there,” Johnny says, following the wind. “It’s freezin,’ go on, let me get in, hurry.”

You let him step inside, for some reason, and he shuts the door behind him with the heel of his boot. He wastes no time after that, heading to the kitchen to set down his things.

“Brought breakfast!” he says cheerfully. “There’s this bakery on Barra I thought you’d like, fresh doughnuts and coffee. Dunno how you take yours, but there’s sugar in the pantry and cream in the fridge.”

“I don’t want breakfast,” you say.

“What? ‘Course you do. I’m no’ takin’ you seal-watchin’ on an empty stomach.”

He starts unpacking the grocery bag and setting things on the counter while your jaw hangs open. Several things occur to you to say—I never agreed to that and what the hell is wrong with you, for starters—but your stomach growls at him before you can. The aroma of fresh-baked pastry wafts through the kitchen when he opens one box, and he turns to grin at you, cheeks dimpling.

“Do you get dressed, bonnie,” he says. “It’ll still be here when y’get back.”

It is less polite than he perhaps intends it to be, given that his gaze travels appreciatively across your bare shoulders. You cross your arms fruitlessly over your chest and, nothing else for it, retreat to the bedroom, feeling his eyes on you the whole way.

You return to the kitchen after having pulled on wool leggings and the same fleecy sweater from the day before. Johnny, one hip set against the counter, has a cup of steaming coffee in one hand and a half-eaten cruller in the other, crumbs at the corner of his mouth.

“Got anythin’ heavier?” he asks around a chewed-up mouthful. “Gets cold out there.”

You look down at his bare calves, broad and taut and covered in a down of dark hair. “You seem alright.”

“I’m used to it,” he says, shrugging—the muscles flexing under your gaze.

You purse your lips. “I don’t have anything.” You hadn’t intended to leave the cottage overmuch.

You approach the counter. Johnny does not move a centimeter, forcing you to stand close as you pick through the two boxes of doughnuts and feel the body heat radiating off of him, displacing the scent of fried dough with his musk.

“That’s all right,” he says. You’re close enough to hear the way his voice hums deep in his chest. “I can keep you warm.”

You snatch a plain glazed from the box and take two very large steps away from him. The hair on the back of your neck lifts as you press against the sink behind you. If he notices your reaction, it doesn’t seem to bother him in the slightest—he lifts the cup to his lips and drinks, eyes sliding closed with simple, obvious pleasure, dark lashes curling against his cheek.

You take the brief respite from his gaze to stare at him. In the morning light, on a full night of sleep, you can almost believe that whatever you’d seen in him yesterday had been nothing more than a misfire of exhausted synapses. An overlay of a dream; a circadian prompt to rectify nearly seventeen hours of sleeplessness. You’d been cold, and tired, and hungry. That was all.

You bite down on your doughnut, not really tasting it. The nerves along your spine twitch and contract around the memory of his flashing gaze.

His eyes open again, and he smiles at you. “Good?” He flicks a look at the single bite you’ve taken, looks at your mouth, and then waits for your reply.

“It’s fine,” you grumble. Then, “How did you get here? I didn’t hear the truck drive up. Do you live close by?”

“Sometimes,” he says. He looks pleased that you’ve asked, that you’re interested at all, and you immediately regret inquiring. “Live on a boat, me. Moored in the cove right now.”

“A…boat,” you say.

“Aye.” A wisp of dark hair, something he must have missed when he gelled his mohawk this morning, flutters as he nods. “Nice and cozy. Not as grand as all this, mind.” He gestures around with coffee and doughnut at the less than five hundred square feet of the cottage. “But it’s still a sight nicer than some other places I’ve slept.”

He’s likely hinting at his military service. “Okay,” is all you say, unwilling to entertain it.

He smirk—undeterred. “We’ll take her out once you’re ready.”

“I never said I was going.”

Dark brows lift. “Got somethin’ else planned for today?” he asks, incredulous, as if he never imagined you wouldn’t want to hang out with him.

“No, I—”

You wrack your brain. You have no intention of explaining to this complete stranger that the last thing you’d wanted to do, when you booked this trip, was really anything at all—and in fact, you hadn’t even considered that that might be something anyone else would care much about.

Much less proactively address.

“No,” you repeat, sulking.

Johnny considers you, chewing. His eyes do not stray, this time, to places they don’t belong; but there’s an insight to them. A sharp awareness. A perception in his gaze that is just as undressing, as if whatever is going on with you is visible to the naked eye.

“I figure,” he says, slowly, as if to coax, “you put your wee shoes on, an’ I’ll pack this back up, and we take it along.”

