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extremetimedchallengeexchange · 17 days ago

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The fastest gift exchange around. Objectively a bad idea. 48 hours of hyperfocus.

Schedule: (All times in EDT)

Tag Nominations Opens, Discord Opens: 0:01 August 14

Tag Nominations Closes: Midnight August 20

A03 Sign Up Opens 0:01 August 21

A03 Sign Up closes: Midnight August 27

Creation Phase: Noon EDT August 30 - Noon EDT September 1

Treating Week: September 1- September 8

Discord Closes: Noon September 8

Everybody admires everyone else's work: September 1 - Ongoing

Rules

The exchange is multifandom, and open to artists, writers, web weavers, and podficcers. Fandoms do not have to have a canonized Ao3 tag to participate.

You must be a member of the Discord, for communication purposes.

Once assigned, participants will have 48 hours to deliver their gift.

Artists are expected to deliver a decent sketch on unlined paper, Writers and Podficcers have a 300 word minimum, Web Weavers are expected to deliver a 5-element or 3-element weave, depending on their style of web weave.

No AI-Generated content.

This exchange will be operating on DL:DR when it comes to what the mods will police and what we ask you to respect in terms of other people’s requests. The single exception is RPF, which has additional rules.

RPF is allowed. Persons nominated for RPF must be famous in their own right and over the age of 18. Persons famous chiefly for their participation in facist regimes or as serial killers will not be considered for nomination. Mods reserve the right to reject RPF nominations in poor taste.

Original Work is allowed. Use the "Original Work" fandom. If it is important to you that a person within a specific pairing is a specific gender, make that clear within the tag, for example "Middle-aged King (M)/His Loyal Bodyguard (NB) (Original Work)".

As this is a 13+ exchange, there is no NSFW allowed, even if you’re sure that both you and your recipient are adults. This applies both to sexual content and to extreme (e-rated) gore.

To increase matching options, tags must be seconded (nominated twice) to make it into the tag set. Because of this, tag nominations will be collected through a google form.

You can nominate tags for up to ten fandoms, with up to twenty tags nominated in each.

You will have one week to submit relationships and characters to a tag set, one week to write your prompts, and 48 hours to deliver your gift.

Participants are required to request at least three fandoms (with associated prompts), and offer to create around at least three fandoms.

To help your creator out, you must offer either a list of likes or prompts that contains at least one element that works for each art form that you have opted into. If you opt into art, you must give at least one art prompt or art like in your signup, and the same for fic, podfic, or web weaves.

Please include anything you absolutely don't want to receive (Do Not Wants) in the Optional Details field in your AO3 signup. Only DNWs in the Ao3 signup will be enforced, and mods will not enforce DNWs that are overly restrictive, unclear, or used to box a recipient into a specific gift (i.e. "nothing gross", or "I don't want anything that isn't a space au with the mc's other major love interest dead off screen".)

This exchange uses Ao3's matching algorithm, and as such, you need an Ao3 Account.

Make sure the email attached to your AO3 account is one that a) you check regularly, and b) are comfortable with exchange mods seeing. You can verify your email here: archiveofourown.org/users/[your ao3 name here]/change_email

As per Ao3 and Discord’s TOS, you must be at least 13.

Links

Ao3 Collection Here

Tag Set Here

Nominate Tags [form available in the discord]

Tag Nomination Rules Here,

Discord Here

Things We Do Differently Than Other Exchanges Here

Web Weave Rules Here

Intro to how to sign up for an Ao3 Exchange Here. Variant using a gifter letter here. A note on what Solo tags mean in practice here.

Additional Challenges (just for fun):

One Day: Fulfil your gift within 24 hours.

Word Count: Write or Podfic 5k or more on a single gift.

Art: Produce a fully-rendered and coloured (lined if that's your style) art piece with at least two characters, or a 10-panel comic with clean pencils or simple inks, within the 48 hours of the exchange.

Web Weave: Produce a 20-element weave.

Multi-media: Fulfil gifts that meets gift minimums for two different gift forms— art, fic, web weave, and/or podfic.

Multi-fandom: Make gifts that meet gift minimums for 3 or more fandoms.

FAQ:

Why? Because it seemed like a terrible idea.

How do I sign up/How do I format tags/Are you using OR matching: Signup FAQ on the Ao3 collection Here)

Further Questions? Join the Discord Here

#faq #gift exchange #fandom gift exchange

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extremetimedchallengeexchange · 17 days ago

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Web Weave Rules

Web weaves are an art form often seen on Tumblr where disparate quotes, canon references, and art pieces are placed in juxtaposition to highlight a theme, tell an AU, bring a parallel to life, or otherwise reflect on canon.

All elements of a web weave must be properly sourced and credited.

Minimum

The minimum for this exchange is 3 elements if in the "collage" style or 5 elements if in the "photo set" style.

Notes About Allowable Elements

Elements used in a web weave must be creative commons, professionally published and available online, permission obtained, or drawn directly from canon.

Elements available under creative commons are free to use

Elements that are considered to be professionally published and available online are free to use. If a piece of text or art piece is hosted on a website run by an editorial or curatorial board (moma.org, poetry.com), for the purposes of easy access to art forms otherwise available for sale (excerpts from genius.com, concept art from artstation.com), on a site intended for news or commentary publication (substack, medium.com, NYTimes), or as a web comic intended for consumption (xkcd, a softer world), it is considered to be published and can be remixed into a web weave. Note that use of published work in a web weave should be transformative and you should not be simply reproducing a previously published work in its entirety: excerpts, cropping and editing are keystones of the art form. Availability on social media sites, fannish sale sites such as redbubble, a personal portfolio or a blog by itself does not constitute publication, and such work should not be used without permission.

Elements that you have a permission statement for are free to use. Fan art and fan commentary— most things posted on social media and in artist portfolios— would fall in this category. A permission statement from the artist must be publicly available online and linked to in your sources.

