#mask off heron

[dawnblade]

everybody draws mermaids but like what if u drew a fish person like how ppl draw catboys and doggirls and etc etc

i picked malapterurus electricus as the species for heron because electricity lol so hes....a catfishboy ⬇

[fishsfailureson]

"What is to come"

(image id is both in the alt text and below the read more- I put it under one because it's incredibly long)

And so there we have it, the 200+ followers artpiece that I have been working on for several days, if I had to guess I'd say it took 25 or so hours over eleven days. Honestly it's so surreal to me that I'm here with over 200 followers (260 as of typing this- yes, I procrastinated on this), especially when I only hit 100 followers in February. It's genuinely really nice to know that people are actually interested in my art (before anyone brings up spam bots- I know there are a few of them amongst my followers but I've checked most of them and I am 100% confident that over 200 of them are real). I don't really have much else to say really- I'm just grateful to have the support. Thanks y'all :).

[Image id: a large, lineless digital drawing of several dinosaurs. It is nighttime. At the bottom of the piece, a lone Eoraptor lunensis is walking across the floodplains- both the ground and the Eoraptor are just silhouettes, the early dinosaur has been given protofeathers. The full moon is shining, it's size is exaggerated for artistic affect. Behind the moon, the heads of sixteen different dinosaurs can be seen (listed left to right, bottom to top) Row 1- Thecodontosaurus antiquus (small sauropodomorph with light brown protofeathers, near-white undersides, straight stripes that are moderately darker than the base colour and vibrant green eyes), Coelophysis bauri (small early theropod with a long and narrow skull, its protofeathers are golden and black. A soft orange stripe runs across the back of its head, it has warm brown eyes. Row 2- Plateosaurus trossingensis (long-necked sauropodomorph, it has reddish-brown scales, light undersides, triangular stripes running down it's spine that get bigger the further down they get and pale yellow eyes), Heterodontosaurus tuckii (small ornithopod with a hooked grey beak. It has spiky green feathers, a lighter chest and a darker stripe running along its head and back, there are three small spots on its face, two behind the eye and one infront of it, it's eyes are bright yellow). Row 3- Megalosaurus bucklandii (medium-sized theropod with warm brown feathers, lighter undersides, dark spots and bright yellow eyes, there are several scars on its face), Brachiosaurus altithorax (greenish-grey true sauropod with lighter undersides, a dark pink patch on its throat, dark desaturated brown eyes and a few small scars on its neck), Archaeopteryx (early toothed bird with a black head, white neck and bright yellow eyes). Row 4- Hylaeosaurus armatus (pale brown ankylosaur with lighter undersides and vibrant green eyes), Velociraptor mongoliensis (dromaeosaur with light brown feathers, a lighter chest, a black stripe near its eye and light green eyes), Sinosauropteryx prima (small compsognathid theropod with ginger protofeathers, an off white mask and undersides and pale yellow eyes), Iguanodon bernissartensis (large greenish-grey ornithopod with a slightly darker back, pale undersides, a grey beak, and yellow eyes). Row 5- Matuku otagoense (heron with medium grey feathers and a small crest. A red stripe runs from just behind its nostrils to about a third of the way down its neck. Its undersides are white, its beak is grey and its eyes are brown), Triceratops prorsus (three-horned ceratopsian with grey-brown scales, lighter undersides, two triangular stripes between it's brow and nasal horns, reddish-orange diamond-like stripes on its frill, a hooked grey beak and golden eyes. Its brow horns curve forward at the base. Row 6- North Island brown kiwi (plump brown bird with a long pale beak, whiskers and black eyes, its nostrils are at the tip of its bill, and unlike the other dinosaurs in the sky part of its body below the neck is visible), male house sparrow (small redish-brown and grey bird with a black bib below it's bill), it has brown eyes and a dark grey bill. Row 7- rock dove (grey bird with iridescent green feathers scattered across its neck, a dark grey beak, and warm brown eyes). end id]

[confessedlyfannish]

Six Years Ago

Part 1

Part 2

Jon wakes slowly, warm and clean and strong for the first time in weeks. His stomach growls and he wants food, craves a thick juicy cheeseburger instead of feeling nauseous at the thought of it. Breathing comes easy instead of the slow rattle that was making its way through his chest, though the straps going around his face and the back of his head are itchy and the air itself is chilly, a strange icy patch around his mouth and nose amidst what feels like the best heated blanket in the world.

Strong arms shift around him, and the relief is so palpable tears of it form in his eyes as he slides them open, ready not to waste another minute of not seeing Superman, because Dad's found him—

Instead he sees a slight smile, inhuman in the jag of the canines and green eyes that glow in the vast abyss of space.

"Hey there, hey—" the man is saying, white hair drifting around his face, and he's saying other things but Jon is still looking for his Dad, his Dad was here wasn't he, those were his Dad's arms—

Except they weren't. They're this man, this alien's arms, one around his back and the other under his knees, cradling him in the flames of Earth's sun, and he was there, in the lab.

One moment Jon had been hiding from the robot that had been hunting him for days, taunting him as he dodged booby traps and ate leaves that made him sick. He'd grown weaker and dirtier even as Damian's voice in his head urged him to fight, to stay alive, and he'd fallen asleep to a violet sky and the ghost of his mother's hand on his forehead, cool against his warm brow.

He'd awoken inside of a tube, a concave shape of a person, holding his eyes open long enough to see the man peering at him as if he was an exhibit. Don't tap the glass. Or do. Jon wouldn't bite. He couldn't remember how.

And now he is here, threads of plasma tickling his skin, feeling better than he has in days. Behind the man is Earth. Home. Jon is only 93 million miles from home.

He can make it. He will make it.

He stares at the man keeping him from his home, his family, and the tickle in his eyes turns to fire in a matter of blinks. Red light hits the alien straight in the chest and with a shout, he releases Jon.

Jon wastes no time, flying in the direction of Earth. He'd struggle with this, all of this, but adrenaline sharpens his abilities. The mask strapped over his mouth and nose provide oxygen from the pack taped to his chest. He wants nothing more than to rip it off but he leaves it be.

His focus is singular, the apartment in Metropolis. He can feel his Mom's arms around him already. He's formulating what he will say to his Dad, how he will explain about Jor-El. He is worried they won't believe him. Ashamed of what he committed to and then ran away from. He told his Mom to go. He said he would be fine.

He doesn't want to think about the floating island, or talk about it, and he decides he won't. He is a runaway, a failed Superson, but he is not the boy on the floating island. He didn't shiver from fever, tearing at his cape to bandage the wounds from the robot's green metal claws. He did not scream in fear when a trick arrow carved a path down his cheek. He did not give up, covered in bush and counting his ribs like a messed up lullaby.

His Dad can make the trip to the Sun in ten seconds. Jon thinks he flies even faster, and later he will think that is the reason he doesn't notice the Watchtower is missing.

But he does notice Metropolis is gone. Instead of the Daily Planet's gleaming golden globe, he lands in a marsh. Herons fly up and away, squawking in startled choir as he touches down, water lapping up to his knees. He looks to his left but there's nothing but tourists on a floating wooden path in the far distance, taking photos of geese as they weave trails through the water that was supposed to be home.

He looks to his right, and the man from space is there, floating above the water.

Jon flies to Kansas.

By the time the man catches up with him, Jon is curled up in his grandparent's corn field, except it isn't their corn field. He digs a hand into the ground and brings up light, loose soil that tastes like citrus, acidic and unbalanced in a way Ma Kent would never let stand (and he lets it fall from his palm with a shudder, reminded of the mud on the alien island he'd eaten, before the nausea had set in but long after pride had fled). The barn at the far end of the field has a blue door, not red.

"Dad," Jon mumbles into the ground. "Dad."

Feet lightly touch down, but this time Jon knows they aren't his father's.

The man has no heartbeat, nor breath. Even the silver robot softly whirred. But the man is silent as he touches down beside Jon, who will not go back to the tube.

Survive, Damian's voice demands. Jon closes his eyes to the world, this utterly wrong world, and he flies.

Part Four

[throneofsmut]

Bound In Flames - Part 11

Eris Vanserra × Archeron-Sister-Reader || WC: 7.5k || Warnings: Pretty gruesome descriptions of violence and injury and lots of killing.

Summary: Feyre and her younger sister go hunting in the forest behind their family's cottage and go through life changing experiences.

****

“How long has Wesley been in Summer?” You ask Raihn as you shift, settling into his side since he was curled up behind you. 

Not long. I’ve been tracking him for the past month—

You whirled, your eyes narrowed into slits, “Month!? He’s been here a whole month?”

Yes.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Because I wanted to track his movements, his habits before we did anything—before you did anything. Before you did anything reckless.

Crossing your arms, huffing, “Fine. But, tomorrow night I’m going to Summer. With or without you.”

All right, tomorrow night. Raihn agreed, knowing you would leave him behind if you had to. 

Settling further into him, titling your face up at the stars—at the night sky. “Raihn, let’s stay here for the night?”

As you wish, Sunshine. He moved, coiling himself closer around you, keeping you warm—safe. Why don’t you want to go back to the manor?

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

His body tensed, Who do I have to kill? 

“No one.” You sighed, “me probably.” 

What happened? His voice was calm, demanding, the way it always was before he killed someone. Which he had to do a few times when you were growing up, you’ve been hunted by Amarantha since you were in your mother’s womb. 

You turned to look at him, “It was my fault. I started it, I—“

I don’t care about what you did. What did the other one do? His blue eyes glinted with the promise of violence.

“Raihn, please… let it go. I’ve had a long day and I just want to rest.” 

He didn’t say anything for a long time, he just kept watching you. Fine, he relented. Sleep, you’re safe with me.

“Always am.”

You drifted off not long after, his steady breaths lulling you to sleep. 

**** 

The next morning, you made your trek back to the manor. Content to just listen to the birds and trees singing. It was almost as if in greeting as you walked through the Spring Court. Raihn said that they were happy you were walking among them as the heir of Spring. 

You were close enough to the garden that you heard Feyre’s tins and brushes clatter to the gravel. Close enough for you to scent her fear. 

Without a second thought you ran to her side, Raihn trailing close behind, as she stared at the fountain. 

No, not the fountain, but the head spiked to it. 

A bleeding High Fae male head—spiked atop the fountain statue of a great heron flapping its wings. The stone was soaked in enough blood to suggest that the head had been fresh when someone had impaled it on the heron’s upraised bill.

Instantly, your eyes scanned the area around you, taking in every detail, looking for any signs of movement. Nothing. Even when you tried scenting who had put the head on the fountain, nothing.

“Feyre,” You said softly so as not to startle her, her hand immediately clamped around your arm so tight you thought she’d break her fingers. 

You didn’t need to ask Raihn to check the perimeter—he was already gone as Feyre and you continued to stare at that still-screaming head, the brown eyes bulging, the teeth broken and bloody. No mask—so he wasn’t part of the Spring Court. Anything else about him, you couldn’t discern.

His blood was so bright on the gray stone—his mouth open so vulgarly. You took a step forward and Feyre tried pulling you back, but slammed into something—someone.

She whirled, hands rising out of instinct, but Tamlin’s voice said, “It’s me,” and she stopped cold. Lucien stood beside him, pale and grim.

“Not Autumn Court,” Lucien said. “I don’t recognize him at all.”

Tamlin’s hands clamped on her shoulders as you turned back toward the head. “Neither do I.” A soft, vicious growl laced his words, but no claws pricked her skin as he kept gripping her. His hands tightened, though, while Lucien stepped into the small pool in which the statue stood—striding through the red water until he peered up at the anguished face.

“They branded him behind the ear with a sigil,” Lucien said, swearing. “A mountain with three stars—”

“Night Court,” Tamlin said too quietly. 

You tensed. Fuck. 

“Why. . . why would they do this?” Feyre asked.

Tamlin let go of her shoulder, coming to stand between you as Lucien climbed the statue to remove the head.

“The Night Court does what it wants,” Tamlin said.“They live by their own codes, their own corrupt morals.”

Your hands curled into fists as you fought to keep your temper in check. 

“They’re all sadistic killers,” Lucien added. “They delight in torture of every kind—and would find this sort of stunt to be amusing.”

You dared a step forward, body moving on its own, but Raihn stopped you. Don’t. 

You blew out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Willing yourself to relax.

“Amusing, but not a message?” Feyre asked as she scanned the garden.

“Oh, it’s a message,” Lucien said, and she cringed at the thick, wet sounds of flesh and bone on stone as he yanked the head off. You’d both skinned enough animals, but this. . . Tamlin put another hand on her shoulder. “To get in and out of our defenses, to possibly commit the crime nearby, with the blood this fresh. . . ” A splash as Lucien landed in the water again. “It’s exactly what the High Lord of the Night Court would find amusing. The bastard.”

Rhysand. Your uncle. 

You gauged the distance between the pool and the house. Sixty, maybe seventy feet. That’s how close they’d come to them. To Feyre. Tamlin brushed a thumb against her shoulder. “You’re still safe here. This was just their idea of a prank.”

You fought the urge to roll your eyes. 

“This isn’t connected to the blight?” Feyre asked.

“Only in that they know the blight is again awakening—and want us to know they’re circling the Spring Court like vultures, should our wards fall further.” Feyre looked as sick as you all felt, because Tamlin added, “I won’t let that happen.”

You scoffed. 

He pinned you with a glare, “Do you not believe me, Y/n?” 

Turning your body to face him straight on, you pointed at his mask, “The mask on your face makes it fairly clear that you can’t do a fucking thing against the blight.” He stared at you—fighting to keep his temper in check to not upset Feyre more than she already was—you stared right back. Unflinching. Even as his claws slid free. 

Lucien splashed out of the fountain, “They’ll get what’s coming to them soon enough. Hopefully the blight will wreck them, too.” Tamlin growled at Lucien to take care of the head, and the gravel crunched as Lucien departed. 

Tamlin’s eyes didn’t leave yours until Feyre crouched to pick up her paints and brushes. He knelt next to her, his hands closed around hers, squeezing. “You’re still safe,” he promised to her again. And you rolled your eyes. 

Feyre didn’t say anything, her eyes flicked to you and then back down to her brushes—to her hands that were still shaking. 

“It’s court posturing,” Tamlin explained. “The Night Court is deadly, but this was only their lord’s idea of a joke. Attacking anyone here—attacking you—would cause more trouble than it’s worth for him. If the blight truly does harm these lands, and the Night Court enters our borders, we’ll be ready.”

“No you won’t.” You muttered as you turned to leave, following the way Lucien went. He stopped as he heard you approaching. The gravel crunching beneath your feet, giving you away.

