#soul spectrum crew

[stellocchia]

Thinking about queerplatonic Killer/Color/Ink/Error yet again.

Specifically thinking about them exploring different cities om Surface AUs together and finding small restaurants in those fuck off locations with food that absolutely slaps, trying all the street food, and taking pictures of the dumbest stuff. Half of Ink's camera roll is literally just stuff like this:

They're having fun.

Error is sitting down any time he sees a bench and the others have to promise him chocolate to get him up again.

Killer stops at literally ALL of the dumb souvenir shops because he loves magnets, postcards, and also crappy t-shirts.

And Color takes all the most aesthetic pictures and all of the more couple-y pictures with the others. He's literally carrying a heavy-ass professional camera everywhere. He's also the type to grab a brochure from every place they visit and never read it. (Killer and Error do read it later together because they're nerds).

Just them exploring and living their lives, I love them.

[howlsofbloodhounds]

i think we should all judge epic for hanging with the mpreg sqaud

killer with new!chara, colors with the six human souls, cross with x!chara and delta with the bravery soul

bro surrounded himself with mpreg

Hey now. Maybe he wants to be pregnant too, anon. Maybe he has strong parental urges and he wants to father all them kids. Maybe he wants to look all them kids in the eyes and proudly declare that he befriended their dads, their caretakers, their..parental figures.

Maybe our man has a plan. Perhaps we should let him cook.

[laduenadelswing]

My star

The chaotic realm of Hell, pulsated with a frenetic energy as Vox, the suave master of the TV waves, gracefully navigated the bustling streets. His screens projected a dazzling array of colors, each hue a testament to his control over the infernal airwaves. Tonight, however, a singular frequency resonated with him—a presence that shimmered amidst the sea of lost souls.

Y/N, a striking model whose essence transcended the ordinary, became the focal point of Vox's attention. Drawn to her like a moth to a flame,or Valentino to Angle dust, Vox envisioned her as the star of his upcoming TV show. The backstage of Vox's studio buzzed with otherworldly energy as Y/N prepared for the spectacle that awaited her.

Vox, watching her every move through his screens, couldn't help but feel a magnetic pull. She embodied a rare blend of beauty, confidence, and an untamed spirit that resonated with his own desire for control. No wonder she made it through Velvet.

The atmosphere backstage crackled with anticipation. Vox, ever the showman, orchestrated the visual feast that would unfold on the screens of the City. The cameras, guided by his meticulous vision, captured Y/N's every angle and expression, turning the backstage chaos into a masterpiece that amplified her captivating frequencies.

As the show reached its crescendo, Vox descended onto the stage himself, his screens displaying a kaleidoscope of admiration. "Y/N, my dear, you're not just a model. You're a masterpiece in the ever-shifting canvas of Hell," he declared, the words echoing through every TV set in the city.

Y/N, caught in the mesmerizing atmosphere Vox had orchestrated, met his gaze with a playful glint in her eyes. "Well, Vox, you certainly know how to put on a show."

The backstage chaos faded as Vox and Y/N retreated into a more secluded area, away from the prying eyes of the studio crew. The air crackled with an unspoken tension, the boundary between the curated TV spectacle and the pulsating reality of their connection blurring.

Vox, usually in control, felt a surge of something uncharted. The lines between the TV demon and the model began to blur as they exchanged playful banter, their laughter echoing through the backstage corridors.

In a moment of irresistible impulse, Vox closed the distance between them, his lips meeting Y/N's in a passionate kiss. The backstage chaos faded into the background as they lost themselves in the intensity of the moment. The allure of Hell seemed to dissipate, leaving only the connection between Vox and Y/N—a symphony of desire and an unexpected union behind the scenes. He lost himself in the kiss with his model, superstar and masterpiece.

As they broke the kiss, Vox's screens displayed a spectrum of colors, reflecting the tumultuous emotions within him. Y/N, with a mischievous glint in her eyes, whispered, "You really do know how to surprise, Vox."

The airwaves of Hell buzzed with the frequencies of their connection, the backstage now transformed into a haven where desire and control intermingled. Vox, still captivated by the enigmatic model, smiled. "In Hell, my dear, surprises are the spice of existence."

"Your so beautiful." He whispered.

"Maybe I should give a private Show." She replied playfully.

[kazoosandfannypacks]

summary: "Though all Mandalorians placed heavy emphasis on the value of their beskar armor, for some it was just armor, a thing only to be taken up in a time of war. Others believed that to remove your helmet or even so much as a glove around another living being was to make yourself an outcast. Most Mandalorians fell somewhere on the spectrum between them, and house Wren and its clan leaned towards the latter, not allowing themselves to remove their helmet. Their custom held one distinct caveat: once a Mandalorian had chosen a partner, a partner for life, their souls bound by a tie no man could sever— then, and only for them, could they remove their helmet, and share their face for the first time with another living soul." or, "the au in which ezra falls for sabine without even seeing her face" word count: 7927 words a/n: I hope you guys are having a great week! the good news is that I'll hopefully be writing more fic over the next couple weeks! the bad news is that that's because I'm on crutches at the moment and avoiding doing fanarts for related reasons… let's just say, I now know firsthand that getting stabbed in the foot REALLY hurts. Anyways, I hope you guys enjoy this fic, because I had a lot of fun writing it! It's my longest sabezra oneshot, so far, so that's exciting! shoutout to the talented and creative @kanerallels and the lovely and sillygirlcoded @laughingphoenixleader for betaing! taglist: @laughingphoenixleader @accidental-spice @kanerallels @piraterefrigerator @jedi-nurse @dootchster @lucasbridger @redroverrider @light-umbra @commander-tech @jedimandalorian @notanodinarygirl {if you’d like to be added to or removed from my Sabezra taglist, let me know!}

also on ao3!

This is (Kinda) The Way

 There were two kinds of people Mandalorians disagreed with— others and themselves. For every disagreement a Mandalorian had with an outsider, they had even more among their own ranks. Customs, traditions, and language were the biggest one, especially when it came to the one thing that united them all— their armor.

 Though all Mandalorians placed heavy emphasis on the value of their beskar armor, for some it was just armor, a thing only to be taken up in a time of war. Others believed that to remove your helmet or even so much as a glove around another living being was to make yourself an outcast.

 Most Mandalorians fell somewhere on the spectrum between them, and house Wren and its clan leaned towards the latter, not allowing themselves to remove their helmet. Their custom held one distinct caveat: once a Mandalorian had chosen a partner, a partner for life, their souls bound by a tie no man could sever— then, and only for them, could they remove their helmet, and share their face for the first time with another living soul.

🧡•💜•🧡

 If this were a normal day, Ezra would be sitting on the familiar outskirts of his home city right now, feasting on whatever he could get his hands on. Instead, he was on a starship in the vacuum of space, with a group of rebels who thought it better to steal for others than for themselves— and somehow, it felt right, not just helping others, but the people he was helping others with.

 In the few days he'd been on the Ghost, he'd gotten to know everyone pretty well. Hera was kind and brave, Kanan was cranky but meant well and cared about people almost as much as Hera did, Zeb would flatten him if he got within two feet of himself or his food, and Chopper loved nothing more than making others miserable— overall, it wasn't an awful combination.

 The one member of the crew Ezra had a hard time connecting with was Sabine. Maybe it was because of how she'd shrug him off whenever he'd talk to her, or the fact that she didn't eat in the galley with the rest of the Spectres— but more than likely, it was because she was always wearing that helmet, and the armor that (mostly) matched it. He'd never seen her without it, and from what he'd gathered, no one else in the crew had either.

 That afternoon, he'd run into her in the galley, as she was grabbing a meal to take back to her room. No one else was around, so he figured now was as good a time as any to risk a social blunder.

 "Why do you always wear that armor?" Ezra asked.

 Sabine stopped partway through the cup of juice she was pouring herself, just for a moment, then continued.

 "I'm a Mandalorian," Sabine said.

 "Okay?" Ezra shrugged. Mandalorians had come to Lothal before, and they'd had no problems with taking off their helmets. "I've seen Mandalorians take off their helmets before."

 "Well, they must not've been from clan Wren," Sabine said. That was the closest she gave to an explanation before storming off, much faster than normal.

 Ezra told himself not to replicate that mistake again.

🧡•💜•🧡

 "Can I talk to you?" Ezra asked, taking a seat in the cockpit diagonal from Hera— Sabine's seat, he could tell from the paint job, but she wasn't around anyways at the moment.

 "Sure," Hera said.

 "I just," Ezra sighed, "I know you're the best person to ask— that is if I don't wanna get laughed at for asking or end up getting my question answered with two more questions I don't know the answer to like Kanan always does."

 Hera smiled a little as Ezra said that, which he added to his mental folder of What Exactly Is Going On Between Kanan And Hera, Anyways?

 "Why doesn't Sabine take off her helmet?" Ezra asked, "I know lots of Mandalorians who do, well, one or two of them, and I don't really personally know them, but..."

 He could tell his question had been a serious one to Hera, because when he asked, she turned away from the ship's controls for the first time since before he came in. Instead, she turned to Ezra, her hands folded in her lap as she leaned toward him.

 "Not all Mandalorians are the same," Hera said, "just like not all Twil'eks, humans, or Jedi. Different clans have different customs they adhere to."

 Ezra nodded. That kind of made sense.

 "What happened to the rest of Sabine's clan?" Ezra asked. It was hard to tell exactly how old she was because of the helmet, but she didn't seem too much older than he was, and he'd never heard mention of her family.

 "Mandalorians are a brave people," Hera answered, slowly, "fierce warriors who don't like change in their customs and traditions. Naturally they're not the kind of people the Empire likes having around. I never asked questions when we found Sabine, at least, not after I learned she wouldn't answer them."

 Hera shook her head, and Ezra nodded. The Empire had probably done the same thing to Sabine's family that they'd done to his.

 "Armor is important to a Mandalorian," Hera said, "handed down from generation to generation. It might be one of the only things she still has."

 "I get it," Ezra said, and stood up to leave.

 "One more thing," Hera said, and Ezra turned back to her, "she may have a rough exterior, but that doesn't mean she doesn't need a few good friends."

 Ezra nodded. If there was anyone who seemed hard to make friends with, it was Sabine— so if there was anyone who needed friends, it must be her.

🧡•💜•🧡

 Even in the midst of yet another heated disagreement with Chopper and Zeb, Ezra wasn't gonna abandon Operation Be Sabine's Friend, so when he saw her painting in her room with the door open, he only felt it right to stop and say hi.

 "What are you working on?" Ezra asked, leaning his arm against the doorframe.