Elements drawn from canon free to use.

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extremetimedchallengeexchange · 10 months ago

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pocket of change and leather boots

Scar in Star Wars. That's all I have to say :3

This was also made for @extremetimedchallengeexchange and was so so silly to write!

Words: 2222

AO3 here

Luke found the cantina to be everything he didn’t want to deal with at the moment. There were probably more people packed into one building than he’s formally met in his life; all of them probably had a bounty on their heads or a life sentence waiting for them between several systems. It was loud, the band making it their goal to play over every single person talking in the space and several patrons trying to talk over them. The whole place stunk of smoke, hooch and the combined sweat and stench of several different sentients.

It made him want to get off this dust-ridden planet even more.��

It’s why, when being shoved, he opted to ignore it. Ben was the one finding the pilot and it wouldn’t take too long– He was already talking to someone at the bar, a sentient with a red feathered crest, big black eyes and tawny scaled arms.

Then the guy’s friend decided to step in– “He doesn’t like you.”

Luke gritted his teeth, wondering what he did in the last two minutes of quietly existing made them decide to hate him and then bother him about it. “Sorry,” he snapped, turning back to his drink.

The man grabbed his shoulder, forcibly turning him back to face them, “I don’t like you either. You just watch yourself. We’re wanted men; I have the death sentence on twelve systems.” He was jabbing him in the chest with a bony finger, making a point that Luke could not care less about.

“I’ll be careful,” He replied.

“You’ll be dead!”

“The little one’s not worth the effort,” Ben stepped in, blessedly taking some of the attention off of him. The commotion was starting to draw eyes, patrons glancing around each other to see whoever was shouting loud enough to be heard in an already loud cantina. “Now, let me get you something–”

He doesn’t know why that set the man off, but the next thing Luke knows he’s flying into a table. He hears the lightsaber before he sees it, barely able to sit up in time to see the blaster hit the floor.

The blaster and the arm attached to it.

The man is screaming in pain, collapsed against the bar, and the cantina’s attention once again sweeps off of them. It was like the event hadn’t happened– or a man losing his arm wasn’t as interesting as whatever they had been hoping would happen.

Ben helped him up as the band began playing again, leading him further back into the cantina. He nods behind them, to the red feathered man he had been speaking to, and who was now pushing past them to lead the way, “Grian here is first mate on a ship that might just suit us.”

In the back of the cantina was a booth, a human sleeping with a broad rimmed hat pulled over his eyes. A nice pillow was propped up behind him, one that he likely brought himself since everything else in this place was covered in at least two layers of dirt.

Grian didn’t seem too bothered, hopping onto the cushions of the booth and kicking the human in the shin and squawking at him, a loud screechy sound. He didn’t startle despite it, merely stretching and groaning– flipping the brim of his hat up.

“Why, hello there!” The human greeted, straightening up with a yawn, “Scar Goodtimes. I’m captain of the Jellium Falcon. You fellas looking for a ship?”

“We are indeed.” Ben slips into a chair opposite side of Grian. Luke slipped into one next to him, already feeling a sense of unease. “If it’s a fast ship.”

“Fast ship? Why, the Jellium Falcon is the fastest ship you’ve ever seen,” Scar was quick to claim, his hands outstretched with wide gestures that Grian was ducking under with the familiarity of someone who’s done so a million times, “It can outrun two– three– a dozen imperial starships! You’ve never seen a ship this fast. It made Kessel Run in 12-parsecs, I’ll have you know.”

Luke was skeptical of that. Everything out of this man’s mouth sounded like a far-fetched tale. He glanced to Ben, expecting the same skepticism– instead he was smiling, if slightly, a light shining in his eye. He nodded to Scar, encouraging him to continue.

Scar hummed, “If that’s fast enough for you then, what am I transporting? What cargo we talking? And to where? I might add.”

“Just passengers, heading to Alderaan,” Ben replied, “Myself, the boy, two droids, and no questions asked.”

“Of course! Of course. Understandable–” Grian chirped an interruption then. Scar glanced over to his first mate, considering before continuing, “Just, one question of course. Who are we running from? A man has got to know what enemies to look out for– who to avoid.”

“Let’s just say– We’d like to avoid any Imperial entanglements,” Ben answers, slowly.

Grian chirps something once again, which Scar dismisses with a wave, “Well, that’s gonna cost ya’! I mean, we can do it, sure, but it’ll take a lot more precision on our part. How’s ten thousand sound? All up front of course.”

Luke couldn’t believe what they were hearing– Couldn’t believe they had humored this obvious con-artist for this long. “Ten thousand? We could almost buy our own ship for that!”

Grian chittered something at that, an angry tone, feathers ruffled.

He didn’t care; he was already halfway out his chair, “We don’t have to sit and listen–”

Ben set him back down in his chair. He closed his mouth, letting Ben take charge despite it. He knew better than Luke did. (Though, that didn’t stop him from rolling his eyes and glancing around to see if he could see a more honest pilot somewhere else in the cantina.)

“We can pay two thousand now; plus, fifteen when we get to Alderaan.”

Luke’s jaw dropped, looking at Ben to see if the old man had actually lost his mind during this conversation. There was no way he was believing a word of this swindler, let alone offer him so much more of his original asking price.

The swindler couldn't seem to believe it either.

“Seventeen? Grian– Grian we could– Do you know what we could do with that–” Scar rambled on before Grian punched his arm, roughly reminding him of the company, “What I mean to say, is that could be sufficient. You got yourselves a ship, fellas, and, of course, the best captain around. We’ll leave as soon as you're ready. The Jellium is parked in docking bay 94–” Grian chirped– “docking bay 92. We’re in docking bay 92. We’ll meet you there.”

