#alternate: broken halo

[singinghands]

((I feel like getting a little meta right now so forgive my rambling, this might get long.

Everyone following this blog is aware I am making the effort to be meticulous with tagging - each verse has a tag, each relationship in that verse has a tag, and there's often multiple relationship tags with the same character name because of it.

This, though, is about the broken halo tag. Which originally was based on this specific artwork. I've been thinking about it off and on and it's honestly grown on me more and more as a standalone thing rather than a reference.

This version of Seth is honestly a bit of a mess. He wants to be social, he wants to do the things he's passionate about, be with the people he cares about. But more often than not, he's not able to, and that inability escalates.

He's naturally more serious than his closer-to-human counterparts; he's seen and experienced so much over the centuries he's lived. From the reason he Fell (which he half-lies about, that he did so in order to more fully join the most likely fictional humans he had supposedly befriended on his again most likely fictional excursions to Earth, and I say most likely as I've never been "provided" names or even appearances for just one of them), to what living in a body actually entails, the little hurts and bruises that layer on each other in ways that nobody capable of simply discorporating and coming back fresh can understand, that he himself didn't until he experienced it, to the relentless course of human history, to the reactions of people who used to consider him family seeing his now-changed but on some level recognizable face.

The danger of existing in a world where there's a permanent game over if you aren't careful, cautious, wary of unfamiliar faces. Even if Seth does want to be more open (and there's at least two different occasions where he has the chance to be and even if his main reaction is exasperation out of habit, at least the stress of hiding is over), it's dangerous.

Even with other Fallen it can be dangerous, some are more likely to live up to the reputation humans have given them. Which he understands the impulse of, but it causes more trouble than its worth, especially when your passion and power lies in forging carefully distant but still friendly ties with them.

Back on topic, I hope - the reason it's grown on me, from a metaphor standpoint, is that for a (former) angel to Fall based on the world building that's been done, something in the way they see Heaven has to change. To break. Whether naturally or by force (in Seth's case) and for a variety of reasons. The thing that keeps them stagnant has to be removed, whatever way that ends up being.

In order to grow, their halo, the thing that connects them to the place and stage where they're unquestioning what's presented to them, has to be broken. That initial break is going to hurt, there's no getting around it, but it will eventually heal. In ways that leaves scars (every Fallen has horns after all, not always in the expected place, but they're present), but it will.))

#outofsigns #alternate: broken halo

[wife-of-all-dilfs]

flower therapy | f. odair

masterlist

summary: after being rescued from the capitol’s torturous clutches, your boyfriend, finnick odair, assists you with recovering from haunting memories and ptsd.

pairing: finnick odair x reader

warnings: finnick being major boyfriend material, soft reader, mentions of torture, ptsd, panic attack, hurt/comfort, fluff

notes: the way i lowkey triggered myself into a panic attack while writing this?? i’m okay now though 😀

word count: 1.3k

Post-traumatic stress mental rehabilitation. That is what the psychiatric doctors of District Thirteen suggested after you were rescued from being captured and tortured in the Capitol. Their methods sounded daunting and all too familiar—sterile white rooms, memory flash cards, persistent strangers who would force you to relive your trauma so you could 'work through it'.

Finnick did not like the sound of that one bit. So, he offered an alternative.

Post-traumatic stress mental rehabilitation. The label was a mouthful. Finnick preferred to call it "flower therapy". Twice a week, you and Finnick were authorised to spend two hours above ground where you would sit in a nearby meadow, make daisy chains, and occasionally open up about what happened in the Capitol.

You liked to call it "the power of flowers". Stupid, but saying it always formed a little smile on your face and there was no harm in simple joy considering the cruelties you had endured. Most of the time, you were silent and would lie in Finnick's arms while making flower crowns. He was always patient; he understood you needed time. Day after day, he proved his unconditional love, and you thanked the universe for blessing you with such an incredible man.

"Oh no," you whispered.

"What is it?"

You dangled your broken daisy chain in front of you and Finnick.

"Oh no," he echoed.

Your back rested against his chest and his arms enveloped your body as he held his own effortlessly crafted yellow chain in your lap. Apparently, years of weaving fishing nets creates a master of making daisy chains.

"Here," he said, positioning his own flower crown on your head. "Beautiful."

Smiling, you turned your head to face him. "I'm going to tell everyone I made it."

The flowers sat like a golden halo atop your head, beaming just as bright as the smile Finnick had bloomed at the sight of you. Beauty was everything that you were; not just outwardly, but within the confines of your mind too. Flowers and sunlight were interwoven with your soul, making up the essence of who you were—loving and warm-hearted. One of the many reasons Finnick had fallen in love with you.

He would forever want to remain in your garden, tending to and protecting every petal that blossomed.

His thumb swiped affectionately across your cheek. "Of course you are, you thief," he murmured, grinning. "You owe me."

Your stomach flooded with butterflies and you leaned in, tenderly kissing him with soft pink lips. Finnick cupped your cheek, stroking the baby hairs of your hairline with his fingers as he smiled against your mouth. Even your lips tasted like sweet nectar to him.

After you pulled away, you settled back into his embrace, sinking into those arms that shielded you from any and all harm.

"Okay, I suppose you're forgiven," Finnick said, the smile present in his voice.

You toyed with his fingers while wearing a glowing smile of your own, his arms lovingly wrapped around your body. Oh, you loved him so endlessly.

As the sun began to lower, a mixture of orange and pink clouds blanketed the sky. The trees surrounding the meadow cast large shadows throughout the area, making it appear much darker than it really was. A subtle shift in the once tranquil atmosphere rippled through the meadow, happiness now becoming a distant and unreachable feeling.

The broken daisy chain crumpled in your hands no longer shined in the sun like a beautiful mess. It instead looked tangled. Chaotic. Darkened by the dimming light and transformed into something sinister that resurfaced haunting memories of the Capitol—twisted IV tubes filled with unknown substances, chains that removed layers of skin, decaying white roses that covered the floor of your cell.

Heaviness clutched at your heart, suffocating you from within.

Finnick sensed the sudden shift, loosening his hold around you as he whispered, "What's wrong?"

"I—I don't know," you stammered, the air thinning around you.

The wilting daisies started to taint your hands with darkness, creeping slowly up your arms and causing them to tremble. Finnick, who noticed your fixation on the daisy chain, gently took the flowers from your grasp and set them aside.

It was too late; the panic had already set in.

He turned your body to the side in his lap, forcing you to face him. Your eyes flickered with worry. No amount of pain could compare to the heartbreak he felt seeing you like this.

"Hey. Hey, look at me," he urged, his tone soothing. "Breathe with me, alright? In..." He inhaled deeply through his nose. "And out."

But it was no use. Air was caged within your lungs, burning like fiery hot whirlwinds inside your chest. It was all you could do to force rapid shallow breaths out of your mouth.

"No, no!" A tear fell from your eye as you fervently shook your head. "Finn, I ca—I can't."

"Yes, you can, baby," he said, pushing aside the hair that obscured your vision. His eyes searched the area, looking for anything that could help distract your frantic mind. That is when he spotted a small flock of birds perched on one of the tree branches, instantly recognising their black feathers and sharp beaks. "Look. See those birds? They're mockingjays."

Finnick pointed up at the tree, gaining your attention which then shifted to the birds that were gawking down at you with curious tilting heads. Mockingjays. Katniss. Rebellion. Hope. You focused all your attention on the little black birds and listened to Finnick's reassuring voice.

"They'll repeat any tune you make," he continued, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. "Can you do that for me? Try and whistle something for them?"

Attempting to control your ragged breathing, you jerkily nodded. Songs from the world before the war overtook your mind. At first, it was overwhelming as your mind scrambled for a suitable melody, fuelling your panicked state. But then you heard something familiar and focused on the familiar tune, one that was from your childhood.

Hush-a-bye, don't you cry,

Go to sleep, my little baby,

When you wake you shall have,

All the pretty little horses.

It was a lullaby your mother sang whenever you were upset. Seemed fitting considering the situation. You managed to whistle the first few notes, albeit a little wobbly of course, hardly noticing the air that was starting to flow more freely into your lungs.

"That's it, sweet girl."

Once the mockingjays began echoing the song throughout the forest—far more beautifully than your broken whistles—you continued the melody until the end. When you finished, the birds continued to repeat the tune, singing your mother's lullaby over and over in the trees of District Thirteen.

Whilst sat cradled in Finnick's embrace, you quietly hummed along as he stroked soft patterns on your arm. Darkness and pain were long forgotten now. Your body no longer trembled with fear nor did your breathing. Memories of the Capitol's brutality were locked away and hidden in the back of your mind, diligently guarded by the man whose arms you lay in.

Golden beams filtered through the tree trunks; the sun was now lowered enough to let the warm light in, illuminating both you and Finnick. He pressed a gentle kiss to your temple, wrapping you up even tighter in his arms now that he was certain the worst had passed.

You clutched onto his arm and blew out a final stabilising breath, finding comfort in the strength and protection he held. The side of your head rested against his chest, the beats of his heart harmonising like a drum with the mockingjays' song.

You wanted to apologise but knew his response would be dismissive. You wanted to tell him how deeply you loved and appreciated him but knew your words would fail you.

So, you remained silent.

"You're safe," Finnick whispered into your hair. "Right here, right now. I promise."

