#rather than Shade's active attempt at taking over))

[smilingmxsk]

((Maybe I could make Shade into a slightly more background entity until absolutely needed...))

#{OOC} #I've been wracking my brain abt Marg and Shade's battle over one body but like)) #I feel like it's easier to write that Shade's influence amplifies Marg's negative emotions like Anger and all that)) #so those moments she's barely hanging on is the corruption creeping up that she tries real hard to keep down)) #rather than Shade's active attempt at taking over)) #this is also my way of molding Shade's personality!)) #in a way this doesn't change how I write stuff currently it just more so clarifies what I'm trying to achieve-)) #I want them ookie spookie moments c:)) #{Headcanons}

[dragon-kazansky]

Bridgerton shade of blue

Benedict Bridgerton x Female reader

Benedict bumps into you, quite literally, at a ball while trying to escape his mother's attempts to find him a partner. You decide to humour him with a dance, not realising just how entwined you would become with him. It seems the universe will find every excuse to push you and Benedict together, no matter how much you fight it.

{Masterlist}

{Next Chapter}

Season one

Chapter One - Mr Bridgerton

♡♡♡

A day late. No matter. At least you would be in London for the season, though you wouldn't be able to debut properly, much like the other ladies of the season.

It mattered not to you. You would rather keep to yourself than be shown off to the Queen in a satin gown, announcing to the ton you were eligible.

If you were to find a husband, it would be on your own terms. You swore by that. You would play the game much like all the others, but without shouting about it and making a statement.

Yes, you intended to marry. Perhaps not this year, but soon enough. It had been something you had thought about a great deal over the winter. Still, you'll see what the ton has to offer this year.

Though you were not there, you had received word that a Miss Daphne Bridgerton had been called a diamond of the first water by Last Whistledown in her gossip column.

Everyone was talking about it.

Bridgerton was a name you had heard but not quite familiar with on any personal terms. They were known for being beautiful. Handsome sons and beautiful daughters. Dowager Violet Bridgerton was very proud of her children, even when they vexed her sometimes.

But that was all you knew. It did not surprise you that her daughter would have the eyes of the ton on her. She would find herself a wonderful match, surely.

You sit at your vanity table and watch the reflection of your dear mother in the mirror as she enters the room. She saunters in and places your gown delicately on the bed. She then turns so elegantly toward you and smiles, coming to stand beside you. Her hand settles on your shoulder.

"You will look beautiful, dear."

You only smile softly and look at your reflection. You have no intention of standing out at all. You would go in, make yourself acquainted, and perhaps dance with a few friendly faces.

Within the hour, you were dressed and decorated with pretty jewels and accessories. Your mother owned a fine collection of jewellery, some of the few things she still had from the old house. Since the passing of your father, your belongings had shrunk as you moved around the country.

"Thank you, Mama." You touch the necklace with your gloved fingers gently, admiring the way it glittered in the light.

Before you knew it, you were on your way to the ball. Lady Danbury, a well-known figure in the ton, was hosting. Apparently, it was going to be quite the night. Your mother was most excited to see you dance tonight.

That is, should anyone take a liking to dancing with you.

The ballroom was well lit and full of colourful gowns and sparkly necks. Fans fluttered softly, barely brushing the chins of the beautiful ladies present. Gentleman circled the room looking for a partner to either dance or converse with.

You mother gave your arm a squeeze as she smiled, looking around the room.

"You shall find a man in this room, I am certain of it."

"Mother..." You sigh. You knew you weren't getting any younger, but you still had time to find someone for yourself. You did not want to feel the pressure of society weighing down on you because you were looking for someone suitable.

Love matches were rare, and you doubted you would ever be so lucky to have such a connection with someone. Your mother had not been in love with your father when they married, nor up until his death.

Love was rare indeed.

You scan the room, watching people dance, other converse, some take a turn around the room. There was much activity. All debutantes were here looking for a match.

"That young gentleman over there, I believe that's Colin Bridgerton. Mrs Brooks told me of that family in quite some detail." Your mother says. "Handsome, is he not?"

You hum softly as you continue looking about the room. A young woman in a bright yellow gown seems to be watching Colin Bridgerton with interest.

People star to turn toward the entrance. You move your head in the same direction to find three beautiful people entering the room.

"Ah, that there is Anthony Bridgerton, the eldest of eight. On his arm, I believe that is Daphne Bridgerton, and that's their mother, Violet Bridgerton." Your mother harpers on.

There is no denying the beauty that family holds. Each one is utterly perfect. They all look so like, yet differ in the most wonderful ways. You wonder what it would be like to have so many siblings, or any at all, for that matter.

"Isn't she beautiful?"

"Yes," you agree. Daphne was quite the sight. "She shall have no issue finding a husband, I am certain."

Your mother squeezes your arm. "Nor shall you."

You find it less likely than Daphne, but you will humour your mother for her own sake.

One such young man approaches Daphne, but after a short conversation with her brother, he scampers. You wonder what was said to leave a man looking so dejected. Surely she hadn't rejected him so easily. You begin to wonder if Daphne will have any ease at all.

You watch Anthony escort his sister around the room and decide you might do the same. No one was particularly paying you any mind anyway. You free yourself from your mother's hold and begins to drifting away from her side. She watches you go, sighing softly.

You stroll slowly along the sidelines, eyes fluttering from one couple to the next. A large group was already dancing. Everyone looked so dignified and elegant.

Not a single person was sparing you a glance. You almost expected as much. It was hard to stand out in a room full of such lovely people. You continued to watch other dance as you strolled.

With Daphne in Anthony's care, Violet Bridgerton felt she needed to take this chance to push one of her other sons in the direction of some of the fine ladies.

Colin was already out dancing.

Benedict was in her line of sight.

With a smile on her face, she began to approach her second eldest son. Benedict had been talking to Lady Danbury. However, when he caught sight of his mother coming over, he panicked. He bid a quick and barely audible farewell and hurried off into the crowds.

Violet came to stop beside Lady Danbury, knowing full well she wasn't going to chase her son down. The two ladies chuckled softly.

Not knowing his mother had decided to just let him go, Benedict fled further into the room. He was determined to put space between himself and his mother. He was so busy checking behind him, be wasn't paying attention to anyone in front of him.

It happened quite suddenly.

Benedict collided with someone. He moved so quickly, grabbing onto the other person and spinning them around to slow down his momentum and prevent them from falling over. He looked down and found himself looking into a pretty pair of eyes.

"I am sorry." You say, looking up at him. It clicks instantly that he's a Bridgerton. He looks like his brothers.

"No, no. Allow me to apologise. I wasn't looking," he says.

Benedict takes a moment to realise his hands are settled on your upper arms. He drops them instantly and takes a step back. No one seemed to take much notice, but he spotted a couple of people turning his way. People always notice his family.

You look at him silently for a moment. You feel awkward, not knowing what else to say.

"Well, good night," you curtsy and try to walk away, but he stops you rather quickly.

"Wait."

You turn back to him.

"Dance with me?" He asks suddenly. He can see his mother amongst the other faces in the crowd. She's looking for him, he is certain of it.

"Oh, um. Very well." You're caught off guard by his sudden invitation.

You take his hand and allow him to guide you to where the others are dancing. You get into position and begin. Benedict doesn't say anything for a while. He is keeping his gaze locked on the crowd. You break the silence between you by giving him your name. Benedict snaps out of his daze and looks at you.

"Oh, right. Yes. I'm Benedict. Bridgerton. Benedict Bridgerton." He gives a little smile.

"I've seen your other siblings here tonight."

"Yes. My sister is debuting." His eyes flicker back up to the crowd. Violet has spotted him she looks ecstatic. Benedict wonders if that's better or worse.

"She's breathtaking."

He looks at you again. "Yes. I suppose she is."

You get the idea that he isn't much in the mood for talking, and you keep quiet for the rest of the dance. When the music comes to a close, you curtsy, and he bows. The next piece begins to play.

"Well, thank you," you say softly.

Benedict snaps back into focus and looks at you. He takes your dance card and writes his name on it before excusing himself. You watch him go and sigh. You look at the card and see his neat penmanship.

"Benedict Bridgerton. Who would have thought." You mutter to yourself.

You leave the floor.

Your mother comes over quickly and snakes her arm around yours again. She looks delighted.

"You danced with a Bridgerton! That will certainly gain some attention for you." She sounded far too happy for your liking.

"Yes, I suppose it might."

As she begins to yap on in your ear, you turn in time to see Anthony and Daphne speaking to their mother. After a moment, they leave the ball altogether.

You wished you could do the same.

♡♡♡

@callmemana - @lilscast - @imgondeletedis - @benedictbridgertonss - @clownsdiehard - @wxnterwidow333

@sillynilly27 -

#Bridgerton shade of blue #benedict bridgerton x reader #bridgerton #female reader #dragon writes

[cupid-styles]

Ahhhh I need more hockey!harry 😍 I need a whole back story to how they met, when he started teasing her and for what reason and how they end up together. It’s soo good, I especially loved the jealous blurb, I need more! ❤️

ahhhhh thank you cutie!!! here's a blurb on how they met and got to where they are now

also tysm to cutie @harrysonlylover for this collage!!!! this v much represents their relationship <3

word count: 1.3k

content warnings: none!

masterlist | talk to me

hockey h x ballerina!yn masterlist

patreon

. . .

Things between Harry and Y/N weren’t always like this.

In fact, maybe in another world, they would’ve been friends. Even lovers, perhaps, but that may be pushing the envelope just a tad. They’re both third years, which means they started at the university at the same time. They attended all of those silly orientation meetings and events alongside one another (and few hundred others) that are designed to make incoming freshmen feel more comfortable, but in reality, just make things awkward and cringy. 

(Harry remembers visibly recoiling when he was told to come up with a fun fact, and they weren’t allowed to say anything about their majors or primary sports.) 

(He ended up going with the fact that he was born in London, which their orientation leader, Lisa, was far too interested in — an annoying amount, really. He thinks she tried getting with him at the bonfire that evening, but Harry was so exhausted he couldn’t even be bothered to pretend like he knew what she was getting at.)

But Y/N was in his orientation group, actually. Years later, he still remembers how strong her legs looked in her shorts and the way she tied her hair up with a velvet scrunchie (it was in the middle of July, and the heat was sweltering, sunrays pelting them straight into their backs and necks). He doesn’t recall what her fun fact was, but he does know that they were paired up for some dumb icebreaker activity. In an effort to get them better familiar with the campus, they had to do a scavenger hunt which, to Harry, felt like cruel and unusual punishment considering the rapidly increasing temperature. They were instructed to fill up their free, university-sponsored water bottles and get to work, returning back to the post before 5 pm, where they’d be having some sort of barbecue situation.

At first, Harry thinks she’s shy. Well, she is — she’s quiet and doesn’t say much besides a soft “thank you” when he offers to run her water bottle over to the refill station. She’s focused on the task at hand, though he can both tell that they would rather poke their own eyes out than do it.

“Let’s take a break,” Harry decides, not 20 minutes in. It’s mainly because his eyes zero in on a shady area on the quad, a semblance of shade offered by a large oak tree. Y/N, exhausted herself, doesn’t fight him.

She sits cross-legged in the grass, her posture near impeccable as Harry lays down, fixing his sunglasses into his curly hair. 

“Have you decided on a major yet?” Harry asks, desperate for some sort of small talk — normally, he doesn’t care for niceties, but the near-silence between them is killing him, considering how hot and bored he is.

“I have a ballet scholarship.” she answers simply.

“That’s cool,” he nods, though he doesn’t know a single thing about it, “I didn’t know this school was big on ballet.”

He notices the way she wrinkles her nose, eyes squinting slightly. 

“It’s one of the top dance schools in the country, only behind performing arts universities.”

“Oh. Nice.”

Y/N attempts to shake away his ignorance, head cocking to look down at the male laying at her side. “And you? What are you majoring in?”

And Harry doesn’t really mean it, but it comes out without him even realizing it. It’s just— no one’s asked him that in years, but only because where he’s from, everybody knows he was the top hockey player in the city, number five in the state. Nobody ever expected Harry to go to school to study anything because it was always known that he’d go for hockey. 

So, he snorts. He actually, physically snorts, and the look of apparent disgust is immediately clear on Y/N’s face. Parting his lips, he instantly wishes he can take it back, especially when she straightens her posture to sit up a bit higher.

“I’m sorry, I— I’m here for hockey,” Harry flounders, sitting up on his elbows. “I have a hockey scholarship.”

“And was I supposed to know that?” Y/N fires back with narrowed eyes. He shakes his head. 

“No, of course not.”

“Right,” she says, standing from the shady oasis and brushing her hands over her bum to get any grass off of it, “Let’s finish this.”

. . . 

Harry was wrong about Y/N.

He thought she was shy and quiet, maybe a bit mousy if anything. But no— it turns out, in the few hours that he’s known Y/N, if she doesn’t have a taste for someone, she’ll make it known. It’s not even in outwardly mean ways, it’s just passive aggressive, like dismissive hums at his every attempt at conversation, or him pointing out the ballet studio on their walk through the campus center. He even says “oh, wow, it looks beautiful,” hoping to pet at the excited, passionate part of her personality, but instead, she ignores him. 

She ignores him.

