#shes built for speed and agility

[brain-rot-hour]

Listen

It's a thing, okay?

Or it will be

I'm really really really excited

@dawnrider

[laurasimonsdaughter]

“The first thing you need to know,” the stable master announced loudly to the gaggle of school children trailing behind her, “is that these are not unicorns.”

Eleven-year-olds tended to be loud. Their silent scepticism was deafening.

“You cannot keep unicorns in captivity,” she continued. “These are all crossbreeds, mostly with specific breeds of horses.”

There was a small murmur of curiosity and a gangly arm shot up into the air.

“Yes?”

“Only mostly horses?”

It was always fun when some of them paid close attention. “Only mostly horses. I only deal with European breeds, and they tend to cross well with horses. See this here is a cross between a grey Thoroughbred and an English Unicorn. They’re large, and reasonably docile.” They also had that champagne sheen most showy folk preferred. “For people who come here looking for a steed, this is their best bet. Although I've only ever seen it done by people who personally broke them as yearlings.”

By now she definitely had the whole class’s full attention.

“But this French Licorne cross is actually half fallow deer.” She gestured to the pasture beyond the fence. “Look at them. Slight build, slender legs, built for speed and agility. They need a lot of space but they are beautiful to look at, and they’re relatively easy to tame for the pure of heart.” There was still something distinctly deer-like about them and they were all so beautifully cream coloured that they almost took on a silver hue.

“What’s those hairy ones?” a voice piped up.

“That’s a Unicorno/Shetland mix, from central Italy. Traditionally they tend to be crossed with Monterufolino, but they are hard to come by and make their coats even darker.” Unicorni were naturally built more like ponies, some with considerably shorter horns, and their coats were often a much darker gold, or even brown. They were less flighty than the French breeds though, even if they showed blatant favouritism towards certain caretakers. They would even pull a carriage if properly motivated.

“Do you have any bigger ones?”

The stable master turned around. “What was that?”

One of the boys was standing behind her with a determined look on his face. “Do you have any like that but bigger. With the beards and the furry hooves.”

“Feathering,” she corrected automatically and the boy nodded eagerly. She frowned. “What exactly do you mean?”

“There’s really big unicorns,” he pressed. “With wild manes and tails and split hooves like the French ones but hair like those ones!”

“Buddy,” she laughed, “what you’re describing there is a Scottish unicorn and let me tell you, they cannot even be crossbred into domestication.”

The little face fell.

“Any offspring of an Aon-adharcach will be as wild as they are no one can capture them with their horn still intact, not on your life. You go near one of them with a halter and it will skewer you.”

She smiled at the boy, who still looked rather taken aback, despite this proof of his favourites superiority.

“Tell you what. If you want to see something unhinged and imposing, I’ll take you to see the Eenhoorn/Friesian cross we’ve just got in from the Netherlands.”

[clare-875]

Until the End (Levi x Reader)- Prologue

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A/N: Posted on Wattpad (@CLARE_875) but also decided to post here :) The image above does NOT belong to me

Summary:

"You can push me away, but I will still fight by you, and I will still follow you… until the end."

The ever-so-stoic Levi Ackerman has only ever known the terrors that living in a cruel world could bring. This all changed one fateful day when he encountered [y/n]; a girl renowned for her looks and abnormal speed. As they escape the confines of the Underground together, they soon discover that freedom doesn't come easy in a world full of Titans. As they rise through the ranks, [y/n] becomes known as "Humanity's Angel", a beacon of hope to humanity as she melts the walls Levi had built around his heart. However, she has her secrets too, and a dark past that might just threaten to pull them apart.

The storyline and characters of Attack on Titan do NOT belong to me, but all to Hajime Isayama; however, I do own this story, and all that occurs disparate to that storyline.

[Series Masterlist] [Chapter One]

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Warnings: Some descriptions of sexual harassment and abuse, blood, violence

Everything was cold. Everything hurt. But you could hear a heartbeat clouding over the deranged sound of the wind, giving you warmth. "I'm sorry [y/n], I'm so sorry." As you clung to the figure that had you wrapped in their arms, you felt the coolness of the air that latched onto your skin. The taste of salt and an uncontrollable rocking took over, destroying any sense of stability. You could hear shouts from nearby strangers, a hushing voice above you as they ran by. Constant apologies were muttered as you rocked back and forth, and stared into the [e/c] of the woman's eyes.

.....

You look up to the ceiling, hoping to catch a glimpse of the starry sky that you can only imagine lies above the unsettling and revolting place known only as the Underground. This is how it has been for as long as you can remember, yet memories would still flash between the darkness of the day and the night. The smell of salt and pungency, the cruel wind, and a warmth. You removed your gaze from the sight above you and looked to the stairs cascading down from the only way out of this place. But there was no use. To get out meant money, and getting out meant having to live, yet living up there in poverty seemed just as cruel as living down here in disparity. You felt the coolness of the breeze move mercilessly against your skin as you lay clad in stolen clothes on the roof of an abandoned dump of a home. It had been your refuge ever since you escaped an orphanage at the age of 5. If you could call it an orphanage. Constant abuse and shouting were all you remember of that place. You can only imagine what warmth feels like, what freedom feels like. The freedom to eat till your heart's content, sleep without worry and run without someone chasing behind you.

Hearing the all-too-familiar sound of your hunger raking through your stomach, you stand up and get ready to fight for another day. Your small, malnourished form may seem weak to others, but your time in the Underground has taught you to be tough. Your body may seem small, but you were agile and fast, so much so that you would often be able to take a loaf of bread with the only trace of your being there, the breath of the wind. Though the Underground was depressing and miserable - many people concerned with their own lives - you were not invisible in this place. Your beauty often caught people off guard, but the unusual way your visual traits stood out in this dark place caused problems in their own way. Men covered in filth and grime, old and battered with age and trial, often corner you, perverted intentions in their hope to overpower you. It was one of the many issues you had whilst in that orphanage. Your speed, however, made up for your lack of strength as the momentum helped you retch free from their filthy grasps again and again. Today was no different.

Succeeding in taking half a loaf of bread and a handful of apples with ease, you shove them into your makeshift bag and prepare to sprint. However, after barely three steps, you feel yourself get dragged into the darkness of an alleyway and away from the business of the open streets. As your vision consorts back to normal, you look up, only to see four men taunting you with the worst intentions brimming in their eyes, the only spark being lust over their lifeless, filthy forms.

"Well, well, well, lookie here, boys, it seems we caught the gem of the pack," a man unusually muscular and large in such a food-deprived place towered over you, seemingly the leader of this pathetic gang.

You tried to keep your cool. You had gotten away from worse before; it would be alright. Two more men rounded the corner, grinning as they emerged. You scoffed in realisation and disgust but felt an unfamiliar chill rip through your spine. This seemed worse. "Imagine the price we'd be paid to have you bought after we're done with you ourselves, of course." The man moved close to your face, hand tight on your wrist. The crowded stench of alcohol and grime suffocated you, but before you could wretch free from their grasp and sprint away, the grasp on your wrist loosened, and when you looked up, the man, taunting you just seconds before, had fallen.

He was dead.

Suddenly, the tension in the air changed as eyes filled with lust turned to confusion and then anger. Shouting ensued as the men sought the source of the stone now ingrained in the head of the man who led their disgusting activities, but as their grasp left you to pursue someone else, you found yourself unable to do anything. Despite living in this barren place where death was as usual as each breath you took, you had never had it done so swiftly and in front of you. But before you could dwell on the fragility of life much longer, you heard a slam and a groan beside you. There was a boy who seemed only a few years older than you, and he had 2 grown men on the floor, bleeding and beaten. He continued fighting ruthlessly, and despite the mounds of death that surrounded you, your gaze did not falter at the way he fought. The way he looked at them.

Two more men were on the ground before you could even blink, red smearing their chests as the boy's knife was now stained with blood. He didn't hesitate. He didn't even blink. Then, as he took on the final man, you noticed a glint of silver in the corner of your eye. One of the men, already on the floor, desperately grasped his wound with one hand, and in the other, a gun aimed at the boy, still distracted as the final man refused to fall.

A second passed. Then, two gunshots. Then a moment.

The boy stared at you, a brief look of shock in his dull eyes. The final man he had been fighting fell limp to the floor along with the man in front of you, his gun lying useless on the floor before him. The next moment felt long and thick as you realised you had actually killed two men. Two disgusting, filthy, corrupt men. But living men nonetheless.

"You killed," the boy spoke, breaking the silence.

Despite the seriousness of the situation, you scoffed, staring at the gun you had stolen from another dead man in the moment. The gun you had shot two men with. "So did you." you looked up and met his eyes. As they narrowed, he turned to walk away, but you decided you were not done with this situation. You had questions and you wanted them answered. "Wait," you spoke, voice wavering despite yourself. "Why... why did you come here? Why did you kill them?" You half expected him to ignore you and walk off, but to your surprise, he turned and looked straight at you.

Moments passed before he replied. "My mother," he hesitated, but looking into your eyes, he continued, "I just didn't want you to have the same fate she did down in this goddam place." With that, he continued on his way. "Wait," you stopped him, voice firmer now. "Tch," he turned, but his eyes went from annoyed to surprised in an instant as he caught an apple you had thrown him. This time, you hesitated. "Thank you," You muttered, giving him a smile. His eyes widened slightly; this was the first time anyone apart from his mother had shown him a shred of kindness in this place.

"Levi."

"What?" you asked, confused at the randomness of the word. "My name, it's Levi," he muttered. Your eyes widened. I must have really seemed shaken for him to sympathise with me, you wonder as you figured he seemed someone closed off and invulnerable. "My name is [Y/N]," you smiled, "Thank you, Levi." He said nothing and walked off, but at least he didn't refuse your tribute. You decided that this time, you would sprint straight away to avoid any more unwanted attention, never thinking you would see him again.