Right here, right now, you repeated in your mind. In Finnick's arms, you were safe. You were loved.

tags: @tayrae515

#wife-of-all-dilfs ✍️ #finnick odair #finnick odair imagine #finnick odair x reader #finnick odair fanfic #finnick odair x you #the hunger games #catching fire #mockingjay #peeta mellark #katniss everdeen #sam claflin #odesta #finnick x reader

[rookthorne]

⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ 𝐎𝐡 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥, 𝐊𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐌𝐞 𝐒𝐚𝐟𝐞

Something was coming, and it was on its way to you — there was no way to save yourself from the devil that set his sights on you, and you were hopeless against the whims of his charm or rugged ways. 

And in an act of gratitude and pure innocence, you allowed the devil in, none the wiser for what was to come; no man was without his sins, but better the devil you don’t know. 

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 ꕤ Outlaw!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 ꕤ 5.5k

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 ꕤ Explicit threats, attempted assault, non-graphic background character death, Grumpy!Protective!Bucky, fluff ჻჻჻ TROPES: Touch her and you die, Grumpy/Sunshine

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆 ꕤ Oh no, it's a Grumpy/Sunshine, touch her and you die trope collection in the form of a brooding outlaw — someone stop me.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒔 ꕤ Way down We Go by KALEO ꕤ Broken Bones by KALEO ꕤ The River by Blues Saraceno ꕤ The Devil Inside by Daniel Murphy, Anthony Sanudo, Eric Serna ꕤ Deadwood by Really Slow Motion ꕤ Ain't No Devil by Andrea Wasse

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔 ꕤ @buckybarnesevents Build a Bucky Bingo ჻჻჻ Bad Reputation (February), Wild West AU (April) — Masterlist ꕤ @buckybarnesevents Alternate June-iverse 𝗖𝟭 — Outlaw AU — Masterlist

𝐑𝐮𝐧 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐃𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The bustling street that cut straight through the middle of the local livestock town as the main thoroughfare was overrun with folks going about their day. 

Men, clad in leathers and vests with holsters on their hips lined the saloon stairs, while women in an assortment of skirts and blouses rushed with baskets and wares from the general store; their children playing in the mud, dirtying their worn clothes while mothers shrieked their grief over the once clean garments. 

You couldn’t help the slight laugh that fell from your lips as you passed by a small boy who was splattered from head to toe in mud, his mother in a tizzy. “Now, Johnny–”

It was a pleasant day. A cool breeze blew through the side streets and over your sun-warmed skin. The basket on your arm was full of wares from your trip to the hunter down the lane, and the saddlebags on your old, trusted mare were lined with provisions from the general store. 

Though no matter how pleasant it was, or how many children shrieked with laughter while they ran around your legs in joy, something screamed in the back of your mind that something was wrong — an instinct long honed after working on a ranch since you were only a child. 

“Good mornin’, miss.” 

You startled from your reverie at the sound of a deep, rasped voice to your right. “Oh–!” The man smiled sympathetically, and you realised with a jolt that it was one of the old sharpshooters — a man well past his prime, but one of the very few that had a shred of decency and sense within the town. “Oh, good morning,” you replied, smiling. “Pleasant day.” 

He hummed in reply, and you continued on. 

The shade of the awnings overhead disappeared as you walked out into the muddied street, and you blinked from the bright rays — halos of rainbows danced in your vision while the sun warmed your face. 

From a way, a few stragglers from the saloon stumbled into view, and you sighed as you caught sight of the haggard appearances and putrid smell. You kept your head down and eyes averted as you neared their stumbling figures and scrunched your nose in disgust. 

No decent, respectable man stunk to the high heavens of liquor with a temper to match a lit fuse. 

The centre of town came into view, and the further you walked towards one of your last destinations for the day, the stronger the sense of impending something lingered in the air — it crackled with tension, akin to the static before a storm. 

Every single man you passed was twitchy, their hands migrating to the holsters on their hips; every woman was hurrying by, faces taut with some unexplained worry. 

Instinct — a woman’s intuition — insisted that something was coming.

You looked over your shoulder and cursed your past self for hitching your mare such a distance away. Her broad, muscled frame was no longer in sight through the scurrying crowds — the golden glow of her coat coloured with patches of white impossible to see through the scurry of people. 

“Oh, girl,” you mumbled, and you half considered turning tail to head back home. 

But the doctor’s office was only a few paces away, you reasoned, and you hurried along, resolutely ignoring the collective, worried gazes from the townsfolk towards the horizon. The muddied skirts of your dress fluttered as you trotted towards the clean building that housed the resident doctor, and the basket over your arm swayed with your gait. Best be fast.

When the heels of your old boots hit the wooden slats of the wrap-around deck, the door to the doctor’s office just within reach, it happened. 

Around you, the townsfolk fell deathly silent — not a peep, not a sound. Every last man, woman, and child froze in place and stared, wide-eyed and stricken, down the street, downwind towards the horizon they were so fixated on. 

Your stomach turned with nerves. The skin on the back of your neck prickled while your hair stood on end. It was an unnatural silence that pounded against your ears, and the blood that pumped through your veins turned to ice. 

Gravely unsettled, you blinked against the instinct to run and hide, in favour or searching for the source. 

The steady beat of heavy hooves thundered from down the street. Beside you, a woman and child gasped quietly — you paid them no mind, for the sight of two horses enraptured you. 

Muscle and sinew rippled with the gait of their long, lean legs. They walked side by side, the tack on their back, chests, and proud, handsome faces jingled and followed the contours of their broad flanks. Their coats shone under the light of the sun, but there was no mistaking the inked black beneath the splatter of mud from their journey. 

It would be almost impossible to tell them apart if it weren’t for the one on the left appearing far calmer than their companion, who snorted proudly and tossed their head. 

Your focus moved from the stunning creatures to their riders, and your breath hitched. 

The man atop the fiery, fierce horse clothed similarly to his mount. A rippling, black coat barely concealed the hip holsters that held revolvers with ebony accented grips, or the elaborate bandolier wrapped from his shoulder to his waist — the same black leather as his coat, but accented in silver, ornate imagery.

Rifles were strapped to the side of his saddle, long barrelled and scoped alike. From beneath his tilted hat, you could see the flow of jaw length, dark hair that fell in tresses to cover the profile of his face. 

A man prepared for war, you thought distantly. He held himself like a soldier — straight-backed and proud, guarded and eyes swivelling to take in the stilted townsfolk. 

Though you could not discern what was being said, you watched the man’s mouth move, and his head turned towards his companion. 

You followed his gaze and took in the other rider. He sported a blond beard and brown leather, his own coat shorter and far less impressive — a simple rifle and a hunter’s bow was strapped to his saddle, and his gaze was far softer.

The horses walked closer and closer, and the nearer the two men came, the more nervous the people around you grew. A few men skittered off and bolted down side streets, or plainly ran away. 

For the life of you, you could not understand why — they looked no different from the men that went rogue against the laws of society to take up arms in the wilderness. 

You were still rooted in place when they came so close you could scent the rich, cured leather of their boots and saddles, and you couldn’t help staring at the extravagant wealth that lined their person and padded their mounts. It was plain as day they were no strangers to wealth, but to be an outlaw with wealth? That was unheard of. 

It was only when they were right next to you did your ability to breathe truly vanish. 

“I don’t like this,” the blond grumbled, his eyes darting from person to person. “It’s too open—far too open, we’re exposed. You know what’ll happen if we’re cornered–”

“Enough.” Sharp, grey eyes met yours, and within the second of that glance, you felt your stomach flip upside down. The heart that hammered in your chest rocketed upwards into your throat. 

The stranger seemed to have an inkling for your reaction, or he experienced something similar — his eyes narrowed as he considered you, a piercing look that took hold of your wriggling stomach and forced it to still. “We’ll get what we need and move on. Calm down.”

You blinked, and he was no longer looking at you. Instead, his blond companion gazed at you curiously, tilting his head. 

“Move on,” the dark-haired man spat, and he nudged his horse into a trot. The slap from the leather reins against his horse’s neck was loud. 

Rather than spur onwards, the blond stared at you for a moment longer. “Rogers, get a move on.”

“Yeah,” he said softly, still staring at you. Blue eyes moved over your face before he turned his head forwards, then he followed behind his partner. 

When the both of them were out of earshot, you heard multitudes of townsfolk collectively exhale with what you guessed was relief. “We don’t need another shoot out thanks to those bastards,” one of them grumbled. “Not after the last one.”

“Shootout?” you questioned, feeling your heart slowly sink back down into your chest. “What– What happened?”

They regarded you carefully. “You don’t come down this way often, do you, miss?” 

You shook your head. “No, I live over–”

“Count yourself lucky,” they interrupted, raising their brows. “Those two are monsters. Don’t have the bounty on their heads for nothin’, and you don’t get any bounty hunters in these parts that go after ‘em ‘cause all the ones that do, end up fed to the wolves.” The bag over their shoulder was shrugged further up, their grip tight. “Just stay well away from ‘em, miss—not the kinda folk you want to get involved with if you want t’a live in peace.”

“But–” 

They turned away. Their hunched back swayed under the weight of the sack on their shoulder. 

You frowned at the retreating stranger. 

Sure, they looked the part of a deadly duo, not unlike the ones in your novellas or dreams, but they passed through the town peacefully, if ominously — that was the fault of the townsfolk acting as though death himself strolled down the muddied street. 

“I don’t understand…” A loud snort of one of their horses drew your attention, and you watched as the strangers dismounted and hitched their mounts right out the front of the general store. 

Everyone gave them a wide berth; heads down and feet fast over the mud to get out of their way. 

What a lonely existence, you thought. 

For the entirety of your life, you were regarded as a bright, intelligent woman that worked hard. The passing of your family had hit you hard, but you were determined to live up to their memory, to maintain the ranch they left behind and restore it to its full glory — only that took up far more time than you anticipated, and while it was still a raw wound, you trudged on. 