“You don’t have to do this,” you grouse. “I don’t need you to, like—be my tour guide.”

“Aye, but that doesnae mean I don’t wanna,” he retorts, smiling.

He shoves the last bite of cruller in his mouth and gazes patiently at you as he works it with his jaw, the muscles flexing along his temples as he chews.

Exhaustion, your constant companion, stares you down alongside him. It would take so much more energy to fight him than to go along with whatever he has planned. Energy you just don’t have anymore. And going along doesn’t mean you have to pretend to enjoy yourself—it’s not like you care enough about Johnny’s self-esteem to conjure up a happy face to show him.

You can go, and be a bitch about it, and once you do maybe he’ll realize you’re not at all worth the effort he’s making, and then finally leave you alone.

“Fine,” you say, which is how you end up on a fishing trawler headed south toward, ostensibly, a colony of breeding seals.

It’s an old vessel—that much is obvious. Its edges and corners are dull with the passage of time and constant maintenance, scuffed by innumerable passes-over with cleaner and cloth. Mildew competes with the aroma of fresh varnish as Johnny leads you onto the bridge, which is mercifully closed in from the ocean wind.

The interior is mostly wood of a warm, orangish variety—you can’t tell if that’s a decision made with aesthetics or function in mind. The space comprises a kitchen, surprisingly well-appointed with a stove, sink, countertop, and fridge, and a small sitting area with both couch and booth seating. Surrounding windows allow in the grey light of the morning.

“Bought it off an old bloke on Lewis,” Johnny says, taking his place at the wheel, which is in a little alcove off the kitchen.

If you’d thought steering a boat would have curtailed his chatting, you’d have been wrong—he seems to have no trouble with that and talking, incessantly, at the same time, as he pulls the vessel away from the cove and into the open water.

“All his family moved to the mainland, he told me, an’ this is after generations fishin’ these islands, even makin’ it through the Clearances! No money in it anymore, he said, not like you could make in some office somewhere countin’ someone else’s money.” He checks something on the dashboard in front of him, but it doesn’t distract him for long. “Held on for a while, but people just kept leavin,’ an’ he was gettin’ too old to go out on his own. Got such a good price on it, I think he was just happy someone else was gonna take up the tradition.”

“Did he sell you the cottage too?” you ask, and then dig your nails into your wrist for encouraging him.

“Yup,” he says. “No one else wanted it, but me? I saw somethin’ special about it.”

He turns to smile at you—no doubt pleased you made the connection. You avert your gaze.

“Imagine someday I’ll have my own family here,” he continues. “Good place for it. Nice and slow, not like city living. Can hear yourself think out here. Perfect place to have a few wee ones.”

“If people stop leaving,” you mutter.

He turns to you again. “I’m no’ worried about that,” he replies. He’s still smiling. “You came here, after all.”

You have nothing to say to that.

The trip is a short one���Johnny brings the trawler alongside an island he informs you is called Mingulay, a square mile smaller than Vatersay’s tiny dot in the North Atlantic. Unlike the latter, he says, this island has not been inhabited since 1912, and has been completely reclaimed by the ocean and its wildlife.

After he drops anchor offshore, Johnny disappears down a steep flight of stairs below deck, which he had not offered a tour of, and emerges a short time later with a large, bulky coat.

“Didn’t I tell you?” he says proudly, holding it out by the shoulders. “Here, turn ‘round.”

You pause in the middle of reaching for it. You don’t know exactly why you comply—it occurs to you that if you grabbed for the jacket, he could simply not let go of it, and you would end up exactly where he wants you anyway. So you lower your arm and, resigned, give him your back.

He steps up behind you. Warmth pours off of him, more than you think any human body should be able to generate.

You hear him inhale, deeply, as he brings the jacket to your back. As you slide your arms into the sleeves, you feel his exhale on the nape of your neck, teasing through individual follicles of hair.

“There w’go,” he murmurs, much closer than you expected.

You can hear the low hum of his voice in his chest; his hands linger on your shoulders far longer than they need to, heavy, big enough that his index fingers brush along your collarbones.

When his hands make to slide down your back you step away from him and fumble to zip the jacket up; he chuckles lightly behind you. When you turn to face him, his lips are curled—smug.

“Alright then,” he says. “Let’s get out there.”

He rows the two of you to shore in a small kayak, two pairs of binoculars in your lap as you huddle away from the wind. You’ll be walking to the haul-out, he says—getting too close to the breeding grounds, which he calls a rookery, would spook them, possibly causing a stampede.

“It’s grey seals we’re gonna see,” he explains as the two of you pick your way across the rocky landscape. “Not the biggest haul-out you could see, some colonies get into the thousands, but we’ll have it all to ourselves.”

