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rex101111 · 1 year

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Hoooow about a ✚ ♆ ✄ ☂ for Baiken as an easy one, and for a slightly funkier one how about ♕ ␛ ☂ for Uraraka?

niiiice, my two girlssss!

Baiken:

✚ HEALTH: Getting Baiken to take care of herself beyond the absolute bare minimum is like pulling teeth. For the longest time she'd probably make a sport out of seeing how long she can go without eating anything at all, and she only really stopped when Anji joined her. He'd always frame her taking better care of herself as her making concessions so he'd be less annoying: stop at this city and eat or he'll whine about an empty stomach, go to the doctor because sure SHE can handle that massive bleeding cut on her eyebrow with mud BUT LOOK AT HIS FRACTURED FINGER etc. When Delilah enters the picture she gets a sudden flash of "oh shit i gotta set a better example SHIT" and actually takes better care of her general health. Baiken treated her body as a machine for killing things for so long that in her old(er) age it'll for sure come back to bite her on the ass with aching joints and the like.

BODY: She adamantly against getting a prosthetic because she thinks it'll just slow her down, she's USED to only having one arm give her a fucking break. Eventually Delilah, of course, convinces her to get one if only when she isn't in fight mode but as soon something goes down enemies get a shock as the samurai seemingly rips her OWN ARM OFF, which is usually enough to get the weaklings who don't notice that there's isn't any blood coming out of the limb to back off and run away. She's also against getting a conformer, and this she ain't budging on for a long while. Part of her worries if she just "covers up" that particular aspect of her past it'll be like trying to forget it or try to run away from it, and she knows she won't be able to do that.

✄ PET PEEVE: One that hasn't had a chance to annoy her for a while; people overcooking their rice. Rice should be JUST soft enough to bite into, any more than that and you might as well just take a pestle and make mochi out of that fucking mush because it sure ain't rice.

FOOD: Big into meat stuff. Or anything that pairs well with sake. She can run a pretty mean BBQ party if given enough motivation and time. Wants to take Delilah and Anji to one of those yakiniku joints that are opening up in the colonies, soon as she figures out which one is worth a damn.

Ochako:

♕ CHILDHOOD: Gonna call back to one of the VERY FIRST FANFICS I ever wrote for bnha and say that she used to buy really cheap hero knickknacks before her family really got into financial issues, and AFTER that she stopped cold and even sold some of the stuff she already had so she could help out. People in her elementary and middle schools shared what they had with her, but it took a long while before she got back into collecting anything of her own.

␛ ANGER: She doesn't like being underestimated, but she HATES when someone puts down someone for their station or lack of money. For all her efforts to earn a lot of money she doesn't place much moral value into being rich, so people flaunting their wealth and not doing anything constructive without gets on her nerves something fierce. Being rich by itself? No, she's friends with Momo after all, but being a lay about who leaches off others is enough to really get her steaming.

FOOD: Mochi. Obviously. She's also big into anything strawberry flavored or really sweet. She's also a wiz when it comes to making the most out of a limited grocery budget. If you're looking for a cheaper alternative to some name brand snack, she's your gal.

#answers #broken clover #my hero academia #uraraka ochako #guilty gear #Baiken #this was fun!!

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pigeonwhumps · 2 years

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Cian and Row: Reunion arc #1

Cian and Row masterlist

Rowan loses a fight with The Osprey.

779 words

CWs: Graphic violence, blood, female whumper, immortal whumpee, multiple injuries, head injury, fall

The traffic light cracks the concrete barely a millimetre from Rowan’s foot and they leap aside, stumbling slightly. There’s another big hole in the shopping centre roof now, and the harsh fluorescent lights and screaming from the few shoppers who haven’t evacuated yet makes them wince.

They wipe blood out of their eye with a shaking hand, smearing it across their black mask, before gathering the last of their strength and concentrating on the stone gargoyle hanging from a nearby roof.

The gargoyle dives down in front of The Osprey. The superhero stumbles to a halt to avoid tripping, brown and white wings flapping madly to stop herself falling. Rowan catches their breath, but their trick doesn’t stop her for long, as she regains her balance and swoops towards them. They don’t have enough energy left to guide another animation and the superhero swoops into them, pushing them to the concrete, which they hit with a crack, pain bursting from the back of their head.

Fuck. That’s going to be a bitch to heal.

They try to scramble to their feet as The Osprey lands ungracefully on the edge of the rooftop, but the world spins and they can’t move. At least they injured the enemy too, although they’re not sure how much of the blood spattering her pale blue high-heeled boots and white and brown costume is actually hers. After all, Rowan’s badly injured, tears littering their outfit, blood darkening the green fabric but near-invisible against the black.

They hadn’t been prepared for a fight today.

Rowan watches as two blurred women regain their balance and stroll forward. They blink and the women merge into one as she comes to a halt, looking down at them with contempt in her golden eyes.

“That fight didn’t last nearly as long as usual,” Osprey says with enough faux concern to make their skin crawl, “something wrong?”

Rowan doesn’t answer, gritting their teeth as her boot lands on their hand with a sickening crunch. At least she can’t see their pained tears through their mask.

Right?

“You’re a pitiful excuse for a villain.”

“And you’re– you’re meant to be a hero,” Rowan rasps weakly, before descending into a coughing fit that pounds against their fractured ribs.

“I am. Saving the city from your pathetic living statues. And your theft and unwarranted destruction of public buildings. Those poor, innocent civilians.” She smirks, and it’s only now that they notice that the gleam in her eyes isn’t just contempt, it’s one of excitement, of scientific discovery too. It’s like the look Mr Leach would get on his face when Rowan did something particularly interesting.

Rowan shudders, forcing the memories back into the box in their mind. Not now. There isn’t time for that now, focus.

“I’d like to know exactly how bad your injuries can get before you die,” she continues coldly once they’re back, not mentioning the slip. And then after a moment of silence, “well?”

“I don’t– I don’t know.” They’re functionally immortal, after all, there aren’t many wounds that can kill them. They know that, after all the years of being hurt.

“Pity. In that case, I’ll have to find out.” The Osprey circles behind them, lifting their head up with her boot to look at the wound, and they close their eyes against the vertigo from the sudden movement. Please. Please. There’s statues all over the shopping centre below, a big display, they saw them last time they went for groceries (but how long ago was that, could it be... no, focus). It shouldn’t take much effort, they must have enough energy left for this, please.

Help.

A second, an eternity, later, there’s a tug on their mind. They open their eyes, a buzzing sound in their ears, watching blearily as a flock of resin crows flies out of the hole in the concrete and up above them, towards where the new throbbing pain’s emanating from. Pressure on... their thought trails away, and their eyes droop shut.

Behind them they can hear flapping, and a surprised squawk from Osprey. Their head falls painfully back to the concrete. They don’t have time to revel in that small victory, though, because before long there’s tearing and crunching and the sound of breaking plastic.

Fuck.

They try to move something, anything, but they can’t even open their eyes.

“You’re beginning to annoy me,” snarls Osprey, panting slightly, “I think it’s time we ended this. We’re 50 feet up. I wonder if you’ll survive.”

Rowan feels a toe poke into their side, and suddenly they’re flying, and then falling, air whistling past them, buffeting their injuries.

They’re out before they hit the ground.

#hero and villain #whump #female whumper #whumpee and whumper #immortal whumpee #cian and row #rowan sinclair #the osprey sh #the green demon #villain whump

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sissytobitch10seconds · 2 months

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Febuwhump 13: Lay Here

Fandom: Grishaverse: Six of Crows and Shadow and Bone Summary: Kaz plans everything so meticulously that there's not a single room for error. That being said, everyone is prone to mistakes. Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, injury, mentions of police brutality, and near-death experiences Word Count: 1,363 Ship(s): Kaz Brekker/Nina Zenik

Archive link!

Kaz burst through the doors, shaking everyone else that was gathered in the little room. He could barely even turn his head to the side to see who was all there. He knew that Inej and Matthias had been on the mission with Nina, so they were likely standing in the corner alongside Wylan. Jesper was the one that was knelt in front of the bed while clasping her hand, he was able to recognize the shape of his shoulders hunched forward immediately.

“What happened?” he demanded as he looked over the bed and then back to the others that had gathered. He could feel the blood from the gang members he had shot on his way into the building already seeping through his clothing and creating an ugly mess on the scar tissue covered skin of his chest. His body was filled with an unspeakable rage, leaching into every roll of his shoulders and glint of his eyes on the people in front of him.

When he decided that no one had given him an answer fast enough, he roared, “What happened?”

“She just got hurt, sometimes it happens,” Jesper snapped, turning his head back towards his friend.

Kaz and Jesper had known each other for years. They had worked side by side all the way through the twenties when the Prohibition Amendment had been in place, getting alcohol to Per Haskell’s shit speakeasy while also trying to liven the place up a bit. He had known Jesper longer than any of his other Crows, considered him to be his best friend in the entire world, and yet there was nothing more that Kaz wanted to do then rip his head off and feed it to the dogs.

He stalked forward while leaning heavily on his cane, the twist in his knee from a working accident back in the nineteen tens even more pronounced. If Jordie was alive, he would have demanded Kaz sit down. But he had died of Tuberculosis not long after they had moved to New York in the first place. He knew that Nina would have agreed with the voice of Kaz’s older brother, even if she was always worried about the way that it seemed to haunt him.

“No one gets fucking hurt when I’m the one that makes the plans!” he growled.

Someone stepped forward and grabbed his arm so that he was unable to lean down and get closer to Jesper. He supposed that was a good thing, it wasn’t going to be pretty when he got his hands on the person that had left Nina in that state. He whirled around so that the feral wrath of a gutter rat could be directed at someone else when he saw that it was Inej.

She was his sister in many ways, a sibling that he had never gotten to have because of the death of his mother when she had him. She was kind and gentle to him, caring for him when he could no longer care for himself. She could also drive him up the walls six ways from Sunday with her preaching about kindness to one’s neighbors. He couldn’t hurt her though, he would never lay a hand on her nor would he let anyone else do so. “Kaz, you need to take a deep breath. We’re not your enemy, Jesper is trying to help her.”

“And how can he do that? He spent all of his cash on cheap whores the last time that I gave it directly to him,” he snarled. It was a low blow, but that was the benefit of knowing the people in his inner circle inside and out.

“He didn’t, that’s just what he told you because he didn’t want you to know about the two of us yet,” Wylan snapped quickly. “Now will you stop growling like one of Alys’ dogs and just fucking listen to us?”

While he spoke, the young boy pulled the chair from the corner and then pointed to it with an expectant look on his face. Kaz was tempted to bite him, just to prove a point. He hadn’t done anything that low in a long time, though, so he plopped himself down in the chair and then turned his head back to Nina. “Are any of you going to tell me what happened to my fucking wife?”

“I haven’t actually accepted the proposal yet,” came a voice from the woman on the bed. She was wearing a sheer white gown, the one that she always used underneath her dresses while she was performing at both the White Rose and the Crow Club. It was stained with blood from the wound over her breasts and thighs, thin lines that had been cut with the precision of someone in a rush. They had already been bandaged but the garment was the only thing that she had to cover her modesty in their safehouse apartment.

“You will,” Kaz insisted. She had, in fact, accepted his proposal before the mission that had apparently gone wrong. The ring sitting on her finger, dancing in the dim light of the safe room in all of its glass diamond beauty, was proof enough of that.

She chuckled and then winced. Jesper brushed his hand over her head, “Go back to bed, Nins. You’re still really banged up and it’s going to be a while before Muzzen gets here with the supplies.”

“Really sucks when your nurse is the one to get injured, huh?” she coughed briefly once before she let her eyes snap closed again.