.....

As time passed, you were surprised by how often you saw his face, seemingly more so in the middle of fights on the streets or stealing food. It seemed he was just as noticed in this place as you were, hearing flickers of his name uttered in the streets, followed by curses and threats. He started to notice your name being spoken in the streets too, either filthy men upon your beauty or vendors' irritation on your speed.

As you both heard the other's name uttered more often, you also bumped into each other more often. When, at first, each meeting was only a brief look of recognition, it was followed by brief greetings, then conversations (more from your end) as you found yourself intrigued by the man who had saved you with his underlying strength. He also found you curious, though he would rather die than admit it, intrigued by your strengths and your story. Soon, you both found the walls you had built around yourselves after years of grief and turmoil gradually breaking as your unlikely acquaintance turned into companionship which turned to friendship.

As years passed, you both shared multitudes of conversations, he taught you how to clean properly, you brewed tea, and you both supported each other. You would find yourselves sharing the same spaces, sharing the snippets of your past you have never shared, him surprising you with brief stories of his own. Of his mother, who had died many years ago, and of his prior caretaker, Kenny, who had abandoned him a year before. Your friendship grew with your trust, and you found yourself surrounded by the feeling of warmth, something you lacked for most of your lifetime, all thanks to Levi. Even as people you came to meet left you, even when people joined the both of you. The reassuring gestures, the way he had your back, the way he spoke about how he was "gonna get out of this shitty place." Levi gave you hope that maybe you'd find freedom with him.

[enehana]

Ares Cabin Headcanons

Ares is actually a really good dad who loves his daughters. He defended his daughter, Alcippe, after she was raped. He would do that for any one of his daughters.

Children of Ares will typically devote themselves to one person, who they would slaughter entire armies and die for.

They're the most passionate campers, besides the Aphrodite cabin.

The Ares cabin gets together with the other children of war gods (Athena, Nemesis, Aphrodite, etc.) to plan full out wars, or maybe just the inevitable zombie apocalypse, etc.

They have terrible nightmares where they essentially live through terrible wars, such as the Trojan war, and die terrible deaths alongside great heroes. A reminder that they were always born to die in battle.

They fight for their dad's attention a lot. While he doesn't particularly want to pay attention to any of them, he'll humor them every once in a while.

Even the smaller children of Ares that were built for agility and speed are incredibly strong powerhouses.

Their fatal flaw tends to be hubris. They're always searching and competing for glory. No matter how small and insignificant it may be, they always want to be the best.

They get along very very well with the Aphrodite cabin. And great with the Nemesis cabin, along with other children of war gods, but not so great with the Athena cabin.

They naturally talk very loudly. They also walk very quickly. Their footsteps are really loud, everyone can tell when a child of Ares is walking their way.

They have a very dark sense of humor. They laugh loudly and deeply, with their whole chest.

[casualaruanienjoyer]

What sports do you see the AoT characters playing? I like to envision Jean as a swimmer or lacrosse player but that's about it

Hello! This is such a fun question, thank you for sending me this!!

What sports would these Aot characters play?

Jean: swimming. His body's perfect for it. Tall, muscular, long arms. He's very fast! But do not, and I repeat, DO NOT make him go on a vertical drop water slide. He will cry.

Armin: he's never been one for sports that involve a lot of... um... physical performance. But oh BOY this man can play golf. He's way too good at calculating trajectories and likes nerding over wind speeds and velocities. Plus, he gets to wear a neat hat.

Annie: Kickboxing. Her agility makes it easy for her to dodge her opponents who often underestimate her size. Plus, she gets to punch people all day long. Sweet!

Mikasa: Gymnastics. There's something about her body that's incredibly graceful. Her movements seem effortless. But she often loses her balance when Eren is around.

Eren: Surfing. Makes him feel free like a bird. Loves disconnecting from his daily life this way. Though, he's been rescued by lifeguards many times. He's not very good.

Pieck: Horse riding. And not just because she's the cart titan! She built an incredible relationship with her horse. Always carries sugar cubes in her pockets.

Connie: Football! His speed and wild card moves makes him incredibly unpredictable for the enemy team. His feet move so fast, no one can keep up.

Sasha: Archery, or course, for obvious reasons. Though she'd also be a great at darts because of her insane precision. As long as Connie doesn't walk in front of the boa- OH SHOOT!

Reiner: Weightlifting. This man is PURE MUSCLE. He can lift you, your mom and your entire sofa in one hand.

Yelena: Fencing. Elegant, refined. Just like her. Though part of her wishes she could actually stab her opponents. You know, just for a bit of harmless fun!

Historia: Rhythmic Gymnastics. Often trains with Mikasa, but while she's more up in the air, Historia's strenght lies in the gentle movements of her ribbons above ground.

Ymir: Skiing. It's fun, relaxing and she enjoys pulling off tricks from time to time. Likes bragging about them to Historia.

Hange: Handball. She has a great leap and throw and her eye for strategy gave her the nickname "the four eyed Demon".

Levi: Sailing, if it can be considered a sport. It's relaxing. Makes him feel content. Means that he can get away from people for as long as he wants to. Who's gonna follow him all the way her- IS THAT FLOCH??

Onyankopon: Canoeing. Why not enjoy some beautiful scenery while we're at it, no?

Falco: Badminton. Has a good eye for the shuttle and seems to be able to always land his hits. Can get easily distracted if playing against Gabi

Gabi: Shooting. BANG! Her aim is fantastic. But she really needs to work on her attitude. Oh no Connie don't walk ther- BANG!!...CONNIE!?

[natalievoncatte]

Here's a quick snippet of something I'm working on. This is from a discarded draft, but I'm still thinking of rewriting it and using it as the cold open for the story.

The bullet in her leg was going to be a problem.

Lena had been in scrapes before. This was, after all, the third version of her armor, each one built after the previous one had failed her in some way. It had taken her six long years to work out the balance between strength and agility, speed and power; to enhance her stealth abilities and find the right balance of preparation vs weight in her equipment. Prior to that she'd spent almost ten years preparing for her mission. Traveling, studying, learning, inventing.

At first her only concern had been blades and bullets. That had been easy to deal with. Her armored suit consisted of a base layer of electrically activated fibers that simulated fast twitch muscle fibers and could boost her overall strength output five fold, making her the physical equal or better of any enemy she might encounter in the field. A layer of kevlar-nomex triweave and proprietary composite armor plating over that made her quick and agile but well protected against guns and knives.

Tonight she'd learned that well protected wasn't totally protected.

It was almost funny, after everything that had happened in those five years, everything she'd overcome, that a gang of corrupt cops and mob thugs would be the ones to take her down.

Oh, and make no mistake, she had been taken down. She might have escaped the Axis Chemical factory, but she wasn't going to make it to the extraction point, and she knew it. She wasn't going to make it to Alfred this time.

They'd find her, eventually, pry her out of the armor, and reveal to the world that the Batman had been Lena Wayne all along. Of all the things she regretted as the plain flared in her thigh and she felt hot blood flowing beneath the inner layer of her suit, Lena was surprised to find that one of the things she'd regret most was not getting to see the looks on their faces when they found out.

She'd faced down plant toxins and freeze cannons and a shape-shifting monster. Aliens and metahumans and magicians. She'd taken them all on and come up ahead.

You know what? Lena decided, this isn't too bad. No, it wasn't a good death, but she was going out on her terms, knowing that she'd made some small difference. Maybe someone else could carry on her work. She'd left journals behind, set out instructions for what was to be done with her inventions and technology and the Wayne fortune. She would leave good in the world behind her. Martha and Thomas, the people who'd taken her in and raised her, would be proud. Bruce, her little brother who'd been the bravest man she ever knew, would be proud.

Maybe it would be a good death after all.

Lena stumbled through the open construction, threading between exposed I-beams. It wasn't in her to give up, to stop limping forward. She'd locked out her wounded leg, turning the suit rigid so she could hobble on it, and had already hit herself with an adrenaline auto-injector to keep her eyes open. She could make it to the extraction if she just kept moving.

Just keep moving.

As she limped forwards, Lena wondered how she'd get down. One problem at a time. She was in no shape to use a grapple line to get to street level. Keep moving. The pain in her leg was shocking, excruciating. She wondered if the bullet had fractured her femur. Maybe. She'd been hurt before, of course. Bullet to the back that slipped between armor plates and punched through, once, and all the ones that didn't hurt like hell anyway; it was like being pummeled with baseballs.

The display on the inside of her cracked helmet was lit up with warning lights and messages she didn't have time to parse. She knew what some of them were: Corrosive damage to the suit, drained power cells, her vitals plummeting, and the repeating all points bulletins declaring that the Batman was to be arrested on sight for the murder of Jack Napier.

Lena made it to the edge and leaned on a steel beam, looking down. Two blocks over to the extraction point. Alfred would be waiting for her. He'd get her out of the suit, patch her up, make it better. Alfred always made it better. She had to try. She had to try to get back.

Fumbling, she almost tumbled right off the edge until she slumped against the beam, her wounded leg starting to slide out from under her. She had to hug the steel to pull herself back up, prop herself up on the locked armor segments.

No, she wasn't going to make it, she realized. This was it. No heroic last stand, no final sacrifice, just bleeding out in a half-finished bougie apartment complex that had been stripped of all its copper five times. Lena wanted to laugh, but her lungs could only wheeze.

She almost didn't realize it when the half-skeletal building shook from a gust of wind.

No, not a wind. A blur of motion.

Her HUD lit up with proximity alarms, the onboard computers panicking when the sensor systems started failing from lack of power or severe damage. She really wanted to laugh. What now?

Turning, Lena put a hand on the beam to keep herself upright, and sighed.