“92,” Ben repeated, nodding appreciatively. Luke sighed, sitting back in the chair. This was going to be a disaster.

Grian chittered at Scar, pointing behind the two of them. Scar grimaced as he spotted what Grian was pointing at– Luke turned to see two Stormtroopers talking to the bartender.

“They here for you, boys? Time to skedaddle, I think.”

“I think so too,” Ben nodded.

Finally, they were up and out of their seats. In the crowded cantina they were able to easily slip around the Stormtroppers before they were even spotted.

He really hoped Ben knew what he was doing with this pilot, because they were cutting it close with the Imperial forces here.

Scar had his feet propped up on the table, hat half over his eyes as he nodded to the passing Stormtroopers. Grian was stiff in his seat, but the pigeon was always stiff. The troopers were barely a few steps away before Scar was flicking up his hat again to speak with his first mate.

“Seventeen thousand! This is just the opportunity we need. Boy, oh boy, those fellas must be in some heaps of trouble.”

Grian tweeted lowly, his beady black eyes furrowed as much as they could with only feathers where eyebrows should be (Grian never let him draw him any).

“Yes. Yes, of course, I haven’t forgotten about Jaba. We’ll get back to him as soon as we drop them off at Alderaan. He’ll be happy with ten thousand, yeah? Then seven for us to do what we please.”

Another grumbly sort of tweet after that, but it was an agreement, so he’d take it.

“That’s the spirit, G! Come on, let’s get back to the ship and off this rock,” He said slipping out of the booth and readjusting his hat, “I’m getting tired of all the sand.”

Grian led, mostly because he hated waiting for Scar to push past people when he could just slip by– it also meant if Scar got into trouble he could watch and scream at him from the sidelines before finally deciding to help. It was a good dynamic they had.

It did mean, when a blaster was pressed into his chest, Grian was already out the door and he was left alone with Greedo. “Going somewhere, Goodtimes?”

The translator Scar had was grainy at best, it’s why he elected to actually learn Grian’s little chirpy language instead relying on it. He could probably make out every other word the bounty hunter spoke– Not that it had ever set him back before.

The blaster was pressed harder and Scar took it for what it was, taking a step back and into the empty booth to his right, “Greedo! Wonderful to see you. Wonder to see you. I was just on the way to go see your boss. We can go ahead and tell Jabba I have his money, it’s on the way now, even.”

“Too late for that. You should have paid him when you had the chance,” Greedo answered, sitting opposite of him. His arm rested on the table, blaster still pointed firmly at Scar’s chest. “Jabba’s put a price on your head so large every bounty hunter in the galaxy will be looking for you. I’m lucky to have found you first.”

“Right. Of course. Of course. I understand your plight, Greedo, really. I do.” He leaned back, propping his feet up on the table, “Thing is, I have the money. I’m good for it.”

Greedo looked unconvinced, “Maybe, if you give it to me, I might forget I found you.”

Scar sighed, waving a hand in the air while his other slipped to his own blaster holster, “I don’t have with me. It’s off planet. Tell Jabba I just need one more trip–”

“Jabba is through with you,” Greedo cut him off, “He has no time for smugglers– for some swindler at that– who’ll drop their shipments at the first sign of an Imperial Cruiser and then try to pass over knock-offs instead.”

“Well that’s just not fair! You can’t tell me I had much of a choice with the feds up and boarding me, now can you? I tried to make the best of the situation– ‘got back what I could. I was as honest as I could be; Jabba knows that,” Scar argued. Greedo’s blaster was still aimed at him, slightly, there was some wiggle room in there for him.

“You explain that to Jabba. He may only take your ship with a story like that.”

Scar grimaced, “Over my dead body. Jellium Falcon is my pride and joy!”

“That’s the idea.”

Scar tried to drawl his blaster, squeaking a bit as the sight got stuck in the leather. Greedo’s shot went off, hitting him square between the eyes.

All eyes turned to the now surprisingly empty booth, the only thing in the seat that ever indicated that Scar Goodtimes had been sitting there a second ago was a pile of loose change and his leather boots.

“Gosh, dang’it!” Scar shouted, sitting up in a booth the opposite side of the bar, the one he had been napping in just earlier.

Several patrons scampered away from him in surprise as he stood and pulled his blaster out of it’s holster, properly this time. Greedo shouted something, probably something stupid that Scar definitely didn’t care to listen to. He just aimed his own blaster and shot him from across the cantina.

Scar huffed as he stomped across the cantina and picked up his change and stuffed his feet in his boots again.

“Don’t you just hate when that happens?” he asked the patron closest to him, who merely nodded, very quickly, in agreement. “I mean, the audacity of some people! I’m just glad I thought to set my spawn here– could you imagine me trudging all the way here from my ship with no shoes on? Tragic!”

He tossed a piece to the bartender, “Sorry about the commotion– and the dead body! At least it’s just the one.”

The bartender nodded and slowly the cantina went back to their usual business– though there were a few more hushed conversations than their were before. Scar shrugged it off as he waltzed out the door.

Grian was waiting for him, arms crossed and tapping his little taloned feet. The moment he spotted him he was squawking and flapping his arms and getting his feathers all ruffled. Scar couldn’t help but laugh as he dropped a hand on his first mate’s head, ruffling the feathers more.

“Sorry, G! Ran into trouble again. Now, let’s get out of here before we run into more.”

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extremetimedchallengeexchange · 11 months ago

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a new kind of warmth

Grian lept off of Monopoly Mountain, unsure what or where his next life would be, but knowing he couldn't stay here any longer. Not when the sand was red with blood. He ended up somewhere in the artic.

Part of the @extremetimedchallengeexchange which I had so much fun with!

Words: 1703

AO3 here

Grian is cold.

He hasn’t been cold in weeks. He’s used to the heat of the sun, the burn of the sand, the sweat dripping from his brows and the constant red tint to his skin.