Kaz stood from the chair and rushed over to her before he saw the gentle rise and fall of her bosom, confirming that she was alright. He knew that she was stronger than a little bloodloss or some two-bit thug, but he still worried. He had lost his father in a farming accident, his mother before he had ever known her, and his brother from a condition they didn’t even know was real until they had come to the city. He wasn’t about to lose Nina in the same way, even if it was because of him.

---

It felt like hours had passed before Muzzen finally showed up. He was able to apply fresh bandages in Kaz’s stead as the man in question found himself completely reverted back into the fear of touch he had thought he left behind. Nina remained asleep, especially after the medication that she was provided from the little snake oil bottle that they kept in the medical bag.

The others eventually cleared out so that they could regroup and discuss what had happened during the mission. Kaz knew that he would have to go with them, that he would have to interrogate them all individually so that he could paint a proper picture. He knew that it was his responsibility, the one that he had vied for and even killed for. He knew all of that and yet nothing was going to be able to rip him away from Nina’s side.

She had done so much for him. She had the ability to prick and needle him into doing something good for the world in a way that Inej’s lectures never had. She stood up to him and was hellbent on what she thought was right. She had a strong voice and an even stronger will, even when she was falling down into her own vices. The steadiness of her hands and the sureness of her heart was what had dragged Kaz out of the depths more times than he thought possible.

It was part of the reason he was so devastated to know that she had to suffer an attack like that when he was supposed to be protecting her.

He sat heavily down on the side of her bed and then took her hand. He wished he could have felt the heavy metal contrasting to the warmth of her skin against his bare palm, but that was a pipe dream for the time being. Kaz slowly brought her knuckles to his mouth in a brief kiss before he murmured, “You weren’t supposed to get hurt.”

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limetameta · 10 months

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Voldemort: If life gives you lemons... *looks expectantly*

Delphini: What?

Voldemort: I want to know which version you’re going to say.

Delphini: There are two versions??

Voldemort: Yes. There are two. The muggle version and the pureblood version. As well as a third option but we call that one the mudblood version. It's fascinating how much information you can get from someone just by hearing them finish that saying. Now out with it. When life gives you lemons...

Delphini: you make lemonade and throw it over the wounds of your enemies?

Voldemort: Apologies. There are four versions. I had genuinely forgotten the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black one.

Delphini: ??? What are the other ones now? When life gives you lemons...

Voldemort: You make lemonade. That’s the muggle version.

Delphini: Yeah okay. When life gives you lemons...

Voldemort: You throw them back and ask for pure blood. I think Nobby Leach coined that one. Hilarious in a very morbid way, that man. Shame he died. He did more for my rights than any Minister before or after him.

Delphini: :( That one's a bit sad. Ok. When life gives you lemons...

Voldemort: You make lemonade flavoured amortentia.

Delphini: Sweet Circe! You know that potion is illegal!

Voldemort:... Really?

Delphini: Yeah!

Voldemort: What's the new pureblood lemonade saying then?

Delphini: I think I heard once: when life gives you lemons you throw them at Vinda.

Voldemort: *snorts*

Delphini: :D

#we forgot we were human

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animatedtext · 3 years

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#gif #animatedtext #wordart #transparent #Live #Laugh #Leach the blood out of your enemies #gradient

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minor-solemnity · 3 years

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Never Gonna Give (You Up) pt.2

(content warning: some smut)

You really should get up.

You should.

Riddle is unusually quiet as you lead him away from the party. His eyes are focused firmly on the ground, as though he’s worried that if he doesn’t watch his step, he’ll stumble. You watch him out the corner of your eye, taking in the slight sheen of sweat, the way his skin, save for the raw acid burns on his chest, is even paler than usual, his pinched expression. “You know, I’m surprised you’re not screaming bloody murder,” You say, trying to keep your voice light and casual and not like you’re about to start panicking over the state of his chest. “I always thought Slytherins were a bunch of posh crybabies.”

You suppose it’s good to know that Riddle is not so injured that he can’t summon up the strength to glare at you. “And I always thought that Gryffindors were meant to be chivalrous and honourable but the way you looked when Slughorn asked you escort me to hospital wing suggests otherwise.” He snaps and you feel at once both indignantly angry and… guilty. You feel guilty. And you hate it.

“Oh please, you’d be as annoyed as I was if the roles were reversed. Because of you, I won’t be able to meet Beaufort and having her as a character reference is essential if I even have a hope of becoming a curse-breaker. You know as well as I do what’s waiting for me after Hogwarts otherwise.” You say, all the sorrow and frustration you feel over your missed opportunity leaches into your voice and the grip you have on RIddle’s arm tightens without you meaning to. You’re not wrong either, wizarding society is still of the collective opinion that witches if they’re from a good family should be married off as quickly as possible, and if they’re not, are looking at jobs in retail and teaching. Particularly intelligent and insightful witches might be lucky enough to go into research and academia but generally, any witch wanting to do something a bit more exciting with their life is shit out of luck.

Riddle shoots you a surprised look like he hadn’t expected your response. To your own surprise, he doesn’t have a quippy retort ready to skewer you with and you walk the rest of the way to the entrance hall in stony silence.

You begin to move towards the staircase intent of getting him to the hospital wing as quickly as possible. Your reasons are twofold: firstly, with any luck, once he’s under the care of Madam Montague, you’ll be able to return to the party and hopefully be in time to at least make yourself known to Beaufort; secondly, Riddle, as much as he’s trying to hide it, is clearly in a great deal of pain. The slight tremor in his shoulders has turned into full-body shakes and his eyes, usually so sharp and erudite, are clouded in pain and have a far-away look to them. It’s unsettling to see him so vulnerable. You’ve spent so much of your time at Hogwarts wishing to see Riddle cut down to size but now you’re witnessing it, you find that you’re really not enjoying it.

“Come on, let’s just get to Madam Montague,” You mutter, trying to pull him along but Riddle won’t budge. In fact, he begins to stumble in the opposite direction towards the dungeons. “What are you doing? We have to go to the hospital wing! Riddle, you’re hurt—”

“I’m not going there - I have… I’ll be able to fix this if I can get to my dorm.”

“Oh for Merlin’s sake, you can’t possibly fix this yourself.” You exclaim half exasperated half pleading. He fixes you with a glare that would be a lot more intimidating if, at that moment, he didn’t sway violently on his feet and you weren’t forced to steady him by looping both your arms over his shoulders. Riddle sags into you, his body pressing against you, his forehead resting on your shoulder. The way your stomach clenches at the close proximity is entirely inappropriate.

“Just go back to the party, that’s clearly where you’d rather be,” You think he might be aiming for scathing but something horribly vulnerable has crept into his words. “Beaufort’s probably still there.”

The fact that Riddle is allowing you to leave, to enjoy the rest of your night, to maybe secure a job is… You feel… Odd. Confused. Sad. Sad that he thinks that you’d leave him to stumble back to his dorm on his own. For the first time since you’ve known him, you wonder if he’s ever had someone to rely on before. If the air of self-sufficiency and aloofness is something that comes naturally to him, or if it’s something he’s had to learn.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You can barely stand up by yourself; I’m not going to leave you to potentially faint on your way to your dorm.” When you disentangle yourself from him and resume your journey and he makes a small noise in the back of his throat that you will not for the sake of your sanity interpret as disappointment. “Like you said: Gryffindors: known for our chivalry and honour.” And he must be delirious because he actually laughs.

The Slytherin common room is exactly what you imagined it would be: dark, luxurious, refined, and so unlike the cosiness of the Gryffindor tower. Thankfully, Riddle’s room is empty when you’re finally inside. He pulls off his ruined dress robes, leaving him only in his trousers. You avert your eyes out of respect for his privacy and not because the sight of his lithe torso is at all appealing. He manages to get to his bed and starts rummaging around in the chest of drawers beside it, leaving you standing in the doorway, entirely unsure of what it is that you’re supposed to do next.

Jar in hand, he more or less collapses onto his bed. Wounded as he is, he still manages to look outrageously good. The low light from the candelabra casts him in a muted, golden glow, adding colour to his complexion and softening the wounds on his chest. You swallow thickly and internally berate yourself for having such thoughts because this is Riddle, and even if he weren’t your sworn enemy, he’s still injured and hurting and that should be your first priority.

You watch as he struggles to open one of the jars for a second before you make up your mind. Summoning every shred of Gryffindor bravery you possess, you walk towards him, ignoring the look of sheer surprise and alarm that settles on his face as you stop in front of him. “Here, just let me— let me help,” You murmur, your breath catching in your throat because this feels… This feels intimate and new. You’re fairly sure that whatever happens next, your relationship with Riddle has been changed irrevocably. The seconds tick past and you just watch each other. The air seems to thicken around you and the atmosphere grows charged and tense with something that you don’t have a name for.

Slowly, he nods and you gently manoeuvre him so that he’s lying on his back, propped up by his pillows. Next, you reach for the jar that he’d been holding, unscrewing the lid and scooping some of the clear, jelly-like substance into your fingers. There’s an awkward moment when you try and figure out the best way of reaching his chest before you grit your teeth and straddle his hips.

Despite his current state, Riddle still manages to look far too smug for your liking. He raises an eyebrow and smirks up at you from your perch on his thighs. Despite the furious blush that creeps up your neck and along your cheeks, you manage to keep your voice steady as you say, “Don’t make this weird, Riddle.” He starts to chuckle lowly before it’s cut off by a gasp as you start to rub the salve on his wounds.

Your fingers brush against his chest and you find yourself entranced by how warm his skin is, how he tenses under your hands as though he wasn’t expecting and isn’t used to gentleness, how his breathing slowly evens out as the salve does its job and the burns start to scab and heal. A slow, curling heat wraps its way around you, making your heart stutter and your blood thrum in a way that is so deliciously intoxicating that you don’t even notice that your hands have travelled down his chest and are now skimming his sides, edging lower and lower to the waistline of his trousers.

You’re brought back to reality when he wraps a hand around one of your wrists, his dark eyes glitter in the dim candlelight and a slow, easy smirk curls his upper lip. He moves his free hand to your waist and he watches you closely, taking in every twitch, every shiver, every sharp, stuttering intake of breath. “So, I should go and let you rest…?” You hate the way it comes out as a question, the slight upturn in your voice revealing the nerves that tangle and twist inside you.

“That would be sensible, yes,” Tom agrees, even as his hand slides up your waist and along the curves of your breasts.

You really should get up.

You should.

You don’t. What you do instead is simple: you kiss him. You bend over his chest, one hand clutching his side the other pressed into the pillow and you kiss him with the fervour that only seven years of bottled up chemistry can conjure. He responds immediately, let’s go of your wrist to tangle his fingers through your hair, drags you closer until the spaces between you are taken over by the feeling of his body, firm and solid and sure beneath you. His other hand slips under your dress robes, gliding up your thigh and pulling the silky fabric up until it’s bunched around your waist and his hand splays across the swell of your arse, exploring and gripping and kneading. Every part of you that he touches is on fire and pleasure curls inside of you like bonfire smoke: rich and thick and all-consuming.

A moan escapes you as he rolls his hips against yours and he tugs your hair sending small shockwaves of muted pain and pleasure tingling down your spine. You pull away from him to catch your breath and for a moment you just stare at each other. His eyes are nearly all pupil and there’s a delectable flush spreading across his cheeks and there’s something else as well. It’s the way he’s looking at you, you realise. Turned on and hot and wanting, yes, but under all that… there’s something like awe in his eyes.

That alone is enough to make you reach down and start tugging at his belt, hands fumbling with nerves and then he’s kicking off his trousers and you’re pulling your robes above your head with a frantic kind of desperation that would surprise you if it wasn’t so fucking obvious to you now. The opposite of love is not hate, but indifference and you have never been indifferent towards Riddle. Your clothes land in a haphazard pile at the foot of his bed, and suddenly his arms are around you and he’s flipping you over and pressing against you, grinding down as he sucks a bruise along the underside of your jaw before trailing kisses down your neck and along your collarbones, flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud of one nipple. “So good,” He whispers into your skin, “Always knew you’d be so good for me.” And something inside of you sings at the admission, at the implication.