Being all alone up on your small slice of good ol’ Western soil was something you took pride in, but you had to admit, albeit grudgingly, that it wasn’t all it was cut out to be. 

The thought alone made you sympathise with the two outlaws — a life on the road, running from societal norms and expectations while maintaining the lifestyle they no doubt had become accustomed to, made even you feel a sense of weary exhaustion deep in your bones.

Isolation was not a weak man’s game. 

“Get it together,” you hastily whispered, shaking your head under the guise of shooing a fly. Your bright, generous personality would not help them, nor would it help you, you reasoned — not this time. 

With a heavy sigh, you pushed open the door to the doctor’s office to purchase some medicine and supplies for the coming weeks. 

The entirety of the town was still strung up with tension when you exited the doctor’s office half an hour later, according to your pocket watch — a family heirloom. People still rushed to and fro with their gazes locked onto the two black horses settled by the hitching post at the general store. 

It was a foolish decision, but you stopped to admire their fine confirmations and broad builds. 

There were no doubts on how war-ready the two were, though their docile nature threw you — never before had you seen horses stand so blessedly still and patient, even back on your own ranch. 

You couldn’t help but take a step closer, the urge to feel the silken soft coats that were muddied from their journey overwhelming your rational sense. There was no mistaking the fact that they were both stallions now you were beside them; finely bred and hardened for battle from their owners' tendencies for violence. 

A dark, mahogany eye met yours, and if it were possible, their face softened while their ears perked forwards. 

On the other side of the stallion you greeted, was the one with a white star. His eyes were far kinder and softer than the first’s.

The first stallion knickered lowly while you stepped even closer, the compulsion to be near overtaking you, and you held your hand out for the creature to sniff. The brush of his lips over your offered hand made you giggle. “Aren’t you two beautiful?”

They snorted in tandem. 

Suddenly, the hair on your arms stood on end, and the feeling of being watched spooked you into stepping back hastily. You glanced around to search for the cause, afraid for what you would find, but there was no one paying attention to you; far too consumed in their own needs to finish their runs for supplies or complete their jobs. 

“I have to go, beauties,” you said quietly to the two horses, who only blinked in reply. 

Your feet carried you swiftly away, but you glanced over your shoulder to the two stallions one last time, in awe of their strength and beauty. 

You weren’t to see the set of steel grey eyes watching you from the gunsmith’s window on the opposite side of the street, not while you hastened your pace to get back to your own mount and go home — where it was safe. 

People bustled and shoved against you as they made their own way, and you kept your breath steady and even the best you could. 

Shouts and calls of workmen and ranch hands followed you as you half walked, half jogged onwards, and halfway to your patient mare, you were pulled up short by the rotten stench of waste and liquor — a potent mix that would make anyone’s stomach turn. 

It was sickeningly close, and the source was a stumbling, drunken fool in front of you. 

“Oh, no,” you mumbled. The volume of your voice was next to impossible to make out among the background noise, and you were grateful — there was no telling what this drunkard would do if he heard you. 

His back was turned towards you, and you carefully hastened to walk around him, to avoid his line of sight, but his head turned just as you took a step to the side. 

The sudden appearance of a woman within his filthy grasp caught his attention, and the words that fell from his drooling mouth weren’t even intelligible. “Ain– Pretty girl–” A hiccup and loud belch cut his torrent short. 

“I’m just– Oh,” you gasped as the man pulled a knife and an old, rusted revolver from the inside of his jacket. A cascade of fear shut your mind down and locked your joints, the immobility frightened you beyond what you could bear. “No, no, please–” 

They were only small weapons, but they would do no less damage if he shot you point blank or forced the blade through skin and bone. “Sir, please–” 

“Gim’ money!”

“I don’t have– Please, leave me be,” you pleaded, holding up a placating hand. The fear turned your tongue into a lead weight in your mouth and you couldn’t speak more than a few words to plead for your life, which only infuriated the man further. 

He advanced, his steps stumbling and uncoordinated, and the gun he brandished glinted in the sun — a menacing shine of metal that you knew was your last. The stench of his breath made your stomach roil with sickness. “Good for nothin’ whor–”

Footsteps rustled and waded through the mud behind you, and the world around you froze. 

The drunkard’s mouth hung slack, wide with the shock from the sudden, cold bite of metal from the end of an ornate muzzle pressing hard into his temple. A gloved finger was poised over the trigger. 

Your attention snapped to the brave soul that came to your rescue, and your own mouth fell open in shocked awe — the same outlaw that sent the town into a terrified silence held his ebony revolver to the drunkard’s temple with little regard for the force behind it.

He looked inhuman with fury laced through the pale blue of his eyes. Malice and disgust radiated from him in waves. 

“Now do you really want to finish insultin’ this poor woman?” a husked voice asked behind you. You whirled around, the skirts of your dress fluttering, and found the blond outlaw standing behind you, terrible in his rage. “Robbin’ an innocent girl to get your fuckin’ dick wet at the whore house?”

There was a pregnant pause, only broken by the piteous whimpering from the drunkard. “I– I–” A dark stain grew over the crotch of his worn, stained overalls. 

His head jerked hard to the side as one of your saviours pushed the muzzle of the gun harder against the thin bones of his temple with a snarl. “He asked you a question.”

“What the fuck do you think you were doin’, you bastard?” The blond spat. “Answer me before you get a third eye.”

Before the drunkard could answer, you cut in fearfully, “I– I just want to go home.” The darker-haired outlaw’s eyes flashed angrily as he looked at you, and you stepped back on instinct, only to come back to chest with his partner. “Please, just– I am so sorry–”

“You aren’t the one tossin’ around a damned fuckin’ gun like it’s your cock, sweetheart,” the blond soothed.

A low growl of anger came from the dark-haired outlaw’s throat. “And pathetic men who disrespect a woman in front of me tend to lose theirs—by a fuckin’ bullet or a knife, your choice.” 

The drunkard stumbled to the side with the shove from the gun. 

“Buck,” the blond said, and you guessed that was the dark-haired outlaw’s name. “I don’t think this fella is goin’ to answer me.” A hand rested on your shoulder, and you jumped. “Whoa– Easy, sweetheart, we’re not the ones that are goin’ to hurt you.” 

The warmth from his palm abated the worst of the fear, and you followed where he guided you to stand — in his shadow that casted itself over the ground. “As for him, well…”

“Apologise,” Buck spat, nearing the drunkard’s pale, sweaty face. “I don’t care if I have to lose a bullet to get you to do it, either.”

“S– Sorry, miss,” the drunkard whispered, his voice high with terror. “Sorry, I–” He was cut off by the shove to the shoulder, and you watched as he clumsily ran away. 

Only, Buck raised his revolver and cocked the hammer back before a shot ran out with a cloud of smoke. The sound echoed like cannon fire off of the surrounding trees and sparse buildings — you could even hear faint shouts and screams of fear within the township. 

“Good riddance,” the blond said with a nod. 

“I wasn’t goin’ to let the bastard go,” Buck said lowly, voice still laced with a poisonous vitriol. He looked at you then and lowered his head respectfully. “Miss.”

“I–” You tried, but some force was making you tremble from head to toe — waves of flight or fight warring within your mind as you stood between the two deadliest men you had ever encountered. “Please don’t hurt me–”

“Oh, sweetheart, no,” the blond said quickly, holding his hands up and away from his holsters. “Name’s Steve, this here is Buck—or Bucky.”

You looked between them, eyes wide with your fear and still rooted to the spot with your pulsing terror. While you looked at Steve beseechingly, you saw from the corner or your eyes as Bucky shrugged off his thick, leather coat to reveal a white, long-sleeved shirt, and a black vest that had embroidery and filigree within the expensive material.

He was silent while he stood there, coat in his gloved hands. 

“Where’s your horse?” Steve asked, looking around. 

“Over– She’s over there,” you whispered, pointing towards where you hitched your mare. The bustle of noise had caught her attention, and you could see her kind face looking in your direction with her ears perked. “I didn’t think to–”

“Don’t worry, miss,” Steve assured, and he looked at Bucky with a brow raised. “You good?”

Bucky nodded, then offered his coat to you. “To keep you warm,” he rasped. “You’re shakin’ like a leaf.”

You blinked and almost dropped your basket, but Bucky rushed forward and caught it. “Here,” he offered quietly, passing the basket to Steve and holding up his coat — the inner leather was warm and rich with his scent, and you couldn’t help but burrow into the comfort it provided. 

The basket with all of your wares hung from Steve’s arm. “We’ll take you home, then be on our way—that alright, miss?” 

Bucky was still working the large coat over your shoulders until he was satisfied it would sit comfortably. “I– I don’t know–” The journey home was a long one, and you wouldn’t say no to the safety their company would provide, but the problem of your trembling limbs made you doubt whether you would be able to stay in the saddle for long at all. 

The two of them seemed to catch on to your concern. 

Steve frowned and glanced at Bucky, who was wordlessly staring at your hands. “You can hop on behind Buck—your mare can follow behind, I’ve got her.”

Without another word, Steve started to walk towards their two mounts that were waiting a few feet away — you hadn’t even noticed them. 

Bucky glanced up at your face while you stared into his, and he smiled slightly. The ice that had settled in your stomach inexplicably melted away with the softness of his gaze. You followed behind him as he led you to their stallions. 

The shadow from a building beside them made their coats even darker, and the bigger of the two started to walk forwards at the sight of you approaching with one of their number. It was the same horse that affectionately brushed his lips over your hand out the front of the general store.

“Oh, hello,” you whispered, unable to help the smile that pulled at your lips. “You are beautiful, aren’t you?”