So when they finally finish the stupid scavenger hunt, Harry couldn’t be more eager to be done with it. He tells her he’ll submit the papers to their orientation leader so she can go fuck off and find whatever friends she’s made, and she does, without even a bit of arguing. It makes Harry sigh as he’s walking back to the big barbecue event in the quad. He feels bad for his cocky response — he didn’t even mean it, and it came off so arrogantly that she would probably forever associate him with it until they went their separate ways. 

He has a hockey thing tonight — the rest of the team that aren’t first-years are already back on campus, practicing and gearing up for the start of the season, so the coach invited him to come meet everyone — but he can’t shake how shitty he feels about someone already hating him. He decides he’ll offer an olive branch of cheese fries (he opts out of a burger or hot dog, just in case she’s vegetarian). He spots her sitting at a table in the same shady spot they were in earlier, two other girls by her side as they chat. From here, she looks happy, engaged in casual conversation with people she could’ve met today or known for years — he really can’t tell.

When he makes it over to their table, he expects Y/N to at least look up at him, some sort of recognition in her expression, but instead she just looks… confused? Bored?

“Hey,” Harry greets awkwardly, feeling that their conversation immediately took a pause due to his presence. He places the cheese fries down on the table. “I’m sorry again about today. I don’t want that to be your first impression of me.”

Based on her demeanor, he doesn’t expect a gracious response; if anything, a lackluster “it’s fine” would have sufficed. But instead, her eyebrow quirks and she cocks her head to the side. 

“I’m sorry. Do I know you?”

It hits Harry in the gut. 

He flounders, his lips parting open and closed like a fish gasping for air. He collects himself a moment later, pressing his mouth into a tight line. 

“You’re right. Must have confused you with someone else,” he replies with a clenched jaw. “Enjoy the fries anyway.”

His legs quickly carry him far away from the table and in the direction of the hockey arena and locker room. He hopes he can pull some skates on and at least shoot around a little, because if he ever has to see that girl’s face again, she’ll have hell to pay.

#bestie asks #writing #hockey h #harry styles #harry styles writing #tags are tedious

[misc-obeyme]

(inspired by the barbatos makeup asks) imagine barbatos choosing which lipstick he should wear for the day, his choice being which lipstick he think would look best covered all over your face from his kisses

alsdfklsdfj anon how can you do this to me???

I'm so sorry. I had to write a drabble about this.

So here it is, Barbatos choosing his lipstick based on what would look best all over your face. There is making out and more is implied, but that's all. It's just a drabble but wow am I tempted to write full on smut about it lol.

GN!MC x Barbatos

Warnings: Uh... making out, implied further activity, lipstick? Does that last one need to be listed? I dunno.

Barbatos looks at the array of lipstick colors neatly lined up on his bathroom counter. Most of them are neutral colors, just enough to add a little something to his lips on regular days. He has a small group of other bolder colors that he keeps for special occasions.

There is no such occasion today. Not unless he counts the fact that you'll be coming over to the castle later. Something that he would not normally take into consideration. But he knows how things are likely to go and his mind won't stop flashing images of his lipstick against your skin.

Unable to stop himself, Barbatos reaches for one of his bolder colors. He applies it meticulously, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand rather than daydreaming about smearing it all over your face.

Barbatos goes through his day as he always does. He takes care of Diavolo, who mercifully doesn't comment on his butler's unusual choice of lipstick color. In fact, the only one who says anything about it at all is Asmodeus, which isn't surprising. He unleashes a little squeal before complimenting Barbatos on his choice and listing several recommendations he has for Barbatos to add to his collection.

For the most part, Barbatos is free to go about his day in peace, only allowing his mind to wander if he happens to catch his own reflection.

Before you arrive, he takes the time to touch up his face and hair, deliberately adding just a little more lipstick.

If you notice, you don't say anything. Barbatos makes you tea, but doesn't drink any himself. He doesn't want to mess up his carefully done lips by leaving marks across a teacup.

You say something about that, though. "You're not drinking any tea. Are you okay?"

Barbatos feels himself blush. "Forgive me, MC," he says. "You needn't be concerned. I simply-"

"You don't want to mess up your lipstick, huh?"

Barbatos's blush deepens. He stares at you in surprise, unable to respond at all. Was he really so obvious?

You put down your teacup and smile. "Waiting for me to mess up it for you, right?"

Barbatos is a very patient demon. He is able to remain calm and collected at all times. It seems the only thing that can cause him to act unexpectedly is this human. After spending the entire day attempting to suppress his thoughts of you, the remarks you make being so spot on breaks through the dam.

In moments, Barbatos has you pressed up against the castle wall. He presses his lips to your neck and pulls away to see the mark of his lips there against your skin. The sight of it causes heat to pool inside his gut, but he continues. He leaves a trail of lipstick along your neck and jaw until you finally catch his lips with yours.

Things get messy fast and he can taste the tang of his own lipstick when your tongue collides with his. You're gripping the back of his shirt with surprising strength and his hands on your hips squeeze hard in response.

With a gasp, Barbatos pulls away to breathe. He looks at you, slumped against the wall, mouth open, face and neck covered in that special shade he chose that morning.

Barbatos smiles fondly. "Just as I thought, this particular color compliments your complexion quite well."

Now you're the one blushing, but Barbatos isn't finished.

He tightens his hold on you even more and says quietly, "I would like to see how it looks decorating the rest of your body as well."

The next morning, Barbatos contemplates the line of lipstick colors once again. He was quite satisfied with the outcome of the previous day's choice. Your slumbering form still in his bed was a testament to that. And though he would choose one of his usual neutral colors for today, he knew that if he ever wanted to communicate to you his desires without speaking, he need only choose that same shade again.

masterlist | Thank you for reading!

#what can I say I get inspired by Barbatos almost every time #and this lipstick thing is just getting to me omg #obey me #obey me nightbringer #obey me barbatos #om barbatos #obey me barbatos x reader #om barbatos x reader #obey me x reader #x reader #anon asks #misc answers #misc writes

[liyawritesss]

summertime crushin’

Characters: MCU!Shuri Udaku x Black!Fem!Reader

Type: Fic

Word Count: 1.7k

Synopsis: In Shuri’s attempts to follow in her brother's footsteps and continue his work with the Wakandan International Outpost Facilities, she finally takes up Riri’s offer to visit Chicago. However, she isn’t sure if it's the intense summertime heat that has her face burning or the incredibly talented dance choreographer Riri is friends with.

Warnings: cursing

A/N: For the two dances mentioned: the first is “Killing Me Softly” by Lauryn Hill, choreography by Evan Miller (0:08-2:10), and the second is “BMO” by Ari Lennox, choreography by YeoJin (0:00-1:15), of which (Y/N) is the middle dancer with coloured hair. I’ve had this idea since FOREVER and finally had enough of it swimming in my head, so I finally wrote it down. Hope you all enjoy!

Tags: @inmyheadimobsessed @babyboiboyega @badass-dora-milaje @6-noir @playhousedistee @shuririsdefenseattorney @shuriszn @zayswriting @wrendermedone @writingintheshadowsforever @mbakuetshurisprincess @verachii @shurisbigtoe

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“So the arts are a prominent aspect of the city’s identity?”

“We don’t got our own Broadway title for nothin’, Shuri.”

Shuri could admit to herself that she never thought much of the US outside of the horrible government leadership and the plethora of pathetic white supremacists who hid behind a thin veil of patriotism. She admired her brother’s work, though, with wanting to provide more than adequate resources to black communities all over the US, and as her new title required her to take up the work in question, it only made sense that she’d cut her vacation in Haiti short to get acclimated to the work her brother and mother maintained.

Shuri could also admit that the immense creativity and artistry from members of the Lost Tribe gave her a culture shock she didn’t know she needed to prepare herself for. Even in her mid-twenties, the queen-presumptive had so much to learn about the people who had been stripped of their lineage and ripped from the motherland. No amount of reading or digesting news reports could amount to actually witnessing it in person.

Which is exactly why Riri, Shuri’s self appointed guide to all things Chicago, was escorting the scientist around all the most notable establishments pertaining to all this visual and performance art. From the Chicago Art Museum to watching bands play on corners of sidewalks, Shuri never found herself bored or tired of the activities. And next on the list of places to visit was a storefront  dance studio belonging to a friend of the young engineer, of which Riri was rather ecstatic about, as she hadn’t seen this friend since their highschool days.

Shuri didn’t know what to expect when she entered into the storefront dance studio, following Riri in close pursuit so as to not get lost amongst the other bodies leaving the space. Her only exposure to black American dance was from short clips online she had searched up as a child. Though in an ever changing society, the dark skinned woman was sure that what she had been exposed to prior would surely not be the same as what she would be walking into now.

Shuri is pulled into a room that’s blasting music from the speakers, a song from a voice the queen-presumptive remembers belongs to that of the infamous Lauryn Hill. The robust deepness of the rapper’s voice rises goosebumps along Shuri’s skin, bare and showing her deeply melanated tone. She’s in a forest green tank top that emphasizes her shoulders, her golden necklace housing her panther suit rested neatly around her neck. Black shorts clothed her legs, stopping just above her knees, and on her feet for a pair of strapped slides similar to ones her brother wore long ago. Of course, one could not forget the black shade which hid her eyes, and the majority of her identity, from everyone around her.

Compared to Riri, who wears a white cropped tank, black jogging pants and white AF1’s, the engineer looks much more prepared for a dance class than Shuri is, but she was quickly assured that they wouldn’t be dancing, but rather, watching a few of the dances done by the students within the class. It eased Shuri for a moment, until she walked into the dance space with the loud music reverberating through the walls of the studio. With the melody and bass over taking her body, Shuri couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed.

“This is one of the best dance studios in the city,” Riri says over the music as the two make their way to the front of the crowd of students, “they do everything from Hip-Hop to R&B, and everything in between.”

Shuri nods along as she takes note of the three men standing in the middle of the crowd. They seem to be hyping themselves up up as the first part of the Lauryn Hill song plays, preparing for their routine.

“You about to get a taste of what real art looks like.” Riri muses, as the aforementioned men take their places as the first chorus of the song ends, and the second verse, and ultimately, their routine, begins.

Firstly, Shuri hadn’t expected for the male dancers to have such languid movements. The smoothness of their steps and transitions between each move seemed flawless, and she soon found herself entranced by the dance routine paired with the music playing. Much more, she notes just how happy they are at the moment. The popping and locking is precise, each one garnering a roar from their audience, in turn spreading smiles across the dancers faces. It feels their energy, keeping the precision consistent with the execution of each move. Even as one dancer falls off at what seems to be the end of the official routine, two of them stay on the main floor. They feed off of each other’s energies, dancing around each other in a near touch that shows the trust in each other and the intuition of each dancer. They move as if they’re reading each others mind, circling and molding around each other in a way Shuri had never seen before. And by the end of the performance, the queen-presumptive finds herself yearning for more.

“Bast”, Shuri gasps in shock, “I’ve never seen anything like this. Not even back home!”

Riri encourages Shuri’s amazement, engaging with her in reveling about the choreography they had just witnessed. Her attention is taken when she feels a tap on her shoulder, and when Riri turns around, she releases a shriek of happiness as she embraces the person who’d come up to her.

Shuri is able to get a good look at the person when Riri pulls away. A woman of melanated skin, sun-kissed and glossed over undoubtedly by perspiration, sporting a gray jogging suit set with the hoodie bunched up and hiked over on one shoulder, revealing a black sports bra underneath.

“You made it, Ri!” You exclaim in your embrace of the engineer, hugging her tight as a long lost friend should. “Fuck, I’m so glad youre here; it’s been years!”

“I heard you were back in town, I knew exactly where yo’ ass was gon’ be.” Riri replies, gesturing for you to step forward to be introduced to Shuri.

“This is the friend I told you I was bringing.” Riri reminds, earning a gentle smile from you to Shuri. “Shuri, this is (Y/N). (Y/N), Shuri.”

You held your hand out for a handshake, but Shuri is too distracted by how pretty you are. “It’s nice to meet you,” you greet, “I’ve never met a queen before. Hope it’s not awkward…?”

“No, no,” Shuri quickly reassures, raising her hand to finally take yours in your greeting, “not awkward at all. And the pleasure is mine.”

Shuri isn’t sure what caught her attention first - the fact that you’re half exposed with your hoodie only properly being on half way, exposing your toned stomach from what Shuri suspects is years of dance, or the way your eyes glisten with excitement, or the way your skin is glowing. She just knows that you’re very pretty and it’s making her look like a fool in front of someone she just met. And she doesn’t do well when that happens.

“My piece is up next,” you say, which brings Shuri out of her head and causes her ears to burn slightly, as she was so stuck in her thoughts, she hadn’t realized that her hand still held yours in a firm grip. She quickly pulls it away, muttering a quiet apology in return, but you reassure her that she was alright, “you guys sticking around after?”

“Hell yeah we are,” Riri hurriedly answers, “you owe me lunch, cuz you got some explaining to do about how you just dipped and ain’t say shit.”

“Fine, fine,” You relent, “lunch on me. We’ll figure it out when I’m done, cool?”

Though you don’t give them much time to respond, as you’re already backing away as you hear your song being played over the speakers, and your dance partners already in place. Riri throws you a quick thumbs up, granting you the relief you need for jogging out onto the dance floor.

Shuri’s eyes follow you intently as you meet up with the two other dancers located on the floor. She, however, feels a pair of eyes on her, and turns to meet Riri, who has a look on her face that Shuri can only akin to smugness.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Shuri questions slowly, eyebrows furrowing together.

“Hm,” Riri humans, “nun’.”

