#I draw him with and without side burns too lmao

[joi-me-hoi-me-noi]

Getting Kidnapped - BNHA/MHA

Features: Tomura Shigaraki, Shouta Aizawa and Kai Chisaki

A/n: I thought of this while I was taking a nap LMAO, let's get started and be sure to check out the rest of my writings...(there's only like 3 or 4 at this point :sob:)... it's very short but whatever, I enjoy being funny and writing this so yeah baby :))))

TOMURA SHIGARAKI -

You really didn't know how you got there. You were shocked but not that shocked, it was bound to happen eventually.

"Damn it's dark as a motherfucker in here. I just know they can't pay the light bill." Then the lights turn on to reveal the LOV.

"Oh...I guess you do pay the light bill. Hello." You go to wave but your hands are tied against the back of the chair.

"Greetings, L/n Y/n. Do you know why you're here?" "Nope." He pauses and just stares at you.

"You know some information that we don't, I'm going to need you to talk doll. Or else we'll torture you."

"You calling me pet names is already enough torture for me, crusty." You hear someone stifle a laugh from behind you.

"Glad to hear that someone enjoys my humor. Anyways, you got some water or something." Then your chair starts to get dragged into another room.

"That's right Dabi, take them into your room. Interrogate them." The door closes behind the two of you.

Time to work your own personal magic.

A couple of hours later, Shigaraki opens the door to Dabi's room, somber music plays in the background while you sit on the floor, untied, having a conversation with the burned man.

"Dabi! What are you doing?!" Tomura rips the hand off of his face and holds it tightly in his hands.

"Talking." He lays back on his bed, his head falling off the side of the bed.

"Why did you untie them?" He points at you and all you do is wave back with a big smile.

"They said the restraints were hurting them so I just untied them." Tomura shuts the door and lets out a scream of annoyance.

You laugh and whisper to Dabi. "Somebody's got their panties in a twist, don't they?"

SHOUTA AIZAWA -

As soon as you reached for an item inside of a random home, something tied tightly around your wrist.

"What the?" One sharp tug later and you're wrapped up tight, hanging upside-down from the ceiling. "Fuck..." You draw out the word in annoyance

You go to use your quirk and it doesn't work, nothing happens. Then a man with long black hair and tired eyes steps into the brightness of the moonlight from the darkness.

"Couldn't you do this another night or something?" He rubs his eyes and stares at you.

He walks around your bounded form as you try to spin yourself to look at the powerful homeowner.

"I mean I could, if you let me go that is." You flash a smile at him as he raises his brows.

"Afraid I can't do that. You'll be coming with me to the police station...in the morning. It's too late to be doing that now." Your eyes widened.

A handsome stranger taking you to jail...in the morning. IS HE STUPID?

"What if I find a way to escape from the restraints? What then?"

He tilts his head, a small grin finding its way onto his features. "You won't. You can't break this material."

He ties the end of the fabric to a hook and walks into a different room.

"Wait what about the blood rushing to my head!"

He comes back in and with a single pull of the fabric, you're tilted sideways like sleeping on a bed.

When the morning comes, a little girl is looking at you very confused. "Who are you?"

"Your Dad's friend, I was playing around with his scarf and got stuck. Could you help me?"

The little girl, without a second thought, unties the fabric from your body. You find a pen and a piece of paper to write down your number on to then, hand it to the girl.

"Give him this when he wakes up and no peeking."

You open the balcony door and wave goodbye to the girl before jumping off the glass railing. You shoot upward and rest on the roof, holding your phone in your hand, waiting eagerly for his response.

---inside the home---

"Mr. Aizawa." She pokes his side a bit hard which wakes him up.

"What's wrong Eri?"

She hands him a folded piece of paper.

"Your friend told me to give you this. They just left a bit ago."

His eyes widened as he shot up from his spot in bed, rushing into the living area. He opened the note and smirked, shaking his head.

The note read: 'that cute little girl let me out, told you I could leave...call me! xxx-xxx-xxxx XOXO'

KAI CHISAKI -

"Wow...this is a beautiful place you got here? Why am I tied up?"

He rolls his amber eyes and lays the chair against the couch behind you. He almost straddles your waist but he just stands there, looking down at you.

"You're filthy, I plan on fixing you."

You look at him with confusion. "I literally showered as soon as I got home from my job, what do you mean weirdo?"

He hated that nickname, his fingertips played with the bottom of his gloves. The glove comes off and he reaches forward to touch you, nothing happens

...his hands are really warm and soft.

"You must not do a lot of hard work since your hands are soft... you either moisturize or you're just lazy and have servants."

He's in shock but then scoffs at your comments.

"I'm a doctor but I can't cure you. You're still filthy."

You just shrug and smile up at him happily. "Okay, whatever you say plague guy. You'd probably die if you had a sip of McDonald's Sprite."

...what?

#bnha x reader #mha x reader #bnha x reader fluff #mha x reader fluff #bnha x reader crack #mha x reader crack #shigaraki x reader #shigaraki x reader fluff #shigaraki x reader crack #shigaraki fluff #shigaraki crack #aizawa x reader #aizawa x reader fluff #aizawa x reader crack #aizawa fluff #aizawa crack #chisaki x reader #chisaki x reader fluff #chisaki x reader crack #chisaki fluff #chisaki crack #fluff #crack #bro I'm literally insane and too funny to even be on this planet #requests are open #requests open #taking requests #request

[theship-thewalrus]

One more, one more ending for the Aegon fic.

Rhaenyra and reader get into an argument, and the stress of it all causes the reader to miscarry. Nobody else can get close to her, so Aegon has to help her deliver a stillborn.

Hi anon! I love everyone's endings ideas! You all seem to hate happy endings lmao >:) Don't worry I hate them too. This takes a couple days after the dinner. Hope you all enjoy!

aegon ii targaryen x targaryen! female! reader

pretty much the ask

word count: 1029 words reading time: about 6 minutes warnings: miscarriage, blood

part 1 || part 2 || ending 1 || ending 2 || ending 4 || headcanon 1 || headcanon 2

For a moment you thought this conversation with your mother would allow the pair of you to reconnect. To finally be some sort of family again but as yout voice raised to match your mother's, you realised that perhaps it was all behind you now. The times you ran to her when you were younger when you were scared or upset, how she would bundle you up in her loving embrace. Was it all nothing to her? Did she simply do it out of obligation? To show she could be a good mother?

"You betray you were family! And for what? Love? Aegon does not love you! Stop being so foolish!" Rhaenyra's voice bounced off the wall, and the rage on her face was unmistakable. Her once pale face flooded with blood. Tears well up in your eyes, no matter how much you try to push them back. Yet they fall down your cheeks, wetting your face and the front of your dress.

"Do not speak about him in such a way! He is kind! He is trying his best and you simply refuse to see that!" Despite wanting to reconnect with your mother, to have her take you into her loving embrace. You could not allow such an insult about your husband, the man you loved, to go unquestioned. Pushing makes you sad you try to draw on the rage you feel, matching your mother's energy. The older woman laughs in your face, thinking you are joking. There was no way you would choose Aegon over her. She was your mother.

"I should've never left you here! What have they done to my sweet girl? He feels you with his child and now you are adrift. Come home with me, return to your real family." Her voice lowers, trying to coax you to her side. To make you believe you were misled, that she can set you right and heal you. But you were not misled or broken, something that needed help. As Rhaenyra moved forward you took a harsh step back as though she burned you. The look on her face dropped, her arms resting at her side once more. Her face hardened "Fine, I see where your loyalty lies. You turn your back on your family for what?" Her words were filled with venom, as her eyes held nothing but disdain for you. Striding past you you can feel the anger and disgust roll off her in waves. It broke your heart, cutting you deeper than any sword.

The hallway felt ice cold without your mother's fire to warm it. Your tears flowed from your eyes with no restraint anymore, making your way to your chambers for some privacy. Upon pushing open the door of your chambers you saw the back of your husband. The person your mother was just shamelessly insulting right to your face, thinking that you would agree with her. He did not seem to notice you as he lounged on the plush couch, indulging himself in some food left by the maids. It made a watery smile appear on your face to see him, the stress from the argument with your mother leaving you for a moment.

"Darling?" His voice was soft as he looked over at you from his position on the couch. There was a small smile on his face until he took notice of your state, the tear streaks on your cheeks, your red-rimmed eyes, and the drops of blood splashing the ground under you. Jumping up from the couch the man had not moved so fast before, grabbing you firmly yet softly by the biceps. The liquid that you felt between your legs only truly registered to you when Aegon mentioned it. your mind to catch up in the whirlwind of emotions and thoughts about your mother.

The blood that began to flow from you only increased as the second passed. To much blood for it to be normal, something was incredibly wrong. "Aegon?" Your voice was full of fear as your knees buckled under you, the only thing keeping you from collapsing into the pool of blood was the hands Aegon had on you. The man did not know what to do, who to get, or how to help you. All he could do is watch. moving you to the bed he tried to calm your racing heart.

"No, no, no, Aegon, Aegon please." Your voice chanted as your head rested against the pilled your hands clawing at him. You did not want to be alone, to be left in this room. A fresh set of tears stream down your face as your eyes wander to the blood that now stained the white sheets. "I-I need to get the maester. You need help." His voice was weak, despite needing to be strong for you he couldn't. He was just as scared as you, worried for your health and the babies.

"No! No, please Aegon! Aegon stay pleas-" A moan of pain interrupts you as your grip on him tightens. You could feel your heart breaking, knowing what this meant. Your child was not well, something was wrong and you feared your child has not made it. Your heart breaks for the life you are never able to know. The child you will have hold in your arms, to hear them giggle. The perfect mixture of Aegon and yourself will never be greeted in the world. You will not hear their cr as they leave your body.

Aegon stayed with you, he could not leave you like this. Not as he saw the utter terror in his eyes, the fear in your grips. "I'll stay, I'll stay with you, my love." Pushing back the hair that stuck to your forehead he kissed you softly. Wanting to provide a little bit of comfort to you in any form he could. Another wave of pain made you twist in the bed, your body not being able to stand such utter pain.

The baby was coming, but instead of the child crying and announcing its arrival to the world. You would be wailing and mourning the life that was never lived.

#aegon targaryen x reader #aegorn ii x reader #aegon targaryen imagines #aegon imagines #aegon x reader #house of the dragon x reader #house of the dragon imagines #hotd x reader #hotd imagines

[lemonzestywrites]

❤️✨🖤✨

i did a poll for the next posting and y’all have spoken! this next snippet takes immediately after this posting with a bit more soft dom buck!

also i got extremely indulgent with this one so ummm...enjoy the VERY long post LMAO

✨(nsfw under the cut!)✨ft. rimming (dont say you weren't warned!)

====

He’s not really used to this. A part of him isn’t really sure what to do with it- with this endless pleasure that’s fully and entirely his. 

There are no strings attached, no ulterior motives, really. Just Buck, who’s knelt between his legs and seems more than happy to linger there, driving Eddie fucking insane with nothing else but his tongue. (Holy shit, that tongue-)

Buck laps at his hole with such a hungry eagerness. Eddie strains against his bonds, writhing from the pleasure, his own cock dying for relief. But even as badly as he wants to seek out his own release, he knows better. Knows that’s not up to him, even as badly as he wants it.

Another sweet drag of Buck’s tongue sends a sharp shockwave of electricity up Eddie’s spine. He moans, the sound muffled and garbled behind the gag. Fuck. He’s not going to survive this. There’s no way.

He just manages to keep his hips from buckling again. Buck’s hands give his ass a slight, small squeeze as wordless encouragement. Eddie feels the heat of his mouth momentarily pull away, for a second. “Good boy, Eddie.”

The praise floods down Eddie’s cheeks, a burning wildfire claiming everything in its path. Scorching every inch of his skin, extinguishing every breath. He buries his face further into the mattress to steady himself, not minding the wet patch of drool pooling beneath him.

Buck dives back in not a moment later, the motion not faltering in intensity or desire. Maybe even increasing, as Buck devours him in full, the vibrations of his very self-satisfied hum doing fucking wonders to Eddie. A particular pass has Eddie instinctually bitting down on the silicone ball, the most depraved of moans being pulled from him as he does so.

Holy shit. He knew Buck was good with his mouth but this- 

This is borderline fucking illegal. It has to be- good fucking god. 

Eddie’s head spins, the world around him dizzying as he tries so desperately to at least force some air into his lungs, to make some attempt to ground himself here. He tries- he tries so hard-, but the air is too thin, too frail. His body tries to balance through every sensation, juggling through pleasure and desperation, through need and want. 

Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Distantly as if miles away, he feels the warmth behind him retract slightly. Eddie whines, the sound needy and raw, though still muffled, as all of the sweet gorgeous bliss he was being offered suddenly pauses. 

The whole world drops off its kilter and every inch of his body aches in desperate depraved need.

But just like before, he feels a familiar warmth crawl up his back once more, but this time there’s no harshness to it, no domineering edge that carries an authority like it did earlier. The motion is still confident and sure, just…softer. Broad hands slide up Eddie’s sides with easy familiarity, an act that tugs at Eddie, grounding him to this moment. Buck retakes his place, spread along Eddie’s back again, tucking his head on top of his shoulder.

“Breathe,” Buck whispers. An order. Though it doesn’t really feel like one; not in the way Eddie’s used to. Because it doesn’t draw fear or demand respect. Buck’s voice is warm, gentle, even. “Take a big deep breath for me. Eddie. In through your nose; as much as you can take.”

Maybe in a clearer head, the rate and ease in which Eddie succumbs to Buck’s instruction might’ve been a surprise to him, but here at least, it doesn’t. He follows Buck’s words without a second's hesitation, inhaling through his nose, slowly taking in as much air as his lungs can allow.

It’s not like Eddie has ever had a problem with authority per se, not in the way he’s seen with other people, a fellow soldier disobeying an order, or another classmate making a snide comment from his fire instructor's lecture. Eddie’s always followed politely, because it’s what he’s had to do. It’s what was expected of him. From the moment he was a boy till now as an adult. The outburst, the disobedience, that’s just never been allowed. So he obeys. 

But with Buck…

It’s odd, the way it feels so different. Not bad. Or scary. 

Entirely the opposite, actually.