Now he’s cold. Now there’s a bone deep chill. Now he’s freezing and his muscles are stiff and sore from it. There’s wind ruffling his feathers and the sharp pain of ice against his cheek. He flexes his hand and grimaces as his fingers dig into snow, the burn familiar and yet so very different from sand.

He lifts his head, attempting to open his eyes and meeting only the blinding reflection of snow for miles. He shut them again as he forced himself to his knees, shaking the frost from his wings.

This must be death then. Some purgatory– or Hell. He’d think Hell would be the fire and brimstone, but that would have been too familiar. A wasteland of snow and ice and constant wind felt like Hell enough, would be a fitting punishment for the life he had lived.

When he finally opened his eyes again, blinked away the brightness and let himself focus, he became a little less sure it was Hell. Not definite, but the landscape was less barren than at first glance. Most of it was ice– but behind him, when he finally stood to properly look around, was a spruce forest. Through the trees, if he squinted, he could see the warm light of torches and lamps.

He started walking.

Soon a cabin appeared in his view, with a large fenced yard that had wolves galloping about, foxes nicking the wolves’ toys out from under them, horses watching it all from a small stable, a big slumbering polar bear sitting at the steps of the door, and over a dozen crows sitting on the roof of the cabin. It was surrounded by a mountain range and he could just barely spot another home a couple meters away built into the stone.

If this was life after death (and what else could be when his very last action was falling from the top of Monopoly Mountain, too grief stricken to open his wings with the blood staining his hands), then perhaps this was the home of Death itself– or an angel or a demon or someone that could explain to him what afterlife he had wound up in. At the very least it would be warmer than out here (if this afterlife was even a little kind and had insulated walls).

He stumbled past into the yard, closing the gate behind him. He flinched when the first wolf came galloping up, but it merely licked at his frozen fingers. A few of the wolves barked and howled and then several crows joined in with squawks and calls of their own, probably alerting whatever being inside the home that he was out here. The polar bear poked his head up, blinking sleepily at him. He had a golden name tag hanging from his neck and he didn’t move from his nap spot as Grian approached.

There was movement in the window and then the door swung open– “What the fuck has gotten you so riled, chat?” The man standing at the door looked… surprisingly normal. For just a moment Grian thought he was a human, his blonde hair was pulled back by his hat and he was wearing dark green and black robes. The wings, he didn't see until they shifted and spread slightly behind him, big black things that stole all the light and almost looked like voids in space. He didn't have any other feathers on his face, or clawed hands, or taloned feet– Not like Grian.

He was an Angel then, like Skizz was, or something like it. Skizz's wings were white; the inky black of this stranger was much more intimidating. Was this like– his Guardian Angel? He didn't think his Guardian Angel would have a potty mouth. Also he was a terrible guardian given the whole– everything he just went through.

“Oh, hello there!” He called from the steps, waving at Grian, “Wasn’t expecting visitors. Would have cleaned up for you.”

Grian numbly waved back, stopping in the middle of the yard as he watched the Angel come down the steps, easily sidestepping the polar bear and effortlessly ignoring the dogs that followed in his heels. A few crows swooped on him and he laughed and shouted at them.

“Hiya, mate. You doing alright there?” He asked, stopping just sort of grabbing Grian's arm. His hand was outstretched as he looked Grian up and down, “I don't think we’ve met before. I haven't seen you around the server pretty sure. I’m Philza.”

“Grian,” he replied, staring at Philza’s wings– one of them was messed up, the skin and tissue had so much scarring that feathers, his flight feathers, no longer grew. It was something a respawn or a few potions should have fixed, not something you let heal on its own. “Are you, like, my Guardian Angel?”

Philza laughed, “The fuck? No, mate, I’m not anyone's Guardian Angel. Especially not yours. I’ve never seen you in my life.”

“That's good, cause my Guardian Angel must suck at their job,” Grian grumbled.

“I feel that, bud,” Philza agreed readily, stepping to the side, “Want to come inside, where it’s warm?”

“Yes, please,” he whined, taking the biggest steps he could manage with his numb legs towards the house.

Philza was quick to show him around. The place was small and quaint, even smaller than their sandcastle. It was crowded with sentimental items and cozy furniture. Grian was quick to sink into a plush chair and bundle his wings around himself. Philza bustled about, making tea and talking about his housemate, Techno, who was out at the moment, and his neighbor, Ranboo, who was also gone. It was just the two of them, and that was fine with Grian for now. He still wasn't sure what type of afterlife he’d wound up in and having more people in his afterlife sounded like too much right now.

A hot mug was placed in his hand. He glared at it for a moment, the steam and heat not quite welcome despite him still warming up from the cold outside. It almost made him want to drop the mug as his fingers started to burn.

He watched as Philza sat down across from him, a few birds perching on the back of the chair. They squawked a few times, Philza’s nose wrinkling in disgust.

“So, I don’t suppose you’re used to the cold yet, huh?” Philza remarked, lightly batting away a bird that nudged his cheek.

Grian hesitated at that, especially when the birds stopped moving to stare at him. It was unnerving with how they all looked at him, watching with an unblinking stare. “I– no not really. I’m used to warmer climates.”

“Oh, warmer climates… like deserts?”

Grian tensed at that, his wings folding up closer to his body. He glanced up at the birds, who’d started to disperse, moving to perch on other objects in the room, observing him from all angles. “I-yeah, like deserts I guess. How did you–”

“The sand,” Philza gestured to the grains that were slightly dusting the ground now, “It’s all in your wings mate. That can’t be comfortable.”

“I’m used to it,” He replied slowly, ducking his head.

“I fucking bet,” Philza rolled his eyes. He slipped out of the chair and onto the carpet, patting the space in front of him, “Come on, up! Let’s get those fixed.”