He insists on taking your elbow every time the two of you cross particularly uneven terrain, even though you don’t need it. You think he takes your attempts to shake him off as proof of your lack of balance, because he grasps you all the tighter every time.

“I’m not a child, Johnny, I can walk on my own,” you finally snap at him.

“Just bein’ a gentleman, bonnie,” he replies nonchalantly. He does not let you go.

As you get closer, you hear the seals before you see them, and when their voices reach you across the open island, you stop dead.

Groaning, grunting, hissing in a cacophonous chorus. Some part of your hindbrain double-takes, reshuffles itself—some ancestral instinct always on the lookout for predation. If you’d been given a chance to guess what a colony of mating seals might have sounded like, you’re not sure you could have guessed what they sounded like.

Certainly not like what you hear now—

Like people.

Johnny grins at you when he notices. “Aye, it’s a right ruckus, innit?”

He leads you up a small rise, where he has the two of you settle belly-down over the machair to overlook the wedge of rocky coast that the colony has claimed for its own.

And when you finally see it—it’s underwhelming.

Perhaps two hundred long, fat bodies, in varying shades of brown and grey, lay indolently along the rocks, in groups of three or four, some heavily galumphing from one place to another while others roll occasionally from side to side. The shifting winds catch their scent and blow it uncaringly into your face; you nearly gag at the admixture of dead fish and ammonia.

It doesn’t escape you that this is a rare thing to witness; you are not wholly immune to the fact that you are only a hundred meters away from something most people only encounter on a screen. It’s just that without a swell of awed music in the backdrop, or a narrator’s breathless wonder at the miracle of pinniped life, what’s left for you to observe is a population of wet, stinking animals, shitting where they lay, vocalizing without cease while they laze about doing basically nothing.

Johnny does not seem to notice your disillusionment; he hands you one pair of binoculars, and directs your attention to activity along the shoreline. You follow to where he’s pointing; one larger seal is hassling a smaller one, which snarls at the aggressor as it thrashes around with its substantial bulk.

“Little one there—” Johnny says, “that’s a female, probably obvious. Big one knows she’s ready to mate, can smell it on her.”

The female bares her teeth and lunges at the bigger male, which flinches back but holds his ground.

“Doesn’t look like she agrees,” you mutter.

“She’s just givin’ him a hard time. She’s all in heat, see? Just makes her cranky,” Johnny says. You feel his eyes on you, and lower your binoculars to look at him. “She’s got to fight to feel all in control.”

You flush. “Right.”

“You don’t think so?”

“No,” you say. “He’s—he’s just bothering her.”

He gazes at you for a moment, contemplative. Corners of his mouth quirking upward. He does not reply for a long moment, long enough that you have to avert your gaze from his.

“Nah,” he finally says, and you don’t think you’re imagining the low, sultry note in his voice. “She wants it bad as he does.”

You scowl, uncomfortably perceived, and return your binoculars—the pair is still facing off, gurgling and growling at each other. The female is slim, almost sleek, unlike most of the other seals populating the rookery.

“Is she sick?” you ask.

“Hm? Oh, no, she’s alright. The mums lose a lot of weight when they nurse. Takes three weeks, and they don’t eat in the meantime.”

“Jesus.”

“Be nice if the dads ever brought ‘em a bite, aye?” Johnny agrees. “Deadbeats, the lot of them.”

The two of you survey the colony in silence for a moment. As the morning wears on, the cloud covering thins overhead, allowing cool sunlight to filter through. The temperature doesn’t rise in response; begrudgingly, you tug Johnny’s jacket a little tighter around you.

Then, suddenly, his hand lands on your back, between your shoulder blades.

“Got some pups over there,” he says. “Look, by the kelp.”

You find them; smaller bodies, white dinged with wet sand and dirt, lounge near their mothers or wriggle with aimless difficulty. They’re fluffy and round as plush toys, with shining black eyes and noses, and once Johnny’s pointed them out you can differentiate the higher, sweeter pitch of their cries from the overall cacophony.

“Sometimes,” Johnny murmurs, “search and rescue’ll get called out because someone thought they heard a baby crying. Some kid stranded or lost, right? Turns out to be a baby seal.”

“That’s kind of scary,” you say.

“Aye,” says Johnny. “Always makes me think that’s where the old legends come from, about seal people or mermaids.”

A small ways away, some of the mothers lay with their pups far into the surf, letting the waves break over them. You watch as one mother thunks her large head overtop of her pup’s as the water rushes toward them; the pup wriggles, and then, as the wave engulfs them, it begins to thrash, whipping up a panicked froth.