“What?”

Nodding at the head in his hands, “Let me see it again.” 

“Why?”

“Lucien.” He lifted it so you could get a good look at it, he didn’t look familiar, your nostrils flared slightly once. Twice. “He’s from the Winter Court.” You said matter-of-factly.

Lucien’s brows furrowed as he looked at the head closer—examining it. “How do you know?” 

You stared at him, incredulous, “You can’t scent the faint hint of crisp snow on him? It’s barely there but it’s there.”

He sniffed once, twice, then he sighed, shaking his head, “No.” Then he turned his focus on you, his head cocked to the side, sizing you up. “Who-what are you?”

“Nobody important.” Certainly not the “Sun of the Night Court.” Certainly not the heir that was promised to save Prythian—to kill Amarantha. Certainly not Tamlin’s daughter. . . his heir. 

Lucien prowled closer until you were nearly chest to chest. “You are so full of shit,” he spat. “Are you a bloodhound or something?”

“Or something,” You shrugged—feigning nonchalance.

“You’re a bad friend.”

“I know.” Your voice came out quieter than you meant as you withstood his withering gaze. He stared at you for a few moments longer before turning on his heel going to get rid of the head as Tamlin asked. You just stood there, watching his figure disappear into the Western Woods.

Whoever was here is gone now and they covered their tracks. There’s not even a scent. Raihn said from wherever he was on the grounds. I can go out further if you want me to. 

No, I need you to do something else. Go to the Summer Court and watch Wesley. Don’t do anything, just watch him and the others, and I’ll meet you at the border of Spring and Summer after the sun goes down and we’ll go back together. 

All right, don’t do anything stupid till I get back. 

You mentally rolled your eyes at him. 

****

Making your way to the kitchen that was bustling with fae getting lunch ready. They all murmured greetings when they saw you. A fae male with a bird mask asked if you wanted something to eat before lunch was served or if you wanted something in particular for dessert. 

“No, thank you sir. But I’m actually looking for Alis.”

He flushed, bowing his head, “I am no sir, Lady Y/n. I am merely a humble servant—”

Shaking your head, “Doesn’t matter. At least, not to me. You treated me with respect so I did the same, sir.”

“Ben.” He said, a shy smile gracing his lips, “My name is Ben.”

You stuck your hand out, “Y/n—just Y/n. I hate being called Lady.”

Ben laughed but hesitated when he saw your hand, “La— I mean Y/n,” he corrected himself, “my hands are dirty.” And they were in fact covered in blood from a buck he was preparing for lunch.

“A little blood doesn’t bother me,” your hand was still outstretched towards him. Ben’s eyes flickered between your hand and his as if in a silent battle with himself. Then he shook your hand, laughing and you couldn’t stop the smile that spread across your face, “What?” You asked him.

He shook his head, “You’re nothing like I thought you’d be, Princess.” You stiffened at the title—Princess. You don’t know what he must’ve read on your face because he quickly reassured you, “Don’t worry only Alis and I know. We knew your mother. . . she was always kind to us, as are you.” He whispered. 

You only nodded. 

“Alis is in her room. In the servants quarters in the East Wing of the manor.” 

“Thank you, Ben.” 

****

As you made your way to Alis’s room, more servants greeted you. Some with a nod, others with a smile. Once you got to the East Wing, you realized you didn’t know which room was hers. You stood in the middle of the hall, trying to listen for her voice, trying to scent her, shaking your head in frustration when you couldn’t. 

Then a sentry came out of a room, he had tan skin, tawny eyes and deep rich brown hair. He looked back into the room like he was speaking to someone and a couple seconds later a female’s laugh echoed into the hallway. His face broke out in a grin but when he saw me his brows knitted together and he whispered something too low for you to hear to the female inside the room. 

He shut the door and strode towards you. “Are you lost Lady Y/n? Your rooms are located in the—“ He stood less than a foot away from you now.

You were still looking around or trying to at least since the sentry towered over you and his brawny build seemed somehow bulkier in his armor. “West Wing—I know. Where’s Alis’s room?”

He turned and pointed, “Down the hall, take a left, first door on the right.”

You nodded. “Thank you. . .”

“Emmett.” He smiled.

“Thank you, Emmett.”

He bowed his head, “At your service, my lady.” Then he left. You followed his directions, finally finding Alis’s room and knocking. 

A few seconds later you heard movement behind her door before she swung it open. She blinked in surprise, “Y/n.”

“I need you to do something for me.” She stepped aside letting you in. “I need you to cover for me.” 

Her brows pinched together, her lips pressing into a tight line. “For how long?”

“Just until tonight.” 

“Tonight? What are—where are you going?”

“Out.”

She sighed, tilting her head back looking up at the ceiling as she shook her head, “Please don’t tell me you’re going to do something stupid.” 

“Of course not,” You grinned. 

“Reckless? Dangerous?”

“Well that’s still up for debate.”

“Y/n—“

“Alis, I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t have another choice.” 

She was looking at you now. “At least tell me you’re not going alone.”

You shook your head, “Raihn’s coming with me.”

She didn’t say anything for a few minutes before sighing again and rubbing her eyes with her thumb and forefinger. “All right, fine.” 

“Thank you, Alis.” 

“You never have to thank me, Princ—Y/n. I’ll always help you. . . Now do you need anything else?”

“From you? No. From the armory? Yes.”

She looked up at the ceiling again, “Cauldron, save me.” 

You laughed as you made your way to the door, looking back at her, “Thank you, Alis.” You drawled. “I appreciate you.” She muttered something you chose to ignore. 

****

It didn’t take you long to find the armory. It was located near the training grounds, not far from the manor. 

You just needed to find some fighting leathers, daggers, boots and anything else you might need. Yet, none of it would feel as familiar as the Illyrian fighting leathers or blades you’d been trained with when you were a child. But you’ve done more with less. At least you still had the two ash daggers that your fathers gifted you on the last solstice you all shared. 

There were no other sentries near or in the armory that you could detect except for two High Fae males that were currently sparring on the training grounds. They were too focused on each other to see you slip in through the door. It was bigger on the inside than it looked on the outside, probably due to a glamour one of the past High Lords placed. 

You couldn’t stop the grin that spread across your face as you took in the entire armory. The wall directly opposite to the door had a small bench pushed up against it with shelves a couple feet above it. Fully stocked with different sized boots, fighting and training leathers. 

One of the other walls was full of different weapons: swords, daggers, knives, battle axes, bows, arrows and shields. The last wall had floor to ceiling shelves that held different types of armor: breastplates, helmets, gauntlets, belts and other accessories. 

You made quick work of filling an empty crate that was left near the bench with fighting leathers and boots closest to your size. Two leather gauntlets, a bandolier that could hold several daggers and a sword in the back, and a belt that could hold a battle axe. 

Both hands were braced on your hips as you looked at the wall with weapons, trying to pick which ones would be the best. You definitely weren’t going to pick a bow and arrow—it’s not your favorite for close combat. So that left only swords, daggers and battle axes. 

A simple battle axe caught your eye. The hilt was wrapped with black leather, there wasn’t anything special about the blade itself but it seemed to gleam brighter than any of the others. You picked it up, feeling the balance of it and its weight as you swung it. 

The Illyrian part of you so at peace that you hadn’t even realized you closed your eyes. Until you whipped around, throwing it, so close past two sentries heads that were walking in. The same two sentries that you saw sparring. 

They both chuckled and then one in the front spoke.“You missed,” he teased. 

You gave them a wicked smirk that always put others on edge and they visibly tensed. “Did I?” Your eyes flicked to the sides of their faces, closest to the door frame, where the axe was embedded. 

Both sentries reached a hand up to their faces in unison. To the matching slashes on the left sides of their faces—on their cheeks—that was bleeding. Their eyes widening before they let out amused chuckles. “Not bad, Lady Y/n.” The other one said. 

Still smirking, you dipped your chin and made your way towards the door, pulling the axe free before dropping it into the crate. And went right back to picking a few daggers. Some straight bladed ones and some curved all the while feeling the sentries eyes on you. Glancing over your shoulder at them, “Do you two need something?”

“N-no.” They said at the same time. 

“All right then.” You went on trying to find the right sword. They were all simple but finely crafted and well taken care of. Reaching for one when one of the sentries cleared his throat, making you stop. Turning around to face them fully. “Yes?”

The taller one of the two cleared his throat again, “We think we know the perfect sword for you.” 

You tilted your head taking them both in and you realize they both had the same warm brown eyes and gold hair. Cousins? Maybe even brothers. They seemed familiar and not just because you’ve seen them around the manor, but from before. “Why would you two want to give me a sword?” 

“It is yours by right.” The other one said. 

You didn’t respond, brows pinching together as you nodded slowly, letting his words sink in. 

Wordlessly the taller one of the two reached down and picked up the crated you had filled and walked toward the door. Only looking back to make sure that the other sentry and you were following him. You followed him back toward the barracks—where all the sentries stayed while on the grounds. Far apart enough that you didn’t look like you were all walking together. 

Once inside the barracks, a few other sentries greeted them, calling them “Bron” and “Hart”. Some simply nodded while others ignored them completely and perked up when they saw you. Walking all the way to the end of the hall and Bron—the taller one—opened the door on the right and you all entered a room. His room. 

He set the crate in his hands down on the bed that was pushed into the corner and got down on his knees, pulling out a trunk from beneath it. Hart went to his side and they both pulled several cloaks from it before finally pulling out a sword—your mother’s sword. 

You let out a shuddered breath as Bron held it with both hands. “Why do you have that?” Your voice comes out as a whisper.

“We were both there that day. . . we tried to help but we were too late. We looked for you for days to no avail. This”—he looked down at your mother’s sword—“was the only thing we found.” He explained. 

Hart’s voice was tight as he added, “Princess Rhaenyra was kind to us—a friend to us. . . Your fathers too.”

As if in a daze you took a step forward and grabbed her sword. You couldn’t stop the tears that fell down my cheeks as you held it. It was a beautiful sword. Slender and elegant made from Illyrian steel, with a black hilt, a gold cross-guard that was shaped as dragon wings with an amethyst the size of a chicken egg in the pommel. The entire sword had Illyrian runes carved into it for luck and glory. 

You looked at them both with a sad smile, “Thank you. Y-you have no idea how much this means to me.” 

They both nodded their heads and then placed their right hands over their hearts and kneeled. Then at the same time they spoke. “I swear myself to you. To ward you, Princess Y/n. I shall guard your secrets. Obey your commands. Fight at your side and defend your name and honor. With all my strength and give my blood for yours.” 

Confused, you shook your head, “Neither of you have to swear oaths to me. Giving me this sword—my mother’s sword is more than enough.” 

“Princess Y/n, it would be the greatest honor of our lives to serve you. The heir that was promised—the “Sun of the Night court.” Hart Replied. 

“Please, Princess, allow us this honor.” Bron insisted. 

“All right. But, never forget it is also my honor to have you serve me.” They nodded. “Now rise.” They did. And you gently laid your mother’s—your sword in the crate and went to pick it up but Bron’s voice stopped you.”

“Princess—“

“Please don’t call me Princess. The less people that know who I really am the better.” They both nodded again. 

“Y/n?”

“Yes, Bron?”

“Why do you need all of this?” He asked, gesturing to the crate.

“Because there’s something I need to do in the Summer Court.” 

“Would you like us to accompany you?” asked Hart.”

“No. No, it’s better if you both stay here. This is something I need to do alone.” 

They bowed their heads, “Of course.” 

**** 

By the time you made it back to your bedroom in the Manor it was mid afternoon and you didn’t even realize you had fallen asleep. 

Alis woke you up with a tray of cured meats, cheese and bread for you to eat. With a goblet of fresh water. 

“What time is it?” You croaked, your voice still thick with sleep.

 

“Late afternoon. The sun is going to set soon.” She said after glancing at the windows. 

You nodded. Raihn? Even your mental voice sounded thick with sleep. 

Yes, sunshine? He answered instantly. 

I’ll meet you at the border of the Spring and Summer court after the sun sets. 

Be careful. He said. 

You too. 

You ate in silence while watching Alis lay out the fighting leathers and weapons on your bed. She shook her head, “I don’t like this one bit.”

“What?”

“The idea of you going out. What if you get hurt?”

“I’ll be fine, Alis.” You reassured her. “I always am.” 

She grumbled her agreement under her breath making you laugh as she took the empty tray from you. She left, taking the tray back to the kitchen and with a sigh you got up to get dressed. 

Sliding on the supple yet tough fighting leathers, designed to provide flexibility and protection during combat. The boots following after. Next was the gauntlets, bandolier and then the belt. 

Alis came back in after you had already sheathed your sword on your back and the battle axe on your hip. Now you were sheathing your daggers into the bandolier—three curved ones and three straight ones. 

You were going to secure your two ash daggers into your boots when Alis stepped towards you, halting you mid movement.  She held two leather thigh sheaths that could connect to a belt, “I had planned to gift this to you on your birthday but it’s in a few days anyway.” 

You took it from her hands, taking it in. 

There wasn’t anything special about it—except that it was a gift from her—but you could tell it was high quality. 

She fidgeted, “I had it made for you—“ You cut off her rambling with a hug. She let out a surprised laugh before wrapping her arms around you too. 

“Thank you, Alis.” You pulled away, moving to strap them on and secure them to your belt before sheathing an ash dagger to each thigh. 

She tipped her chin and led you to the vanity where she braided your hair back away from your face. When she finished she met your gaze in the mirror and gave you an unsure. “It’s time.” 

And surely enough through the reflection of the mirror you could just barely see the curtain drawn window and see that the sun had set. You turned around in the seat, facing her, “What did you tell Feyre?”

“That you weren’t feeling well and that you were going to sleep through the rest of the evening.” 

“Good. Where’s Tamlin?”

“He was called to the border while you were sleeping. He’ll likely come back early in the morning while it’s still dark.”

You nod. “And Lucien?”

“Patrolling the grounds, he’ll be back in a couple hours,” she answers.

“All right.” You make your way to the balcony doors and open them, Alis follows closely behind but stops in the doorway. Your hands resting on the railing and without you looking back you say, “Don’t wait up for me.” Then without another word you leap from the balcony, slip past the sentries and made your way through the Western Woods. I’m heading to the border now, you tell Raihn mentally.

I’m already here. Be safe, sunshine. He answered. 

You jogged into the woods before stopping in a clearing. Waiting, listening in case anyone was around  or following you. Once you were satisfied you inhaled a deep breath and when you exhaled you shot through the trees. 