 "A little piece I like to call 'none of your business.'"

 "Okay," Ezra shrugged, "well, if you ever get tired of painting 'none of your business' and need inspiration..."

 "I'll be sure to look elsewhere," Sabine said, then mumbled something under her breath in some language Ezra didn't understand.

 Ezra didn't have time to ask what that meant before Chopper zoomed by, running into Ezra and almost knocking into him, and leaving Ezra to forget about his quest to befriend Sabine.

 At least, until that night, when he counted it a victory that Sabine had painted himself and Zeb on the wall of their room, even if it was the most humiliating representation of him he'd ever seen.

🧡•💜•🧡

 Ezra knocked on Sabine's door, and was surprised when she actually opened it this time.

 "What is it?" Sabine asked, arms crossed.

 "She must be in a better mood than normal today," Ezra thought.

 "I just," Ezra shrugged, "I know you like doing art and painting and stuff, and you do a really good job at it."

 "And?" Sabine asked.

 "I," Ezra pulled a stormtrooper helmet out from behind his back, "I wanted to know if you'd paint this for me?"

 "Why?"

 "I wanted a helmet to wear on missions," Ezra said, "that way no one knows who I am."

 "What, using other criminal's names as an alias just isn't cutting it for you?"

 "I'm serious," Ezra said.

 "Then wouldn't it be better to leave it plain?" Sabine asked, though she took the helmet from him, which was a good sign, and she held it up and surveyed its surfaces.

 "Nope," Ezra said, "last time I went in there with a white bucket, Zeb said he couldn't tell the difference between me and the troopers and knocked me out cold. I don't want him to have that excuse anymore."

 "I'll see what I can do," Sabine said. She closed the door before Ezra could get another word in, and he didn't see her for the rest of the day.

🧡•💜•🧡

 "Look alive, Jedi!"

 Ezra looked up just in time to see an unidentified flying object hurtling towards his face, and surprised himself by catching it— this Jedi stuff was really paying off. He looked at the large chunk of plastoid in his hands and quickly recognized it as the helmet he'd given Sabine the previous morning, though now it had a fresh paint job. Ezra didn't know much about art, but he could recognize Sabine's handiwork.

 "It's perfect," he said, looking up overtop it to see Sabine, seating herself proudly on the table he was sitting at.

 "It's nothing," Sabine said, "the only thing better than painting is defacing Imperial property in the process."

 Ezra smiled as he tried the helmet on, suddenly remembering something else he'd taken— or, helped take, anyways— from the Empire.

 "This is great," Ezra said, then leaned closer to her, "I just might commission you to work your magic on some other stolen Imperial property, if you're up to it. Something much larger than a helmet."

 He could hear the excitement in her voice, despite how hard she tried to hide it.

 "What do you have in mind?"

🧡•💜•🧡

 "A TIE Fighter?" Sabine asked, standing outside the cave on Lothal not long after, "are you crazy?"

 "Come on," Ezra said, wondering if this was a mistake, "you said you wanted to deface government property."

 "How did you even get a TIE Fighter here?" Sabine asked. 

 She walked around the fighter, clearly studying its surfaces as though envisioning what they'd look like when she was done with it.

 Ezra smiled. She'd already taken the bait.

 "Zeb and I may have 'borrowed' it when we went on a wild meiloorun hunt," he explained.

 "Yeah," her helmet peeked out around the wing she was standing behind, "and Kanan and Hera told you to destroy it."

 "I know," Ezra fake-sighed, "but our options were blow it up without the best explosives expert on our team— or leave it as a canvas for her next masterpiece. I guess the choice is up to you..."

 "Go grab my spraycans."

🧡•💜•🧡

 Ezra had never watched Sabine work before, but she'd said he could stay as long as he kept lookout at the mouth of the cave and didn't say anything, and Ezra took that as a step up from the usual.

 He bit back his hundreth question in the last few hours, knowing that if he was going to get Sabine mad at him for talking, it would have to be something a lot better than "is orange your favorite color? Mine too."

 He held his hand out and sensed as much as he could, every Loth Rat and Loth Cat within a good sized radius of the cave— but not another sentient life for about as far.

 The very first orange hues started creeping into the horizon. They'd need to be getting back soon.

 He turned back to Sabine, and since he couldn't see her face, he'd learned to read her body language to make up for it, and she seemed to really be enjoying herself and her work.

 He'd never seen an artist at work before, and was impressed by how in command of the spraycan she was. Ezra had tried drawing once or twice, and found his Loth Cats looked like angry jogan fruits, and his people looked like a platter of noodles that'd just had a very bad day.

 Apparently, reflection on his own inability to draw wasn't the best thing to do on an empty stomach.

 But Sabine's art was almost less like a drawing and more like a piece of herself, like maybe if Ezra studied it enough, he'd see all the pieces of her she hid.

 And if that was the case, then she must be absolutely beautiful.

 "Wow," Ezra whispered, apparently not as quietly as he absentmindedly had thought.

 "That doesn't sound like not talking," Sabine was quick to reply.

 "Sorry," Ezra shook his head, not even having noticed until now how hard he was staring at her, "I just, how are you so good at that?"

 "Practice," Sabine said, "a little hard work and discipline will get you pretty far."

 "That's what Kanan's always saying," Ezra rolled his eyes.

 "Well maybe you should start listening," Sabine called back, "or, at the very least, stop talking."

 "Sorry," Ezra said, then looked back out at the horizon. As much as he enjoyed this secret painting session, he was getting hungry, and knew the rest of the crew would be suspicious if he missed a meal.

 "We should get heading back soon," Ezra said, "It's almost dark."

 "I'm almost done," Sabine said, adding one last white stripe, "there. Now I'm done."

 Ezra got up and walked over to the TIE Fighter, in awe.

 "Am I allowed to talk now?" Ezra asked.

 "I guess," Sabine said. He could hear the sarcasm in her voice as she packed up her art supplies.

 "It's amazing," Ezra said, "way to stick it to the Empire."

 "I am pretty good at what I do," Sabine shrugged.

 "Oh, more than that," Ezra said, "it's a shame no one else will ever see this."

 "It's not about others seeing it," Sabine said, grabbing her case of spraycans, "this one was for me. It's about the process."

 Ezra nodded. After seeing how lost in the process Sabine got, he understood why it all meant so much to her.

 "Sabine?" he said, as they left the cave.

 "Yeah?"

 "Thanks for sharing it with me."

🧡•💜•🧡

 Ezra had always thought Sabine was cool. He met her stealing from the Empire, and she'd jumped off a rooftop onto a moving speederbike— how much cooler could someone get? Combined with the custom armor and quick wit, she was strong contender for coolest person he'd ever met.

 And the more he got to know her, the cooler she got. She designed her own armor. She was a weapons expert. She was, apparently, fluent in two different languages, which was probably what made her so quick to come up with insults.

 Sabine always knew what to say, good or bad— usually scalding and rude— and Ezra didn't mind hearing it. Somehow she could make an insult feel as special as a compliment. It was almost like the sound of her voice was enough to give him unreasonable joy.

 "Ugh," Zeb growled one night as he trudged into their room, "why haven't you gotten rid of that thing Sabine painted on the wall?"

 "It's not a thing!" Ezra defended, sitting up on his bunk, "it's art."

 "It's a stupid drawing of us from years ago," Zeb said, "and frankly, I'm getting tired of looking at it."

 "Yeah," Ezra said, "well, I'm not."

 He turned his back to him as he laid back down, but not before noticing a smile on the Lasat's face, and he could hear him chuckle over his shoulder.

 "That's what I thought," Zeb said, smugly.

 "What?"

 "Oh, nothing," Zeb laughed, something surprisingly not unpleasant in his voice.

 Ezra recognized that tone. It was the same tone the guys on the base used whenever he'd tell them about the latest mission he'd gone on with Sabine, and it usually carried a "wow, Bridger, when are you gonna just ask the tin can out already?" with it. The other young guys in the rebellion were, well, just that, young guys. They could scarcely go more than five minutes without talking about girls and who was going with who and which girls they would be going with if this war ever gave them a night off, so it was only natural that they'd joke about the possibility that Ezra had a crush on Sabine.

 But Zeb? Zeb had never talked with Ezra about girls or feelings or anything like that before, never even hinted at it— until now. Something about a mostly-trusted, somewhat-wise, maybe-in-some-ways-experienced crewmate hinting at it made the possibility of Ezra liking Sabine made it feel all the more real.

 "There's no way I have a crush on Sabine," Ezra thought, "I've never even seen her face before. I mean, she is amazing, coolest person I know. And sure, I like spending time with her, and anytime I start talking to her I don't want to stop, but that's normal, right? And sure, my heart skipped a beat that time she grabbed my arm to pull me out of the way of Imperial fire, but what if that's just the adrenaline of the fight, right? Just because I can't stop thinking about her and want to keep hanging out with her for the rest of my life and feel all giggly whenever I think about her doesn't mean I have a crush on her, right?"

 He looked over at her handiwork graffitied on his wall and smiled rather stupidly.

 "Who am I kidding?" Ezra sighed, "I definitely have a crush on her."

🧡•💜•🧡

 It wasn't too long before Ezra had realized that not only did he have feelings for Sabine, those feelings were growing. More and more frequently, he caught himself thinking about her when he was supposed to be doing other things like Jedi meditations and recon missions.

 A favored distraction of his male curiosity was Sabine and her constantly shrouded face. He respected her privacy, and never attempted to see her face— besides, maybe the mystery was part of the charm— and often when he'd fall asleep at night, he'd try to imagine what her face looked like. At first, the faces ended up looking similar to other people, girls he'd met on the base, a bounty hunter he'd had a run-in with, or even a merchant girl he'd seen in the village. But every time, she seemed Not Quite Right, and he'd try again. Eventually he started coming up with all kinds of versions of her— one night she'd be a redhead, the next he'd imagine her with green skin, then after that she'd have eyes that were just black blobs— it didn't really matter. He'd only ever see her with her helmet on anyway, so what did it matter?

 But even with the helmet, anytime she walked in the room, he could feel his heart race like she was the most beautiful girl alive.

🧡•💜•🧡

 "Karabast," Ezra muttered, jumping back a bit by instinct from the blue milk that overflowed from the glass he was pouring it into and spilling all over his hand, and now onto the floor.

 "I should know better than to pour myself a drink when Sabine enters the galley," Ezra thought, setting his drink down on the counter behind him as he searched for a cloth to clean it up with, "a Jedi has to stay focused."

 "Need a hand?"