“Time for swimming lessons already?” Johnny muses. “Seems early.”

You’re horrified. “She’s going to drown it!”

The hand still on your back pats you consolingly. “Just watch,” says Johnny.

The wave reaches as far up the shore as gravity allows, and then begins to recede. The pup’s thrashing calms as the air meets its face once again; the cow allows the pup to lift its head, and after a few sputters, the pup seems no worse for wear.

“They’re hardier than they look, bonnie,” Johnny says.

His hand, heavy and warm even over his borrowed jacket, slides down from your shoulders to your lower back, and then he rubs, slowly, side to side, as if to comfort you—but the knobs of your spine contract at his touch.

“Last of the births this season, looks like,” he says. “Mum’s getting ready to leave—probably not the only one.”

Something hard drops into your stomach.

“They leave their babies?” you ask.

“Aye. Once they’re done nursing, they mate, and then they go.”

You look back at the other cows with their pups. One baby has its muzzle to its mother’s belly, quivering and suckling, while she lays with her head on a patch of grass. She looks uninterested—more, she looks disinterested. As if how voraciously her pup is nursing has nothing much to do with her, and she’s bored of even having to think about it.

Bored—and already looking forward to the next part of her life without a baby in it.

“That’s horrible,” you say.

“They’re solitary animals, bonnie,” Johnny says, not ungently. “The only time they’re really all together is for this.”

A line tightens between your stomach and throat, and you feel it start to build between your ribs. A tremor—foreshocks. The wind picks up, bringing a sharp chill off the ocean and up the rise that cuts into your stinging eyes, abrades the naked skin of your hands and the exposed part of your neck.

When you look through your binoculars again, you wonder how many of the pups you see have already been abandoned.

“Aw, bonnie,” Johnny says. There’s a kind of pity in his voice that has your hackles raising.

“I want to leave,” you say, yanking away from his touch and shuffling down the incline. ��Take me back to the cottage.”

“Bonnie, it’s okay!” Johnny protests, rolling to his back to look at you as you stand. “The pups make it, they figure out how to fend for themselves.”

You glare at him, vision blurring. “All of them?”

Some part of you knows you’re being irrational—knows that nature is a cruel home, and that many children face worse fates than the seal pups. Abandoning the young, the needy, is no aberration; it is, in fact, far more the standard than the human practice, which lingers for decades—

Most of the time.

Johnny has no response. He holds your angry gaze, brows drawn low, mouth pressed into a thin line. It’s the first time that cocky aura, which seems to rest in every fine line on his face and every angle at which he holds his body, is completely absent.

He isn’t reflecting your anger back at you, though—he’s internalizing it. Letting it hit him, you think, and trying to use it to figure you out.

You do not want to be figured out.

You scoff again. “Take me back,” you repeat, and then you start walking in the direction you came, without waiting for him to follow.

Johnny drops you off in the cove, and thankfully does not linger this time before he departs—he bids you farewell after rowing you to shore, contemplation on his face, and then leaves you to yourself.

You retreat, seeking the cottage’s empty quiet.

As you perch on the couch you listen to the radiator hum—the wind blow over the reeds in the thatch roof—your own heart beating a drum in the arteries of your neck.

Percussive. Quick and hard. Like heavy knockers on a door. Pounding as if to burst through.

You realize you’re still wearing Johnny’s jacket, and you throw it off, disgusted with yourself. You get up and pace, and try to ignore it lying in a heap on the floor.

You do something you swore you wouldn’t do the moment you set foot on the island—you turn your phone back on.

True to Johnny’s word, there’s no signal. You picked this island, this part of the world, for a reason; for the past several years, a slow exodus from the British isles has vacated the need for dedicated cell towers or satellite or internet access, especially given that the only ones who remain are too old now to want it or need it or know how to use it.

It’s isolated. Cut off. Left behind by anyone with better options, and only clung to by those trying to preserve the only way of life they know.

Some kinder part of you belongs with that demographic; the part that was telling your mother the truth, before getting on the plane.

The rest of you holds your phone up and starts walking around.

In the furthest corner in the bedroom, you find a single bar of signal. A tiny chip of connectivity—a thin, frayed thread. Something you lied to yourself about cutting.

It’s a weak connection. Unstable. It could take a while—you stand there, waiting.

The screen dims. You tap it again.

Blank.

You unlock it, look through your apps. Wonder if maybe your notifications are bugged by your new SIM card.

Nothing—

No one.

You whip around and, with a cry, pitch the thing at the far wall—it hits the stone with a crunch, falling to the floor in pieces.