“Don’t do that!” Shuri groans.

“Do what?” Riri asks. “I ain’t do nun’...I just peep shit and keep it movin’.”

“Exactly,” Shuri responds, “and what exactly did you ‘peep’-?”

“Shhhh,” Riri shushes Shuri as the melody for the verse comes in, “they’re starting!”

It doesn’t take much effort for Shuri’s attention to shift directly onto you, and she’s actually glad she has these shades on, because she has an idea of what Riri says she ‘peeped’, and the intensity of her stare would have given Riri all the proof she needed to confirm her suspicions.

From the very start of the music, your body moves fluidly, as if you were a deity of water, at home in your element. There’s a certain aura you carry - one of power and respect that you’re sure has earned you your place in this studio. Each and every one of your moves garners a roar of encouragement from the audience, and it spurs you on more and more, feeding off of the crowd's energy. The suave and swag that oozes from your persona has everyone on the edge of their seat. It becomes clear to Shuri that you weren’t just a dancer for entertainment. This was your very lifestyle, and you’ve made it your identity in every way imaginable. She watched as life was breathed into you on the dance floor, spurred on by the crowd’s hype, feeding into your ego. 

And by the time your set has finished, Shuri finds herself falling in love with Chicago a little bit more, and experiencing her first summertime crush.

If you enjoyed, please leave a like, comment, and reblog for others to see! And don’t be shy to send in a request!

#black reader #black tumblr #black marvel #marvel x reader #mcu x reader #mcu x black!reader #black panther #black panther wakanda forever #black panther x black!reader #black panther x reader #shuri black panther #black panther shuri #shuri #shuri udaku #princess shuri #shuri x reader #shuri x black!reader #shuri udaku x black!reader #shuri udaku x reader #princess shuri x reader #letitia #letitia wright #letitia wright black panther #letitia wright shuri

[sleepingdeath-light]

wally + painting as foreplay hcs ; 18+

requested by ; anonymous (19/06/23)

fandom(s) ; welcome home

fandom masterlist(s) ; sfw | nsfw

character(s) ; wally darling

outline ; “nsfw request (from an adult! haha) for more of Wally and the painting foreplay from your last post because I absolutely love the idea and I’m curious about the details!”

warning(s) ; sexually explicit content, referenced sexual intercourse, use of painting as a form of foreplay

note ; block the tag ‘playfellowxxx’ if you don’t want to see nsfw content for this fandom — clown created it for this specific use haha

additional note ; if anyone can guess what the third method is a reference to then you get a cookie

minors and ageless blogs will be blocked

wally is, before anything else, an artist — painting is practically in his blood — so it’s no surprise that this passion of his would make its way into the bedroom

there are a few ways that this tends to manifest itself so i’ll go through them in order of likelihood

the first is that it’s a painting of an erotic pose/outfit that turns into something more involved

typically this begins with him being solidly behind a canvas and viewing you and the scene you’re apart of through the lens of artistry rather than arousal

of course he finds the sight appealing and attractive on principle — it involves you after all — but the intention is innocent enough so his mind is centred on mixing acrylics and sketching shapes and the like

he’s mentally breaking you down to your components rather than seeing the whole picture: the curve of your throat, the swell of your thighs, the strain of your arms and the array of toys and gear that surround you

light and shadow and shading and colours and his hands are covered in paints and there’s some on his face… his hair is more black than blue, even

and he’s not going to be thinking about sex unless you invite him into the scene or mention wanting to see the painting close up

even then it will take him a minute since his mind is elsewhere, but after that he’ll start to appreciate the full picture in a much more active (and enjoyable) way for you both

the second is done through him painting you whilst you’re being pleasured or pleasuring yourself

whether it’s by instructing you to masturbate or using a remote controlled toy, this method will involve him trying to depict you in the throes of pleasure to the best of his abilities

he thinks you look absolutely stunning when you’re getting off and he wants to be able to capture that moment in paint and pencil — which, of course, means that there will be more than one attempt needed for him to get it right

this time he’s not oblivious to the eroticism of the situation and is instructing you on what to do in a calm and gentle voice — praising you for doing so well as he always does

‘hmm… spread your legs a bit wider please, dear,’

‘now, now, don’t muffle yourself — i promise you’re not distracting me,’

‘hmm… i’m not sure if i got your eyes quite right. would you be okay with trying that again?’

he’ll show you each sketch and painting after the fact whilst he helps you come down from your climax

talking you through the techniques he used and pointing out things about you that he loves through the art piece

and, of course, he’s more than happy to reward you for a job well done — which is what leads to some more active commentary on how much he appreciates your body, your words and, well, just you in general

the third, and final, way that painting is used as a type of foreplay for wally would be him painting your body like it’s a canvas

this would rarely ever happen because it just wouldn’t be something he’d think of doing — so you’d have to be the one to propose it

he’d probably struggle a bit with planning and fretting over the logistics of finding body safe paints (especially if you have sensitive skin)

but once everything is sorted out he’d probably get really into it in the moment

he’s printing the natural world onto your naked body and he’s being so gentle and focused as he does so

petunias and forget-me-nots and baby’s breath and lilies and roses and lavender and bluebells and daisies and so much more

each one with its petals painted heavy and thick with it’s stems brushed faint and thin — decorating and complimenting every dip and curve and scar and stretch mark that made your body your own

he’s humming some song or another as he makes his way further and further down: from your lips and cheeks, to your throat and chest, down your stomach and back, along your thighs and calves before ending at your sex

by then you’re a breathing work of art and the sun is warm and low and he’s looking at you like you were one of the beautiful blooming flowers that now decorated your skin

and you kiss him and he kisses you and you make love

the artwork gone — smudged all over your faces and bodies and the blanket beneath you — but it’s impact permanent

a memory, a moment, an emotion

then nothing went to waste — not even as you carry yourselves up to shower together and are intimate once again and you feel and see the paint (in a mixture of other things) washing away down the drain

#sleepingdeath #playfellowxxx #smut #minors dni #minors fuck off #minors dont touch #smut hcs #welcome home smut #welcome home x reader #wally darling x reader #wally darling smut #gender neutral reader

[nyxisaway]

God of war fic

I dunno really what the premise is or where it’s going but if you like it I’ll keep writing for sure

The subtle and quiet noise of wildlife stirring in the early morning started to drift through the forest like music, hues of soft golden light trickled through the patches of thinning leaves and needles on the surrounding trees. The bubbling of a nearby brook ensured a comfortable consistent white noise in the background while you cleaned and skinned the two rabbits your traps caught in the night. Addressing the small animals diligently and carefully you made sure not to waste anything crucial. the camp you had set up was very small and guarded by the shade of a large rock and some upturned roots and logs with no little effort you finished with the rodents and set the meat aside as you struck up a small fire for cooking. The sun was rising quickly and you wished to make the most of the day, intending to finish your journey through Midgard, you were in search of “the witch of the woods” as many called her, a mysterious woman who had healing powers and magical ability’s, hopefully she would be kind and open to helping a stranger,,

You skewered up the tender rabbit meat and set it to roast over the small coals, turning it diligently you were anxious to have it finished and melting apart in your mouth. It had not been long since you last caught something but with the packs of draugr popping up at random and the changing of Midgard as a whole, game has become scarce and much more alert to human activity. Taking the meat away from the flames you could barely allow it time to cool before stuffing your small mouth, savouring the flavour and warmth it provided in the chilled morning air. You ate three more slivers of meat before packing your small camp up and kicking out the fire, shouldering your bow and strapping your dagger to your waist you grabbed the small pack you had and set out towards the lake of nine.

You allowed yourself the luxury of a slow and steady pace soaking in the rising sun and enjoying the smells of dead leaves and winter in the air, the cold was fast approaching and you needed to find answers before that happened, or else you may never understand who you are, where you came from or why you can harness magic so easily. It had been a month or so since you woke up in a small village, a few young ladies fussing around you tending to your head and monitoring your state, you couldn’t remember anything that had happened just that you weren’t from this part of the realm and you shouldn’t be in Midgard, your clothes gave no hint of where you were from as you were dressed in practically garbage. After cleaning yourself up and without any luck to learn about who you were or how you ended up in that village you set out in search of someone, anyone that can do magic and maybe bring your memory back

It was your own fault for getting so lost in your own thoughts but you quickly noticed the sound, or in fact lack thereof. No birds were singing in the trees anymore and the wind had halted to a completely stop, you gripped the hilt of your dagger and brought it in front of your body while lowering yourself and moving quickly to the side of the path, you let out a slight breath and watched as the cause of the unrest made itself plainly clear. With a gruff and low growl a large and hulking form started out of the trees before you, it was a troll? Of some kind you assumed, smaller than what the largest you’re sure can be but it was still quite a height and a rather intimidating weight considering how much it shook the ground as it walked

The breath in your lungs was stolen and suddenly you were fighting against the meat you loved so much earlier, what the hell were you supposed to do now?? Just wait for it to pass? You had to think of something quickly before it smelled you or worse saw you in the bushes, you sheathed your dagger and crawled on your stomach through the brush attempting to keep yourself hidden when suddenly a cry cracked through the air splitting the silence in half, before you could be aware of what was happening a large glowing axe imbedded itself in the beasts shoulder and a volley of arrows stuck from multiple points in its hide

You could hear the calling of foreign words from what sounded like a young boy and the gruff deep commands that resounded from the taller companion, he was even more intimidating than the troll, with a blood red mark trailing down his face and some rather scary looking armour fitting his broad shoulders, his skin was ghostly white and he had a bushy beard accenting his face giving him a clear air of maturity and knowledge- wait is that a fucking severed head oh his belt??? Ok ok well they are fighting the troll so I guess they aren’t enemies? The sounds of battle continued as you rose from the brush and drew your own bow, loosing an arrow at the troll the young man looked over at you with a look of utter confusion

“FOCUS BOY” came the voice of the tall man and you almost felt yourself ready up in response, the young man turned back around and assisted in finishing off the troll, a site which you regret seeing with such an already queasy stomach,, before you were completely calmed the young man ran over to you frantically “are you ok?? Was that troll attacking you?”

“Boy.” Said the man as if dismissing his concern for you and chastising him for getting distracted, “I’m only making sure they’re ok father”

“I- I’m fine thanks to you guys,, it didn’t even have time to notice me” you choked out still afraid after the entire scene. You took in the form of the young man, he appeared to be no older than 16 but his face gave the impression of being extremely battle hardened as he bore many scars and a tense posture

He smiled at you and you saw that he really was still just a young boy, with a bit of light in his eyes still. Oh good at least the tall one hasn’t beat every ounce of Joy from this kid, you debated asking them for help in your searching for this forest witch but the pale man grunted out a stiff “we are leaving.”

“Wait!” You exclaimed, the look in the younger ones eyes made you feel a bit more confident to speak what you wished “please first allow me to properly thank you for saving my life, I could give you some meat I have wrapped? Or even some coins” “don’t worry about it lass this is hardly the first time these two have saved a life” another voice joined the mix and you could only stare in awe at the talking severed head on the man’s hip. “What- the fu” “oh haha that’s mimir! Hes our friend” pitched the young man as if that was going to suddenly negate the fact that he was a talking SEVERED HEAD. “Ah, I see that makes it all better then” you remarked smiling nervously

While swallowing your last bit of anxiety you decided to ask your question before these two *cough* sorry three were gone for good and you had no hope of help. “Hey wait one more thing, I know it’s a long shot but you guys don’t happen to know anything about a,, witch of the woods around here do you?” The looks on all their faces told you that you asked the wrong question, after a few seconds of silence the boy answered “uh you probably won’t be able to see her any time soon.. she’s well she just lost her son,, and she’s kinda become obsessed with killing my father and I” you noticed your jaw was agape but you didn’t move to close it, you were distraught at what you just learned, you weren’t going to be getting any help from the so called magical lady and now what

Now fucking what

“What’s wrong? What was your business with freya lass?” Freya?? You thought, you certainly didn’t know that’s who you were going to see. “Uh well, I lost my memory’s and now I’m just stuck here in Midgard with this nagging feeling that I’m not from here and something bad is going to happen, with access to magic that I don’t understand and I was, well I was hoping the witch- freya, would be able to give me some answers” you replied all too honestly with these total strangers a look of pity came across the boys face as he listened to you and suddenly “father can they come with us?” You were shocked but somehow not unhappy with the thought “no” was the only thing he said in response

This dropped your face completely “why not I think I can help them and after all it’s our fault freya isn’t around anymore to help people like them it’s not fair” as he made his argument you watched as the eyes on the taller man softend slightly “fine. Do not be in our way girl.” He bellowed as he turned shouldering the axe this seemed to please the young boy as if this was a great reaction and he smiled at you while motioning for you to join them in walking

“I guess I should tell you our names!” He said from beside you, “I’m Atreus, that’s mimir like I said and that’s my father” “his name is kratos” the head said in addition. It seemed nobody else would’ve given you that information. “It’s nice to meet you Atreus” you smiled at him “don’t you have a name lassie?” Mimir said gazing at you “I did I assume but I don’t remember what it was… and I’ve been travelling alone so I, didn’t think about it I guess…” you said trailing off kind of quietly there was a couple things you hadn’t thought about lately

Like where you’re supposed to go now

#god of war #mimir #kratos #atreus #gow mimir #god of war ragnarok #gow #gow ragnarok #gowr #mimir x reader #god of war ragnarok spoilers #god of war x reader #kratos x reader #headcannon #fic ideas #fanfiction #Atreus x reader? I dunno but in a soft way #I don’t even know where this is going honestly but if you like it I’ll keep going

[deadly-fabrication]

𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞

bingiplier drabble

︶꒷꒦︶ ๋࣭ ︶꒷꒦︶ ๋࣭ ︶꒷꒦︶ ๋࣭ ︶꒷꒦︶ ๋࣭ ︶꒷꒦︶ ๋࣭ ︶꒷꒦︶ ๋࣭

Arcades were becoming less and less frequent. Hearing such businesses shut down had become commonplace, almost like a repeat of the videostore extinction. Still, one place in town kept itself busy, doubling itself on minigolf and a bowling alley. That wasn't the reason why people went. This particular entertainment centre advertised androids as their greeters and guides. Each android had their own story, often shared amongst the human employees rather than the customers.