There’s a warmth, an air that surrounds Buck and his dominance. His command is still assertive, yet caring in the same breath. Not because he’s getting some sick power trip off telling Eddie what to do. 

That’s not how this works. 

He draws in a slow careful breath, feeling the edges of his raging mind beginning to calm a bit more, the hazy feeling starting to steady itself. 

Eddie doesn’t follow because he has to. 

He follows because he wants to. 

There’s so much trust placed between every order and every action. Never drawing from the feeling of reckless control or wild sexual abandon.

Buck hums to himself. “Perfect. Now let it all go.” The words flow so easily. Eddie releases the breath he was holding, not missing the way the hands at his sides begging to rub small circles into his hips. “Slower,” Buck coos gently, and Eddie leans into the instruction as soon as it's given, slowing the exhale down a bit more. “Yeah, just like that.”

The praise lands like morning sunbeams peeking in between the blinds, a warmth Eddie basks in, the muscles of his shoulders, relaxing as they fall. “Good. That was amazing,” he assures.

Assurance.

A feeling Eddie didn’t know he was even seeking out until now. Until the words landed delicately to his ears and gently tugged at his strings closer and closer to the ground. Never letting him stray too far.

Buck doesn’t just do this to exude power or control, just to fuck Eddie and leave him be afterwards. No-

Buck…Buck cares.

afotalwcs taglist (lmk if youd like to be added to be tagged in future postings!) - @eddiebabygirldiaz @your-catfish-friend @giddyupbuck @jeeyuns @artemis-the-sinister

#me a tumblr were FIGHTING to make my usual formating work #but alas i am not gods strongest soldier and i gave up after like 5 mins #so heres this instead #also unrelated but im getting a little too excited to be sharing these fucking tomes worth of text #like i know i need to be more chill but i don't think i know how LMAO #911 #eddie diaz #evan buckley #buddie #zestywrites #afotalwcs

[kookieswan]

Kim Namjoon, Deep Ocean Blue, angst

Ocean Blue

Mermaid!Joon x LifeGuard!Reader

Word Count: 700+

Genre: Mermaid!AU, Lifeguard!AU, Stramgers to Friends to Lovers, Angst, Fluff.

Warnings: MC is reckless. Near death experience- MC nearly drowns and sustains injuries. Namjoon is a mad mermaid man.

Notes: This is an OLD request lmao. I hope you like it if you’re still around anon ♥️

Find my Main Masterlist here!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Eyes slamming open with a start, you cough up water violently a few times as black dots dance across your vision mockingly. You feel his presence above you instantly, hands lingering on your body, the feeling of his lips now a ghost. It’s not long before the ache of near death resonates as well.

You hadn’t meant to sink into the black depths of the ocean, not as far as you had anyway. Namjoon had disappeared without a trace over a week ago, and so you had attempted to row out to sea and back to find him. Was it stupid? Yes, but in the end it had got him back to you; that much is apparent as he scoots closer to you in the warm sand.

You had rowed out to your island that wasn’t to far out from the cove, fully intending on searching the whole area for him. It’s usually where he can be found when he’s disappeared, but in your distracted searching, you hadn’t noticed the storm brewing above your head, hadn’t watched for any of the signs. A rookie mistake on your part.

“Dumb.” It’s thickly accented, harsh in tone. You wince as you attempt to sit up as he draws back, peering to the side as you do. It’s still blurred but he’s definitely glaring at you, eyes slitted, nostrils flared. You’ve clearly got a very pissed off mermaid on your hands and you can blame no one but yourself. You know he won’t agree with your reasoning in a million years.

“I- I know. I’m sorry Joon.” It comes out raspy, your own voice ripping at your raw throat. You don’t even know what else to say to him in your embarrassed state. Staring back at the mermaid, you watch as his glare slowly cracks and his face falls into something softer. He scoots closer, a webbed hand raising up to slowly caress your clammy cheek.

A cool wave of relief washes over you, all of the pain lessening just a little. You appreciate him using his energy to heal you even if only a little, but you don’t want him to waste anything else on you. He’s really too sweet…

“Okay?” Clearing your throat again , you start to realize just how cold and run down you feel, even with Namjoon’s healing. The happiness of finding your mermaid is starting to fade slowly, the exhaustion taking over instead. You try very hard not to show it on your face as you place your hand over his.

“I’ve… Felt better. Thank you for saving me, I would have, well…” Appraising him bashfully, it’s then you notice that his tale is absent, now replaced with legs and other unmentionable appendages. You cough loudly as your hand falls, both in surprise and from the salty water burning your esophagus.

Namjoon stands suddenly, just the slightest bit shaky. He’s gotten a lot better at walking with practice, it’s something you’re strangely proud of teaching him. He leans down and grabs you without a word, scooping you up into his arms. There’s a flash of worry that someone will see, but right now, he’s just a naked guy carrying you on the beach.

“We talk later. Still mad. Rest.” There’s a giggle hiding behind your lips as he pouts, his gait a little unbalanced as he attempts to keep you level as he begins to walk toward the parking lot. Swallowing it down, you just nod against his neck, slowly burrowing closer to him. He smells like salt and flowers and everything you so terribly missed.

“We can talk later, yeah. Just get us to the car first, okay?” You can talk after a nice long nap, but first you have to get the two of you back to your apartment. Thankfully it’s not too far from the beach, and the roads are pretty dead…

“You hurt, I drive.” The laugh can’t be contained this time, especially as he clicks out a few laughs of his own. What a lovely silly man you’ve found, it only makes sense he isn’t fully human.

“Not in a million years Joon.”

#namjoon x reader #namjoon x y/n #namjoon x you #namjoon angst #namjoon fluff #bts x you #bts x reader #bts x y/n #bts angst #bts fluff #bts drabble

[onlyheretocausechaos]

ACCIDENTAL GOD: CHAPTER ONE

Pairing: OT8 Ateez x Reader Fantasy AU

Synopsis: You get summoned into a fantasy world by a group of runaway misfits, (who strangely look like your favorite idols) who claim you to be an ancient forgotten War God, and they need your help to survive while being hunted down by a tyrant King.

Warnings: Heavy Religious themes, member x member, eventual smut, slow burn, gore, death, language, torture, angst, fighting, magic, mentions of past abuse, rituals, blood rituals, some obsessive behavior

Let me know if i missed anything! More warnings will be added as the story goes.

A/N: Finally, here is the first chapter! And don’t worry, reader is introduced in the next chapter! Sorry for any weird formatting, idk how to write lmao. I hope you guys enjoy it!

Please be sure to read the Prologue, it’s short but it’s important!

Masterlist, Prologue, Chapter Two,

Seonghwa’s entire body hurt. He couldn’t seem to remember what happened, where was he? Why did he hurt? Why did he feel like he couldn’t breathe? There was something heavy on his chest, and it wasn’t until he opened his eyes and looked did he realize. There was someone-no, Hongjoon was laying on top of him, seemingly unconscious, he could recognize that ash blond mullet anywhere. Gently, he tried to push Hongjoon off of him and to the side to be able to get up, but slightly winced as his own body protested at the exertion. Once Seonghwa knew Hongjoon wasn’t lying uncomfortably, he sat up on his hands and began to take in their surroundings.

The first thing he noticed was the fact they were in a deep crack in the earth, vines clinging to the steep walls and trees hung over the edges overhead. The next was how dirty and wet he was, along with Hongjoon. Both of their clothes were torn and caked in mud and leaves. Seonghwa tried his best to rack his brain for information on how both him and Hongjoon ended up here, and without any sign of his other clan members nonetheless.

Seonghwa knew He was helping Hongjoon draw a map of the castle grounds to go along with the already drawn areas of the town surrounding the castle earlier, when he heard Mingi’s voice yelling from the woods. He couldn’t see him yet, but knew Mingi was running towards their camp. He was alerting everyone of the guards that were surrounding them and before Seonghwa knew it, Hongjoon was barking orders that they grab what they could and run. Seonghwa helped the captain put away the map and shove it along with some other important documents and books they had into a leather bag, before Hongjoon slung it over his shoulder. The others doing similar things as they prepared to take off. Seonghwa made sure to stuff the dagger he had stolen, his Father’s dagger, into his boot before Hongjoon grabbed his hand and forcibly pulled him along, the rest of the clan members quickly following suit.

He knew they had run into an opening where the king’s guards, who had just arrived at their camp as they were leaving, weren’t covering. But he didn’t know the direction they were headed. The ATEEZ clan hadn’t settled in this forest for very long, a week at most, and hadn’t had a chance to fully explore their surroundings other than right around camp. Basically, none of them had any idea where they were going, and they were fucked.

The guards were hot on their trails as they all ran, Hongjoon was still holding Seonghwa’s hand. Seonghwa didn’t know how long they had run for, but his body was about ready to give out when he noticed Hongjoon lagging behind him. He did his best to tug him along, trying to lose the guards in the dense forest, but as Seonghwa passed through another bush it wasn’t until it was too late to stop did he notice the steep drop right in front of him. As the ground disappeared underneath him, Seonghwa whipped his head around to meet Hongjoon’s fear-filled eyes. Seonghwa knew, as some sort of adrenaline filled fast thinking, that even if he had let go of Hongjoon’s hand he would fall too. So he tugged Hongjoon into his chest with as much force as he could muster and wrapped his arms around him. One around his waist and one on the back of his head to protect it. He didn’t let go as they fell, not until he hit the ground and everything went black. Right, So that’s how they got here. However, Seonghwa still had questions. Where was the rest of the clan? Are they safe? Captured? How do he and Hongjoon get out of here? What do we do next?

A groan from his right snapped Seonghwa from his thoughts, Hongjoon was awake. Sitting up, he looked around and saw Seonghwa before he spoke.

“What happened? I feel awful… Where are we?”

“It seems we are in a ravine somewhere in the forest. We fell as we were running away from the guards that invaded our camp.” Seonghwa spoke as he stood up. The pain from the fall was bearable now, but still throbbing underneath his skin. He held out his hand to help Hongjoon stand.

As Hongjoon wobbily stood, he groaned, his body also aching. He still had questions.

“What about the others? How do we get out of here? How long have we been here, actually?”

Hongjoon shot questions at Seonghwa once again, but these he had no answer to.

“I’m not sure, I woke up not too long before you, and I can’t see the sun from here so I couldn’t tell you the time.”

Seonghwa craned his neck upwards to see the top of the ravine again. The sun was still shining brightly through the trees and vines overhead. It had been early morning when they were attacked, the sun just fully risen over the horizon, so it must’ve been a few hours at least.

“Let's just focus on getting out of here first, Hongjoon. Then we can see if we can find any of the others.”

Seonghwa didn’t want to say ‘Find their bodies’ but he was afraid that was most likely the truth. That, or they are currently being tortured at the castle for information, or simply for the enjoyment of the King. Seonghwa’s stomach turned at the thought. His father- no, the King. That man was no father, maybe not even human. He was a sick man, and Seonghwa resented the fact that they are kin in any way. He shook his head to rid of those thoughts. Stay focused, they are alive, they have to be. You must survive to help them, and you can’t do that stuck where you are.

The both of them began walking towards one end of the ravine, the other close enough to see it was too steep to climb.

“Hongjoon,” Seonghwa called, the man in question humming in response, “ Did you help with the fall?”

“What do you mean?”

“We shouldn’t have survived the drop from that height, did you do something?”

“Ah yes, I did. I remembered I threw up a protective barrier at the last second before we hit the ground. That is most likely the reason we aren’t dead, though the guards from before seem to think we are.”

“What makes you say that?”

“They haven't come to retrieve your body as proof yet.”

Right, of course the king would need proof of the prince's death. It made sense since Seonghwa has quite the bounty on his head, as do the rest of his clan members. Treason (and many other crimes) were written on the wanted posters across the town whenever they had snuck in to steal supplies. It was not a pleasant sight to see, and it was a big reality check for them all as to what they had gotten themselves into.

Seonghwa realized they had made it to the end of the ravine now. It wasn’t very long, surprisingly, as it was a good width. This end they could climb, while the slope was still steep, there were various small trees and rocks they could grapple onto to climb up, and so they did.

No words were exchanged as they climbed, just small grunts and pants escaping their mouths. Once they made it to the top, they stood there for a second to rest. Hongjoon looked at Seonghwa before he spoke up.

“Do you think it’s safe to try and grab anything left from camp?” Seonghwa only shrugged. It was a risk, but one they were going to have to take. They had virtually nothing on them besides the bag of documents still over Hongjoon’s shoulder, the clan wasn’t supposed to split up and in their rush they didn’t grab anything in case they did. Perhaps if one of the other clan members got away, they would have the same idea to head there. It was the only familiar territory any of them knew in these woods.

They began to head towards their camp, following the trail they had sprinted down and passing broken tree limbs and rushed footprints along the way. Yet, no sight of blood, which is both good and bad. It means that their clan members weren't hurt on the trail, but it also means none of the guards were either. Seonghwa hopes that at least some of the others got away. After about 2 hours or so, both Him and Hongjoon came across a small waterfall, leading into a pond. They stopped to rest, refilling the waterskins that hung off of each of their hips, and attempting to wash off some of the dirt still stuck to their skin. A tense silence hung over the both of them. The thought of their clan members, their new family, possibly dead or worse stuck in their minds. Hongjoon had just sat down near the edge of the water as Seonghwa was still cleaning up, when they both heard a ‘snap’.

Both heads whipped impossibly fast towards the noise coming from behind them, on high alert. Two figures began to walk out of the trees towards them, one tall, one shorter. As Seonghwa began to grab his dagger out of his boot, the figure's faces came into view. Air felt like it was sucked out of his lungs, his heart beating rapidly in his chest. Hongjoon was the first to move, sprinting towards them.

“San! Wooyoung!”

He crashed into the other two clan members with force, nearly knocking them both down as Hongjoon wrapped them in a bear hug. Seonghwa was quick to follow suit.

“You're alive! You’re- How did you get away? Have you seen any of the others? I’m so glad you are both safe!” Hongjoon rushed out the words, pure relief lacing his tone as he pulled back. Smiles graced everyone’s features.

“You guys are okay! And no, we haven’t seen anyone else. Both me and Wooyoung managed to slip away after we lost sight of you both. I’m not sure if any of the others did so as well.” San seemed on the verge of tears as he spoke, Both happy and worried tears. The healer cares so much for his clan, not knowing what happened to them all was tearing his heart apart.