Even though the blood spell dulled your senses and blocked your magic, you were still more fae than mortal. In your fae form your senses were sharper—keener than a normal fae’s. More so than a High Lord’s according to your mother. 

Your clothed figure was a black streak through the dark and your blades gleaming like stars when they caught in the moonlight. The ground easy beneath my boots. Your immortal body gracefully leaping over rocks, fallen trees and branches, and dodging trees without even thinking. Without a doubt you let your senses guide you. 

The smell of oak and moss and living things, the open coolness of the mist passing like a path that you followed. Until you finally made it to the border where the courts of Spring and Summer met not even fifteen minutes later. 

Raihn stalked out of the shadows, moving towards you. “Tell me what you know.” A command not a question. 

He held your gaze, blue eyes glowing bright in the dark. They set up camp between Adriata and the border. Six soldiers are on watch a mile out from the camp and six other soldiers are sitting out around the fire in front of the tent. 

You nodded. “And Wesley?”

In the tent. 

“All right.” You only took one step forward before Raihn stopped you, blocking your path with his massive body. “You’re not gonna stop me.” And you went to side step him but he only got in your way again. “What?” You growled. 

There’s something else you need to know.

“What?”

I heard Wesley saying he got word that the “Son of the Night Court” was in spring and he was going to send scouts within the hour. 

Your face paled. “Fuck. They might not find me but if he finds Feyre they’ll take her.” Amarantha’s going to take her. Kill her. You shook your head, your blood now roaring in your ears. “Raihn, get back to Spring. If anything happens to her—“

It’ll have to happen to me. 

Without another word he nuzzled his head into your shoulder and took off back towards Spring. A white blur through the night, through the trees. You took a deep breath willing your head to clear, you needed to focus, Raihn would protect her. It took a couple more deep breaths before your nerves settled and your blood was roaring for different reasons. 

Even though you were only quarter Illyrian it was a dominant part of you. Powerful and intense like a storm gathering within you.  Before a fight everyone always feels a mix of anticipation and adrenaline wash over them—some embrace it and others fight it, either willingly or unwillingly. You always welcomed it. Instead of it clouding your senses it heightened them allowing you to focus in fights. Allowing you to fight with lethal skill and precision, excelling in every fight. 

You let the promise of revenge, bloodshed and death wash over you. Relax you. Letting your parents training take over as you unsheathed two daggers from your bandolier, the feeling of them as familiar as the steady rhythm of your own heartbeat. On silent feet you made your way to the camp's perimeter—to the first soldier on watch and faster than anything had the right to be you stuck the dagger into his throat and twisted. 

He died before his body even hit the ground. 

You did the same to the five other soldiers—four females and one male— that were on watch. Their blood dripped from your fingertips as you stalked closer to the camp. Standing on the edge of the tree line, you saw five more soldiers sitting around a fire—two females and three males—talking. They still hadn’t noticed you and you scented the air. Nostrils flaring slightly once, twice and you knew Wesley was inside the tent. 

Reaching behind your back you unsheathed your sword and moved. Prowling towards them, holding your drawn sword behind your back, the point upwards.

Sunshine. Raihn reached out to you, mind to mind. The manor is secure. Feyre was safe. You hummed your agreement mentally and closed off the bond on your side. 

You purposefully let leaves crunch beneath your feet as you neared them and they stopped talking. “Where’s Wesley?” You asked, your voice deathly soft.

One of the Hybern soldiers—a high fae female—tensed. “What do you want with Wes?” She asked as she looked around, no doubt wondering how you got through the soldiers that were supposed to be on watch. 

“Where is he?” You growled.

“What. Do. You. Want. With. Him.” She growled right back. 

“I heard he’s looking for the Sun of the Night court?”

Another Hybern soldier—a high fae male—flanked her, “You know where he is.”

“She is right here. Looking for him.”

Another soldier—male. “You’re not the son of the Night Court. You’re a mortal girl.” He spat, drawing his sword.

You shrugged, lowering your eyes, jaw clenching. “Semantics.”

They subtly shifted, giving another male soldier with deep brown skin that was holding a crossbow a clear shot at you. In one quick movement he raises it and lets the bolt fly. 

You knock aside the bolt with your sword. 

Then another soldier—the other female—rushes towards you and you parry her sword, stabbing her straight through the neck. 

You parry a second soldier's attack and slice his stomach. 

Whirling you stab a third soldier that tried rushing you from behind in the leg. He falls and the second soldier comes at you again, blocking his attack, with the blade of your sword pointed down. Your swords clash and then you twist your wrist and slice his throat. So deep his head is barely attached to his body. 

A fourth soldier charges at you and you block his blow and with your left hand you clamp down on his right forearm and bring your sword down on it. Severing his arm from his body. Grabbing his sword from his right hand before it even hits the ground and stabbing it into the chest of the soldier with the crossbow before he can reload it. 

Another soldier comes at you with his sword in one hand and a shield in the other. He spreads his arms as he raises his left, bringing down his sword in a wide arc and you duck. Then before he can bash you with his shield you spin and switch your grip on your sword so it’s horizontal and stab through the side of his neck. 

You prowl forward, right as the third soldier you had stabbed in the leg charges at you. With his arms raised and you drop to a knee and angle your sword upwards stabbing him through his ribs and into his heart and take his swords. 

The female soldier that you spoke to first snarls at you as your swords clash and you spin before striking another blow. She blocks it but with the other sword you stab her through her chest. Impaling her and pinning her to the ground. You take a step back and twist, decapitating her with one swing. 

You hear, heavy, sure foot falls as Wesley prowls towards you. Too caught up in slaughtering his soldiers to notice him till now.

He points his sword at you as he charges. You dodge two thrusts and then parry several slashes. You exchange several more blows. Then land a punch to his jaw and drive him back, pinning him to a tree with your sword pressed against his neck. His nostrils flaring—he’s scenting you. 

His eyes widened and then narrowed into slits.

“You remember me. Don’t you?” You growl. 

He only growls back and stabs you in the stomach with a dagger you didn’t realize he had. He knocks aside your sword. Then he spins and swipes dodging your blows, then he slashes at your back and you bring your own sword behind your back just in time to block it. 

You knock his sword away and bring your own down on his shoulder. He spins on his knee and slices your thigh with his dagger. You glare at each other. Then you side step him as he charges, dodging a horizontal swipe, he puts the dagger in his sword hand. 

The blades facing in opposite directions. You grab the blade of his dagger as it moves towards your hip and then in one quick motion he pulls it out of your grip. slicing your palm in the process. 

You surge forward raining down blows. Wesley blocks a blow with both blades. You rip the sword from his grasp and aim your own sword at his throat. He stands rigid, staring at you with nothing but hate. You toss his sword behind you and lower your sword. 

He lunges forward with the dagger and you knock it from his grasp with the pommel of your sword. And with your free hand you grab both his hands and in one fell swoop you bring down your sword in a brutal cut—severing both hands at the wrist. His blood, spraying your boots.

His blood curdling screams fill your ears and the forest around as he falls to his knees. Doubling over in pain. You laugh as his body obviously begins going into shock if the telltale sign of his hyperventilating is anything to go by. You circle around him—a predator about to make the killing blow to their prey. 

He whimpers as you force his head up with the blade of your sword under his chin. “Look. At. Me.” You say deathly soft. 

Wesley forces his eyes to meet yours. “W-we killed you. All of you.” His voice quivering from pain. 

You shook your head, a feral grin on your lips as you loomed over him making him flinch. “You slaughtered a mother and two fathers. . . but you didn't slaughter every one of the Blackfyre’s.” His face pale from blood loss seemed to pale further. “No. That was your mistake.” You taunted. “You should have ripped them all out, root and stem. Leave one dragon alive and the sheep are never safe.“ 

His body began to shake even more as he took in the murderous look in your eyes. The rage. 

“Do you remember what you said to me all those years ago?” 

He whimpered, shaking his head. 

You gripped his hair, tilting his head back, “I want words,” you snarled. 

“N-no.” He stuttered between sobs. 

“It was after you took a whip to my back. I could barely stand but I still tried slitting your throat and you dislocated my shoulder disarming me.” You let out a cold bitter humorless laugh. “You said,” leaning down to whisper into his ear, “you lack conviction” and then you tied me back onto the post and whipped me some more.” 

“I am so sorry. . . I was just a soldier following orders.” 

“And now you’ll die because you were a soldier just following orders.” 

You lifted your sword up in a high arc and Wesley squeezed his eyes shut, murmuring some type of prayer under his breath. Your sword's blade glinted in the moonlight before descending in a swift clean death blow. There was a devastating elegance to the motion but right as it was about land true—

“Y/n!” Lucien called. 

You pulled back the blow, barely a hair's breadth away from Wesley’s neck.  

He appeared from behind the tent, stopping a couple feet away from Wesley and you. He sounded terrified. It took you a moment to realize he was terrified of you. 

“Stop. . .” He pleaded, his voice hoarse. 

You didn’t want to stop. Not until Wesley was dead. Not until all of Amarantha’s lieutenants were dead. Not until Amarantha was dead. 

“Please, Y/n.”

 You looked up and saw his remaining eye was wide, his metal one whirring softly as he looked around. At all the soldiers you slaughter and at Wesley with your sword at his neck. You blinked once and you were in his head, seeing yourself through his eyes. 

Your eyes were clear but filled with feral satisfaction. There was still a hint of a wicked feral grin on your lips. And you were covered in blood from head to toe; some of it yours and most of it theirs. You blinked again now seeing through your own eyes. 

“We can take him back to spring. Let Tamlin deal with him.” Lucien tried reasoning and Wesley face shone with relief—hope—at the chance of mercy.

“No. Not good enough.” You raised your sword again. 

The emissary took a step forward. “This isn’t going to change what happened.” 

“I don’t care. He slaughtered my family.” You half growled—half whispered. 

“Can you forgive your enemies?” He tried reasoning again.

“The gods will forgive. My task is to arrange their meeting.”

And this time when your sword arced through the air, the blade struck true. And Wesley’s head fell to the ground near his severed hands before his body did too. 

You tilted your face up at the night sky—the stars, a small smile on your lips when you felt a soft warm breeze caress your face. Your eyes closed and it was as if your mother was doing it. You could’ve sworn you heard your parent’s voices in the wind. 

Just two more, Sunshine. Your mother said. Only Cahir and Amarantha are left, Sunshine. Your father Declan seemed to say. My brave sweet girl you’re almost done. Your father Callum reassured you. 

Just two more. 

“Two more what?” Lucien asked cautiously. 

You realize you must’ve said it out loud. “Go back to the manor, Lucien.” 

Distantly you heard leaves crunching beneath light footfalls in the trees behind you. You didn’t spare him another glance before silently making your way towards the noise. Scenting the air, you smelled a female. Her scent, a crisp and refreshing winter breeze, with hints of frost and pine needles.

It was familiar but you couldn’t place it, so you pulled your battle axe free. The weight of it was a comfort in your hand as you silently continued further into the woods. 

But it was almost too quiet so you waited for a minute to just listen. You could hear leaves rustling, a distant river, animals and then a heart beating rapidly. Not an animal's heart but fae. And it was all you could to grab the female by her throat with your free hand and slam her into the ground. 

Her hands clawed at the one you wrapped around her neck as she thrashed beneath you. But she stilled when she felt the cool metal of your axe press into her skin. It was dark but the moonlight let you glimpse pale skin, white hair and blue eyes. 

Your brows knitting together. “Viviane?”

“Princess?” 

“Why were you watching me?”

“I wasn’t.” 

Your hand tightened around her throat and you dug your axe deeper drawing a drop of blood. “Bullshit.” 

“I didn’t know it was you.” 

You slammed her head into the ground. 

“I swear I didn’t know,” she grounded out through clenched teeth.

“Liar.” 

“Fine. . . I needed to ask you something.” 

You stared at her for a couple more seconds before slowly letting go of her throat and getting off of her. “You needed to ask me something,” you repeat. 

“Yes.”

You cross your arms. “Well?”

“A high fae male from Winter was found in Spring territory earlier today.” The one spiked to the fountain. 

“What about it?” 

“Did he have a note on his person?”

“No.” 

“Are you sure it wasn’t hidden anywhere on his body?”

You suppress a shudder. “Yes.” 

“Y/n did you check? He could have hid—“

“There was no way, no place for him to hide a note. They spiked his head to the fountain.” She visibly flinched. “I don’t know where his body is.” I whispered and she put a hand up to her mouth, stifling a sob. “I’m sorry, Viviane.” 

She shook her head. “No. No. No.” Then she reached for me, her hands gripping my shoulders, “This is your fault.” 

Your eyes shuttered. “I know.” 

“No you don’t know!” 

You wrenched her hands from your shoulders, spinning and pinning her against a tree with your forearm. “Trust me. . . I know. I lost people too.” You say with lethal softness and she blinked, seeming to remember that was true. 

“I-I’m sorry Princess. . . about your mother and fathers.” 

You waved your hand dismissively, “I don’t need to hear this right now,” you only made it a step back towards the Spring Court before she stopped you. “What?” you spat. 

“Here.” she placed a silver dagger into your hand. It was elegantly made with a bright sapphire in the pommel. “For besting me,” she explained. 

You stared at it and before you could say something she winnowed. 

****

The trek back to the manor was miserable. You were sore, tired, thirsty and hungry. Not to mention covered in blood, it was dry and sticky, and you were still bleeding from Wesley stabbing you in the stomach. Your body was probably littered in bruises and minor cuts. 

Thankfully, none of the sentries said anything as you strode by with your chin held high, slightly limping. 

Bron was by the doors when he saw you and he took a single step before you halted him with a raised hand. Giving him a tight nod as you passed him. And you hoped Feyre was asleep by now.

You barely made it up the steps when you heard her. 

Feyre.

“Y/n!” She tried running to you but Lucien stopped her with a hand on her arm. 

“I’m fine.” You reassure her.

She scanned you from head to toe, her blue-grey eyes wide and lips slightly parted. “Are you sure? You don’t look fine”. 

You nodded. “I’m fine. I swear.”

“Please tell me that isn’t your blood.” 

“Not all of it. . . Most of it isn’t anyways.”

You felt him before you heard him—saw him. Raihn. His claws clicked against the marble floors as he made his way to you. Nuzzling his head against you, causing you to let out a hiss of pain from the wound in your stomach. You opened the bond on your side and felt his relief to see you were alive. 

I’m all right. You reassured him. 

He only let out a soft whine. 

You heard a loud, startled gasp from behind you atop the stairs. “Y/n?” 

Alis. 

Heaving a breath. “I’m fine, Alis.”

Her hands hovered over your body, her lips pursing, “You are certainly not fine.” 