You’re out of the cottage then in a mad dash, door slamming behind you, driving yourself back into the wind. Far away—you want to be far away, far from everything, so far that nothing could possibly reach you. You trudge down the path toward the beach, banding your arms across your chest, shivering in the cold, and yet you hardly feel it.

Not worth it. No point. Waste of your time. Energy. All of it. Stop trying. Stop wanting. Nothing. Nothing. You want nothing.

You’re halfway down to the shore, not really knowing what you’re going to do when you get there, when you catch sight of a body on the sand.

You gasp, a sharp breath down your larynx, and freeze in a dead halt.

The body is completely still.

A swimmer? A diver? It’s dark, like it just pulled itself out of the ocean—or washed up—

Then, it moves. A twitch, a ripple across its bulk, and your chest rapidly decompresses.

A seal. It’s a large seal, lounging alone on the beach.

You stand motionless. You’re very close—much closer than you and Johnny had been at the rookery. You hadn’t contended with the sheer size of the animals, tucked safely up and away from them, but there is no illusion of distance now.

It’s the biggest one you’ve seen today, you’re sure of it. Bigger, you think, than most adult men. Its pelt is a riot of every shade of grey, splashy, like liquid paint thrown across a canvas. Black speckles scatter overtop of marbled white and cool slate, and down the center of its back is a broad, dark line, soft at the edges, which reaches all the way up to the top of the seal’s head.

The bull—it must be male—turns over. It lifts its head, and opens its eyes—

Fear suddenly zips up your spine as it looks right at you.

You stumble backward and trip on your own feet, landing hard on your ass. Johnny’s care with keeping enough distance from the colony rushes back to you, along with the warring couple’s bared teeth.

They can’t move that fast on land, right? They aren’t interested in people, right?

You scramble backward. It’s so much bigger than you ever would have imagined. If it got to you—threw itself over you—it could crush you with its weight alone—

The bull watches you placidly. Unperturbed.

You pause.

Its small eyes are dark and glossy—watchful and focused. The whiskers on its muzzle twitch a little as it takes you in. It breathes, deeply and evenly, huge body expanding and contracting at a slow, calm tempo. Its—his—nostrils flex, widening and narrowing, as he blinks docilely.

Unafraid.

If anything—curious.

Then he snorts, and wriggles in place. It startles a laugh out of you, more reaction than humor. Still watching you, the bull lowers his head back down, resting it again on the sand.

Your heartbeat abates. He doesn’t move again—nor does his attention leave you. Slowly, you sit up.

Wary. No sudden movements.

He doesn’t react; only continues to watch you.

You draw your knees up. Wrap your arms around your shins, and dust a bit of sand from your leggings. Rest your chin in the crevice between your knees.

There’s an intelligence in the bull’s eyes that is fathoms deep. There is a massive gulf between his experience of the world and yours, millennia of evolution separating your species from his—and yet…as you hold his gaze, you recognize the look in it.

Him, seeing you. And seeing you see him. The pendulum swinging between awareness of each other, and recognition of that shared awareness.

An empty space in the cloud cover passes overhead; sunlight touches the earth, warms it briefly before disappearing again. You wonder a little why this bull isn’t with the other seals.

Johnny would probably know.

“I didn’t come for you, you know,” you grumble at him.

The seal blinks. Awareness notwithstanding, you don’t share any language.

You sigh. “I guess you didn’t come to see me either,” you say.

But you don’t move away.

And you stay like that for a long while, you and he—regarding each other as the wind breathes out across the shore.

next

a/n: follow for more seal facts™

Also huge thanks to Lev for trawler listings/info. Didn't explore it much this chapter but Soap's boat will show up more soon :)

[fluffylord]

TWELFTH DOCTOR S09 E00 | LAST CHRISTMAS

[falling-skyzz]

self-defense

[mollyeep]

white butt ^

Minimal white ^

[hyunpic]

[robotcove]

i love [whirlpool] but also why does this guy's design always gotta be so hard to do.

like bro just looks like soundwave so much of the time TT trying so hard to fix that tbh. gotta individualise him. also dont ask about his colour palette.

[forgetmethought]

You gooootta drop the naruto classpect + land list, I am enthralled

lol.. okay, so, I went to check my note, and it turns out I misremembered, bc it looks like i only ever classpected them, and never finished coming up with their lands! unfortunately. but here's what I've got anyway:

I have, however, come up with classpects AND Lands for a few other series, such as Soul Eater, Steven Universe, Achievement Hunter, and a book series I read on a mutual's recommendation, called the Raven Cycle! I'll post those below the cut too, just for funsies, in case anyone cares to check em out.

