aoki-fic

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when i say the sentence “he fucked that dragon” in reference to a video game, what game comes to mind first for you?

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Join the transfic exchange with me!

If you’re into fic featuring trans characters, there’s a low-key exchange now open for sign up. Lots of fandoms, lots of characters, lots of interesting tags. I’m hoping to boost the numbers of participants in the fandoms I’m interested in, for purely altruistic reasons of course. I’ll be offering The Left Hand of Darkness, due South, Ted Lasso and maaaaybe the Terror and I Saw the TV Glow but no promises on the last two. I’m also requesting Conclave because I’m a hoor for Lawritez but I can’t write Catholicism with any authenticity whatsoever lol.

But yeah, I’d love to see you there, I’d love to pump up the numbers on trans fics in these fandoms, and I’m really looking forward to reading what comes out!

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Sicard and Emmanellain in their summer outfits. I absolutely adore them 🙏❤🌴

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Emmanellain wouldn’t be home for starlight.

It couldn’t be helped. The Astalicia was to embark on a very important voyage — to not oversee it personally would be to strangle their business before it had a proper chance to grow. It would be their first trip across the meridian, a milestone for every merchant worth their salt. If all went well, they’d be able to secure trading deals in Thanalan.

Or so he’d said in his letters home.

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The world has ended but there's still work to be done.

Vignettes from the 8th Umbral era Ironworks.

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Ooh! I'm keen!

Jammingway had always been too afraid to ask whether it was just a matter of fashion or whether there was a subset of people prone to tripping over and getting pebbles stuck in their skulls but now really doesn't seem the time.

-

Lyse inhales, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Fordola, you smell like a bog.” She rubs her arms. “And more to the point, you idiot, I’m not leaving you to catch your death out here.”

-

The general consensus in the world at large is that there's bugger all in Mor Dhona and if you’re stuck out in the apocalypse, you may as well go somewhere that won’t have you sprouting a second head.

WHEN YOU SEE THIS, SHARE 3 RANDOM LINES FROM 3 WIPS

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I want biological comedy

Some Venom (the organism) story ideas, separately or combined as seem good:

Venom is not terribly aware of the concept of gender and has certainly no concept of it as corresponding to any particular anatomy.

Venom basically considers all mammals to be one sort of organism, and is still waiting for Eddie to chew hraka.

Venom considers gametic reproduction to be, frankly, so primitive as to be mortifying, but doesn’t bring it up out of politeness.  (Venom’s concept of politeness is not recognizable as earth-politeness.)

Venom is not able to watch television/read/etc without Eddie’s vision and language centers doing the heavy lifting.

Venom is an obligate anaerobe and finds Eddie’s ability to breathe oxygen badass (but probably wouldn’t tell him that.)

Venom thinks Eddie’s endoskeleton is hilarious: opposable thumbs!  Sure, I’ll just contract a muscle to pull on a tendon to pull a lever to pull on another tendon to pull on another lever!  What a great way to interact with your environment at all.

Venom doesn’t know what a slime mold is but surely it must be the pinnacle of earth’s creations.

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Almost enough

NSFW, giant mamool ja genitalia

Martyn has learned that you can't have safety without a little pain. Living stings. That's how you know you're actually safe.

And he'd rather have the sting on his own terms.

Martyn ruminates on this motto whilst his lower half struggles to accommodate the massive, twinned cocks currently hammering away at his insides. It's exquisite, divinely given torture.

After this he'll have enough for the trip to Xak Tural.

His partner tonight is a boonewa named Gaheel Ja. They met at a seedy club run out of a disused boatshed by the Tulliyolal docks. It doesn't have a name. It's unadvertised. Questionably legal. It's clientele is almost exclusively sailors, dock workers, and those who'd seek to service them.

Gaheel Ja is none of these. He'd said he hoped to make the trip across the salt and was just working himself up into actually doing it. He'd been charming, polite. He'd asked how much per hour.

He digs blunt talons into Martyns hips and lifts him so his toes barely graze the floor. He thrusts home. Gods he's so big. He's so gods-damned big that it shows through Martyn's stomach. He's so big that each slap of scale against skin is almost enough to force the anxiety out.

Instead it compresses. Compacts. Fits into a disused little corner in the attic of Martyn's mind and goes quiet.

He'll take it.

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FFXIVWrite Day 27: Sole

Cid/Nero plus Drusilla, just a random notion I had.

Drusilla touched her forehead with long fingers spotted by age but not weakened by it, and slowly pulled away the circlet covering her pearlescent third eye. She eased herself into the highbacked chair behind her desk, rolling her shoulders back as she leaned into the worn leather's comforting embrace. Her scythe was propped against the side of the desk beside her, its presence a reminder that any gentility in this room was at her discretion alone.

"All right. Tell me from the beginning how this happened."

—

The relationship between the Lemures and Garlond Ironworks was strained at best, an uneasy partnership of necessity and mutual loathing. Drusilla felt that Cid was a traitor to his culture, disdaining centuries of heritage for the sake of a few decades of sins, and would cut out his own third eye if it would make the Eorzeans like him better. Cid felt that the collective of Garlean expatriates were really only upset about the part of the Empire's evils that had inconvenienced them personally and were only differentiated from Thanalan's other hordes of roaming bandits by the dents in their foreheads.