Grian blinked down at him, “What?”

“You’re getting sand in my chair, mate. It’s a bitch to clean up when it gets into furniture. So, come sit, I can clean them for you.”

He stared at Philza for a long moment, not sure he was actually hearing him right. It had to be a misunderstanding on his part. Preening was intimate. At least, it was supposed to be. Sure he’s had a few hermits he was less than close to brush a feather back into place or pull a pinhead, but Mumbo was the only person he’d let sit down and run his fingers through them in ages. Him and, of course, Scar these last few weeks. The only other person he evenly remotely trusted in the games once the blood started spilling (and spilling and spilling until all that was left was Scar’s blood to spill).

“It’s just getting the sand out, come on,” Phil waved him over again.

Slowly– ever so slowly– Grian slipped onto the floor with Philza. He had to set his mug down a second to stop it from spilling on the carpet as he turned his back to the other.

A part of him expected to feel the punch of a sword between his shoulder blades. He was tense as a bowstring, waiting for the impact.

When the fingers slipped between primaries he flinched.

Immediately the hands were gone. Neither of them said a thing for a second, then Philza went back to it. Grian was still tense, but he tried to stay still, hoping to make the process a bit quicker.

Philza worked deftly and diligently. “My son was an avian too,” he muttered softly after a moment, “He had his mother’s eyes.”

Grian hummed in response, not sure how to answer that and not sure if he was supposed to. Instead the quiet lingered, but the tension was loosening. He ruffled a few feathers, shaking out a bit of sand himself. Philza chuckled behind him before grabbing the crest of a wing to still it and returning to his work.

After that, Philza would make idle chatter, commenting on his adventures and his sons. Grian slowly relaxed under it all. The hands in his wings, the comforting warmth of the cabin and the hot tea in a pretty red terracotta mug.

It would be morning by the time Grian woke up again, a red wool blanket thrown over him. He’d have a million things to figure out and people to find, but until then he would fall asleep to the gentle help of a new friend.

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extremetimedchallengeexchange · 11 months ago

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Emerges from @extremetimedchallengeexchange covered in blood. I did these:

all the nicer things you could have been: tgcf, hua cheng/bai wuxiang, in the aftermath of ch190

emduo xianxia au art: dsmp. This->

only, it seems, when the dark surrounds me: dsmp, quackity/karl, modern au, quackity keeps picking up a vanishing hitchhiker on his night drives

if you'll be the bones: original work, morally conflicted shixiong/beloved shidi who admires him

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extremetimedchallengeexchange · 11 months ago

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Silly little doodle I made as a treat for the @extremetimedchallengeexchange

Because making a treat 1h before the collection closes is a good idea (no)

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extremetimedchallengeexchange · 11 months ago

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Additional Tags: Wingfic, Wing Grooming, Winged Charles | Grian, Laboratories, Government Experimentation, Human Experimentation, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cooking, Charles | Grian and Pearl | PearlescentMoon are Siblings, Mentioned Pearl | PearlescentMoon, Background Cubfan135, Background Joehills, Hurt/Comfort

Grian wasn’t sure how long he’d been here, but he did know his window had never been open.

His window was open.

My 5th and final fic of the 2024 @extremetimedchallengeexchange this treat was made during treat week for VoidBrat!

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extremetimedchallengeexchange · 11 months ago

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Posting all my stuff from @extremetimedchallengeexchange because i think im done posting now.

Flight Training, my main gift

https://archiveofourown.org/works/58604476

Philza teaches Tommy how to fly, and SBI make a pillow nest together.

My treats

Its all origins. Im very normal

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extremetimedchallengeexchange · 11 months ago

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this is LEGALLY DISTINCT from a #extremetimedchallengeexchange treat for @irrealisms, however: i very much did read their list of prompts then draw this over the course of 24 hours. <3

presenting: happy fox dress go spinny 💞

lines over the reference images; if I could find the name of the triptych that I sutured together 2/3 of to get the pose, I would tell you sorry, but I looked real hard and couldn't get further back than, uh, the know-your-meme page for 'dress go spinny'. anyway, here's my philosophical meditation on the concept of tracing—

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extremetimedchallengeexchange · 11 months ago

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What sleeps under

Tango had a simple mission to fulfill. Clean up the boat, bring up the fish haul, then make his way back to civilization. There was a thunderstorm brewing, something he could feel inside his bones. He'd have to make it back before it caught him.

A dead hand emerged from within the fishing nets.

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, MCD

Characters: Tango & Pearl & Etho

This fic was written for @extremetimedchallengeexchange and is a gift for @chrysochroma! It took me an absurd amount of time to crosspost to Tumblr but here it is lol

Ao3 Version: Link

Tango pulls at the ropes holding the fishing net, wincing as the pulley shrills against the oxidised hinges. Wetness had rusted at the joints of the wheel, making each drag of the yarns harsher than it should be. This would have been solved if he’d taken the time to dry it out, but with everything everywhere being doused in water, including himself, it was the least of his worries.

Out on the sea the wind was harsh and dry, far more than he would have expected considering the water everywhere. There were layers and layers of clothing protecting him from the worst of it, but the last thunderstorm had doused the wool and seeped through the stitches in the fabric, leaving him like a walking water tank. Thunderstorms at sea were hard. Tango had learnt this the hard way.

An empty metal cage laid open near the fishing deck. The nets hung low in the water, having been dragged before the storm broke down. It was a miracle they stayed intact, and Tango couldn’t be more grateful for it. Once again he pulled at the ropes, and finally felt something give, bits of rusted-off paint flaking out as he dragged the haul out of the water. His hand felt raw, skin reddened and blistering where callous hadn’t formed yet. By the time he was able to tie the knots safely, net hanging just off the lifelines, they were hot and tingling to the touch. He couldn’t remember where his gloves were, but alongside everything he lost, they must be lying at the bottom of the ocean.