“Don’t give ‘im a bigger ego than his owner,” Steve chortled. The withering glare Bucky sent Steve almost made you laugh. 

“This is Rebel,” Bucky said, patting the stallion’s lithe neck and making the skin ripple. 

“Hello, Rebel,” you cooed, scratching his nose affectionately. Then, you realised you hadn’t given any of them your name, and when you glanced at Bucky after offering it, his head was tilted minutely to the side. 

He did not give you a chance to question why before he mounted Rebel and sat in the saddle proudly. “You can ride?”

“Yeah.” Bucky’s grip on your hand was tight and firm, and he yanked you up from the ground with apparent ease. “I, uh– My home is a ranch.”

There was a pleased hum from Steve, and Bucky looked over his shoulder at you while Rebel’s hooves shuffled to accommodate the sudden new addition on his back. 

“Hold tight,” Bucky said gruffly. You rested your hands on either side of his waist, holding steady while Rebel’s movements were smooth beneath you — the reins were loose, and Bucky’s thighs clamped around the barrel of his mount’s flanks. 

“He is so beautiful,” you murmured again, just as Rebel made to turn around and walk towards your mare. On impulse, you moved one hand from Bucky’s waist to the dark coat behind your thighs. 

The inky pelt felt not unlike a luxurious silk. 

“Thank you,” Bucky said, then he clicked his tongue. Rebel took the cue and picked up the pace. “He’s been through hell an’ back with me. There ain’t many horses as strong as he is. I’m a lucky bastard.”

You moved your hands from Rebel’s coat back to Bucky’s waist to hold on. Even over the vest you felt the heat radiating from his body, and you couldn’t help but shift closer.

All the while a part of your mind screamed for you to drop and run — a long, dormant instinct that arose with such strength you’d never felt before.

The two men were no doubt two of the fiercest you could have ever encountered, that was not for debate or contest — you could feel the strength of Bucky’s control on his horse in the way the mount moved with such trained ease. Not to mention the muscles that rippled under the long-sleeved shirt of his made you realise there was far more than met the eye. 

What held your tongue from screaming or crying for help was the way the two of them did not even bat an eye before shooting a vagrant drunk that accosted you, even though they had no idea who you were — just a woman going about her day. 

Not to them, you thought. 

You noticed the townsfolk that stopped and stared at the three of you while you passed them by, both shock and fear painting their pale, grime-streaked faces, and you couldn’t help but wonder what they were thinking. A poor, foolish girl riding with the most dangerous men.

“There she is,” Steve said suddenly, pulling you from your reverie. You blinked from the light of the sun, and found Steve pointing towards your mare, a beautiful, golden palomino who’s coat gleamed in the morning rays. “That’s her, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” you replied, smiling softly at the softened gaze of your mare once she spotted you. “That’s my girl.”

“She’s a fine horse,” Bucky said as he pulled Rebel to a stop. “Stevie, you’ve got ‘er?”

Steve nodded and dismounted to unhitch her from her post. “You take the lead; I’ll follow behind with this pretty lady.” You watched as your mare was tied to the horn of Steve’s saddle, and she came into stride next to him with as little as a heavy sigh to acknowledge her predicament. “A dramatic one–”

“You haven’t seen the worst of it,” you laughed as you scratched at her ears. “Not in the slightest.”

During the journey back to your ranch, you couldn’t help but notice how silent Bucky was — all conversation and pleasantries were held between Steve and yourself, with minimal input from the brooding rider in front of you. During one of the longer stretches of silence, albeit a strangely comfortable one, you took a moment to consider with a keen eye how Bucky held himself. 

The man was truly a marvel, that you assumed correctly. His broad, wide shoulders were straight, only slumping when he seemed to grow weary — most notably through Steve’s many tirades. 

The black vest he wore hugged his chest and waist, accentuating the lines of his muscled torso in all of the right places, and it made you think countlessly of the heroes in your stories that lined the old, wooden bookshelf in your bedroom. 

His shirt wrinkled and smoothed with each movement of his arms, the tight muscle beneath making your mouth water. 

“How far do you live from town?” Bucky asked suddenly, and to your horror, he glanced over his shoulder before you could school your expression, or at least look away from the expanse of his back. Something flashed in his grey eyes, and you were embarrassed to see a small smirk forming on his full lips. 

The coat over your shoulders was a welcome reprieve and you found yourself burrowing yourself deeper into the warmth it offered your still trembling limbs, and you hastened to answer before Steve could interject — the blond looked about ready to cause more trouble. “Not far, just a little while longer. You’ll come upon my fields soon.”

He nodded and urged Rebel a little faster, the movement of the horse’s hindquarters jostled you into being pressed right up against Bucky’s back. In the slight moment of shock, you clamped your arms around his waist tighter. The fabric wrinkled under your sudden, iron-clad grip, and under your hands, you could feel the low rumble of his chest while he laughed. 

You rested your forehead against the smooth fabric of his vest to hide your shame. 

Wooden fence posts suddenly appeared in your peripheral vision, and you glanced up to find the outer fence line of your ranch perimeter in all its glory. 

The farmhouse at the end of the dusty, dirt lane was a modest building from the exterior, but you were relieved to see it nonetheless — wooden slats were bleached from the harsh light of the sun, and the characteristic weathervane of a loping horse still sat perched on the roof from when you were a child. 

“We’re here,” you said happily, unable to stop the smile of relief. “That’s my home.”

Bucky said nothing while Steve moved his mount closer. “It’s beautiful. You live out here by yourself?”

“I do,” you replied wearily, side-eyeing Steve. “Why?”

Steve looked at you quickly. “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it, I swear.”

“Shut your trap, you fuckin’ bastard,” Bucky snapped, glaring at Steve. You blinked and stared between them. “Leave ‘er alone. If she is happy on ‘er own, she’s happy. She’s already proven to be a strong woman who doesn’t need the likes a’you to judge ‘er.”

“Settle, settle,” Steve laughed, “I meant nothin’, I swear, Buck.”

Bucky shifted in the saddle, and you felt him press back against you. The simple act to get closer made an indescribable heat climb up the skin of your neck. “Good, now shut it.” 

You caught Steve’s gaze, and he winked while Bucky’s gaze was elsewhere. 

The swirling confusion in your mind overtook any sense to question what just happened between them — they truly were an odd duo, but you didn’t linger on that thought too long before Bucky pulled Rebel to a halt on the earthen path that led to your front door. 

The gate creaked and groaned in the slight breeze, and a few of the horses looked up from their lazy grazing to investigate the newcomers. 

“Well, here y’are,” Steve said, handing you the reins for your mare. The two men were looking around your property with interest as you took hold of the rope, and a thought crossed your mind — it was reckless, dangerous, and possibly the most foolish idea, but something nagged within your heart to voice it. 

“Why don’t– Uh, well–” The rope was tight around your knuckles while you fidgeted with it, and your mare nuzzled your elbow. “Why don’t you come on in? I can fix you up a hot meal and you both can, well—you can rest. I can at least thank you for your efforts.”

There was a beat of silence, then Steve said, “You sure, darlin’? We can head on off; we’re only passin’ through.”

Bucky’s expression remained impassive, but there was something in his gaze that told you that you were doing the right thing — however much your good sense screamed that it was a mistake. “I’m sure—come on in and I’ll get the pot going.” 

You didn’t wait for them to answer before you set off to walk towards your home, all the while praying that you hadn’t just bitten the bullet. 

“Well, that’s real kind,” Steve called, then you heard soft hoofbeats thudding over the earth behind you.

The horses scattered throughout the fields watched you walk by with the strangers in tow, ears perked forward and eyes bright with interest. From the corner of your eyes, you could see Rebel start to gain on you, and then you felt his muzzle brush your shoulder. “Hi there, pretty boy,” you cooed, kissing the side of his nose. 

A deep chuckle sounded from his back, and you looked up towards Bucky, who was looking down at you with a soft smile — one that you found you’d do anything to see again. 

“You can hitch the boys just here,” you said as you pointed to a wooden rail set just next to the porch railing. The worn oak was sturdy, and you knew it would hold the two stallions should they grow restless. 

Steve dismounted with a loud groan, and he stretched to the sky when his boots landed on the dirt. 

Bucky, however, moved his left leg up and over Rebel’s neck, and he slid from the saddle with as little effort — a difficult dismount performed with ease, and the bastard knew it, too. An arrogant smirk pulled at the corner of his lips for a moment before Steve rounded the back of his horse, when it vanished. 

The sudden change in his demeanour made your brows furrow with confusion, but Bucky shot you a look that forced your expression to be neutral — whatever made him conscious of his outward expression of happiness was his business, you reminded yourself. 

But you couldn’t deny the pull to see him smile again, not after your interest in the brooding man had grown tenfold over the journey home.

you're not gonna stop me, are you?

⠈⠂⠄ 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 | 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 | 𝐚𝐨𝟑 ⠄⠂⠁

⠈⠂⠄ 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ⠄⠂⠁

#bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x female reader #bucky x f!reader #bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes fluff #alternate juneiverse 2024 #babb2023 #rookthorne's works

[mondsphere]

Luo Binghe: Original Drafts Edition! Who and why?

“[…] in fact, in his original outline, Bing-gē hadn’t even had a romance plotline; he had been doomed to fade away, alone and unaging forever.” — The Scum Villain’s Self-Saving System, Vol. 4 (Mo Xiang Tong Xiu)

The drafts version of Binghe! Not Bing-gē, nor Bing-mei, but a secret, third thing! (I’m partial to Bing-xióng (兄) myself, just for thematic cohesion. Bing-mei remains as he is: Shizun’s special glass-heart maiden.)