“What happened to you guys?” Wooyoung piped up now, looking both Hongjoon and Seonghwa up and down, taking in their tattered and dirty attire.

“ We were chased off into a ravine, it was not an easy fall.” Seonghwa finally spoke. They had all pulled away from the group hug but still stayed close, not wanting to be too far from each other now that they were together again. Wooyoung’s mouth parted into an ‘o’ in understanding as San spoke up once more.

“So what do we do now? The other members have most definitely been taken by the guards back to the castle. How are we supposed to get them back? We don’t even know which way to camp is! Night is falling soon as well and I’m sure there are still guards lurking to find the rest of us. We saw them on the way here.” Worry pulled at his features, and all Hongjoon wanted to do was make him smile again, to make everything better again.

He didn’t know what to do, it was near impossible to sneak into the town surrounding the castle without being recognized anymore, forget trying to sneak into the castle. If they ran into anyone they would more than likely lose that fight and end up killed. They needed help from an outside source, but who would help them? Who could they trust? He was silent before Hongjoon spoke again, a frown on his lips.

“We can’t break them out alone, that’s for sure. We need to find someone that can help us, but who? Do any of you know someone? Or have any ideas?” It was silent once more as everyone tried to think. They were desperate.

“What about your magic Joong? Could we do something with that? Summon a minion or something to help us?” Wooyoung threw out the idea, a stupid idea better than none in his mind.

“No, my magic isn’t powerful enough to summon someone to help, and would be no use against the Royal Sorcerers. They have wards up near the castle so no one can use magic around it. Besides, to perform such a powerful ritual like that to summon something would require certain spell books to work, ones we don’t have.” Hongjoon responded. Not even the old spell books and grimoires stored in his magic shop had information on how to do that. Such powerful things were outlawed to the public, only Royalty and those allowed by royalty could access things like that.

“Wait,” A lightbulb seemed to go off above Seonghwa’s head. He turned and rummaged through the bag over Hongjoon’s shoulder before pulling out a large book. It had a dark brown leather cover with red gemstones decorating it, and unknown language written on the front.

“We might be able to do that! This is a grimoire I had stolen out of the library back at the castle before I fled. I meant to give it to Hongjoon but with everything that has happened, it slipped my mind. Here.” Seonghwa handed the book to Hongjoon. The latter excitedly began to flip through it.

“Seonghwa, Do you even know what you grabbed? This book has so many forgotten and outlawed spells and rituals! It’s most likely one of a kind!” Hongjoon plopped down onto the ground where he stood, still flipping through before stopping on a page, Something must've caught his eye. They all looked over Hongjoons shoulder, now crouching around him to get a better look. Different images and graphs lined this page, along with a lot of writing in seemingly the same language on the cover. Hongjoon was quiet now, intensely focusing on this specific page.

“Can you really read all that?” Wooyoung commented, it seems Hongjoon ignored him as he looked up at Seonghwa with an astonished face.

“We can summon a God. A long forgotten and Powerful God. Do you know what this means? We can get the others out! We can be protected!” A look of disbelief coated Hongjoon’s face.

Dumbstruck looks seemed to cross everyone’s faces. A god? Was that even possible? Confused murmurs left the others mouths. Hongjoon looked back down at the book before speaking.

“It’s extremely dangerous, and I’m not even sure it’ll work, but I think it’s our only chance at saving the others. This page details the ritual to summon Omen, a god of war and wrath, among other things but that is what they were most known for.”

This time San spoke up. “Almost no one worships them anymore, right? They’ve almost faded into obscurity. I remember reading a book on them. Are we sure we want them? They could easily kill us the moment we call for them! Are they even real?”

Many gods had shrines and temples mortals would go and worship, praying and leaving offerings in exchange for their wishes. But Omen was a god lesser known, having vanished from text and tongue in the day and age they were living in. Summoning a god was completely unheard of, the all powerful beings didn’t often meddle in mortal affairs, only caring for the land or doing small favors for offerings. They wouldn’t let some measly mortal have any power over them and messing in mortal wars was definitely something they didn’t do either. Why would a War god want to help them?

“It’s our only shot, San. What else can we do? Leave the others to be slowly tortured to death as we continue to run like a bunch of cowards?” Hongjoon’s words were sharp, slicing at the feelings of the others. He didn’t want to be mean, but it was the cold hard truth. They couldn’t keep running like this, and they could never leave their comrades behind. A long, silent beat passed.

“Fine, so we all agree to do this?” Seonghwa looked at San and Wooyoung for confirmation. He had made up his mind, and he knew Hongjoon wouldn’t budge. They had to get the others back, and if that meant doing something so stupid like trying to summon an ancient god, then so be it. Seonghwa was also tired of running and feeling helpless. He saw San and Wooyoung reluctantly nod. Upon seeing their reactions, Hongjoon stood as determined words left his mouth.

“Alright, let’s get to work.”

#ateez #ateez fanfic #fanfic #ateez x reader #x reader #choi san #jung wooyoung #kim hongjoong #choi jongho #park seonghwa #kang yeosang #song mingi #jeong yunho #fantasy #ateez fantasy au #fantasy au #magic!au #god!reader #god au #series

[hwanghyunjinenthusiast]

You make me breathe

AN: My first fic about Woozi would have this much drama lmao. I'm strongly considering turning this into a series because I have a tonne of ideas floating around in my mind of where I'd like to take this. Shoutout to Breathe by GOT7 for the title.

Synopsis: Jihoon is utterly in love with you. Too bad you're into his friend Soonyoung, and he's too much of a coward to ever tell you how he feels. He's happy to take his feelings to the grave but soon finds that his body doesn't agree with his decision.

Heads up: Lee Jihoon x Fem! Reader, Kwon Soonyoung x Fem! Reader (but, not actually), assumed unrequited love, a tonne of angst and pining on Woozi's end, Hanahaki disease AU, Non-Idol AU, mentions of crying and coughing up blood.

I will block you if you are minor and have no easily visible indication of your age on your blog if you interact with me in any way.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Jihoon watches you talk to Soonyoung with what he hopes is nonchalance. Something awful constricts in his chest when he notices your hand rest on his arm, and you laugh particularly hard at whatever his friend says. Usually Jihoon wouldn't be this overly analytical about anyone's movements, but he just can't seem to help himself when it comes to you.

His eyes always find you without fail. You draw him like a magnet. Jihoon isn't sure when he fell for you. When he looks back on the progression of his feelings, he thinks it happened gradually. One day you were just a friend Seungkwan introduced to the group, and the next thing he knew, he was irrevocably in love with you. He's been too much of a coward to ever broach his feelings with you these past few months, and now he sees you slipping through his fingers.

You and Soonyoung have always been close. Your personalities simply clicked. There wasn't much else to it, so you were always practically attached at the hip. He just understood you better. Soonyoung is loud and confident and funny and affectionate, so many things Jihoon is not and will likely never be. Maybe that's why you seem to like him so much. More than anyone else in their friend group.

Jihoon finds it increasingly difficult to breathe when he notices you cuddling into Soonyoung's side, your boisterous conversation turning to hushed whispers that scream closeness and intimacy.

He knew his insecurities were getting the best of him. You spoke to Jihoon often, sometimes the two of you would spend hours alone in his studio simply talking. Occasionally he'd show you what he was working on and privately preen at your praise and carefully consider any criticism you offer up as well. Those were some of his most treasured moments with you.

You weren't his. You weren't in a relationship with him. He had no right to feel envious of Soonyoung, especially when he has never even tried to tell you how he feels. Still, feelings are irrational, and Jihoon cannot help his.

He fails to notice your eyes focusing on him when he excuses himself for the night, your brow furrowed in concern as you watch him hurriedly make his way to his room for the night.

Jihoon swallows down the tears and tries to remind himself to breathe when he's finally in the safety of bedroom, hurling himself on his bed. He was being overdramatic, he knew that, but he still couldn't bite back the tears as they fall down on his cheeks and begin to dot his pillow. He's pathetic.

It was getting difficult to breathe.

He felt like his insides were being shred into pieces as he laid here, wallowing in self-pity and self-deprecation. The feeling of his lungs constricting returns, more severe than last time. More determined to be felt by him.

He rushes to his bathroom, urgency leaving him without the presence of mind to even turn on the light. He nearly hits his head with how hurriedly he kneels over his toilet, clutching it desperately as he tries his best to get whatever is currently burning his insides out of his system.

This doesn't feel normally. Jihoon has thrown up before, and it's never felt like this.

It's never hurt like this.

Tears cascade down his face as he finally manages to get... whatever is causing this out of his body, the metallic tang of blood assaulting his taste buds. He coughs violently, worse than he's ever recalled doing in his life.

When the violent coughing fit subsides, Jihoon manages to open his bleary eyes to examine what the fuck just came out of him. He's stunned to see what he thinks are white chrysanthemum petals covered in his blood floating in the water below.

#lee jihoon angst #jihoon angst #seventeen angst #woozi angst #lee jihoon fic #jihoon fic #seventeen fic #woozi fic

[pagingdoctorbedlam]

Ask game ask game, 2, 13 and 35 for Czernholz owo I love this ship so much LMAO

My fellow in Czernholz...thank you...XD

2. "What would they do if the other woke in a manic state after a nightmare?" Not entirely uncommon for them, but it depends on who has the nightmare. Since Ebenholz has nightmares more often, Czerny's more practiced in dealing with them, which generally means soothing Ebenholz and calming him down before he does something stupid. Touch and getting their breathing in-sync tends to help, and Ebenholz is also usually calmed by Czerny's heartbeat. Czerny's nightmares are far less frequent but pretty intense, and it's understood that he needs to deal with his emotions immediately so his brain doesn't get stuck. Ebenholz tries to stick by his side and be supportive of whatever he needs to do while making sure he doesn't push himself too hard, be it writing emotions out into a composition or engaging in physical activity to burn away the stress.

13. "Who’s the bigger tease?" Ebenholz. Often without meaning to, since his ass is on the asexual spectrum and he doesn't always realize he's being a tease or that Czerny is in any sort of mood. But when Ebenholz decides to be a tease on purpose? Czerny is absoutely doomed.

35. "Who’s more artistic?" That's a hard one. Czerny goes deeper into his art, always composing and making music, often absently humming or jotting notes down in the middle of whatever he's doing. He doesn't have a lot of other artistic hobbies, though he'll sometimes draw in the margins of his notes; his doodles are honestly kind of cute. Ebenholz has a wider range though, as he's more willing to experiment with genre conventions once he starts composing, and he has a few more artistic hobbies (he picks up jewelry crafting from attempts to improve Kreide's necklace, and he also likes photography. He also pens the occasional poem, but refuses to show them to anyone ever.)

Thanks for sending me these questions! Full list here for more OTP asks!

#bedlam answers #otp asks #arknights czerny #ebenholz #czernholz #ebenholz/czerny

[always-andromeda]

La Belle Fleur Sauvage for Brian Weathersby? I have seen absolutely ZERO nsfw for him and I am just DYING to see what your take on it is. Imma give you free range on this one bby. Tear it up 💖

Author's Note | ooooo boy...I have teeeeensy bit of a soft spot for Brian and it's purely because of how bad this man gets beat up in this movie...oopsie...thank you for giving me free reign though!!!! this concept simply kept bouncing around in my brain lmao.

Warnings | smut (MDNI), unprotected sex, overstimulation, nothing else I can think of!!

When you waltz in, Brian knows he's in trouble. He didn't even realize just have much time he'd wasted on paperwork. Normally he'd be counting down the minutes until he could close up the store and go home. But of course the one day he actually has plans outside of work is the day that about a dozen people decided that they needed a mattress.

Why anyone would decide they wanted a mattress about the cost of a used car, he had no clue. He still manages to sell seven mattresses. A good day. A very good day. Until you walked in, of course.

"Didn't think you'd be having this much fun without me," you tease humorlessly, approaching his desk. Stacks of papers litter the surface of his work station.

"I'm so sorry, I've been completely swamped today." Brian clicks the pen he holds and avoids your hard gaze. He tries again, "I meant to call and tell you I'd be late. But everything just..."

You finger runs up the length of a particularly large stack of papers, "Piled up?"

Brian sighs before giving you a purse lipped smile, "Something like that."

You nod once. Simply accepting the halfhearted excuse. Brian waits for you to say something else before you swivel around on your heels and begin to walk along the row of remaining mattresses on the sales floor. You hand presses down on each one for a few seconds, teasing the firmness as you seemingly decide it's too hard or too soft. He watches you with a quizzical look as you seem to finally find one you like. You press both hands on that one and bounce a few times.

Then you crawl up on it, that little dress you're wearing, riding up just enough so Brian catches a glimpse of the back of your thighs before you turn around and lie on your back. Deciding to entertain whatever you're trying to do, Brian gets up and slowly makes his way towards you.

He hears you breath out contentedly as you ask, "How much is this one, Bri?"

Brian chuckles. As if you'd ever be able to afford it. Nonetheless, he replies, "Ten grand." He's got practically every price memorized. There's not much else to do when he's surrounded by the numbers every single day.

You scoff, "Jesus Christ, who buys these?"

"People with money to burn, I guess."

Head raising for a few seconds, you smile slightly, "Wanna test this one out with me?"

"Test it?"

You rub the spot beside you, "Yeah, have you never actually tried one of these bad boys?"

Brian shakes his head defensively. But he still brings his knee up to the bed and carefully crawls up it. He doesn't need a ten thousand dollar bill to pay if it gets damaged in some way.

"Oh, don't be such a dork," you laugh and grab him by the collar of his dark sweater. Before he can possibly move in time, he collapses on top of you, knocking his nose into yours on the way down.

Your face scrunches up at the impact and you nuzzle your nose against his.

"Hi," your voice is small and sweet. There’s a pang in his stomach. Brian stares into your wild eyes and blinks hard when you draw your knees up and press them into the sides of his torso.

You add quickly, "Has anyone ever told you how pretty you are?"

The sentiment nearly knocks the air from his lungs. He shakes his head solemnly.

"Really?" your thumb and index finger grab his chin, "That's a shame." you whisper. Your lips engulf his in a slow, lazy kiss as he closes his eyes and sighs.