You grinned at her. “I need another favor.” 

She placed her hands on her hips. Her eyes narrowed into slits, “What?”

“Can you get me something to eat and some water and bring it up to my room please.” 

She huffed. “Fine.” 

“Thank you, Alis.”

“But first let me help you up to your room.” 

No. I’ll take you. Raihn said. 

You waved her off. “Raihn will take me.” 

“Fine but let me draw you a bath first.”

“All right.”

Raihn lowered himself all the way down to the marble floors and you stepped over him so a leg was on each side and then he stood. Earning another hiss of pain out of you. 

“Y/n?” Feyre called again. 

Turning to look at her. “What?”

“What happened?” 

You looked at her before your eyes flicked to Lucien then back to her. “I can’t tell you. Not yet.” 

“Y/n.” 

“Soon, Fey.” You promised. 

For other parts: Bound In Flames Series Masterlist

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 8 part 9 part 10 part 12

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ROTTMNT x Reader

Part 1, Part 2

The flashing of cameras and the voices of reporters was the first thing Leonardo heard as he stepped out of his limo. Due to the long plane ride, Leo decided to wear comfort over fashion, although it's hard for him to look bad in anything. He wore a white wife-beater, revealing his plastron and tattooed arms. Much like his brother, Leonardo loved art, he just loved it in a more show-off sense. Of course, he let his brother give him his first tattoo, a large colored portrait of their family on his thigh. On his legs were blue sweats, a personal favorite that his agent always advised him not to wear. Expensive shoes designed for him specifically adorned his feet. Finally, silver chains decorated his wrists and neck (he would have chosen gold, but his brother advised against it. C'mon, blue and gold?), glistening with each movement. He flashed a smirk at the cameras and gave finger guns at fans. One of his bodyguards leaned close to whisper in his ear, "You have a meeting with the executive producers in thirty minutes."

"Which means I get at least twenty-eight minutes to strut my stuff." Leo chuckled. With split-second motions, Leo changed between poses, performing for the camera.

"-mask!"

Leo turned and stared into the crowd, "W-Who said that?" The crowd parted as if making way for a royal or God to walk without interruption. A small woman with a microphone in her hand shook as Leo approached. "Just now, you said something, what was it?"

The small girl stuttered, "I asked i-if you could put on y-your mask. F-for a picture for Channel 10?"

Leo's heart dropped, and his breathing quickened. A pat on his shoulder shook him out of his mini panic attack. He nodded thanks at his bodyguard and gave the reporter a quick grin, " I don't even know where that old thing went! It's been, what, psshh, five years? It's probably shoved in a box somewhere." That satiated the hungry reporters and fans, for now. Leo and his bodyguard left, heading off to the large building behind the crowd.

Okay, first things first. You don't know the old password so you can't change it to one you'll remember. So you changed the screen dimming time to never. Now the phone won't shut off on its own. Dialing your number, you called about three times with no answer. A sudden thought crosses your mind, causing your palm to hit your face. Your phone was on silent. Taking a deep breath, you quickly texted your number, explaining the situation and the password to unlock your phone. That way the turtle Yokai won't be as clueless as you are now.

With nothing else to do, you connected your headphones to the turtle's phone and searched for Spotify. It was his fault, the least he could do was spare some tunes. Wait a minute...his Spotify account...this dude was Othello Von Ryan? Man, you couldn't wait to see him again. His studying playlists kept you awake and alert through college! His barrage of random music, ranging from 80's dancing music to hardcore techno kept your mind alert and focused. Donnie, or, Othello Von Ryan, helped you with memory. Oddly enough, some of the quirky tunes in his playlists gave you memorization songs.

In fact, now that you think about it, Donnie looked an awful lot like your favorite actor--

"(Y/n)! Come in, dear! I've been expecting you!" A shrill voice called from across the street.

You looked up, spotting Mrs. Erin, the Heron Yokai. You grinned, pulling your headphones out of your ears and shoving them in your pocket. You waved at the Yokai as you crossed the street, stepping into her swampy garden. "How's your husband, Mrs. Erin?"

"Oh, Harry's fine! Come in! Come in! Let me get you a cup of tea." The old Yokai hobbled inside, her talons dragging across the waterlogged wood. You followed behind closely, used to the drab environment. You learned throughout life that the more you understand how something came to be, the more beautiful it becomes. With a clap from you, the twinkling string of lights came on. It's warm glow bouncing off the waxy leaves that broke through the cracked windows. Dew drops fell onto the wet floor, filling the room with quiet plip plaps.

A chipped cup of lukewarm tea was placed in your hand. A feathery hand pushed you down onto an old rocking chair, the owner of the hand sitting down across from you. "I want you to tell me all about this new job!" Erin grinned with a toothless smile.

"It's just a small librarian job at the school up top." You said, sipping your tea.

"Up top! With all those-those monsters?" Erin screeched.

"They're not all monsters! Some of them—"

"(Y/n). When your mother died I promised your father I'd make sure that you were safe! W-wouldn't you rather stay home? Marry a nice Yokai and settle down?" Erin tottered closer to you and grabbed your hands.

You chuckled, "I'm not exactly looking for someone to settle down with yet. I'm ready to get out there and explore! Besides, I can protect myself!" You said, proudly.

"E-even with all the humans?" Erin stuttered.

You blinked at Erin, your face neutral, "Mrs. Erin. I'm human."

"I know! B-but you're one of the good ones! I'd hate for you to go up top where I won't know what happened—Oh!" The old Yokai snatched the cup of tea from your hands and peered into the old china. She glared at the leaves and swirled the remaining liquid in the cup. With a gasp that jostled your core, Erin’s beak stretched into a long smile. She breathed a sigh of relief and set down the cup. “I was worried for nothing. You’re going to fall in love and get married to a nice, young, handsome Yokai.”

You shook your head, yet a smile still sat on your cheeks, “Maybe in a couple of years, Mrs. Erin. I’m not in any rush to get married to anyone right now.”

“Oh, I’m sure!” The Heron chuckled like she knew something you didn’t. Without warning, she began pushing you out of the house. “Okay, bye-bye now! The quicker you go up top the faster you fall in love!” With that, the door was slammed in your face, the sound echoing through the marshy area.

“Love you too.” You said flatly. You pulled the mystery phone back out of your pocket and put in your earbuds again. When you clicked onto Spotify, a notification popped up.

“Leonardo Hamato back in NYC for upcoming movie shoot, exclusive interview from Channel 10.”

Huh. How weird would it be if you ran into your favorite actor while after just moving back up top? Probably entirely impossible, but it was nice to hope, right?

"Shoved in a box?! Did you hear him?"

"I did."

"Shoved in a box?! Ugh! He's just so—"

"Annoying, pompous, overconfident, lacking in empathy, ass-like?"

Mikey turned to Donnie, his hair falling into his face as his head whipped around. "I was gonna say stupid, but yeah, those work too." Mikey nodded, turning back to the T.V, seeing the reporters final words to the camera once Leo left the cameras view.

Donnie felt himself N.E., which stood for Nose Exhale. Mikey learned that phrase years ago and thought it was more fitting than L.O.L for his emotionally unavailable brother. While it was rare for Donnie to "laugh out loud", when he found something humorous, he always let out a little breath of a chuckle through his nose.

"I just...out of everything he could have done...why'd he have to take away the one thing that..."

When Mikey paused, Donnie looked up from his purple holographic screens that he had been typing on. He saw Mikey looking at the screen sadly, and he knew it wasn't from the sad dog commercial that came on, but the interview that came before it. "That what, Michael?" Donnie asked, the screens disappearing.

"Nothing, it's stupid," Mikey sniffed, wiping his eyes before tears could escape.

"Leo is stupid, you're emotionally intelligent. You obviously have a reason to feel what you feel. You're not stupid for feeling emotions, Michelangelo." Donnie used his full name with the intention of leaving an impact.

Mikey chuckled and turned to Donnie, tears running down his smiling face, "Thanks, D."

Donnie nodded and sat up in his bean bag (yes it was his, the purple color made it obvious), "I may have taken a page or two from Dr. Delicate Touch," he shrugged.

"Nah, that was Dr. Feelings for sure," Mikey joked, knowing his brother was rather uncomfortable with feelings, but to be fair, he had gotten a lot better. Realizing this, Mikey sighed. Donnie appreciated honesty over anything, so this was something he needed to get off his chest, for his sake and his brother's. "Dad always called us by the color of our masks. Red, Orange, Purple...but Leo's not wearing his anymore. It's like he disowned us...he's not Blue anymore." Mikey began tucking his head and limbs into his shell with every word. By the end of his sentence, only his shell was visible sitting in front of the empty recliner.

This time Donnie sighed, he stood and gripped the purple beanbag so it stayed comfortably on his rear while he shuffled towards his brother. Letting gravity help him, Donnie let himself and the beanbag fall to the ground. He wiggled slightly and hummed, pleased at the fact that his position hadn't changed and the beanbag was still holding his shell and rear perfectly. Using his hand, he hesitantly patted Mikey's shell in comfort. "Leonardo's done some idiotic things in the past. I'd put this in his top ten, actually." Donnie thought aloud, but shook his head, remembering his original point, "He’s a dumb-dumb but, unfortunately, he'll never stop being our brother."

Mikey poked his head out, looking in Donnie's eyes for...something. A lie? Hope? Donnie didn't know, but whatever he found, he liked it, because the next moment, Mikey had his head and limbs out. He outstretched his arms, but didn't move aside from that. Donnie rolled his eyes, although a small smile poked at his lips. With a nod from Donnie, Mikey jumped onto him, giving him the tightest hug that he thought he'd ever received. Donnie hugged back.

Thankfully for Donnie, Mikey understood boundaries, and separated from Donnie before the hug got too overwhelming. Sloppily wiping his tears and sucking up his snot, Mikey gave Donnie a sincere smile. "Thanks, Don."

Donnie nodded, a small smile on his own lips. Out of his battle shell came a robotic arm holding a tissue. Mikey took the tissue and blew his nose as the robotic arm retracted back into the shell. "Hey-"

"I would prefer if you finished blowing your nose before you change the subject, please." Donnie asked, pulling up his holographic screens once more with the help of his Ninpō.

Mikey obeyed, then tossed the tissue into the trashcan on the other side of the room. When it landed, Mikey pumped his fist in a silent cheer. "What happened at the Mystic City? We were chasing Meat Sweats and you stopped to talk to some girl." Mikey remembered.

"Oh, yeah. Raph was texting about meeting for dinner, so I naturally opened my messages to form a reply, when—" Donnie pulled out his phone to show Mikey the texts when he immediately felt something amiss. The case was the same, the weight was equal to his phone, the model was the exact same, everything looked fine. But this is Donnie, he lost his phone for less than a day and went nearly insane when he was still a teenager. Give him a week and he might've made a phone from just things in the woods. He knew everything about his phone.

"Donnie?" Mikey called, noticing his brother's sudden silence.

Shakily, Donnie turned over the phone, noticing the background first, then the surplus of texts and calls from his phone number. He whispered something too quiet for Mikey to hear.

"What?" Mikey asked, putting his hand up to the side of his head where his ear would have been.

"This. Isn't. My. Phone."

[m3r1m4r5u333]

(Jjsheh. This is perhaps my most unhinged essay yet, brace yourselves. I know it's not very coherent, I sound like I'm tripping, rambling about ancient Egyptian deities and all. I'm not the only one to have talked of rebirth though so hopefully I'm not alone in this mental collapse.)

I'm a wreck. It's just such BLATANT BUDDIE SUBTEXT to air THESE SCENES in the same episode!!!!

First, Eddie finding out Buck went on a date with a man and his stunned

"Omg I need to reconstruct my entire worldview. But I'm not weirded out!! I'm an ALLY!!"-deer in the headlights reaction to that!!

Finding out that both Buck and Tommy are into men will be such a curveball for Eddie, hitting him directly in the solar plexus, leaving him gasping.

The images that will start sprouting in his mind...

And the way that suddenly they're BOTH stumbling in this gigantic maze of confusion and questioning, looking at each other anew...

realising they need to reconstruct their entire worldviews because all of a sudden... They've been shattered.

The way that Buck looks at Eddie...?

The mirrored MASKS that both of these lines are!!

Starting to realise their worlds are in ashes.

Then rebirth.

Phoenix rising!!!

It's that treasure hunt riddle again.I've tried to figure it out and the way I read it, I think it's about feelings realization.

The "Narrow place" in the riddle sounds like an obvious arrow to Egypt. That's what the hebrew people called it or something, due to the divisional geography/the stories about them being enslaved there. Something like that.

And of course the river's edge in the riddle would then be The Nile. Denial.

And that heron? The ancient egyptian version of a Phoenix, Bennu. The deity of sun, creation, rebirth.

And what's a secret treasure by denial's edge? It's love. A secret treasure. Precious, yet something you want to hide. Hidden. Buried.

And the bullfrog is a reference to a line in a song, I think. "Jeremiah was a bullfrog".

Originally the line was supposed to be "Jeremiah was a prophet". The assistant in the episode, who was asked to hide the treasure... is called Jeremiah.

Jeremiah, the prophet, according to the Bible apparently traveled to Egypt himself.

But in the treasure hunt episode he steals the treasure and takes off to Maledives - an island without river's, btw!! No DeNial there!

Also... Another link to Egypt/Denial is the bullfrog croaking good measure.

"Ancient Egyptians used weights, like this small frog, to help calculate the value of goods. One Ancient Egyptian unit of measurement was the qedet, equivalent to about nine grams. "

"The Ancient Egyptians linked frogs to fertility and rebirth, likely because of the animal’s prolific reproduction.

These ties to abundance may have made frogs a suitable form for objects used to determine value."

Secret treasure, frogs, measurement, value, herons, narrow place = Egypt, the river's edge... (& My loss of sanity) Lots of links.

So let's see.

I walked along the river's Denial's edge

To hide my secret treasure love

The heron phoenix soared (= I burned, I was reborn.)

The gray bridge roared I saw you. (Because the bridge would be a reference to the "I see you!!" scene with Lola and Norman on that bridge, I think?)

And

"Isn't that what we all want in a partner, to be seen?"

I stopped beneath the willow tree

In the narrow place

And saw a light beam fall upon my treasured place hidden love

The light beam... It think it's truth? Realization, rebirth...

Btw, in the Bible Jeremiah writes about willow trees with much passion. It symbolizes hope, will grow by the river even in times of draught. So trust the Lord (the showmakers).

Also, this recent data of Marisol being nunlike?? What's "Nun" in relation to the Egypt theme?