So! Who is this elusive, mythical Binghe we never got the chance to meet? What is he? How do I get to pick this one’s brains?

Why is he haunting me! What does he want! So much to think about.

Listen: I love my trash sons, both the racoon and wet dog variations, but I am curious about this handsome demon lord who did not bed thousands, and did not steal his shizun to lovingly coax him into a loving and respectful marriage. Alas, Airplane-bro, as is custom, has left me hanging.

The solitary quote above has been floating around my brainspace for months. Intermittently, I would look up at the sky and sigh a big sad dog sigh, and think of this lonely demon-man emperor who seems to be both perfectly representative of No-Shizunitis Suffering Binghe, and on the exact opposite end of the line. I have spent many a night trying to rearrange the blocks of both SVSSS and PIDW like a sad toddler with no plan but plenty of amorphous longing.

Thus, Bing-xiong. My beloved new toy.

We know he is left alone and unaging. This means that:

He does not marry even once. (Sorry, Other Bing Variants. This one came broken.)

He is not defeated, killed, or left to suffer his not-father’s fate of sulking under a mountain.

From 1) we can assume two more things! Xin Mo either gets fixed/doesn’t influence this Binghe the same way, or: Xin Mo is completely written off à la Airplane Retconning, making Binghe potentially even more individually powerful than his younger counterparts.

(Or he just. Takes people’s cultivation ad-infinitum. Interesting thought, but too straight-forward for my tastes. Airplane’s thoughts? Unknowable.)

From 2) we can also assume Binghe cannot die, is under the influence of the Protagonist Halo unto infinity, and will only be put out of his misery once the heat death of the universe deems it a worthwhile endeavour. Either that or the story ends, but. It tickles a miserable part of my brain pink to think Binghe will not be let off even then.

Anyway. Bing-xiong, of course, has the same source material to work off of. Up until the Abyss, and including it, the plotline should be if not the same, adjacent enough to be indistinguishable.

However. This means:

Bing-xiong never got coerced into sex by Qin Wanyue, thus not starting him on the path of sex-dependency/addiction, avoiding Bing-gē’s fate by virtue of the Butterfly Effect. (Read this post because it explains Bing-ge's whole thing better than a lot of things I've seen.)

Again, Xin Mo implications.

Alternate Universe Shenanigans make an appearance. (Shen Jiu’s fever and death was actually meant to happen, Bing-ge just got very, very unlucky and his Universe’s Yue Qingyuan very, very lucky. For a few years. Either that or there is a Shen Yuan for every Binghe! Again: sorry, Bing-ge. You need to find your own. Middle child issues…)

Once the drafts/original outline got lost, all bets are off and now the characters become real people, without narrative influence. This also has the very fucked up implication that Bing-ge is actually a result of exclusively external forces and would have never gone down that path if not forced onto it by Airplane’s unwitting hands. I do and do not love this version. Very Mo Ran-esque, if looked at from afar and squinting.

Other options I’m either too not-high to think, or too high to put together. (Cold medicine is insane?)

I am fascinated by this… Schrödinger’s Binghe. A jaded, lonely emperor left in the ashes of his world, gazing upon his own history and finding fucking nothing and no one. Metaphorically and, like, practically, if I’m understanding Airplane’s musings correctly. Isolated, cursed by his own blood in a completely new and fucked up way!

I need Airplane to speak with me for like, half an hour. This is paramount to my mental health, I’m losing my braincells by the hour.

What happened to this impervious, cocky, badass demon bastard lord to become so alone? How did it happen? Why did it not happen to the other two, or at least Bing-ge, who has had every horrible and shitty thing possible and impossible piled onto his head? What the fuck is up with Xin Mo? Why isn’t it eating away at Big Bro Luo? Or, worse: why is it eating away at him in such a way that instead of turning into a violent yet charismatic, horror-creature of a man, it turns him into the existential terror-fate I’ve contemplated and abhorred since I was seven?

Tianlang-jun as the final boss. Discovering Huan Hua Palace Master’s crimes, deceit and… stuff. Perhaps even uncovering Shen Jiu’s backstory.

Ooh! Worse! Or better? What if he finds out everything, after having followed Bing-gē’s path, and simply… gives up? A grown up Bing-ge, minus the marriage and surrogate-lover part(s).

(More unlikely than other options, but still there, I guess.)

Fucking insane of MXTX to do this to me, personally and specifically.

I can only speculate forever, I guess! Left… alone and pondering forever.

So. Not a Bing-ge, and not a Bing-mei. A Bing-xiong, if you will.

#svsss #luo binghe #svsss meta #if you like. want it to be #the fact that this is the first post on this blog is upsetting but also completely in-line with who i've become as a person #i'm sure someone else said it better than me asp #this is all to say i'm trying to plan a longfic with drafts!binghe as my one and only 2024 project #and it is eating away at me #because i understand and also NOT #the concept itself is so ???? #its insane that one single line of text from mxtx from almost a decade ago can do this to a person #lbh #lbx #hey why would i say this to me

[encrucijada]

HAZE DOGS — a wip by ester cuervos

【 genre & categroy: horror, low fantasy, adult 】

【 pov: 2nd person retrospective 】

【 what if princess mononoke, the hunt from the magnus archives, and night in the woods had a baby. guy too scared for horror keeps writing it. great news for all the girls (gender neutral) who've ever wanted to go apeshit!! i'm technically catholic so i'm allowed to bastardise catholicism 】

【 cw: cults, blood and gore, religious blasphemy, cannibalism, harm to animals 】

【 tone & themes: feminine horror, corruption, bottled rage, divinity, unhinged, atmospheric, eerie, immortality/mortality 】

a b o u t : an isolated town is haunted by otherworldly canines incapable of dying. when connor hidalgo mejía comes back to life after being sacrificed by her old classmates, the town finds a temporary solution to their problem that will keep more people from dying: they offer connor and only connor to the animals. with her boyfriend's mother at the head, connor becomes the reluctant but not entirely unwilling idol of worship of a cult that begins to form around her. the people of her town really believe she can somehow free them of this haunting. but aurora vidal isn't the only one pulling the strings for power. everyone wants a piece of connor's divinity, a god is easy to manipulate when she's actually just a nineteen-year-old girl who up until last month only had two concerns: make it to tomorrow and get to know her estranged brother. the temporary solution starts to feel like a permanent one with connor soon not being able to find peace in life or in death.

another story about a girl in a white dress getting sacrificed... except she's wearing cool alternative clothes on top of that white dress. also the dark academia plot of "person we all hate died under mysterious circumstances" except this time the person keeps coming back to life, worse each time.

c h a r a c t e r s :

connor hidalgo mejía. she/they. embodies the energy of the "alt friend" from 00s teen movies. would have bitten you to win an argument even before things got freaky. what if jesus was a dog.

ángel quijada vidal. he/they. connor's boyfriend. dark academia protagonist who got lost and ended up in a horror movie. ignoring social cues on purpose because he thinks they're stupid.

delilah estévez herrera. she/her. connor's best friend. literally the prettiest person in the room at all times. not joining your cult bestie sick aesthetic tho. borrowing her from my buddy jude <3

acacia quijada vidal. she/her. connor's frenemy. would befriend you and then vaguepost about you online. ángel's sister. youngest sister syndrome. dead blue eyes.

aurora vidal ochoa. she/her. ángel's mum. gaslight gatekeep girlboss. woke up and decided to become a cult leader. marisa coulter energy (derogatory).

benjy hidalgo mejía. he/him. connor's brother, apparently. has the energy of the bum older brother with a shitty band and a warning sign of his door you'd find in a 90s movie.

zagreus. he/it. pubby :3 nothing weird going on here i prommy.

aesthetic: a foggy open field, coyote howls in the dead of night, wiping blood from your mouth, maximalist teen girl bedrooms, light reflecting off of animal eyes, an empty dilapidated church, bite marks on your shoulder, tall grass swaying in the breeze, an abandoned fountain filled with greenish water, broken statues, taxidermy animals, the rattle of a dog's chain, crackling television signal, cloudy weather and the smell of ozone before a storm, glitter makeup rolling down your cheeks, music so loud others hear it on your headphones, a lake with party trash floating on the surface, your fanciest clothes splattered with blood, the cold smoothness of fine jewellery, low quality camera footage, a trail of kisses down your spine, teeth that are too sharp, halos made with neon bracelets, cupping your cheeks with bloodied hands, curling up under the covers in bed when it's cold

snippet!!!

“Cool, right?” you asked your reflection, answered yourself with a smile that cut your purple mouth in two with white teeth.

You grabbed your keys.

Benjy was in the living room. He still occupied space like he was a guest instead of a resident, you looked at him and tried to find yourself on his face, on his shoulders, his hair, his hands. But other than the brown of your skin and his skin, you couldn’t, the only thing you shared that your mum had too were the freckles, but what did that prove? If that was proof of kin then Ángel would be your brother, Acacia your sister, Dafne a quarter of something with the smattered speckles on the bridge of their nose.

“Where the fuck are you going?”

He was your brother enough to talk like he’d known all nineteen years of your life.

You stopped in front of the television, a horror movie screaming behind you, blood and guts and bad sound effects of tearing skin, someone’s burbly wail from a cut throat.

“Vidal party.”

“What’s a Vidal? Am I supposed to know what that is?”

“They own like half the town, huge house, can’t miss it.”

“And they invited the likes of you?”