The franticness of earlier fades into something slower, though no less intense, and you take the opportunity to snake your hand down his body and curl a fist around him, stroking long and slow, revelling in the way he feels in your hand: heavy and hot and thick in. You are rewarded by a quiet, broken gasp and his fingers and tongue caressing every part of you he can reach. His fingers slip between your legs and you’re already so close to edge that all it takes is a few clever strokes and you’re tumbling into the ravine, back arching, toes curling and you’re dimly aware of him tensing above you and then he’s falling right along with you.

In the moments following, anxiety and uncertainty begins to creep through your afterglow, and you shift against him, unsure if you should gather your things and leave. You start to push yourself up but are stopped by a hand on your shoulder. Tom (because you should start calling him that, anything else feels like an erasure of what’s just happened, and despite the worry, you don’t want to erase this) gently pulls you back down, tucking you against his side as he runs his fingers through your hair. The anxiety fades and you fall asleep with your head nestled in the crook of his neck and his arm curled around your waist.

***

In the three weeks since Slughorn’s party, you’ve made several appearances in Tom’s dorms. There had been one particularly embarrassing moment when Abraxas Malfoy had walked in, rolled his eyes and muttered ‘finally. But also, gross’ before he'd made a speedy exit after Tom had threatened to poison his favourite peacock.

You still argue and you’re still horribly competitive; you’re fairly sure that those aspects of your relationship with Tom are dyed in the wool by this point. But now he edits your essays and you bring him coffee when he spends too long in the library. You eat breakfast together. It feels good. It feels natural.

It’s over one breakfast on a nondescript Friday morning that the letter arrives. Tom passes it to you along with a mug of tea and you frown at the unfamiliar handwriting. You scan it quickly and your curiosity quickly turns into disbelieving excitement. “Christella Beaufort wants to meet me.” You whisper, eyes wide, hands shaking. “She says that she’s sorry she missed me at the party and that she’s available to talk the next Hogsmeade weekend. I… Tom, this is… How…?”

“I may have written to her explaining the situation.” He says, entirely casual, as though he hasn’t just made every wish you’ve ever had come true.

He really only has himself to blame when you lean over the Slytherin table, fingers wrapping around his tie and ruin a lot of people’s breakfasts by dragging him into a kiss.

(part 1)

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dr3amofagame · 3 years

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Hello, idk if you’ll see this, nor do you have to take this request. But I’ve been thinking, and thought up: Dream joined the egg, but not because it offered him world domination or a happy family or any of that; no it offered to treat him kindly, to be affectionate, to be a friend, basically offering him human decency. (With an add on of everyone believing it was for some big reason, but the actual reason gets revealed somehow) if that made any sense. (Idk if this counts as an au or not)

[ask: if dream showed up to the red banquet, that would be very sexy of the writers to make him join the eggpire instead of the pro-omlette]

hehe egg!dream has so much potential ,, this is a ficlet i’ve been working on for a while (writer’s block my detested) but i finally finished it up !! it’s a bit unpolished but oh well - they cant all be winners lmao

tw: body horror, blood, injuries, implied torture/abuse, starvation, possession, dark/disturbing imagery, dark content, pandora’s vault/prison arc

Dream gets corrupted by the Egg, because of course he does.

Sapnap trudges through the vine-filled hallway, his face bundled firmly with a holy-water soaked bandana to keep out the worst of the spores. It’s a shoddy defense, but he doesn’t plan to stay long; he’s only been sent on reconnaissance, to see what public enemy number one is planning and get out as quickly as he can. As much as the entire server wants Dream dead, trying to defeat the man the first time was enough of a feat, never mind with the power of a giant demon egg on his side - to try and fight him now would be practically impossible.

The floor squishes underneath his boots, and his lips curl in disgust; the vines are thick and moist and feel ugly and rotten to the core. He can’t imagine anyone being anything but repulsed by the things, but he guesses it makes sense for Dream to be drawn here - corruption attracts corruption, it seems. It only figures that Dream would be desperate enough for power to let himself get possessed by the living - if you could really call it living - embodiment of decay and deterioration itself. The feeling of the floor giving way underneath his footsteps has another wave of revulsion crawling up his throat, though he’s not sure if it’s directed towards the Egg or his former friend or both.

He reaches the end of the hallway, an itching, pulsing feeling of wrong filling the air in the room just beyond the haphazard archway carved into the stone. With careful hands, Sapnap draws the bandana further up his face, making sure that it is tied securely behind his head - just beyond this wall lies the belly of the beast, the heart of the rot slowly but surely spreading its influence over the entire server. Something hums in the air; whispering, otherworldly sounds pierce through his armor and settle beneath his skin; he pushes on. He knows better than to listen, to try and make sense of the words within the noise - from what he’s heard, by the time you understand what it is saying, it’s too late.

He steps inside; the room feels, for the lack of a better word, red. He’s better suited for the place than most, being a Netherborn and therefore more used to the oppressive heat and heaviness of the air, but there’s something undeniably wrong about how this place feels, something entirely Other having made its home in the room. Every inch of the place feels hostile, angry, hungry, recognizing him as someone foreign and wanting nothing more than his destruction. Unlike the Red Forests, which teemed with life - piglins and hoglins and giant fungus - this room is little more than a twisted mimicry, sucking the air dry, leaving little more than husks behind.

His hand immediately goes to his sword, drawing it with a dull, metallic scrape. The room is eerily silent save for the Egg’s hissing whispers, and he frowns; he’d expected an attack, but the room is still, quiet; a mockery of peace that only makes the uneasy feeling in his gut grow further. He trudges forward, watching against the puddles of lava and smoking magma scattered over the floor, but nothing stirs.

There’s a growing pressure against his skull with each step into the room, and his hand tightens on his communicator; they’d set up a stasis chamber, just in case things went south, his way out of this place only a few button presses away. Still, nothing moves; no Bad or Ant popping out of nowhere, weapons in hand, no Dream driving an axe between his shoulder blades as he’s done so many times before in their spars. There’s only the sound of his footsteps against the rotting growths on the floor and his own heartbeat thudding in his ears and the Egg’s warbling voice, beneath it all - beckoning, almost kind.

He swallows, throat dry, and moves forward.

His feet carry him to the back corner of the room, to the rotting, pulsing core of the wrongness plaguing the entire server. Even through his bandana, the air feels foreign, nearly choking him, and he strains his eyes against the glare of the lava to look up at the vines’ rancid heart, the Egg. Up close, it’s almost underwhelming, only about three times his height, hardly coming halfway up to the ceiling of the room. What it doesn’t have in size, however, it makes up in sheer presence; the hissing whispers in his head grow louder, crawling under his skin and between his bones, and he curses under his breath as he prepares to call for his way back. Dream isn’t here; the mission is a bust.

“Sapnap?”

He freezes.

It takes a moment to realize that the voice wasn’t in his head, as raspy and unsettling as it was, and his eyes traced the edges of the Egg to a dull colored shape at its side, completely overlooked in his initial sweep of the room. He watches, a dull horror rising in his chest, as the shape moves, twists around on itself in an entirely unnatural way like a marionette pulled by its strings. A pale dot rises from where it had been hidden against the bright red of the Egg; it’s a face, Dream’s face, covered in clawing vines, stark against the bone-white of his sun-starved skin, vomit racing up his throat at the sight of the vines having made their homes in jagged wounds all over his face and neck and disappearing into the torn scraps of his prison uniform, each one spilling crimson in the form of writhing vines and thorns instead of blood.

“Sapnap,” Dream says again, his mouth moving with the words but something entirely other having made its home in the air of his lungs, a shivering rasp to his voice that lifts and falls with the same desperate hunger that saturates every tainted inch of the room. His neck tips to the side, shifted over by a twisting vine tangled within his hair and wrapping a crown of blood-red thorns over his forehead, tendrils drooping over his face and framing the gaunt edges. “You came.”

“Dream-” the anger comes back, familiar, at the other’s words - the same red-hot rage that had boiled within him in that first and only prison visit (you took so long) but it dissipates as fast as it comes. Dream - if this remnant, this shade, this corrupted, mangled half that seems more corruption than human can even be called the name of one he had once considered his best friend, his brother - stumbles closer, held up by the vines that twist over his shaking legs, one having the pale, ragged edge of a bone clearly having ripped through skin - and Sapnap does throw up, this time, dragging the bandana from his face and heaving bile all over the floor.

“What happened-” he cries, flames licking up his arms in defense when his friend-turned-monster-turned-this steps closer on a wreck of a leg that should not be able to bear weight, stumbles back to a roaring in his ears-

He is mine he came broken came shattered and I gave him everything I gave him his heart’s desire I am his savior his grace he asked for warmth and he asked for comfort and he asked for nothing but for someone to take his pain and he is mine he is mine he is mine

He freezes, hand tightening over his communicator; Dream stares at him with the one dull-green eye not covered by the vines splayed over his too-pale face, mouth moving but no sound coming out. The roaring, angry sound in Sapnap’s ears grows louder, follows the shape of Dream’s lips come join your friend come with me I will give him to you you have failed him once but not again not again he is mine but you can be mine also and you will be together together together

“-pnap! Sapnap!” Puffy’s words crackle over the communicator, harsh and loud and snapping him out of his thoughts, “Pull the switch, Sam! No, he’s not responding- pull the switch-”

The world dips, and he heaves in a shattered breath, lungs finally full as he breathes in clear air for the first time in what feels like an eternity, hacking coughs pulled from his throat as he tears the bandana off in one sputtering gasp for breath.

“Sap- Sapnap,” Sam pitches his voice low, comforting, a hand rubbing up and down his back, but all Sapnap can see is the skeleton of a man held together by red thread, the life leached from his skin and leaving nothing left, he asked for nothing but for someone to take the pain and he is mine he is mine he is mine-

“Sapnap,” Puffy’s voice is tinny with concern, “What happened? You stopped responding and the time passed so we pulled the switch on the stasis chamber- are you alright? Did he attack you?”

“I-” -you have failed him once but not again not again you will be together- “I need a moment.”

He scrambles away, feet carrying him away from Church Prime, away from the Holy Land, away away away until he’s standing on the Community House roof, staring at his hands at this home, destroyed, this home, rebuilt, this home, empty and wrong and a shadow of house for a shadow of a man, a shadow of a friend found, a friend lost- and sobs.

What had he done?

#tw body horror #tw blood #tw torture #tw abuse #tw starvation #tw possession #tw dark imagery #tw disturbing imagery #tw dark content #prison arc #pandora's vault #queue <3 #long post #my writing :D #my asks !!