Nun was represented as a frog or a frog-headed man (as a member of the Ogdoad) but could also be depicted as a bearded man with blue or green skin (reflecting his link with the river Nile and fertility).

In the latter form he can look fairly similar to Hapi (LOL), the god of the Nile, and often appears either standing on a solar boat or rising from the waters holding a palm frond (a symbol of long life), Occasionally, he appears as a hermaphrodite with pronounced breasts.

Nu ("Watery One") or Nun ("The Inert One") (Ancient Egyptian: nnw Nānaw; Coptic: Ⲛⲟⲩⲛ Noun), in ancient Egyptian religion, is the personification of the primordial watery abyss which existed at the time of creation and from which the creator sun god Ra arose.[1]

So let's watch the sun, rising from the denial!

[blackiraven]

Another sale! Scriddler sketch and it was written for @likelytodiefromboredom and the rest of my readers! Thank you again very much for paying attention to me. I also want to thank those who requested my sketches anonymously.

I would like to write more and more often, but now I have a job and I don't always find the time and energy for this...😢 So here's a pretty big and very romantic story for you. I love you all!❤️❤️❤️

Bright flashes of lightning and thunder shaking the blackened skies caught my attention. Like a small child, I threw away what I had been doing before and rushed to the small and stained basement window. The man bleeding behind me crawled a little more on the concrete floor, then wheezed for the last time and fell silent forever with horror frozen on his face. A heavy downpour poured down. I was fascinated by the drops running on the glass and wiped the stained folding knife.

"It's raining. All mouse burrows are flooded. Small furry animals get entangled in the wet grass and drown… drown … and are afraid." the moonlight gradually faded and everything was plunged into darkness and frightening noise. Jets of water that hated dryness all their existence penetrated through the cracks in the foundation and spread over the bare walls.

"But the heron also needs to return to its nest."

The swamp grew and rose higher, dragging all the daredevils and losers into the quagmire. At the very last moment, when almost all my feathers were soaked through, I managed to fly into a two-story apartment and slam the door behind me. In response, the disgruntled thunder let out its roar in the sky, and lightning through the windows finally doused me with its blinding light. I stood there for a few minutes and just flowed, getting used to the silence, warmth and pleasant smells.

"Oh, Jonathan, you're finally back." Edward appeared in the dark hallway, the click of the switch instantly dispersed the darkness I preferred. The yellowish light of the bulb revealed to him my entire state. A wet suit, a drooping hat, not washed away bloodstains and a slight shiver from the cold in the knees and shoulders.

"Ah! Come with me, I'll make you something hot. I hope you're not hurt." running up to me, Nygma took my slippery hand and dragged me along. His gaze anxiously examined me for the presence of wounds and injuries.

"No. It's just… someone strongly resisted." I calmly follow him, leaving behind a small puddle. Having missed the fact that I had recently stabbed a man, Edward was glad that I returned in one piece, and accelerated his pace. He never once judged me…

I refused to take off my suit and mask, so Nygma could only wrap me in a few thick towels. I like that he always chooses a compromise option, I don't like to argue with him.

"Thank you…" faintly came out of my throat after another sip of hot coffee. Bones rested on a soft sofa, warmth and calmness actively sprouted in my chest. I was getting used to the light. Only here I can feel good and relax.

"It's all right, Jonathan. Tell me if you need anything." the little frog was jumping around smoothly, carefully wiping me with towels and squeezing out the wettest parts of the suit.

"There are no arms or legs, but it knocks on the windows and stomps on the ground. What is it?"

"Rain?"

"Right!"

There was a pleasant smell of something very tasty coming from the kitchen, which provoked prolonged rumbling in an empty stomach. How long have I not eaten? I don't remember. Edward's soft smile constantly caught my eye. He was no longer shy about going without a mask in my presence, and for a long time I did not dare to do the same thing. It's probably a shame… Thoughts about this come to me more and more often, especially when Edward is around. The mask has become a full-fledged part of my life, my second skin and a barrier behind which my past is hidden. But when we are together, the mask feels alien, wrong, a vestige. It's like my face is covered with a thick layer of dirt. I want to tear off the fabric soaked with sins with my nails, but suddenly my true face will push away a dear person?

"Edward… you…" I shyly lower my head and look at the remnants of coffee at the bottom of the mug.

"Yes, dear?" noticing my loss and concern, he sat down next to me. Every time the little frog calls me that, my withered heart shudders and burns with unfamiliar, but such pleasant feelings. A decent amount of time has passed since our confession, but we have not progressed further.

"Would you like to see me… without a mask?"

"Only if you really want to do it, Jonathan."

"I want to…"

"Are you sure, dear?"

"Yes. I can't take this anymore."

Edward carefully took the mug away, before patting my hands in a supportive manner. Trembling fingers slowly crept up to the damp mask and abruptly clutched at the worn fabric. It was as if she was desperately resisting my choice, squeezing, not letting me breathe and trying to merge with the skin. But I confidently extricated myself from the stranglehold and pulled off the mask. The fresh and warm air gave me an invigorating slap in the face. The tousled light golden hair kept my secret for a few more seconds, but a shake of the head finally completed it.

"Oh, my God…" his words trembled and slowly became unintelligible. Shaking his paws, Edward covered his mouth with all his fingers and stared at me with wide eyes in horror. Three broad, rough maroon scars burned on the snow-white skin. The first scar went a long way from the right edge of the forehead and reached the left temple. The second smooth bloody line is permanently located under my eyes and on the bridge of my nose. The third careless seam followed from the right cheek to the left cheekbone, touching and distorting my lips. It was as if flaps of skin had been torn off from me, which spoiled the relief of the whole face. I held my breath so that my insides wouldn't shake, and tried to look anywhere but at the shocked Nygma.

"Jonathan… what happened to you?" but he was really worried and didn't feel disgusted or afraid of me. Surprised, I turn my head and see a my little frog almost crying. It was as if he instantly experienced all my pain.

"It's all… my family inheritance." the scars immediately ached, pulled the skin and wriggled like three fat and voracious millipedes. Then, instead of a stick, in the hand of the woman who gave birth to me, there was a dry and thorny branch, which against my will forced me to try on a bloody mask. Scraps of skin and flesh with splashes of blood stained the grass. Rage and hatred boiled inside, my teeth gnashed, and my nails tore the soft earth. Then my blood-soaked eyes stopped seeing for an indefinite moment, and then acquired a new scarlet color. All the cruel and terrible fantasies oozed out through three unhealed wounds. Large drops fell from my chin and flowed into my mouth. It was a taste of humiliation, contempt and my own weakness, helplessness. No one was going to help me. I was constantly washing off the blood, it didn't stop in any way, and at night insects crawled over my face. I tried to seal them up, paint them over, hide them, just so that people around me wouldn't point a finger at me. But they were always with me now, and only the sight of a burning house with rats locked inside could calm my long-term pain. Other people's cold stares still continued to leave scratches and cracks on my soul, so I sewed this mask with my own hands and finally felt relieved.

"Jonathan?" a soft voice grabbed right at my heart and pulled me out of the turbulent flow of memories. I shuddered and exhaled loudly, clutching my knees. The heavy head drooped again.

"It's very terrible… But I don't think your face is ugly or disgusting."

"Really?.."

"Of course, my dear. I'm glad you trusted me with this. And if it's hard for you, then I will always support you."

These airy, but so valuable and once inaccessible words reverberated with a melodious echo in my head. But I still couldn't move, for fear of scaring away, dispelling everything that was happening. What if these are illusions? False perception? The velvet dream I've been begging from heaven since I was a kid? I was shaking, the air was tangled in my lungs and throat, claws were digging into the fabric and getting to the skin.

"Jonathan… Jonathan! It's okay, I'm here." Edward's whisper calmed me down and distracted me from my discomfort. Small, neat and warm hands reached out to my face. I didn't resist, immediately put my chin in his hands and closed my eyes. It shouldn't hurt… it's his hands… they're caring, they're not dangerous… The pads of his fingers gently stroked my scars, circled my lips and eyelids. The pain subsided, the stretched skin softened and stopped itching. Tears quietly poured down my cheeks.

"It's all right…" Nygma pulled me towards him. I obediently trusted him and rubbed against his hands, huddled against them like a skinned street cat. With a sharp jerk, I snuggle up to Edward and drown in his strong embrace. I lift my head so that our eyes met and froze. It became difficult to breathe because of the beating heart. Without the mask, it was now better to look at and admire my little frog.

"You're… just adorable." for the first time in all the years of my life, my crippled face caused someone to smile. I wanted to answer as well, but I have not yet learned to smile good-naturedly. Then Edward, blushing all over, squeezed his eyes shut and kissed me, after which he was surprised at his own act. It was so fleeting, just one light innocent touch of lips. But there was no stopping me, I needed more. I drag him from the sofa to my lap and resume our first kiss myself. I was also nervous because of the lack of at least some experience, but I continued anyway. My icy lips were saturated with my favorite warmth. We closed our eyes and studied hard on each other. For the first time I felt a pinkish heat on my cheeks. He burned and destroyed all layers of scab, melted blocks of ice, giving my soul lightness, and violently drove the blood through my veins. It was unforgettable and unique when our tongues touched and intertwined, when our lips became soft and plump due to frequent collisions. Nothing has ever brought me such pleasure and happiness, pure childish happiness. Edward mumbled sweetly, huddled close to me and stroked my head, and I squeezed him and crumpled his green jacket. My little frog… I love you so much, I adore you, I don't want to let you go. I will kill anyone for you, I am ready to die myself, if only you would continue to smile and rejoice. I am all yours, and you are all mine and only mine. This island in the middle of the swamp is a small paradise for a heron rejected by earth and heaven.

Because of pleasant feelings, I got lost in time. Our kiss seemed to last forever. I began to understand what movements and what pace Edward liked the most. It's amazing that I can do anything else besides pain and horror. And only my little frog deserves it.

"Dear. Dear?" Nygma was calling me, and I responded with a sharp awakening. It turned out that I dozed off a little during the kiss and buried my nose in his shoulder. But Edward didn't stop stroking my hair, running his fingers through the blond strands and covering my cheek with small kisses.

"Are you very tired?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll bring dinner now, and then you can go to bed."

"Are you… working again today?"

"Yes, but… today I can postpone my work."

[dazzoot]

Hello everypony!!

Something that absolutely nobody asked for, but shall receive anyways; Phighters as birds! List is under the cut due to it just being a wall of text, some having explanations provided with my selections. Trust me, there is a LOT of reading; I babble a lot. You've been warned.

Sword as the Passenger Pigeon

I always have Sword's species listed as something that's either extinct or originating from mythology (for example, I have his demon species paired with a Kitsune.) I also just think a pigeon of some sorts is rather befitting for him.

Biografts as Canadian geese

Known as one of the most aggressive geese; they are considered invasive in some areas. I also just found it silly. Prone to changing into a different goose, the spur-winged goose. I haven't fully decided yet.

Skateboard as the Red-breasted (or Rufous-Chested) Swallow

This one is mostly based on it's appearance, however it's swiftness plays into this selection as well, due to their speed being quite well-known amongst this species.

Katana as the Great Horned Owl

Adaptable, silent, and skilled at hunting, I believed that this was a near-perfect fit! That, alongside the fact that it's an owl, the bird that (if I recall correctly) Katana's face mask is based off of. I don't know, I just thought most of the physical characteristics were rather befitting for him.

Banhammer as the Black-chested Buzzard Eagle

Honestly I don't know. I think this one was solely based on appearance. I tragically struggle on finding good facts on these birds. I'm pretty sure they drop their prey in order to incapacitate them though which I find funny for him. I could be wrong abt this fact though ^_^"

Rocket as the Great Eared Nightjar

Honestly I forgot why I chose this for Rocket. I'm pretty sure a friend recommended it and i was just like . "ok"

Slingshot as the Alpine swift

Quick and social! However mostly sticks to the same explanation as the one above. Sorry chat :(

Hyperlaser as the Rough-legged Hawk

A friend talked me into changing Hyperlaser into this one. He gave me the reasons of, and I quote; "good vision, fast as fuck, and people put helmets on them" which i think he was referring to those funny hood things they put on hawks sometimes. Aweosme reasons honestly

Shuriken as the Seagull

Annoying little thief. I don't know why but I could only think of him as a seabird. Maybe it's because of Shurifin. Shrugs my litle shoulders

Medkit as the Chinese Pond Heron (heavily inspired by Caladrius)

Discussed this one with friends, too; we settled on this funny bird because we struggled on agreeing on something for like. thirty minutes. But once I brought this heron up we all jsut kind of like. nodded together in agreement i think. Silly stuff

Boombox as the Violet-green Swallow

Mainly for the colors, but they can also symbolize "good luck or positive change", which I find charming for Boombox and his unending optimism. He lifts the spirits of others! :]

Subspace as the Hooded Pitohui

POISONOUS CORVID POISONOUS CORVID!! It was too perfect. That, and the appearance?? MWA this is THE Subspace bird.

Vinestaff as the Fairy Prion Bird

I wanted to keep her relatively the same as her sibling Shuriken, so she gets to be a seabird, too. Couldn't find many facts on this one, too :( I have a cool design in mind but that will most likely Never actually Get Drawn Out. Same goes for all of these dudes sorry gamers .

If you came this far, thank you for reading my rambling. I need suggestions for npcs and deities; the deities are all mythological birds. we have two listed so far, that being Firebrand as the Firebird, and Ghostwalker as the Pheonix. Zuka is listed as a harpy eagle, but that's very open to change. Open to feedback and/or cool facts on any of these funny selections! :]

[dawnblade]

normal story about racecar drivers btw

[scotianostra]

Poets Heads Edinburgh Park.

Jackie Kay

Jackie was born to a Scottish mother and Nigerian father in Edinburgh on 9th November 1961, and was adopted as a baby by Helen and John Kay, who had already adopted a boy, Maxwell. The family lived in Bishopbriggs, Glasgow, where John worked for the Communist Party of Great Britain, and Helen was the Scottish secretary of the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament. Kay has drawn on her unconventional upbringing in her poetry, and described it with humour and great affection in her autobiographical account of the search for her birth parents, Red Dust Road, which she has called a ‘love letter’ to her adoptive parents.

The poem here is Life Mask,( for Julia Darling and as usual it is not my favourite of Jackie's I like poems I can relate to a wee bit, and the second one hits the mark. Check it out, George Square, now I can relate to that straight away, and the subject, also, if I live to be the age of her father, in the poem, I hope I am still able to attend protests rallies.

Life Mask.

When the senses come back in the morning, the nose is a mouth full of spring: the mouth is an earful of birdsong; the eyes are lips on the camomile lawn; the ear is an eye of calm blue sky.