 He heard Sabine's voice behind him and turned around quickly— too quickly, as his forehead rammed into helmet.

 "Ow!" Ezra said, wondering what could possibly make an armor that hard.

 "Sorry," Sabine said, and her gloved hand touched the now-sore spot on his forehead, "are you alright?'

 "I'm fine," Ezra said, ignoring the pain in his forehead for the moment. He'd dropped the towel, and now he swirled it around the floor with his foot to clean up the spill, knowing that as bad as the injury was, it couldn't be nearly as bad as what would happen if Hera caught sight of the mess he'd made. "My forehead isn't dented, is it?"

 "I'm no medic," Sabine said, opening the conservator and scrounging around in it, "but it looks like it'll be the opposite. At least you'll be able to make up one of your elaborate stories about the bump it'll leave."

 "Oh yeah," Ezra said, "about how I accidentally went head-to-head with a Mandalorian and ended up almost literally crying over spilled milk."

 She laughed a little at his attempted joke, then pulled a frozen bag out of the conservator.

 "Put this on it," Sabine handed it to him, "that'll numb the pain and slow the bruising, or something like that."

 "Thanks," Ezra said, and as he pressed the bag of frozen rations to his forehead, Sabine bent down and finished taking care of his mess on the floor.

 "What happened, anyways?" she asked.

 "I guess I got distracted," Ezra said, still distracted by her.

 "While pouring a glass of milk?" Sabine asked, looking up at him quizzically before turning back to her work of drying up the floor.

 "Yeah," Ezra scratched the back of his neck.

 "I've noticed you've seemed a little spacey recently," Sabine said, "almost distant. Something on your mind?"

 "More like someone," Ezra said, before he could stop himself, and she looked up again before he had a chance to get that stupid love struck smile off his face.

 She stopped what she was doing for half a second, then got up off the floor.

 "I gotta go," Sabine said.

 "Sabine...."

 She tossed the towel onto the counter behind him and turned to leave, but Ezra didn't want to see her go, not now or ever. He searched his words for something to say that would make her stay.

 "I don't know how to ask you out!"

 Ezra could tell without even needing to see her face that, as unexpected as his words were, Sabine still couldn't've been more surprised to hear him say that than he was. Still, she stopped and turned halfway back to him, so whatever he'd just done, had accidentally worked.

 "What?"

 "Normally if I wanted to ask a girl out," Ezra said, knowing the oncoming ramble was going to sound desperate— which wasn't entirely inaccurate, "which, technically I never have— at least, not with it actually leading to a date— but if I did, I'd ask them if they wanna go get dinner, which you, specifically, don't really do with people. So then I'd ask about getting ice cream instead, but then: same problem. So then I've been trying to think of different activities you like that we could do together, but all I could think of is fighting the Empire and defacing government property— which we already do together, and could do more of, but those don't really sound like date night activities, unless we were holding hands, but...."

 Sabine had walked over to him while he was rambling, and now she stood in front of him, arms crossed.

 "Are you asking me on a date, Ezra?" Sabine asked.

 "I'm trying to," Ezra said, "is it working?"

 "Me?" Sabine asked, "you want to go on a date with me?"

 "That's the hope," he shrugged, "if you're up for it."

 "Why?" Sabine asked, "is this some cheap attempt to try and get my guard down? It's not some ploy to try to see me without my helmet, right? Because...."

 "I know," Ezra said, "you don't take your helmet off. It's a clan thing. I wouldn't ask that of you."

 Sabine took a heavy breath. "You'd really go out on a date with me, armor and all, just because you like to spend time with me? No ulterior motives?"

 "Absolutely."

 "And you're okay with the fact that you'd never see my face?"

 "Absolutely," Ezra said.

 "How about a holofilm at seven tomorrow night?"

 "Eat dinner separately first?" Ezra asked.

 "Sounds like a date."

 He smiled as Sabine walked away, unsure how he'd managed to do that, but very glad that he had.

🧡•💜•🧡

 About halfway through the holofilm, Sabine's hand found its way into Ezra's.

 "You're okay with the fact that I'm wearing gloves?" Sabine had whispered.

 "Of course," Ezra'd whispered back, his emotions a flutter at the mere fact that she was on a date was him, that her hand was in his at all, even with the layer of leather between them.

 Sabine Wren had said yes to a date with him, and now their fingers were interlocked as they watched a holofilm together at the base's rec room. Her helmet, hard and heavy though it was, laid against his shoulder. What more could he possibly ask for?

 As they walked back to The Ghost together afterwards, their fingers were still entwined.

 Ezra noticed the chill in the air— he'd been planning on it, and had worn a jacket over his nicer shirt tonight, because he knew either he'd be cold, or, better yet, she'd be cold, and he'd have the chance to do what the boyfriends in all the old holos did.

 Much to Ezra's delight, Sabine shivered as a gust of wind blew across the base.

 "Those old Mandalorian traditions don't say anything against wearing a jacket over your armor, do they?" Ezra asked.

 "Well, no," Sabine said, and before she could say anything more, he'd let go of her hand, taken his jacket off, and draped both the jacket and his arm over her shoulder.

 "How's that?" Ezra asked.

 Sabine huddled a little bit closer to him.

 "Perfect," she said.

 They walked together in silence for a moment, Ezra knowing full well that if he opened his mouth he'd ruin the moment and blow all chances of a second date.

 "Ezra?" Sabine asked, her voice a whisper as they neared the Ghost.

 "Yeah?"

 She stopped in her tracks, and he did too.

 "Do you want to do this again sometime?" Sabine looked at him, her head barely tilted up, a glimmer of a reflection of the stars in her visor.

 "If it's all the same with you," Ezra said, his tone still hushed, "I'd like to do this again a lot more times."

 "Really?" Sabine asked, "you wouldn't have a problem going steady with someone you've never seen face to face?"

 "Of course not," Ezra said, and he turned toward her and took both of her cold gloved hands in his, "I could spend the rest of my life with you and still not have a problem with never seeing your face."

 Sabine didn't respond, and Ezra was bad enough at reading expressions, but especially when he couldn't even see the other person's expressions. Maybe that was too soon, too fast. On any other first date, that would've seemed too forward, but when you've been fighting side by side with someone for years, living on the same ship and sharing your struggles, a first date hardly felt like the first one. Still, maybe something as big as "I want to spend the rest of my life with you," was a little too much for a first date doorstop conversation, and he'd probably ruined his chances right there.

 He loosened his grip on her hands, but she tightened hers, not letting his hands slip away.

 "I don't always have to wear my helmet, Ezra," Sabine said.

 "What?" Ezra asked, "I mean, I know you take it off to eat, and probably to sleep too, and maybe when you use the sonic, not that I've thought about that, but you always have to wear it around others, right? That's what Hera said."

 "Hera doesn't know everything," Sabine said, "I can take off my helmet, but...."

 Her voice trailed off, but he desperately wanted to follow it. He nodded and squeezed her hands a little, silently pleading her to continue.

 "Our clans customs don't say we can't ever take off our helmets," Sabine said, "but that the only person who can see us without our helmets is our ruusaar riduur, our life partner. It's a huge commitment, one that some spouses don't even make with each other."

 Ezra smiled. "So you're saying I have a chance?"

 "I'm saying there's almost no chance," Sabine said, "like I said, it's a commitment, and I don't do so well with committing to anything, and, besides, we'll probably fall apart before we reach that point anyway."

 "Not on my watch," Ezra said, not about to let anything happen to push Sabine out of his life, "and thank you for telling me."

 "This still doesn't change anything." 

 "Of course not," Ezra said, "I still love you just the way you are."

 He was barely an inch or two taller than her, but that didn't stop him from standing on his tiptoes, leaning towards her, and planting a kiss on top of her helmet.

 "Same time next week?" Sabine asked.

 "It's a date," Ezra said.

🧡•💜•🧡

 Several dates and missions and trials and soft-giggles-while-staring-at-each-other-from-a-distance-es later, Sabine found herself with the choice to go back to help her people. Though Ezra strongly encouraged her to go, it wasn't without tears on both of their parts, and if it wasn't for the whispered, "I'll wait for you"s in their goodbye hug before she left, he would've certainly assumed it was over for them.

 But instead he held out hope for them, trusted that the same force that brought them together and connected them across the galaxy would bring them back together, and his waiting paid off not long after, when he found her in his arms again, this time in a hug that meant hello instead of goodbye.

 "I've missed you," Ezra whispered, holding her tightly and not willing to let her go, ignoring for the moment that Kanan and her entire clan were watching them.

 "Me too," Sabine whispered.

 He then let her go, knowing he hadn't made a great impression on her family the first time he met them and wanting to rectify that— especially when they began the mission to save her father. Maybe he kriffed up in his first meeting with her mom and her brother, but he determined that her dad's first impression of him would be a good one.

🧡•💜•🧡

 "Are you with my daughter?" Alrich asked, as Ezra jumped in to save him as part of their mission.

 "If that's okay with you, sir," Ezra said, then realized the question was about the status of her rescue mission, not the status of her relationship, "I mean, uh, yeah, we're, uh, we're here to rescue you."

 Though his answer wasn't more rambly than normal, he felt more like an idiot than normal. Sabine always found his stumbling through his words cute and endearing, but the other Mandalorians didn't appreciate his candid words much, preferring instead to see action. So, Ezra made sure to show plenty of it, fighting alongside them later with such reckless boldness that he took a blaster bolt to the left shoulder and still kept going until the battle was over.

 As the medical droid tended to his wound, Sabine sat next to him, holding his right hand lovingly as she sent forth a flurry of angry Mando'an words at him that amounted to a more colorful version of "don't you dare do something that dangerous and stupid again."

 "Aww, 'Bine," Ezra smiled under his helmet, (he always wore one of his repurposed helmets on Krownest, to respect her people's traditions,) "I didn't know you cared so much."

 "Maybe next time that happens I'll just let you bleed out," Sabine teased.

 "You wouldn't dare," Ezra said, "besides, what is it you always say? Something about finding my combat skills and selfless bravery attractive?"

 "Bravery?" Sabine asked, "more like borderline stupidity."

 "And this one was skillful, brave, and borderline stupid," Ezra said, wishing his helmet didn't hide the playful expression on his face, "admit it, you thought it was hot."

 "Maybe a little," Sabine said nudging his uninjured shoulder with hers, "just never do something that ho- stupid again, understand?"

 "You and I both know I can't avoid that," Ezra said.

 "I know," Sabine faked an overdramatic sigh as she rested her head on his shoulder.