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freetheshit-outofyou · 2 years

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Huddle round men, Warriors take a knee, it's real talk time. I'm about to share a secret that our women Warriors have known for untold generations. I might catch some shit for what I'm about to say but it's only because you'll be talking from a position of self imposed ignorance. Since time immemorial our women Warriors have have had our backs, taken the fight to those who would do us harm and loved us for all our faults but they have kept something from us, the magic of the spa. That's right the spa, yell it from Asgard Peak, so all the male Warrior's can hear it and bear witness to the power I am about to unleash on you. About 5 years ago my Bride, my shotgun seat gunner, my ride or die lover asked me to go to a full body restoration spa. I mean we did all kinds of things I'd never contemplated before. We had hot rocks pressed into our muscles, rocks that made my old bones and war warn muscles feel like they were new again. We got our asses kick by a martial arts from called "Swedish". When the Valkyries were done I felt like Neo after they upload Jiu Jitsu in his brain, like WOW, I need more. Next the Valkyries covered us in some kind of elixir to open our pores just before putting us in a bath filled with the blood our slain enemies. The Valkyries said it was essence of rose water but I am sure it was the blood of our dead enemies. We laid in this water for an hour letting the pain of our war wounds leach away. But we were not done. Then the Valkyries lay us out on tables covered in the softest towels any human has ever touched, like they came right from Odin's chamber to our tables. Then the Valkyries poured a blend of rosemary, black pepper, lavender and ginger essential oils on our bodies like they were preparing us to to have court with the Allfather in the great hall of Valhalla. Just when I thought they were done, when I thought I could not feel more invincible these Valkyries, sent by Oden himself, reached in marble vats and took out handfuls of sugars and rubbed them into our skin. They worked that sugar into just about every part of our war torn bodies with a special emphasis on feet, hands, knees, elbows, face and shoulders. I do not know what magic was in those sugars, I was to afraid to ask and ruin the magic, but it turned my old worn skin into silk. It made my feet and hands look and feel like those of a man who never knew a hard days work in his life. And the magic was lasting. Since that day 5 years ago, I have been to those places of hollowed magic 3 to 4 times a year. Do your self a favor men, wade into those majestic waters blessed by Goddess Freyja herself and feel rejuvenated again. Then when you are surrounded by nothing but starlight, you will have the energy to make your ride or die lovers toes curl like only a true God can. Trust me on this. You will feel out of your element, but you will feel better for it. And make sure you find your own supply of magical sugars to clean your skin of the blood of those who do not know the love of Odin and Goddess Freyja.

#odin #freyja #valhalla #sugar scrub #valkyries #swedish

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chispas-and-broken-bindings · 3 years

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from the next chapter of nothing sacred, all things wild:

Jon had wondered what it would take to see his cousin’s passion unleashed. Now he knew, and he found himself quite regretting the experience. Sansa’s anger was expected, of course. There had been no doubt in his mind that she would be furious over his subterfuge regarding Robb, and when she billowed across the courtyard, her hair wild, in naught but a dressing gown, part of him thrilled at the sight. Finally, he thought, no more feigning indifference. He expected anger, welcomed it even, for once released, it was an emotion quickly spent. Once released, there would be room for new feelings to grow. But then, her face loomed before him, all color leaching from her cheeks, her eyes blank with terror, and the ground tilted beneath his feet.

Even now, as he rose from the bath, the memory of her desperate tears cut him far deeper than her sewing scissors had. For a few heartbreaking moments the fear had overtaken her wrath, and Jon’s own blood had pounded in his temple, stealing the breath from his lungs.

He had misjudged Sansa’s feelings for him, quite terribly. He could handle her anger. It was a dreadful blow to find her afraid of him as well.

And yet...threatened at spearpoint, Sansa Stark had stood her ground.

Jon inspected the small mark at his chest, where she had stabbed him. It was just a scratch, though it had drawn momentary blood. She had flinched upon piercing his skin, and Jon felt certain his cousin had never taken up arms against anyone in her life. Foolish woman, starting with a king.

A knock at the door roused him, and he hurriedly donned a shirt. “Come in.”

Corwyn entered, head bowed. “The lady and the young lord are settled, your Grace, and extra men have been posted at every hallway and door.”

“And Daenerys?”

“My men tell me she has retired to her quarters.”

Jon nodded, donning a simple, dark jacket. “I have business in the city the rest of the morning, and no, I don’t need an escort.” He did not wish to be seen, and Corwyn had learned not to push him on the matter. Jon was plain enough to pass unnoticed when he wanted to, and dangerous enough to handle the occasional drunkard or cutpurse on his own. “If Dany wishes to entertain guests, she can do so from the maidenvault. There are to be no visitors to Maegor’s holdfast except under Lady Stark’s express invitation.”

“And must that invitation extend to yourself?” Corwyn turned toward the window, hiding his expression, and it took Jon another moment to understand the captain’s meaning.

“Are you asking whether or not you should bar me from entering my own castle?”

“Forgive my boldness, your Grace, but I’d wager that you’d be the last person Lady Stark would allow in, if given the power to deny you.”

Jon sighed, rubbing at the scar across his brow. “I’m not fool enough to take you up on that bet, and I also do not fancy sleeping in the stable. I admit that I do not know how to reach her, Corwyn. You’re a married man. How do I make the lady see that I am not her enemy when she leaves me no opening and gives no quarter?”

The captain of his guard laughed, crossing his arms as he appraised Jon. “I watched you cut your teeth on the battlefield, your grace,” Corwyn said, “and I wager there are few that could match you when it comes to war strategy...but your first mistake may be using military tactics on the would-be object of your affection. You are dealing with a woman, not a sparring partner.”

Military tactics? He’d handed her his bloody heart. “I don’t understand what you mean. I’ve shown the lady every courtesy.”

“You forced her to concede the high ground, and then flush her out into the open every time she finds new cover. You lay constant siege against her, assaulting each wall she constructs. Now you’ve taken her son hostage. How could she view that as anything but an act of war?”

When he put it that way…

“I only thought to bring him to his mother’s side. When I wrote, the Lady Waynwood agreed that it would be best.”

“Then why did you not tell the mother?”

Jon had no ready answer— at least nothing that would appease a man like Corwyn who was brave, honorable, and honest to a fault. He would not admit to waging war against his cousin— that was a step too far.

But had he approached it like a game of cyvasse? Perhaps.

Intuition had driven Jon to call the child down from his mountain stronghold, and intuition held his tongue each time he could have told Sansa. He had tried to be direct, and been met with resounding silence. It was she who placed the screen between them, and she who first placed the pieces on the board. What other recourse did Jon have, than to play his dragon?

“I do not know how else to make my intentions clear.”

“At this point, only a fool would mistake your intentions. The lady does not wish to be wooed and with every advance, you only push her further away.”

“Then what do you propose I do?”

“Leave the poor woman be, and find another quarry.”

Jon closed his eyes, and Sansa’s tear-streaked face swam before his lids.

This had ceased to be a game to her— if it ever had been.

When you were young you used to plead with me to play your silly games.

Corwyn was correct that Jon’s attempts to reach her were only widening the gulf between them, but it made little sense. How could she believe he’d ever hurt her? He’d let his kingdom burn first. Once, she had known that— when they were young. When they were young, they were wolves.

Were they not still?

#wip wednesday #jonsa #jon snow x sansa stark #nothing sacred all things wild #my fic #jonsa ff #jonsa fic #i'm so busy right now #but i just want to stress write fanfic all day

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goineedsleep · 3 years

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i am cursed, and also delusional

i got sick recently(not covid, i am a fully vaccinated bitch), so i'm writing this on caffeine and pain

i hope you enjoy the shitshow

-trials of octopath is todays awful fusion idea

-for those of you unaware of trials of manas existence, it's a lot like octopath(and vice versa). trials is a game where you pick 3 characters out of 6 possible options to play as, and the story changes drastically depending on who's in your party. im' gonna have to cut a couple of the octopaths to fit this AU, but i'll be putting them elsewhere- you'll see them eventually

-i'm not even getting into story pairs! every two characters in trials of mana has the same final boss. if you put two characters together who have the same story(say, the fighter/duran or the mage/angela), it gives more information on those characters and their shared story.

-we have olberic the fighter(replacing duran) first. after an invasion of his home, he trusts erhardt with protecting it while he chases after the perpetrator

-then there's cyrus the mage(replacing angela)- he is the prestiged son of a famed scholar. he cannot use the same powerful magic his father could, and thus is chosen to be executed by him. cyrus unleashes enough magical power to teleport out of that situation(this happens in-game), and runs away to seek guidance from the Archbishop of the Church of the Sacred Flame.

-now we have therion the thief. he is a close friend of the leader of the Thieves Guild of the Ravuses, a man known as Heathcote. Darius, an "old friend " of his, saved Heathcotes life from being missing. this results in Heathcote acting very weird from the day he returns- at least, if you ask therion. Heathcote has never expressed the want to start a nation and invade another country until now! he gets help from Heathcotes son, the doctor of their group, to find out what's going on with Heathcote. It turns out... that Darius is using mind control to manipulate Heathcote to follow his bidding. man come on therion was just starting to not punch you in the face every night just when you were about to fall asleep again

-Darius uses dark magic to seal Alfyn away to another realm, and frames Therion for the kidnapping. Therion can't tell the truth about the situation either or kill Darius- Cordelia, Alfyns little sister, will die as well if he even dares due to a cursed article of clothing given to her by Darius.

-luckily for him, Tressa has mercy on him a couple months later and breaks him out of jail. therion decides to investigate the curse in order to find out how to stab Darius in the most affective way imaginable. Also to save Cordelia, but that isn't his priority at the moment

-now we have the warrior princess Primrose

-she's the captain of the woman-led guard of the country of Azelhart

-her mother died during childbirth whilst giving birth to her little sister tressa, and so she decided to take care of her to the best of her ability. her father is very proud of her for taking charge like this, but he still is the parent in this version. he is the one that technically raised tressa since I do not want to force primrose to parent someone when she's like 6

-primrose was just a dedicated babysitter

-she wants tressa to practice her dancing, and when she finds her she's being held at knifepoint by 2 thieves. the barrier protecting Azelhart from enemy forces is broken, tressa is kidnapped, and -Azelhart is no more. Now Primrose is no princess or noble- she's just Primrose

-She goes to the Priest of Light so she can pray for forgiveness from Aelfric before she kills all of the Ravus thieves guild

-H'aanit is the princess of the werewolves. they've been oppressed and marginalized by humans for years, so they've taken up the forest as their home. she's a hunter like most of them are, yet she's never been able to harness the power of her bloodline: it may be due to her being half-human, but she's never been capable of transforming into a beast like her brethren.

-she meets the snow leopard Linde in front of her dead mothers corpse, and starts feeding it

-she has a new pet now -linde and herself work together and they sometimes do better than full-blooded werewolves when they work together

-Z'aanta forms an alliance with Mattias, a man who's worked with the Church of the Sacred Flame a million times -immediately following the forming of this alliance Linde attempts to kill H'aanit -H'aanit doesn't wish to hurt her friend, but she has no choice: she turns into a werewolf for the first time in her life and loses control of her thoughts in her despair

-oh welp the cat's dead(I'M SO SORRY LINDE YOU ARE A VERY GOOD KITTY) -H'aanit heads back home to cry for a minute... then she overhears Mattias admitting that he killed her cat -H'aanit attempts to attack him, and then gets yeeted to Jadd -good job ham, you complete and utter pokemon trainer

-last up, we've got ophilia -she's the adoptive daughter of the Archbishop of the Sacred Flame -she hears Lianna's gonna be going somewhere, she gets an awful vision of Lianna never being seen again following this mission, and goes with her in secret -Lianna gets kidnapped regardless by Mattias -so ophilia decides to find this guy and punch him in the face

-alright that's all of the character backstories

-THANK GOD

-all of these people(save alfyn and tressa, who is being held hostage by the ravus thieves guild) go to jadd first- h'aanit is yeeted there by mattias

-h'aanit notices that her people are invading this town and will be invading Flamesgrace- her next goal is to stop this -olberic wants to stop this as well, so he and h'aanit team up first

-Primrose looks for Tressa in some desperate search, and meets Cyrus during this search. they decide to journey together to Wendel, figuring going together would be better than being alone -they think it's a dumb idea to fight the beastmen, so they decide to escape at night like the bartender suggested

-ophilia finds therion at the bar while looking for food, and overhears his story while she eats soup and bread -she leads him to Wendel, wanting to do help another adventurer before she goes off into the unknown herself