Both of these were sentiments they had expressed to each others' faces in the past, which was why arrangements between the two organizations usually went through people like Jesse who had an easier time keeping their tempers. The Lemures' connections within the Empire meant they had an easier time sneaking out defectors, and more than one of their 'passengers' had later picked up a job at the Garlond Ironworks.

Garlond Ironworks was also really the only place you could get any magitek you'd snuck out of the Empire with you repaired or replaced. If not for the Ironworks, the magitek orchestrion playing a gentle bal-musette in the corner right now would have been silenced long ago. It was for the sake of such necessities that Drusilla had even let the two men in the door to her headquarters.

Everything beyond that was purely for personal amusement.

Drusilla leaned forward to put her elbows on the desk, steepling her fingers and resting her chin upon them. The corner of her thin mouth quirked up in a half-smirk as she regarded the two flustered men standing before her.

"I believe you said Cid's exact words were, 'You owe me, Nero'?"

"Words I did not accept!"

"You reached out and grabbed his hand, a conventional symbol of striking a deal."

"What was I supposed to pull him out with, my teeth?!"

Drusilla smiled, sharp as a curved scythe. "It means everything. You've pulled him from the void and now you two have a contract."

Nero hissed through gritted teeth, his hands in tight and furious fists. "I'm not a bloody voidsent! I'm a human being!" he snarled, a claim that might have held more weight if not for the threads of purple that threaded through his skin like seams of ore through rock, flaring in tune with his temper.

He hadn't needed to show them off to prove what he'd become, Drusilla was familiar with that tiny pull that came from lower level voidsent fresh out of the darkness, their endless hunger constantly drawing surrounding lifeforce towards them.

"The voidsent claim they were also once human, before their realm fell to darkness. Mind, I've never heard of a human becoming voidsent in this era, but humans don't usually jaunt to the void. Queue's a lot longer going the other direction."

"I am quite sure that if I were a voidsent, I would know. This is just some minor infection of the aether, and given time I will be able to –"

"Look, stepping aside that issue, what's it mean if we have a contract?" Cid cut in, trying to ward off Nero's continuing insistence that he was too good for this nonsense. At Drusilla's request he'd taken off the goggles that normally covered his forehead, and his pale hair was now hanging haggard in his face. Despite the lack of purple, his eyes looked just as sunken and haggard as Nero's. "You mean, like a Reaper and its servant?"

"Aye. Think of yourself more like sponsor than master, before Nero gets his stones in any more of a twist - you're his tie to this world, keepin' the void from calling him back. A voidsent fights for his reaper but only if he gets paid for it, mind. The pay runs out, the voidsent goes elsewhere or it starves."

Cid tilted his head. "Pay…how?"

Drusilla slid a hand under her desk to find the knife she kept hidden there, and flicked the tip across the pad of her finger. A soft line of red was drawn across her skin as she jerked her hand back. When she held it up Nero's eyes fixated on it, like a hunk of meat before a starving coeurl, and his leg almost lifted to walk to her before he stopped himself.

"You should bandage that," he snapped defensively. Instead Drusilla got up and walked around her desk, the bleeding hand still held upward and still controlling the tracking of Nero's eyes.

She held the finger closer and his lips parted, just before he recoiled a few steps backwards.

"I'm not going to lick your hand. That's disgusting. Unsanitary."

"But you want to. You can already taste it the aether pouring forth from me. The heat of it. The light."

"There is nothing I want less," Nero insisted, devoting himself to a detailed inspection of the orchestrion instead. His fingers were twitching against it.

Drusilla chuckled. She tugged a hankerchief out and wrapped her finger in it, stuffing the hand back into her pocket. At least that would dull the scent. "The pay is aether, Garlond. The fresher the better, and the best comes right from the warm body of a living, breathing mortal. Nothing else will satiate that hunger. And if he's your partner, it's your responsibility to keep him fed."

Over the sound of Nero protesting that he wasn't going to be Cid's pet dog, Cid said, "I'm not going to just bring him people to eat, that's insane!"

"It doesn't have to be people. Voidsent can feed off anything living, even fruits or vegetables recently picked. It doesn't have to kill them either, if the voidsent's got a mind to be careful." Though when you were a Reaper, it was usually helpful if it did.

"But I can tell you've paid him a bit already, even if y'both think you're being real subtle about it."

"What are you talking–"

An abrupt silence came over the two men, as if both had reached a specific and unpleasant conclusion at the same moment. Drusilla drummed her fingers on the desk as she circled back around to reclaim her chair.

"Your man got a little less endurance in the bedroom, Nero? Falling asleep right after the first round, when you're feeling more awake than ever?"

Nero was fidgeting even more now, veins of amethyst pulsing across his cheekbones. "I haven't the–haven't the faintest–"

Cid, meanwhile, had his hand to a particular spot on his neck that was very decisively covered by his collar, and that Drusilla was quite sure hid a bite mark. "So that's why I kept falling asleep at the worktable! It was you, you bastard!"