No amount of preparation, no amount of refinement to her suit, would ever prepare her for this.

The Kryptonian strode across the plywood construction floor, cape majestically billowing behind her. Even in the dark she seemed alive with light, haloing her flawless golden curls and alive in her sky blue eyes, like she brought the sun with her. Her bright blue and red uniform stood in stark contrast against the muted grays, blues, and blacks of Gotham by night. Below them, sirens wailed. Hunters on the prowl for their wounded prey.

"What do you want?" Lena rasped. Her helmet altered her force into a deep growl.

"Batman," said Supergirl, "there's an all points bulletin out for your arrest."

"What else is new?"

Even now, she was the detective, stalling. The helmet's systems were scanning Supergirl's face, matching against her own facial recognition database using algorithms she'd written herself. The suit did all this automatically, so that she had complete files when she returned to the Cave.

"They're saying you killed a man tonight," said Kara. "I'm taking you in."

"I'm not going anywhere with you," Lena coughed, the sound exploding in a garbled belch from her damaged helmet.

"You can barely stand," said Supergirl. "That wound in your leg needs medical attention. Just let me help you."

"Help me?" Lena spat, reaching for her belt. "Don't be absurd."

"You're coming with me either way," said Supergirl, edging closer. "Trying to fight me is pointless. You don't stand a chance."

"Want to test that theory?" said Lena.

Supergirl shook her head.

The suit came back with a facial recognition match.

DANVERS, KARA.

Her biographical data began to scroll across Lena's vision. She dismissed it with a laugh.

"It figures," she muttered.

"What?" said Supergirl. She moved closer. "I can hear your heart rate decreasing. I'll take you to a hospital. I promise, you'll get a fair hearing, you just-"

Lena laughed again. "A fair hearing. You must be joking."

Supergirl edged closer. "Wait. You're using a voice changer."

Lena's eyes shot open wide inside her helmet. "How... of course. Superhuman hearing, right?"

"Wait," said Kara, "wait, I know that voice. Lena?"

[farashibutjustfoolingaorund]

So cool how characters in RE contrast each other capabilities-wise.

Chris is an expert marksman and vehicle handler (ex airforce) who mainly relies on grappling and punching for his melee attacks being the tank of a guy that he is.

Leon has crashed almost every vehicle he's driven, mains kicks, and is built more for agility and mobility than tanking hits. This is especially visible in his fight with Chris in RE6 and his fight with Arias in Vendetta. In RE6, Chris is always trying to close the distance to take control over his opponent, but the reason their fight ends in a draw is because Chris throws Leon, which gives Leon the space to react. Kicks also just naturally require more space or are meant to get distance from an opponent. (Not to say they can't ever be used in closer quarters, like popping a low roundhouse, for instance). And Leon's just schmoovin in Vendetta.

In contrast to both, Jill seems to prefer knives and melee over firearms and has an acrobatic/aerial agility flow as opposed to Leon's ground flow, and also mains kicks/distance melee in contrast to Chris' more extreme close quarters style. (this is prevalent in RE5 and Death Island especially). Canonically Jill has bested both Chris and Leon in melee combat. Her win against Chris was probably affected by the alterations made to her by Wesker and also Chris not wanting to hurt her, but nonetheless. Chris is capable enough that he should be able to restrain someone without seriously hurting them. I think this is solid ground to say Jill is the most skilled hand to hand combatant in RE.

Like Chris, she can seriously take a hit. Most RE characters can, given their line of work, but these two especially.

Ada's style is geared toward stealth and efficiency, which lends itself to her more graceful and poised movement style. A lot of her RE4R melees rely on momentum and really putting her whole body into an attack. I don't just mean her spin kicks and hookshot melees, she puts her whole torso into her sidekick to the point that she actually looks away from the opponent because of the torque.

I've not looked as closely at Wesker, but his fighting style is this interesting mix of theatrics and brutal efficiency, which is enhanced by his speed. It all depends on how much he is toying with his opponent. He moves very quickly and hits precisely, but makes a show of it sometimes. See Code Veronica.

Though not really a trained agent or military personnel, Claire's gun handling is second to none. Chris may have been the best marksman in STARS, but I honestly believe that if it's her against him in a shooting contest, she would win. See Code Veronica, Degeneration, Rev2, etc.

A note on pain tolerance, Death Island gives us an interesting insight into that.

I got the sense that the initial viral injection from the drone hurts immensely. Claire is immediately brought to her hands and knees by the pain. This makes sense, as she's not a trained agent of any kind.

Chris lasts a little longer than her, but is soon brought to his hands and knees as well. That's how you know it has to hurt bad, because Chris Redfield, whose whole thing is being a tough guy who can take a hit, is on the ground. However, despite the pain, he still has the presence of mind to try and comfort his sister, which is also a very Chris thing to do.

I was actually quite surprised by Leon's pain tolerance. He toughs it out way longer than Chris did before going to the ground. Even then, he's present enough to aim his gun and throw a flash grenade, demonstrating he can work through more pain that Chris can. Even so, he's still unable to block any kind of attack from Maria or recover correctly after being hit, which makes sense.

[wordy-little-witch]

Transfemme Buggy who never realized until a certain disease is transmitted and spread on an island she and her crew visits.

Blackboard and his ilk had been there before, and Buggy had just so happened to show up within a week of the other leaving. Damages were minimal overall but the marks of their presence was there, everywhere, in the pale faces, the new graves, the sickness and fear.

It was a typical stop, supplies and information gathered in equal measure. Tasks delegated, Buggy is among a group chatting up the locals, and that layer of ignorance self consciousness is there, as it always is, when eyes catch on the captain's visage, but way that Buggy is being watched changes between one minute and the next. Someone comes into the shop, a young woman at a glance, who sneezes. Buggy doesn't think much on it, a charming smile and offered handkerchief the only response. The gazes go from wary, warming up to them, to suddenly wild and fearful and there's a shout and-

Buggy chokes on air, feeling the moment something latches in his lungs. His Devil Fruit is useful in ways few can fathom, in ways he cannot explain, but the introduction of something Foreign and Unapproved is a feeling the jester knows well, one which is often a mere reflex to Chop off of his cells, but this one adheres, latches, and Buggy can feel it seep and spread and-

Between one moment and the next, Buggy blinks past the sudden vertigo, genome shuffled and reverted and inverted until the swimming in his vision pauses, Cabaji's wide, panicked face swirling into focus. The blue haired pirate squints, confused tilts a dizzy head, and then freezes at the ambient wave over sensitive Haki, terror and guilt and panic which chokes and screams and wails.

Buggy moves to stand and freezes.

He looks down.

That is... definitely new.

A gloved hand touches his chest, the breasts straining under the striped top. "Huh," the clown captain says after a moment. "I did not have 'Sudden Sex Change' on my 1565 bingo card."

There's laughter, and Buggy preens a little as the negative emotions begin bleeding off, replaced by cautious amusement. Once tempers have calmed enough, there's a moment of questioning, where clarity is sought and then relatively received.

It's a change, certainly, and one which is yet another echo of Teach's group having been on that island. Buggy isn't upset - it isn't their fault after all, the town is just as hit by this as he is - but he is.... contemplative about it.

The crew is overall relatively calm about it. Gender equality is something Buggy does enforces heavily on the crew, assigned sex at birth or otherwise. Barring a few others, some more well renowned than most, the Buggy Pirates are the most progressive and open minded of pirates.

So after a quick explanation, things are back to business as usual - and Buggy is happy about it, obviously, the respect is there and it's perfect, the normalcy is fine.

It's the way he feels that throws a wrench in it all.

It takes a while to realize, because it's There, but it's just beneath the surface.

It starts when Buggy puts on a little weight.

All in all, that's not a big deal - but to Buggy who has a long standing problem with food and eating, it's notable. It's not uncomfortable. It's not like there's an Issue with eating or bodily image issues, it's the lack of time, of desire, of enjoyment in it. Buggy had always been on the slimmer side, never packing on muscle the way of the men and women in his life early on. Buggy was built slim and willowy, no less strong but less visibly jacked. It suited him just fine, that method of muscle, suited to aerials, to agility and speed. It fit and Buggy was adaptable.

Only now, Buggy isn't as preoccupied. There's less of a desperate, cloying need to fill his every waking moment with tasks and duties and activities. It's subtle. It's the slightest of shifts. It starts when he gains a little weight.

Then it becomes casual comments from the crew. "You look so healthy," some say warmly. "You look happy." And Buggy is. Buggy IS happy. And Buggy feels healthy. And it's strange, so strange, and it's wonderful and confusing and amazing, and it all comes to a head as things do with Buggy by sheer happenstance.

They dock at an island. Buggy and Alvida are restocking on makeup. A clerk calls them "ladies". Buggy waves it off, both the butterflies and the referral, and then that same clerk responds to a question the captain asked with a warm "yes, ma'am, absolutely"

And Buggy is having a realization in a small cosmetic shop on a tiny no-name island in the New World.

As they leave, she catches Alvida's sleeve and he - she - asks a question. "Could I... be a woman?"

And Alvida, sweet Alvida, blunt and brutally honest Alvida, snorts. "Fuck if I know. If you want to, sure, but your body doesn't determine that. If you're a woman," she pokes her friend in the chest, above the clown's heart, "then this is all that needs to be a woman. Is it?"

And Buggy breathes shakily. "I... yes. Yes? Yeah. I. I think so."

"Then you're a woman. Now come on, sister, we still need to find a foundation for me."

Buggy comes out to the crew casually though not without nerves. They get back and she just drops it with all the finesse of a bull in a China shop. "Surprise, it's a girl! And by it, I mean me."

The only response for a moment is silence, then someone asks about pronouns. And Buggy is bathed in the cacophony of her crew screeching their happiness for her, thanking her for trusting them, singing her praises, and she's a puddle, truly, she is melting into a pirate puddle.