-olberic and h'aanit free the town from beastmen and go to the cavern that leads to flamesgrace(which i am going to keep calling Wendel on accident because that's what it is in trials, srry) -they get there and there's a barrier -archbishop put it up to protect them from the beastmen, and then h'aanit and olberic find the lakeside town of astoria -the villagers keep mentioning how a divine light has started appearing in the area, and olberic shrugs it off and takes a very long nap. the poor man is very tired -ophilia and therion head there as well and follow the light to where it falls- ophilia touches this flame and has to fight a giant robot w/ therion -they win, and ophilia doesn't see it anymore -she shrugs and heads back to astoria, where beastmen have wrecked the town. it is g o n e -ophilia holds a memorial service for them, where she tells therion about how she's a cleric of the Sacred Flame -therion shrugs and suggests they keep going. they don't have much time before it's day and the beastmen attempt to attack Flamesgrace, too

-h'aanit, olberic, cyrus and primrose are having a picnic at the barrier when ophilia and therion arrive -ophilia attempts charging into the barrier, and then it sets on fire and they can all go through -after a long and awkward icebreaker, they all decide to travel together. it's pretty dangerous out there anyways, with the beastmen attacking and atlasdams rumored invasion of Hornburg. the ravus nation is also a major worry, therion reminds them, but they arent' gonna be in the area for a while

-these guys make it to flamesgrace to receive advice on what's coming next -olberic is told to become stronger before challenging atlasdam, and not to do so alone. he continues being in the group due to this -cyrus is told to learn how to understand his emotions- magic is not the forms they teach at school, but rather what comes from the heart. he decides to accompany the travelers so he can escape imprisonment by atlasdam forces -therion first learns of how the dimension Alfyn's been tossed into is inaccessible by humans. it is the birthplace of galdera, and is a realm of which sinners reside after they've lived their lives. Alfyn is probably not going to last very long in this realm- he's as good as dead -therion is then told of how ancient and deadly of a magic the cursed choker is, and that darius is not human. what he is is a mystery, and to save cordelia he must find the sword of aelfric. he cannot save alfyn, so he may as well save his sister -primrose is advised to find her sister and that if she chooses to destroy the ravus nation, aelfric will not support her actions, though they are understandable. if she finds the Sword of Aelfric, she may gain the power she needs to destroy the Ravus nation. -h'aanit is told that Linde will live on through her, and that Mattias is a warlock of Galderas. he has been rejected by the Order of the Sacred Flame as a result, though he does lie very affectively. to save the Kingdom of S'warkii, she must take down Mattias. and since mattias is going after the Sword of Aelfric she may as well accompany Ophilia and make Mattias's efforts worth nothing at all -ophilia is told to find Lianna, since she has been chosen by the Ember. she is now the only person who can rise the Sword of Aelfric from its resting place

-the Sword of Aelfric is hidden within the Sanctuary of Aelfric, which needs an insane amount of power to be opened. normally this power can be leached from the Aelfric Stones, but doing so could let loose ancient and terrible demons. therefore, the 8 gods that reside next to these stones need to be called upon in order to open the portal to the Sanctuary. -Therion suggests going after Aelfric first, since he's the closest one to them. after that, they need to find someone who knows where the rest of them are and also how to get there -they all agree that it's a good plan, but cyrus brings up that the Aelfric Stones each belong to a specific nation or people. going there and borrowing the gods power would be going after large civilizations that have grown around these stones -olberic suggests that they plan this out later, when they have more information and time -they all agree and go ahead to find the first of 8 gods

#trials of mana #octopath traveler #olberus #will happen eventually trust me #i am trash like that

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thebigqueer · 3 years

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Yo I have been obsessed with making an au where Nico died instead of Bianca so if you would consider that a prompt

(I have never asked someone to make a fic before so sorry if that was awkward and no pressure ofc)

Thank you so much for this prompt! As always, I usually do minimum to no editing on fic prompts, so please don’t be too judgmental as you read this! I hope you like it!

Bianca stares ahead at the glimmering waters. Guilt thrums in her blood as her thumb grazes the figurine in her hand.

How could I have been so stupid?

She should never have left for that mission with the Hunters. She should have stayed here, let Nico and herself get comfortable at camp before pursuing anything. She should have learned more about her lineage, her past, whatever she could get her hands on.

Instead, in her lust for freedom, she chose to run away from her problems. And look where it landed her.

Nico died on his way to look for her. He slipped from the camp’s borders to search for her. And he got killed by a car, of all things. Not a monster, not an enemy demigod. A car. One of the most typical, mundane things to exist.

Nico, a bright, extraordinary boy, went down by a mere mortal’s hand.

He could have been more. He should have been more. But now he’s gone, his soul leached into the Underworld, and there’s nothing Bianca can do about it now.

Maybe it wasn’t so wrong to want to leave camp. Maybe it wasn’t so wrong for her to just search for her own path. But she should have helped him; she should have told him she’d be right back. She could have refused the mission and instead stayed to make sure he was adjusting nicely. She had only just told him she’d gotten a place with the Hunters after all; she could have stayed and let him get familiar to the change rather than moving on like he was nothing but her past.

Angry tears sear her eyes. The figurine in her olive fingers grins up at her, its eyes piercing her soul like a cursed sword. Your fault, it taunts.

My fault, Bianca agrees silently. In her search for freedom, for just a quick taste of an individual life, she let her brother die. How can she ever forgive herself for that?

She turns her eyes to the figurine again, watching it warily as if it might just do something. But it’s as lifeless and unimportant as when she picked it up for the first time.

Rage burns in her core. This stupid figurine. She got it for Nico, hoping that when she came back she could offer it as an apology. But guess what? She never got do that! No, instead, she had to discover that her brother died in a car accident.

And here she was, stuck instead with a stupid figurine.

In an angry burst, she throws it out to the lake. It glints in the setting sun, then plops to the blue, glimmering water. For a moment, it does nothing but float there, mocking her.

Then it goes underwater, and Bianca is still left in her misery.

She cradles her head in her hands as guilt and anguish drown her in misery. Her heart clenches as a sob bursts out of her, and soon she’s rocking back and forth as the world around her crumbles to dust.

I’m sorry, she thinks, hoping that the message sinks into the Underworld. I’m so sorry, Nico. If I could bring you back, trust me, I would.

Then, all of a sudden, she stops. Her sobs shudder and hiccup, and then cease all at once as an idea bursts in her mind.

Bring him back to life... That’s possible, isn’t it? Didn’t Percy once go down to the Underworld? Didn’t Orpheus almost succeed in bringing his own wife back up to the mortal world?

And, out of nowhere, a burst of excitement thrums in her blood. Laughter bubbles from her mouth. She knows exactly what to do.

Bring him back, she thinks, jumping up. I’m bringing you back, Nico. Don’t worry.

And with that, swiping the tears from her face, she scampers into the woods. She knows what her next mission is.

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jengajives · 3 years

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Lots of feelings about how my fave siblings would have felt about Maedhros’s fun trip on Thangorodrim. Also Best Cousins as well

“Wake up, Your Majesty.”

Maedhros didn’t move until the sharp toe of an iron boot jabbed his side. Then he grumbled and rolled over, but would not rise.

“Your Highness,” sang the serpent’s voice from somewhere above him. “Your feast awaits, oh King.”

A clatter. The tray of whatever food he was gifted with for the day hitting the damp stone floor. Maedhros still did not move.

“No appetite, hm? Your Majesty just isn’t himself this morning. Usually you’re so excited for your meals.”

A high, hot laugh. Maedhros got the idea Sauron was putting his boot in the food. A lovely image.

“You can tell your master,” he said flatly, without cracking an eye or rolling over, “that if He wants me mocked and ridiculed, He’d better come down here and do it Himself. I give little weight to the word of lesser servants.”

“Lesser?” Sauron repeated. Heat leached into his voice; Maedhros could feel it rising from the coward’s skin even before the fire-bright hands reached down to grab him, burning another set of hand prints into his shoulders with fat, red welts.

“I will show you lesser, pup,” Sauron seethed, “Are the failure son of failure fathers, and I am Flame itself!”

“You,” Maedhros said though his voice quivered with exhaustion, “are just a slinking dog afraid to leave his master’s heels. More likely to roll over than to stand up and fight.”

The pain of heat grew red and wild, like touching molten metal. Sauron’s fingertips dug in and Maedhros found himself locked in a fiery scarlet gaze.

“We shall see who rolls over for whom,” Sauron snarled, and dragged Maedhros unresisting from the cell.

“Look at you!”

Sauron’s eyes glowed in the dim light, gleaming with smug victory. His hands, so rarely idle, twitched by his side until he had to grab Maedhros by the hair and yank his head up so he could get a good look at his face.

The small myriad of new cuts went from cheekbone to cheekbone. Jaw to jaw. It was nothing, of course, compared to the pain against his spine he was convinced would never leave.

It had been hours and still it hurt sharp and blazing hot as ever.

It seemed like Sauron was trying to burn letters into his very skin, though he worked too gradually for Maedhros to make out the script.

Sauron laughed and gave him a sharp slap.

“The High King of the Noldor, eh? I don’t see it. All I can see is a houseless and pathetic murderer getting what he deserves.”

Maedhros spit at him, splattering his face with blood. Immediately the flame in Sauron’s eyes went white hot.

“Why, you little-“

“Mairon.”

Sauron paused, one hand drawn back and glowing like molten metal, as his master appeared looming like a mountain in the doorway.

“That’s enough. Leave him.”

His eye twitched but slowly he straightened and obeyed, with a courteous bow.

“Of course, Master.”

He shot Maedhros a spiteful glare as he stalked from the room, still wiping blood and spit away with a sleeve.

The sound of Morgoth’s approach was like a rumbling in the earth, but Maedhros had learned to ignore it. He let his head hang limp, cheek pressed to the cold stone, breathing steadily, trying to convince his scrambled mind it was safe to rest, even if only for an instant.

He hadn’t yet fully mastered the terror when Morgoth reached him and lifted his head by the hair.

No rest. No rest was fine. He didn’t need to rest.

“I’m afraid I have bad news for you, Nelyo,” said Morgoth with mock pity, his expression twisted into a deep frown. “I’ve just gotten message back from your dear brothers.”

Something cold that probably had been hope once rose into Maedhros’s throat, and he didn’t have the energy to keep it from showing. Cruel amusement flashed behind Morgoth’s heavy eyes.

“Unfortunately, it seems they’ve abandoned you to torment and pain for the rest of eternity.” The sympathy dripping from his voice tasted like poison; it was difficult not to choke on it. “Isn’t that just awful? Your own family... not even willing to save their sweet Nelyo. Their King. How horribly tragic.”

Any attempt to think through the news logically failed, so the only thought going through Maedhros’s head was the certainty that it was a lie. Maglor and Celegorm wouldn’t abandon him to this, surely. Fingon wouldn’t... Fingon...

No. Fingon wasn’t here. He wasn’t coming, he couldn’t be, and even if he was, why would he want anything other than pain for the sons of Fëanor? After what they had done... after what Maedhros had done to him. No, there was no rescue. No freedom. The Oath bound his brothers never to give up the pursuit of their enemy, not even for his sake.

“Get on with it,” Maedhros growled, raising his gaze to meet Morgoth’s. “I’ll be avenged. You’ll be paid for the lives of my grandfather, and my father, and... and me. Go ahead and do it.”

A pause, and then Morgoth laughed wild and cold.

“Oh, sweet boy. You think I want you dead? You think I want to kill you? No, no...” He leaned closer, his breath a whisper of ice and stone. “I want you to watch your brothers die. I want you to see exactly how fruitless all your labors have been. You, my dear Nelyo, are not going anywhere.”

Maglor was so distracted looking out over the mountains that he didn’t notice he was no longer alone until he got a hand clapped on his shoulder.

“Brother.”

He almost jumped as he flipped around, but managed to restrain himself.

“Celegorm!”

“Your hair is getting long,” Celegorm said, with a weak smile on his face as he rustle his fingers through the growing curls. Trying not to look as sad as he was. “It looks nice. Going to braid it again soon?”

“Oh. Yes, I think so.” Maglor did not have the energy to attempt a smile. Didn’t have the will.

“Good.” Celegorm patted him on the shoulder again. “Good. A king should have braids, yeah?”