Dozens of herrings flailed over the ropes, mixed in with debris and other smaller fodder fish. Its silver bodies tried to free themselves from the tangle of bodies they were merged in, but Tango’s eyes didn’t focus on them. His hands instead scanned over a pale, limp hand hanging from the middle of the flesh. Its blackened fingernails and blue hue screamed death, but nowhere else did it look like it belonged to a corpse. Just as he was about to drop the cursed load back into the ocean the fingers twitched, once, twice, nails digging into fish scales as an upper body half emerged from within the mass. The woman gasped, and with a rattly breath her pale face regained colour, looking more and more alive with each one after. In the meantime Tango had simply stepped back, watching the display with the same indifference he’d offered the herrings.

“Tango,” she said, smiling. She struggled to get her other hand free, stuck alongside the rest of her body. “Been a while right? How are you?”

“Doing great, having a nice time here,” he answered, as cheerfully as he could. “Trying to get the order done, you know?”

“Yup, yup, same order as always,” She answered, patting down the fish around her.

“I wouldn’t want to be late, would I?” He said.

“Nope, that’d be very unprofessional,” she said. “Wouldn’t let you do that.”

“So, could you please scoot over? So I can pour them in?”

“Ah mate, I don’t think that’d work!” She said, patting the fish once more, each slap stronger and louder. “This fish is not safe for the market, see?” With each hit, the bodies grew rigid, calmer. A pungent smell carried from the spoiled flesh, bodies twitching once more when pale, white maggots started eating onto the rotten corpses. “You wouldn’t want anyone over in the city getting sick, right?”

Tango shuddered. “Yeah, right.”

“Say,” she said, pulling once more onto her trapped body. “Why don’t you help me out—”

“Pearl, I’m not going to let you on the ship.”

Silence stretched out between them. The clash of the waves against the vessel was the only sign time hadn’t stopped.

“Please, Tango-”

“I need to keep working,” he said, fingers once more wrapping against the rope, pulling onto the knot. “So if you excuse me.”

“Wait!” Pearl lunged forward, hands grasping onto the plastic fabric of Tango’s uniform. Even through the barrier, a bone-chilling cold seeped from her bony fingers. No matter how hard he pulled, her grip only grew stronger. “Stop, stop, let me in, Tango!”

With a final pull, he unlocked the rope from the socket. The net plunged down the port of the trawler, the weight blasting water up onto the deck and lifeline. Tango breathed, shaking from head to toe as the adrenaline coursed through his body. Above him the seagulls broke the unnatural silence, swarming around in search of the fish bodies. There were no signs of Pearl. No screaming, no shouting, just him and his fishing boat.

Even then, he did not dare pull on the net once more. Work will have to wait. His stomach rumbled with hunger, but Tango focused on the wail of the seagulls and set down to dry the ship once more.

_______

Water was everywhere. It felt like the understatement of the century while in the middle of the ocean, but regardless of how much he cleaned and mopped, it never seemed to get dry. Inside the cabin most of the equipment was busted, and the broadcasting signal's screen was completely dead. Only the fainted static could be heard coming from the speakers, alongside the deep, echo sound from beneath the waves.

Tango’s arms were exhausted. A fatigue proper of a long day of work settled deep in his bones and refused to leave, no matter how long he slept. Maintaining an entire ship on his own was an arduous task, he had learnt this the hard way. Every knot became undone when he wasn’t looking. Every door slammed open even while locked properly. It had been a long time since he’d last dared venture deeper into the vessel, to assess how deep the water damage had gone. His nerves wouldn’t be able to handle it, so for now all that mattered was staying up float.

Sun was coming down while he checked the ropes securing the dinghy in place. The fishing deck loomed dangerously in front of him, smaller nets hanging from the edge. He hadn’t bothered checking on them, since the area nearby was doused with water. It would take one slip to bang his head against the floor and drop his limp body onto the ocean.

Yet, when he heard a dull thumping against the hull of the ship, he braced himself to look over, body held by a security rope. Down, body almost submerged by the foam and waves of the motors, was Etho. Regardless of time, regardless of the state of his body— his hand gripping a lifeline rope yet everything else hung limp, swaying with the water— he’d know he was there.

The body twitched to life, head rolling over his shoulder then looking up. Etho’s body still lay limp like a ragdoll, but he could barely see his hands twitching in their hold, like spasms of blood pumping once more.

“Tango?” Etho asked. “You there?”

He worried his lip. “Yeah, I’m here.”

“I can barely see you from here,” Etho said. He tried to grab a hold of one of the hanging nets but kept missing every attempt. “Could you help me?”

“I’m…” Tango ruled in his thoughts, grasping tight onto the rope. “Nope, sorry buddy.”

“Just, give me a second I’ll-” Finally, Etho grabbed onto the net, switching his hold through the weaves of fabric. The bag swayed under the added weight. “Hang in there, I’m coming!”

Panic spurred him forward, scrambling to find the correct latch amongst the tangled mess. Undoing one of the clasps, the end rope snapped and dragged across the deck, dropping down onto the water. When Tango looked over Etho was still there, holding onto another one, inching closer and closer.

“Aren’t you tired?” Etho yelled, voice loud even through the raging waves. “Don’t you miss us?”

“I do,” he answered.

“Then let us help,” Etho said, crawling closer, and closer. The smell of rot became stronger. “Help us, Tango, please.”

Another latch was undone and a net dropped, inches away from Etho’s body. Tango’s movements became more frantic, the ship swaying with the strength of the waves. Water lapped up from the sides and onto the floor around him. A loud thud came from the hull where Etho’s boot pressed in search of leverage, closer and closer to reaching the upper deck. The ship answered like a feral beast and swayed, threatening to take them both under the water. Wet rope was tighter, inflated, and as Tango struggled to undo a new knot, he prayed to whatever it might hear that this was the right one.