Accepting it makes things fall into place a little easier. She's comfortable in this body in a way she never was before. The center of gravity fell in a more natural way to her senses, lower and steadier. She isn't any less strong, and she's not at all interested in the stick-thin-sensational body type, though more power to people who rock it. She is herself, and she never expected to be all that different. She's still got the musculature of an aerialist, the corded muscle of a knife fighter, no amount of hormone changes will take away that. She distributes the weight differently like this, filling her clothes in a way that looks and feels better to her. It's like she was assembling a puzzle in her heart, blindfolded, and she never knew a piece was missing until it fell into her hand, knocking the rest into place like a domino effect. Unexpected but undeniable, she was happy.

She felt beautiful in a way that she never had before, she felt more confident, more at home, more at ease in this skin of hers now that it finally was molded into a better form.

And with that contentment came freedom that she hadn't had the time for in what felt like eternity.

Freedom to experiment, to train, to explore. She felt better, so she could be better, could do better, and so she became better.

And the Seas quaked as a result.

[tranquilskies2]

Lord Shen X Fenghuang Headcanons

*takes deep breath* These two were my 2nd most favorite kfp ship with Tipo ofc being my most favorite. I started shipping them bc of a few fanfics & became obsessed with them since! I can't really explain what got me to stil be fond of this ship for years, but it somehow clung to me. It's the second rare pair I ever made fanart for. It's a shame that I could only find one Shenhuang fanart tho. At least I have the skills to do it now!

How slow is this slow burn? World's largest burning candle slow. Seriously, you have two stubborn deranged tsunderes who are heavily deprived of love & affection. There is no love at first sight between them. It's more like love at first fight-

They didn't like each other at first. Due to their unhinged, similar but clashing personalities, they initially fought and bicker frequently. These two could be mistaken for sworn enemies who despise each other for over a century. At one point, they have to separated from each other because they almost engaged in an altercation together.

Most of the time, whenever Shen is paired with someone (OC or canon), that someone submits to him and hey, ofc Shen would always want to be the dominant one in the relationship. However, Fenghuang would NOT take being beneath someone. This woman is a fierce free spirit who canonically destroyed & broke free from the owl-shaped cage that was built SPECIFICALLY JUST FOR HER (btw, Oogway built that cage). She can see right through Shen like he's crystal clear water in a glass.

Fenghuang will not put up with Shen's spoiled princely demeanor (which is why she gave him the nickname:"Prince."). In fact, she'll have the guts to call him out on his bs & put him in his place. She doesn't sugarcoat things, she delivers the truth on a cold silver platter. For sure Shen's ego took a massive hit like a tsunami due to being humbled for the first time.

However, Fenghuang is not without her own faults or blindspots. In can on, she lived in a mountain in isolation (I'm surprised she didn't go cuckoo) for who knows how long because she picked a fight with her own master (Oogway) & is too cowardly to face him again. Despite being humbled by Fenghuang, Shen is highly perceptive. So much so, he can easily pick up on Fenghuang's own arrogance & can swiftly knock her off her own high horse with one kick at the right opportunity.

They never publicly announced that they're dating. In fact, it took quite a while for their loved ones & those acquainted with them to realize they're dating due to being used to witnessing the two being at each other's throats. Most of their interactions consists of them quarrel like an old married couple. Understandably, it's easy for outsiders to see this as a toxic relationship. Despite displaying zero PDA, they prefer to be intimate in private.

Again with Shen being observant, he can easily take note of what Fenghuang likes & dislikes. However, the first time he tried picking out a gift for Fenghuang, he's in complete shambles due to being worried about whether or not she'll like & accept the gift. Doesn't help the fact that Fenghuang wouldn't be easily swayed by flashy gifts & gestures and that she generally is difficult to impress.

Has to be an accessory since he doesn't know her measurements (yet). Aha! This silver peony hairpin! No, not her favorite flower. Perhaps this tree branch hairpin? *shakes head* Unimpressive. Maybe this sun hairpin instead? *groans as he chucks the 30th hairpin in the discard pile*

One of their favorite things to do together is training. As they got closer, the sexual tension between them rises like champagne in a bottle with the cap eventually popping off like a rocket. Both wouldn't outright say it out loud, but they do admire each other's skills & abilities in combat. Shen is mesmerized by Fenghuang's flash flight speed & precise agility with her feather knives. In return, Fenghuang is captivated by the deadly elegance of Shen's tail feathers & use of his guan dao. It's a gradual build up to accept each other's feedback for their own skill sets.

In due course, they come to love playing with knives together...

Their favorite date locations are almost anywhere with little to no people. Private restaurant reservations, vip theatre seat access and flights across the vast skies (Fenghuang usually carries Shen). It's almost a 50/50 on who plans the dates. It took a while for Shen to not get carried away with overly grand gestures since he's an all or nothing type of person. In comparison, Fenghuang is more casual.

Without a doubt, these two love taking hot baths together. The bath will be smelling like a perfume shop due to fragrances & bath products they'll use & borrow from each other. They'll be conversing with one another as they wash each other's backs & tail feathers. The first time Shen saw Fenghuang drenched in water, he let out a howl of laughter before being splashed with water by her.

Do they get intimate during this time? Of course do! How intimate? That...will be left to your own imagination ;).

Who's more clingy than the other? Shen for sure. He's more demanding for attention than Fenghuang is. If he wants affection, he wants it now. Whenever he finds Fenghuang alone & he's certain that no one else is around, he'll walk up to her & wrap his wings around her. He loves it whenever Fenghaung strokes his neck gently.

Sometimes, Fenghuang is in need of attention too. Whenever Fenghuang has hunger for affection, she'll silently cling onto one of Shen's wings & nuzzle her head on his shoudler. She's quite pleased when Shen strokes her head tenderly as a response.

Since they are both birds, they can't really kiss like how most other animals could. As an alternative, they'll gently nuzzle their beaks in target areas. Shen's favorite area is his neck while Fenghuang prefers the upper back.

Who opened up to the other first? Fenghuang since she isn't as stubborn as Shen. As I said before, they despised each other at he beginning. As time goes on, they'll slowly come to realize that they don't differ much in character & empathize with each other's struggles & flaws. They have each other question their own character & motives. They test each other in a way no one else ever could. They gradually came to understand each other in a way not perceivable by others.

They almost broke up at one point. Yet, strangely, their psyches synchronize together in a strange but alluring pattern. Once they both do their own self-reflection & come to a great understanding, their love will become unbreakable like the blades they wield. Even though they never say:"I love you." to each other, they

[therobotmonster]

What do you get when the 6 Million Dollar Man and the Bionic Woman decide to pull a Brady Bunch and a Johnny Quest at the same time?

You Get the Bionic Six.

Impossible to find streaming in high quality anyplace, but a bunch of eps in pretty decent quality hit archive.org.

Decent animation, an earworm themesong that I am so frightened of I muted it while taking its screenshots. The Bionic Six is a lost 80s gem. Not like, a diamond or a sapphire, but like, at the very least a citrine, or a really nice tiger eye that's all polished up in a riverbed? Anyhow...

I joke about the premise. It's not Steve Austin, it's Jack Bennett. It's not Jaime Sommers, it's Helen Bennett. It was a serial number filing but it absolutely is someone's 6MDM and Bionic Woman fanfic where they got married and both had and adopted a bunch of bionic kids.

The story, however, involves Jack (already bionic) and his family getting irradiated by an alien spaceship (the 80s was a hell of a drug) in the Himalayas, with the family going comatose except for Jack, thus requiring the family's upgrades.

This explains why a bunch of children would be turned into cyborgs, but it does not explain why those upgrades came with superpowers. That seems to be down to the grandpa-figure of the group, Professor Dr. Amadeus Sharp Ph.D, which, I gotta say, that's a chef's kiss cartoon character name right there.

Putting both Professor and Doctor in front of your name is exactly what I'd expect from a guy that's like "these children are comatose... I think I'll give that one the magnetic repulsors..."

As for the family proper, you've got Bionic-1/Jack Bennet, the literal team dad who suspiciously has all the bionic powers you'd expect from Steve Austin, with a touch of Reed Richards gray on the temples.

You have, ahem, Mother-1/Helen Bennett, who doesn't have the Bionic woman's powers because they'd be redundant. But she is a lady in an 80s team cartoon so she's got... say it with me folks... psychic abilities!

Also, if I had a nickel for every brunette be-bobcuted supermilf in a red jumpsuit named Helen I'd have two nickels, which isn't a lot, but it does lead to some obvious crossover concepts that the r34 community have thus far failed to provide. I'd commission something but, as established, I've only got the two nickels.

She also stands out by having a codename that is calculated to make villains deeply uncomfortable with using it, thus putting them on the back-foot. Just takes every deathtrap situation to a weird place.

Their (at least initially) biological children, Sport-1/Eric Bennett and Rock-1/Meg Bennett establish the pattern of there being a bionic kid for every interest. Sport-1 has magnetic attraction-repulsion powers, and uses lamposts like baseball bats all day, every day.

Rock-1 was literally designed to be cartoon Cyndi Lauper and has speakers built into her shoulders for sonic attacks. She is also super-speed runs the fastest.

IQ/J.D. Corey is adopted, and doesn't do the normal naming convention. He's an unusual character in 80s toon terms, as he's both the smartest member of the team (per the codename) but also has the most powerful super-strength. You don't get the smart AND strong combo that often, and you'd expect the Sport-1 to be physically strongest but it seems he's more the Mario of the team.

Karate-1/Bunjiro "Bunji" Tsukahara is a foster kid who got dragged into all of this, and has both the most greatly enhanced super-agility and also actually knows how to fight without powers.

They also have a robot ape named F.L.U.F.F.I. who wasn't in every episode.