🧡•💜•🧡

 Apparently his heroics charmed the rest of the clan as well, especially Alrich. Sabine chose to return with Ezra and Kanan to the Rebellion, and as her family gathered to say their farewells, her father bestowed upon Ezra a special gift.

 "We want you to have this," he said, and handed Ezra a shoulder pauldron, one that was inlaid with the Wren family crest.

 "Thank you," Ezra said, studying the heavy hunk of metal he'd been gifted, then looking up at Sabine's parents with gratitude, "it's a huge honor."

 "You were shot protecting our clan," Ursa said, "and Clan Wren honors that. This shoulder guard will protect your arm while it heals. Not even your lightsaber is strong enough to cut it."

 "Is this real beskar?" Ezra asked.

 "Of course," Ursa said, "it belonged to Sabine's ancestors. Clan Wren has carried it for generations, and counting."

 Ezra didn't exactly have time to unpack all the meaning in that sentence, but he was pretty sure those last few words meant something along the lines of Ezra being on his way to becoming part of their clan now, a high honor.

 "Thank you," Ezra said.

 "Be good to her," was all Alrich said in reply, and as Sabine's hand slipped into Ezra's, he understood what he meant.

 "I will," Ezra nodded, "I don't intend to do anything that stupid."

 "He made a promise not to do anything stupid," Sabine said.

 "The jury's still out on how long Bridger can keep from doing something stupid," her brother interrupted, "but he's earned my respect."

 "I'll take care of her," Ezra said, "and if I don't, well, I have full confidence that she can 'take care' of me, and probably knows at least a dozen ways to hide the body."

 "Two dozen," Sabine said, and that's when Ezra knew he'd been on Krownest for too long, because there was something almost romantic in the way she'd just threatened him, and he'd been around Mandalorians long enough that he enjoyed it.

🧡•💜•🧡

 As soon as they were back on the ship on the way back to the fleet, Ezra took off his helmet. He didn't like how it limited his visibility, its awkward bulk, how heavy it made his head feel. He then took off his gloves so he could fluff his hair up a little— another thing he couldn't stand about his helmet was how sweaty it made his hair, and somehow at the same time staticky, clinging closely to his head in a way that didn't feel natural.

 He heard a sigh behind him and saw Sabine sitting on the bench he stood next to, the chin of her helmet resting on her fists, her arms propped up on her knees, apparently watching him with great interest.

 "What?" Ezra asked, smiling as he sat down next to her.

 "I've missed your stupid face," Sabine sighed, her gloved hand running along his scars as though she thought she'd never see them again. Though they'd seen each other a lot these past few days, Ezra'd never taken his helmet off unless he was by himself— or with just Kanan, who obviously didn't mind that Ezra didn't follow Mandalorian customs around him, and if he had minded, wouldn't've noticed anyways.

 But Sabine hadn't seen Ezra's face since before they first went to Krownest together, months ago, and from the tenderness of her leather touch, he knew it'd been too long for her.

 "Well," Ezra said, trying to flirt back and failing to find the words, "I'd missed your stupid, uh, helmet?"

 She laughed a little. "It's good to be going home."

 Ezra slid his hand under and around hers, and whispered, "you have no idea."

🧡•💜•🧡

 Not too long after, Sabine and Ezra sat in the only place they'd ever found they could share a quiet moment together on the Ghost, sitting next to each other on the bottom bunk in Sabine's room.

 Well, "sitting next to each other" was an understatement. His arm was wrapped around her, and her hand held his, and her helmet rested on his chest, and they were talking and laughing with each other in a way they were sure no one else in the galaxy had ever experienced or could possibly understand.

 "I still don't know how I managed this," Ezra said.

 "Managed what?" Sabine asked.

 "The coolest, smartest, most beautiful girl in the entire Rebellion is my girlfriend," Ezra shook his head, "not bad for a street rat."

 Apparently only one word in that sentence mattered to Sabine.

 "Beautiful?" Sabine asked, "Ezra, you've never seen my face."

 "I don't have to to know that you're beautiful," Ezra said.

 "How do you figure that?"

 "Well, I've seen your art," Ezra started, "you're always saying that art is a reflection of the artist, and if that's the case, you must be absolutely gorgeous, because you're the most talented artist I've ever seen."

 Sabine nestled closer to him and hid herself even further in his embrace, like she often did when she was embarrassed by how much Ezra was complimenting her. The joke was on her though, because he really enjoyed it when she did that, and it only made him want to shower her with even more praise.

 "And I've heard your voice," Ezra said, "and anyone who can make an insult sound as pretty as you can must be very pretty herself. You have a really pretty laugh, too...."

 "Okay, I get it," Sabine said, barely stifling a really pretty and slightly flustered giggle.

 "I'm not done," Ezra said, "I've also seen how you fight, how graceful and smooth in even the most deadly battles. That's beauty. The pride in each and every one of your explosions that goes as planned, that's beauty. That tone of voice that makes me know your face is shining under that helmet: beauty; the heart you have that can't help but help others, no matter how you try to hide it— it's all so beautiful. You're all so beautiful. Everything about you is beautiful to me."

 "But you still haven't seen my face," Sabine said.

 "And I've told you a hundred thousand times it doesn't matter," Ezra said, "that I'd spend the rest of my life with you, even if I could never see your face."

 "And do you mean that?"

 "Every time."

 "Not just the 'if you'd never see my face' part," Sabine clarified, "the other part. You said it when we were younger, that you'd spend the rest of your life with me if you could. Do you still mean that as much as you did back then?"

 Ezra sat up properly, this conversation seeming to have gotten a bit more serious and wanting to show that he recognized that.

 "Sabine, I mean it so much more than I did back then," Ezra said, taking both her hands in his, "every time I say it I mean it a little bit more. I want to spend the rest of my life with you."

 "But do you mean that?"

 "With all my heart."

 Sabine took a deep breath.

 "It's not like I'll never take off my helmet," Sabine said, "showing my face would be a sign of commitment. It would show that I'm absolutely sure I want to spend the rest of my life with someone. I'd have to know that I love someone enough, with all my heart and soul, to want to them to be my forever."

 "'Ruusaar riduur' is what you called it before," Ezra said.

 "Yeah," Sabine said.

 She slipped her hands out of his, and before he had the chance to wonder if it was because he'd done something wrong, he realized it must be because he'd done something right. Her hands gripped the sides of her helmet, then pulled it off her head.

 Ezra found himself absolutely speechless as he looked the face that he'd loved for years but only met now. He'd pictured her looking hundreds of thousands of ways, but this face, with the big brown eyes, and the shy smile, and the dark hair that didn't even reach her shoulders and somehow looked flawless despite her having worn her helmet for the last few hours, and this face— her face— was the most beautiful face he'd ever seen.

 It took him a moment to understand what it all meant. If she'd taken her helmet off, that meant that she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him— the most beautiful girl in the world (and now he could with all the more integrity say that about her appearance) wanted to share her beauty with him, and only him, for the rest of her life? He didn't think he was lucky enough for this moment to ever come, but now, here it was, and she was lovely, and he loved her, and he'd never wanted to kiss her more in his life, and she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, and he could spend the rest of all time with her, and now, now he had to find some way to say the words that were swirling around in his mind.

💜•🧡•💜

 "You don't have to do this," Sabine thought, as she let go of Ezra's hands, "he likes you, you like him. Why risk vulnerability and commitment?"

 But as she looked at Ezra, she found she wanted commitment more than she'd ever imagined. She wanted him to know her face as intimately as she knew his, to see with his own two eyes who she really was, and for herself to look at him without her visor altering her perception.

 So, slowly, giving herself enough time to stop herself if she regretted it, she pulled her helmet off her head, for the first time in front of another life form since she'd put it on as a child, what felt like a lifetime ago. It felt vulnerable, and terrifying, but also freeing. She looked up at Ezra and smiled a little, wondering if he loved her face as much as he loved the rest of her— as much as she loved him.

 "Maybe this was a mistake," she thought, "maybe I should've just let him keep whatever version of me existed in his mind." She'd seen him flirt with lots of girls, back before they started dating, and none of them ever looked quite like her. What if, even without her armor, she still wasn't enough for him?

 But the smile that spread across his face said it all, and if not, enough words tumbled out at a parsec a minute to make up for the verbiage his expression could've lacked.

 "Why did you take off your helmet?" Ezra asked, and though anyone else could've left it at that question, the man she loved would never, and he followed it up with seventeen more. "how are you so pretty? I didn't know it was possible for someone to be so beautiful. Does this mean you want to spend forever with me, because I want to spend forever with you too? You're so pretty. I mean, that's not why I want to spend forever with you. I'd spend forever with you if I didn't get to see your face, but I'm so glad I get to see your face. You're literally the most beautiful person I've ever seen in my entire life; I want to kiss you so badly. I mean, not that I'm gonna kiss you, unless you want me to, I just, I've never seen someone so beautiful in my whole entire life. I just, I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting you to be so beautiful, I mean, not that I wasn't expecting you to be so beautiful, but I couldn't've expected you to be so beautiful, but, holy kriff…"

 Sabine already had a hard enough time with Ezra complimenting her on things she was often praised for, like her abilities and talents, but now that he was complimenting her on her beauty— she didn't know what beauty was, and how was she supposed to know if she was beautiful? Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder, and no one had beheld her before, especially not like this. As it was, she almost wished that she was still wearing her helmet, because she was blushing so hard it was almost embarrassing.

 This had to stop. At the rate Ezra was going, he could go on talking like this for another three hours without sign of slowing down.

 Though Ezra was the only boy she'd ever dated, she knew boys well enough to know they came with one handy special feature— there was a pretty easy way to shut them up, one she'd secretly been wanting to try since before they left Krownest. Somewhere in his rambled confessions, she'd heard the words, "I want to kiss you," and lucky for him, the feeling was mutual.

 Before his lips could get him into any more trouble, she took over for them, grabbing him by the shirt collar and sending his lips crashing into hers. It still took him a couple seconds to grasp what was happening and shut up— that's about when the whispered "holy kriff" at the end came in— but he quickly understood the assignment, and as his lips touched hers, his hand touched her face, something passionate and gentle and unfamiliar and overwhelming. No one had seen her face before, let alone touched it. And now, here was his hand, his fingers twirling on her cheek, his other hand on her neck, with his thumb stroking a soft spot behind her ear.

 She pulled away from him, all of it seeming too good to be true. But when she read the love and excitement in his shining blue eyes, she believed it herself.

 "I love you," she whispered.

 "I love you too," he whispered back.

 And now, she was absolutely certain that he meant it.