You could be one of the lucky few.

A Bing unit offered to be your guide throughout the activities. As stated on the website, Microsoft gifted a good handful of its creations to this establishment - must have something to do with their latest VR experience, which was also installed and advertised. That was it for surface knowledge, not that you initially planned on diving deeper.

The slightest hint of a snicker tainted the air as you missed yet another swing. Snapping your head at your artificial guide, you couldn't help but notice the silliest, goddamn goofiest grin wiped across his face. At least someone was having fun. Bing leaned on his club, careful not to break it under his own weight. “Between you and me, I ain't good at this either.” Unaware of any sort of rules, without swapping your ball out for his, he decided to take a swing. The ball never left the tee. But, oh something did fly.

“Whoops.” Did Bing throw his club on purpose? It completely slipped his grip, and there it was, lying on the astroturf. For an attempt to cheer you up, it was a little patronising. Still, he tried. You were smiling, weren't you? There wasn't a clear winner by the end, not that the competition mattered.

Bing continued guiding you through activities, cheering you on. Though, after a genuinely disheartening loss, he removed his shades and placed them on you instead. “Keep em! I have more.” Such an uplifting attitude, from someone who arguably wasn't real by human standards. Seeing the black sclera and orange irises in his mechanical eyes, it further pushed his nonhuman existence. Despite that, his grins were contagious, as was his laughter.

The two of you sat down, eventually. It was the perfect moment to ask questions. “Were you programmed this way?”

“What way?” He threw the question back at you.

“You know, all human-like! You're so... expressive?”

The Bing unit could only laugh, as he has been all day. “We call it "breaking the stereotype." But, yeah kinda. It's more like I was programmed to adapt socially.”

Moments passed, an employee walking over with the food you ordered, and a little bit extra. A hotdog? You never asked for that. Before you could open your mouth to question them, the android at your side eagerly snatched at the food. Right after a quick, "Thanks!" you watched as he began chowing down.

“You eat?!”

“Yeah, don't you?”

That was... a valid respond. The two of you shared lunch together, then your goodbyes. Well, you surely learnt more about him, nothing truly groundbreaking, but it was a start. You got some free shades out of it too.

#bingiplier #bing irl #mark egos #iplier egos #fic #possum's drabbles

[beevean]

i really have to lament that the standards for female characters in media are still so abysmal that people are happy to eat up #girlboss'd maria and annette in nocturne

when their character bios dropped these past few days, my mind immediately went to this iconic kate beaton comic panel:

and this was a parody of how mainstream media "solved" sexism by invariably making every female character a badass, take no prisoners Action Girl™ (aka the proto-#girlboss) from over a decade ago

Absolutely incredible :^)

What grinds my gears is that the adaptation is deliberately flattening characters who were distinct in the original games and could have been fleshed out in a proper story.

Annette doesn't do much in RoB, true. Her one significant scene is the one where she threatens to slit her own throat rather than join Dracula. Sure, why not expand on that? An average woman without powers or training, but armed with nothing bur bravery in the face of corruption: she may not be able to strike enemies physically, but she won't fall for their mind games, and she might also be rewritten to be intelligent and tactic-- nope she's a metalbender now!!!! she's also a swordswoman!!!!! and she will be politically motivated!!!!!!

Maria is a plucky 12 yo girl without much experience of the world, but who grows to care about Richter and wants to help her. She doesn't understand, nor care, about Dracula's speech about the evil of mankind, while the adult Richter falters: she is pure innocence. Still, her unique powers give her an edge when it comes to demon slaying, all without losing her upbeat attit-- nope she's a political leader now!!!! she's also a swordswoman!!!!!! and she's always serious!!!!!! and she will be politically motivated!!!!!!!

In the original NFCV, Sypha was the only one spared because her personality admittedly was a little more upbeat and warmer, even though she also fell in the trap of being the One Braincell Of The Group. But Greta and the woman St. Germain simped for picked up the slack for her, as they were both the exact shade of competent, no-nonsense tough lady fighter, complete with "good thing I'm here to run your life now" in the former's case.

And the female villains? Striga was the only original one, being the obvious muscle of the group, but she might as well have been a henchwoman. Carmilla? A self-proclaimed queen whose personality begins and ends at #girlboss, all sexy and seductive and manipulative and with a dash of radfem. Lenore? Not quite as girlbossish, but still meant to be seen as cool and sexy (and fucking how) and a great manipulator. Erszbet? So far she looks like Carmilla 2.0. Drolta is the one we know the least about so far, but it's interesting how she was turned from an old human witch to a young sexy vampire.

You see the pattern here?

Annette and Maria are also the latest examples of characters who have been changed for no good reason in an attempt to "fix" them. NFCV hates normal people, they all have to be heroes and magic users and proficient weapon users. Instead of keeping Annette with her role of "Richter's girlfriend and a normal girl", but giving her a more substantial personality, she was completely reworked to be something that she simply isn't, and that rewriting is being praised as being So Much Better Than The Games. As if her original role is so undefensible that she needs to be reworked from scratch.

It's lazy. There is a sore lack of variety in the female cast of these shows. And it pretends to be "progressive" about it. As if women are only worth being celebrated if they're physically active and have a tough attitude.

Meanwhile, I will forever be impressed by how Ayami Kojima and Kou Sasakura took Rosaly, a literal non-entity in CoD whose only narrative purpose was to be the fridged woman, and gave her enough personality, without straying far from the archetype of the kind normal girl, that I seriously grew attached to her, something I would have never expected at first.

#anti netflixvania

[foundtherightwords]

Sunlight Through the Mist - Chapter 2

Pairing: Hellcheer (Eddie Munson x Chrissy Cunningham)

Summary: Having witnessed the broken marriage of his parents, Edward Munson, Baron Hurstfield, always regards love with a cynical eye. When circumstances compel him to marry and produce an heir, he quickly proposes to Christine Conyngham, a debutante whose reputation is hanging by a threat after an ill-fated affair. All Edward wants is to save his family estate, but as beautiful, fragile Christine finds her way into his wary heart, their marriage of convenience may become something neither of them ever expects - a union of love.

Warnings: angst, past domestic violence, suicide attempt, smut (non-explicit)

Chapter word count: 3.3k

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

The moment he stepped out of Lady Harrington's stifling ballroom and felt the freezing air on his face and in his lungs, Edward's mood lifted. That had been folly. He did not belong in that world. Miss Conyngham had been a nice reprieve, but clearly, he had thought there was a connection where there was none.

He hailed a cab and headed to Covent Garden. An hour or two wandering its streets in quiet anonymity, perhaps a pint at the Hideout, was what he needed to get rid of the false politeness and the condescension of the ton that hung about him like a miasma, to feel himself again. Plus, the handbills advertising a meeting on women's rights that the Misses Hargrove had entrusted him to distribute were still in his coat pocket, so he could feel useful during his wandering.

At this time of night, Covent Garden was a hive of activities. Despite the cold, its denizens could be seen hanging around doorways and balconies, calling out to customers, and many establishments still threw their doors wide open, letting the sounds of revelry from within act as a siren's song to pleasure-seekers. Edward tended to avoid these. It was not because he didn't see a point in paying for pleasure—though he really did not—but rather because madams of such bawdyhouses tended to take it less kindly to girls trying to better their lot. They could get into serious trouble if one of his handbills was discovered on them. Instead, he focused on the back alleys and lanes. They may be more dangerous, but the women there were more independent and therefore more receptive to reform.

Still, most of them stared at him blankly when he gave them a bill and explained about the meeting. It was only when he mentioned the free refreshments that they perked up a little.

He turned a corner and almost stumbled over a form slumped in a doorway.

He bent down. It was a young woman—no, a girl, no older than sixteen or seventeen, dressed in little more than rags, her hair hanging down her face in dirty ringlets. As Edward's shadow fell across her face, she opened her eyes. "Fancy some company, sir?" she asked. Her voice was oddly flat and emotionless, like she was reciting some tired old lines.

"No, thank you," Edward said. Despite his better judgment, he reached into his pocket for a coin and pressed it into her ice-cold palm. "Here, get yourself somewhere warm."

The feel of the coin brought the girl back to life. She sat up and closed her fingers around both the coin and Edward's hand.

"For this much, you can do whatever you want with me, sir," she said eagerly.

"No, no, you mistook me, I don't want—please—" Edward tried to extract himself, but her grip was surprisingly strong for someone so frail.

"Anne, let the gentleman go," a stern voice sounded from the darkness. The speaker, an older woman with hair dyed a garish shade of red, stepped into the light. "Go on now, be a good girl and get your arse down to the King's Head," she said, nodding to the girl. After a moment's hesitation, the girl scrambled up and soon vanished into the mouth of the alley.

"Thanks, Molly," Edward said, rubbing life back into his knuckles.

"You'll have to excuse her, she's new," Molly said.

"Where was she from?" He didn't like to think about what had driven the girl to this place.

Molly only shook her head. "Eddie, Eddie, you can't save all of us, you know," she said with a sad smile, and then extended a hand. "What do you have for us this time? More talks on hygiene or safety in the bedroom?"

Abashed, Edward handed her a bill. Molly was one of the few prostitutes who could read, and he always relied on her to spread the word. She glanced at the bill and snorted. "Equal rights? What use would we have for that? Tell those ladies to advertise the free refreshment next time; more may come." She stuffed the bill into her stays and glanced at Edward slyly under eyelids heavily rimmed with kohl. "Can I tempt you tonight, Eddie?"

Edward blushed. Since he had started helping with charity and reform work around the area, he had made the acquaintance of several ladies of Covent Garden, and more than once, they had offered to repay him with the pleasure of their company. He had come closest to accepting it from Molly, drawn to her by her kindness rather than her attractiveness, but when he accompanied her into the tiny room above the Hideout, he had found himself unable to go through with it. He couldn't find the intimacy or connection in such a transactional act, and he'd also felt like he was taking advantage of her. Molly had been quite understanding, but that didn't stop her from making the offer again and again.

"I can't, Molly, I have—things to do," he mumbled.

Molly grinned at him. "Alright, go on with you," she said, giving his shoulder a playful swat. "And stay out of trouble."

After he said goodbye to Molly and found his way back to the Hideout, Edward was reminded of his conversation with his friends the last time he'd been there. Perhaps there was some truth to what Walton had said. He couldn't expect to find a wife the conventional way—after all, he was not marrying for the most conventional of reasons—so he should be more pragmatic. He couldn't keep chasing after ideals while his father's creditors were shaking down the gates of Hurstfield Hall...

Lost in his thoughts, Edward didn't realize there was someone in front of him until their back collided with his chest. The person screamed. A woman.

"A thousand apologies, ma'am," he said quickly. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

The woman spun around. The hood of her cloak fell down, and Edward was astonished to see the blue eyes of Miss Conyngham staring up at him.

***

What on Earth had happened to her? Edward asked himself as he went up to the counter at the Hideout to give his order, while keeping an eye on Miss Conyngham. She had seemed so dazed after their encounter on the street that he couldn't in good conscience leave her on her own, so he had taken her to the only place where he knew she could be safe. He'd left her sitting by the fire, since she kept shaking and shivering, though from cold or fear or distress, he could not tell. She was still dressed in her ball gown, with the same crescent moon in her hair, though both her gown and braids were a little mussed. More than those, it was her pale, tear-stained face that worried him. She'd insisted that she was not hurt, but what could possess a young, well-bred lady to wander these streets unaccompanied, unchaperoned? Unless it was her company that left her in such a state...

Shaking off this horrible speculation, he picked up the two cups of coffee handed to him by the publican and returned to the table. "Drink this," he said, giving a cup to Miss Conyngham. "It'll warm you up."

She looked up, as if just remembering where she was and who she was with. "Are you trying to get me drunk so you can have your way with me?" she said, letting out a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

His speculation was starting to look like a distinct possibility, but he tried not to dwell on it. He realized that this debutante, who had danced and converse with him mere hours ago in that glittery ballroom, was no different from the other women out there on the streets, all the Annes and Mollies of Covent Garden, when it came to men. They were all at the mercy of men. It was a sobering, chilling thought.

"It's coffee," he said, adding, "There's tea if you prefer, but they don't make very good tea here."

"How about something stronger?"

"With respect, Miss Conyngham, I think you should stick to coffee for now." He sat down on the other side of the fireplace and took a sip, to show her it was safe. She followed suit.

For a while, they sat and drank their coffee in silence, a silence that was only broken by the crackling of the fire and the soft murmurs of the other patrons. Edward took a closer look at Miss Conyngham. Although some color had returned to her face, she still had a fragile look about her, a permanent fragility that showed in her wide-set eyes and short upper lip. But there was strength there too, he observed, in the set of her chin and her jaws.