Using the leverage from your knees, you make him flip around onto his back and straddle him. The little weight that you put on him presses him down into the mattress. He'd never really felt one of them. It's different, his full weight sinking into the luxurious cushion. He's not sure if he can feel the ten thousand dollars it would cost to own the mattress in its Swedish glory. But he can feel your hips grinding into his own. He feels himself harden at the sheer friction of your clothed cunt against him.

That dress does nothing to spare his imagination. Nothing keeps his mind from wandering as you hum into his mouth. Before he can think about it more, he's hitching your dress up a little further and undoing his belt.

"Oh?" you sit up properly so Brian can struggle to pull his pants down. "You really want to test this bed out, huh?"

Brian can only inhale deeply as you reach into his underwear and pull his cock out from the confines of the waistband. He has to stop himself from bucking into your hand. Just watches with bated breath as you lift yourself up, slip your panties to the side, line him up, and slowly sink down.

The way he stretches you hits sharply and Brian caresses your thighs until you're almost seated on him. His tip barely brushes something inside of you and your head lolls back as you adjust to the fullness. As disappointing as his time management was, this certainly wasn't disappointing.

Brian keeps his eyes clenched closed, concentrating on staying still for you. As much as he wants to move you, he stays as patient as he can, trying not to think about how warm you feel. How just a little bit of grinding had made you so ready for him. He tries not to let that thought get him too cocky.

Then you gently rock on him. You struggle to keep your knees planted firmly on the soft mattress so Brian takes it as his chance to hold onto you and help you bounce, thrusting slightly to meet your movements. He watches your face change as he digs deeper inside you.

"This good for you?" he asks quickly. 

"Yeah, just keep going," comes your breathy response. 

Finally, for a few seconds, he stops worrying about the forgotten date. About the mattress. About the ten thousand dollars. The only thing he hears are the squeak of springs and your heady moans. 

The coils in your own belly tighten impossibly. It all builds to a peak so quickly that you don't have time to prepare yourself for the impact. Your hands stable themselves on his chest.

Brian almost wishes he'd waited long enough to get fully undressed. The mattress is so soft and so warm. He already feels the sweat forming on his hairline as he gets higher and higher. And just as he thinks about the possibility of staining the mattress, your cunt contracts around him. Your hips convulse. You hold onto his sweater with balled fists. And with one last whine, you're there.

But you're still moving. Still riding him through the stinging overstimulation that makes you jolt and cry out. Wordlessly, Brian moves to take you off of him, but you hold on and stay seated.

"It's okay, Bri," you sigh, "Just keep going. Just...keep...going."

He's so close. And with you gently clenching him, he knows he doesn't stand much of a chance to last much longer. But he'd take the frustration of a missed orgasm over the way you wince in pain.

"No, no, get up," he says urgently, prying your knees away from his sides and pulling himself out.

Your hand immediately goes to pump his red and rigid cock. But he grabs your wrist and repositions it on his chest.

"Why won't you let me finish you?" you ask with a furrowed brow. 

Brian lets his head sink further into the bed as he thinks up an excuse. "I don't want to...stain the bed." He breathes hard, trying to ignore the empty ache between his legs and the hunger that still lies dormant in his belly.

You lightly slap his chest, "You're such a hard ass."

His chapped lips form a small smile, "I know. You can make it up to me after our second date."

"Second date? We didn't even have our first."

"This wasn't our first?"

"I can't believe you. The first time I fuck on the first date and he doesn't even cum," you say sarcastically and roll your eyes.

Brian sniffs at the small jab, "Take it as an apology."

You fiddle with a loose thread on his sweater and as he watches your fingers pick at it, the erection thankfully dies down. He's only had a little taste of you. And he wants more than a missed date and a quick fuck on a mattress that hundreds of other customers have laid on. So much more.

Brian clears his throat, "About the second date. Maybe we could have dinner at my place. I've been told I'm a pretty good cook."

"Oh, he's pretty, he can get me off, he can cook...what else can you do?"

"Je ne fais pas grand chose d'autre."

Your eyes light up, "Where have you been my entire life?"

Smiling once more and only offering a little laugh, his arm around your shoulder pulls you closer into his side. He wondered if the scent of your arousal would be enough to consider the mattress ruined. Yeah, then I'd take it, he thinks to himself as he eyes flutter closed.

#strange trails milestone✨ #danonation #paul dano #danocel #gigantic #brian weathersby #brian weathersby x reader #brian weathersby x you #brian weathersby x y/n #˚ʚ meda writes ɞ˚

[novoaa1writes]

demonology

pairing(s): wanda maximoff x f!reader, natasha romanoff & f!reader, yelena belova & f!reader

summary:

A voice you know but shouldn’t says your name, all soft and reverent like it’s something holy, and your stomach curdles as you’re wrenched back into yourself with the force of a battering ram.

Your head spins. Your lungs burn. You can hardly breathe.

She—Wanda—is standing close. Too close. How did she get that close? How did you let her?

She’s got freckles, a faint smattering of them beneath her eyes and across her nose. Did she always have those?

You don’t know where you are. You don’t know what you’re doing.

cross-posted on ao3. 

word count: ~6,900

rating: teen audiences and up

warnings: a good amount of blood and violence. brainwashing, swearing, guns, knives, general head-fuckery, etc. pretty much all the warnings from previous installments apply

notes: LMAO. hello how is everyone doing. life can be brutal but i finally managed to get out the next installment! i realized that while i was writing it, i’ll definitely need another one (at least) to wrap up the final climactic action scenes, and hten probably another one after that to tie up loose ends and the like. i’ll do me best, and a huge thank you to everyone who’s stuck around this far. seriously, that is insane to me, and i know i am not a terribly consistent writer with a posting schedule, so it means a whole freakin’ bunch

anywho!

— —

PREVIOUS PART: THE BEST LAID PLANS...

— —

Plan B goes to hell in a handbasket in both spectacularly poor fashion and record time. 

It’s almost impressive, really. 

One second, things are (relatively) under control:

Two’s crumpled form lies listless at your feet, twitching and shuddering atop age-weathered wood. Not completely down for the count, but effectively neutralized for the time being. A handful of strides out stands a shrewd-looking Hawkeye, a single well-honed arrow nocked and leveled at your chest. 

Drama queen.

Beside him, his… tenderfooted charge. The Maximoff girl. Crimson luminescence flickers betwixt her hands, reflecting off spotless silver bands on willowy fingers; and despite your better instincts, you are loath to look anywhere else. 

A second later sees Iron Man plummeting down through the ceiling overhead with a hair-raising CRASH; and just like that, the spell is broken. Shouts ring out, explosions sound, and the entire ground floor devolves into a truly histrionic spectacle of unmitigated chaos.

While your concentration may be a hair short of compromised, years of training ensures you’re already in motion—stowing away the knife, then launching yourself back into a flawless backwards handspring through shrouds of darkness which fall in on you from every side. You’re aiming for the doorless entryway of the adjoining room, which you sail cleanly back through without error.  

Once inside, you’re quick to dart over to the left and out of sight. Scan your surroundings—no one here. Draw both Steyr TMPs, check them over once more—safeties off, mags attached, suppressors screwed on tight. 

A high-pitched whirr sounds off followed posthaste by an explosion two floors up that rocks the entire foundation of the building—again. If this keeps up, you estimate it’s only a matter of time before the entire infrastructure collapses in on itself in a hail of cement and splintered wood and a volatile mélange of deadly chemical fallout.

You haven’t caught so much as a whiff of rotten eggs (gaseous hydrogen sulfide’s distinguishing characteristic), fortunately, so you’ve got some time to figure out how to neutralize any ignition sources in the meantime. Stark’s laser beams, for one. The repulsors shouldn’t be a problem, from what you understand about his particular take on muon-catalyzed fusion. He’s taken great lengths to ensure they don’t release anywhere near the amount of energy (read: heat) required to fuel the earlier models. You’ve studied the logs yourself. Of course, those aren’t the only tools in his arsenal, but, you figure, they’re the ones you’re most likely to be dealing with here. Perhaps a younger Tony Stark would be brash enough to barge into an unfamiliar place slinging plasma from both palms, but he’s endured far too much to succumb to such senselessness now. 

At least, in theory.

You make a mental note to keep an eye out, and remain poised for intervention as needed.  

Beyond that, any Semtex or functional hand-grenade is out of the question, too. If the average grenade filler burns at somewhere over 2500 ℃ (~4500 ℉), even one could easily send the whole place up in flames. 

Thankfully, gunfire is a little less questionable. The scope of the operation combined with the fact that most every operative’s primary (and secondary) armaments are semi-automatics constitute a glaring pitfall that Black Room technicians would have to have been blind or brainless not to consider: If bullets go off at a temperature around or over 260 ℃ (500 ℉),  then even a single shot could send the whole place up in flames. 

Black Room technicians are not, nor have ever been, so irrationally short-sighted. They would have altered the substance accordingly. 

It makes sense, now, why the armory was suspiciously devoid of explosive weaponry. 

Guns loaded, you inch back over and peer around the door frame. 

Iron Man lies floor-bound amidst a mess of splintered wood and uprooted floorboard, silver-and-red armor (that which is characteristic of the Mark XLVII, if you’re not mistaken) reflecting beams of scattered moonlight from overhead. 

(The particular make and model of Stark’s illustrious armament sparks some measure of intrigue within you. 

Unlike the greater majority of his precious iron ensembles, Stark’s Mark XLVII—an earlier model of the Iron Man suit—includes a built-in feature which allows remote control access. Thus, it’s not at all unlikely to postulate that the suit you see is empty and under the remote control of F.R.I.D.A.Y., his quick-witted AI, while Stark himself is elsewhere.

You tuck that information away for later.)

Atop him, the woman you know as One bashes fist-shaped craters into the polished armor with her bare fists.

She wears a Kevlar vest over a wife-beater-style tank top, combat boots, and army-green pants. A thin sheen of perspiration coats her ridiculously built arms, muscles tensing and bulging obscenely beneath the scattered moonlight with every savage punch. 

Clang! Knuckles hammer against metal. Clang! Clang! Clang!

Yikes. 

A split second later, there comes a series of clicks and whirs, followed by the soles of Iron Man’s armored boots setting themselves alight—full-throttle. Twin flares set the entire entry hall alight in blaze of luminescent brilliance as the XLVII shoots directly out from under One, ejecting her off and down—through the floorboards, into the crawl space lying just below with startling haste and a deafening crash.

The Man of Iron torpedoes upward, then, gunning for the gaping hole in the ceiling that still rains debris and plaster down onto the ground floor—

Just before he can get there, a dark figure jumps straight through, crashing into the airborne suit with an audible clunk!—meeting him halfway. Stark—or the Mark XLVII—lurches violently beneath the sudden addition of weight on his plated shoulders, armored legs flailing, thrusters whining audibly beneath the strain. 

Meanwhile, on the ground floor, Barton’s hard at work—bow angled upward, loosing arrow after arrow through the gaping breach overhead in a flurry of movement, stubborn determination marring his lined features. 

Beside him stands the young clairvoyant, slender hands aloft and clouded in scarlet mist; her lurid red eyes fixed unwaveringly upon the freshly-formed crater in the ground floor foundation from which a truly murderous-looking One is re-emerging. She doesn’t appear to be terribly injured—One, that is—save for a nasty-looking gash just over her hairline that stains her left temple with rivulets of freshly-spilt blood. Then again, much like yourself, her tolerance for pain and bodily affliction is something obscene. Nothing less than a fatal blow will deter her from completing the mission objectives; you know that better than anyone. 

She leaps out from the crawl space and onto the ground floor, landing her full weight with a hollow thud! that makes the floorboards groan. Her determination hasn’t abated at all as she prowls forth, cutting a beeline straight for the Maximoff girl, close-cropped blonde hair soaked through with blood and sweat; if anything, it’s only intensified a thousand fold. You don’t have to see her face to know the expression she’s wearing—beady brown eyes alight with mutiny, jaw clenched tight, thin lips curled into a foul-mannered scowl.

You run the calculations in your head. Skill, agility, brute force… Maximoff—Wanda—can hold her off, at least for the moment. There’ll be no guarantees for an extended conflict, however, and the fact remains that even the mere sight of One drawing near her makes your stomach turn for reasons you’re loath to examine. 

Hell, you’ve half a mind to just shoot her dead and be done with it, consequences be damned. 

You almost do it, too. 

Your split hesitation costs you, though, and instead of pumping One full of lead before the ‘roided-up brute can lay a single hand on the likes of Wanda Maximoff, you’ve got your hands full with an entirely new problem:

It presents subtly, at first—nothing more than a whisper in the darkness at your six o’clock—but, what is that old saying? 

“This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang, but a whimper.” T.S. Eliot. American-born, but an Englishman at heart. 

You whirl around just in time to feel the air shift around your cheek and—

Fuck. 

A bone-jarring punch whips your head violently to one side, cool metal stamping an instant bruise (and possible hairline fracture) into your right cheekbone with borderline inhuman force that rocks you to your core.

It’s a damn miracle you manage to stumble off to one side, shaky on your feet as you grit your teeth and right your balance with a considerable amount of effort. 

Your cheek feels like it’s been through an industrial-strength press (though you suppose it’s some consolation to note that your attacker didn’t batter the same one Madame did), and the reopened bullet wound in your left shoulder—relatively old as it may be—feels like a step drill bit cleaving through your mutilated flesh anew. 

Jesus—fuck—

It’s pure instinct that has you reacting well in time to catch the second blow—a vicious downwards jab with a needle-point blade that would’ve otherwise skewered directly through your uninjured shoulder. 

“Brass knuckles? Really? ” you hiss in strained Russian, shoving your assailant off with no small measure of force and a sharp huff. Christ, but they’re heavy—far heavier than their compact, willowy form would imply. 

They relent without stumbling, which you suppose is something—quick and balanced on their feet as they retreat back an arm’s length… then two. 

You narrow your gaze, peering out through the darkness to see— 

Of course. S-shaped brows, raven-black hair piled up into a neat bun… cerulean-blue eyes that glint like polished gems through the cover of night. 

Madame’s taciturn second-in-command. The one who dutifully stood watch over her at the initial mission briefing, wordlessly cataloguing everything like a silent sentinel. 