The story structure is an 80s toyvertoon take on Johnny Quest, with the whole family having toyetic super-powers and vehicles, and instead of a cavalcade of one-off baddies, you get a recurrent cast lead by Dr. Scarab, who is Sharp's brother, and is after Sharp's superior bionic knowledge.

Mad science, not even once.

I have vague memories of Scarab's pursuit of 'trionic' technology, which assumed both that the 'bi' in bionic was for 'two' (reasonably understandable assumption) and that that if two was good, three was logically better, while never really establishing what third thing was being mixed in (baffling even to my childhood self).

On top of his drone robots, called "Cyphrons" (not Cylons, Battlestar Galactica Lawyers, cyphrons), Scarab had a host of modified goons, most of whom where combinations of dumb, strong, and ugly.

The main stand out being Madame-O, who is a cartoon femme fatale of the classic variety, who punctuates her sentences with 'Darling', uses a harp to shoot energy blasts, and can disguise herself as other people, because why be good at one thing when you can be confusing at several?

The animation is pretty good for the time period (It was a TMS animated show!) and it has that weird mix of self-aware and totally earnest that makes 80s cartoons fun.

It was, like most of them, an advertisement for action figures. In this case from LJN, the gimmick of which was they were G.I.Joes that were mostly made of die cast metal. A lot of the characters were pretty chunky, to the point that a FLUFFI could be bring down an assailant if you chucked it at 'em just right.

Oh, and the whole family could join hands to pull of Deus Ex Machina bullshit. It's a trip.

Go watch ya some cartoons.

[that-random-outsider]

Glassheart Arcane Au Pt.1

Red and Chloe have lived on opposite sides of their worlds for as long as she'd known. Red grew up in Wonderland oppressed and trampled over her entire life by those in Auradon. She could never know the whites and golds of the people on the other side of the Rabbit whole , but she knew that she hated them. They looked down on her people, her home, as if they were nothing. And Red could not bare it. Even so, Red knew how to survive there, she had her mother, she had Maddox, she had enough. At least that was Until it was all taken from her.

One day when Red, Maddox, and Chester managed to sneak into Auradon for a job everything went wrong. Chester had always been smaller than Red, slim and lanky, his body not built for the speed and agility Red and Maddox were used to, but he wanted to help. He wanted to be there for his friend, for his sister. So they manage to barely sneak into their targeted estate. The three raid the place stunned by just how much one person could have. Envy and resentment clutching at their hearts as they realize just how much the people of Auradon have, any remorse for their deeds they could've harbored fading from their thoughts.

That's when Chester finds the hex tech stones. He tries to grab a few of them but Chad starts banging on the door trying to get in to his estate. The three panic as realization grabs hold of them they try to sneak out without making a sound but Chester's clumsy and starts drops one of the stones as he tries to stuff it in his pocket. Red manages to pull him out of the apartment just as it explodes leaving both Chloe and Chad in shock and confusion. Red and her friends escape into their side of the Rabbit hole with their loot in tow as enforcers try to chase them down while Chad is trying to plead his case with Merlin and his father at what hex tech can do.

When Red makes it back to Wonderland it doesn't take long for people to recognize a score when they see one. A group of people manage to get the jump on them, trying to take the loot for themselves, but Red hands the bag the Chester and tells him to run. Red tries to fend off their attackers, allowing Chester time to escape, Maddox attempting to help any way he can but Chester's gangly limbs only take him so far. He ends up coming across a dead end, cornered with no feasible escape in sight so he does all that he can do and tosses the loot to the side wasting everything they worked for.

Red tries to stay calm ofcourse but after everything she’s just exhausted. She doesn't yell or get angry or argue she just ignores him for the rest of the day. She knew he wasn't ready, this was just as much her fault as his but still... Chester apologizes at least a thousand times but Red doesn't want to hear it. "You had one job" she argues heated at the lack of results despite everything they went through getting that bag of trinkets they were going be set for months! But still he was like a brother to hee she’d get over it. And Maddox knew it too.

When they returned home the lecture they received from Bridget was long. "We stay out of topside affairs" Red’s mother chided but Red was tired of it. "Come on, no one on Auradon is going hungry any time soon" Red argued but Bridget didn’t have time for her childish arguing. Red didn’t understand what she’d set into motion that day, that she’d be the inciting incident that would set Wonderland ablaze.

Before long the Auradon enforcers came searching for their pound of flesh lead faithfully by Charming. Exploding the entire block wasn't something that could so easily be ignored, all they needed was a name. Bridget of course refused to give up her only daughter, trying to find any way they could find a peaceful solution, but no. Auradon would scower Wonderland for as long as it took until they found Red and her friends and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

Red wanted to fight back, to do more than just lay low while enforcers tore her home to pieces but Bridget shut her down every time. There ware no winners in war she’d tell her, but Red didn’t listen. It isn't until she realizes that it truly is a losing battle that she gives up hope completely. So Red decides the best thing she could do for her home is to turn herself in.

She sends the note to Charming telling him that she’d come willingly so long as they stayed out of Wonderland and waited patiently for the inevitables. Except it isn't Charming who opens the door but instead Bridget planning to take her place. She tells Red that she’d done good, but that it was time she face the music not her. Red was a good person she’d some day do great thing, and as her mom she was meant to protect her until then so she takes Red’s spot and goes willingly with the enforcers only to realize that it was a trap set by Adam.

Wonderland was becoming too Bold, too independent it was the only way he could think of to get them to stand down. So ofcourse Adam intercepts her prison transfer planning to cover up Bridget’s execution as an accident without a leader giving the people on Wonderland something to believe in they’d fall apart completely and fall back in line. Red of course finds out and goes after her with Maddox telling Chester to stay home but he swears he can help. But Red can't take that risk with her mother’s life on the line so she leaves him there and goes with Maddox to save her mom. Chester can't take the not knowing, the anxiety the fear, it tears him apart until he can't take it anymore. He comes up with a plan he remembers the explosion from earlier and thinks that maybe if he could create a distraction large enough they'd be saved.

He gets to the wearhouse and everything goes exactly as planned, Adam and his crew don't make it out, Bridget and Maddox manage to safely escape for the most part but Red is lost in the fire. Presumed dead by Bridget she decides to raise hell upon anyone and everyone who dared to align their self with topside, and Chester, guilt ridden and destroyed at the loss of the closest thing he had to a sister makes that very same vow.

[christian-oc-tournament]

I don't know how much we're meant to share as oc propaganda, so this might be too much? But I've rewritten a lot of Ahleri's character and worldbuilding since submitting 😅

Ahleri is a 19 year old who grew up on a farm in the mountains of Strahna, an Australian-inspired continent on a world called Lhoam. Her family raises jumbucks, (otherwise called woolly jumpers) which are large marsupials resembling quokkas with sheep-like coats. Ourem is one of their livestock guardians, who helps keep predators away and herd the woolsies.

Due to her upbringing she has loads of practical farm skills, along with a lot of general outdoorsy survival knowledge. She's also very skilled at the high quality textile work which her town is know for, like spinning, weaving and embroidery. She loves animals and the outdoors, but isn't fond of being cooped up inside unless she's busy with her textile work.

While out bushwalking she stumbles on the lost Hero's Bonds, two thick gold bracelet-like bands joined together. Without realising what they are, she jokingly puts her hands in them and they "bond" down onto her wrists and grow into her body. The Hero's Bonds give her various abilities, like heightened strength, speed and agility, along with being able to make a shield and "store" objects (like video game storage).

Unfortunately for her they come with weighty responsibilities and a very changeable in-built personality named Berianthari, Bertie for short. Bertie is mostly goofy and kinda stupid and unhelpful most of the time, but can occasionally switch to biting, sarcastic and irritable, with moments of incredible intelligence in between. If she makes a visible appearance it's usually as a gold light shaped like a fairy wren or willy wagtail.

Ahleri's generally very confident, friendly and laid back, chill in the fact of danger or problems and very good at thinking on the fly in rough situations. Loves to help others in practical ways and solve issues. Usually kind, she can be a bit amused and blasé when other people are scared or upset about something she thinks is nothing to worry about. Finds ignorance in others or lack of practical skills both amusing and a bit irritating. Prefers to laugh or shrug off inconveniences. Quite stubborn when convinced she's right, and not the most sensitive to other people's emotions. Hard to make really angry but once enraged is explosive and terrifying.

She loves to good naturedly tease and wind people up, and is especially fond of telling yarns, getting people to believe in harmless lies (think drop bears etc, except those ARE real in her world lol). Messing with or impressing the politicians and aristocracy she's forced to mingle with by playing up her "feral country jilleroo" persona is a favourite way of coping with the stress of her new position.

Generally accompanied by Nimble, a little scruffy golden brushtail possum-like creature she saved as a baby who is curious and naughty. She's told a lot of dignitaries wild stories about how she got that scar over her mouth, but the truth is that it was Nimble clawing at her when she saved him as a joey.

Conell is her assigned guard and one of her main fighting tutors, while Zhahara is her palace etiquette coach and general handler. Basically it's their job to teach her her duties as Hero.

Ahleri and Conell have a bit of a mutual pining situation going on 👀

.

[reagomyeggo]

a sheet i made for my new asoiaf dragon, freilyr !

also known as the frost giant, freilyr is large but lithe and elegant in appearance. platinum-white scales shimmer with a blue iridescence, her frills/fins holding a light lavender color and her back accented with a sable in the same shade. her wings are striped lightly with a purple pattern. her eyes are a stunning sapphire blue. her flames are shock white with fire-orange tips.

she-dragon of queen daemyra targaryen, she is often found flying over the city of kings landing with her rider. the two are often accompanied by the queen consort venya velaryon and her dragon, bruunaxes, who is freilyr’s bonded partner.

freilyr is built moreso for speed and agility than brute force, but has no issues fending for or hunting for herself.