Just as Edward was wondering if they were going to sit there all night staring into the fire, Miss Conyngham turned to him. "So how often do you distribute radical handbills in the West End?" she asked.

He cleared his throat, discomfited at having been caught staring. "Only on the rare occasion when I'm in town," he said. It had been a rather embarrassing moment on the street when he dropped his handbills after walking into her. "And I'm no radical. I'm just trying to help."

"You should print the notice about the refreshments larger. That will attract a bigger audience."

Molly had said something similar, but this time, Edward bristled at the jab. "I suppose you think me an idealistic fool?"

Miss Conyngham moved a hand toward him in a consolatory gesture, but stopped short before she reached him. "No, I'm sorry. I think it's very brave and kind of you," she said. "If anyone was an idealistic fool here, it would be me."

This last sentence was uttered under her breath, almost to herself, but she clearly meant for him to hear it. He tilted his head at her. Now it was her turn to observe him from under her long lashes. Apparently whatever she saw was adequate, for she then looked straight at him and asked, "Are you a gambling man, Lord Hurstfield?"

"I despise gambling." It came out harsher than he'd intended.

Miss Conyngham flinched almost imperceptibly, but she rallied and continued, "Then you won't understand my predicament."

"Try me."

"I've gambled my future happiness, and lost."

Where was this going? But while they were dancing together, hadn't he wished for this, for her to trust him and to share with him? He plunged on. "What did you gamble on?" he asked.

"A man, what else?"

And to his horror, she burst into tears.

The sight of those tears sent a jolt through Edward, bringing back all the painful memories of his own mother crying. All at once, he was nine again, his hands balled into fists as he seethed with useless anger and remorse at her distress. And here he was, standing in front of another lady who had been reduced to tears by a man...

But he was no longer a helpless child. He was grown now, and he would not stand by, doing nothing. Noticing the other patrons staring at them, he angled his chair so its back was against the room, giving Miss Conyngham some privacy, and fumbled in his pocket for his handkerchief, praying that it was freshly laundered.

"Did... did he... hurt you?" he asked.

"Not physically, no. But I'm ruined just the same."

He wondered what she meant, and then it dawned on him. Of course. Even a whiff of rumor that she had been with a man, that her honor and reputation were compromised, could put an end to her matrimonial prospects. He would not pretend to know what it would be like for her—the unmarried women he knew, like the Hargrove sisters, seemed content with their lots, but then they were financially secure and independent. Not everyone was so fortunate. He remembered Mrs. Conyngham's haughty, disapproving looks, the gossiping matrons at Lady Harrington's, and those timid, desperate debs, and her heart went out to Miss Conyngham.

You can't save all of us, Molly's words reverberated in his mind, and she was right. He couldn't try to save all women who had suffered misfortunes, in some futile attempt to escape his childhood guilt of having failed his mother. What he could do, though, was to help this lost, troubled young lady in front of him.

An idea occurred to him and swiftly took root.

He was in need of a wife; she was in need of a husband. He certainly preferred her to all the prim and proper ladies he'd met. At least she knew how to speak her mind. She didn't seem totally repulsed by him. Her mother may be a termagant, but they would not be living with her anyway.

It was this thought about the possibility of living with a mother-in-law that made Edward realize he was seriously considering asking Miss Conyngham to be his wife.

Well, why not? He couldn't afford to wait much longer before the creditors seized his home. Better take the plunge now, or else he would lose heart. The worst she could do was to reject him.

"Miss Conyngham, I believe I may have a solution to your problem," he said.

"My problem?" she repeated, not understanding.

"You've put your trust in a man, and he has disappointed you," he said slowly, trying to find the best way to frame the matter without making it sound too cold, too businesslike. "Now your future is uncertain. I can help you with that. I cannot promise you happiness, because that's for each person to decide, but I can promise you security." He didn't mention that she would be bringing him security as well, should she accept.

Miss Conyngham stared at him for a long time, her too-short lip lifting up in surprise, leaving her mouth half-opened. Out of nowhere, Edward wondered what it would feel like to kiss that mouth. He blushed crimson, furious with himself. His mind could be so intrusive at the most inconvenient moment.

Miss Conyngham, however, didn't seem to notice his blush. "Are you proposing to... marry me, Lord Hurstfield?" she asked.

"Yes." Well, the die was cast now.

"But... why?"

He took a deep breath. "I must admit, my motivations aren't entirely altruistic." He drained the last of his coffee and ran his fingers over the rim of the empty cup, avoiding her quizzical eyes. "You see, my late father left me nothing but debts..." He gave her a brief explanation of his situation and Great Aunt Munson's will. Miss Conyngham listened, her face expressionless. If she found his honesty strange or off-putting, then she certainly showed no sign of it.

"I must tell you, I'm not a rich man," he continued, when she said nothing. "This inheritance is just enough to pay off my father's debts, no more. I have a small estate, in a small village, with only farmers around. You'll probably find life very dull there—"

"No, no," she interrupted. "It is of no importance to me."

That was a relief. He had expected that, as a debutante, she was used to the glamor and excitement of London life, but he remembered her admittance that she'd preferred to stay home than attend a ball. Perhaps this was not so harebrained after all...

"I do not ask you to love me. You knew my thoughts on that already. All I ask is that you are honest with me, and I shall be honest with you in return." This, more than anything he'd revealed to her, was the biggest risk he'd taken. Regardless of their strange circumstances, he could see how such a speech would sound less-than-appealing to a lady he hoped to marry, but he could not lie to her. He would not. If she rejected him for that, then so be it.

She was still gazing at him with that wondering, expectant look he'd come to recognize in her eyes. The Hideout had started to empty, and somewhere outside, a night watchman called out the hours, reminding Edward how exhausted Miss Conyngham must be. "There's no need to give me your answer now," he said, getting to his feet. "It's late, and you've had a trying night. Please, take more time to think about it. I'm in town until the end of the week. Once you've made your decision, you can send words to me in Portland Square."

The spark was back in her eyes, but this time, it was one of steely resolve. "I don't need more time," she said. "I'll marry you, Lord Hurstfield."

***

Edward handed Miss Conyngham into a cab and promised to call at her house in Hanover Square in two days' time. He then went back to the small suite he'd rented in Portland Square. However, despite his physical fatigue, his mind was still racing, preventing him from getting any rest. His blood pounded in his veins, he felt lightheaded, and his stomach churned, as though he were drunk, but he knew he wasn't—all he had was a glass of port at Lady Harrington's. No, this was agitation of the mind and the soul, not the body.

Throwing open the window of his bedroom, he breathed in the bitter air, hoping it would cool his head and give him some clarity.

He'd gotten engaged! How had that happened?!

He went over the events of the evening, wondering if they had really occurred at all or had been the result of some fevered dream. A sliver of moon came out from behind the clouds, reminding him of the ornament in Miss Conyngham's hair. That had definitely been real. It was too specific not to be.

All right, so they weren't officially engaged just yet, but he had given his words to her, and for his honor, he could not go back on them. Nor did he want to. But what about Miss Conyngham? She had been distraught when he posed the question to her; perhaps she was not thinking rationally. Perhaps at this very moment, she was regretting saying yes. They were practically strangers, for God's sake! They had spent, at most, an hour in each other's company. It was why he had given both of them two days to think the matter through. He told himself that he must not be too disappointed if, at the end of that period, she withdrew her acceptance.

Why should he be disappointed though? It was true that this was the best chance he'd ever had to save Hurstfield Hall, and it would be crushing if he let it slip through his fingers. But in his heart of hearts, he knew this wasn't just about saving his family estate. There was something else... something he couldn't quite grasp... something he didn't want to admit, even to himself. He remembered how he'd thought about kissing her, and blushed again. In his mind's eye, he could still see her, as though she were right in front of him, the silver of her gown and the silver crescent in her hair catching the light from the fire, making her look like the goddess Selene. Too bad he was no Endymion.

Selene and Endymion, indeed! Since when had he turned into a bloody poet?

Shrugging, he closed the window, undressed, and went to bed.

It wasn't until he got under the covers that Edward realized he didn't even know Miss Conyngham's first name. Lady Harrington hadn't mentioned it, and he hadn't bothered to ask.

He couldn't tell whether this oversight was laughable, alarming, or simply absurd.

Chapter 3

#hellcheer #hellcheer fic #hellcheer au #eddissy #hellcheersource #eddie x chrissy #eddie munson #chrissy cunningham #joseph quinn #joseph quinn fic

[writing-and-art]

#9

context: dazai, chuuya, driving a car

-

“Of course I know how to drive a car,” Dazai lies, like the fucking liar he is.

Chuuya, impervious to Dazai’s usual antics moodily crosses his arms.

“Bullshit.”

Let it be known that Dazai is the brains of their partnership. The mature one, the laid-back one. The taller one. The one who wouldn’t rise to any old petty challenge simply because he was above that.

Chuuya on the other hand… well, the less said about him, the better.

And so it was with this thought in mind that Dazai realised Chuuya lacked the necessary brain cells to ever realise the extent of Dazai’s maturity. Clearly, the only obvious way to rectify this plight was to sink to Chuuya’s level, which was a rather extreme feat given the other’s unfortunate lacking in the height department.

As if his invisible antennae was triggered by Dazai’s less than generous thoughts in regards to the other’s failures and shortcomings (a list that could go on for miles) Chuuya twitched and Dazai avoided the slow punch in the nick of time.

Sighing, he looked up as if praying to a god he didn’t believe in for patience.

“What an unruly dog i have…” he trailed off, awaiting Chuuya’s reaction. “Perhaps he’s just projecting onto me?”

Like magic, the reaction was immediate:

Chuuya glared at him and in a marvellous and unprecedented show of restraint, refrains from attempting to give Dazai the death he has chased for for a few years now.

“As if, stupid mackerel,” he declares, hyping himself up. Dazai watches the entertaining one man show with undisguised curiosity.

“I can drive a car perfectly fine.”

And that’s how it started.

As soukoku, it was a guarantee all their activities usually caused chaos and damage beyond human comprehension, and maybe that would have been enough warning to the average person, but there was one glaringly big hole of logic in this:

Simply put, Chuuya and Dazai were not average people. Or people at all, in their respective matters.

“Okay,” he acquiesces easily, too easily. Chuuya glares at him in suspicion. Good doggie, he was learning.

“We’re late to the meeting with the arm’s dealer by 15 minutes and counting,” Dazai says, sliding into the passenger’s seat to avoid the kick swung at his head with enough force to decapitate him. “Go on, my loyal steed. Deliver your master to save Port Mafia’s profits and alliances.”

To Chuuya’s credit, he, too, slides in with minimal complaints and steps on the pedal.

Despite Dazai’s usual unflappable composure, even he cannot resist taking joy in the simple (and often small) things in life. As such, he keels over in a rather painful way to seek for death in laughter.

Chuuya flushes beautifully, face reaching the same vibrant shade of red as his hair, and he frantically grabs levers and presses buttons while valiantly trying and failing rather miserably at maintaining composure.

By some miracle, the car starts, and Chuuya stomps the pedal.

The car launches forward faster than Dazai does when the river’s calls seem particularly inviting. Both teenagers were slammed back into their seats. Chuuya, whose arm’s were too short to reach the wheel while pressed back in the seat, panics and slams on the other pedal.

The car jerks to a stop, making a concerning sound that didn’t seem very safe. They launch forward, Dazai taking care to grab Chuuya with the thoughts of ‘taking him down with me’ as they slam into the glass and everything goes black.

They never did quite get the deal done.

#bsd #bungou stray dogs #chuuya nakahara #nakahara chuuya #dazai osamu #osamu dazai #chuuya #dazai chuuya age fifteen #being fucking teenagers #teenage skk #skk #soukoku #bsd writing #writing #theyre fucking stupid okay #how to write endings oof #in case its not clear they get a concussion #cw lack of knowledge on how to drive a car #me vs my overusage of commas and tags #okay in my defense no one reblogs anything ever #so

[granulesofsand]

I don’t know how to feel about the phrase ‘trauma dumping’. We’ve been in therapy and therapeutic programs for years, and collapsed boundaries was one of the first lessons we were taught.

It’s uncomfortable to have strangers lean on you. I don’t love the lack of consent when people share out of the blue. But if they didn’t, if we didn’t, people would be dead.

Nobody has a responsibility for anyone else’s happiness, but there is a level of compassion I expect that is all too often missing.

We almost died, we’re brought back from the brink, several times in our childhood. We could have told someone. Nobody encouraged disclosure, but plenty enforced silence.

I’ve sat with strangers on the train while they told their life story and I was barely living. I would rather repeat that a thousand times over than have them step onto the tracks instead. Seen that too.

I can respect that not everyone feels the same. It’s not fair to expect a person to prioritize another’s wellbeing over their own. But I see the assumption changing to ‘not my problem’ when maybe it should be.

I’ve had mental health counselors tell me they didn’t want to hear about sh or suicide attempts. There were teachers who told us to look the other way with a pedophile coach.

Sometimes it is your problem. Even people who refuse to see homelessness and disability, who insist that abuse is rare or exaggerated. That’s not okay. Why do they get to turn away from our suffering?

It is an active injustice to gloss over us so they don’t have to be uncomfortable. I don’t want their discomfort to take precedent over our safety.