Maglor was nodding along until he processed the words.

“K-King?”

“Yes.” Celegorm straightened up, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword. He had the same cool, collected expression that most of them wore nowadays. “You are next in line, Maglor.”

“Next in...” he trailed off, glancing east again to the mountains. “Wait, no, Celegorm, Maedhros is-“

“Maedhros is gone.” He would not meet Maglor’s shocked gaze. “It’s time we start accepting that. Our people need a king, and you-“

“No!” Maglor stepped back. “He is alive! Maedhros is our king, and he’s alive, and we aren’t going to abandon him like that!”

“I’m just saying we should think about it,” Celegorm said. “That’s all.”

“No.” Maglor looked at his brother in horror. “That’s awful, Celegorm, I’m not leaving him like that!”

“I’m sorry.” Celegorm backed up, hand raised. “But he’s gone. There’s nothing we can do. I’m sorry.”

He turned and left the room, and Maglor put his face in his hands and wept.

The air was bitter cold up here. Bitter cold and reeking of smoke.

Maedhros tried so hard not to feel the pain anymore. Tried to close his eyes and drift to sleep but he couldn’t. The pain was too constant.

If his hand could have come off, it would have by now. It hurt. It hurt so bad.

The stone was razor sharp and tore at his back like knives. The wind bit into his flesh. And the manacle sliced his wrist and sent a constant stream of blood down his arm.

It hurt too bad to find escape in sleep.

It hurt too bad to think.

When the clear sound of horns rang across the hills and echoed through the peaks, Maedhros almost thought his mind had wandered entirely out of reality.

But then he saw the blue banners of Fingolfin in the valley below, and the horns rang out deafening and clear, and it was so loud it shook him to his core.

Fingolfin.

Fingolfin was here.

He was here, waving his banners, banging on the gates of Angband under the light of the silver newborn moon.

Strength flowed immediately through Maedhros and he squirmed, pulling himself up by the chain around his wrist. The white gleam of armor and jewels glittered like a living river of hope.

“Uncle!”

He twisted, trying to get enough air to his lungs to scream.

“Uncle!”

He didn’t know how Fingolfin had gotten here but he was here. He had come.

“Fingon! Uncle! Aredhel!”

His voice rang across the rocks loud and clear. Surely loud enough to be heard. Surely.

Surely. Please.

Please.

Night and sat blurred into one honey-slow and unsteady pulse, so slow. So slow and he had hung here longer than he could comprehend.

His back was sliced to ribbons by the stone face behind, and the cuts around his wrist were never properly allowed to heal and had turned his entire site dull copper with dry blood. It rained every once in a while and rinsed him clean, but mostly he was suspended there in his own blood and sweat and filth without escape.

No escape.

Never any way out.

Never.

The sound of strings on the wind couldn’t be real because no one would ever crawl up here for his sake, for any sake, let alone play. Let alone sing. Sing a beautiful song in Quenya that Maglor had written about the white streets of Tirion like some ghost of long-lost peace.

His body shook with shivers and fever and he closed his eyes and raised his nose to the wind.

Humming along brought momentarily peace, so Maedhros parted his dry, cracked lips and took up the tune slow and gentle. His voice was in no shape for singing, but he managed it, and it made him feel at home, so he tried anyway.

Abruptly the song stopped. The music died. He lowered his head and returned to the cold and the torment.

“Maedhros?” called a voice, and over a face of rock far below poked the dark head of Fingon.

Fingon.

Fingon was here for him.

He’d come.

Tears steamed hot down his cheeks, the only water he had left.

Fingon crawled onto the flat granite shelf and got to his feet, a vision in gleaming blue with a harp at his side. He stood for a moment studying the rock and the sheer face between himself and his cousin, then he cupped his hands over his mouth and called again.

“Maedhros, I can’t reach you!”

Even from this distance, Maedhros could see the silver bow slung across Fingon’s back.

He croaked words and just had to hope they reached all the way down.

“Just shoot.”

Blood ran down his bicep and dripped through the hollow of his spine.

“Fingon. Please. Just shoot me.”

He closed his eyes and missed if Fingon replied, because his arm ached so horribly he couldn’t even think.

It seemed to him a long time before he opened his eyes again and saw Fingon sat on the stone with his face in his hands and the bow resting next to him. He was crying. Maedhros could see his shoulders shaking from here.

Eventually he stood, picked up the bow and turned around to face the precipice.

Maedhros saw his lips moving, but he couldn’t hear the words. All he could see was the gleam of the bow as he drew it.

He closed his eyes again.

Awaiting the momentary pain that would herald his release.

It did not come.

He heard the wind of a hurricane, felt it push against his face and smack him back to the rock, and the roar of beating wings, and then hands on his shoulders holding him, warm, and firm, and present.

“It’s alright!” Fingon spoke through tears, a desperate smile on his face. “I’m here. I’m here, Maedhros. I’m going to take you home!”

Maedhros did not answer. It hurt. It hurt and it wasn’t like Fingon would be able to get rid of it.

He could feel him tugging at the chains. Trying to pry the manacle off the rock. Trying everything.

“Fingon,” Maedhros breathed. “Fingon, please. You can’t get me out of here. There’s no way out. Just... if you could just... please...” He looked meaningfully at the sword his cousin wore at his hip. “Just end it. Please. I can’t...”

“No, no. Stop that, I’m not leaving you. You’re going to be fine!”

“I’m sorry.” He wanted to cry but his body wouldn’t manage it. “Fingon. I’m sorry. I-I never meant to leave you b-behind.”

“Just hush. Keep your strength.”

“I’m sorry...”

Another tug at the manacle. It wouldn’t budge.

Finally, Maedhros heard the scrape of a sword being drawn, and a silver flash of sunlight blinded him.

Yes. Yes, at last. At last.

“Hold still. It’ll only hurt for a second, cousin, I promise. Just- Just don’t move!”

The dull pain in his wrist turned sharp and he let out a scream that echoed endlessly across the peaks.

So sharp. So cold.

Turned him to ice.

Froze him all up.

He didn’t even notice Fingon holding him, wrapping him in a cloak, forcing warmth back into his body. Binding his hand tight and clean.

His hand his hand his fingers were twitching and he could still feel the manacles.

“I’m so sorry,” he sobbed quietly into Fingon’s chest, and for the first time in too long he received an affectionate touch.

He closed his eyes and went at last to sleep.

#jenga makes junk #fanfic #fic #writers #silmarillion #sons of feanor #maedhros #maglor #celegorm #fingon #sauron #mairon #morgoth #tw blood #tw sucidal thoughts #look sometimes you just be in the mood for torture ya know #this is probably shit but you know what I do not care #good time for losing a hand you know

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ambrial-blog · 3 years

Photo

I’m in- Says Blitzo.

Words that are about to come back and bite Blitzo in the ass.

It took you long enough, Mox, Blitz shouted. “ Wow, you should’ve seen the look on your dipshit face cackled Blitz. Striker glowered, hissing, eyeing Moxie from the corner of his eye, a scowl forming across his face as he looks down at Blitz.

Blitzo gasps as the knife thrust deep into his back.

A gunshot goes off. A Striker turns Blitzo’s gun on Moxie.

A look of sheer horror flashes across Blitzo’s face as Moxie deflects the bullet with the butt of the blessed rifle.

Striker twists the knife in Blitzo’s back, using his tail. Blitzo grips onto Striker’s arms, slumping to his knees as the end of Striker’s tail comes up to stroke Blitzo’s face.

He pulls out the bloodied knife and licks it.

Striker hisses, catching Blitzo in his arms. “See boss-man, their noth’ in but vermin. He reaches into his vest. Pulling out a blessed handgun, and shoots Moxie in the head.

All before, Blitz had time to react.

The Outlaw grins sadistically as he pulls up a chair; blood splatters his boots and hands as he watches Blitz. He has him cornered with nowhere left to run; Blitz wonders how he always gets into these situations.

Moxie gurgles. Blitzo keeps looking at him, wondering how they were going to get out of this.

Then his gaze falls back to Striker. “your so much better than this,” Striker says as Blitzo inches closer to Moxie, cringing as his back spasms blood soaks through his shirt. His hands were drenched in Moxie’s blood as a hand reaches out for the small Imp.

“Look at him, Blitzy. Nothing but a speck of dirt, a common flea. Pathetic, really. Not long now, and your friend their well be nothing more than a husk of a body.”

Blitzo turns, and he hates how close Striker is now. He hates the uncertainty he feels whenever the snake imp is near. How long could he keep I.M.P afloat?. Did he really want to rely on Stolas forever?.

No! just no, he couldn’t be thinking like this.

This is how he got himself in this predicament. The Cowboy was way too smooth.

What about his friends and family. Will, the few people he considered family. No, Striker was the enemy. Blitzo was reaching for his gun just as Striker kicked it away.

A Hate-filled glare is thrown at Striker as a long barbed tail wraps itself around Blitz’s waist dragging Blitz away from Moxie. “You have so much potential Blitz” Striker throws the red Imp towards the bed, his back smacking against the bed frame. As Blitzo scrambles to his feet. Striker scoots the chair closer to him. He examines the red blade in his hand, twirling it before stabbing Blitz in the chest, his snakily yellow-green eyes glowing and swirling with sadistic pleasure.

No, he might’ve not gotten the hit. But he was gunning for a partner now, one that he could easily manipulate and control. Blitz was everything he could’ve wanted in a partner and more.

Blitzo pulled out the blade from his chest. Lunging at Striker, who just chuckled and moved out of the way.

“Come on Blitz- if you join me, we’ll be unstoppable- well, be the most dangerous beings in hell blitz-. just shed these leaches. They are what’s keeping you from achieving your goals. What’s keeping you tethered to the ditsy blue blood. You are so much better than that

“Darl’ in. Well, split everything fifty, seventy.

Then do it, kill me, you fucking coward.”

I’ll never willingly leave my loony, Moxie, or Millie. Blitzo snarls, so you better shoot me dead!. Because if Moxie doesn’t survive, I’ll tare you apart;

Striker tail rattles in irritation. “Then I’ll have to cut out the claws they dug into you. Striker lurches out of the chair, slamming Blitzo against the wall.

Their chests press against each other as Blitz’s tail lashes out, whipping Striker across the face.

Striker’s tail curls tighter around Blitz’s waist, feverishly rattling. He snarls, baring his teeth.

“I’m offering you so much more than that disgusting, rich, pompous ass, Goeitia” “Choose me above the Goetic prince, above a business that is rigged against you.

“Partner up with me, and kill the unkillable, starting with the one that treats you like a plaything.”

“Now- Blitz, what will it be?” he leans in closer, feeling Blitz’s body shiver.

“Let’s seal the deal, Blitz-y” Striker’s claws dig into Blitz’s back. His teeth graze Blitz’s neck as he eyes Moxie’s prone form.

Moxie’s body twitches as Striker’s teeth sink into Blitzo collarbone, a forked tongue laps at the blood. Blitz’s eyes fall upon Moxie, who hand was reaching for the blessed rifle.

His breathing is shallow.

His wound is deep.

He doesn’t know if he will make it through this one.

He isn’t the only one with a blessed weapon. He catches Striker caressing Blitzo with the barrel of the blessed handgun. The gunslinger cocks the trigger back and points it at Moxie.

Blitzo chomps down on Striker’s arm as the Assassin’s trail squeezes the air out of the red Imp. “Not this time Blitz y.”

“Fuck me!” groaned Blitzo

Striker licked his lips, “tempting Sugar-cube.”

“I wouldn’t be apposed to the idea” Striker grinned.

Eyeing the red-hued bed.

Blitzo stared pointedly at Striker.

Moxie’s hands are shaking. It is hard to steady the rifle.

His vision blurs as he nearly drops the rifle.