She’s a graduate of the program, whether Red Room or Black Room, you do not know. (You think, judging by her age, it’s probably the former). If you hadn’t known it before, it’d be impossible to miss now.

As for what she’s doing here, well. Your guess is as good as anyone’s. Mission parameters constituted seven operatives—no more, no less. Then again, Black Room protocol has never shied away from layering one mission atop another, compartmentalizing the overlap and writing off the difference. 

The part that most unsettles you, though, is not the broad assortment of throwing knives stashed away in her belt, nor the black rucksack slung over both narrow shoulders (that which connotes a decidedly more sinister motive). No, it’s the utter lack of firearms (visible or otherwise) on her figure combined with the fact that you can’t catch the barest glimpse of brass knuckles which you’d thought responsible for clobbering you into next week. 

Erskine’s serum aside, that old adage rings forever true—you don’t bring a knife to a gun fight. 

So, why would she?

Not to mention—that hit was hard. You think it a wonder your cheekbone isn’t fractured. 

“You’re weak, Angel,” she growls—the first you’ve heard her speak. Interestingly enough, the quality of her voice is mild, sonorous… almost pleasant; even as the words themselves are nothing short of acerbic. 

“And you’re not supposed to be here,” you retort mildly, to—

Thwack! You duck just in time to miss the black-bladed kunai whizzing through the air in an impossibly high-speed blur, seeking to bury itself directly between your eyes. 

It lodges in the wooden wall a step behind you instead, its handle quivering with the residual force of impact. 

Feisty, you speculate, rising warily back up to your full height. You tuck away one of the Steyrs as you do, freeing up your aching hand to brandish the I.C.E.R. pistol instead. (Christ. You and your non-lethal options today.)

“What is your purpose here? ” you try again, brain working overtime to analyze and approximate her alignment (i.e., how deep her loyalty to the Madame truly runs, and consequently, exactly how big a pain in your ass she’s wont to be). 

“Insurance.”

“I don’t wish for us to fight,” you tell her. It is the truth, and though it burns, you do not shy away from it. “I have no reason to.”

A slow, chilling grin stretches its way across her angular features. When she speaks, sadistic mirth underlies her brisk intonation: “And I cannot let you leave here alive.”

Gamely suppressing a sigh, you shift back into a fighting stance—feet a shoulder’s width apart, knees bent, guns drawn. 

You have one last thought as she’s barreling toward you, and you’re bracing yourself for impact: I should really get started on that early retirement plan. 

— —

So, here’s the thing about serving as second-in-command to the Black Room Madame—you don’t arrive there without first selling your soul. 

You’re a little more preoccupied than usual—thoughts a little scrambled, brain a tad freezer-burned—so it takes you longer than it should to discern what you’re working with here.

Nonetheless, you do... though, not before enduring a blow. Or five.  

Cracked sternum—courtesy of a violent palm strike to the chest which sends you careening back through the drywall. Bone bruising in both ulnas—acquired when you blocked a bone-realigning roundhouse kick with your forearms. Three broken fingers (pinky and ring)—your penance for getting the grand idea to clip her diamond-cut jaw with a well-aimed punch. 

Yeah. It doesn’t take a genius to tell: you’re not going toe-to-toe with just another classmate of Natalia’s.

(Natalia…

The moment the thought surfaces, you do away with it. The sentiment—tempting as it is to re-examine—will only live on so long as you do, and at the current moment, that prospect is looking shaky at best.)  

She—whoever she is—is enhanced, sure. A recipient of some unidentified variant on Erskine’s serum? Unclear.  

The serum—though it bolsters muscle mass accordingly on any given subject—doesn’t make a combatant weigh in at 200 kilos (~440lbs). Hell, even Rogers was only weighing in at just over 135 (~300lbs) post-injection—and the batch that he received had been the most advanced variant known to man. More on that: it doesn’t give you a gleaming-silver exoskeleton of impenetrable steel beneath your skin, and it certainly doesn’t mean you can take a bullet between the brows and only be out of commission for two minutes flat.

Whatever she’s on, it goes far deeper than anything Erskine ever cooked up. 

Granted you can manage to make it out of this alive (a quixotic hypothetical that appears to grow increasingly more improbable by the second), you make a mental note to look into this later on, at length. If you know the mind of an overzealous scientist—and, considering your lab-rat background, you’re quite sure that you do—they didn’t stop (or start) with her. 

For the moment, though, you’ll just have to settle for taking things slow—one steel-gloved hit at a time.

You duck another punch and throw yourself shoulder-first down onto the ground, directly forth into a hurried roll across the groaning hardwood. It buys you about a half a second of time and less than a foot of space, but it’s better than nothing while your mind works overtime to come up with a new strategy for incapacitating your assailant—preferably one that doesn’t involve any more broken bones.

The syringes are out; that much is clear. Their flimsy steel needles won’t stand a chance at puncturing her wrought-iron skin. With knives, you’re met with the same issue. Guns? No, you tried that already. I.C.E.R.? Forget it. 

You’re gonna need a lot more firepower—firepower you don’t currently have on hand—to neutralize her. Though, you know what—or who, rather—just might? 

Stark. 

All this runs through your head in the blink of an eye as you rise to your full height and the lieutenant whirls around to clock you, bringing with her a vicious backwards elbow that makes you duck right back down to avoid getting clobbered.

You catch the knee-strike she throws next with both hands, though the sheer force of it sends your crouched figure sprawling backwards ass-first onto the wooden floors with little grace and an audible thunk! 

A boot races towards your face, then, though you’re quick to fall back and twist away. At the tail end of one full rotation, you level a kick at her ankle that sees her bounding back a full half-step to dodge, allowing you time to scramble up onto your feet and break away. 

Ice slithers its way up your spine as you break out into a full sprint, back turned… exposed. 

(Never let an opponent at your unprotected back, Angel. Never. )

Last you checked, she hadn’t any knives on hand (most of them littered across the floor or sunken into the drywall), but it’s a risk all the same. 

You huff out a noiseless sigh of relief when you manage to barge through into the next room and dive off to the side even as a throwing knife—this one silver rather than black—goes whizzing through the entryway where you once stood about half a second later. 

You come up on your feet and launch forth into an explosive run, gunning for the east central stairwell two rooms over. 

New mission objective: find Iron Man. 

— —

You burst onto the fourth-floor landing—TMP-I.C.E.R. combo drawn and looking for trouble. 

And damn it all, but you get it. 

The moment you hear it—faint crackling sounds from a procession of dated black speaker-horns mounted up in corners of every room, static and sputters to signal the intercom system coming to life—

You know you’re fucked. 

“Она прови��енье искушала.”

[Ona providen’ye iskushala.]

A cool, brittle voice. Feminine; familiar. 

Madame E.

This can’t be a live feed… can it? No, she’d never risk it. A recording, then?

But whose finger is on the ‘Play’ button?

And those words… 

“Она звала прекрасное мечтою.”

[Ona zvala prekrasnoye mechtoyu.]

Your breath catches in your throat. Saliva turns to smoky ash on your tongue.  

Your tenebrous surroundings fall away, and you fall with them—down, down, down…  You barely feel the impact when your knees hit the floor, guns trembling in rigid fists. 

No… 

“Она вдохновенье презирала.”

[Ona vdokhnoven’ye priyezirala.]

The voice is cool, calm… unrelenting. Every word it utters, every letter feels as though it’s branding itself into your bare flesh. 

And the scariest part? Some indispensable, deep-down part of you—one that seems to swell and stretch by the second, growing like a sentient thing—is responding to it. Coaxed forth by its urging… compelled in a way you know there’s no coming back from.  

“Не верила она любви, свободе.”

[Ni verilla ona lyubvi, cvobodye.]

She had faith in neither love nor freedom… 

You know her. You know the girl of whom they speak. Don’t you?

A sharp ache builds in the back of your skull. You bite your lip hard as if to clear it. 

“На жизнь насмешливо глядела…”

[Na szhizn nasmeshliva glyadyela…]

Looked on life with ridicule… 

“И ничего во всей природе…” 

[I nichevo vo vsey prirodye…]

And in the whole of nature…

You clap your hands over both ears to block out the noise, gritting your teeth hard until your jaw creaks… but it’s too late for that, and you know it. The words are too loud, and they’re screaming in your brain, and you cannot help but soak them up like a blooming sunflower might the afternoon sun on a balmy springtime afternoon. 

The last line of the poem—because it’s a poem, you’re sure, and one you think some ever-nearing piece of you might know—is the final nail in a coffin of your handlers’ design.

“Благословить она не хотела.”

[Blagoslovit’ ona nye khotela.]

She did not wish to praise a single thing. 

White explodes across your spotty vision; a shrill, high-pitched noise shrieks deafeningly in your ears… there is pain, flashes of red, the distant sound of someone screaming—

… And then, there is nothing. 

Nothing but silence. Silence, bloodlust, and a single phrase to shatter what precious little remains holding you back—one you’ve still yet to hear.

“Встань, ангел смерти.”

[Vstan’, angol smyerti.]

Bingo. 

— —

You awaken in a strange, dark place—an older building that creaks and groans, its bowels teeming with shadows. Judging by the interior design—modeled to constitute a later motif of the Byzantine Revival—the structure had been built anywhere from the mid-19th century to the late 1900s. Reasonably meritorious upkeep. Doorless inlets formed by tall, rounded archways. Nicked hardwood floors, their once polished veneers a thing of the faraway past. The scent of lingering gunsmoke, how it tickles your nostrils. A brisk chill in the thin, damp air… 

Focus, you rebuke yourself. 

You’re hunched down, on your knees… staring at the floor. 

There’s a voice in your ear… but you have no comm. 

There’s someone there with you. 

“... hear me?” a deep, masculine-sounding voice cleaves through your clouded awareness like the first stroke of thunder in an oncoming storm. American. “Hey, are you alright?” You recognize it, you think… recognize him. Maybe from on television? “Don’t worry; you’re safe now. We’re here to help.”

It’s coming from closer, now… 

He’s right beside you. 

You can feel the heat of his body crowding yours… huge, well-muscled, quick on his feet. It’s not until you feel his hand on your shoulder, though—Big mistake—that the heavy fog which addles your mind seems to dissipate, and in its wake, a singular motive reigns absolute: 

Fight. 

You twist sharply, jerking back and away from the man’s touch. Simultaneously you’re raising your arm, snaking it over and around his own such that your limbs are twined steadfastly around each other like braided rope—his wrist beneath your armpit and palm pressed against your shoulder blade; your forearm around his bulging tricep and knuckles digging into the iron of his brachialis. The position is awkward (significantly more so for him than for you), forcing his arm to lock in a position that borders on overextension with every bit of added pressure you apply. Of course, he resists. 

Christ, but he’s strong. It’s exhausting to hold him still for even a second or two. 

There, with a split second’s worth of borrowed time, you get your first real glimpse of him—sharp jawline; gritted teeth… a chauvinistic kevlar-padded uniform with the most obnoxious, God-awful design you’ve seen in your entire life: a conspicuous blend of proud American red, white, and blues; a navy blue helmet that fits snugly around his cranium like a bald cap; a perfectly-circular shield the size of a large supper platter secured to his other forearm with a series of worn leather straps. 

Steve Rogers. Codename: Captain America.

Designation: Unfriendly. Threat Assessment: Deadly. 

(‘Stevie’... )

There’s a kind of calm, if distant, recognition in his blue-eyed gaze as you peer up at him, and he looks down at you. He knows you… somehow. You haven’t the time to ponder how that could possibly be. 

A beat passes. He sweeps your feet out from underneath you with a well-placed kick, and the moment is broken. 

You go down, down, down without a fight—your arm disentangling from his, your vision tilting upside-down. A calculated twist of your hips increases your momentum in a pinch, and, when your upper back hits the ground, it’s all too natural to further drive that propulsion feet-first into an improvised backwards roll off one shoulder, a move that’ll earn you about three steps’ length in additional space. In no time at all, you’re back on your feet—half-knelt in a crouched position and peering up at your opponent, twin knives drawn. 

“Stand down, Y/N,” he orders calmly, shield-clad arm resting innocuously at his side. He doesn’t even sound winded. 

“I do not answer to you,” you say flatly. 

It’s nothing but a testament to his arrogance that he would think otherwise—or, at the very least, feign it.

“This isn’t you,” he continues on, his words ripe with priggish well-meaning and maddening self-importance. You disfavor it on principle. 

Overhead, there’s the telltale crackle of static from the intercom, followed by an indisputable command:

“Eliminate the intruders.” 

You aren’t really supposed to have opinions (at all), particularly where it concerns orders coming from higher up the food chain. You’re not sure if it’s a flaw in your conditioning, or some indispensable defect of character, but that particular ordinance never quite seemed to take with you. Regardless, all orders are not created equal. (A matter of personal opinion, granted.) Some are ill-advised and inflammatory. Some are tedious, yet tolerable. Some are nothing short of condemnable.

You’d place this particular instance in the ‘tedious, yet tolerable’ category. If you were the type of person to have friends, Captain America would not be one of them. 

You twirl your knives in either hand and lunge explosively forth, seeking blood with both blades raised—poised to strike. 

You get a shield instead. Impenetrable vibranium strikes your upraised forearms with considerable force and a metallic thud to boot… but you’re expecting it. (Even if the impact makes your battered forearms smart like a bitch.)

Palming the handles of either knife, you manage to grip the shield’s top edge with your fingertips (sans the thumbs); and, using that hold as a grapnel, swing your momentum forward, boots first, to deliver a solid two-footed kick directly into the armor-padded gut of Captain America. 

Pained grunts from overhead constitute your reward—one when the soles of your boots strike his gut, and another when you employ that perch as something of a makeshift springboard; pushing off his firm stomach with both feet, setting an angled course for the ground below. 

You catch yourself there with both hands, the impact flattening both knife handles into either palm such that you’re sure they’ll sport impressive bruises come dawn. As your weight transfers to your hands, straining your bent elbows something ridiculous, you clock Steve Rogers at your 12 o’clock, stumbling backwards and righting himself just within arm’s reach. From there, your momentum takes you the rest of the way, and a forceful shove against groaning hardwood does the rest. In a matter of seconds—which see you neatly executing the tail-end of an improvised back-handspring—you’re up on your feet again in a fighting stance with a solid metre’s worth of space between you and your opponent. 

