Hey.
I just want to say thank you, to all of you. For reading my writing, looking at my photos, or enjoying my art; for chatting, or listening to me yap; and, more than any of those, for existing.
The world we share is not a kind one, and I fear so much for what it will become, but all of you make it brighter.
Thank you.
“Pathetic mortals! Hear my demands,” Corvina intones, feathers raised is a posture of challenge, “and despair, for the will of the night is unstoppable! Your compatriot has made a mockery of our alliance! You must,” her voice shifts, a faint squawk betraying a feather-covered blush, “make her let go of me.”
Maria, Halberd of Noon, peers up at Corvina. The villainess, once barely taller than her, has grown beyond all reason in the weeks since the Tremorlord ate the sun and plunged the world into an eternal and moonless night. “Is Anne being a problem?”
“Yes! I mean, uh,” she tries to compose herself, “yes. Remove her, lest a worse fate befalls her! I will drop her in the ocean to freeze, see if I don’t.”
Thistle’s ears ache each time the finger taps the glass. It’s a horribly large thing, nearly as tall as he is and as thick around as his waist, and its cruel long nail is decorated with flaking red enamel that Thistle can’t help but imagine as drying blood. He hasn’t seen Lion or Yarrow since they were all caught, after all …
Flick. His wings twitch involuntarily, painfully, and he whimpers. They weren’t kind when they caught him; his right forewing is crumpled, useless. If he escapes he’ll never fly again.
“Mom?”
Sarah blinks herself awake. She fell asleep on the couch again, watching late-night comedy reruns after putting Abigail to bed, with only a half-empty bottle of wine and a tin of weed gummies for company. She blearily blinks at the young girl; god damn it, she promised not to let her see her like this again.
“Wha-,” she coughs, “what is it, dear?”
“Auntie wants to come in but I can’t open the door.”
“You’re moving to another facility tomorrow, puppy.”
At first you don’t understand. Your brain’s a bit hazy, with your head between her thighs and her taste lingering on your lips. And her fingers in your hair, again, longer than it was when you arrived. Not regulation.
“… I am?”
“Mhmm. Things are in motion. Your empire’s getting desperate, too,” a sharp-toothed grin, “maybe we’ll trade you for something good.”
“… oh.”
“So,” you ask, “why am I still alive?”
She’s sitting at the little table outside your cell doing paperwork again. The Liberation has more paperwork than you ever suspected. “We disabled your mech’s countermeasures,” she says, not looking up. “About an hour before you spotted us, in fact.”
“That’s not what I meant—WAIT, an hour!? But I spotted you barely an hour into the patrol!”
“Yes,” she finally looks at you, smiling, “your command/control system is full of holes, dear.”
“Has anyone ever done this for you before?”
“No. Uh, a bit lower …”
Sparrow barely holds in a moan as their hands find the right spot on his shoulders. “Really? A cute morsel like you … well, I’m honored you chose me, then.”
“Um. Could you, uh.”
“Yes?”
“… u-use a different word. For me.”
“Oh, of course! What would you prefer?”
“U-um. Something, uh,” he hides in face in his hands, not that it matters much, “something masculine?”