When the broken heart begins to mind, the heart is a bird with a tender wing,  the tears are pear blossom blossoming, the shaken love grows green shining leaves,  the throat doesn’t close, it is opening

like a long necked swan in the morning,  like the sea and the river meeting,  like the huge heron’s soaring wings: I sat up with my pale face in my hands And all of a sudden it was spring.

My seventy-seven-year-old father put his reading glasses on to help my mother do the buttons on the back of her dress. ‘What a pair the two of us are!’ my mother said, ‘Me with my sore wrist, you with your bad eyes, your soft thumbs!’

And off they went, my two parents to march against the war in Iraq, him with his plastic hips. Her with her arthritis, to congregate at George Square, where the banners waved at each other like old friends, flapping, where they’d met for so many marches over their years, for peace on earth, for pity’s sake, for peace, for peace.

[mighty-ant]

The Man from F.O.W.L, Part Four

part three

ao3

It had been a long couple weeks since Steelbeak was allowed back at their Duckburg headquarters. 

After all his screw-ups, the job of monitoring Fethry had been left to the Eggheads. Their masked cannon fodder might not be the brightest (like Steelbeak was one to talk), but what they lacked in brains they made up for in numbers. Fethry hadn’t made any escape attempts, was barely in contact with the McDucks, and generally just did what he was told. High Command wasn’t worried about him interfering with Project: Alexandria. 

 Heron kept Steelbeak busy on missions or at the Library of Alexandria, where the massive stone halls were gradually filling with cube-shaped cells smaller than anything even he’d been thrown into. 

The ticking clock that had been at the back of his mind for so long, distant and easy to ignore most times, was blaring like Big Ben now. Buzzard’s not-evil evil plan was on speedrun, coming together with a new and alarming sense of finality. They were counting down by the day now, not weeks or months or even years, and they blurred by so quickly Steelbeak could barely keep his head on straight. 

One night he was beating down a masked weirdo in a purple cape to get some sort of high-tech dimensional key thing Buzzard needed to get rid of McDuck. Another day he’d be jetted off to Istanbird to fight Fethry’s family for the pieces of a magical sword that didn’t really matter in the long run because Heron was just after one of the girls’ feathers to make clones out of, which… weird. 

He got pitted against the kid in red, with a red hat that reminded him of Fethry. It had almost been a month since Steelbeak last saw him, reaching out with kind eyes that he didn’t deserve and just made him angrier. Maybe he was going soft and maybe it was a little pathetic, but against his better judgment he went easier on the kid than he would’ve any of the others. Didn’t leave worse than a couple bruises. 

Of course, then the kid went totally ballistic on him, wailing on him like a rabid fighter locked in a cage match, and he stopped seeing any resemblance to Fethry. Not like anything could compare to the original, anyway. 

Going back in their underground lair beneath Funzo’s was almost as much of a shock as any of his other missions. He’d been gone so long that everything struck a weird chord between familiar and alien. After having the burnished gold of the Alexandria desert seared into the back of his eyelids and being dazzled by the smells of an Istanbird marketplace, the uniform gray drabness of the base hallways made his senses feel like they’d been muted. Had the walls always felt like prison bars? Or maybe he’d just learned to appreciate fresh air. 

He followed Heron, sulking the same way he always did when she dragged him somewhere new. Buzzard had them practically joined at the hip since the whole intelli-ray fiasco, which was its own torture, but the old broad also felt the need to order him around every minute of every goddamn day. What he’d give to be alone, watching a wrestling match maybe, with a beer in his hand. Even a lukewarm one would do. 

Or standing in an empty amphitheater, the breeze on his feathers, and Fethry’s upturned face so close to his. 

But no. Instead he was here, half-listening to Heron loudly complaining about…something. He was trying hard not to pay attention. At least she’d left the creepy clone twins back in Alexandria to train with the Blot. 

This was what his life had turned into. Magic clones and magic-hating robe-wearing psychos. It almost made him miss his fighting days, when things were simple and survival was all he had to worry about. 

The halls around them, while pretty uniform, started to get more familiar. It took Steelbeak a second to recognize where he was, but when he did the dread that landed in his gut was a sick and twisting thing, a shiv snuck in beneath his ribs. Heron was leading them toward her science labs, which put them unnervingly close to where Fethry was stationed. After that, he couldn’t help but tune back into whatever Heron was ranting about. He almost wished he hadn’t. 

“An insult is what it is! Cluttering what little lab space I have with a simpleton’s excuse for experiments. I doubt he’s even heard of the scientific method! He brings in tanks full of-of mutated barnacles just to look at them, like a child . The fool won’t even dissect the things.”

She was talking about Fethry. And she wasn’t exactly being complimentary. Even Steelbeak wasn’t too stupid to figure that out. 

He let his rage live under his skin, sizzling like oil on a griddle, desperate to light. His capacity for violence was a deep well that hadn’t run dry since he was a teen, all feathers and bone, scraping out a living with other desperate, sallow-faced boys. Giving into his anger was second nature, until he started shacking up with evil people smarter than he was strong. 

If he didn’t want Heron to snitch on him and get him demoted to Antarctoucan, or possibly hell (knowing the toys Buzzard had in his collection, it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility), he’d keep his mouth shut when she badmouthed the one person he cared about. 

The one person who didn’t hold their intelligence over Steelbeak’s head like one held a treat over a simpering pet. Who loved to share, knowledge and stories and smiles, and teased the same out of Steelbeak without guile or ulterior motives. In F.O.W.L, every interaction was transactional, pros and cons weighed, every conversation hiding a secret deal, and Steelbeak was usually the patsy. When Fethry handed him a hermit crab with an intricately detailed shell and pointed out every whorl and groove, he felt like an equal. 

And Heron was still complaining. 

“—be a miracle if I get any work done. If only Bradford would let me throw that idiot in a cell now and be done with it. I doubt Scrooge or his ilk would even notice he was missing.”

And, well. That was the last straw wasn’t it. 

“Don’t call him that,” he muttered. It just slipped out, but he didn’t regret it. Not even when Heron pinned him with a look over a shoulder, like a bug under glass. 

“Call who, what?” she asked, perfectly neutral. To the untrained ear, she might’ve sounded curious. But Steelbeak recognized the steel underlying her words and the predatory glint in her eye. If she smelled blood in the water, she would pounce, like a shark. 

Though Fethry had explained to him that the shark thing was just a myth. 

Steelbeak scowled, playing it off. You could respect your enemy, right? Not that he’d ever thought his old rivals were anything but low-grade chumps. 

“The duck. He’s not an idiot. Don’t call him one.”

“Oh? And why shouldn’t I?” Playful and taunting, Heron was the real child around here. An old wrinkly one. 

And for that matter, why was he even following her around when there was an Egghead rec room he could be hanging out in? It wasn’t like Heron actually wanted him in her lab, where everything interesting to look at was off limits anyway. 

Steelbeak rolled his eyes and stomped past her. He made sure to shoulder check her on his way. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Heron snapped at his back, all traces of humor gone from her voice. She was shrill, obviously embarrassed to have been brushed off so easily. “Look at me when I’m speaking to you!”

“I’m done talkin,’” he growled.

“Hm. You certainly are.”  

He took another step before his beak clamped shut against his will, locking under magnetic force. And he knew it wouldn’t open again, no matter how much he screamed. 

Blood rushed through his ears as his mind went numb with panic. It had to be Buzzard. Buzzard was the one with the remote, but—how could Buzzard be here? They’d left him back in Alexandria, pacing in his office. 

And Steelbeak hadn’t done anything wrong! 

Scrabbling at the sides of his beak, his head swiveled back and forth in search of Buzzard’s acid yellow eyes, his deceptive monotone. All he saw was Heron, gray walls, endless hallways. 

Heron’s laughter brought his scrambled focus back to her. 

She was holding Bradford’s remote in her flesh and blood hand, watching him expectantly, deadly sharp beak curved in amusement. She had the remote . And she was waving it at him. 

“Looking for this?”

Steelbeak lunged. 

Heron easily sidestepped him, panic making him sloppy. She shook her head and tsked. “Now, now, Steelbeak, is that any way to treat your superior?

“Bradford gave me the remote a few days ago. After all, you’re practically a rabid dog. We needed some way to control you, to avoid another debacle like what you caused at the Satellitehouse.” 

Steelbeak swore at her behind the prison of his beak, or tried to at least. When that didn’t work, he squared his shoulders, felt the strength of his fists and the inferno of his rage. He wasn’t a pet on a leash. 

Heron cackled at the display. “Keep up with that sort of behavior and I’ll have no choice but to issue punishment myself. Though I could be persuaded to release you if you were to apologize.”

His next insult was just garbled, but the bird he flipped her made up for it. So would the beating he’d give her before he took the remote. He’d beaten her once before, after all. He could do it again. 

“Have it your way.” Heron pressed another button on the remote 

He’d been set on fire once before. 

It was his own fault, really. He got a half gallon bottle of vodka smashed on his shoulder during a bar fight, soaking through his clothes. He’d forgotten all about it a half-hour later when he stepped out for a smoke. The second he flicked on his lighter, he went up in flames. It was funny in hindsight. The best fighter in three cities, with the five guys he’d knocked out still slumped in corners of the bar, rolling around in the dirt trying to wrestle off his shirt and pants that were lit up like the Fourth of July. But in the moment, he only felt the flames, licking at his face, his chest, his arms. Searing, white-hot with a pain he’d never known. 

Until then. Until now. 

White hot fire exploded across his face, making it impossible for him to think, much less move, much less breathe. Electricity arced outward from his beak, radiating across his face and down his neck, making his eyes burn. His skin felt like it was on fire. Again. 

Steelbeak had borne the fracture of his original beak with a few manly tears, the pain eased by the fact that he’d still won the fight that cost him his stunning good looks. 

Here, now, the pain was so overwhelming that his legs gave out. He fell to his knees, barely catching himself from smashing his face on the dumb office tiles with his palms flat against the floor, his arms trembling from the effort of holding himself up. 

Just as his brain started to feel like it was boiling inside his head, the pain stopped. As if it had never been there. 

He was sent reeling, but unable to open his beak and suck in lungfuls of air, he inhaled and exhaled harshly through his nose. It was like trying to breathe through a straw. His lungs burned and the nerve endings of his face still sung with pain. 

His vision swimming, a gray blur that he gradually recognized as Heron’s taloned prosthesis appeared in front of him, wrapping around his beak and dragging his head up to meet Heron’s eyes. 

“That was just a reminder,” she said coldly. “A reminder that you are our property. Cross me again and you’ll be getting much better acquainted with all the little surprises I installed in your beak.”

That day in his prison cell, when Heron appeared and talked about a golden opportunity, he thought they’d be partners. He’d be an agent of F.O.W.L, in charge of his own life for once, and more seductive words had never been uttered. 

When she called him stupid, a stooge, he accepted that she was his boss (reluctantly. after he shot her and his own evil plan went to pot). But that was fine too because Steelbeak was used to being an attack dog and violence was his first language. 

But this? This was worse than jail. Worse than the fighting rings. This was the start to a life of fear. Forget his designer suits—he had less freedom now than when he was dressed in prison orange. 

Heron kept talking, but movement in the hallway behind her drew Steelbeak’s eye instead. There was a flash of color at odds with the gray walls, and he willed his bleary vision to focus. 

He locked eyes with Fethry, who stared back in abject horror. 

What Fethry was doing in this part of the base, he didn’t know. Maybe he got lost, like Steelbeak still sometimes tended to. Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter because if Heron saw him she would kill him. Forget Buzzard’s orders and delicate plans. She’d kill him and make Steelbeak watch. 

Fethry was clinging to the wall, looking like his legs might fold beneath him. He didn’t break eye contact with Steelbeak for an instant, big eyes that were meant to marvel at glowing shrimp instead widening in fear as months of lies were laid bare in front of him.  

He was under no illusion about whether or not Fethry had seen everything. 

Heron was still talking, not seeming to notice or care that Steelbeak’s attention was miles away. She tugged sharply on his beak again to prove whatever point she was making, and Steelbeak took that opportunity to shake his head, just once, at Fethry. 

Get out of here, he tried to beg with his eyes. Run . 

He knew Fethry understood when a shadow descended over his face and his eyes flooded with tears that Steelbeak didn’t deserve. But instead of turning tail and running for the nearest exit like any sane person, Steelbeak watched Fethry gather himself, tucking his despair beneath a determined mask with frown and furrowed brows. He straightened, pushing off from the wall and drawing himself up to his full, unimpressive height. 

Steelbeak didn’t understand what Fethry was doing until he bolted down the hallway and threw himself at Heron, tackling her to the floor with a battle cry. 

Steelbeak had to act fast. The only reason Heron budged at all was because Fethry had taken her by surprise. 

Heaving himself to his feet, Steelbeak caught Heron first with a kick to the underside of her chin. He followed it up with a punch to the face that he put all of his considerable weight behind, which nearly sent him toppling back to the floor on unsteady feet. But it was done.

Within three seconds Heron was knocked out cold and Fethry looked on, all wide eyed, from where he’d landed beside her. 

In the ensuing silence, Steelbeak dipped to one knee, trying to get his breathing back under control. 

Fethry wasn’t startled by the display of violence for long. He stood clumsily and rushed over to Steelbeak’s side. His hands fluttered over him, not quite touching. 

Steelbeak didn’t understand what Fethry was still doing here.

“Are you okay?” he said, speaking quickly. He was clearly still buzzing with adrenaline. “Steelbeak, Dr. Heron was—she was hurting you, but I don’t understand—”

Steelbeak’s jaw was still locked shut. That put a bit of a damper on this Q & A. 

He grabbed Fethry’s shoulder to get his attention, and mimed pressing a button with his other hand. When Fethry only watched him, brow knit in confusion, Steelbeak heaved a sigh and pointed at his beak, shaking his head. 

Fethry’s gaze flickered from Steelbeak’s eyes down to his beak and back again. He raised a small, tentative hand between them. 

“Steelbeak. Can you not…you can’t speak?”

He caught Fethry’s hand before he could stop himself. Gently, he reminded himself. Gently. While smaller than his own, it wasn’t soft or unblemished, the hands of somebody who’d never worked hard for anything. There were calluses along Fethry’s fingers, his palm, and some old scars so deep they were visible beneath the feathers. 

He squeezed Fethry’s hand once before turning to scan the floor around where Heron had fallen. It would be just his luck if the remote got smashed and his beak never opened again, leaving him to slowly starve to death. 

But no. There it was in the corner, all in one piece. 