“This isn’t you,” he grits out, sounding rather winded. 

You shrug, like his claim does not irk you. (It does.) “You talk too much.”

And, without further ado, you launch yourself forth. 

— —

Steve Rogers—honorable and masochistic as he is—fights like a ‘roided-out street boxer. His footwork is just barely on the better side of decent; and, despite bouncing dutifully on the balls of his feet all throughout, he’s somehow the most flat-footed fighter you’ve ever seen. He never moves any more than a step or two in any direction, as though his lower half is encased in concrete and he doesn’t fancy moving any time soon. Any blocking comes few and far between, allowing opportunity for unobstructed attacks at every turn. You get four solid hits to his face—the third of which sees his nose broken and gushing blood—before he adjusts and starts dodging them. 

He’s good with the shield; you’ll give him that. 

There are also the faintest undertones of something more refined—and familiar—beneath his brawler fight pattern. Another influence; a guiding hand, of sorts. It’s got Natalia written all over it. 

He should listen to Natalia more, you think. Spar with her more often. 

The moment the thought registers—

A sharp pain behind your eye, making you falter mid-block.  

You take a bone-jarring right hook to the jaw for that one. The force of it whips your head to the side, makes your teeth clamp down hard on your tongue. Warm, coppery blood fills your mouth as you stagger back on the heels of your feet. 

You catch yourself on the second step, and recover your balance by the third. 

Steve Rogers is looking at you like he’s sorry, like he regrets it. 

You hold his gaze as you gather the blood in your mouth and swallow it down, jaw clenched.

“I don’t want to fight,” he tells you, his words jagged with exertion. His lower lip is split. The gusher of a bloody nose has slowed to a trickle. “You’re just a kid.” 

You note a flicker of movement over his left shoulder as he speaks; barely there, and yet, unmistakable to someone with your training. 

Simultaneously: a shift in the air just behind you, and to the right. 

“Down!” a woman yells in heavily-accented English.

Steve Rogers—ever the soldier—doesn’t question the order. He drops like a stone, hitting the deck just in time to dodge the throwing knife that comes whizzing through the air not half a second later. It comes for you, next, making you to twist slightly to avoid it—

A flash of blonde hair is all the warning you get before a shoulder rams you in the gut, tackling you, flinging you both down the nearby staircase with breathtaking momentum. 

You barely register the thunk! from overhead as the throwing knife buries itself in lath-covered plaster, too busy holding onto the golden-haired assailant with all your might as the pair of you tumble down a half-case of stairs, directly into a lath-and-plaster wall on the intermediary landing with an audible thud!

You settle in a tangle of limbs, heartbeat thundering in your ears, sandwiched between creaky hardwood flooring and your newest opponent. It’s a geometric staircase, the intermediary landing of which constitutes a pivot point for a full 180-degree turn. A classic design. You absorb all of this in the blink of an eye as your attacker—who hasn’t so much as a weapon in their hands—hastens to disentangle themselves and rise to their feet. 

You let them—her. A Widow, like you. 

Designation: Unclear. Threat Assessment: Deadly.

Straw-blonde hair, hazel eyes. Pouty lips. Button nose. 

Your shoulder aches. Your nose does, too. 

Yelena? 

The name comes to you like a knife to the gut, but you’re already in motion: Lunging forth, head down, shoulder first; nailing her with a tackle to the gut that makes all the air leave her lungs in a strangled gasp and sends the pair of you sprawling down the remaining steps in a tangle of limbs. 

You take the first impact to your shoulder—the uninjured one, thankfully—about halfway down the steps. You think it a miracle your combined weights and barreling momentum don’t snap your clavicle. 

The next—and last—one is a joint effort, cushioned by her left hip and your right knee; you on top, her underneath.

It’s something like a miracle when the pair of you spill out onto the second-story landing; tumbling over once, twice, before lurching to a decisive halt at the other end of the floor, pressed up against a rickety wooden balustrade. You’re on your sides, chest to chest; your leg slung around her waist, her face pressed into your armpit. 

You make to disentangle yourself, but she beats you to it: viciously shoving you off with both hands and a muttered curse. 

It’s a concerted effort to keep from retaliating, but you do it; skidding back across the hardwood without a fight, slowing to a stop with just short of an arm’s length of space between you. Your forehead is damp, beaded with cold sweat. Your chest heaves. The Widow—Yelena, you think—is not much better off.

After a moment, she wheezes out, “You’re an idiot.” Her gaze is absolutely murderous, her jaw clenched tightly enough to border on painful. She doesn’t sound at all like she means it. 

You eye her with shrewd interest. 

Kill the intruders. But Yelena is no intruder. 

“I don’t need to kill you, but I will,” you tell her plainly, having caught your breath.  

You want to say more. You can’t. You won’t. 

Why do you want to say more?

“Trigger words are flimsy,” Yelena ventures, forcing herself up into a sitting position. “An inexact science.” Huffing out a sigh, she hauls herself up onto her feet. You do the same. “You broke them before.”

“I have orders.” You don’t know why you’re humoring this. Humoring her. 

“Right now, there’s no time for the chair,” she continues on, like she doesn’t hear. You feel a twinge of… something at her mention of the chair. Discomfort? Dislike? Impossible. You are not permitted such frivolous sentiments. “So, they pull a poem out of their asses. They think—hope—that it will collar you. They’re wrong.”

You quirk a brow. Skeptical. “A poem? ”

Yelena huffs out another sigh. 

You get the feeling you’ve had this conversation before. You get the feeling she’s tired of repeating it. 

“Yours is Pushkin,” she recounts, sounding almost bored. Aleksandr Sergejevich. Born 1799… died 1837. “A verse they call ‘Demon.’” She rolls her eyes at that. “They think themselves quite clever for that one.”

You frown. “Because I’m…”

“An angel, I suppose. Heaven’s soldier.” She pauses, there. “Or assassin, as it were.”

You want to kill her. You want to punch in those prim, porcelain features until you reach bone. Even more than that, you want to listen. 

“Mine was Mandel’shtam,” she grits out slowly, almost unwittingly, her features contorted into a grimace. The gravity of such a confession is not lost on you. She is a fool for sharing it. “‘Sisters.’”

Thorns in your chest. Fluid fills your lungs. Sisters… “You had a sister, once,” you hear yourself say in a coarse, tinny voice—as if from under leagues of ocean water.

She flinches like you’ve struck her. (You haven’t.) “So they tell me.” Loosely-curled fists spasm at her sides like she wants to strike you. (She doesn’t.)

“A Widow.” It’s hardly a question. 

Yelena shrugs, smoothing her features out into something harder, colder… marble. “We have what we have when we have it.”

The words scald you like fire on a salted wound. Bile rises in your throat. Crimson colors your vision, so deep and dark and red, red, red— 

Stop. Breathe. 

Fear serves no purpose. Pain will be compartmentalized. 

“Whose words are those?” you demand in a voice that does not tremble, for you will it not to.

Yelena appraises you for a moment, a contemplative look in her eye. Then, without a word, she turns on her heel and sprints into the darkness. 

— —

Yelena is not running out of cowardice. You may not know terribly much right now (—honestly, you don’t much care to); but you know that. 

She is you, and you are her. The tick in her jaw, the fury in her eyes; the blood that dribbles down your chin. A mirror’s echo, even if wrung and wrought and warped beyond all comparison. You would not know your own face in a crowd, you think. But Yelena’s… you couldn’t miss hers if you tried. Natalia’s, either. 

Tearing after her is second nature. You see… narrow streets. Taxi cabs. A church, carved from volcanic stone. A glimpse of blonde hair amidst the sparse crowd of Independence Plaza. 

You sprint out onto the third-floor landing—a different one, this time—in a house of shadows. Floorboards creak beneath your boots. Voronezh. You halt yourself in place for a spell, listening for—

Bootsteps plodding down stairs. Too loud. 

She wants you to follow her. 

You vault the nearby balustrade, surrender yourself to the short drop that follows. 

You’re not alone when you land. There’s another, Yelena notwithstanding; though, theatric that she is, she’s quick to reassert her presence with a bone-jarring tackle that meets you like a speeding bullet train, shoulder to stomach, the second your boots touch solid ground. All the air shoves out from your lungs in a painful, burning rush as the pair of you go sprawling to the floor—again. 

Relentless. 

You’re no better. 

This time, though, is different. 

This time—

A flare of scarlet—red.

“Get off of her,” comes a heavily-accented voice that is cold and scared and just the wrong kind of familiar—

It happens before you can blink: Yelena is lifted bodily off of you in a nebulous mist of carmine-red, suspended midair for half a breath, then jerked sharply back—launched into the nearest wall. You barely register the thud! her body makes when it collides with the wall, the muffled curse that leaves her lips, the ensuing crash! when she tumbles down onto the floor in a haze of dissipating scarlet. 

All you see are pale hands and silver rings and eyes that burn red, red, red. 

You scramble to your feet in a daze, eyes locked on hers as they fade from florid red to a bluish-green. You wait for them to reignite. They don’t. 

Instead, she comes closer. 

“Don’t,” Yelena’s voice warns her, and for once, you agree. 

It’s as though she does not hear—drawn to you like a moth to an open flame. 

She’ll burn if she touches you. Doesn’t she know that?

When she speaks, it’s quiet. Almost reverent. Just a word—your name.  

She’s within an arm’s length, now. Your fingers twitch at your sides, itching for a gun, a knife, anything. Yelena is… too quiet. Peripherally, you recall a shuffle of clothing behind you, a shift in the air as she righted herself, but now—nothing. 

You should reorient yourself. Any moment now, Yelena will—

Red sparks itself alight in the witch’s eyes.

“Fuck !” Yelena curses bitterly behind you. 

You whip around to see her suspended midair in a mist of nebulous red, again. For a split second, the pair of you lock eyes, and in hers, you see… a curious mix of disappointment and righteous fury. It’s there one moment, and gone another as her body is launched unceremoniously across the landing and through the wooden balustrade—which splinters and gives way with a sickening crunch!—and she goes sprawling off the landing. 

It’s a one-story drop to the bottom. Maybe a little more, if you count the gaping hole in the ground floor. 

Yelena will be fine. Maybe a broken bone or two, but—fine. Alive. You don’t know why you care. 

A voice you know but shouldn’t says your name, all soft and reverent like it’s something holy, and your stomach curdles as you’re wrenched back into yourself with the force of a battering ram. 

Your head spins. Your lungs burn. You can hardly breathe. 

She—Wanda—is standing close. Too close. How did she get that close? How did you let her?

She’s got freckles, a faint smattering of them beneath her eyes and across her nose. Did she always have those?

You don’t know where you are. You don’t know what you’re doing.

But her hand grazes yours, and muscle memory does the rest. 

It’s a blur of motion—you’re a blur of motion—as you spin the pair of you around, draw a knife, bully her backwards. She winces when she hits the wall, when you slam her against it. Your forearm traps her shoulders, your blade is at her throat, and she… does nothing. 

Her breath is warm against the tip of your nose. Steady. 

“I will kill you,” you tell her in a voice that’s perhaps a little louder than strictly necessary. The blade trembles in your tightly-clenched fist. Your chest heaves; you can’t get your breathing under control. “Do you know that? I will kill you!” You’re almost shouting, now, or as close as you ever get to it, for the furor you feel is beyond imagining. It aches, it swells, it burns in your chest like something molten, something alive, something that’ll kill you trying to claw its way out.

A survivor. A cornered dog. You.

“Then do it,” Wanda’s strained voice cleaves swiftly through the noise, and it’s with a start that you realize she’s crying. Her cheeks are wet with it. “I will forgive you,” she whispers, wheezes; meeting your feverish gaze with a watery, desperate one of her own. “Do you understand? I will forgive you.”

Every word is a boulder in your throat, a brand upon your skin; a jagged blade splits your chest. You stumble back clutching your sternum, scrabbling for purchase, clawing to staunch the blood that pours out like water from a freshly-burst dam. You scarcely register the dull clatter of the knife when it falls from your grip, the solidness of the floor that breaks your fall. 

There’s just so much of it. It oozes between your fingers. So wet, and warm, and red, red, red.

Natalia was red. Wanda, too. 

Hair, eyes, jacket. 

Jacket? How strange. 

You hear—a name. You think it might belong to you. 

A foolish thought. 

There’s just so much blood.

It’s not yours. Is it? 

You blink. A face looms over you, cast in darkness. Young, pretty. 

So much blood. So much red. 

Another face joins hers—green eyes, fiery-red hair. 

Natalia.

She does not hesitate: grabs you by the throat. Yanks you up, slams you back down. 

The other one screams. Her eyes flash red, and Natalia is gone—torn away from you in a blur of motion. 

Fuck, that hurt. 

Your skull aches. Blackness clouds your vision. 

Is this what dying feels like?

— —

sources (do not tease me for this i stg. i go down rabbit holes with my little ‘puter sometimes. mind your business about it):

встань, ангел смерти | vstan’, angel smerti | stand, angel of death

mark xlvii | the forty-seventh iron man suit of armor constructed by tony stark. built after the mark xlvi sustained considerable damage in a conflict with captain america at a HYDRA base in siberia (captain america: civil war). appears in spider-man: homecoming. 

staircase construction | exactly what it sounds like. we are moving on now.

russian architecture | overview of russian architecture through the ages.

russian revival architecture | overview of russian revival architecture movement (mid-19th to early 20th century).

more russian architecture | russian architecture and its byzantine origins.

hydrogen sulfide (pdf) | hydrogen sulfide material safety data sheet, which includes information such as auto-ignition temperature and related facts and figures that i know you all care very much about. 

aleksandr sergeyevich pushkin | born 1799, died 1837. russian poet, novelist, dramatist, writer of short stories. largely considered to be the country's greatest poet, and the father of its modern literature.

демон/demon | poem written by pushkin. includes russian text as well as english translation.

osip emilyevich mandelshtam | born 1891, died 1938. major figure in russian poetry, prose, and literary essay composition. 

сёстры/sisters | poem by mandel’shtam. includes russian text as well as english translation.