💜•🧡•💜

 A few months later, they were back on Krownest— not for war, or for reunion, but for a wedding. 

 Sabine had told Ezra that he didn't need to adapt to her customs, that if they forged him his own armor, he'd be making the same commitment to it she had, but he insisted on becoming part of her world. She'd painted his armor herself, colors custom chosen by them both, and repainted her own armor to match it. He'd started wearing the helmet right away, partly because it was better than the repurposed trooper helmet he'd been wearing, and partly because he wanted to get used to the weight of it, and partly because he enjoyed looking like he belonged here.

 But except for that and the left shoulder guard that he'd scarcely taken off since he got it, Ezra hadn't worn the rest of his armor until today, when they stood side by side in a private wedding ceremony they held on the Ghost. It was a small gathering, Sabine's family and the Spectres as the only guests in attendance, but the happy couple hardly even noticed them. The ceremony passed quickly, even for a Mandalorian one, which was always quick anyways.

 If you'd asked her later, Sabine wouldn't be able to tell you much from that day, except for Ezra, and how she could almost feel the look on his face as he said his vows to her, and how deeply they both meant it when they declared themselves one with each other, and how there'd never been a more precious keldabe kiss (or "bonk of endearment" as Ezra would often call it in his silly little way with words) than the one that followed that ceremony.

 And the most perfect moment of her life would come that night, when Ezra held her in his arms without a scrap of beskar coming between them, a pure, intimate, human connection, one that spoke of love, a love of their own, beyond either of their wildest dreams.

💜•🧡•💜

[partygcthered]

bree's druid types

Daddy's Good Little Soldier TM

features include:

Nap (can nap in any place at any time, emotionally exhausted, overworked, will awake more tired than he went to sleep)

I Have Too Much On My Shoulders (in combat situations he will try to take on every single foe by himself whilst shouting for the group to run to safety)

Panic (the inner screaming and brain spinning that comes with being unable to make a decision when faced with world ending scenarios while being completely unflappable on the outside)

Don't Let Anyone See You Cry TM (crying in hidden places, going missing for hours at a time and returning pretending he was just hunting in wildshape, always returns with food)

Care More About Others Than Yourself (endlessly patient and listening to others about their issues, offers help to solve them while ignoring his own)

Endless Loyalty (will in fact follow his father into death itself, and then try and exchange his soul for his dads so his dad can go free)

Smile Through The Pain (to be fair his smile is radiant like the sun itself so this one is. a lil painful. but anyway. he just smiles like he's completely fine and balanced, but he's really just young and indecisive and not quite as trained as he needs to be in order to uh, kill a giant brain and save the world)

Moo (tiger moos.)

Feral Rage (threaten anyone he's close to and witness the wrath of nature, which in a lot of situations is actually scarier than a barbarian's rage)

Buff Legolas

Features Include:

I Was Born For This (raised by leaders, trained to lead, innately capable at handling problems of others)

Meditative Wisdom (calm, collected, centering, exudes the sort of energy that makes you collect your thoughts and take a deep breath)

Checkered Past TM (doesn't talk about what brought him back to the high forest or why he has new battle scars, gets introspective and gloomy/brooding at certain times of the year and shuts himself off)

Wounded Heart (doesn't respond to those obviously interested in him, has not taken a lover or partner in decades, mysteriously silent on the subject)

Expert Healer (knows anything and everything about potion making and healing spells, has the gentlest hands and most soothing bedside manner, can get anyone to calm down and allow him to help them)

Leader By Calamity (only in a position of power because someone has died, was likely not ready to ascend to a position of power when he did but did so because he was trained to)

Smile With Your Eyes (when he's amused, his eyes sparkle like pure starlight)

Awoo Crew (will run feral and howl at the moon with the other wolves in his pack at least twice a month)

Sunshine Boy

Features Include:

Unbridled Power Of The Sun (he is pure sunlight in a human body, the human equivalent of a golden retriever, everyone's friend, the sweetest bean, a good boy, squishy baby, look at his little cheeks just squish them)

Friend TM (this druid is friend shaped. while not being the favored of any known deity of charisma or luck, he can become friends with anyone he meets whether animal or humanoid-whether they intend to or not)

Tramns The Gemnder (pure of heart, dumb of ass, trans of gender. this druid is transmasc with a dash of gender fluidity. we love to see it.)

Cat???? (this druid must pet ALL THE CATS. canonically in his dnd lore has a tressym rescue which is up to a grand total of 30)

Squeaks TM (mountain lion squeaks. feel the pure unfiltered power of cuteness aggression, behold the mighty squeak. love him.)

Cry (minus two to all stats during applicable weeks because endometriosis. will cry at unpredictable times.)

Loves With His Entire Soul (this druid loves with his entire being, if he falls in love with your character, they will receive everything he has to offer including but not limited to his actual fucking soul.)

Ace TM (this druid is on the asexual spectrum because trauma.)

Baby (he's just babey, your honor)

Coming Apart At The Seams

Features Include:

Barely Contained (dare i say. bear-ly contained...okay i'll see myself out. this druid is barely keeping themselves together at any given moment)

?????? (curious. well read. researcher.)

Fuck Off TM (push his buttons the right way, or threaten someone he loves, and he will snap)

This Druid Can Hold So Much Trauma TM (patting him like a used car salesman, standing on my toes barely reaching his elbow tbh. idk what you want from me hes just tired and spread really thin ok)

I Care When Logically I Should Not Be Capable Anymore (gestures vaguely. look. for someone who fucking casually just mentions he spent time literally captive by drow and being used in a number of ways. he is incredibly blase about it. he should be a lot darker than he is. but hes so capable of a range of emotion that should be locked away for him.)

Bear Puns TM (i love him. if you want to be around him, you'd best be able to endure puns)

That's My Dad Your Honor (in which anyone with misplaced emotions abt their parents projects onto him and just wants him to say he is proud of them)

Objectify Me (endures objectification from others while not processing any emotion about it)

My Entire Heart (this guy is capable of loving with every single piece of himself, and i cry every single time.)

Bear Grumbles (dad noises but bear)

I Decide When The Hug Ends (he is over 300 pounds. he decides when the hug ends.)

[artisticlegshake]

THE DANCE AWARDS ORLANDO RESULTS 2024

HIGH SCORE BY PERFORMANCE DIVISION (TEEN SMALL GROUPS)

BALLET:

1st Moonlight - WESTCHESTER

2nd Egyptian Elegance - DANCE SPECTRUM

CONTEMPORARY:

1st Demonstration Of Duality - DANCE UNLIMITED

2nd In Tandem - G-FORCE

3rd Brûlée - ART & SOUL

4th Seen & Heard - G-FORCE

5th Grey, Dark Grey, Black - VLAD’S

LYRICAL:

1st Quiet Victories & Celebrated Defeats - STARS

2nd Bitter - MATHER

2nd Natalie Don’t - MATHER

3rd We Stand In Silence - WESTCHESTER

4th No Fear - STUDIO 412

5th Dance Me To The End - AVANTI

5th Little Much - FOCAL POINT

JAZZ:

1st You Don’t Love Me - PROJECT 21

2nd Never Gonna Get It - AVANTI

3rd Funkytown - G-FORCE

4th Heads Will Roll - STUDIO 412

4th Secure The Bag - PRODANCE

5th Bad Bad Thing - SOUTH TULSA

TAP:

1st I’ll Have To Say I Love You In A Song - YOUNG

2nd What’s Going On - FITZSIMMONS

3rd Magic - THE SOUTERN STRUTT

4th Dream On - RHYTHM

4th We Are The Music - TOUCH OF CLASS

5th Coming Back Around - THE DANCER’S EDGE

5th Don’t You Worry ‘Bout A Thing - YOUNG

MUSICAL THEATRE:

1st Annie Get Your Gun - THE STUDIO PROJECT

2nd Nicest Kids In Town - WEST FLORIDA

HIP-HOP:

1st Scrubs - PRODANCE

2nd Identity Crew - THE DANCER’S EDGE

3rd Faaliyah Self - ROCKSTAR

3rd Groove - J2K

4th Lean Back - TOUCH OF CLASS

4th Lose Control - THE STUDIO PROJECT

5th I Look Good - WEST FLORIDA

5th The Lab Mix - ELITE DANCE LAB

BALLROOM:

1st Shaken - D’ANSA JAZZ

SPECIALTY:

1st A Return To Now - EDX

2nd Among My Quietest Fears - VLAD’S

3rd Everything Happens - YOUNG

4th Freak - DANCE UNLIMITED

4th On It - FOCAL POINT

5th A Cat That Really Was Gone - AVANTI

5th Float On - CDC

[wh0refornikolailantsov]

I Heard It In The Silence - Tolya Yul Bataar

Content Warnings: I SAT DOWN AND WROTE THIS OFF CUFF IN ONE SESSION, IT'S BEYOND NOT BETA READ, I DIDN'T LET MYSELF THINK ABOUT IT AT ALL. I JUST TAP TAP TAPIDY TAP TAPPED. Enjoy, or don't I am not your boss.

Honestly writing a character on the AroAce spectrum is so good for my soul.

It was never the loud things with Tolya. There is no doubt that if the slightest amount of insecurity was shown, Tolya would shower with a kind of reassurance that only he could manage. But it was more about the quiet things, the gestures, the movements, the words, all the ways in which he would consider you. That was Tolya showing love.

Tamar had once worried that because of the way Tolya was disinterested in romance beyond that on the page, and a relationship beyond that which he had with his faith, that he might be lonely. She hated that it worried her, as her brother was and is very capable of looking after his own wellbeing. If Tolya wanted more, he would be searching for it, but he is happy and content with the love in which he had for literature and the Saints.

But not all love is as simple and clean cut as that which most of Sturmhond's crew understands love to be, many of them had lovers or partners, or had at least at some point, all of them had ideas of what love should look like, what it meant and what it required. Even Tamar.

But Tolya had not needed anything more, he was happy, he was content and he never felt the absence of love because he did not share a bed with someone, because he did not see people in the same way as others did.

It was something, most would argue, you have woven into the deeper part of you, something that is there. Companionship and friendship were things that Tolya understand well, between his kebben and the loyalty it wasn't a matter of feeling whole or lonely.

But he had not wondered, besides Tamar, how it felt to not just know someone's absence, but feel it, truly feel it.

Until you.

Tolya may not have been what you had imagined when you thought about falling in love, the way in which he loves you is not like any love you've ever known. Tolya's love is what you imagined sharing a soul would feel like. His compassion, his devotion, his care, his kindness. The gentle look in those golden eyes as they look at you, you have never felt so loved as you feel loved by him.