I don’t understand where the line is, when it’s self-care to create distance versus when there’s a social duty to help. I don’t want to hurt bystanders, but I will die if this continues.

It’s not a distant possibility. We are never more than two missteps from fatality, and we are not alone. I want to scream, but I don’t know if that behavior is allowed.

Is it morally acceptable to fight for my life? How close to the edge do we have to be for us to be considered endangered?

And past that, our whole external life is trauma. Any aspect that we could cast in a positive light must be filtered. Even talking about my internal life is some shade of lie.

I can’t make connections without common ground, I don’t have any common ground without my trauma. We’re learning to watch current media and navigate social settings, but it takes so long to form any meaningful bond. It’s disingenuous without the past seeping in.

Is that normal? We’re still working on friendship without trauma-bonding. We’ve never done that before. All of our friends knew early on. People don’t like us without the context, we are weird. The ones who can already know, the way like knows like.

I don’t know when life will stop being trauma. It seems like it won’t. I’m walking a wall in the dark. I can grasp that I’m being dramatic, but this applies to every part of our life. I don’t want to be alone again.

#trauma #trauma recovery #traumagenic system #osddid #did osdd #dissociative identity disorder #did system

[home-sweet-hive]

Little Shop of Wonders

by Ash Rose Red

TW/CW: None

Summary:

While they were being chased down by GUN agents, Eclipse took notice of a small shop nearby and decided to take refuge there. But after things die down and they get the chance to spend some time with the shop's owner, Eclipse begins to suspect that he's not quite as he seems...

Note: This story uses they/them pronouns for Eclipse!

Another day, another chase ensues...

Those were Eclipse's thoughts as they ran through the thick bunches of trees, of which there were multitudes in this forest that was unknown to them. All they knew was that GUN was after them like always, and they had to keep themself, and their young Dark Arms, safe, so they kept running, holding their four younglings close to their chest. But the gap between them and the ambush of GUN soldiers chasing them was closing in, Eclipse had to act fast if they wanted to live to see another day.

Suddenly, just out of the corner of their eye, Eclipse spotted a small shop nearby, a place where they could take shelter, if only just for a little while. It was a risky move, as the owner of the shop could easily be affiliated with GUN, or with that blue hedgehog and their pesky Freedom Fighter friends, but it was a risk that Eclipse simply had to take, for the sake of themself, and more importantly, for the sake of their Dark Arms.

Just as the GUN soldiers were closing in on them, Eclipse teleported themself and the Dark Arms away from the soldiers' grasps, reappearing just outside the shop, which they quickly rushed into, slamming the door behind them as the small bell over the door rang.

Taking deep breaths in order to calm their nerves, Eclipse kept their hold on the Dark Arms, but loosened the grip of their arms wrapped around the four young alien children. Looking up from the four, Eclipse saw the keeper of this little shop begin to close the blinds on each of the windows of the building. the blinds were dark, and thick, blocking out the vast majority of the light from outdoors.

"What brings you here, friend? I mean, from the looks of it, I'd imagine a rather intense game of hide and seek, but it would be rude of me to assume without asking you." The shopkeeper asked calmly.

Eclipse stood there, staring at the shopkeeper, not quite sure of what they should say in response. Suddenly, a surge of panic rose within them, and they activated the powers of one of their Dark Arms; Cyzer, which granted them what looked to be an extra eye appearing on their right hand, but what was actually a laser shooter, ready to be fired at any moment.

"M-my name is Eclipse the Darkling, and I'm taking you hostage! I-I command you to allow me and my Dark Arms to stay here in this shop for as long as we need! If you do not comply with these orders, I-I will show you no mercy!!" They sputtered, attempting to sound threatening to the shopkeeper, but all he did in response was give a kind chuckle.

"You're taking me hostage? Well, that's a first for me!" He remarked with a smile.

Eclipse's cheeks glowed a vibrant shade of green from embarrassment over the failed attempt of intimidation, but they sighed, relieved that regardless of any fright, the shopkeeper wasn't being combative.

"Since we have time to kill, why don't I make us some tea?" The shopkeeper asked, to which Eclipse reluctantly agreed, "Hot or Iced?"

"... Hot... I-It was rather cold out there..." Eclipse answered.

"I'd imagine!" The shopkeeper said with a chuckle. Eclipse didn't quite understand why, but that man's chuckle seemed to warm them up far more than the shop itself and it's heaters did. Something about it seemed so... comforting. In a weird way, it reminded them of home, "Do you want to pick out a flavor yourself, or should I surprise you?" The shopkeeper asked.

"Uh... W-w-well... What're you having?" Eclipse inquired, unsure of themself.

"Oh, just my usual lemon ginger." The shopkeeper answered casually.

"I'll have that, then!" Eclipse said with unexpected enthusiasm. The shopkeeper nodded and grabbed two mugs, and two lemon ginger tea bags.

Eclipse, not being sure of what they should do while they waited for their tea, began to look around the shop itself, as it had many things that caught their eye. From shiny crystals, to home decor, to many books about all sorts of subjects, to even action figures of various characters from various series, none of which Eclipse knew, it was all incredibly fascinating to them, they saw it as almost like a summary of this planet's culture in general.

"Eclipse, the tea is ready. It'll be here, ready for whenever you wish to partake in it." The shopkeeper notified. Eclipse immediately rushed over to the table that the shopkeeper was sitting at, with the Dark Arms following closely behind. As they sat down, they noticed that the wooden table had some very intricate carvings on its surface, forming a resemblance to that of a map. The shopkeeper noticed that Eclipse seemed to be intrigued by the table, and explained that the table is typically used for when customers would come by and play a game apparently called "Dungeons and Dragons", but the shopkeeper doesn't mind using it for other reasons, "It is a table, after all."

"If I may ask... What is this "Dungeons and Dragons"?" Eclipse asked as they took a sip of their tea. The shopkeeper explained it as a "role-playing game" where you and some friends assume the roles of fantasy creatures, and are lead on an epic quest designed by a "Dungeon Master". He added that most decisions in the game are made by rolling dice, which he gave Eclipse a set of that had a blue and black marble design on each of them, with gold numbers on each side of each die.

"You may keep those, if you wish." He said to them. Eclipse accepted, but lamented the fact that they had no one to play with.

"Well, except for the Dark Arms, I suppose. But they're probably too young to play anyway..."

"Oh... my apologies, I wasn't aware of your circumstances." The shopkeeper said, frowning.

"No no, I... I'll keep them anyway... I like how they look." Eclipse mumbled, grasping the bag of dice.

"Speaking of those "Dark Arms" of yours, what are they, exactly, if you don't mind me asking? I've never seen anything quite like them before!" The shopkeeper asked, shifting focus.

The question seemed to make Eclipse rather excited, as they happily told the shopkeeper about how they had traveled out to Planet Wisp with some of their comrades some time ago, and how they had discovered the potential of the wisps which the planet was named after could have for them and their brethren. They then proceeded to explain in very particular detail about how they took a couple dozen wisp eggs home with them and experimented on them, in order to bring out the most of the potential they saw in them, hesitantly adding that their "Master" wasn't very fond of this, and believed that Eclipse was just wasting time. Lastly, they sadly explained how they had to hurriedly escape to this planet from some sort of disaster, which resulted in Eclipse not being as careful as they could have when landing their spaceship, their landing was rather rough, and Eclipse admitted through teary eyes that most of the "Dark Arms" didn't survive it. But four had, those four going on to be given the names of "Blurk", "Cyzer", "Cregal", and "Rhygenta". Eclipse said to the shopkeeper that those four were like family to them, and that they'd be willing to do anything to make sure they can safely prosper, even being willing to lay down their life for them if it came to that point.

It was a tale that brought tears to the shopkeepers eyes, especially the last part.

"You seem to be... quite dedicated to these Dark Arms of yours..." The shopkeeper observed, wiping away his tears.

"Of course... they need me to be..." Eclipse responded, starting to tear up as well.

There was a small bit of silence between the two of them, until the shopkeeper decided to ask another question.

"Are you and your Dark Arms related to the Black Arms at all? The names are rather similar..."

"I..." Eclipse hesitated to answer, as they had the slightest fear that the shopkeeper would react harshly if they answered honestly. But then they dismissed the thought. For whatever reason, they felt that the shopkeeper wouldn't mind, "Yes, we are Black Arms. Some even say that I am... "The Black Arms biology, perfected"... the Ultimate Alien. A replacement for the traitorous Ultimate Lifeform, Shadow the Hedgehog..." They explained.

"My...! Isn't that quite intriguing?" Eclipse was right, the shopkeeper didn't seem to care. No matter what happened, he seemed to be in no fear of any sort... How odd, especially for a mobian man...

That was when Eclipse realized... the shopkeeper looked a bit like Shadow. Not enough for Eclipse to suspect that it was Shadow in disguise, but just enough to be of note. He was a hedgehog, just like Shadow, and had dark colored fur, too. Though the shopkeeper's fur was more of a dark brown than Shadow's jet black. Eclipse noticed just then that the shopkeeper had some red highlights in his quills just like Shadow does. How odd..

"Do you mind if... I ask a question this time...?" Eclipse requested.

"Please do." The shopkeeper replied, the way he spoke... it was as if he knew what Eclipse was going to ask.

"You... A-are you a Black Arms... too...?" Eclipse asked, feeling so... idiotic? What if they're completely wrong?? What if their mind is just connecting dots that aren't there in its desperate attempt to escape the loneliness Eclipse feels?? What a stupid question! Why would-

The shopkeeper nodded.

Eclipse wasn't sure of how to react. The thought of there being more living Black Arms than just themself and Shadow excited them, but also brought with it so many questions, so many that it was overwhelming.

"My... It seems you have a lot of things you want to say... if only I could parse them out... my connection to the hivemind... my powers in general... they're not what they used to be..." The shopkeeper lamented.

"... What... What happened...? To make you... lose touch with your powers... to cause you to be stranded here...? I-If you had escaped GUN destroying the Second Black Comet like I had... you would have recognized me when I introduced myself, right? So what was it that brought you here?" Eclipse finally managed to say.

"... The funny thing in that is... I think you already know the story. Just... not how it ended." The shopkeeper answered, seeming saddned, "Or rather... were told a false ending..."

Eclipse stood there in silence for a moment, just processing what the shopkeeper said. It didn't make sense... until it did. It all came flooding in all at once, the realization that the shopkeeper that Eclipse was talking to, that Eclipse took "hostage", that Eclipse threatened, that had made Eclipse tea, that had taught Eclipse how to play Dungeons and Dragons, that had made Eclipse feel like they had been teleported back home, aboard the Comet once again... That shopkeeper... he was....

"...B...Black Doom???"

"... A severely weakened Black Doom with basically none of his powers and stuck in the form of a mobian... But yes... the one and only..."

Eclipse couldn't help but run up and give Black Doom a big hug. They never thought they'd ever get the chance to. They had been told that Black Doom had died in his fight against the traitorous Shadow, because that's what their creator, Black Death, believed had happened. It was what everyone had believed, that the leader they had had for several millennia was just... dead, just like that, and that they needed to carry on without him. Hell, Black Doom's supposed demise was the very reason Eclipse was created, for Black Death believed that Shadow had to be stopped before they could cause yet another catastrophe.

Despite all that... there he was, the Black Doom, trapped in that mobian body, and willingly put within Eclipse's embrace.

"This... I.... I can't... Y-You... How did you...?" Eclipse tried repeatedly to ask questions, but they kept overlapping one another and getting all scrambled up in their head and in their speech. Doom simply caressed the top of Eclipse's head, gently quieting them down.

"You see... I myself thought I had died in that fight... but I awoke... alive and well, but lacking much of my power... I used the last bit of power I had to assume this mobian form, and from there, faded into their society..."

"Oh dear..." Eclipse muttered, "You must be feeling so lonely without any of your people near..."

"I will admit that I have felt that way... I've felt terribly homesick at times, as well... That is why I decided to rent this building out and create this store. It's a mixture of everything I have found on this planet, including things that remind me of home in an odd way..." Doom responded, there being the slightest bit of whimsy to his voice.

"I definitely understand how you feel, I felt like I was back home from the moment I ran in here, if I'm honest... Although, that could just be because of your presence." Eclipse said, calmly breaking themself free from Doom's embrace, "Though I must ask you something then, sire."

"Hmm? And what is that question you desire to ask?"

"When... and how, really, did you learn about that uh... Dungeons and Dragons game?"

"It's a bit of a funny story, truly... It had happened a good while ago, but one day one of my regular customers came in, but rather than coming in to buy anything like they usually would, they simply came up to the counter and began to talk to me..." Doom began to explain to Eclipse.

"You know, Mr. Shopkeeper, this kinda spot would be a great place to run a DnD game in!" The customer remarked.

"I... I beg your pardon?" Doom asked, confused.

"Oh come on! Don't tell me you run a emporium like this and don't know what DnD is!" The customer insisted, to which Doom confirmed that he had no idea what they were talking about, "Dungeons and Dragons? Does that ring a bell?"

"I'm afraid not."

"What?! Well you're in luck, Mr. Shopkeeper! I happened to bring along my DnD books, so I can teach ya right here right now, if ya'd like!"

"As long as you don't keep me from tending to any other customers, I wouldn't mind learning something new~!"

"... And from there, they taught me the basics, even held a one-on-one campaign with me after the shop closed. A few weeks later they and some friends of theirs came by and donated this here table."

"They sound rather nice! I hope I come across them in my travels!" Eclipse said, which confused Doom.