Soul Eater

Steven Universe

Achievement Hunter

The Raven Cycle

[recurring-polynya]

I have a new crackpot theory! I am 100% not sure where I am going with this, but I am convinced that Shutara is somehow connected to the Kuchiki, based on the following rock-solid evidence:

#1. This funky bird/needle-pulling-thread crest

#2. Resting bitch face

#3. Heelies

[sbnkalny]

Microchaetus rappi,[2] and 58 metres (190 ft) for the african Giant earthworm, Microchaetus rappi,[2] and 58 metres (190 ft) for the Marine nemertean worm (bootlace worm), Lineus longissimus.[3] various types of power and beauty frazzle your heart like a kettle chip, we love there pizza.

[ej-artyarts]

Art dump!!!

Trade with @aradiarts

Trade with @/small and angry on twt

Gift for @/gowonnism on twt

Gift for @/Dumbass_Rabbet on twt

Gift for @pyonpyoncircus

[askblueandviolet]

*a girl comes out a little bit in Portal probably the sex same girl that threw that fireball rainbow sends out of a Vaporeon and a Sylveon*

I'm still sorry I learned how to cross control my Powers at least I have some new ones *rainbow's hand just turns black and a swirl is golden*

Bonus:

Ask Box is open again! Slots are VERY LIMITED this time so once I hit 4 asks I'm closing the box, haha.

Update: Ask Box is closed :))))

MASTER POST

Asks Start 💙

Previous 💙(🐶)

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[mythos321]

Part 2 of my WoF x Persona Au!

Chapter Two:Leap Through Fire!

As Clay emerged from the flames of his Persona, he now wore a black tailcoat over a high necked waistcoat and black pants, which hid most of his muscular body, with the white bird like mask upon his face once again, now worn with pride, as His Persona continued its introduction from before.

“I am The Dark Son of Gaia, Obsidian, I am the soul of the rebel within you! If you so desire, I shall grant you the power to relieve yourself of this crisis”

“Give me your power, and destroy them all, Obsidian!” Clay said with a strengthened resolve and confident aura around him, as he destroyed what was left of the guards, and Clay grabbed Tsunami and threw her onto his back and began to hold her there with his wings.

“Wh-What’s going on!” Tsunami shouted on top of him, still haven’t fully taken in whatever is happening

“I don’t know! But it feels amazing! Let’s get the hell out of here now!” Clay yelled as he ran out of the cell door and saw the cowering Shadow Whirlpool

“H-how could you! who do you think you are stepping to The King!” Before He could finish, Tsunami jumped off of Clays back and socked the so called king in his froggy eyes

“Yeah! you like that you son of a Batfish?!” Tsunami yelled, as Clay then picked the “King” up by his tail and threw him into the back of cell they were previously in with zero effort, then burning the lock with his fire so it wouldn’t budge

“Get back here! you can’t do this to me!” King Whirlpool shouted helplessly as Tsunami hopped back onto Clays back, and the duo ran off.

“So, what was that anyway?! that strange serpent(?) thing, and clothes, why are you wearing clothes now?! fancy ones at that!” Tsunami kept questioning, and Clay couldn’t even hope to give her an answer, as it was all as confusing for her as it was for him…though also a lot more fun.

as they kept running however, Clays attire suddenly changed back to normal, the duo both looked completely bewildered while still keeping on the run, until they finally found a large gate and without thinking, Clay tried to run into it, and though they made it momentarily budge, the gate stayed up, and instead Clay was left with a mild pain as Tsunami herself fell off from his back after the impact

“Maybe if we slam it the same time it could break down?” Clay asked Tsunami, who seemed to be in a sudden massive pain, which Clay saw was mostly in the area of her wing joints

“Your wings…did Whirlpool do something to them?…it’s not my fault right?”

“As if that bastard could, and no, it ain’t because of you…but, I don’t wanna talk about it…” Tsunami seemed to become surprisingly depressed in a quick time, and Clay decided not to push on the obviously painful subject.

“I understand, I’ll keep carrying you then, and we can find another way.” Clay offered, and put Tsunami back on him, with her clearly still in pain at her wings lower joints.

As the two continued through the dungeon area, Clay nearly walked into a hallway when it suddenly bursted with flames.

“Shit, that’s not good! how the hell do we get out now!”

“…Do you trust me?”

“I mean, a little? I don’t see how that factors right now”

“Just get under me, and I’ll wrap you with my wings for the next part, hold em tightly u like a blanket if you have to!”

“Wait…are you going to launch yourself through the fire?!? are you insane! you’ll turn into a crispy mess and I’ll end cooked alive!”