You had maybe imagined a more conventional relationship, but you would not trade what you have with Tolya for the world. Not for a moment, not even consider it. A moment of love, this love, this love without expectation, or demand, or wanting. This love which only wants to see you safe and warm and cared for. This love that only wants what is best for you, no strings. This love that knows what melody your heart plays and matches you in tune.

You can hear it in the quiet things. The way his arm presses yours as the ocean sways too viciously at night. The way he seeks you out in a crowded room. The way you are the first person he comes to when he has found something new that makes his heart sing.

It is not the willingness to die for you that shows you the way Tolya loves you, but the way in which he lives with you. Beside you.

The way he remembers how hot you take your tea.

The way he always keeps extra candied orange slices just in case.

The way he sees you, truly sees you, more than you see yourself.

That love, this love, there is nothing in the world you would trade it for.

His hand against yours on the edge of the gunwale, the smile that lights up his eyes as you talk, all the quietest ways in which you know you will only ever be his, and he yours in return. This love, that neither of you went looking for, but both of you found and would no longer know how to be without.

It was in the quiet, the quiet that was louder than any love you had known before.

There is no other love you would want to know.

[ladyluscinia]

Stepping away from the main trio real quick just to jot down my first impressions for some of the crew. I think I'll split them into major and minor side characters.

Ok, so... broad spectrum: sailors tend to have bird daemons, daemons small enough to carry, and/or semi-aquatic daemons. Obviously not set in stone, but if your daemon settled into a deer or something you probably don't have much desire for a seafaring life, and accommodating your daemon might be more trouble than it was worth for a ship captain to hire you.

Major Side Characters:

Lucius - I think I'm going to start at otters? Intelligent, to the point that they are known for playing because they have so much free time. Also capable of a cruel streak (which could be a pro or con depending on if you think Lucius's soul is more predator or prey). I suppose he would also be a good candidate for a fancy bird, but Lucius might not quite fit in with a flying daemon?

Jim - I wanted to say no cats on account of poor Frenchie but Jim might be a cat... which would be pretty funny if the fake beard reveal turned into "you ARE a witch!!!" Some kind of particularly deadly ambush predator (like maybe the MOST deadly - a black-footed cat 🥺) at least, and probably not anything marine because they aren't a pirate, even if they are adapting well.

Oluwande - No frontrunners here, yet. He's loyal as fuck and very happy to get swept up in Jim's whirlwind, so actually he might be better matched to a bird than he seems at first. Definitely something stable. Strong, but not ostentatious.

Frenchie - Honestly I think funniest universe is if he has a fox or something that acts super like a cat but not quite. Definitely something duplicitous but in a... friendlier (?) way than I'm going with Edward? Not really attached to any ideas yet.

Fang - @rattus-villosissimus made the delightfully fucked up suggestion that Fang's daemon could have settled into the dog Edward made him kill, but unfortunately I think that would have ended with Edward kicking him off the ship so we'll set that aside and be nicer. Gonna say no dogs though. He needs something happy and absolutely capable of violence, so if Lucius doesn't get an otter maybe he does. Or maybe two kinds of otters to highlight differences? Depends on otter research. I also think maybe a kind of monkey could work?

[lowkey-loki245]

Fuck it, The Usagi Chronicles headcanons cause this show deserves better.

Usagi Yuichi needs to have Willow Branch on him. After the season 2 finale, he just doesn't wanna risk it.

Also after the season 2 finale, Yuichi and Auntie had an argument. Auntie wanted him to come back to the farm because she didn't want him to be in danger again, but Yuichi was determined to stay in Neo Edo. Karasu-Tengu had to talk to Auntie and make her realize that Yuichi is a stubborn soul, if he wants to be in Neo Edo, that's where he'll be.

Yuichi is god tier at rhythm games. He never loses the high score at the arcade.

The Kaikishi crew (thats what I'm calling them now) regularly have sleepovers.

Yuichi doesn't remember who his parents are, but he has Auntie, so it's fine for him.

When he was young, Yuichi would often call Auntie "Mom". (He still does it time to time.)

Chizu's and Kitsune's first date was arcade.

Yuichi considers the rest of the Kaikishi crew as family. (Tetsujin is his father figure and Karasu-Tengu is his mother figure.)

(Only adding this one cause the rottmnt tag is probably the only thing thats gonna get this attention) Leo was the one that made the first move.

Yuichi has gotten hit by a car before.

The Kaikishi crew once tried trading weapons for fun. It's wasn't a good idea to give Kitsune Gen's weapons... Yuichi got knocked out.

Obviously, Yuichi is very accident prone.

Gen is on the aroace spectrum, Chizu is bisexual, Kitsune is lesbian, and Yuichi is pansexual.

Anyways, that's all for now. Adios!

[abandonedelves]

I've been thinking a lot about the criticisms made about Izzy's death over the last few days and I thought I would drop my own personal interpretation on 2 common statements I've been seeing r.e. Izzy being represented as a "suicidal character" as well as him telling Ed the crew loves him in his dying moments.

[Big TW for talking about suicide and death through the lens of a narrative and thematic analysis (i.e. Not going into real life experiences). Disclaimer that this lengthy post has ZERO Izzy hate, I love him as a character and this is just my thoughts on how the show writers might have intended the S2 story to be interpreted.]

"Izzy's death is a dismissal of people with suicidal experiences/behaviour"

While I think that having a character point a gun to their head and shooting is a very literal representation of a suicide, I'm not sure if what's happening in that scene is supposed to be the viewed as the culmination of a suicidal/depressed character's behaviour (well at least not on Izzy's part, Ed for sure). I will agree there is definitely trauma and illness in Izzy's mind, but I read Izzy's intentions in the gun scene as him wanting to die out of obligation to the pirate code.

In S1, Izzy can be seen as a man desperately forcing himself and those around him into the role of being a real hardcore manly pirate. Metaphorically, he's representing the voice of toxic masculinity in S1, the kind of beliefs that align with sentiments such as "I must fulfill the role that society expects of me" and "I'd rather die than be seen as weak". With that in mind I think it makes more sense in S2, Izzy is begging the crew to kill him. That's just pirate tradition, he's been discarded and replaced by his captain, so he obviously has to die, that's what happens to all the other great pirates, isn't it?

Ed- in his own selfish way albeit- gives Izzy the opportunity survive with honour: putting the gun in his hand and letting him shoot the captain, a mutiny, keeping in line with what he believes to be Izzy's ideals of the pirate code. In the moment when Izzy comes to terms with the fact he loves Ed too much to kill him he turns the gun to himself, realizing that his "weakness" (LOVE!) is his downfall and he needs to pay the price with his life to keep up the piratey status quo. "I loved you best I could" is Ed's direct response to Izzy's refusal to mutiny, in his mind he'd tried to fix his wrongs by meeting Izzy on pirate terms- death and betrayal- rather than doing something un-piratey like talking about their feelings.

That scene was such a beautiful catalyst for Izzy to start questioning his beliefs about being a pirate but I'm not sure it makes him a "suicidal" character in the grand spectrum of the narrative. More like a broken soul who managed to survive drinking the kool-aid, deciding then to start acting as himself, whittling, singing, wearing makeup, and just generally being a sassy little shit.

"Izzy tells Ed the crew is his family and that they love him but clearly they don't so that doesn't make sense"

I see the point being raised: because the crew were tortured by Blackbeard and tried to kill him in turn, that they would never consider him family or be able love him. That's understandable! But looking back to the first season, couldn't it also be said that Izzy was similarly terrible to the crew AND was almost killed by them? And even then, they came to respect Izzy as a member of the crew and even keep him alive after Blackbeard expects them to kill him. This at least in some way shows that the crew has the capability to forgive Blackbeard, but I agree at that specific point in the season finale they may not fully be there yet (I'm attributing this one to Max for only giving us 8 eps, with 2 more I'm confident that point of forgiveness could've been reached!!!).

Regardless of that, I think it's fair to examine the the literal vs intentional meaning behind what Izzy says to Ed. When I talked about the crew's mutiny in S2 I refer to Ed as "Blackbeard", I do this because at the time of the mutiny, that's who Ed is trying to be. Just like the book illustration in S1, Ed has strapped 9 guns to himself and covered his face in black makeup. He's living up to what people expect Blackbeard to be, the crew only refers to him as "Blackbeard" during that time too (not 100% on that fact but pretty confident).

The crew hates Blackbeard, we know that, Ed knows that, and most importantly, Izzy knows that. This is what ties into his final words to Ed so well. Izzy admits that he is the one who kept "Blackbeard" alive (whether that is true or not, that is clearly what he thinks). But then on the other hand, there's "Ed". Ed, who Izzy tried so hard to stomp out in S1, Ed, the one who loves soft, simple things and openly weeps over his dying friend. I will never stop thinking about Izzy asking Blackbeard to "just be Ed" and when he looks at Ed's sobbing face he confirms it's happening right before him with the weak "there he is".

In S2, Izzy has realized that he was wrong about "Blackbeard" but believes that "Ed" still has the capacity to be loved- or when it comes to Stede, already is loved. However, when one has such little time left, wouldn't you want to let a loved one know that there will still be comfort and belonging for them after you're gone? I think that's why Izzy is adamant on addressing two things in his final moments: one being that Ed has to let go of being Blackbeard in order to be free (believing that his own death will be that freedom), and the second, a reassurance once "Ed" is left, that man he will be IS DESERVING OF LOVE.

Of course this is really simplifying Ed into two distinct personalities when he's much more nuanced and complex in the show (which is even acknowledged in that scene between Stede and Izzy) but this is how I personally read Izzy's final words to Ed in E8.

[rottingformerfirstmate]

Best I Could (BlackHands)

Summary: A detailed look inside Izzy's head during that scene of episode two. Fully canon-compliant.

Tags: BlackHands, Mutual Pining, Mutual Hurt/No Comfort, Mutilation, Canon-Typical Violence and Gore, Religious Imagery, Suicidal Thoughts and Behavior, S2E2 Compliant

WC: 2.4k | AO3 | Rated: M

Time, for Izzy, has always been a matter of order rather than any valuable measure. Days are relevant insofar as the expiry on fruit stores or how close the ship is to landfall. Weeks and seasons matter to currents. Vaguely, in the back of his mind, Izzy has a sense of exactly how much of his life has been spent at Edward’s side, but it’s not a quantifiable number of years he could quote with any certainty. He’s always kept a calendar on his desk to be a good first mate, and help with logistics, but it never mattered. Time passed, Izzy’s life remained the same, and he used to be happy with it.