(yes, the lesbian queens have lesbian dragons bc who am i if its not sapphic in every way possible. also, in this universe the houses are not related at all, no inc*st thx)

layout of the sheet inspired by siosin_ on instagram

[akingdomscrypt]

War is Over (and what have we done?)

Part Three

Pairing; Graves x male!reader (slow burn)

WC; ~5k

Summary; reader has another episode, a childhood friend makes an appearance, and the results of the phone call.

Warnings; Implied child abuse, implied child neglect, implied domestic abuse, implied alcoholism, implied death of a parent, implied human trafficking(not of reader), dissociation, hallucinations, description of injuries/wound care, blood, blood used in a way it definitely should not be, described lead up to vomiting (as a result of blood loss)

A/n; ah, look at all those warnings. Oh, how I love angst. And still no comfort.

--- "lucky number twenty-seven" ---

Last week's bad decisions came in the form of a simple, inconspicuous helicopter landing on the worn tarmac out back the following Friday.

A few of your Shadows gathered around you now, curious faces watching the landing skids make contact with the mix of tar and gravel with thinly concealed interest. Likely wondering who the hell was here at five o'clock in the morning; there had been no meeting or announcement of an incoming visitor.

You hadn't told them. Hadn't deemed it necessary to. Not yet.

Only you knew what resided in that cockpit.

Or, rather, who.

That information had come in the form of an encrypted email. Not that there was even much intel to glean from that PDF document—a form containing more black lines than it did useful information.

Looking at those records had nearly made you sick; talking about the person within the file as if he were some type of experiment. A thing.

Clean cut and clinical; the most sterile ‘resume’ you had ever seen. Displaying simple, base facts about the ‘subject’. Anything that wasn't the man's birthdate, sex, gender, medical history- et cetera, was completely blacked out.

Details regarding past operations? Blacked out. With the exception of the date it was started and, as was with every entry, a bold stamp of COMPLETE at the end of each row.

You aren't entirely sure why everything was marked out, it was all in Russian anyway, nothing you could read.

There wasn't even a name. Just a number and prefix.

Predator-27

Predator. You'd thought she had been kidding when she said she had one of her predators—Predators—infiltrating the 141 TF. It made the idea of said Predator having its claws in the team that much more impactful.

And that much more satisfying.

The door slides open and a man steps out, at first you assume that this man was the one she'd sent. He certainly had the height and build one would expect of someone who had been raised into war; tall but not excessively so, wide and strong. Built like a damn tank.

Then the man steps to the side and out comes another man, this one shrouded in black—and you thought your outfit was a bit much.

This man was clearly built for speed and agility, though any indications of muscle mass was hidden by a long, dark cloth—was that a fuckin' cape??

This now felt more like some poorly written self-insert than the serious situation it actually was.

Maybe half a foot shorter than you from what you could tell, covered head to toe in black that likely concealed any tactical gear or weaponry, a cowl wrapped around his head, swathed over like a hood and lifted to hide his lower face as well.

The only thing that stood out amongst the rest of his outfit was the small sliver of flesh revealing the skin below his eyes and the bridge of his nose—you couldn't tell if the rest of the upper portion was covered by shadow or simply more cloth. His eyes were locked on you, unmoving and watching.

Piercing, as if looking through your very soul—or obvious lack of.

The man, Predator-27, doesn't stop walking until he's within a foot of you. Still staring up at you with those same dead, emotionless eyes.

“Lieutenant.” He rumbles, unblinking.

He seems to have no regard for personal space, and as the professional you most certainly are, you somehow find it within yourself to not take a much needed step back.

“Predator-27?” You ask instead, trying your damnedest to keep your voice level. He was here because of you, this was the consequence of your own actions. The least you could do is not treat him like some kind of thing.

Predator-27 merely gives a rough grunt in turn, still standing so close. Not looking away. Not even blinking.

You can feel your Shadows’ eyes on you, their curious gazes burning holes into the sides of your masked face. But, just as the man in front of you, you don't even glance at them. Don't provide a reasoning, not a single ounce of context.

Instead you give a small dip of your head, then a tilt back towards your base. As soon as you turn to leave you feel Predator-27 following behind you,

Not hear.

Predator-27 is a strange man, you've realized. He follows every word that leaves your lips without a second of hesitation. Sometimes you don't even have to verbalize what you want, simply point or gesture and he gets the hint.

He also doesn't leave you alone.

If you want alone time while in your office? You have to order him out, even then he just sits guard outside your door. Simply walking down the halls? He's right behind you. More of a shadow than your own teams’ namesake.

The only place you don't allow him to be by your side is when you visit Viper Shadow 0-9. You don't even grant him permission to wait for you outside the door; dismissing him an entire corridor before the medical wing.

You don't want him anywhere near him.

You tell yourself it's for Shadow 0-9’s safety.

You don't want him to know what you've done.

How you've failed him.

Failed all of them.

Darkness plays at the edges of your vision, shadows curling over walls and laminate floors. Bleeding through the faded white brick of the sterile room, black veins of it eating at the curtain partition.

You know what it is. Who it is.

And yet here you sit. By his side once again,

Desperately trying to ignore the swaths of black as it takes a familiar form.

Watching the faint rise and fall of his chest. To your great relief, it's much stronger than it had been. Considerably so when compared to when you had dragged his mangled body back.

If the deaths of your colleagues were your fault, so was 0-9’s current state.

If you hadn't said anything- if you hadn't told that fucker— who had the gall to say you even resembled him.

If that stupid fight hadn't happened—all over some random man, why is it always some random guy??—Viper 0-9 wouldn't be here right now. You don't even remember the guy's name.

Who has an argument in the middle of an active warzone? About a secret relationship of all things??

You, apparently. And Graves. And 0-9.

The three of you had acted like children and now were reaping what you sowed.

All except him.

“You absolute fool,” you murmur. Soft.. almost affectionate.

“You should've just listened to me.” 0-9 doesn't respond. He never does.

You sigh, looking down at his unmoving form.

Alive. Still alive.

The burns had healed, small, pink scars blossoming in their place. Only a few tiny patches that littered 0-9’s torso and arms. The fractures in his bones had been healing nicely, too, as Maria, one of your nurses, had informed you.

“All for a boy,” you muse, voice bitter. “All for a man who doesn't even know you're alive. Who likey doesn't even care.”

You didn't expect a reply, you never got one. You told yourself it was just because of the tubing shoved down 0-9’s throat. Not the fact that he was in a coma.

He'd been a mess when you had pulled him from the wreckage; a mound of support beam infused concrete, linoleum, and glass. It had been a surprise he was even still breathing.

Even with his extensive list of physical injuries, the main concern was his head. 0-9 had suffered immense damage to his frontal lobe, something about swelling and further wounding sustained to his hippo-something or whatever.

Memory. That is what you had picked up on most out of what your medical staff had told you.

It was bittersweet; you both wanted him to remember—isn’t that what makes a person who they are: memories?—and didn't.

“I doubt he even remembers who you are,” you scoff, eyebrows pulling together slightly, thinking. “Those bastards never consider anyone but themselves. Too worried about each other to look at the bigger picture.”

On one hand, if 0-9 did remember, that meant he would also remember what you did. It was selfish, you were fully aware of that, but you didn't want him to.

It was your fault, yes, but 0-9 didn't need to know that.

“He's going to blame you one way or another.” Those shadows creeping in finally take form. A child, standing just to your right, only barely out of your peripheral—not more than ten years old.

It's not real.

“I know that.”

And yet you always respond.

“Then why do you pretend?”

Always just out of sight,

“Go away.”

Never enough to get a full view.

“You know I can't do that.”

It wasn't anything new,

“I know.”

But it happens so much more often now.

“Then stop being mean to me.”

Ever since that damn accident.

“I'm not-” you sigh, shaking your head. “Then be quiet, at least.”

The child doesn't leave, but he doesn't speak either, so you ignore him and return to 0-9.

Back to those scars, back to those bandaged limbs. Back to that what-if.

Back to your mistake.

You decide that's enough for the day and stand, making your way for the exit, dropping off the snack wrapper on the way.

The child follows.

Out of the medical wing you have to pass by him—you don't even glance at the Shadows you have guarding his door. Then further on you collect Predator-27 just after that—you didn’t want her to know about him either—and he is by your side without a word.

It wasn't clear just how much she knew about you and your little pretend family, but you couldn't risk her knowing who you had kept as a prisoner. If she had ties to Price’s group of nobodies, had a rat in there gathering intel, there's no telling what could slip through the cracks. No telling what could become that self-centered teams’ asset by her influence.

You had to keep your new pet asset on a tight leash.

It's not until a week later that you finally introduce Predator-27 to the rest of your Shadows.

Gathering them in the large open field in the heart of your facility, standing at attention in neat rows and columns before you. Predator-27 stands only a foot away and to your left, silent as ever.

You address them as any commanding officer should; back straight, chin high, and hands clasped firm behind your back. The way you are subconsciously counting each finger with a tap of your thumb over and over again is entirely irrelevant.

The blurry and familiar child-like shape positioned far out behind your grouping of soldiers was also inconsequential.

“You all are probably wondering why I have brought you here,” you begin. “Probably also curious as to who this Batman-wannabe standing beside me is.”

That gets a few amused huffs from the crowd and you find it a little easier to breathe. Said DC comic lookalike doesn't even blink, but you can feel his eyes on you. Cold and detached, no feeling behind that gaze.

“This is Predator-27 and he will be staying here, with us, for the foreseeable future.” There's no reaction to that so you keep going. You'd be pacing if doing so wouldn't reveal the nervous tick you've hidden behind your back. “He is here to offer advanced teachings of stealth and hand to hand combat. As I'm certain you all know, you cannot always rely on your weapons to cooperate and your uniform to keep you hidden.”