“Just trust me! I can easily get us through this!”

“…alright, just….don’t get us killed, okay?” Tsunami said, as Clay covered her under his wings, and he launched through the fiery pathway, going 3 quarters through before rolling them through the end

“Three moons, we’re actually okay!”

“Told ya!” Clay stated as his body quickly cooled off from the leap through fire

“Wait, did your persona give you some fire immunity or something?”

“Not at all! I was just kinda born with it!”

“Wait, you were born from a blood red egg! That’s badass!”

“Thanks!

“…huh, guess so! y’know you’re way better than I thought you’d be…can I be honest? I completely thought you’d book it back there, at the cell, before you summoned that ghost thing, so, thanks for not leaving me to die!”

“Bah, you’d have done the same for me!” Clay gave Tsunami a smile, as she seemed to glow on part of her scales, and Clay now looked a little confused and curipus

“Oh, forgot other tribes don’t know those, um, that was aquatic for- eh, it doesn’t matter much.” Tsunami seemed to let whatever she said, as the two then saw a group of shadows approaching, and Clay jumped into a small hiding spot for them both, until the guards finally went away, and they continued their trek through the dungeon area.

“Damn it, if we don’t find a way out of here soon, I feel like we’ll be done for!” Tsunami voiced her frustration, as the two suddenly heard a clanking sound near one of the cells up ahead, almost like something, or someone, was trying to get their attention

As the two slowly made their way to the cell, Tsunami noticed multiple prisoners in various cells, all various young seawings that seemed to be void of consciousness, just standing in their cells, void of any emotion. The worst part of it all, was Tsunami could almost recognize each face as they passed through.

“Hey, everything alright?” Clay asked as he saw Tsunamis discomfort

“It’s…it’s nothing, I’ll tell you in a second I guess, let’s just find out what the hell is over there.”

As the duo creeped upon the final cell, they kept their guard up in case it was some sort of trap.

“Hey, you two! you’re the ones who started rushing through the castle dungeon right?” said the voice in the cell as Clay and Tsunami continued to etch towards them, before jumping forward and looking straight ahead…and seeing no one.

“huh? where are they? Shit, was it actually a trap!” Tsunami wondered out loud, even though she was clearly in no condition to fight it wasn’t gonna stop her from trying if she has to.

“Hey! Big Guy, Jacket Gal, I’m down here!” The two heard the voice once again, and looked down to see a small seawing like creature, wearing something similar to bandit clothing, and physically looked about 4 and a half years old, but was only the size of a 2 year old Dragonet. The strangest part though were his dark green eyes, which not only had what appeared to be traces of gold apart of them, but also shaped similarly to a cats!

“Woah! what’s with your eyes!” Tsunami blurted out

“You’re not castle soldiers right?” The Green Dragonet asked, more scared in tone

“As if we’d ever work with this shitheel! We’re trying to get the hell out of here! If anything, you look more like an enemy! you ever got creepy eyes like Whirlpool!” Tsunami stated

“How can I be an enemy you dunce! I’m locked in a cell!” The Seawing pointed out, now a mix of scared and angry

“Hey, don’t worry. You want us to help you out right?” Clay comforted them, though slightly thrown off initially by their eyes, he could tell they’re a kid just like him or Tsunami, though younger by a year or two.

“YES! please! They threw my key away, so I really need your help out!” The Seawing pleaded, and Clay tried to figure out a way to get them out

“Perhaps I can be of assistance?”

Clay heard Obsidian in his mind once again, and after a moment of concentration managed to bring it forth, momentarily freaking out Tsunami yet making the young Seawing excite

“You have a persona! great! just have it take off the door!” The Seawing instructed

“…you may want to back away for this one” Clay stated, as an image came forth in his mind, and he pointed towards the doors lock. Obsidians head then began to morph, changing into that of a shotgun, and blasted off not only the lock, but most of the cell, leaving The Seawing shocked yet intrigued while Tsunami was baffled at what Clays persona just did.

“I’m sorry, did that thing just turn its face into a shotgun?!” Tsunami asked, as The Younger Seawing jumped through the hole in the door

“Must be a power of your Persona! Truly impressive for someone I can tell is just starting out!”

“…So, what’s up with the eyes?” Clay asked, now that The young Seawing was free

“I’m not sure, far as my memory goes, I’ve always had these golden greens!” The Seawing State stated, clearly proud of them

“No, he meant why are they like a cats.” Tsunami stated. “Also knowing why you’re so small would be nice.”