When exactly the satisfaction faded into nodding off on watch and fretting over Ed, he can’t say. Izzy can, however, pinpoint the exact moment in which genuine fear of Ed began to constrict his throat. Blackbeard, the mythological persona carefully crafted between Ed’s orders and Izzy’s hands, was always ruthlessly cruel to anyone who dared cross him—frequently including the crew of the Queen Anne’s Revenge. Izzy was historically exempt from this as Ed’s first mate. The worst pain Edward ever inflicted on him, directly or otherwise, was the tattoo on his face. That memory is fond. Ed sat in Izzy’s lap, gripping his chin in one hand and inking the needle with the other.

Over a stretch of years beyond Izzy’s articulation, he and Ed have revolved around one another like two marbles circling a drain, colliding occasionally in the dim light of the captain’s cabin. Ed’s never been rough. Although sometimes Izzy wished he would be, there was a distinct lack of gentleness in the act. Izzy can best describe it as perfunctory, like Ed considered it no more exciting than scratching an itch, though the whole process rewrote the very foundations of Izzy’s soul each time. There was a routine to it; Izzy knew how Ed liked him, on his knees with his face in the pillows and his hands behind his back, and he took what he was given and loved it because it was the closest he would ever come to love. It used to feel like enough.

Izzy’s fear was born the night Ed snapped. He was fraying for years before Bonnet’s arrival, was hanging on by a thread after the breakup. Izzy can admit to himself his own role in breaking Edward. To taunt him when he was already so fragile was as cruel as it was stupid. And all Ed offered for Izzy to cling onto was a chide for his screams of agony and an order to work as he always did.

At this point, Izzy cannot guess how long ago Ed cut off his pinkie toe. It feels like an eternity but could be anywhere between a couple of months and several years. They have no calendar anymore, nor do they possess a working compass. It’s all booze, plundered food, treasure they can’t offload, and sticky grease paint caked around Izzy’s hairline. He’s down to his big toe on that foot.

Ed shot him in the same leg.

Most of the day is a blur, all of Izzy’s life smearing around it. The one thing he remembers clearly is the muzzle of Ed’s gun tucked under his own chin, raving at the crew with such insanity Izzy wouldn’t have been shocked to see spittle foaming up around his lips like the rabid dog Ed has become.  Izzy lays in a sickbed nestled in the walls, sweating and shivering and bleeding and swearing and, when he has the strength, begging. He screams in every face he sees to spare him from this horrible torture already.

He feels closer to Ed now than he ever has before. Izzy has experienced practically every emotion available on the human spectrum, but this is the first time he has stared up, dewy-eyed, and prayed for death. The prospect neither frightens nor overwhelms him. Instead, he feels it would be a warm, soothing embrace, of the sort to deliver him softly from the purgatory he willingly followed Ed into. If nothing else, he deserves some recognition for how far loyalty to his captain above all brought Izzy.

“Kill me,” Izzy bellows into Frenchie’s face, too weak to do much else. “Kill me, you fucking coward!”

Frenchie doesn’t kill him, which is just as well because Izzy has never loved anything that wasn’t trying to tear him apart. The crew take up vigil at his bedside as he fades in and out of consciousness in an ever-growing pool of his own festering blood. Izzy can’t smell it anymore, at least. He’s too angry that no one has had the mercy to kill him to feel guilty about how permeating the awful stench is beyond his fear Ed will happen upon their unwilling convalescent.

When he wakes up to only Edward beside him, Izzy’s brain is slow to catch up. His leg still burns, from thigh to ankle, but Izzy realizes immediately his leg is gone. In its place, the outline of what once was in black blood reflects the small darts of light creeping in. Izzy can barely move, remaining limbs uncooperatively shaky and raspy voice fighting out his throat to ask. He already knows, had known the second Fang put him on this cot, but his mind cannot think much further than the shock of his missing leg. It doesn’t feel real. Nothing has since Stede Bonnet crossed paths with Blackbeard, or longer, if Izzy wants to be particularly honest. Now is the last chance he’ll ever have to do so; a dying man cannot be tortured indefinitely.

“That’s gone now,” Ed tells him matter-of-factly, “up in leg heaven.”

Izzy is barely awake, scarcely alive, soaked in every fluid his body is capable of producing, all skin and bones, like most of the crew. Raids haven’t kept them fed without making land to sell loot. But Ed looks so beautiful in this moment Izzy has trouble convincing himself it’s real. He’s looked hollow since Stede left, but now, there’s a glow to him. His golden skin, creased with decades of hysterical laughter and devastating meltdowns, is clear of the greasy paint. His hair is pulled up out of his face, messy but less snarled than usual as though Ed sat down and ran a comb through it. Izzy has been the only one to do so in the months since Bonnet, and his empty stomach roils at the thought of Frenchie carefully sorting through the knots in Ed’s long silver hair, but he hasn’t seen Ed do so himself since his golden days aboard the revenge in pink silk robes. Ed doesn’t look younger, but he is softer. Izzy doesn’t point out Ed clearly bathed, nor does he acknowledge the faintest hints of lavender offering a bare reprieve to the oppressive air of the room.

“Have you come to take the other one?”

That should be enough to do him in. As far down the rabbit hole as they all are now, Izzy wouldn’t put it past Edward to turn Izzy into a torso and a head, a buff statue to entertain him until that gets boring too and he’s tossed overboard with no way to save himself. Death is a welcome friend in comparison to anything else Ed dreams up to inflict on him.

“I think that’s quite enough.” In another life, or another decade, Ed touches Izzy at this point. He dabs the sweat off his skin, kisses his clammy cheeks, drops laudanum under his tongue, whispers those words. There was a time they looked after each other, though the memory is so distant Izzy has to strain to grasp it now. “I just popped down to say a proper goodbye.”

Ed holds his gun more reverently than he has touched Izzy in all the time they’ve known each other. Smooth mahogany and polished silver gleam beg for his attention, but Izzy can only look at Ed. He’s never done anything else. Practiced hands cock the weapon.

“I had a dream about you last night.”

Izzy had a dream about Ed as well, or a night-terror if Jim is to be believed. It was the two of them on deck, lit only by the barest tangerine glow of temperamental torches, and Izzy was sobbing. He begged and pleaded for Ed to stop- what Izzy wanted him to stop, he can only guess. In his dream, Ed laughed at him and reached through his ribcage to tear out his beating heart. Long, sticky strands of blood vessels tugged to try and keep Izzy’s heart close, but Ed bent down to tear through them with his teeth. Izzy collapsed to the deck, bleeding out with a blurry impression of Ed’s boots in front of him, Ed’s laughter ringing in his ears. He woke up screaming. The last good sleep he had was long enough ago to feel less real than the night-terrors.

“Take it.” Ed forces the gun toward Izzy, ignores every protest to crush Izzy’s fingers around the handle. If Izzy drops it, he doesn’t know what will happen: death, or something creatively worse. “Hold it!” He struggles to keep a decent grip on the gun. Not too long ago, Ed might have followed it with some sort of praise, a brief acknowledgement that Izzy is a good lad for playing along with his whims. A bare crumb is enough for a man of Izzy’s station to cling to, but Ed will not allow him such a foothold any longer.

Ed leans forward so the muzzle of the gun nearly kisses his lips. Izzy has the faintest urge to push it between them. Whether Ed would open his mouth, eyes dark and locked on Izzy’s, or if he would be out of the way before Izzy’s finger could find the trigger, Izzy doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to find out.

“I dreamt you killed me.” Izzy has had a lot of dreams about Edward, but never one of this nature. He’s always the one to suffer, and Ed is always the survivor happy to be free of the burden. “Shot me right through the skull.”

As a pirate, Izzy has enough experience in shooting men at such close range to picture it vividly. The slug, wherever it reaches Ed’s face, would blow Ed’s skull wide open into an array of pink tissue and white bone. Blood would cover the walls and ceiling, slowly dripping to add to the ocean on the floor beneath Ed’s unidentifiable body. It would be much faster, more merciful death than a shot to the leg. All this, and Ed still couldn’t kill Izzy no matter how deep his rage at the mere mention of Bonnet.

“Good for you,” Izzy croaks. He’s able to get his finger around the trigger, with only the pressure requisite to feel it against his skin.

“It was good for me.” Ed stands and rounds the edge of the bed, oblivious or indifferent to the wavering track of Izzy’s aim. “It’s just what the doctor ordered. But it wasn’t like that.” He turns his back to Izzy. One slow step after another, he approaches the door with cold, catlike, precision. “No. In my dream, I was standing.” He doesn’t look back over his shoulder. It wouldn’t change anything if he did. “Just like this.”

The light cascading down the stairs breaks around Ed’s silhouette. With his arms outstretched, Edward is the perfect imitation of every religious drawing Izzy has ever seen, bathed in the golden glow of late afternoon sun, standing on his own two feet without a bottle or a pipe his hands. For just a moment, he’s little Eddie Teach again. Then Izzy remembers which one of them has truly been nailed to the cross, and his heart hardens.

He shores himself up to raise the gun he never wanted in his hand, but after losing a leg and every shred of dignity he ever had to his name, Izzy can barely lift it a more few inches off his stomach. Dry, bitter laughter spills from his cracked lips. For a moment, his swollen tongue lolls out of his mouth. His body is too broken and tired to keep it in place. His eyes remaining open at all shocks him. But if this is his last day on this earth, or Edward’s, or both of theirs, then he will be present for as much as he can. He forces a shaky aim somewhere between Ed’s shoulder blades. Right in the back, like a coward, would be a fitting end.

“Oh, are you scared, Eddie?” Though Ed shifts his weight, he does not turn around. He plays the part of a cold, detached killer too well for a man who can’t stomach death by his own hand, acting as if it’s not his fault Izzy is a corpse whose brain hasn’t caught up yet. Ed deserves to be scared. He wasn’t frightened any of the times he mutilated Izzy, or made him scrub his own blood off the floor, or pushed the crew into another pointless raid. “Too- too scared to do it yourself, ay?” Another bout of compulsive, painful laughter bubbles up his throat. Ed still doesn’t react. The only time he’s ever still and reserved is when Izzy wishes he would break for a second, at least. “Go on, clean up your own fucking mess.” The gun drops dully onto his stomach. He can’t hold it up anymore. “I’m not doing it, I’ve been doing it all my fucking life. Fuck off.”

Ed nods.

“Farewell, old chum.”