“That’s what Heron was using to hurt you,” Fethry murmured as Steelbeak picked up the remote. There were a couple buttons on it, all of them labeled, thankfully. 

Magnetize, electro-shock, and detonate. 

He tried hard not to think about that last one and pushed the magnetize button. He heard something in his beak shift, click like a key turning in a lock, and his beak fell open with his sigh of relief. 

“They locked your beak shut too?” Fethry whispered furiously, grabbing Steelbeak’s arm with his small hand as he moved around to stand in front of him. Steelbeak had the presence of mind to drop the remote in his pocket before Fethry could look at it too closely. 

He leaned back when Fethry reached both hands up to his face. Anyone else, and he might’ve broken bone. 

“What’re you doing?” he grunted, throat raw from his muffled screaming.

Fethry let out a cute little huff, gesturing for Steelbeak to get closer. “Would you let me see? I wanna make sure you’re okay.”

When Steelbeak hesitated again, Fethry let him. He waited, eyes big and patient, and his thumb rubbing gently against Steelbeak’s sleeve. 

He felt a blush threatening at being under such undivided attention, and Steelbeak desperately reminded himself that he beat up people for a living. Still, he was only one guy and let himself be tempted by Fethry’s sweetly grasping hands. 

Steelbeak knew he was too tall for Fethry to reach without straining himself so he knelt again, folding one leg behind him. And though he tried to hide it, a part deep inside him (deep, deep, deep down) was still shaken by the presence of the remote in Heron’s hands. How many were there? Who else had the power to turn him into a silent shell of a man using the tool they’d given him?

Fethry kneeled down too, which kind of defeated the purpose, but he moved so slowly and kept his hands where Steelbeak could see them with such intent that it made him think that Fethry maybe wanted to avoid looming over him like Heron had been doing. Not that he understood what he’d done to deserve that kind of thoughtfulness. 

He watched Fethry’s face as he got close and tentatively placed small, gentle hands against Steelbeak’s cheeks. He searched Fethry’s expression for any sign of fear or resentment, but all he found was concerned determination as he carefully tilted Steelbeak’s head this way and that, prodding near his beak with his thumbs without ever touching the prosthesis. Fethry’s attention was centered entirely on what his hands were doing, leaving Steelbeak free to stare his fill. 

They hadn’t been this close to each other since that day in the amphitheater, and Steelbeak had forgotten how much he enjoyed the view. The laugh lines at the corners of Fethry’s beak, the bags under his eyes, usually so bright and guileless now narrowed with focused intent—focused on helping him . Steelbeak’s gaze drifted further, to the long line of Fethry’s neck, and he fought the temptation to run his knuckles down the side of it to learn if his feathers were as soft as they looked. 

Steelbeak really did blush now, which Fethry obviously noticed, even while in the zone. He palmed the side of Steelbeak’s cheek, meeting his eyes with a worried little divot in his brow. “Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Steelbeak swallowed thickly. “N-nah, just stings a little.” 

Not a total lie. His face was mostly numb now, with the nerves occasionally tightening and radiating leftover pain. But Fethry didn’t need to worry about that. 

“Okay, good.” Fethry smiled, a small thing lacking his typical exuberance but no less genuine for it, more like a secret shared between them. His hand was still on Steelbeak’s cheek, his thumb gently rubbing back and forth beneath his eye. “You look tired, buddy,” he murmured. 

Steelbeak shrugged, glancing away. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. Part of him wanted to wrap them around Fethry’s waist but he nixed that mother-of-all-bad ideas real fast. “So do you,” he blurted, for lack of anything else to say. Stupid . 

Fethry laughed, full-throated and beautiful, and it made Steelbeak smile involuntarily. “Well, I’ve been losing sleep worrying about this friend of mine. You might know him: tall, handsome, a pretty great junior oceanographer.” 

Steelbeak felt his smile freeze. There was no way…

“You really mean that?”

Fethry blinked. “What, that you’d make a good oceanographer? I mean, I’m no expert but you’re a great listener and that’s the first—”

“What? No, no.” Steelbeak leaned back and wrapped his hand around Fethry’s, pulling it down from his face. Gently, gently. “Did you mean—we’re-we’re friends? Still? After I treated you like crap?”

“Of course!” Fethry’s smile melted into a more hesitant expression, and he chewed on a corner of his bill. “I assumed—you didn’t want to? Say all those things? That it had something to do with all this.” He waved one hand in a big circle, like he was trying to encapsulate all the recent craziness, from the monochromatic hallways to Heron’s crumpled body on the floor and all the secrets F.O.W.L was still keeping from him. “And I may not completely understand what’s happening here yet, but I know that Dr. Heron and-and F.L.O.W aren’t good people. They-they could’ve killed you.”

“Nah, they wouldn’t kill me, they still need me.” Steelbeak scoffed, all false, familiar bravado, because he’d seen that last button on the remote. The whole time he thought he was free, he’d actually had a loaded gun held to his head. “But they knew I…liked you. Heron knew. And if they thought you might ruin their plans, they would’ve killed you. I know they would’ve. But I thought if they saw we weren’t friends anymore, you’d be safe. And you were. Till now.”

Fethry straightened, looking aghast. “I couldn’t stand by while they were hurting you!” He clapped his other hand around Steelbeak’s, so now it was Steelbeak’s hand in the middle and Steelbeak being comforted. “And we’ll make sure they never have a chance to hurt you again. We’ll go to my Uncle Scrooge and explain what’s happening—I assume they hired me so they could use me against him later?” 

“Uh, yeah—”

“Then with your help, we’ll be able to stop them!” Fethry was grinning, and it should’ve been a relief to see him so happy but a weird ringing had started up in Steelbeak’s ears. “You were on the bad guys’ team, no offense, so you can tell us everything we need to know about how to stop them. I helped stop the Moonlander invasion you know! Well, technically Mitzy did most of the work.”

There was no way. Leave F.O.W.L? Sprouting wings and flying to the moon on a rainbow sounded more plausible. Steelbeak would go down with F.O.W.L and he’d long since made peace with that. A guy like him only got so many second and third chances at life. Now it turned out that day might be sooner rather than later. 

“Fethry.” Was it the first time he’d ever said his name out loud? It sounded too close, too personal coming out of his mouth. “I can’t help you. I’m staying with F.O.W.L.”

Fethry gaped at him, and Steelbeak tried to (ha ha) steel himself against the weight of his betrayed expression. But again, Fethry wasn’t speechless for long. Living on a derelict underwater station must’ve given him quick reaction time. 

“Stay here? Are you crazy? Steelbeak, look at what they’re doing to you! If you stay–if you stay who knows what’ll happen to you. What if they hurt you even more? What if-what if they kill you?”

“I know,” Steelbeak growled. His resolve was buckling and pushed himself to his feet to get away from the intensity of Fethry’s stare, his voice that deepened with his frustration. It was attractive too, but that was neither here nor there. 

“Do you?” Fethry demanded, sounding angrier than Steelbeak had ever heard him. He didn’t let Steelbeak avoid eye contact, standing up too and moving in front of him.

“Course I do,” Steelbeak muttered, but it sounded weak even to him. 

Nobody had ever fought for him like this. Fought him sure, but never this. People didn’t care if he lived or died but Fethry did, not that Steelbeak understood why. And Steelbeak wasn’t built to care about anyone but damnit he did, and it scared him. This duck who twisted him up inside with his smiles and his niceness and his trust could make or break him with a word and that made him so weak . 

He wanted to grab Fethry and never let go. Like a wild animal caught in a trap, he wanted to gnaw off his own limb and run rather than let anyone help him. 

But Fethry kept challenging him, impassioned like Steelbeak had never seen him. “Then why are you still here?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Then explain it to me!” Fethry insisted, getting right in Steelbeak’s face. He raised himself on his toes even, like that would make a difference. “Let me help you! Don’t you realize how important you are to me? You don’t have to do this on your own—”

Burning with frustration and shame and want, Steelbeak grabbed Fethry by his narrow shoulders and pinned him against the wall, ducking his head to kiss him hard on the mouth (not too hard. his beak could chip granite and he didn’t want to imagine what it might do to Fethry’s face if he was careless). Nervousness made him a little rough at first, his grip too tight, as fear of rejection swirled noxiously inside him. 

Fethry made a sound of surprise, and Steelbeak was seconds from wrenching away, throwing himself out the nearest emergency hatch and letting the ocean have him. 

But then Fethry sighed against his beak, impossibly kissing him back , and his hands rose, settling softly against Steelbeak’s wrists. From there they moved, achingly gentle, up his arms and neck, rising to cradle Steelbeak’s jaw in his palms. 

Any Egghead could walk in on them. Heron might wake up. But none of that registered with Steelbeak as he gasped against Fethry’s mouth, trembling all over. 

He pulled away first, his chest heaving and heart thundering in his ears, to hang his head between them. “Sorry,” he said hoarsely, like an idiot. Stupid . “Sorry. I shouldn't've—”

Fethry’s hand was warm on his cheek, but not warmer than the kiss he pressed to the corner of his beak. It startled Steelbeak enough to make him look up, and he was floored by the tears in Fethry’s eyes. 

“Buddy,” he said, smiling. “Do you even know how long I’ve wanted to do that?”

“Huh?”

Fethry shook his head, but he looked like he was trying not to laugh. “I care about you,” he said plainly but no less heartfelt, in a way that made Steelbeak feel like he’d been hit with the stupid setting on the intelli-ray. “A lot. You’ve been a friend to me these last few months, my best friend, when you didn’t need to be. And I don’t want to leave you here with these…these people.”

Steelbeak grabbed the hand Fethry had on his cheek, sick with the fear that Fethry would remove it. He still might. “I’m not much better than them. I told you before, Feathers, I’m not…good.”

Fethry blinked hard against a wave of fresh tears. Man, Steelbeak wished he could stop making him cry. 

“You’re good to me ,” he said firmly. And Steelbeak didn’t really have a comeback for that. He’d try, for Fethry. 

“Come with me. Let me help,” he said softly, not trying to move out of Steelbeak’s surely too-tight grip, caressing his cheek with the pad of his thumb. “You don’t have to be in this alone anymore.” 

Steelbeak could already feel himself folding like wet cardboard. Nobody had ever looked at him like that before. Touched him like he was a breakable thing.

“I can’t do this if I don’t know you’re safe, and at this point I can’t even keep me safe.”

Fethry smiled wryly. “Haven’t you heard of safety in numbers? My family’s all about stopping bad guys.”

“Your family?” he repeated skeptically. “The ones who left you alone for ages?” Steelbeak had been put in solitary for a measly 23 days. He couldn’t imagine years of it, not in his worst nightmares. 

Fethry shrugged, but for once Steelbeak wasn’t fooled. “They still don’t know about that part.”

“Well they should.” He scowled, wrapping his free hand around Fethry’s thin shoulder. Fethry straightened at his more serious tone. “I don’t care about the McDucks. But I do care about you.”

Steelbeak wouldn’t be surprised if the stars had disappeared out of the sky, cause there they were in Fethry’s eye. “So you’ll come with me?”

“You couldn’t keep me away.”

Steelbeak started to lean forward, but hesitated. He’d been careless before, almost forcing himself on Fethry, and he wouldn’t do that again. 

But Fethry smiled, hooking his fingers in Steelbeak’s bow tie. Startled, Steelbeak didn’t resist as he was tugged down, and Fethry slotted their beaks together in another kiss. And Steelbeak had kissed men and women before, for missions and for fun. Emotion rarely factored into it. 

Fethry kissed him like he cared about him. Steelbeak hoped he was kissing him back the same way. 

When they pulled apart, their breath mingling, Fethry’s hands remain pressed against his chest, warm even through the fabric of his shirt. Steelbeak’s hands hovering over Fethry’s ribs, not quite touching. 

“We should probably get out of here before Dr. Heron wakes up,” Fethry whispered. 

“Good idea.” 

Steelbeak grabbed his hand, and together they ran to a new kind of freedom. 

[ocpdzim]

WEIRD! NICHE! DIFFICULT TO ENJOY!

In honor of my dismay over Grubstep not being a real album, I'm recommending some of my favorite WEIRD, NICHE, and DIFFICULT TO ENJOY music to you all. I get to be weird and pretentious as a treat. Noise warning for basically all these.

The Shaggs - "Philosophy of the World" : I'm starting off with a doozy here but since discovering it from a "worst song" poll I have been obsessed w this. It's an album written and performed entirely by a group of teenage sisters with 0 musical training - they even developed their own system for writing down and reading music, since they never were taught the usual one. It's actually been fairly influential, apparently... It's certainly unique, you can tell it's very meticulously put together but in a way that you would never expect someone to do on purpose. The songs all have a very mournful undertone to them even when the lyrics are ostensibly cheerful. My favorite song on the album is "My Pal Foot Foot," about the girls' cat that got away from home.

The Magnetic Fields - Various Songs : The Magnetic Fields is a band that's always worth listening to but not always weird, niche, or difficult to enjoy. Every now and then, though, they'll put out a more experimental number that knocks you right on your ass when you try to listen to it in the middle of an otherwise fairly accessible album. I think this is a highly respectable thing for a band to do. Examples of these unusual songs are "The Day I Finally...," "The 1989 Musical Marching Zoo," "How Fucking Romantic," "Love Is Like Jazz," and "Experimental Music Love."

Captain Beefheart - "Trout Mask Replica" : It's difficult to describe what's happening in this album and I'm really not going to try. Less harsh noise than a lot of the stuff on this list but just as discordant. Fair disclaimer that I haven't looked up all the lyrics yet because it's really long and I mostly can't understand what he's saying, though. My favorite on this album is "Ella Guru."

Le Butcherettes - "Mr. Tolstoi" : This is just one song. Le Butcherettes' other songs are also awesome but not particularly weird or difficult to enjoy. This one specific song rules so hard though that it deserves a spot on this list despite being only 1 song. It's very frenetic and high energy and she's doing like, a bad fake Russian accent. It rules.

Ada Rook - "UGLY DEATH NO REDEMPTION ANGEL CURSE I LOVE YOU" : This is one of the more accessible albums on this list (?) and I debated whether to include it at all because I was thinking it is very well thought out and polished and therefore might not be weird or difficult to enjoy enough, but then I thought, I probably have a higher bar for weird and difficult to enjoy than most people, I don't think I'd hear it on the radio, and it is such a good album that I hate to ever not include it while making music recommendations. It's one of my all time favorites. It's hard to pick favorite songs off this album because every single song is a strong contender, but I guess I'd say my favorites are "Tru U" and "Gravity Weapon."