— —

tagging:

[series]: @herecomesthewriterwitch @madamevirgo @tomy5girls​ @avengerstanforlife​ @steamhead15​

[marvel]: @yelenabelovasgf​

— —

end notes: okay. confession time. i did change pushkin’s wording slightly for the lines of ‘demon’ that i used here, but only inasmuch that pronouns were swapped, and the relevant past-tense verb endings were adjusted also to agree with the pronoun change (’he’ to ‘she’), becuase russian language says that they have to agree. 

also i’m pretty sure i forgot to make an actual taglist, ever, so i’m tagging the people that i tagged on the last post, and if i’ve forgotten anyone, i’m truly sorry!! 

thank you all for sticking with me thus far; it means more to me than i am able to put into words <3

link to masterlist

#stuff i wrote #natasha romanoff & reader #natasha romanoff & f!reader #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x f!reader #yelena belova & reader #yelena belova & f!reader #reader-insert #f!reader

[deafeninggardenerpanda]

a while back on twitter i livetweeted my process with making my meta knight charm

im kinda going insane so i thought i would do the same thing here on tumblr for the new magolor charm im working on. its a lot of images so theres more + a Lot of general merch making commentary from me under the cut

despite being the easiest to make a concept of, with my very first concept sketch being the one i went with, this drawing has fought me every step of the way. the lor is self explanatory (damn you lor) but i had a lot of trouble with magolors proportions and shapes too. in the end i ended up going for something closer to the second sketch to be closer to magolors canon appearance

the lors oars ended up not being able to be as long as my initial concept sketch. i had them extend so high up for framing and to round out the shape of the charm a bit better. without them the charm ends up being really oddly shaped and unbalanced looking, so i added a vortex in the back to help round out the shape in the middle and on the right side. thats not the only reason i added the vortex though! in order to celebrate rtdldx coming out soon i wanted to make the back alt the new manager magolor outfit. because his hat extends into what would be a clear area on the front side (the gap between the lors window and the sail) i had to put something solid in that area if i wanted the alt side to work seamlessly

related to the physical specs, im planning on printing these on rainbow acrylic for the sole reason of i thought it would look really cool if i made the rainbow tech lines on the lor transparent on my artwork, so that the rainbow acrylics effect would shine through, instead of just painting the rainbow effect on the artwork itself. i went to a convention a few weeks ago and apparently rainbow acrylic and gradient colored acrylic charms are really popular right now, so i got a lot of inspiration from there

gonna be honest just drawing the lor alone has kinda burned me out LMAO. i was planning on making another new charm for this batch too initially, mostly considering marx since ofc those two go really well together as a pair but that design requires me drawing nova which No. second i was considering susie but that requires me not only drawing her mech, but doing it at a difficult perspective. and then theres taranza whos very difficult for me to draw in general and i still have not made any concepts ive liked for him so oops

it probably sounds kinda money grubbing of me to make Two magolor designs right as the rtdl remake is coming out, but hear me out first of all ya boys got deadlines to keep on (my manu has a discount that will expire at the end of this month) and i really wanted at least 2 new designs for this batch (plus i still need to draw up a new sticker design to make for freebies) so i wanted to make something a bit more simple, and if you know me, i fucking love elegant shit with frames and halos and that, so here we are. this will be a wooden pin based off this kirbtober drawing i did, which ive always loved. i had a very specific idea for this pin in mind but wood is apparently a finicky thing to work with by nature, so ill have to see if the specs allow. maybe itll be a colored acrylic pin instead?

might reblog this post in the future if id like to update with more progress. (i love that tumblr allows you to be wordy but Man i miss being able to have unobtrusive threads like twitter)

#IF THESE IMAGES APPEAR ONE AT A TIME INSTEAD OF SIDE BY SIDE LIKE I FORMATTED THEM #IM GONNA BITE SOMEONE #*gardening noises* #dgp merch adventures #my art

[fishandships]

IDV ship dynamics

i wrote up some summaries for the dynamics between my IDV oc/canon ships a while back and figured i'd post them as a drabble of sorts? so lots of schmoopiness below cut lmao

Luchino/Rosario (Amor Fati): Luchino can dish it out but he can’t take it. He’s casually confident and smooth until Rosario flirts with *him* and he gets awkward and flustered (which Rosario finds extremely endearing). He uses lots of pet names and discovered very early on that sweet talk in Italian makes Rosario swoon so he deliberately peppers it in for their benefit. In particular, he refers to them as columbino once their relationship becomes official. Rosario uses “my love” and “my heart” but more often just “Luchi” (drawing out the vowels in sing-song the more they want attention). Luchino is naturally very touchy, not just in a romantic sense but in general, and Rosario, being as touch-starved as they are, does get flustered at first but absolutely loves it. Luchino also pays little attention to personal space.

These two getting together happened extremely fast - it was mutually love at first sight and a week later Luchino was inviting Rosario to move to Italy with him. The impulsivity of this decision is OOC for both of them - Luchino is (supposedly) known for his caution post-bite, and Rosario initially had a 7-year plan for figuring out whether they wanted to marry someone. But when the two met they both immediately felt like this was literally their other half and continuing life as it was previously would feel like being bifurcated.

OH random small thing I really love: Luchino canonically needs glasses but refuses to wear them most of the time. Once in a while he’ll wear a monocle to read. I headcanon that he’s awkward about this - maybe he dislikes the way it makes him look. Rosario, on the other hand, thinks he looks *fantastic* with glasses.

-

Bane/Rosario (So Deer to My Heart): Slow burn; it takes a while for Bane to admit to himself that he has feelings for Rosario and longer still to admit to them because he’s too Tough and Independent for emotions (he tries to project this but tbh even he doesn’t believe it. He’s a huge softie who tries and fails at being an edgelord). Meanwhile it does take Rosario a while to develop romantic feelings - because of how quiet and solitary Bane is, it just took them a bit longer to get to know him. Despite being withdrawing, Bane is not shy and is very confident, so he doesn’t fluster unless Rosario does something very directly sweet that catches him off-guard. Since his face is always covered, Rosario interacts with his hands earlier than they would with others (for whatever reason, hand-touching is third-base stuff in Rosario’s mind). Bane tends to think of Rosario in comparison to an elk/deer both in terms of interpreting their behavior and physical description. As a sort of pun he tends to call them “my dear” and “dear heart” once their relationship is established. I stick with the original canon of Bane being unable to speak much due to having had his tongue cut out, and my personal headcanon is that initially he didn’t bother to learn sign language since he didn’t want to talk to people anyway. When he meets Rosario, he largely communicates via writing on a slate when absolutely necessary, but later starts using sign as he starts to want to talk to them (and Luchino!) more. Rosario is keen to learn along with him. Taking a cue from Luchino, Bane’s personal sign for Rosario is the sign for “dove”.

-

Norton/Rosario (Magnetic Attraction): Once the initial headbutting is out of the way (both are extremely stubborn), Norton starts to appreciate Rosario’s overall softness and decides that he wants that for himself. Being a go-getter, he approaches them directly and without guise. Rosario is intimidated and mistrustful at first, but once Norton shows them he’s serious and actually does have a soft side himself, they fall really fast. He wants to be looked after and they want to be protected, so the relationship is mutually beneficial. Most likely pair to play-rassle (Norton, who is much stronger, always wins and Rosario, who has a competitive streak, is fake-mad about it). Norton thinks of Rosario in terms of being precious/valuable/treasure and of himself as being their rock/sturdy/steadfast. He doesn’t usually use pet names but once in a while during very soft moments will murmur “darlin’” or “sweet thing”/"sweetheart". Rosario calls him “my love”, “love”, and “handsome”.

-

Andrew/Rosario (Like Real People Do): After being treated cruelly by so many people because of his albinism, Andrew gravitated towards Rosario extremely quickly and got clingy really fast. He struggled with his self-image and fear of rejection conflicting with his urgent desire to keep Rosario close, which resulted in a lot of awkwardness as he would try to make a move but panic and bail halfway through. Rosario finds him fascinating for a number of reasons, particularly his surprisingly romantic philosophy, and falls for him at a slightly slower, less noticeable pace. Even moreso than usual their nurturing instincts are extremely strong towards him and will go out of their way to protect him and make him feel comfortable, from physically getting between him and an aggressor to tucking scented herbs in his wardrobe so his coat will smell nice. Pet names aren’t as much of a thing, but both address the other as “my love”. Andrew can be extremely poetic and will spontaneously produce flowery phrases of endearment that always catch Rosario off guard and make them emotional.

#river babbles #drabble #rosario killick #the naturalist #otp: amor fati #otp: so deer to my heart #otp: magnetic attraction #otp: like real people do #my writing

[stoportotouch]

okay I sent that anon without finishing episode 9 - big mistake. Fitzjames bleeding from old wounds on his side and saying "I'm not Christ" - "my body... use it. feed these men"

"God wants you to live" - "sometimes I think that you love your men more than God loves them". this is totally normal and it makes me behave like such a normal person.

you went to the sea to find glory and you hear "it was an honor serving you sir" and "you're a good man. there will be poems" on your deathbed...... your only friend and former unrequited nemesis is killing you because you asked him to, because you wanted him to. you look at him with wide eyed stare as he massages your throat so you wouldn't spit out the poison that drips anyway. and he doesn't eat you and he hides your body so you wouldn't be pawed.

on lighter note I chuckled at a thousand year old armpit. but then of fucking course "at least love me enough to admit it".

also Goodsir calling Hickey poor lmao

shit I completely forgot about the ring. he was soo happy when he got it too :( I wonder if eating meat that sick is a good idea.

I find interesting how differently the show approaches the idea of christlike victim. James, willing one who sacrificed himself thinking he's going to help his men was rejected but unwilling one, true victim, was slaughtered and eaten, consumption of his flesh compared to eucharist.

oh mannnnn you're so right about the Religious Theming (and the tenth episode, if you aren't already there, has a... genuinely really wonderful/affecting monologue about Exactly That). and honestly the Thing that really... gets me with the cannibalism in particular is that that was basically the last "bridge" to burn before you truly could not return home. even if you wanted to there was no real way for you or the people back there to marry "sturdy british explorer; i am going outside and i may be some time" and "ate his pals"

after a certain point of desperation on an expedition like this one, you basically have to concede that if you don’t get something with some nutritional value into your body then you are literally going to keel over dead. and sometimes you might choke down some half-boiled lichens and rotting deer made into a nasty soup. sometimes you literally eat the leather from your own shoes. sometimes, though, you don't get the option not to eat your mates.

and if it's presented to you as "here's some meat of dubious origin" that's... maybe something that some people could parse in a way that doesn't end up hurting them. because even if you notice that this sure is... meat of unknown origin. and you haven't seen john for a while. you can still draw the curtain between yourself and the priest in the confessional, as it were.

but when you reach that last point of utter desperation, where you're doing it knowingly, you have also, through no fault of your own, reached the absolute lowest point of cowardice back home. and so, you basically do have to admit that that’s the point whereafter you cannot return to your old life again, i think. looking at the actual franklin expedition there was a complete refusal to believe that the stalwart british explorers would have stooped to that; they would have keeled over and died first. so for the men who had to resort to “using” their mates in that way, you do kind of start thinking… “if they had survived, would they even have come back?”

#ollie considers #the terror #cannibalism cw / #a normal tag to use #what is your song o? #also i do think so much about that monologue.

[andvys]

hello and welcome to another read with honey/horny (depending on the mood) anon. this time we're reading I'll miss you forever which sounds like the most painful angst possible and I don't believe in any happy ending in this, I think they're both gonna die 😭

A field where you had once spent evenings and nights with Eddie was now a burned down battle ground. A place that used to fill you with so much happiness was now just a place filled with death and horror. 

great start. totally not heartbreaking at all 😁

Eddie had died a long time ago, you lost count of the months that have passed since the night he had died in your arms, the night you had begged for him to stay, to not close his eyes, to not leave you. 

oh 🥲

Why did he have to draw those bats away? It didn’t change anything.

YEAH THATS ACTUALLY TRUE 😭

You were dying, they knew it but they refused to believe that the person that always protected them, that was always there for them was losing her life. 

OH GIRL NOT YOU LITERALLY DYING I THOUGHT YOUD JUST BE DEPRESSED

“It’s okay, Lucas,” you whispered as Dustin pressed harder against the wound on your stomach, causing you to groan in pain. 

NOT IN FRONT OF THE KIDS!!!

They knew what it was, Max gave them letters when she thought that she would die. 

OH NOOOOO

“We made it! Guys! We won! Vecna is dead, the upside down is gone!”

cool! do you know who also will be gone in a sec? : )

He whispered your name fearfully, he shook your shoulders, “y/n! We made it!” 

NOOOO POOR DUSTIN THE KID IS LIKE 15 AND TRAUMATIZED FOR LIFE

“Come back!” Dustin yelled as he began to sob, “please come back!” 

NOOOO I WANNA HUG HIM

Steve

oh shit

The girl he called his best friend, the girl he hugged just hours ago, the girl he promised a victory was now gone. 

:(((( IM BIG SAD

For the first time in his life, Steve broke down in front of someone else, he laid his forehead against your shoulder and cried, no longer being able to stay strong in front of others, no longer being able to keep his tears in. 

OH MY GOD THIS IS HEARTBREAKING imagine being dead but still seeing alive people mourning you? that be the worst ever

“I’m so sorry, bug,” he whispered as he grabbed you and pulled you into his arms, holding you one last time. He knew how much you struggled without him. How hard you fought to avenge his death and to win this fight, you fought and fought and now you lost.

BUG??? 😭😭😭😭 THIS IS SOOOO SAD

When you opened your eyes again, you were standing in the middle of a field. 

NO STOP IM CRYING ALREADY

“What are you doing here, sweetheart?” He whispered sadly as he brought you closer to him, “it wasn’t your time yet.”

NOOOOOOO TEARS ARE FALLING FROM MY EYES

As long as you have him by your side, you will always be okay.