The Cowboy stands above the boss, imp a rope in hand, a handgun in the other. He points it at Moxie, who freezes blood, obscuring his vision.

“I don’t even want to know how you 're still breathing, little man.”

“But I’m going to take your Boss here, for a brief ride.”

“Lets see how many lives a cockroach like you has.”

Blitzo grits his teeth. He needs to get Moxie out of here.

Before he could get up, Striker steps on him, pressing him down with his boot. He snaps the rope.

Blitzo hisses, grabbing Striker’s leg and turning him over. He leaps onto him, gripping his neck. As Striker slams him into the wall. Blitzo slides down the wall and whistles for Loona.

“goddammit, Loona he grumbles.

In a blink of an eye, Striker is on him, pulling him off the floor and ramming him into a wall. He pulls Blitzo's arms back, wrapping them tightly in a thick rope. He forces Blitz down to his knees. The blessed handgun rests in his quivering hand.

His body is shaking as he tries to dislodge the gun from his hand.

His arms ache from being wrenched forward.

The snake imp had intended for Blitz to shoot his own employee.

Moxie’s eyes were glossing over.

“Sir-“

“Moxie, no!

“Please, no!”

Striker kneeled on Blitz’s legs, guiding the Imp’s hand to Moxie’s head.

Fear.

Rage.

adrenaline

And helplessness fills Blitz as Striker straddled his legs from behind one arm, holding Blitz firmly in place.

“He is nothing but vermin Blitz.”

“Shoot him, and one weight that holds you down will be lifted.

“Get out of my head you hillbilly hick.”

‘Don’t.... listen.... to..... him... Blitz Moxie’s voice was fading:

cracking with pain,

Blood was bubbling up from his mouth, and spilling from his lips.

“Are you going to shoot your boss little one” Striker grinned

“Or are you going to die, like the weak little vermin you are.”

“This is what I’m talking about, Blitz- our fingers together on the trigger.

Can you feel it, the power, the glory? Imagine overlords graveling at my-I mean our feet.

Blitzo closes his eyes, his arms are trembles as he snarls under his breath.

How was he supposed to get them out of this.

Hang in there, Mox! Blitzo told him, hearing Striker’s rattle.

He grimaces as Striker’s claws dig into him.

The snake wraps his arms around Blitzo’s waist. He could feel Striker’s erection grind into him as he tries to get rid of the gun.

Blitzo shudders, feeling Striker’s hot breath ghost across his neck.

Hang in there, Moxie Blitzo says.

I’m having trouble breathing, sir

I know… Moxie I know.

His throat felt dry and brittle as he continued to fight Striker for control of the gun.

He was fighting Striker for control over the handgun.

Loony, where are you? Daddy could really use your help right now, whispers Blitzo. feeling the trigger slip and the gun go off.

Striker sneers, laughing while smearing Moxie’s blood across the Boss Imp’s scared face.

I knew you could do it! He jeers as he pulls Blitzo into a bloody kiss.

Blitzo pulls away, feeling the coldness settling into his chest as he reaches out for Moxie. The outlaw pulls back on the ropes, tearing Blitzo away from Moxie. wrenching his arms backward. Blitzo snaps his teeth to bite Striker.

His tail lashes out as he tries to ram Striker with his horns, tears blinding him. Blood on his face that wasn’t his own and a sick and twisted emptiness he fills knotting his guts.

The Rouge grips Blitzo by the horn, capturing his mouth in a searing kiss, his deft fingers working Blitzo’s zipper, Blitzo moans feeling sick as the cowboy’s hand slides into his pants, cupping him, his other hand drags his pants down.

Nngh- Stop!

Ugh- NO! cries Blitzo as Striker suckles on his collarbone.

His mouth maps out Blitzo's bare chest, his teeth grazing his skin, electing pinpricks of pleasure.

He licks his way down, Blitzo body toying with Blitzo belly button.

Nipping tenderly. His claws dig into Blitzo’s hips as he swallows Blitzo whole. his swirling green eyes watching Blitzo was struggling. Blitzo's body jolted up, snapping his fangs at the snake imp and twisting his head so that Moxie couldn’t see this. His claws dug into the floor, leaving groves in the hardwood floor.

Striker bobbed his head, clawing at Blitzo’s hips as Blitzo tried to bite Striker from the side. Causing the snake imp to pull away. He wraps his fingers around his red bandanna before pulling it off and wrapping it around Blitzo’s snapping mouth.

Blitzo moves his head back and forth, twisting his body

Striker claws dug into Blitzo’s thighs. As he drags him closer, his tail wraps around Blitzo’s ankles, spreading them wider a clawed hand rests on his abdomen as Striker inserts a finger into Blitzo’s ass, his teeth glaze Blitzo’s throbbing member as the crimson imp’s body jerks and shivers, trembling under his touch.

Stolas would be the next to fall.

He could feel the beads collect on his tongue. Grasping Blitzo’s thighs, Blitzo rolls sharply into his mouth.

Striker moans around Blitzo’s shaft, his tongue lapping at the access cum that slides down his throat. He pulls Blitzo upright and onto his feet. Forcing Blitzo to stand over the body. He reaches over Moxie, his fingertips barely grazing the rifle, as Blitzo kicks him into the wall and zips himself up.

He Bobs and weaves as Striker lashes out with punches. He rams his skull into Striker’s, their horns locking as Blitzo growls are muffled by Striker’s bandanna.

He wouldn’t let this asshole win, not after losing Moxie like that.

Striker hissed, whipping his tail out and cracking it like a whip across Blitzo’s face.

Blitzo seethes in pain as Striker’s tail aims for his neck.

Striker is breathing heavily as he snags Blitzo’s corded rope from the floor and knots it in his hand.

He lifts Blitzo’s body up with his tail.

Blood drips from the corner of his mouth as he reaches down to pick up his blessed rifle, pocketing the handgun back into his vest.

He punches Blitzo.

As the red imp falls silent, Striker’s bandanna slips from his mouth.

Striker hisses sorely, his tail tightening around Blitzo's neck.

I’ll never stop fighting you,- I’ll runaway any chance I get, I’ll make you fucking pay for Moxie grits Blitzo coming to stand in front of Striker. his eyes cold and hard.

He was a leach, a nobody. I still think it’s embarrassing, you wasting a lot of potential on those weak little.

He looks down at Moxie and the gaping hole in his skull.

vermin.

You’ll soon forget about him. In the meantime, Striker growls, we need to get lost. His Mrs. will be out for blood.

Blitzo took a shuddering breath all fight had seemed to drain from his body

Millie… Blitzo thought, closing his eyes

She won’t be the only one! growled Blitzo. pulling back on the rope, his eyes gleaming with murderous intent.

Striker is sitting on the windowsill knotting the rope, dragging Blitzo closer to him, away from the lifeless body of his friend. A clawed hand rests on Blitzo’s chest, gripping a fistful of cloth Striker pulls him into a heated kiss, the taste of Moxie’s blood on his tongue Blitzo moans, falling to his knees, tears leaking from his eyes.

Broken and numb.

Knotted dread fills him, his stomach churns, but the snake imp held fast and wouldn’t relent as he continued to delve deeper, exploring Blitzo's mouth a drawing out a breathless moan. Blitzo pulls away, repulsed by his own actions. Growing tired of this dance striker leapt down from the windowsill gathering Blitz in his arms, the other a snarling mess, he leapt out and onto his hellish horse.

Striker’s tail whips the horse’s backside, as bombproof kicks up dust, riding away from Mellie’s farm towards a hole in the wall motel in the nearest town. The cowboy looks down.

The reward for all his troubles is fast asleep dried tears crested his eyes as his head rested on Striker’s thigh.

A wide grin spreads across his face.

Blitzo might have been many things to a lot of different people, but to him-

Blitz was his victory song.

#Hellvua Boss #Striker/Blitzo #Deathfic #Striker has a mean streak #The Cowboy and the Harlequin

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fanfoolishness · 3 years

Text

Orphans (The Mandalorian)

(Three of y’all wanted Din & Boba Fett, so I combined your requests into one story because to be honest I think I have no idea how to write him! That’s probably enough Boba for one weekend, LOL. For @healingdays, @innitmarvelous2 and Anon!

Din and Boba have a talk by a fire. Platonic, a little angsty, set just after Tython, 1200 words.)

***

At least there was this, then, battle: the brutal and elegant dance of blows struck and bolts fired, the song of pumping blood and pounding heart. In this Din could lose himself for a time, his focus shrunk down only to this moment, this second, this instant.

He grunted, taking a blow that rattled his beskar; blocked and parried, shoved back, struck deep with his spear, finished with his fist. Felt the crunch of bone beneath his balled hand, breathed deep of the gasp his enemy huffed into the cold night air. There was safety here in the thin line between victory and defeat, and he leaned into it with every fiber, muscles heart gut brain a singular deadly unit.

And then what he’d been dreading came upon him: the silence, the echoing ring of the final blow. He stood over his fallen opponents, stormtroopers still and broken in the night. Sweat streamed down his face, soaking his collar, slicking the inside of his helmet.

Beside him, Boba Fett slung his gaffe stick over his shoulders, tilting his helmet toward Din. “You do good work, Mandalorian. Pity they had no information for us.”

The adrenaline leached out of him, leaving in its place a humming hollowness. “I knew Gideon would be hard to find,” he said gruffly, disappointment clinging to him as bitterly as the sweat. “I might be able to find another lead. Let’s get back to the ship.”

“Fennec’s taken it for repairs, remember,” said Fett. “Won’t be back for a few hours yet. We may as well find a place to hole up for the night.”

Din sighed. How had he forgotten their earlier discussion? He blinked. Perhaps the lack of sleep was catching up to him. He hadn’t slept for more than broken snatches since Tython. Sleep meant quiet, and quiet meant room to think, and that meant missing him, meant worry, fear, barely-contained panic --

“Fine,” he said. “But we’re gone as soon as the ship is free.”

***

The forest was alive and buzzing in the moonlight, creatures singing their night-choruses and buzzing their thoughts into the still spring air. Din ignored them, sitting at the edge of the fire across from Fett. Periodically he lifted his helmet, just slightly, to take a few drinks of water or a bite of the rations Fett had brought along. Fett’s helmet rested on the ground beside his feet, and he ate and drank openly, the shadows on his bare face stark in the firelight.

“So,” said Fett, cocking his head to one side. “Do you have a name?”

Din shrugged.

Fett quirked a brow. “You don’t want to say it? Or you’ve forgotten it?”

“It isn’t necessary.” He relented, Fett’s direct stare boring into him. “Usually people call me Mando.”

“Not exactly a flattering name, especially these days.” Fett shook his head. “I suppose it’s your business. But we might be working together for some time. A name might help.”

Din bristled. “Moff Gideon could be experimenting on the child as we speak. I don’t have the luxury of time.” Anger flared within him, a sick heat in his belly, and his hands tensed into fists at his side.

“I understand,” said Fett. There was an intensity in his naked eyes, a fierceness that left Din taken aback. “There will always be those who play such games.”

“It isn’t a game -- he could kill him --” No, don’t think about that, you’ll find him in time, you must --

“You misunderstand me,” said Fett, back to being as unemotional as ever. “In battle, sometimes terrible things are done for good reasons. I’m sure you’ve faced this yourself. It comes to all of us in time.” He took a drink of water. “But sometimes there is no battle. Sometimes there are only cowards, doing terrible things without cause, and somehow, they never see themselves the villain.” He fell silent for a moment. “Whatever the Moff is doing to your child, there is no reason for it. I’m sorry.”

The tension in Din’s fists and shoulders faded, dissolving into weariness. Your child. He wasn’t -- but wasn’t he? “He’s a foundling,” Din said suddenly. “As I was.”

“As my father was.” Fett gazed into the fire. “This is a galaxy filled with orphans.”