The child is closer, no one else can see it. You need to wrap this up.

“Per your contracts, you all do not have to accept his mentorship and will not be reprimanded for denying it. That being said, while 27 is here you will treat him just as you'd treat one of your own. You have no grounds to take my word for truth, but I do implore you to put aside any qualms you may have and search out his teachings.” Closer. And if your gaze flicks away for a moment, no one acknowledges it. “Predator-27 is a skilled and excellently trained man, I guarantee that there is something he will be capable of teaching you. Even the best of us.”

Weary looks shift into curiosity.

“Now,” you need to get out of here. “Any questions?”

If there were birds and this was some god awful sitcom, there would be chirping.

“Good. Feel free to ask if you have any later down the road.” A nod. “Dismissed.”

There's a chorus of ‘sirs’ around the group of your soldiers and then they shift to talk amongst themselves.

You settle a little now that all eyes aren't on you. Sure, you've commanded your fair share. You and him had started this little company together, and had split the responsibilities equally.

In the beginning.

But that had shifted in him taking over the majority of the responsibility when it came to addressing your little army all at once—when it became apparent you weren't exactly the most.. socially inclined in large organizations. Leaving you to do more of the one on one exchanges or small groups.

That was then and this was now. And right now you need to get out of here before those shadows get too close.

You feel Predator-27 moving to follow you when you turn, so you look back, giving the other man a small, half-smile under your mask.

“Why don't you stay right here?” He tips his head a little to the side and you specify, “my shadows may have questions or concerns, may even want a demonstration from you.”

When it becomes clear—somehow, in those depthless eyes—that he's still not quite understanding what you're getting at you give a direct order.

“Stay here. Get to know my shadows. If they ask for a demonstration of your skills, give it to them,” well.. “but do not cause harm. If they ask to be taught, accept. Got it?”

“Yes.” Predator-27 responds immediately, a hint of something—maybe clarity?—passing through his dull gaze.

“Right.” You gesture vaguely with a tip of your head towards your soldiers. “Get to it then, 27.”

He leaves and you let out a breath of relief.

The child is at your hip now.

He's the only one that follows you when you leave the courtyard.

You were six when he first appeared.

You'd been sent to your room only minutes prior, the familiar ambiance of your parents shouting in the kitchen barely muffled by the hollow wood door—the scratch marks and dried blood at the base of it a story for another time. Curled up on your bed—a small, old mattress in the corner of the room, which had seemed bigger when you were little—, bundled tight in your tattered blanket. Trying your hardest to block out the increasingly distressed shouts outside.

“Pssst.”

At first you had thought it was the wind whistling just outside the improperly sealed window. Then it happened again.

“Psssst,” and a voice to accompany it. “Hey! Over here!”

A hushed whisper, coming from somewhere on your right. You turn, searching. But all you can see is the haunting darkness of your room; the matted carpet stained with dark splotches of who knows what, the old, yellowed wallpaper peeling and exposing cracked, crumbling drywall.

The only personal items being the stuffed bunny you were cuddling, that flimsy cardboard box that acted as a makeshift dresser—only overflowing on the merit that the clothes had just been carelessly thrown in—, and the few toys you had crafted yourself. Made up of old plastic utensils, scraps of fabric, and too much Elmer's glitter glue—which you had obtained when your kindergarten teacher was looking the other way.

You were a kid, and the little crafts looked almost laughably unlike the animals they were designed after.

“No! Not there!” The voice speaks up again. “Over here!”

This time you hear the voice from your left and quickly whip your head to the other side, blinking in an effort to adjust your sight to the darker side of the room. The dwindling yellow light of the sun didn't reach this part of your room, the window too far away to properly provide it with much of that fleeting warmth.

But there, in those depthless shadows, you see it. See him.

He looks like you, you think. Has the same hair, the same eyes, is even wearing your clothes. The only difference is that the clothing he wears isn't as worn and frayed as your own. Instead it's as if the fabrics were brand new, not a thread out of place or a hole to see. The double you, as child you had dubbed him—your little kid mind had found it absolutely hilarious that the name sounded like the literal letter ‘W’—, was like the perfect image of what your appearance should be.

Only six year old you didn't realize the lack of scars on his body, didn't take note of the missing hues of purples and blues, of healing yellow tones that painted your own skin.

You're a kid. You don't care when the other child comes closer, don't flinch when he offers out a hand.

Because you're a child and should never have been made to fear a raised hand. Should never have had the scent of alcohol and mold clinging to your outfit whenever you went to preschool—a smell that never failed to create a barrier between you and the other kids your age. Shouldn't have been scrubbing your own blood off those yellowed walls with diluted bleach and a tattered rag at the ripe old age of six.

As a kid you only think of this ‘W’ as a distraction from the screaming match in the other room. He's with you the whole night; you two play with those shitty hand-made toys, hushed whispers of joyful banter passed between you both like secrets from the two beasts next door. Too busy with your new imaginary friend that you don't notice when the ruckus beyond that plywood door comes to an abrupt halt.

The next morning when you wake up it's not your blood you're rubbing out of those laminate wood panels—the cleanest that kitchen floor had ever looked in all the years of your childhood—, but at least you aren't alone.

A sharp stabbing pain in your knuckles is what pulls you from your stupor.

Eyelids blink in harsh, quick flutters, and the crimson-stained floors transform into a broken mirror, your shattered, masked face reflected back at you. It takes you a moment to register that you're here, standing in a fucking bathroom and not your childhood home, then another to finally make the connection between your aching knuckles and the fractured glass in front of you.

Your eyes drag downward. Down, down, down. Oh-so-slowly until they land on the mess of glass and—more fucking blood—torn fabric that is your hand.

Your palms, burnt far beyond repair, may be unfeeling on even the best of days, and you'd long since have become sort of used to the lack of sensation. But the backs of your hands? They weren't completely untouched by that godforsaken flame, but that didn't mean they were as resilient as your scarred palms.

So you actually feel more than just see the jagged shards of glass that stick out of your gloves—the thin, everyday kind, not the thick ones you use for combat—, embedded deep in your skin.

You stare down at it for a prolonged moment, unseeing. Watching that deep red bubble up from around the protruding shards and spill over, soaking into the black cloth surrounding it. For a second the thought of ignoring your self-inflicted wounds crosses your mind.

You don't feel like running down to medical for the second time today. Don't want to be questioned by the nurses there, or any of your soldiers you may run into, or, worse, have to explain this little incident to your newest member. Then he could notify her, and the last thing you needed was for someone to question your mental stability—it was bad enough when your own Shadows did it.

You don't move, don't step away from that dreadful mirror. No. Instead you must have decided that you haven't tortured yourself enough for today and look back up. Gaze into those fragmented pieces of glass and very, very stupidly bring up your uninjured hand to—god, when had you become such an idiot; wasn't one mental breakdown enough for a day?—tug down your mask.

A quick and fluid motion that you immediately regret. The fabric is only bunched up beneath your chin, you'd given yourself that easy out, hadn't even unhooked it from around your ears. But you didn't take it.

Looking back into your own reflection only garnered feelings of shame and disgust. The uneven raises and dips of your scarred flesh never failed to worsen your already diminished self-image.

It was all your fault.

Fingers find your freshly cut up hand, the tips of them dipping into the wounds like some fucked up paintbrush.

So many had died.

Your blood is the paint.

Of your team, yes, but also the hundreds of innocent civilians.

Gliding across the glass, ignoring the jagged bits that scratch up your finger pads.

And yet you had saved the same man who'd brought so many people all that pain.

Because you loved him.

Because you had to be that loyal little soldier you had always been, you couldn't leave him behind.

It only makes the rust-colored smudges more prominent. A win in your book.

Couldn't just let him burn—as he let you.

When you look into that disfigured reflection—that ‘W’—, when those matching irises lock, all you can see is that broken man.

So you correct those mistakes.

That man who failed as a leader, as a soldier, as a student, as a son.

Mend the shattered pieces of his psyche.

The little boy who had grown to be the disappointment his parents knew him to be.

One bloody line at a time.

Who his father had predicted he'd become.

And become just like his mother.

Well, before he died.

And when you meet the reflection again, she's smiling back at you.

Your mask lays discarded on the blanket beside you. You aren't certain as exactly as to when, but somehow, one way or another, you had left the adjoined bathroom and were now seated on a bed you hardly used.

In a bedroom that rarely saw use—even before the massacre; had spent all your time in his.

In your lap is your injured hand, seated atop an old t-shirt to provide a makeshift worktable for you to tend to your wounds. A first aid kit on the bed beside you. Right next to the mask.

Each of your movements are done with a practiced sort of efficiency as you pluck each little shard from your skin with a sterile pair of tweezers. Needing to remove the larger chunks of glass before you can remove your glove and gain access to the smaller fragments.

Crimson still dribbles from each slice with every pull, every tug of the glass out of your skin. Any bleeding that had stopped, that had coagulated during that little intermission spent in the bathroom, restarting once the flesh was ripped back open.

By the time you're able to pull your glove off the poor thing is soaked entirely with your own blood, completely ruined beyond repair.

You fold it, tucking the soiled thing into the small, untouched drawer of the bedside table.

You pretend, telling yourself you'll take care of it later. That you just had nowhere else to put it. Didn't want to ruin the bedsheets too.

The next step is picking out all those tiny bits of glass, and the hardest part about that is keeping your gaze focused for long enough to find the little shits who seem to be doing some kinda disappearing act.

Each shard, to the best of your ability, is now laid out on the shirt you'd place on your lap. The poor fabric now stained with blooms of red that hadn't been there before, dotted with transparent triangles of varying sizes.

Another painting.