#tumblr if you fuck up the formatting again i will haunt you in dreams #anyways. hoping to write this next year?? hoping for some focus??hoping to finally Finish something for once?? #pia.docx #wip intro #( wip ) haze dogs

[bellezaycafe]

sunsets and self doubt (and words left unspoken) - 3

Main AO3 tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, 2024 Formula 1 Season

Sadie's Faceclaim: Maia Mitchell (but you can visualise her howver you want :) )

warnings: lots swearing, major car accident, mentions of broken bones, blood and hospitals. A lot of shit happens. Limited knowledge of Silverstone or how the structure of their emergency response on track works.

comments: ...prepare for pain. I'm not sorry. I did speak to a doctor friend, and Sadie continuing with her injuries is plausible.

“Fuck me, it’s a bit cold,” Sadie complained to the middle-aged paramedic beside her.

“Is it too cold for the Australian kid?” Mark laughed.

Sadie turned to him, looked up and frowned. “Not a kid, fuck you.”

Mark laughed again and tried to pat her on the head, which Sadie swatted away.

“Let’s just hope today’s race is dry,” he said after a moment.

Sadie nodded, stray wisps of her dark brown hair loosely flying around her face in the breeze.

Silverstone, in June, was the same temperature as Sadie’s home town in September, just leaving winter into spring.

“This is not summer weather,” she whined.

“You volunteered, kid,” Mark reminded her.

“I know, I know.”

“Where have they placed you?”

“Medics at turn 13. That’s Stowe, right?”

“Yeah. It can be a dangerous one. But you’re with my older brother Keith, so you’ll be fine.”

"How is it in the wet?"

"Worse, but the drivers are in safe hands."

----$----

Sadie paced as she watched 18 -Pierre Gasly and Oscar Piastri had sent each other out early in the race- of the best drivers in the world speed past.

“Sadie,” Keith called, “you should sit down.”

“I’m more anxious when I sit,” she replied without taking her eyes off the track. The track that was getting wetter and wetter as the minutes passed.

"Mark said to let you pace and I will, but nothing is going to happen," the grey-haired man reassured.

Sadie sent him a kind smile but didn't reply out loud.

It was a good thing she didn’t. They might have missed it.

Two Red Bulls, the McLaren and a Mercedes flew into view. The McLaren, Lando Norris' McLaren, clipped the back wheel of Lewis Hamilton's Mercedes, sending a shower of debris into the misting rain.

Lando's car spun twice and then slammed into the wall side on. Lewis spun once but managed to pull his car to a stop in the gravel before it could collide with anything.

Sadie was out the door, pulling on her mandatory helmet and grabbing a first aid kit before Keith was out of his chair.

"Go to the McLaren!" Keith shouted to her as he followed with another kit. "I'll take Hamilton!"

She didn't acknowledge his order but followed it without hesitation. She jumped the barrier, her gaze locked on the fluro-yellow helmet. The helmet that was barely moving.

"Norris," she shouted as she reached the car. "Are you okay?"

"No!" His voice came as a strangled croak, barely loud enough for her to hear him.

She dropped the first aid kit and grabbed the steering wheel he was holding out.

"You will be, we're here." She stated. "Can you get out?"

Sadie didn't breathe as Norris cried out. "My foot!" he wailed. "My ankle!"

"Okay, take a deep breath, Norris. Push yourself up with your arms. You're strong, mate. Push."

She didn't know what she was saying. She was running on instinct and adrenaline. Purely, instinct and adrenaline.

Get them off the track, Mark's voice rang in her head. Get them somewhere safe.

The driver hoisted himself onto the halo and Sadie saw his ankle bent at an unnatural angle. She couldn't let it show on her face.

"Alright, Lando swing to me. Swing around."

He did so, wobbling dangerously.

"Drop onto your right foot, I'm here."

Cars sped past, the flag only yellow.

Lando didn't drop onto his feet, he fell from the car and into Sadie. She was lucky she had braced herself as she caught him.

He screamed in pain as his ankle hit the ground.

"Lando, my name is Sadie. I've got you now, do not put your left foot on the ground. I'm gonna get you to the medical tent."

"Sadie? Melbourne Sadie?" He whimpered. He couldn't stop making small sounds of pain.

She opened his visor, met his watercolour eyes. She knew her helmet had no visor, knew he could see her eyes. 

"Yes, Lando, it's Melbourne Sadie. I've got you now, we've got to get you off the track."

She hauled his left arm over her shoulders and wrapped an arm around his waist. "Walk with me Lando. That's it, with your right foot. Good. You're gonna be okay, mate. It's just a scratch."

Sadie still hadn't registered what she was saying, or the fact that Lando was leaning almost all of his weight on her.

Her head snapped up at the sound of approaching cars. With hands firmly on his waist, Sadie slipped out from under his left arm and placed herself under his right.

She put herself between him and the oncoming cars. She didn't know what might happen, hadn't thought about it. She hadn't thought at all.

It was Yuki Tsunoda’s RB that struck the McLaren or Mercedes debris. More debris flew through the rain, something off all three cars. Sadie pulled Lando tighter into her and shielded him as she continued to pull him towards the closest exit.

Pain tore through Sadie's adrenaline. Her right side, both arm and leg. She stumbled, barely, but right herself and Lando cried out in pain again.

She knew two things and two things alone; do not stop and do not let the pain stop you.

"I've got you Lando, you're going great. Keep going!"

"Sadie," he whimpered. "Fuck. My ankle, Sadie, my car."

"I know, Lando, I know. You're going to be okay. Your car will be fine, you will be okay."

"Fuck," he whimpered again.

"Keep going, pretty boy. Don't put that left foot on the ground. You're gonna be okay."

More hands joined hers and pulled Lando over the barrier. She didn't register who it was, only that he was on the other side and being treated. She heard a lot of swearing, she heard someone call her name.

She looked up to see Lando staring at her leg. He was lying on an ambulance stretcher.

"Sadie," he croaked, his eyes rising to hers.

She didn't look down, a part of her knew she didn't want to know. Sadie kept his eye contact as she tried to stand upright. "I'm okay, Lando. I'm okay." She reassured.

Someone stepped into her line of sight and she lost view of his face. They hauled him into the waiting ambulance.

"Fuck, kid." She recognised that voice.

She turned, limped around to face Mark.

"Mark, Lando he's -" He recognised her voice, just as she had his. She was still wearing the medic's helmet.

"Sadie, your leg. You've-" He stepped forwards and pulled a chair with him.

"I don't know," she whispered. She couldn't be louder, she tried to say it louder but it was the same whispered, "I don't know. I haven't looked."

The paramedic rushed to her, placing the chair beneath her as her right leg gave out.

"Don't look," he muttered. "You're gonna be okay, but you can't look."

Someone handed him gauze and bandages. Another handed him saline and scissors.

Lewis, instantly recognisable in the black suit, stepped into Sadie's quickly narrowing line of sight.

"Oh my god," he exclaimed.

When Sadie saw him, she remembered what she'd done. She thought about what she'd done.

The crash. Catching Lando. Essentially dragging him off the track. Putting herself between him and the cars. Her leg. She didn't know the damage but her leg was on fire.

"Sir," she breathed. "Lewis, my helmet, please."

"Oh my god, kid. They're gonna look after you, okay?" He dropped to his knees next to her, leaving his own helmet in the dust.

"I know," she croaked as he undid the straps at her chin. "It's not that. The media- Lewis, hide me from the media. Please."

That's when Lewis recognised Sadie. Her brown hair was plastered to her pale face. Her dark eyes were wide with fear.

"Oh shit. Okay kid, yeah. They'll never know your name, they'll never see your face. I swear it, Sadie. I promise."

Someone handed her a green piece of plastic. The green whistle. Pain relief, and a very strong one.

Her last words before the high kicked in were, "Lewis, please. No reports, no one can know it was me."

Needless to say, the rest of the day was a blur. She barely remembered the ambulance ride, getting the piece of Formula One car embedded in her thigh taken out or the stitches in her arm and leg.

It was all over the news.

Medic gets stabbed with shrapnel while helping driver Lando Norris.

Norris out of Silverstone GP: The Medic Who Saved Him.

Two in hospital after dangerous crash at Silverstone.

But Sadie's name was never written. Every reporter was baffled at the disappearance of her identity.

----$----

Lewis had gone to Max that evening, before the winner had the chance to go out.

"It was the Melbourne volunteer," he'd told him in his hotel room. "The medic in hospital, it was Sadie."

Max's face snapped towards Lewis. He'd been making Lewis a coffee, but it was abandoned.

"What happened? Is she okay?"

Lewis shrugged, shadows passing over his face. "I don't know, man. I- Her leg was bad."

"Fuck," Max muttered. "How did it happen?"

Lewis rubbed his face with his hands. "I don't know that either. I didn't see it. It's what happens now that I want to talk about. I need your help."

Max froze. Lewis knew why, he'd never asked Max for help before. They were friendly, finally, but they weren't close.

"She begged me, Max, begged me, to keep her name out of the media. So far, so good but I need your influence in the paddock. You still have the unpredictable 'Mad Max' reputation to some people. I need you to use it."

He nodded and there was an understanding between the champions. Sadie had protected their friend, maybe saved his career if some of the initial reports were true, and it was their turn to protect her.

"I don't know why she was so desperate. She was begging me. She had a piece of fucking metal sticking out of her goddamn leg and she was begging me to hide her from the media."

"It doesn't matter," Max stated. His eyes were dark as he searched his contacts for a name. "It doesn't get out. Her name appears nowhere."

They would protect her.