"Travels? Where are you going, exactly?" He inquired.

"I don't know, but I do at least need to go out and gather food for the Dark Arms and I." Eclipse responded.

"Oh don't be ridiculous, sweet child! There's a grocery shop nearby here which can provide such things to you, and I'm always willing to brew a cup of tea for any of you." Doom argued.

"Are you... Are you offering for us to... stay here indefinitely??" Eclipse questioned, surprised.

"Were you not expecting me to?? You're a Black Arms!! It's my job to provide for you!!" Doom replied, just as surprised.

"W-Well, you've made this whole mobian life for yourself, and here I am, still on the run from GUN-" Doom pulled Eclipse into an embrace once again.

"This life means nothing to me... What matters in the end is my true identity. I am Black Doom, leader of the Black Arms... And I will do everything I can to fulfill that role to the fullest extent." He promised.

"... Understood, sire..." Eclipse mumbled as they reciprocated the embrace, a content smile showing on their face as it became wet with tears.

"Now... Shall I make us some more tea?" Doom offered, to which Eclipse nodded.

#writing #eclipse the darkling #sonic fanfiction #happy halloween!! this isn't halloween themed but i got the inspiration for it from a trunk or treat i went to so. that counts i think #🌹

[adelindschade]

A Thousand Vows (A Thousand Cuts, Part 9)

Nesta and Emerie centric. Valkyries First and Foremost. 

PART 9

“So much for being guests of honor,” Emerie grumbled.

They had trekked close to a mile in the bitterly cold mountain side, making up time as the sub descended sooner than they anticipated, and the only source of light they could muster to clear through the rough terrain stemmed from Nesta’s hand. Emerie clung close, acutely aware she was at a disadvantage should one of the native beasts investigate the commotion they made.

Emerie preferred to have a sword on hand – would’ve made slashing through the branches much easier – but she understood the circumstances were unique. Never in her lifetime would she have associated with a Lord closely enough to be granted an invitation to such a private affair. She also understood that the only females present were the domestics, blood relations, and guests of honor – besides the bride herself. None of them would be permitted any such weaponry unless Emerie wanted to stick out and volunteer to be a target of their already raging suspicions.

Nesta’s fire was already warranting enough talk throughout the camp. Had it not been for their intervention with Maude’s pregnancy, the Lords would’ve continued to avoid them like the plague and try their best to scheme a way to be rid of one less witch and her less than savory companion. As it was, the prophecy Nesta ‘predicted’ had not only elevated their reputation but earned them a seat close to the betrothed.  

Keep your friends close and enemies closer.

“Well, so much for wearing my best,” Nesta remorsefully commented as they eventually found a clearing – a road undoubtedly leading to the estate. Both the hem of her dress and her cloak had been tarnished with snags, leaves, and damp with brownish mud that ruined the color.

“You and me both,” Emerie observed, mourning her latest grown – her only one, truly. They sported green in honor of Lord Dion – as his crest favored the Night Court’s dignified black, which he interwove with green for whatever reason. Each warlord had their preference.

Green favored Emerie naturally while Nesta seemed sickly pale in the shade. They wore as much coverage as they could, with their shoulders decked in fur to keep the cold at bay. The journey was rather unpleasant, and their neat braids were all but demolished by low hanging branches. Nesta made the first move to undo them and smooth out her strands with her fingers, with Emerie following suit, and promptly attempting a single, looser braid to toss over her shoulders.

Nesta could get away with unbound hair. Emerie was Illyrian. She knew better. The Lords would admonish her, and she didn’t want to create a scene that’d set her apart and strike insult. Later, she promised herself. Teeth clattering, she cursed the bastards in her head.

“At least it’s hosted inside,” Nesta commented as they emerged into the main hall. Towering ceilings, stone walls, a large hearth, and three rows of elongated tables all equipped with benches to accommodate a hundred overall. The noise nearly deafened her words as males rejoiced with drinks, a few harassing some of the domestics who stopped to refill their mugs. Nesta scowled at the scene, but they couldn’t do much without arousing unnecessary trouble.

It wasn’t lavish by Rhys’ standards – with the food being devoured by hands, and manners lacking – but it was generous by the Lords’ standards, and Nesta had to respect the hospitality extended to her.

“The Witch!” someone shouted. All activity came to a slow halt as a row of eyes descended upon them. Emerie stopped short behind her, tense as she could be.

“Came to curse us, eh?” a highly ranked soldier remarked closely.

“Bless us, actually,” Lord Dion raised his accolades. Dark eyes pinned the pair as the towering male clad in his best leathers confront them. He toasted his mug, grinning. “Come forward. Take a seat here,” he beckoned forward.

Cassian had crash many parties in his life – and as the General, one would assume his presence would be a desired one in his base camp – but the welcome he received was a weary on. He was reluctantly admitted and given a curt greeting. Devlon accompanied Cassian and Azriel, lead to the back of the seating arrangements, and left to observe.

“They know where I lean,” Devlon proclaimed quietly, already aware he wasn’t favored amongst the rest of the leadership. “I’ve accepted the fact should the rebellion succeed, my head will be the first to roll, but I’d sooner depart with my honor intact than mingle with these miscreants who’d sooner run this place under the mountain.”

Cassian felt her presence, but he could not spy Nesta, much to his aggravation. She would’ve struck out like a sore thumb, but he spied no sign of her golden hair or pointed ears.

Azriel was fixed on the bride – no older than seventeen – and looking miserable in her most refined attire. A laurel had been place atop her head of black curls, and a frown settled on her young features as she had been relegated to nothing more than a prop at the wedding parties’ coveted table.

Gwyn would be introduced later in the evening, as Lord Dion preferred fewer knew of whom had access to his prized mare, or so he was informed by the eager redhead. She was at the shop with Corinne, keeping watch of the surrounding camp, and adopting the local fashion. It made his heart sing and squeeze painfully simultaneously.

If Azriel could have it his way, he’d tucked Gwyn and his mother far away from this horrendous place and keep them safe from harm’s way as long as his heartbeat. He still contemplated how to remove his mother from her sanctuary should the tides of war turn unfavorable. She did not have it in her to leave Illyria – or, rather, not quite able to leave the confines of the home Azriel provided either after escaping her tormenter.

It was because of his mother’s reluctance to move, and struggles to adopt change, Azriel had been grateful Nesta spitefully remained in Illyria, determined to change it for the better, or at least, on part for the vulnerable females of whom she’d grown fond of.

“I heard the little one is quite the pick pocket,” Devlon remarked.

“Corinne?” Azriel contributed, surveying the room. He nodded. “She’s good. If Nesta hadn’t claimed her as an apprentice, I would have.”

“As if you’d ever notice her,” Cassian chuckled. Azriel had his pockets cleaned out twice already, and he made sure to check them on his third visit – aware Corinne was skilled at her trade. It was only then Azriel made an adversary of the proud female, gleaming as she got the best of the spymaster.

“She doesn’t like me,” Devlon said with no attachment.

“Why would that matter?” Cassian pitched curiously.

“I’ve used younger waifs for other efforts. Carriers, mainly, but I might have a need for Corinne,” Devlon furrowed his brows. “We’ll need supplies. The Lords have hoarded theirs and numbers are divided. Corinne would be best for indiscretion. I have no use for females on the field, but the witch has made exceptional use of her.  I’d like to do the same.”

That surprised the two warriors. Devlon had no use for females – period – besides their assumed domestic role. To utilize any was out of character. Desperate times called for desperate measures, they supposed. With decimated numbers and dwindling supplies, even Devlon had reluctantly opened his mind to adopting more progressive, emergency actions.

“You want to utilize Corinne to smuggle supplies,” Cassian surmised, “but from where?”

“The Witch can winnow.”

“Only parcels,” Azriel shrugged off. Devlon furrowed his brows. Something was not being said but neither Azriel nor Cassian had Rhys’ ability to look into heads.

“When can she winnow like you?” Devlon demanded. It was an order – not a request.

“When she wants to learn,” Cassian followed, cutting off Azriel. He, of all people, would prefer it – just in case she needed to make a hasty retreat, although knowing Nesta’s stubborn nature, she’d never opt for such cowardice. He also knew forcing her to do something might as well put a stop to it altogether. It was a miracle she was even attempting magic given her earlier reservations – and for this cause, too.

He couldn’t mask his pride. She had adopted this place as her own, called it home, and defended it as if she were born on this soil, too. She did not resent it or forsake it like Rhys, or Azriel. She saw redemption in it. She recognized a chance to improve the conditions, with a willingness to lead by example. Illyria was broken but not beyond salvation. She saw in it what he did – and that gave him immense hope in not just salvaging Illyria but their future, too.

“We’ll need the skill to bypass the check-ins. The Lords are staking their claims and cutting some of us out of communication. I’m aware Lord Dion has hosted a handful of private dinners here and I was not in attendance,” Devlon nodded. “Without supplies, the chance of us suppressing the revolt are slim. The Witch,” he begrudgingly mulled over, “she has an ability to mitigate that hurdle. Do what you can to make that happen. I will send what I need with Corinne and The Witch can deliver them.”  

Nesta wasn’t sure how to approach the food. Utensils were scarce and she had been accustomed to pain from her mother’s hand if Nesta had dared to eat with her fingers. Her proper upbringing did not prepare her for what savagery surrounded her. Even Emerie was put off by some males, pulling meat off of bone and spitting as they spoke with no mind to the unfortunate females squeezed between them. Nesta winced when she felt the splatter of saliva, and that putrid drink Illyrians savored by the barrel, and undoubtedly grease douse her cheek.

There was no napkin to salvage, so she begrudgingly used her sleeve to wipe off the disgusting matter, and nearly gagged when she spied blood among the mix. She wasn’t surprised to see it – but it still churned her stomach, nonetheless. If they weren’t shouting, or manhandling the females in drunken stupor, they had to assert their dominance by throwing punches over the slightest insult.

Brutes – the lot of them.

“Can we please excuse ourselves?” Nesta hissed, struggling to push herself off the bench.

“Hey – watch where you’re going! Oh, Witch,” one of them quickly correct themselves. Granted, she didn’t mean to touch his wing, but it was in her way, and there wasn’t much room to maneuver anywhere. The male went from pissed to petrified, looking as if he had grazed death – which, pretty much, she was believed incarnated to be anyhow.

“My apologies,” she grit out, scowling as she nudged her way down the alley, and Emerie didn’t hesitate to take her lead.

“Really, Em? You brought that out there?” Nesta exasperated as she panted against the wall, embracing the cold as she desperately inhaled as much fresh air as she could.

It was too stuffy in that banquet hall. No music, no dancing, no polite conversation – not a trace of what she had been reared up to embrace. She felt like an outsider, treated as such, and she hated how out of sorts she felt in this foreign realm.

The overwhelming anxiety she was in over her head plagued her, but it didn’t seem to show as Emerie munched away, all but moaning as she filled her belly with delicacies that were denied to her for the whole stretch of her life.

“I’m starving,” Emerie muffled with a mouth full of torn boar, stripping the bone bear. “It’s cold,” she frowned. She held it out. “Want to do me a favor and warm it up?”

Nesta sighed but obliged, holding her hand under the large piece of meat, and encasing it with fire. Emerie shrilled a scream and it incinerated into ash before it could strike the ground. Emerie groaned and glared at a remorseful Nesta.

“I barely got a bite in!” Emerie crowed.

“Sorry, I’m still trying to control it,” Nesta meekly apologized, cupping her offending hand. Emerie shrugged, playing it off, and proving no harm was done.

She had been patient with Nesta throughout her process, matching her curiosity as they explored her abilities. The solidarity was comforting, opposed to the weariness she had seen amongst others. Rather than suppress it, or control, Emerie and Balthazar were the few who embraced it, and encouraged Nesta to go ahead on a whim to see what exactly Cauldron could do.

“It’s any consolation,” Nesta tried to appease with a nod beckoning towards the hall, “there’s still plenty left over.”

“I shouldn’t spoil myself. When will be the next time we ever get a taste of that?” Emerie laughed but the snide hint of bitterness couldn’t be missed. By then, both shared a deep frown, and clasped hands against the cold, stone outer wall.

“Hand cold?” Nesta asked, squeezing.

“It’ll only get colder,” Emerie mused quietly, forlorn. Her eyes met Nesta’s, deep with fraught. “I worry about the rest of us. War and winter in and of themselves are awful but together? A lot of Fae will die, Nessie. I’m petrified we will bury those we promised to liberate, and I don’t know how to stomach the loss, or live with the failure.”

Rhys would say it was inevitable – a necessary sacrifice – something that unfortunately came with the territory, but it didn’t settle well with Nesta either. Disappointment was something Emerie and Nesta took to heart, unable to make excuses for themselves.

She thought about the young faces who would not grow, or who’s innocence had been pried from their cold hands. She empathized with those who would be displaced and left to scavenge for scraps, unable to recognize the strewn mess of bones and riddled debris that they once called home. How many would be buried without markers? How many mothers would howl in despair? How many orphans would emerge into another hellish ordeal?

Nesta couldn’t accept that sort of devastation. She wasn’t desensitized or removed from it like Rhys, or her sister, or any of their privileged friends. Hadn’t Feyre remembered the bitter cold and ache of their bellies? Feyre might have forgotten but Nesta had not. Her anger towards those who looked the other way as they wallowed in destitution still ravaged her.