Cleaning the wounds is a much easier feat; it doesn't take the same quarter hour that removing the glass had. The needle piercing through your now sterilized flesh isn't nearly as painful as the original injury had been.

You barely even feel it; don't even flinch when you have to restitch certain parts over and over.. and over again. More pigment for the painting below.

After that and a quick layer of antibiotic cream it's time to bandage the mess that is your poor right hand. You can't even pretend to care as you wrap the appendage in layer upon layer of that sterile white bandage. Around and around and around until your fingers, sans the thumb, palm, wrist, and up to the beginnings of your forearm look like a mummy’s limb.

When your now-mummified hand reaches over for your mask, you miss. Trying again yields the same result and the sudden chill down your spine is accompanied with a stabbing throb settling deep in your temples.

Movements sluggish, you reach again, the exertion leaving you breathless. Panting as you try again, body cold, then warm, heating up. You're shivering but your entire body feels like it's just been deep fried in a pot of fucking conola oil.

You're okay, you're fine. Just- maybe, maybe you had waited too long to stitch yourself up.

The world spins in your peripheral, cold sweat forming under your uniform.

If you could just get your damn mask-

The next attempt has you tumbling off the bed, too slow to catch yourself.

Excess saliva pools in your mouth, too much for you to swallow and doing so makes you feel like your throat is clogged up by an overweight toad.

Both palms splayed out on the military-standard carpet, you don't even register the stinging in your still very much injured hand.

Lips part, tongue trying to escape as saliva leaks from the corners of your mouth and, fuck, it's a challenge to keep it from dripping onto the fucking floor.

The moment there's a firm knock at your bedroom door is the same one when you start dry heaving on the floor like a damn dog.

You can't let whoever it is see you like this—you don't even have your mask on!—, especially when you continue to act like a fucking mutt and crawl your way back to the bathroom. In the end you disregard the knocking and whoever's on the other side in favor of losing that protein bar—aka the only thing that had been in your damn stomach—into a porcelain bowl.

Next is viciously rinsing your mouth out with water and an untouched bottle of mouthwash, then crawling back to the bed.

The knocking has become much more insistent now and you barely manage to get on the damn mattress, slap your mask over your face, and tuck your bandaged hand in your lap before calling out a rough, “what.”

“Don't mean to disturb you, sir,” Ah, Venn. What a lovely surprise. “But.. can I come in first? I'd rather have this discussion face-to-face.”

You sigh, gaze flicking around for a spare glove before just muttering a defeated, “come in.”

She enters quickly, and, almost as if somehow knowing about your raging headache, carefully shuts the door behind herself with a soft click.

“Sorry for bothering you, I know you don't get a lot of time to yourself,” she apologizes again, to which you brush off with a small wave of your gloved and thankfully non-injured hand.

“Don't be sorry. Now, you needed something?”

“Yes.” She answers quickly, then hesitates.

“Spit it out.”

“It's about.. it's about him.” Venn finally murmurs. But her reluctance seems more like something she's doing for you rather than herself.

You don't need anyone's pity, so you grit out a bland, “Graves?” Pointedly ignoring the bitter taste the name leaves on your tongue.

“Yes.” She sounds dejected at this, her gaze flicking down to where you've hidden your other hand between your crossed legs before darting away again. It's none of her business, so Venn doesn't mention it. “He's become very.. uh, insistent about seeing you.”

“Seeing me?”

“Yes. He, uhm, said.. something.”

“Something? C’mon now, Venn, don't bullshit me.”

She winces, opening and closing her mouth a few times before simply not saying anything at all.

“What did that fucker say t’ you?” You ask, growing defensive.

“Nothing.”

Her answer is too quick. You ask again.

“Nothing- really.”

“So you came to my room, completely ignoring the fact I'm not in my office- to tell me.. “nothing”?”

Venn averts her eyes, sighs, then drags her gaze back to yours, “it wasn't about me.”

“Was it one of your teammates?” The thought of that backstabbing asshat talking shit to, or about, one of your soldiers makes last week's rage spark. Only verification could ignite it.

“No.”

“...are ya gonna tell me?”

“I don't want to.”

“Why not?”

“Because..”

“Because it's about.. about you, sir.”

That sends a wave of shock through your system, eyes widening in disbelief. “Me?”

“Yes.” Venn reaffirms. “You.”

“What about.. me?” It couldn't be anything good, that's for damn sure.

She looks away again, shaking her head ‘no’.

“You're not gonna tell me, are ya?”

“No, sir.”

“Fine.” You say, resisting the urge to groan in disappointment. “You're dismissed then. I'll.. look into it.”

She nods, and with that, Venn is gone.

And the room is quiet again, as if she were never here.

Looks like you'll need that new glove sooner rather than later.

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Masterpost | One | Two | Next

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[bigfan-fanfic]

Considering you only gain muscles by working out, and to work out, you need to lift heavy things, technically, Clark couldn't be muscular since he's way too strong to actually be able to train his muscles. Which means: Clark chubby farm boy is actually a possible and viable thing.

SO, fun fact! This is totally true, and in fact addressed often in comics.

It's usually agreed upon in canon that Clark didn't develop his powers right away, with his capacity for absorbing and utilizing solar energy gradually expanding, around the same time as the onset of puberty, probably around age 14. So though his powers' growths were rapid once they manifested, he did have some time to adjust until they reached their maximum. And it was during this time he was helping out on the farm, using that as a kind of informal training (lifting hay bales for strength, which progressed to lifting cattle to lifting tractors, etc.; practicing control and finesse with say, chickens and caring for livestock with super speed).

Remember, Clark is supposed to be potential for the high school football team in Smallville, and that immediately makes me think stocky and sturdy, not cut and visibly muscular. At the point where he's at the full strength he'll know as Superman, he's got pretty much no upper limit, and generally nothing that's going to help him train his muscles. So definitely, early career Superman is going to be more mass than muscle.

However, once he gets full access to the Fortress of Solitude and the support of the Justice League, he can get some assistance - Wonder Woman has incredible, divinely empowered strength, and as a warrior trains often - she helps instruct him in martial arts and can help him train at full strength. Meanwhile, Batman can help him train in environments built to limit his power, like red sun training rooms and such.

Considering his physiology is more dependent upon solar energy than anything else to build his strength and keep him healthy, I'd say solar energy keeps him from atrophying. But considering if he's got energy akin to photosynthesis from the sun, I'd suggest he never really gets much of a lean musculature and remains bulky and sturdy.

Above is Christopher Reeve both training and in costume as Superman - his muscles are well-formed, but his torso isn't like, eight pack abs and dehydrated - he's clearly building muscle mass and body fat in a healthy way, and it shows in his costume. He looks sturdy, and strong.

Above is golden age Superman next to a bodybuilder/powerlifter, which I think Superman's original design is supposed to evoke. He's not popping muscles through his suit, but he's clearly really fricking fit and strong. Even his waist is more close to the width of his chest than more narrow like you see in more contemporary illustrations.

My thought is that Clark's physique is a lot more like someone at the Highland Games. Built for strength and sturdiness. He doesn't have to keep lean because he's not worried about endurance and agility because he already has that from his powers. Big arms, broad chest, likely a little bit of a tummy. And if he's under layers like Clark usually dresses, he can easily be mistaken for pudgy instead of powerful.

In any case, that's my untrained viewpoint on the subject. Basically my sweet polite farmboy is basically a photosynthesizing plant with muscles. Wait, is that why Poison Ivy's pheromones can work on him???

[nazrigar]

Weretober 2023 - Part 2: Lives of the Werebeasts of Urvara

And now, to cap off Weretober 2023, the final batch exploring the lives of Werefolk in my setting of Beast Fables. From assassins to soldiers to ronin to nasty diseases, there are many sides to being a werebeast in Urvara!

A famous Were-Tarantula Hawk assassin readies for combat against a berserker were-shrew.

A were-sea lion stumbles upon a rare find: a black pearl! Surely this will give her clan honor! Unbenkowest to her however, she is being watched by a couple of merfolk. The Mer-tiger shark wants to "deal" with her, to keep their society a secret, but the Mer-octopus urges caution instead.

For most people, a person's animal form is either from one parent or the other. In much rare cases however, one could get an animal form that's a hybrid of their parents's beast form! Walter Raja Surrey here is a Liger, and has all of the hybrid's advantages, without the myriad of health problems associated with them!

A member of the last group of Were-Diprotodons shows an archeology student and an art history student an example of a hunting boomerang, otherwise known as a karli. Alongside being both a great example of art and a useful tool, it's big enough to double as a club.

A werefox succumbs to that most feared of diseases among were-mammal kind, rabies. Certain were-folk, like werebirds can fight off the disease, while others like were-crocodilians seem to be immune to almost anything.

A were-rhinoceros beetle gets treated for cordyceps. While not the lethal, muscle and nervous system hijacker of their wild counterparts, it still hurts, and requires immediate attention, lest it begins to interfere with the magics governing transformation as well as tissue damage.

A traveling group of were-elephantines, including a mammoth. While giants to a regular person, they themselves are dwarfed by the creator of the roads they travel upon, called the Titan Roads. These roads were built by Were-sauropods.

A turbulent priest preaches the cause for justice, and the betterment of society as a whole. A priest of the Ten Faced God, he dons the silver and black to denote his devotion to the face of Justice.

A were-raccoon dog ronin thought his speed and agility would win the day against the lumbering were-eremotherium, who himself is in service of a large empire known as Tartessos (basically Not!Spain). The risk the ronin took was calculated, but BOY was he BAD at math!

And finally, the classic Werewolf. A Durroyan werewolf charges with a bayonet, steely determination in his eyes and faith that discipline will win the battle through. A Gevaudanois werewolf counter charges with tooth, claw and sabre in hand, confident that courage and ferocity will win the day.