My laptop is being weird with letting me tag people. Let me know if it didn't work and I'll see what I can do :)

credits to saradika-graphics for the banner

Masterlist | Series Masterlist | AO3 link

Taglist: @snubug @cmleitora @izzy-marvel @aquangxl @morenofilm @viennakarma @simpingcorner @randomgirlnumber-13 @leilanixx @spookystitchery @itsjustkhaos

#f1 #formula 1 #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1 x oc #lando norris #max verstappen #lewis hamilton #f1 2024 #sunsets and self doubt

[caffeineinmyspleen]

The froggy father approaches! It’s Patton :D

I keep drawing his head too small but I made him a mix between a poison dart frog (I couldn’t not give him some form of freckles) and a glass frog.

I want to make all of the sides a little extra Unnatural, so Patton here has some cartoon-logic teeth. Looks cute and all until it’s right in front of you (metaphorically of course) though it doesn’t quite come through with my art style hgghfh.

Did you know a frog can have heart-shaped pupils?

Extra stuff below the cut (design thoughts and related doodles)

You couldn’t see it in the first pic but he’s got a sorta tadpole tail! I have so many tiny thoughts on this design that came up while making him it’s surprising in hindsight that he was the last one I designed. I couldn’t really think of what I wanted to do with his non-human design that wouldn’t be just copying canon for a hot minute.

Sketch/design progress! When I finally decided to go with the froggy flow he was mostly easy to make. I kept wanting to give him that broken/incomplete halo (it would’ve spun in place and every once in a long while give the impression of horns) cause it would’ve been a nice way to show his imperfect perfection, but my friends told me it would make his head too busy and I agreed. He’s probably the most detailed of all the sides.

He’s so excited! (And Thomas is probably too used to his sides’ alternate appearances. Funny enough he still freaks out at horror. Probably because he knows they won’t hurt him)

#wulf draws #sanders sides #patton sanders #eldritch mind au #let it be known I tried my damn best to give him a dad bod while staying absolutely beefed #ts Patton #sanders sides fanart

[succikko-draws]

"Day 7: Alternate ending"

My last piece for @narutorarepairweek

Alternate ending to these three's backstory as somehow they rise (again for Nagato) in Edo Tensei and witness Amegakure after their death and Naruto's broken promise.

[Image ID: A digital drawing of Yahiko, Konan and Nagato on a paper flowers bed, wearing their red cloud robes. Konan is sitting in between the other two, a hand on each of them, her eyes black and orange. Nagato and Yahiko are both still laying down, only their eyes open and mouth slightly open as they just woke up from slumber. Their eyes are dark like Konan. The three of them have light orange halos around their head. Behind their flower bed is the silhouette of an abandoned and destroyed Amegakure, with dark clouds and heavy rain. /.End ID]

#day 7 #Alternate ending #nagayahikonan #nagato x yahiko x konan #nagato uzumaki #konan #yahiko #yahiko akatsuki #yahiko naruto #edo tensei konan #nagato edo tensei #naruto #naruto shippuden #nagato #akatsuki #ame orphans #ame trio #naruto art #naruto fanart

[literallyjustanerd]

Twist The Knife To Keep The Scar (Fives & Echo, grief/mourning)

Rex is leaning over his cot, face drawn into a gaunt mask. He knows what Echo will ask. Echo thinks he knows the answer. He asks anyway.

“Rex… where’s Fives?”

In their own ways, both Fives and Echo experience outliving the other. But in the end, it's Echo who has to find a way to live on in a galaxy with half of himself missing. A galaxy that, despite his brother's best efforts, Echo sometimes wishes he hadn't survived to see.

Back on my bullshit ruminating about Fives and Echo never getting to see each other again!

Dividers by the incredible @freesia-writes with amazing helmet art by @lornaka

General vibe: Grief, angst, dissociation, recovery, found family

Words: 4,888

Characters: Fives, Echo, Rex, Tup, Omega, The Bad Batch (mentioned)

Read it here or support me on AO3.

There's an exquisite heat in the air around him. Then a harsh, biting cold. A blinding light, then suffocating darkness. The ecstacy of adrenaline thrumming in his veins, then blood-curdling terror choking him until he cannot even scream. Hope, then despair. Peace, then pandemonium. Repeating in an endless cycle so maddening he wants to split his own skull open to quiet the furore. 

And then, he's awake. 

He comes back fighting from the void. Lurching, crying out, violent and reckless on instinct and little else. He wrenches at what’s left of his limbs, dismayed when they flail freely, unbound by the tethers and wires he’d grown so used to. It’s bright. He cowers from the light, though can’t think to shield his eyes with his one remaining hand. It’s an eternity before a voice reaches him through the ringing in his ears. The voice of a brother. It changes, alternating between speaking calm words and barking sharp orders. The familiarity is enough to break through Echo’s hysteria. He stills, holds back his own cries to try and make out the words. In time, his bleary vision begins to take in the sight around him, foggy shapes coalescing into a silhouette, then a face. It’s Kix. 

It’s Kix. His brother Kix.

He stands in a halo of fluorescent light at the head of Echo’s cot, calling brisk instructions to the other medics. At his order, the lights dim, soothing the ache in Echo’s eyes. He lays a hand on Echo’s shoulder, firm and grounding, and sternly tells him not to try and move. It’s then that he realises that there are lines attached to him. A great deal, in fact. IV tubes snake from his wrist and the crook in his elbow. There’s a port below his ribs syphoning some sort of clear-pink fluid, and wires running to electrodes arranged in a grid on his chest. He listens when Kix tells him they're all there for good reason. He believes it when Kix tells him he’s safe, they’ve got him, he’s okay. Someone raises a cup of water to his lips, and though Echo nearly chokes on the tiny sip, it still makes him want to sob with relief. By his head, Kix makes an adjustment on one of his IV flasks. He doesn’t raise his eyes when he says,

“Someone find Rex. Tell him he’s awake.”

Memory floods back into the broken kaleidoscope of Echo’s mind.

“Where is he?”

Rex hadn’t answered him the first time he’d asked, careening down hallways and around corners, still half-convinced he must be dreaming or dead. He had tried to convince himself that Rex was just distracted. That maybe he hadn’t even heard the question at all, despite it being one of the first things past Echo’s lips the moment he regained control of them. It was plausible: the blaster fire was loud enough and the chaos was all but overwhelming. But even in his addled, delirious state, he had caught the twitch in Rex’s jaw, the guilty way his eyes darted across the room, cagey, avoidant. Everything Rex never was. Echo had not asked again, had instead put the last of his meagre energy into clawing his way out of hell. And, despite his expectations, he’d made it. They all had. He had seen the sun again. He hadn’t lasted much longer than that– his atrophy and fatigue had come back to claim him once he’d been loaded into a transport. Still, the question remained stuck on his tongue as he passed out, not quite able to speak it aloud. He does it now, though, when Kix has cleared out the medbay and Rex is leaning over his cot, face drawn into a gaunt mask. He knows what Echo will ask. Echo thinks he knows the answer. He asks anyway. 

“Rex… where’s Fives?”

Three standard rotations. Nine Republic-sanctioned mealtimes since making it off Lola Sayu and out of the Force-forsaken Citadel. And still, Fives has made no appearance in the mess hall. Rex suppresses a sigh at the empty seat next to him, tries to still the bounce of his leg under the table. He gives up on his rations halfway through, sliding them across the table to Jesse as, wordless, he leaves the rows of bustling benches. It’s not easy to track him down. He checks the gym, the boilers, the bridge, even the laundry rooms before he comes to the cold, cramped halls of the armoury. It’s all but abandoned, only a handful of troopers choosing to skip or postpone their meal break. Rex weaves through the tight corridors of catalogued rifles and torpedoes, affording a distracted nod to the men who greet him with the usual salutes. Finally, he spots his brother in the back corner. He's counting stock, eyes boring into a datapad as though it's the only thing tethering him to himself.

"Fives.”

It gets no response at first. He’s far too wilfully engrossed in his task. Just as he has been in every spare moment since leaving The Citadel. Rex has watched him move like a man possessed from hauling cargo to running maintenance protocols, reviewing battle maps to making supply orders. More productive in three rotations than he’d ever been in a week. If he’d eaten, Rex hadn’t seen it. If he’d slept, it hadn’t stuck, judging by the dark, gaunt circles draped under his eyes. They age him, make his cheeks look too sharp and his skin too pallid under the ship's stark lighting. The half-serving of rations churns in Rex’s stomach.

“Fives, look at me.” 

There’s a hand on Fives’ shoulder, one he throws harshly off like a man woken from a nightmare. He blinks at his brother, unable or unwilling to focus his gaze.

“Don’t,” he says, before he knows quite what he’s refusing. Self-consciousness leeches into his fingertips, tightening around the datapad. It’s too much to keep his face turned in Rex’s direction, so he points it back at the wall.

“You know you can’t go on like this. You’re running yourself into the ground,” Rex coaxes. A hot rush of shame burns across the back of Fives’ neck, his shoulders raising against it. He’s being spoken to like a scared stray tooka. Like a cadet with a skinned knee. Given the choice, Fives picks the easier of two options and lets anger steer his reply.

“I know what I’m kriffing doing. Don’t need you checking up on me.”

“Then it’s a good thing you don’t get a choice in the matter.”

The growl Fives gives in response is involuntary. His fingers grip harder at the datapad. A sign of losing control? A sign of trying to keep control? Just because he itches to feel something break under his hands? After waiting patiently for a reply of some kind, Rex fills the silence again. 

"I'm not trying to tell you to stop caring. I know that's how it feels, but I'm not. I just want you to take care of yourself, too."