Clown Core - "Van" : Recommended to me very recently by @gr3y-heron, this one is instrumental aside from possibly some heavily distorted yelling. Lots of different instruments thrown together in really cool ways. They use clown squeaky horns sometimes. Pretty great.

Machine Girl - "Wlfgrl" : Not sure how niche Machine Girl is but I do think it's weird and difficult to enjoy. Instrumental aside from some samples of movies and things, very cut up electronic. I think it's breakcore but there are so many different names for music subgenres please don't kill me if I'm wrong. I just listen to them I'm not up on the information.

Dorian Electra - "My Agenda" : This is a lot more out there than Dorian Electra's first album, and is like, a concept album based on toxic masculinity and incel culture. This is another I'm not 100% sure is actually niche but I don't really know how to tell, to be honest. It gets pretty explicit so watch out for that. My favorite song on this album is "Ram It Down."

Cardiacs - "Sing To God" : A CLASSIC weird album. So much is happening in this album. "Dirty Boy" is apparently considered the best song on the album by a large number of people, and I do like it, but my personal favorite by a long shot is "Fiery Gun Hand."

Is my music not WEIRD, NICHE, and DIFFICULT TO ENJOY enough for you? Well, if you can do better, I'd love to see it. No, seriously. Please show me if you have any weirder, more niche, and/or more difficult to enjoy music. I like that stuff but it's super hard to find and I'm dissatisfied with my collection.

[goldoanheart]

[ Sparkling Water ] - Fresh spring water that has been magically carbonated. Served with a squeeze of lime or a dash of one of the many fruit syrups available at the bartender’s disposal. 

"Kurthnaga!" He calls, but his voice is hardly more than a hushed shout, and he draws into the company of the younger, presenting a sparkling glass of cherry-syrup fizzling water ( for champagne wouldn't do with the younger's age, and if it would -- for Rajaion was sure he's forgotten some years -- he simply refused to gift his brother alcohol ).

"Or should I say Your Majesty," It's teasing -- a brother's jest against the younger, and he smiles behind his mask. "Regardless, are you having as much success as I with, as the Beorc call it, 'mingling' ?"

No terror perturbed the heart in the wake of festivities, and perhaps it was the homeliness of celebration that returned his feet to the earth and plucked his mind from dark depths. Either way, it was ... nice.

"It's customary, I've read," He continues, sipping on his own flavored drink. "To interact at these sorts of gatherings for the sake of one's kingdom. But," He looks to the younger, his gaze falling a long ways to meet that of his brother's, for perhaps the bones of their father were not yet sprouted within him. "I'll handle the politics. I want you ... to have a good time. You ... shouldn't have to be king so young, so for a night, simply be Kurthnaga."

He poises himself anew, rolling sore shoulders and aching bones, and straightens to his lofty height. And he plucks a white feather from his brooch, presenting it between forefinger and thumb to the younger.

"And have a feather -- think of the Herons with its whiteness. I owe it to them that I'm here." He smiles, head tilting. "How fitting."

Rajaion has gifted Kurthnaga a White Feather!

"Brother!" Kurthnaga lights up as Rajaion approaches him, taking the offered glass into smaller hands - less weathered hands. Hands more befitting of a young noble than any sort of wise king. He pouts slightly, at the sparkling liquid within, bright red and bubbling with carbonation, "I'm not a kid anymore though. We could have shared a drink."

He falters at the title, though his brother only means it in jest. Because it was a title that was never meant to belong to him. It was for his father, proud and strong - though ever so stubborn. And if not stalwart Dheginsea, then it should have belonged to Rajaion. It did not befit Kurthnaga, still so young with soft cheeks unaffected by age. But he does not say anything to that effect, and simply smiles, pushing his doubts down and away, "Not really, but I much prefer people watching during events like this anyway! You knew that, Raja!"

He clutches at the stem of his glass, nigh to break it if his grip was even a little bit tighter. His brother was right, he shouldn't be king so young. He shouldn't be king at all. He should have remained a carefree prince, but life did not seem to be that easy; now did it?

"Rajaion... I... I like politics! I wouldn't even mind it if I had to!" He can hear his voice trembling, a stubborn smile kept upon his lips, "You... you surely haven't had fun in such a long time! Please... don't worry about me, I can handle it!"

Kurthnaga tries to shake off the doubts as his brother offers him a feather from his brooch, taking it gently into his hands. He wasn't sure exactly what he was supposed to do with it, but a gift from his elder brother had to be treasured.

"Rajaion, take mine as well," He places a small jingling bell into his brother's hands with a smile. Perhaps one day it will be easier for both of them, to stand beside each other without any doubt lingering in Kurthnaga's heart. If only things could be as easy as they had once been in their childhood, when they had been able to just be brothers. If only...

Kurthnaga has gifted Rajaion a Small Bell UwU

[thepariahcontinuum]

For the worm power oc.

A striker 9/ mover 8

When this cape touches an object for even a second it allows him to compleet control over the movement of said object. All he has to do is think after touching something and what ever hes has touched wil go there as fast or as slow as he wants.

As long as the object isn't to big for his power to take hold of it he can move it with compleet ease so it's no more difficult for him to move a skyscraper then it is to move a single piece of paper. And it's just as easy to 10 million grains of sand as it is to move one.

He can us this power on inanimate object and on himself.

Ooh a 9/8 rating, a bit of a powerhouse then.

The way the power is described makes me think of both the 'Contact telekinesis' thing that Superboy had/has (I don't keep track of retcons) instead of actual super strength....And also Rune/Scribe.

It was the Rune angle that immediately gave me some ideas of where to go with this....But since I refuse to make a nazi oc for these asks I'm gonna take it away from the obvious.

This is a Ward whose personal situation is an interesting mix of Golem and Shadow Stalker's circumstances. Specifically he was a kid who fell down the alt-right pipeline; basically he started out as that racist kid in X-Box live chats and a deliberate edge lord until a group like the Heron Clan who helped funnel capes to E88 found him, he hadn't triggered at this point and he wasn't really a true believer in white supremacism or anything else.... He was desperate for attention and saying the most heinous shit to get it.

Eventually talking had to become doing and the dumb fuck triggered during his initiation into a far right group, at which point he promptly bolted and ran for the hills. (Also side note, he can't actually use his power on himself due to Manton limits but he can use it on his clothes and that's how he gives the illusion of being able to fly, which is how he escaped, like what Shatterbird does with glass)

He ran, was picked up by the PRT who got him away from the group he'd been part of, but also used the fact he'd been involved to basically strongarm him into the wards, because they're not letting someone that powerful wander around as a free agent if they can help it.

He's ended up on the same Wards team as previous OCs Fightback and Chokepoint, which has actually worked wonders in getting him to start unpacking his previous actions and behaviours and trying to do better because....Well Chokepoint is a prick and nobody wants to be like that guy. He was also Specifically kept away from Brockton Bay, because putting him in the same city as E88 was a death sentence and also oddly enough he's a fan of Uber and Leet.

His powers are good enough and broad enough in scope that he could have just gone for something generic and heroic, but since he's an edgy little bastard and has the ability to back his shit talking up he can also afford to go with a theme and narrow his focus down... he wanted to go with knives and just rain blades on people but was told no. Instead he goes with Bolas, some of which are Tinkertech or have the weighted balls replaced with Containment Foam grenades.

Costume wise, all black bodysuit with a black hoodie over it and a harness with all of his bolas and other shit to throw at people on it, with a chest-shield/backpack that's somewhere between the Green Power Ranger's Dragon shield and a stylised pair of batwings reaching around from his back....He uses his powers on that to levitate himself and drops in on opponents, just telekinetically trick-shotting them with Bolas and catching them off guard. His face is covered by the hood and a mask that's totally not Reaper from Overwatch. He also an absolute dick and talks the most shit whilst doing it, to the point where he has been banned from interviews or speaking to the press and bystanders.

Cape name: Nightfall (Because it sounds badass and all of his other suggestions were vetoed)

[frankbelloriley]

Here's some of the best things I've watched in 2023.

New releases (an incomplete list because I'm gonna catch up on more stuff in January, so I'm only going to put seven):

Godzilla Minus One - An absolute hoot of a time at the movies. A human melodrama interrupted by a giant city destroying lizard. A fascinating deviation from Shin Godzilla which is more of "what if the bureaucracy of In The Loop had to deal with a radioactive monster" satire, while this goes for pure thrills and audience pleasing moments. Between this and last year's RRR, how are other countries better at pure audience pleasers than us?

The Boy and the Heron - I walked out of The Wind Rises in 2013 thinking, "Yeah, that perfectly caps Hayao Miyazaki's career. After telling the story of how a man's imagination ran away from him and questioning the impact of his life's work, what else does he need to say?" I walked out of The Boy and the Heron thinking, "So that's what."

Barbie/Asteroid City - I'm putting both together because Greta Gerwig has joined Wes Anderson in making movies with one singular moment that seem genetically engineered to wreck me (I will not say what they are here because chill bro, I don't know you like that.). That and both telling their stories through production design. I would hope that the lesson from Barbie making a billion dollars would be, "maybe shoot things on actual sets instead of green screen studios," but it's going to be, "find me another doll to make a movie from." As for Wes Anderson, it's so weird that the criticism he gets is, "it's too Wes Anderson-y." You want him to dilute his voice and make it...what exactly? Look, you like what you like, but why do some people want Wes Anderson to make less what he likes? Anyway, I thought this movie was Wes's clever way to be introspective about his storytelling process, and it's one I'm going to revisit soon.

Killers of the Flower Moon - I've seen this twice, and while I never thought the three and a half hours dragged the first time, it flew by the second time. I also never thought The Irishman dragged on either, almost as if Thelma Schoonmaker and Martin Scorsese know what they're doing, but then again I don't have a two second attention span (some of y'all need to get off the damn TikTok and quit making me feel older than seeing the startling amount of grays I see on my head and in my facial hair in the mirror when I say that). The criticism that it should have been centered on Mollie instead of Ernest almost willfully misunderstands what Scorsese's artistic choice to focus on one of his most unsympathetic protagonists in his career. Scorsese is placing you in Leonardo DiCaprio's shoes because you in the audience are more likely to be Ernest than you will ever be to Mollie, and he wants you to sit with that uncomfort. That and Martin Scorsese knows the limits of empathy in that while he can understand Mollie's pain and the trauma endured by the Osage nation still felt today, he cannot truly know it to tell their side of the story. That should be clear from the start if people knew what empathy actually was, but some of y'all think empathy is binging a season of Ted Lasso in a weekend (wow, 2023 really left me cranky).

Ferrari - My joke to a friend coming out of this movie was, "you will believe Adam Driver is Italian," but Michael Mann's latest has hung around in my head ever since. Some call Driver's performance stilted or stiff as if that isn't a creative choice of needing to seem still while anxiety and peril go on behind his eyes in the face of very real peril and danger in 1950s motosports. Almost as if Mann has history of exploring themes of masculinity as a mask that both helps and hurts depending on the context. Penelope Cruz is also incredible here, adding life to a role that, played wrongly, makes the movie fall apart, but ties the whole thing together emotionally. I haven't seen two actors play off this well against each other since James Gandolfini and Edie Falco when I finished The Sopranos earlier this year.

Oppenheimer - Like this year's Miyazaki and Scorsese's works, feels like a culmination of all of Nolan's previous films. Great stuff, in addition to being a movie you can say, "hey, it's that guy" literally five minutes. I've written too much on all these already, so I will say is: Christopher Nolan is never going to work for Warner Brothers ever again.

Some new to me watches in 2023 I really loved:

Written On The Wind - This by Douglas Sirk was a revelation to me. I had no idea white people were emotionally capable of making Telenovelas.

Rio Bravo - Every time I've watched a Howard Hawks picture, I come away thinking they're among the most entertaining things I've watched. A Western that is less about the codes of honor than it is just hanging out.

The Heroic Trio/Magnificent Warriors/Royal Warriors - all of these were part of Criterion Channel's Michelle Yeoh collection, and they're all great with fantastic action set pieces. Michelle Yeoh stars in, respectively, a comic book movie, a period serial kind of like Indiana Jones, and a cop action drama that starts with her foiling an airplane hijacking.

Mississippi Masala - American independent movies used to be "find two hot and talent actors that have chemistry and build a movie around it." We used to be a proper country.

Decision To Leave - Probably would've been my favorite movie of 2022 if I had gotten around to seeing it then.

The Yakuza - In recent years, Robert Mitchum has become one of my all time favorite actors. We used to have guys with lines on their faces that would tell a story without saying anything (RIP director Sydney Pollack's Michael Clayton castmate Tom Wilkinson while I'm at it). The story of friendship and duty between Mitchum and Ken Takakura is the stuff of Dudes Rock (Melancholy Edition).

Strange Days - Incredibly prescient in how we would use phone cameras and how social media would rot our brains back in the 1990s. Doubles as the origin of a Fatboy Slim song. Worth a watch for Ralph Fiennes and Angela Bassett's chemistry alone.

Going to throw in a rewatch that blew me away this year, and that was Kiyoshi Kurosawa's Cure. I hadn't seen it since a Horror In Film class in undergrad, and it is an utter clinic in how film editing can make a viewer feel dread at any moment. The final shot is incredible.

[brutlist]

11. If someone was impersonating them, what would friends / family ask or do to tell the difference? 45. What’s something unimportant / frivolous that they hate passionately? 52. Do they act on their immediate emotions, or do they wait for the facts before acting?

11. first and foremost , heugh is scarily excellent at manicuring how much of himself he gives away when it comes to his personhood , an adaption that's come from high masking for all his life on a subconscious level . his autism hasn't ever been diagnosed and he's not exactly aware that it's even there . but those who know him , who know him as the man he is when nobody else is around and the mask is off --- demure , contemplative , soft spoken , quick to giggle , a man who likes to make things and talk to the flowers and veggies that grow in his back yard , to play with his children until his bones won't let him anymore --- i think it'd be super easy for someone to miss not only the mask on , mask off differentiations to his personality , but the physical symptoms of it as well ; see here .

45. dude gets unreasonably frustrated with any type of food wrap . hates hates hates automatics . hates hates hates when people who try to talk to him while he's out on a run .

52. heugh's entire presence within the intelligence occupation is based on either wait and see , or take a hot second to put some rational thought to his decisions . heron wouldn't have been able to flourish the way that it has ( 75% success rate at healthily rehabilitating and removing people from places that perpetuate crime , as well as a 93% success rate at obliterating some pretty fucked up individuals ; unfortunately it is easier to kill the problem than to heal the wound but none the less ) if he didn't dedicate himself to that , he wouldn't be jacob heugh .

@bluedprints