"It wasn't as if it was on purpose!"

Drusilla smirked, drumming her fingers lightly along the shaft of her scythe. "Better start paying your employee more, is all I'm saying."

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Two Heads are Better than One

It was such an unlikely problem that neither he nor Nero had considered it at first, which had they it would have saved them three days and roughly seven additional hours of troubleshooting.

The main steering column's gears, which they had sworn were made of pure alloys and couldn't possibly be contaminated with anything...was, in fact, contaminated with minute traces of iron - amounts so small that they had gone wholly undetected during the manufacturing process because its presence was masked by the other metals and, for whatever reason, had not properly integrated into the alloy itself.

Which, ordinarily, shouldn't have even registered as a problem it was such a minuscule amount.

However... When one considered that the tiny, tiny flakes of iron within those gears heated at different rates that meant that unexpected surface wear was happening on a level that couldn't be detected until finally they ran an analysis on the oil and found traces of magnetic particles.

Those were it. Those were the source of the damned steer-slip issue. Incredibly small magnetic particles that were coming loose from the column, getting caught up in the lubrication system, and being deposited at the universal joint where they were causing that ever-so-slightly-perceptible 'slip' in the steering. They'd finally, finally, pinpointed the damn issue.

Now that they had their culprit they needed to figure out the 'why' and 'how' because next they needed to determine where in the process things had gone wrong and allowed this to happen, but for tonight? Tonight they were both heading out for a well deserved drink - it had taken both their brains to get to the bottom of the mystery and to safeguard against this again would take new processes and possibly a new way to analyze their alloys (along with possibly changing merchants -- they couldn't risk this happening again, whether the contamination was knowingly sold or purely accidental).

He was going to make his drink a double. ((References prompt 1))

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This is a continuation of the last manga. I think I'll be drawing more about Nero for a while! XD

※This is drawn in the Japanese manga style, so please read from right to left. ※If my English is a bit off, sorry about that! I'm still learning.

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[aoki-fic]

This is a manga about Nero and the Warrior of Light. Even though he just lost, I thought Nero waiting to be spoken to was kind of cute... To be continued!

※If my English is a bit off, sorry about that! I'm still learning.

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Memory

Drips of water from the ceiling to the floor. Ripples spread outwards. A thin film of brine atop marbled floors that barely submerge the toes.

Elidibus isn't. Isn't himself.

Feet like these (a long time ago) on the same floors, sans salt. Dry and warm. Hands. There were hands. Touching him? Holding him.

Something important was said here; the words like ice melting in the sun. He was happy, once.

He's not sure what he is, now.

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Perpetuity

Cw- panic attack, grief/loss

Thancred's heart is beating so hard it damn near *hurts*. He can't do it. He could never do it. To even try, to even think he could protect anyone else is a magnitude of hubris that hasn't been seen since the time Alphinaud decided to form a private army. Minfilia, *his* Minfilia, is gone after all. She has been for quite some time now.

Urianger, beside him, strokes his back in wide circles. He does not offer empty platitudes. He does not pass judgement. But he is there.

It occurs to Thancred that he's stopped breathing. He forces himself to take deep, shaky breaths. It takes conscious effort.to remember. His mind keeps returning to that awful revelation, freezing him in place, whiting out his thoughts.

He leans into the other man and inhales the warm scent of Urianger's cologne. It's floral, light. Something he wouldn't have picked before coming to the first. It's become familiar. It's become a comfort.

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Bar

Jammingway looks at the red flashing bar at the back of N-7000's neck.

“Not to worry!“ They say, because it's always important to offer reassurance. “It just looks like a critical battery malfunction.“

There's a crunch and then a sort of chk-chk-chk as N-7000 turns it's head.

“On second thought, perhaps we ought to give your actuators a look.“

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On cloud 9

Estinien is more than capable of subduing one of the first brood. Well — one in particular at any rate. Dragons, Estinien has learned, are all needy sentimentalists.

(And since he partway counts among their number, he supposes he must be as well.)

It's at the top of Worqor Zormor that he and Vrtra perch in companionable silence, battle weary but no worse for wear. This far up, the clouds are a carpet rolling beneath them and the air is thin but clean. The mountain has favoured them with fine weather at the summit and the winds are only somewhat deadly today.

Estinien feels Vrtra rumble beside him. Then the wyrm shuffles his wings. He clearly wants something.

Estinien's in no mood for games.

"Out with it, then."

Vrtra pointedly does not look at him and pretends to preen his feathers into shape. "'tis of no import. If I had but been able to take my simulacrum with me... but no, it needs must remain in Radz at Han, lest some matter require mine deliberation."

Estinien places a hand upon Vrtra's claw. Many times has the wyrm alluded to a longing to be less apart from humanity. In some ways, he reminds Estinien of Y'sayle's lot.

“You're after a good fucking, then?“

The wyrm's embarrassed stuttering is all the confirmation he needs.

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XIV roleplayers are funny because we have science to the level where we can fuse humans with machines and have spaceships but people think "vagina-preserving phalloplasty on a person who already had a micropenis due to partial androgen insensitivity syndrome" is just too unrealistic for this setting's medical advancements