“Yes,” Din agreed, wondering why Fett had said something so obvious. He shook back a flash of red robes, smoke in the streets. “I was to find him a Jedi. They’ll be able to protect him --”

Fett let out a loud, barking laugh. “Jedi! Well. I suppose things may be different, for one of their own. He has their powers?”

“Yes. He can move things with his mind. Heal people. Hurt them.” A dim memory swam before him, the heat of a flamethrower, Grogu standing between him and the flametrooper, casting the fireball back, back. He remembered Cara, her hand scrabbling at her throat over a misunderstanding. “I can’t teach him myself what he needs to learn.”

“The Jedi have no fathers, you know,” said Fett.

The words settled in beneath Din’s armor, tearing at him. Was this good news, or bad? He swallowed. “Neither do the foundlings.”

“Some of them,” said Fett. “Maybe not yours.” He took another bite of his rations. “But what do I know?”

***

Din woke up with a start, his back and shoulders stiff from leaning against a log, his hands reaching up to touch his cuirass, reaching for --

But there was no sleepy Grogu nestled against his chest.

He blinked against the sunlight filtering in through his helmet, squinting. Morning. How he had let himself fall asleep?

“Good, you’re up,” said Fett, standing over him helmeted once more. “Fennec is making her way to the rendezvous point now.”

“You should have woken me,” said Din. “I could have kept watch.”

The tone in Fett’s voice suggested an eye roll beneath the helmet. “No, you couldn’t have. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you haven’t slept. You’ll get sloppy if you don’t tend to yourself, and the child needs you at your best.”

Din hung his head, abashed. Of course. He’d been foolish.

“Come now. Your best is formidable,” said Fett. He held out a hand. “The child’s lucky to have you looking out for him.”

Din stared up at the older man, blinking sleep from his eyes. He trembled, thinking of the weight of Grogu nestled against him, the way his eyes crinkled, the sensation of his tiny hand cradled carefully in Din’s.

“Thank you,” he said hoarsely. He grabbed Fett’s hand, and Fett pulled him to his feet with a grunt.

Up on his feet in the dawn-light, things seemed finally clear. He and Fett and Shand were formidable indeed, and there were others he could call on. A plan began to come to him, and with it, a faint sense of hope amidst the aching fear. He let out a long breath.

“My name is Din Djarin,” he said. “And I’ve got a plan.”

“Good to hear it, Djarin,” said Fett, and far above the treeline Slave I soared into view. “Let’s go hunting.”

-fin- (Partly inspired by the National song, “Baby, We’ll Be Fine: All night I lay on my pillow and pray

For my boss to stop me in the hallway

Lay my head on his shoulder and say

“Son I’ve been hearing good things”)

#din djarin #boba fett #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfiction #noromo mando #my mando fic

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dog-day-morning · 3 years

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YOU OWE THEM NOTHING

People can be self-righteous when it comes to what they think God is supposed to do if, and when they call on Him. God is not a genie in a bottle that you rub, and a jinn pops out granting you 3 or 300 wishes. The saying faith without works is dead can be applied here. Have you ever heard of or read the book Daniel Webster and the devil? This tall tale or folklore legend was about a man who made a deal with old Slew Foot, and when it was time to pay up he had 2nd thoughts. Satan never plays fair. He's forever putting us in positions where we find ourselves desperate for a quick solution to a temporary problem that only leads to a difficult end. The Latin term for buyer beware is caveat emptor, and Satan knows how to spell. The power of a wicken comes from their basic weapon of spelling or casting spells by word of mouth. Even the Bible tells us that “Death and life are in the power of the tongue: and they that love it shall eat the fruit thereof.” Tell that to a Nicolaitan. Those who make deals with the most unclean should expect to suffer in the end. Never trust the father of lies who deals in treachery, and deceit. I look back at my mother's life and wonder if God had ever intervened for her, and fought her battles that surely He and only He would be able to deliver her from, and He has. Life is hard, for many it’s a nightmare that’s ongoing. Satan comes to you when you're at your weakest or most vulnerable in the hopes of snaring your soul into eternal suffering. Jesus comes to deliver us from death, sin, and temptations that confuse us in our trek towards His truth. If you have any aspirations of entertaining people with your gifted voice or your talent for playing lead guitar, don’t sign a contract that promises you the world only to find out you owe them your sweet ass which a man of honor wouldn't consider let alone make you cosign your body for their horn dog appeasement.

Revelation 2:9

9 I know thy works, and tribulation, and poverty, (but thou art rich) and I know the blasphemy of them which say they are Jews, and are not, but are the synagogue of Satan.

You're abundantly rich in spirit Yacob. Now’s the time to claim your position. These bastards have taken everything from you leaving your ancestors nothing but dust. If they could remove us off the face of the Earth they would. They're plotting to do so as you and I breathe, that's why the Father never sleeps. They are demon spawns who say they worship, and believe in God, but whose god, and what righteous god tells you to destroy a people with his blessing knowing what the children of Japheth have done to them historically? The spawns of Satan want your penuche, mouth, titties, and a-hole for their pleasure along with your talent that Justin Timberlake does not have. The new faces of R&B do not look like the people I grew up listening to or the race of people whose songs left an everlasting impression on my bleeding heart that helped me through my ill-fated, miserable existence. Robin Thicke, Christina Aguilera, K-Pop, the BackStreet Boys, and New Kids on the Block. Some of these groups are defunct, but they’re cranking out as many as they possibly can like Justin Bieber, and Demi Lovato. I just saw on YouTube where people were considering if Elvis Presley was Black, WTF?!! He was the biggest culture thief that Dr. Frankenstein, AKA Colonel Parker ever created. Man is cruel; Satan is a whole other type of bastard you shouldn’t entertain. I'm retarded. Some call me an idiot savant. YO MOMMA!!! People are blessed by the Father who has blessed many of us with gifts. There are many of you whom God has endowed with multiple talents that people would sell their soul in order to possess just one. If you're anointed by God to sing like Aretha Franklin may He lead you to sign with a label like Brother Carl Crawford's who won't make the same mistake he did with a very popular artist at this moment. More than likely you'll sign a contract entrusting your talent, blessing, and soul to the most unclean ones. Ain’t a reason in hell you should bow down or bend over for a leach like Mr. Friedman so he can butt bone your a-hole while enriching himself off your God given talents. God blesses those who seek him out, and those that don’t. I don’t know if Eddie Murphy went to Church, and sowed an offering every Sunday to God praying that the Father would make him the highest paid comedic actor in his prime. Richard Pryor was anointed in the womb to be the most blessed comedic talent, and influential comedian to ever walk this Earth bar none yet he and Mr. Murphy pursued their dreams in different ways with both of them becoming world renown. I'm inclined to ask, was it worth it?

Mark 8:36

For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?

The synagogue of Satan isn’t a trending pop culture manifestation that’s to be esteemed, cherished, or envied. These cults are trying to maintain a stranglehold on a world that’s not meant for them or their sort. People who play with Ouija boards or childhood games like Bloody Mary, and light as a feather are ushering dark spirits into their homes leaving their loved ones exposed to something sinister. Get the hell away from me and mine unless you're my sister, AKA Ms. Skunk Funk, who needs to get the crust burnt off her musty, dusty drawers. The whore of Don Juan has a death wish. Explain to me how running with the devil beats walking with God?

Isaiah 59:7

7 Their feet run to evil, and they make haste to shed innocent blood: their thoughts are thoughts of iniquity; wasting and destruction are in their paths.

This Nation was built on our ancestor’s blood, sweat, and relentless faith. Believe me when I say there's strength in every tear. I pray to God that I don’t shed anymore of them. Their wealth is not. It's a stolen Promise that the Father shall reward His children with. Bring ye all the tithes into the storehouse, that there may be meat in mine house, and prove me now herewith, saith the Lord of hosts, if I will not open you the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing, that there shall not be room enough to receive it. The most glaring, and frustrating example that is also bitter and disheartening I can give you is our Promised Inheritance called Yisrael that the gentiles are squatting on. When a person or in this case a tribe or race of people believe in their own lies they've become reprobate; they're lost.

Revelation 3:9

9 Behold, I will make them of the synagogue of Satan, which say they are Jews, and are not, but do lie; behold, I will make them to come and worship before thy feet, and to know that I have loved thee.

This is what all of Esau's children fear. It's why the bland, colored people of the world are flipping over the Earth's axis, and killing us without any probable cause. They are a lawless people who've displayed their lack of empathy, and humanity for anyone save their own breed, they behave like blood hounds. I've become content with this planet being void of water (Holy Spirit.) Black people suffer from a social disorder called the crab bucket mentality. We hate to see anyone rise up, and we’ll do whatever it takes to keep them down or discourage them. That person may possess something that can benefit the collective, who cares. He who possesses that blessing needs to haul tail ASAP before the winter comes knowing the Father will bless him, and a downtrodden people beyond their wildest dreams. This is why Yeshua, and His Father call us children. It's why I pray, and bemoan to the Father daily that He slays me, putting the fear of the Lord in the heathen and His Son Christ Jesus uses us for His purpose. God doesn't need us, we need Him. He's given us so much power, and authority. When you acquire it, use it for something other than satisfying your sinful, carnal, flesh minded desires. Men, don't behave like horn dogs, and women do not behave as Aholah, and Aholibah, 2 whores.

Numbers 32:24

24 Build you cities for your little ones, and folds for your sheep; and do that which hath proceeded out of your mouth.

Out of thine own mouth you have power to tread over snakes and scorpions. You can exorcise demons and devils out of your present life braking generational curses which is what I' want for a family that's disowned me. To God be the glory. God is telling us to declare a thing, and claim it. What a mighty, just God we serve. Your tongue will become a weapon to use against the lawless ones who use theirs recklessly in their attempts to get us arrested or murdered by local, and federal authorities. You can call it giving them a taste of their own medicine, it isn't. You're reclaiming what they've taken, stolen, including those of us they've murdered.

Isaiah 54:17

17 No weapon that is formed against thee shall prosper; and every tongue that shall rise against thee in judgment thou shalt condemn. This is the heritage of the servants of the Lord, and their righteousness is of me, saith the Lord.

The thief cometh not, but for to steal, and to kill, and to destroy: I am come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly. Speak positive prayers out loud if you can. If you live with your family or have a roommate pray in the closet. You'll have favor with God that many people won't. They rebuked the Lord, and their anger did tear perpetually, and they kept their wrath forever. When they use their privilege, which is what we call it more often than they, comprehending they’re fully aware knowing they use it with a Demonic, driven hatred. They persecute Black men, women, and children for reasons that are not godly, and the Father does not condone. They, and all the Earth will have to answer for our individual sins against the Father in the end.

Luke 10:19

19 Behold, I give unto you power to tread on serpents and scorpions, and over all the power of the enemy: and nothing shall by any means hurt you.

We don’t worship the same god as they do. They're praying to a god to erase us off the face of the Earth. Why hasn't he?.

Exodus 1:12

12 But the more they afflicted them, the more they multiplied and grew. And they were grieved because of the children of Israel.

Their birth rate is dropping steadily. For the first time in the history of the census they decreased in population globally while indigenous, and other races of people stayed steady or in our case increased. This is the reasoning behind these draconian abortion laws. They're trying to preserve themselves while God is eliminating the Earth of their bloody dominion. God is sending the wicked a message before the storm comes, but no one's listening. Their violence towards us is documented, and more often it's unprovoked. They continue with the guilty until proven worthy of their mercy dogmatic mantra which is racist BS. The Earth will be lulled back to sleep. When they're confident that their world isn't in danger of being challenged by anyone, especially us. That's when God will do things that will scare them right back to the caucasus mountains bringing destruction to those who've touched, bruised, and abused the Apple of His eye. Speak life into your angel spirit, don’t entertain the demon seed that's trying to kill you, and the rest of Earth's indigenous people. You have much authority, use it. Elohim. 9/23/2021

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