That’s what kept her alive in Illyria. She understood Emerie well, and those like her. She did not turn her cheek. Nesta had ignored her own hurt but could not deny the suffering of those around her. She could not sit idly by and permit that misery, not without a proper fight.

She had a purpose now – a sense of direction – and her anger resurged with a vengeance. At those who oppress with iron fists and to those who plead ignorance as they dine and wine in the finery Velaris offered. Everyone played a part but pretend to have their hands full of other matters.

The innocent were forgotten, deemed nothing more than collateral damage and a price to be paid for a bigger reward – but who would reap the riches of the seeds war sowed? Nesta recalled the massacre of children Rhys had been responsible for in another court; she remembered the carnage Feyre inflicted on the Spring Court to punish Tamlin – and all the lives she burned in blind revenge left forgotten in blissful ignorance. The females in Hewn city still suffered, as did those in Autumn, but Mor paid no heed to those she left behind as she enjoyed the fruits of the courtier role.  

Most of all, Nesta remembered the searing cold depths of the cauldron and blackened wall of its iron confines. Elain had been blessed with sight but never pressured to use it. Too fragile, too submissive, and too complacent to be seen as a threat, or worth exploiting for gain.

While Nesta mourned her sister and stayed true, Elain eagerly disowned her. Nesta had been condemned, punished thoroughly, and beaten to be an obedient pawn for Rhys to employ like a card in a high stakes game. He expected her to step in line with the rest of his loyal cronies, and to sacrifice herself when it benefited him.

Feyre thought this new life was a promising beginning, but Nesta could not see the world through her narrowed lens.

Selfish. It was all so shamelessly selfish. They all were so blatantly selfish that it made Nesta sick.

If she would employ her magic, she’d do so on her terms, and for her own convictions. She took something from the Cauldron after it stole everything from her. No matter how it manifested, this fire had already been in her soul, but now, it was potent, and deathly, and every bit worthy of the fear it garnered when she uncurled her hand to expose the flame.

Feyre had her revenge. It cost lives. Nesta took hers from the Cauldron, and she’d make sure to put her spoils to much better use. No more war, no more bloodshed, no more broken families, and no more shed tears. If she was to be seen as a threat, so be it, but she’d ensure she’d be a force to be reckoned with for a conviction she wholeheartedly believed in.

Some accused her of being cold, but it was far from the truth. Nesta burned hot, and it was unbearable how much of her every being had been encompassed by the feelings she was told not to show. She enacted her vengeance and now it manifested in front of her, all around her, and unable to be ignored much longer. Her newfound magic was just as glaring as her perfect skin and long ears. One forced her to come to terms with how much she grief, and the other manifested the wrath she harbored. Her cauldron carved powers she scraped with her bloodied fingers dared her to scar the earth with the very power she took to righteously lash out.

The Cauldron was still attempting to wield it’s final say but Nesta would not be its puppet. This was her flame now, keeping her path illuminated and her purpose bright. She played with the flame with her free hand, no longer frightened by its momentous power or it’s possible hold over her. That was no longer the case. It had no such influence.

Emerie watched with matching admiration, envying the magic Nesta yielded. She offered it to Emerie. The Illyrian balked and shied away but Nesta insisted. Reluctantly holding out both hands, Nesta dropped the fire in her palms, and Emerie gasped in astonishment when it did not burn.

“I didn’t trust many people in my lifetime, but I trust you with my life,” Nesta assured. “You’re my equal in every way. You saved my life and I’d lay down mine for yours.”

“Now is not the time to get gushy,” Emerie swallowed back emotion. Blue reflected in eyes as the flame danced contently. It acted almost like Azriel’s shadow, moving in tandem with Nesta’s mood.

“Your cause is my cause, and I won’t hold back if you won’t,” Nesta assured, meeting eyes. “We’re going to make Illyria a better place, even if we have to dismantle everything it stands on. Perhaps that’s exactly what we need to do but we will see it through.”

Illyria had become a home for her. It symbolized a place of promise and somewhere she discovered herself. She would not abandon it or the gentle, enduring Fae she had grown fond on. Feyre had her Velaris, but Illyria wasn’t beyond saving. Too many lives depended on it. Emerie called it home despite its injustices. Nesta knew it to be redeemable, appreciating how rugged it required its inhabitants. Even the weakest were enduring and strong, and that inspired Nesta tremendously.

Nesta nearly gave up on herself, but she would not give up on those who the world had left behind. They adopted her just as she had been taken in by them. She’d repay their kindness a thousand-fold.

#nessian #nessian fanfic #nessian fanfiction #nesta archeron #emerie of illyria

[bitebackbaby]

Loved your Fox fics, especially the last one! I was wondering if you’ve got fully fleshed out characterizations for the rest of his batch, and if you’d ever write for them? I love the idea of Fox being the baby for once 😭

(I truly mean this without the intention of any pressure but if it comes across that way please ignore)

yes… YES!!

pressure? my friend, you’ve activated my trap card. you’ll never get me to shut up now.

Fox as baby is just way too much fun, especially since I write him as one of the oldest CC’s in general, which means that no one else sees him as a baby lmao, so when his batch rolls up and starts asking fox where his bib is and if he’s been napping enough (b/c baby get cranky 😔) the reaction is just 😦

(info under the cut, as this turned out pretty long lmao)

I have the most info on CC-1009, aka “Vulture”, b/c i have created an entire battalion and separate storyline for him, haha ^^’ but i won’t go into that much detail right here!

(Content warning! Small talk about self-harm below. Jump to the next paragraph to skip it.)

Vulture is a crybaby, and cares deeply about others, but because he has a nasty scar on his face and is a little taller / more solidly built than other CC clones, nobody expects it from him. His scar is gouge marks over his left eye, which he covers with a patch — no cybernetics. He got this scar from an incident when he was still a cadet. After the inital batches were separated into their own training batches (ie, fox w/Cody, Wolfe, etc), Vulture had a really hard time connecting with his new companions and ended up having a dangerous mental spiral. He already had the habit of picking and other tiny, nervous habits, but around this time he had a complete breakdown, and believed that he was seeing the ghosts of dead clone cadets (which, who knows? maybe he was) walking the halls of kamino, so he attempted to scratch his own eyes out to make it stop. He was stopped, thankfully, but only one eye recovered, and he is now blind in his left eye.

Obviously, this incident did nothing to help his reputation, and he was on his way to decommissioning before one of the trainers (an unrelated OC, i wont discuss them here) stepped in and took him on as one of their personal students. Vulture managed to graduate and become the Commander of Battalion 444 (or Triple 4), housed with similarly-disadvantaged clones. They’re the clean up crew, following along after battles to recover bodies left behind and assess damages. Not a glorious position by any means, but a necessary one.

Since they rarely get leave and never close to the Core, Vulture has largely fallen out of contact with Fox, but he still misses him dearly, and has helped the Guard out whenever he could — like when guard trooper Tooka, renamed Rosary, was grabbed by a sentient trafficking ring. Vulture and Triple Four busted that criminal enterprise and returned Rosary back home.

CC-1007 is AiAi, which is short for Aiwha, because everybody gets an animal name in this bunch lmao. It’s also a reference to the AyeAye monkey with their big ol’ eyes <3

AiAi has a mild genetic mutation — they have heterochromia, with one eye being a pale shade of blue. Other than that, AiAi is a fairly average trooper; they had Commander training but not much aptitude for it, and instead shined when it came to piloting. They probably would have been deployed as auxiliary command for a search and rescue battalion, were it not for what happened next.

One of the trainers, an unrelated OC who i won’t go into detail on, was fascinated by AiAi’s mutation, and took a special interest in the cadet because of it. (All of this was non-sexual, in case of any worries — the trainer was interested in taking AiAi as an apprentice, but did not actually care about the cadet as a person, rather than an asset, so these intentions were unwanted, to say the least.) AiAi, understandably nervous and unsure of what to do, put up with their attention and became increasingly casual with the trainer, which they took as an excuse to abduct AiAi from Kamino shortly before he should have been deployed. The trainer was under the impression that AiAi would be grateful for this, and was quite shocked when he protested. Violently.

After escaping their abductor, AiAi wandered the galaxy, unwilling to return to the GAR and possibly be charged with desertion regardless of their willingness in the matter. In a happy AU, he would just pop up on Coruscant after the war to live on Fox’s couch for a while and catch up lol.

CC-1005 is Coyote (pronounced coy-oh-tay), the oldest of the group, and lords it over them constantly. he’s also (objectively, in his opinion) the most book-smart, and is the type who learns every single minutiae of law and policy just so that he can throw it back in your face when you try to argue about him breaking the rules. the kind of guy who would be a great lawyer, but because clones don’t have rights, he goes for the next best thing — Coyote is a medic.

He is well aware of the power structures in place on Kamino, and figured that this was his best way to take advantage of them. by sucking up to the right people, appearing eager and helpful (but not too much, which becomes suspicious), and being willing to bury his pride in an unmarked grave when necessary, Coyote has steadily climbed the ladder in Kamino’s medical community, which is rather more sparse than the bioengineering department. Despite taking leadership training with the other CCs, he continued with the medic track and stayed on Kamino after deployment as the lord of his castle.

Now, does he use that privilege and expertise to help his fellow troopers? …Sometimes. Usually. If he feels like it. Coyote, frankly, just has a mean personality and rarely does anything for free — his batchmates are the sole exceptions. they get discounts <3

There should be six other members of Fox’s batch. One of the clones was not viable upon being decanted, but the other five survived. I tend to shift what happened to them based on the story I’m trying to tell, but I generally keep it as all of them flunking out of training — whether that leads to decommissioning or not depends on how nasty im feeling lmao. This leads into the issues that the rest of the batch have, including Fox’s need to be In Control and always the best, strongest, most competent clone around — because he’s seen, five times over, what happens to those who can’t keep up. It’s an impossible standard, because this whole damn thing is a plot built by a sith to encourage as much suffering as possible, but Fox is just doing his best.

luckily, despite it all, he still has three batchers who love him dearly <3

thanks for asking, and thanks for reading!! quite a rant here, but i hope you enjoyed! and if you ever have any more questions / ocs anyone wants to learn about, feel free to let me know! if nothing else, i love me some exposition lmao

#oztalk

[ofviolentdeath]

30 Days of Drabbles::Day Eleven

Character(s)::Manson and Chance Word Count::723

                                                                   ~*~

Things would likely always be at least a little tense between the two of them, but Manson had to admit that Chance was at least trying and it was still more than she knew how to handle. She had spent her entire childhood and early adulthood terrified of her father, viewing him as something of a boogeyman. To see him with her little sisters especially, it was like looking at a different person entirely.

He wasn't soft with them, she didn't think he knew how to be, but he wasn't actively trying to scare them into doing as they were told either. They had no bruises, no scars aside from the usual childhood scrapes and scuffs. They weren't exactly well adjusted, none of them were, but they were better off than she and Jack had been.

There was no resentment held, Manson understood better than most who and what Chance was and that he hadn't been able to be this for her. But she also knew that he was trying to be better, to do better and she could, at the very least, let him try.

It was a nicer place than she would have chosen, more inclined to fast food and chain places herself. It was a local place, one known for having good food, and it was nearly empty given the time of day. Most people, she figured, were at work so it gave them a weird level of privacy. But maybe that was part of why he had picked the place.

"I would have been fine with Burger King," she pointed out as she skimmed the menu, glancing up at him over the glossy material.

Chance shrugged at that, fingers tapping absently on the tabletop. It was one of the only tells he had, one that said he was uncomfortable but not quite on edge enough to resort to violence.

It was almost comforting to know they both found small talk awkward.

"You know this works better if you talk too, right?"

"I chose the place because your taste in meals is questionable at best. I know I was hardly a decent cook but your grandmother should have taught you better than that given her prowess."

It wasn't a great attempt at conversation, but it was better than silence and Manson would take what she could get when it came to him.

"You're a terrible cook, that's true. I don't know how you haven't given everyone in your house food poisoning yet."

Teasing him felt weird, but she forced herself to relax. He wasn't going to fly off the handle over a simple joke, especially when there was truth to it. He had gotten at least some of his anger under control over the years.

"Sera and Arcadia do most of the cooking," he answered, seemingly oblivious to the joke aside from the slight quirk of his lips. It was the closest thing to a smile he was going to give and even still, it never reached his eyes.

"That tracks. I hear Genesis might actually be worse in the kitchen than you are." An almost terrifyingly impressive feat, really.

"Yes. I have never summoned a demon while trying to prepare food. It's a miracle that mutt has survived as long as she has."

"I think it's less of a miracle and more of a you've literally killed everyone that's actually tried to hurt her since Jeff rescued her. I don't think any of us expected you to be quite so protective of Gen."

Chance stiffened at that, the tapping stopping for a moment before he resumed, reminding himself that Manson was correct in her assumptions. Especially when, if the girl's hair had been fairer in shade, she would have been rather close to his victim type.

"Perhaps I learned in my...failures with you and your brother," he finally conceded, the words feeling foreign on his tongue. It was almost worth it to see the look of shock on his eldest's face, but not enough to make him continue the line of thought. "Order your food so we can cease the attempts at small talk."

It wasn't much, but it was more of an attempt that he would have been willing to put in even a few years back and she was almost grateful for it.

"Fine, but you're paying."

#drabble #30 days of drabbles #day eleven #chance:drabble #man:drabble #chance's uncomfortable attempts at being a parent #and for once #a chance drabble that doesn't need like 30 trigger warnings