OHHHH:(

ANDY THAT WASNT A HAPPY ENDING AT ALL :(( IM SO SAD NOW IM TEARING UP LITERALLY :(( very beautiful but also heartbreaking 💔

to brighten up the mood i came up with a pun for my name to use when reading angst... melanHONEY anon (badum tss) ....... (crickets) (booing) (throwing tomatoes at me) (no one laughed)

the intro to this was perfect 😂 i was actually watching sad eddie edits earlier and then got this idea out of nowhere and started writing, i could’ve definitely made it longer and more detailed but i was too excited 😭

“do you know who else will be gone in a sec?” LMAO 😭

Dustin really is traumatized, we’re gonna see him suffering in the next season I already know it 😭

IM SO SORRY FOR MAKING YOU CRY BESTIE 🥹 but but…. they’re back together now 🥹 isn’t it a happy ending? 🥹🥹

melanhoney 😂

horny anon for smut, honey anon for fluff and melanhoney for angst perfect 😌

Bestie thank you for the feedback as always and i’m so sorry for the angst🥹🫶🏻

#andy’s asks #honey anon <3 #melanhoney #haha

[sins-of-the-sea]

Have they always had the same physical appearance, or have you had to edit how they look?

Uncommon Questions for OCs and their creators:

Oh, I had to edit how they look MANY TIMES throughout the years.

The only one who retained the same physical appearance from Day 1 is Abena as a tall, voluptuous, dark-skinned booba lady with a teeny weeny afro, hypnotic smile, and big alluring eyes. The only change I think I did since her original design was define her jawline and cheekbones, and even then that was just me being a better artist and not just drawing her as a generic anime girl with toned in skin. I guess updating her outfit and changing how she covers her hair counts.

The men, on the other hand:

Josep was initially significantly young, leaner, and had a different hairstyle (rounded hairline with bangs and a ponytail). His face was also smoother. As my art improved, he'd eventually gain the sharp cheekbones, defined jaw, and unique eyes, as well as a bulkier physique to compliment his spooky theme. It's actually fairly recently (the past few years) his hair was most defined: slicked back with a few stray strands and a widow's peak hairline with trepanning scars on his skull. The braided queue slung over the shoulder like an anime mom's side plait is perhaps the most recent change (because I'm sick of trying to decide how his hair falls over his flipped cloak collar), as well as self-flagellation scars on his back because Catholicism, yo.

Rashid also had a major change. Like Josep, he was initially younger, almost identical to Amir but with the stereotypical genie look (so a shaved head with a ponytail, smaller beard, etc). That was why Rashid's original name was "Jinni"! Then later one he was made middle-aged and thoroughly bald, with a fuller beard and body hair everywhere, and a hooded cloak. Later still changed his physique to be "strong fat" to contrast the Adonises that fill up the Devil's Eye roster lmao (others also fattened up like Robert and Isaac). His hooded cloak is also changed to a general assymetrical cloak styled after Cassim from Aladdin and the Forty Thieves. Most of the recent changes onto Rashid nowadays is just defining and redefining how I draw his face and his beard. God, his beard is hard.

Ruixiong's physical design is mostly on just his hair and face. In one of his earliest drafts, Ruixiong was originally a very disabled beggar with a shitton of congenital deformities who was approached by the Master to be made abled and beautiful… only to have half of his face burned and an eye gouged out by Sing-Lung (hence the strap of cloth under his hair in some of his icons). But this is absolutely gross writing so VERY THANKFULLY it is dropped; however, Ruixiong was without a justification as to why he often covers half of his face with his hair for a long time until recently--he just has a birthmark on his face he thinks is hideous lmao. Which I eventually adjusted too--his attitude about that birthmark evolved to something he finds ugly but also prideful over, thus his reluctance to keep it covered dropped and his full face shown more often altogether. So the peek-a-boo bangs is just stylization nowadays.

Also, the top knot. Ruixiong previously didn't have the Ming-dynasty styled top-knot. That's also a recent change to his physical appearance. Ruixiong feels weird whenever I draw him without it now.

Phoebus and Guy are a special case, and I'm lumping them together as identical twins. Initially they WEREN'T twins: Phoebus was originally 23 and Guy 21 before I decided upon making them twins and moving them to 22. They also had different hairstyles; Guy was thoroughly white with weird stylized shapes while Phoebus had the symmetrical auburn Sephiroth bangs. Upon deciding to make them identical (barring Guy's white hair at the time), I altered Guy's hair to have Phoebus' shape and Phoebus' face to be just like Guy's (Phoebus' face was originally much more significantly "generic anime bishonen").

Originally the only way you could tell them apart, besides their personalities, was their color scheme--otherwise, left uncolored, you weren't supposed to be able to tell who is who at all. But this also changed over time. Guy nowadays has muscle, and he dresses more formally or "sexily", whereas Phoebus is a skinny twig and dresses like a lazy slob. There is also Phoebus with the birthmark on his elbow as the congenital trait that distinguishes him from Guy.

Special mention goes to Guy's hair, which has gone all over the place from full white to auburn to the current auburn with a single white streak. I am contemplating one more physical change to Guy, but I am still deciding if it's a good change or not first.

Giovanni's radical design changes is mostly on his hair. He had a really stupid looking ponytail with the Idiot Hair string plus sideburns and… all over the place. Later it became a slicked back wavy shoulder-length hair but still with the Idiot Hair strand sticking out on top of his head. Then that Idiot Hair relaxed and covered his right eye for a time as I changed the hair once again to have assyemtrical parted long bangs wherein his right eyebrow tends to be covered. Finally, that Idiot Hair was dropped altogether as I gave Giovanni his trademark sideburns instead, a decision I'm glad to have because I'm so sick of his cutesy face being so bland otherwise (the sideburns make him appear more masculine without changing his face).

Giovanni's heterochromia was entirely by accident--he was originally just blue eyed. But before I boarded the plane to go to the Philippines for college, I had an unfinished drawing of Josep smacking Gio on the head for stupids, and only one eye (blue) was colored. The other (green) was colored on the plane, but it was dark and I picked up the wrong Sharpie. When the lights brightened and I saw my mistake, I decided to keep it. And that is why Gio has two differently colored eyes!

The last major change to his physical design is probably a couple years ago, regarding the massive number of scars on his body due to self-harm during psychotic episodes in the cellar.

#ew this is long I'm sorry #22 years is a long time to be writing and redefining anything a;ofihs;ofih #[About the Seven] #[Captain Josep Frascona] #[Abena Frascona] #[Rashid al-Qadar] #[Wang Ruixiong] #[Guy Duchamp] #[Phoebus Duchamp] #[Giovanni Vespucci] #religion tw #self-harm tw

[starry-eyed-guttersnipe]

What is “followed by your ghost stepping on your shadow”???

oh man congratulations Hayles you have found far and away the most embarrassing thing on this list! I debated even including it lmao but I’m willing to laugh at myself about this SO

this is 12k of Voltron fanfic (Sheith, and so help me if after all these years I get shit about it, lmao), AU around season 3/4 era surrounding Shiro’s disappearance and clone Shiro showing up. the embarrassing part is that it’s 12 fucking k for a show that's been off the air for years and it’s just sitting here unfinished, omfg.

the basic premise is that Shiro is trapped between worlds, and hanging around the others as a ghost, watching as an (evil? mind-controlled?) clone of him shows up and wreaks havoc. here’s a snippet from the resolution, once Keith has figured out what’s going on:

It’s dark and silent when Shiro comes to.

He blinks the world into focus, and there’s Keith curled up next to him. It’s far from the first time he’s rematerialized in Keith’s room, so it takes him a moment to understand the disappointment weighing heavy on his lungs. The mission. For a moment, there, he’d really thought it might work. From the furrow in Keith’s brow, he’d guess his sleeping friend had thought the same.

He should get up, see if Allura or Coran are on the bridge, see if he can figure out if there’s another plan to try or if he’s S.O.L. But it’s been an eventful few days, and he’s tired in a way he hasn’t been since this whole thing started. His limbs are heavy, and his eyes are warm, and if he had a body he’d probably be running a fever right now. So he figures he’s justified in stealing just a few more minutes to lay here with Keith, taking in the smudge of shadows under his eyes, the smear of grease on his cheek, his hair an oil spill against the pillow, one hand curled up under it, the other -

The other pressed firmly against Shiro’s side, rising and falling with his breath.

He stares for a moment, uncomprehending. Keith has never been able to touch him before. What’s changed?

It clicks. He sucks in a breath that sticks in his lungs and gapes, paralyzed, at the miracle of Keith’s hand on his ribs.

His held breath sets off a chain reaction. Keith’s eyes fly open, and his fingers clench Shiro’s side through his thin sleep shirt as he scrambles upright. “Shiro-“ he says, frantic, his other hand joining the first -

It’s panic, not an order, but it might as well be one for how quickly Shiro responds. He takes a breath. His chest rises. Their eyes meet, and it burns. Keith is pale and wide-eyed, and his hands, still pressed firmly against Shiro, are trembling. “Oh,” he says, swallows. One shaking hand slides slowly upwards to cup Shiro’s face, and Shiro makes a noise that he refuses to call a whimper, because though this war has made him feel it often enough, he’s not a wounded animal.

“Shiro?” Keith repeats, more tentative than Shiro has heard him in a long time, and he realizes, stunned as he is, that he has yet to say a word.

“Keith,” he says hoarsely, because that’s the only word that matters, and it’s enough. Keith’s face crumples, and he collapses forward like his strings have been cut, burrowing close against Shiro. His own limbs are still slow to move, but Shiro wills his arms around Keith, draws him in and holds him close. He closes his eyes against a sudden swell of tears.

It worked. He’s here, he’s alive, and after months of absence and longing and the facsimile of touch he can hold Keith against him, real and solid. Really, it’s almost too much after so long without, but he reflexively holds tighter at the thought of letting go. He runs a hand up and down Keith’s shuddering back, soothing himself as much as anything else.

It’s a long few minutes with only the sounds of their hitching breath before Keith moves, pressing himself up with one forearm braced on Shiro’s chest, his free hand scrubbing at his face. Shiro reluctantly pulls his hand away from Keith’s hair; instead, he cups his cheek, and catches a spare tear with his thumb. He’d be embarrassed by his sentimentality if he had the energy, but he’s so tired, and it’s so unspeakably good to have Keith in his arms. He’ll forgive himself for being sappy, just this once.

Keith doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he closes his eyes for a moment, leans his cheek further into Shiro’s palm. It’s another long breath before he opens his eyes and their gazes lock again. “Shiro,” he repeats, and returns the favor, wiping Shiro’s cheeks and then frowning, pressing the back of his hand to Shiro’s forehead. “You’re still burning up,” he says, concerned, breaking the spell they’re under. Keith is avoiding Shiro’s eyes, now. He sits up all the way, slides towards the edge of the bed, stands. “I should go tell Coran, he should check on you-“

“Don’t go,” Shiro says, shooting his hand out to grab Keith’s arm. Sudden desperation drops into his stomach like ice. He can’t help feeling like if he lets Keith out of his sight, he’ll lose him. He may not be too far off the mark - Keith’s body is coiled like he’s ready to run, and there’s something fragile in his face. “Please, I can’t -“

“Okay,” Keith interrupts, sitting back down. “Okay. I - Coran left a thermometer. I think it’s a thermometer? Let me make sure your fever isn’t climbing, at least.”

He takes an Altean device off the bedside table, and gently pulls his arm out of Shiro’s grasp. Surge of adrenaline passing, Shiro lets his hand fall onto his stomach. Keith pushes his fringe aside to put the device on his forehead. His hands are tentative, and Shiro’s brow furrows. Their easy camaraderie has certainly taken a hit since Kerberos, but surely Keith knows that his touch is welcome? That’s when he realizes Keith is right about this fever business, because of course - Keith can’t know his touch is welcome, because for the last few months, it hasn’t been.

“101,” Keith says, frowning. “You were at 104 when we brought you in, but that’s still pretty high.” Absent-minded, he runs his fingers through Shiro’s fringe again, brushes it back where it usually sits. Shiro doesn’t realize he’s smiling until Keith meets his eyes and blushes high on his cheeks. “You should drink some water and get some more rest. Here.”

Shiro drinks from the water pouch obligingly. Keith returns it to the bedside table and keeps his spot on the edge of the bed, facing away from Shiro. His back is curved, his elbows on his knees. It’s near the same pose he was in when he saw Shiro two days ago, and all of a sudden, Shiro is overwhelmingly tired. They both deserve to rest.

He rests a hand on Keith’s back. “Lie down,” he says quietly.

“Shiro…” Keith doesn’t look at him, but his shoulders tighten.

“Whatever you’re thinking, it’ll keep until morning. Please?”

Silence. He’s half-expecting Keith to get up and leave, but to his pleasant surprise, a moment later, Keith turns, swings his legs onto the bed. “Scoot over,” he says gruffly; Shiro obliges. He rolls on his side, and they curl towards each other like parentheses. His eyelids are heavy, but he stares into familiar eyes. It’s the first time Keith’s willingly met his gaze for more than a few seconds the whole night, and he doesn’t want it to end.

Either he’s said some of this aloud, or Keith is just skilled at reading him, because his lips quirk in a wry smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and he says “Go to sleep, Shiro.”

He’s not always good at following orders, but he’d do anything for Keith. He closes his eyes, and he’s out like a light.

#seg writes #thanks hayley 💜 #answers from the gutter #followed by your ghost #it’s just 12k of over dramatic tenderness lbr

[perelka-l]

saw that “no gloves” post and I’d like to ask about the scar HC

If you saw my art, you can notice that I very often draw Drayton with scars all over his body. If I draw Drayton without those, it just means I forgot or had no energy lmao.

I like to think that Dragon trainers/tamers are more often than not covered in scars because of how hard it is to train Dragons and you often gotta involve yourself physically in that. Drayton at that, I think, used to be much more careless, which resulted in him being absolutely covered in scars. I think also that he was involved in trainer-adjacent stuff from very early age too, which, well, yeah, that guy has scars, burn marks, all that and also callouses on hands.

(additionally I like the thought that since he was quite a rebellious kid, he did go out into the night of Opelucid city at one point. He's been found in the morning, barely alive, massive chunk of flesh from his side ripped out. And thus, he also doesn't have one rib and his health is affected as well, hard to recover from that one... But that's me being deranged. I like to think though it could be a bit of a friction point between him and Kieran...)

#Answers #Anon #Anonymous #Trainer drayton #Elite four drayton #I'm just Delusional and Deranged #I like to think all dragon trainers have those #Iris the least bc she can uhhh talk it out or can spot warning signs much earlier to avoid getting chomped on #Everyone else? Fair game