“I’m here,” Etho whispered, fingers grasping the edge of the fishing deck. “I’m here.”

With a snap the rope went free and the net filled with dead fish dropped, and with a sickening bang against the metal took Etho down with it. There was no scream. No noise but the water breaking. The ship settled, little by little into its normal wobble, as the ocean once more grew tranquil and lethargic. Wet gasps struggled out of Tango’s mouth, a mix of bile and moisture struggling out of his lungs. He didn’t let the guilt settle in. He didn’t let the loneliness overtake him. His breath became stuck in his throat, lodged between the sadness threatening to spill over. Even now, he could still hear their voices, closer and closer. Let us in, let us in.

He lay there for hours.

_______

The last time he ate was so long ago, he couldn’t exactly recall what it was. There were just fish in the open seas. Inside the galley there was barely enough for a little voyage, and were it not for the instruction manuals left unscattered by the water, he’d have probably died of scurvy by now. Rations were running low though, as he’d eaten through most of what was left. The barrels were filled with water, dripping into its warped bottoms.

Fodder fish swam in a livewell in front of him, mindlessly watching him prepare lunch. With the engine busted and the cables too wet to safely turn on the reserves, all he could prepare was what they brought in already cooked. Dried oranges, cans and beef jerky had been his only source of food for…who knows. Long enough for the sight of it to sicken him.

Just before his fingers started peeling off an orange rind, Tango grew still. Something was off. He could feel it on the boards underneath his feet, groaning under an added weight. Suddenly the world tipped sideways, as the hull bent backwards over the starboard, sliding with his chair and slamming against the wall. Thunder cracked in the distance, even with the clear sky peeking through the window, but the sea knew the upcoming storm was brewing.

Tango scrambled off, using the walls as leverage to stay upright. In the distance he could hear loud thumps, footsteps coming closer and closer, carrying with them an ocean that seeped from underneath the galley’s door. Someone had gotten up. He didn’t know how, he didn’t know when, but it meant danger and death to him.

It took a split-second decision to dive inside one of the empty cabinets, squeezing himself into the cramped space and holding the doors closed with his own hands. For a moment all that could be heard was his rapid breathing, warming up the space until it became uncomfortably warm. Over on the portside, the footsteps grew close, entering the cabin and steadily making their way downstairs, to where he was hiding. A single pair, he noted. They stopped right outside the kitchen, before dragging themselves inside the galley. He couldn’t see what was going on outside, but he could hear the sound of furniture dragged around, of wet crunching and swallowing as the food he’d left behind was eaten. There were no voices, no talking, just the slow drag of feet, one after the other, as the person left the cabin and went back outside.

He wasn’t foolish enough to think they’d left the ship. The faint footsteps outside could be his mind playing tricks, or could very well be real. He couldn’t risk it. With his fingers firmly clamped onto the metal handle, he settled on a plan to stop the storm from happening.

_______

Somewhere, between waiting and waiting, the air had grown warm enough to lull him into sleep. A soft knocking startled him awake, as his eyes tried to focus back on reality. The sway of the ship felt stronger, but from within the small space he’d cramped himself into, it was nothing but a lull to put him back to sleep.

The knocking came back once more, insistently against the cabinet door. Tango held in his breath, afraid that whoever was on the other side could hear him. By some saving grace, his fingers had cramped around the tiny knob on the inside, keeping the doors shut. The skin had grown pale and damp from however long he’d spent inside.

“Tango? Can you hear us?” Came Etho’s voice, after he failed to answer. Any hope he had of pretending he wasn’t there was gone. “We’re trying to get the boat away from the storm.”

It felt redundant to point it out, but he couldn’t help himself. “The storm is following you both, dumbass.”

“Oh. Huh,” Tango could almost imagine Etho’s eyes drifting into the distance, as he thought over the answer. “But the previous one did not, right?”

Once again he didn’t answer. A bellowing rumble echoed within the kitchen.

“I don't think you’re gonna be helping us so uh,” Etho said. “I’m sorry. And uh, good luck next time.”

Soon, footsteps drifted away from his hiding spot and back to the bow, their voices faintly heard from inside the cupboard. At some point Pearl must have made their way inside the ship as well, and if it wasn’t for the tempting lull of sleep, Tango would be chastising himself for letting this happen. There was a thin layer of water where he sat, slowly dripping down through cracks in the wood. His clothes felt heavy, heavier than ever, and the cold had once more drifted back into warm territory, asphyxiating him inside his own safe space. Sudden claustrophobia hit him, the remarkable difference between the open ocean and the cramped space hitting him all at once. He couldn’t move anyway. Not with the dangers outside.

Underneath him the hull groaned, a slow clunk of metal against metal as the ship sharply swerved onto the side. A shout, the sound of things splashing onto the water, accompanied by the loud crack of a thunderstorm. It was here, above them, surrounding the ship in treacherous waters. Soon it will be over again, and he’ll be able to go back to his plan. When lightning snapped once more and guilt threatened to take him over, he whispered it to himself, again and again. When he heard the screams of help, always the same, always his name, he felt his resolve start to falter once more.

He dared crack open one of the doors, just enough to peek outside, and he was met with a spray of salty water and the sharp smell of rain.

The galley was empty. The stairs creaked and groaned under the sudden pressure drop, and objects were thrown astern everywhere, leftover food from earlier spilt onto the flooring. Everything was disregarded though, as he left the cupboard and stretched outside, cold air meeting him once more. Once more the ship overcompensated, sliding everything back to the starboard. Right now Tango could only hope they wouldn’t topple over, otherwise, they were done for.