“That’s none of your business!…well, now that I’m free, what do you say to a partnership? you helped me out, and now I’ll help you out!” The Seawing offered, holding out his hand to shake

“Sounds good to me.” Clay shook the young Seawings hand, and they shot each other a smile.

“Turtle.” The Young Seawing told his name

“Moose.” Clay said back, making Turtle and Tsunami both look confused

“Wait, um, no, my name is-” before Turtle could explain, Clay began snickering

“Oh my moons, I’m just messing with you two, I know how Seawing names work.” Clay kept laughing, as the three now continued through the dungeon, finding a drawbridge over a large abyss with a statue of Whirlpool next to it.

Clay was about to suggest flying, until he realized 2 things. First was that since Whirlpool himself was a dragon, why would he imagine a drawbridge if he himself could fly over it, meaning it may be another trap. The second was that Tsunamis wings were not in good shape to put the strain of flying on them. Clay then looked towards Turtle for answers, with which he delivered

“Well, Clay, since you seem to know things better than Jacket Gal over there, I’ll mainly show you how to go about something like this.” Turtle said, with Tsunami looking angry at the insult. “As you’ll seen soon enough, this statues mouth contains a secret button! press on that, and you’ll make this drawbridge lower in no time!”

Clay did as Turtle instructed, and the drawbridge lowered itself just as they hoped.

“How the hell were we supposed to know that?!?” Tsunami questioned

“Pff, you’re such an amateur, Jacket Gal, now let’s keep going!” Turtle stated, and the 3 ran across the drawbridge, only for them to suddenly be surrounded by castle soldiers, and Clay suddenly went back into his Phantom Thief attire

“SHIT ITS THEM.” Tsunami shouted, clearly frightened as she grabbed a random candlestick to defend with

“You really are amateur! as if that would do anything to them! Just stay still and don’t get hurt.” Turtle said as he jumped off of Tsunami and next to Clay. “Say, you can fight right? Let’s do this!” Turtle then concentrated, as he then became surrounded by a beam of green light.

“Come forth, Honu!” Turtle shouted, as he manifested a giant emerald colored being that seemed to be partly turtle and partly dragon like in its appearance, with a large powerful golden brown shell upon its back that also sprouted a set of long dragon wings. It also powerful arms that had flippers partially stick out from the forearms and legs. and held in its claws a gigantic fishhook with a sharp edge to it. It wore a slightly open coat fitted with long shoulder pads fitted with a green cape with golden edges, and its head was similar to a seawings, but with long white horns similar to that of its hook replacing the normal seawing horns. To top it all off was a pair of black pants held by a massive belt buckle shaped similar to a Turtle.

“This’d be light work for even one of us! but with us both? It couldn’t be easier!” Turtle declared as he and Clay prepared to face the shadows.

[lanternlightss]

some silly siren au doodles for you in these trying times? <:3

oh my god im losing my shit over the first doodle they are so Goopy and silly, there are no thoughts in those eyes !!! lights are off !!! the image of bard scooping them out of water and they’re just “:D okay” about it the entire time is so 😭😭 ... they are simply happy to be here

ALSO POINTS AT THE OTHER TWO. YES !!!!!!!!!!!

venti wrapped around the bard from every direction possible is so real and so true, clingy ven !!!! humans are just so squishy compared to sirens !!! they are fascinating to hold !!!! absolutely love the contrast between the two Like where venti is just this is :] my beloved :] look at him, he is wonderful. bard im so sorry youre being assigned as a human teddy bear plush. and then the venti. the venti . just laying the bard on them. i !!!!! am !!!!!!!!!!

[mollyeep]

Ok so im not taking ocs anymore. thats gunna b rare

BUT.. Heres this

I feel like we dont ever make up our own ocs nor clan anymore theyre always from clangen... so i wanna make up a clan based purely on people's creative ideas

Just give me a name and rank, and if u want send me a description or idea whatever u feel is necessary i want you feel apart of ur character yk and i wanna stuff them all together eventually

Please whirlpool and Beetlestar are Orphans they need forever clanmates... please 🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏 JOIN FLARECLAN 😩😩😩 THEYRE GIVING IT A TERRIBLE NAME

[envy-of-the-apple]

I hope that you know professor poly...things might get really difficult for you if i dont get a passing grade on this essay. I have connections (starts with W and ends with hirlpool) and u dont wanna play this game with me. I will make sure ur dishes from now on will always have at least one questionable stain and plenty of rust in ur silverware. So maybe u should...take another look at my work, yeah?

With kind regards,

Dish Washer

Dear Dish Washer,

thank you for your threats input but I’m afraid it won’t sway me. My dishwasher has a 5-year warranty. Your grade is final. Sincerely,

Professor Poly