As he climbs the stairs, any remaining fight in Izzy’s body saps out of him. Once again, Izzy is alone. The blood still sluggishly drooling from his stump of a leg discourages him from any action to make himself presentable before death. There’s piss in his trousers, sweat in his hair, blood from his belly button to his remaining ankle, and a sickeningly sweet smell like coinage and spoiled oranges permeating the air. Nothing he does will make this death honorable.

The second Ed’s feet disappear from sight, Izzy fights to raise the gun to his temple with the last of his strength. For all his flaws, at least Ed has given him a way out. May they both find their way.

Izzy pulls the trigger.

[howlsofbloodhounds]

This is my first time sending an ask on mobile so I got no idea which account of mine is being used or if I marked this anonymous, but here we go.

In case I need to clarify, this is Sarco. I'm gonna project on Color again.

Combining dragonkin Color and your P-DID Color headcanon, do you think he'd technically be called a hydra under these circumstances?

Hehe. I love that. Does that make the six souls (and possibly also Beta and XChara 👀) his hatchlings, and the rest of the chromatic crew his hoard or flock/clutch?

[hello-puppets-confessions]

Omg I can finally talk about my AUs and stuff 😋❕

Okay!Lets start with Riley!

Tiny headcanons

Riley is on the autism spectrum specifically ADD and OCD

Her and Nick are twins but they’re fraternal twins

I’d headcanon her as either Bisexual with a pref for women or Sapphic

Her and Nick are wlw & mlnm hostility

On & off show Riley

Hates the light in her eyes,it just annoys her speaking of lights she is a bit sensitive to them with her eyes

Would purposely sabotage the show if Nick got a longer part than her like a REALLY long part it has to be at least 15 minutes which is the main reason re-takes were thrown around

Her and Mortimer only get along because he sees her has worthy and she doesn’t want to feel worthless…like her brother as she would say

Has probably caused problems for the crew with her playing games on them or surprise quizzes,which if they get wrong a little scare or two is gonna happen at different times…and maybe on different days

After the fire

She was kinda self conscious about her jaw yk but then again she thought it could be a way to further explore the anatomy of the puppets

Okay this is gonna sound a bit crazy but in this specific AU I have of the puppets they were souls before they became puppets so Riley was the soul of a very determined scientist before she was turned into a puppet

Was probably the one who started the fire 🧍

She would get annoyed if you didn’t agree with her views cause at this point she views herself as the only one with sense in the studio,although she wouldn’t admit that to Mortimer

By now she’s afraid of Mortimer like terrified of him solely because of his powers if he didn’t have any powers I am 100% sure she would’ve figured out a plan to topple him of his high horse

Hmmmm I see 👁️👁️

[silent-calling]

Foundation broadcast interceptions are rarely notable. Established following the recording of the "Wow!" signal the Bureau of Anomalous Transmissions (B.A.T. for short) has been reduced to but a skeleton crew of its initial staff. Their slogan, "Voce ex Dubium" became a point of humor for most, and many foundation members regarded stationing with B.A.T. like a vacation. Site 19 was constantly handling security breaches, forward teams regularly encountered anomalies for the first time, and other special departments risk life, limb, soul, and temporal stability to ensure anomalies are appropriately contained and studied.

Comparatively, the Bureau seemed little more than a standard government branch, struggling to justify their budgetary necessity year over year.

Occasionally, another branch reaches out to enlist the aid of B.A.T.s for narrowing down spectrums and frequencies of signals they receive, in the off-chance that the broadcast is, or contains, some anomalous information. Their archival subordinate group maintains the bulk of their manning, while the novel technologies branch works closely with research and development to improve upon their capabilities to receive and transmit across vast expanses and even other dimensions.

It wasn't until three decades following their founding that they first caught a glimpse of their own importance.

In 19██, Foundation operatives successfully thwarted the television broadcast of "The Hanged King's Tragedy", a five-part play known in the Foundation as SCP-701. Its last circulated paperback printing was discovered in 1971, with all known copies collected and/or destroyed. Three months later, a signal was received through X-band frequencies. Bureau staff had grown accustomed to these signals, and had assumed someone was simply re-heating their leftover dinner for lunch. This, however, was different, in that there seemed to be a familiar irregularity - as if it were a communication, rather than random garble.

The recording officially lasted 45 seconds, but those who were present when the interception was observed recall five minutes or so of dialogue between half a dozen voices. Only one member remains who wasn't subjected to Class B amnestics, Dr. ███████, who works under close supervision of the O6 council. He is a quiet and reserved man, who can be best summarized in one word: unassuming.

Dr. ███████ was first to notice the pattern. He had read the case file on SCP-701 before in his rather abundant spare time, and had grown familiar with the cadence of other anomalies related to it - chiefly SCP-049. The precarity with which it spoke intrigued him, as did the field of linguistics, and so he studied the interviews time and time again until he could pinpoint with precision what time period and location the anomaly most similarly mirrored.

Following this broadcast, things grew tense around the Bureau. It was unclear what they had received, but since then they have been maintaining 24 hour surveillance support in the event a secondary signal is intercepted.

“Sir, I suggest we leave the humans alone. Because they killed an elder god. No sir, not ‘some little bullshit local god.’ Hastur, sir. The King in Yellow.”

[independentartistbuzz]

Marson El Original E Indigo of Systema Solar Join iskwē to Create Liberatory Reggaeton Remix of “Sure To Come

iskwē | ᐃᐢᑫᐧᐤ (short for waseskwan iskwew, meaning "blue sky woman") is an award-winning Indigenous creator whose catalogue drips of a spectrum of emotions and is powered by resilience. Following several seasons of high highs being met with low lows, the Cree Métis artist retreated south to Mexico and inward to her soul to paint a 10-song collection that illustrates the gut-wrenching roller coaster ride that has been her recent life.

“Sure To Come,” iskwē’s empowering album single written after an attempt to discredit her identity and work, features on nīna and has been given new life by the reggaeton artists Marson El Original and Indigo, who performs as a member of Barranquilla, Colombia collective, Systema Solar.

Pulsating with beats, live marimba performed by Miguel Haller, playful synths and airhorn, “Sure To Come” has experienced a rebirth by way of Marson El Original and Indigo’s reggaeton treatment.

“While we were in Mexico City back in the summer of 2021, a friend of mine turned me onto this incredible crew from Barranquilla Colombia [Systema Solar],” iskwē recalls.  

“I remember it perfectly - we were getting ready to go to the studio when the song ‘Antena’ came on - and it immediately caught my attention. I came out from the bathroom where I was fixing my hair, and the moment the song was over, I started it again from the beginning. The song had a great energy, and the vocalists added such a delicious colour to the tune. I was listening to more and more of their music, and really loved the spirit and energy they each brought to their art. 

The same person who led me to the music eventually led me to an introduction to Indigo, one of the group members and one of the masterminds of this remix! Working with Marson El Original and Indigo has been a lot of fun. I absolutely love the direction the remix takes, and how the message and mood fits from the North to the South. It feels good to just let go and let your body move, and in those moments I catch myself

[xasha777]

In the swirl of cosmic dust and the dance of astral lights, Captain Lysandra Starborn stood on the deck of her ship, the Nebula Whisperer, gazing out into the vastness of the galactic sea. Her eyes, the color of Earth’s ancient oceans, mirrored the swirling Jupiter that loomed large in the view screen. Her hair, infused with stardust, shifted in shades from solar gold to nebular blue with every turn of her head.

The Nebula Whisperer was not just any spacecraft; it was a vessel of legend, built from the remains of a comet that had danced too close to a black hole. Its walls pulsed with an ethereal glow, and the engines hummed a melody that harmonized with the vibrations of the universe itself. To pilot such a ship required not only skill and courage but a connection to the very essence of existence, a bond Lysandra had forged as a child when she was saved by the ship's sentient AI, Nova, during a space anomaly that took her astronaut parents from her.

On this day, as every star in the Milky Way seemed to hold its breath, Lysandra was about to embark on a mission that would change the course of history. The Oracles of Ophiuchus had foretold the coming of the Psychedelic Wave, a mysterious energy burst from the heart of the galaxy that could alter the mind and warp reality. Some said it was a natural phenomenon, others whispered of an ancient alien artifact awakening. But one thing was certain: whoever harnessed the Wave’s power could shape the cosmos to their will.

Lysandra’s mission was to navigate the Whisperer into the Wave’s path and siphon its energy into the ship's Singularity Core, a device capable of storing the raw essence of the universe. It was a dangerous task; many ships had tried, and not one had returned. But Lysandra was undeterred. She wore a suit forged from interstellar material, its fibers alive with adaptive nanotechnology that glowed with constellations of their own. Her badge bore the emblem of the Starborn lineage, a family of explorers who had charted more unknown space than any other.

The crew was a collection of the most brilliant minds and daring spirits from a thousand worlds, each one a veteran of space’s capricious whims. They trusted Lysandra, not just as their captain, but as the herald of a new era. Together, they had faced black hole tempests, rogue comets, and the eerie silence of void space. But this was beyond all that.

As Lysandra activated the drive, the Nebula Whisperer leapt forward, riding the gravitational waves like a surfer on an ocean of stars. The ship shuddered as the Psychedelic Wave came into view, a tsunami of colors unseen by any sentient being, a spectrum born from the canvas of the cosmos itself.

"Brace for impact!" Lysandra commanded, her voice steady as the stars themselves.

The Wave hit, and reality bent. Visions of possible pasts and potential futures flashed before their eyes. Time twisted, space folded, and for a moment, they saw the galaxy's soul laid bare, a tapestry of life’s eternal dance. The crew gasped as one, their minds expanding, touching the infinite.

Lysandra held fast to the helm, her will unbreakable. The Singularity Core hummed louder, its light a beacon against the psychedelic onslaught. She could feel the Wave's power coursing through the ship, through her, a symphony of creation and destruction.

Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the Wave passed, leaving the Nebula Whisperer unscathed, glowing brighter than before. The crew erupted in cheers, their spirits soaring higher than the ship itself. They had done it. They had ridden the Psychedelic Wave and lived to tell the tale.

But their journey was far from over. Lysandra knew that the power they now possessed was a responsibility. With the Psychedelic Wave's energy, they could explore realms beyond imagination, discover secrets locked in the fabric of the universe, and perhaps, find a way to bring peace to the war-torn galaxies.

As the Nebula Whisperer set course for the next adventure, Captain Lysandra Starborn looked out into the stars, her heart beating in tune with the universe, ready for whatever wonders awaited her. The story of the Psychedelic Wave would be told for eons, a legend of the captain who sailed her ship into the heart of the galaxy and emerged as a master of the cosmic sea.