Opening the doors outside proved to be its own feat. Time was short and panic was building up, and yet it took multiple tries to pry the wood open, the trap flailing wildly against the harsh winds until Tango could finally secure it against the dock. He dragged his body out, and for a moment the water felt colder than ever, like it’d been freshly taken from the ocean, instead of brewing for weeks within the fabric. On the cramped cabin, the communication tower flared up back to life, swinging between broadcasting stations and loud static, lights flashing and buzzing over again. He ignored them, and pushing aside his fear, he stepped out into the thunderstorm.

The world greeted him with screams of doom. Giant waves licked and pushed onto the vessel and dragged onto their maws every cargo left unattended. His ears popped under the pressure, as his eyes scanned the area in search of his crew. It had taken him ages to secure everything underneath the cabin, all the while wondering if the rest could handle the sea. Just outside to greet him, a huge whale threatened to flip the ship over, turning the ground almost on itself as he scrambled to hold onto something.

He heard it, clearer than it should have under the chaos around them. A loud bang, a heavy object slamming against the deck, and when Tango dared to look over he saw Etho’s body slide across the floor, body unconscious. He would replay the moment a thousand times in his brain, his body lurching forward and trying to grasp onto him, even when he knew it was pointless. When his eyes scanned over the nets for any sign of life and came empty-handed…Pearl was still left. Somewhere, in this ship, she was still fighting. With the heavy weight of his quickly dampening uniform, he slid down the stern and towards the bow, hands scrambling for a hold every time the ocean tried to make him join his friend. He tried not to think about it. He couldn’t think about it.

“Tango!” It was barely a scream with the fierce roar of the storm. She was hanging, barely, fingers almost slipping through the rope she was holding on to. Everything else was secure around her, but her hands were quickly slipping off, and nothing could stop her from plummeting down the cold water. It was barely a slide away, all he had to do was reach over.

And yet he hesitated.

His body couldn’t move. There was the fear, raising and breaching the surface of his thoughts just long enough to stop him. There was a panic, Etho’s body down the fishing deck repeating over, and over, and over, and he could almost see himself dropping off too, following Pearl down into the deep waters. There was…a flicker. A thunderstorm he’d seen many times already. Pearl looking alive, looking dead, looking rotten, like they’ve repeated this dance over and over.

She locked eyes with him. Through the memories of terror, she could see this Pearl, the dead one, staring at him. With resignation. With understanding.

Her fingers slipped and Tango closed his eyes, curling against the metal pipe he’d been holding on to. His stomach flipped over as the world turned over his head, as the storm grew louder and louder and louder until suddenly.

It fizzled out. Like a TV shutting down.

He opened his eyes. Body lying on the wet remains of his bed. The coast was clear. The vessel was doused in the remnants of a thunderstorm.

Try again, he thought. Fulfil the cargo. Turn the boat around. Go back to the shore.

Don’t let them bring the storm aboard.

Try again.

_______

“You didn’t take it,” Pearl said, talking to him through the haul of fish. Last time they’d done this there’d been determination in her eyes. Now, Tango could only find pity. “My hand. You could have taken it.”

“I’d have died,” he stated. Convinced. Certain.

“Yes,” she said. “You would have.”

For a moment he could feel the eternal storm swaying between them, like a promise. The ghost image of their hands locking, the fuzzy picture of him sliding to save Etho. The coldness of the water. The sunken ship joined them under the depths of the water.

No matter what he did, everything stayed wet.

“We can wait,” she said, a calm cheer in her voice. Her eyes drifted close, as he lowered the haul once more into the water. “Take your time. We’ll be here.”

The ship groaned underneath him in protest, a low whine from bent metal and broken wood. It carried up over Tango’s body, a simple statement against the words. A part of him found relief in the words. Another simply dug its teeth into the boards of the ship and remained firm in its resolve. Get the haul. Reach the land. Break the cycle.

That night, Tango dreamt of jumping overboard.

_______

The cabin was dark in the dead of night. Around him the equipment buzzed with newfound energy, even while the motors and batteries remained empty and broken. That morning his friends hadn’t shown up at their usual spots, and while the absence had made him feel lonelier than he’d ever felt, it filled him with a resolution stronger than anything else.

It had taken so long to get things working. Right outside a cage filled with ice kept the cargo cold and fresh, and from what his battered memories could muster, land was away but a day's worth of travelling. He just had to figure out the direction to head towards.

A loud pip echoed around him, and from the spot on the floor where Tango had curled up, it felt way louder than it should be. The sonar showed emptiness. Nothing latched on the small signal inside his ship, and even the marked centre appeared vacant. From miles and miles where he stood, there was nothing.

The wind came in before the footsteps did, with the promise of a wild ocean. Outside the cabin, drenching the already drenched deck, stood his friends. Moonlight still came in through their bodies.

“You know, I don’t think this was worth it,” Tango said, bitter laughter coming in through his teeth. It tasted like ocean. “I can’t– I don’t know what to do.”

His friends didn’t answer. They stood there, physical in ways they shouldn’t be. His hands shook, the cold biting onto his body.

“I’m scared,” Tango confessed. When he looked up, they were outside, lying on the portside, metres apart.

Their hands reached forward, and Tango could no longer see which of them was who. The tang of rotten flesh and saltwater was overwhelming him, everywhere around him, no matter where he looked. With the echoing protest of a sunken ship, he reached forward, fingers bending in search of flesh, and met the cold metal of the lifeline. He was alone. The water lapped at the hull underneath him, and he’d never felt so alive.

One last try. One last try.

The water was warm against his body, silence and deep like he’d known from fresh memories. There were hands, arms wrapping around his body, and at last, he reached, tangling and hugging and letting out the weight his dead limbs had carried. Around them the ship hull fell, broken, bent with the age and rust of ages of fighting, but they could no longer feel it.

Tango closed his eyes. Felt the weight lift his shoulders. Let the air leave his lungs. And at last, could finally rest.

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