"And what's the point of that?!" Fives blurts. The datapad clatters across the floor, the sound louder than it should be, echoing and doubling off the towering metal walls. "What does it even matter anymore if he—" As quickly as the dam breaks, he stems the flow. Straightens his back and swallows the words back down, bitter as they stick in his throat. The seconds scrape by, sandpaper against his frayed mind. His teeth grit, eyes closed. He waits. But Rex stays silent. No more platitudes, no stern, parental reminders about health and self-care. In time, Fives is seized by the fear that Rex has grown tired of his tantrum and left. But when he turns away from the wall, his brother is there, his gaze steady, open. Waiting.  

"I… It was supposed to be… It was always …"

Try as he might, the thought won't make it out of his head in full, ending up in pieces by the time it tumbles past his proud, clumsy lips. 

"Always the two of you," Rex finishes for him. "Right from the start, I know. We all knew." Rex's mouth quirks, his eyes dipping downwards a moment. Fives wonders what memory it is that drives the expression. While he is still caught in a losing battle against his own voice, Rex continues, holding the silence at bay. "You know, back after the invasion on Kamino, Cody and I wanted to take one of you each? We both needed a new ARC trooper. It seemed perfect." He steps forward, turning to lean against the wall next to Fives. No resistance this time when a hand braces on Fives' shoulder. There's a lump in Fives' throat that is hard to swallow around. Rex continues. "But when we got one look at the two of you together, the way you were with each other… Well." The quirk in Rex's lip grows to a smile, small and fragile. "Cody and I never managed to stay together long. We were always pulled apart. We couldn't let the same happen to you." 

A dry, guttural sob bursts from Fives' chest, breaking through the barrier of his clenched teeth. The words follow before he can stop them. 

"It should have been me."

The reprimand he expects does not come. Instead, Rex keeps his gaze on Fives, as resigned as it is devastated. There's a soft understanding in the way he breathes; slowly in, heavily out. Underneath all his composure, it becomes clear just how intimately Rex knows this feeling. How many times Fives’ words have crossed his own mind after returning from battle. Fives lets go. Finally cuts the string he had tied to the top of his head to hold himself off the ground. The plastoid of Rex's shoulder pauldron hurts when Fives' forehead hits it. He relishes the pain.

Goosebumps break out across Echo’s skin when he steps into the rain. He gasps at the little pinpricks of cold, radio static dancing in the gaps of his armour. The sensation is not unpleasant, just another that he had long since given up on ever feeling again. Mercifully, the perpetual storm over Kamino has momentarily ebbed; Echo would not trust himself to stay upright on his cybernetics in a full typhoon. Walking is still entirely alien to him. He knows he must look a mess, unsteady and teetering, each step a lurching fall forward with the hope that the sordid mess of durasteel beneath him will catch his weight. Hunter stands a few feet ahead of him, and he’s flanked by the other members of Clone Force 99 as they disembark. Though they form up around him, clearly ready to act as a buffer if one of Echo’s gambled steps doesn’t pay off, they say nothing, only watching from the corners of their eyes. Affording him his pride. Preserving the illusion of normalcy. 

They needn't bother. Under Echo's carefully-drawn expression there is a storm as vicious and brutal as the worst of Kamino’s tempests.

Kamino has changed since the last time he had walked its sleek, streamlined halls. It feels cleaner, smoothed over, more soulless than usual. Was it always so cold here, even inside? Beside him, two of his new squad are bickering. Though only a few feet away, their voices reach Echo from a distance, muffled, underwater. He feels thin. Not just malnourished, though he evidently is. His whole existence feels thin, as though he isn’t actually there. Someone could walk straight through him and feel nothing more than a cool breeze. A fleeting pang of regret tells him he should be with Rex, should have stayed with the 501st. But beneath the crashing waves on the surface, in the depths of his mind he knows that it’s better to be a stranger than to face those who know him, what he was and who he’s lost. What he’s become. Rex could feel it, too, when he had seen Echo off on the landing field.

“If that’s where you feel your place is, then that’s where you belong.”  

Was it about belonging? Or was it just that he couldn’t bear to stand so close to the edge of the gaping hole that had been left in his life?

The only time Echo had ever talked about this with Fives, he had been shut down with a single look. A thousand words in a microscopic expression, the silent language they’d forged together accidentally through years of traded glances. Across battlefields and barracks, strategy meetings and mess hall benches, until they knew the other’s mind by instinct, sometimes better than they knew their own.

“When,” Fives had said, with the weight of the galaxy behind the word. A shield raised against the knife of Echo’s ‘if.’

“When we both make it to the end of the war, we’re going to Naboo first. General Skywalker talks about it all the time. It must be worth the hype.”

Maybe Echo should have pushed it. Doubled down on his ‘if’ and done something, said something to prepare them for having to keep breathing after the other was gone. They had never dared to say aloud that their plans for a galaxy-wide sightseeing tour could grind to a halt in a single heartbeat. For years they had curated their list of destinations, sights to see, cities to explore, foods to taste and cultures to learn, everything they had always been denied. Neither wanted to be the first to say their grand adventure might never happen. Or, worse, that it could be a solo trip. Echo opened his mouth. But the minute twitch in Fives’ brow told him all he needed to know: he was picking at a thread that could unravel them both. Once one of them was gone, the other would surely die in every meaningful way. There was no point in even acknowledging the possibility. So instead, he lobbed a wadded-up piece of dirty laundry at Fives’ head and smiled.

“Fine. Naboo first. But I still want to see the museums in Alderaan. Don’t care if I have to drag you kicking and screaming.”

Beside Echo, the muted conversation grows louder. Words repeated. Someone trying to get his attention. One of them, the big one, Wrecker, slaps him on the back. It jars the rivets along his shoulder blades, sending sharp bolts of pain through his spine as he’s thrown forward by the force. It’s too fast for his cumbersome legs to catch him, and in a split second Echo has accepted he’s going to hit the floor. But the impact doesn’t come, and he opens his eyes to find a shamefaced Wrecker holding him aloft with one arm looped under his chest. 

“I– Sorry, Echo, I didn’t mean to– Should’ve been more careful,” he stammers, returning him to his feet as though he weighed less than empty armour. The shock brings Echo crashing back into his body, makes him feel real again in a way he is woefully unready for. The others are staring at him, their eyes singing like blasterfire on his skin. It takes an embarrassingly long moment to will his mouth into moving.

“It’s fine,” he mumbles, unable to meet anyone’s eye. “I’m fine.”

He wonders if it’s better to be stranded in a vast, flat desert than to stand at the edge of a bottomless pit.

It’s after Umbara that Rex overhears Fives with Tup. Lights-out was hours ago. They’re out of the barracks, but Rex can hardly reprimand them for it: half of the men, himself included, have had scarcely little sleep since what happened on that wretched, awful planet. All over the ship there are small groups of vode, hunched over mugs of caf at tables in the kitchen, crammed into bunks together, running endless drills in the gym. Rex despairs at being unable to do more for them, but he knows better than most that nothing could grant his brothers rest or peace in a time like this. Still, something in Fives’ tone tugs him closer, makes him linger around the corner and strain his ears to listen.

“–not about glory or heroics.”

“But what about what you–”

“Forget what I did. Okay? What I did doesn’t matter. I’m telling you , here and now, you stay alive.”  

They’re sitting on the ledge of a large bay window, faces backlit by the ship’s external lighting and the low ambient glow of hyperspace outside. Tup has his legs drawn to his chest, a steaming mug cradled in his hands, while Fives leans forward, elbows on his knees. Rex knows he should make himself known. Or at the very least walk away now. It’s not his place to eavesdrop. 

He doesn’t move.

It was a different version of Fives that came back from losing Echo. Sharper edges, harder, but more brittle. Scar tissue where there used to be unmarred skin. He still jokes, even still plays pranks and pulls stunts to entertain those around him. But his laughter is never quite as free or unguarded. His eyes scan every room he enters, searching, never finding. And most noticeably, he’s developed an intense protective streak over his brothers. Especially the shinies.

“I just want to fight for our brothers. Like you and the others have been.” Tup sounds chastised, confused. Still so sincere. Rex chances another glance around the corner to see Fives topping up his brother’s mug from a small flask before he takes a swig himself. Another breach of regulation Rex can’t rightly fault him for.

“You want to do something good for your brothers?” Fives says, voice low. “You survive the war. You stay around for them. You live to see a day we’re not forced to risk our lives for people who don’t karking care, don’t even know we exist .”

Rex doesn’t realise just how much of a hypocrite Fives has become until months later. Until he’s holding Fives to his chest on the floor of a derelict warehouse, the smell of blasterfire and burnt flesh thick in the air.

Losing Echo has made a hypocrite of Fives. As fiercely as he protected his brothers, as many times as he told them not to be heroes, he never reserved the same caution for himself. In fact, he launched himself headlong into more perilous situations than he ever had with Echo. He hid it under his status: an ARC trooper was supposed to be a more independent agent, a knife to make the daring precision cuts, carving a path for the battering ram of his fellow troopers. Still, Rex worries what the real motivation behind his recklessness might be.

“...Okay,” Tup says finally. But Fives still says it again.

“Just stay alive. Kark the war, kark the Republic, just… stay alive .”

An overwhelming silence falls over his mind, like a blanket of thick, black velvet. Relief. The sudden dying out of a background murmur he had never recognised until it stopped. The quiet is all-consuming, incomprehensible, fantastic. The release of a muscle flexed for years on end. Finally waking from a nightmare to the unworldly hush of night. A dream he knew well, but had never put name nor reason to. Weight lifted from his chest, breathing free, movements wholly his own for perhaps the first time in his life. Respite from the storm. But underneath the stillness, there’s a foreboding: a forest only falls silent in the presence of a predator.

It’s been years, but Echo still panics whenever he wakes on a medical bench. Pain blooms in his frontal lobe as he pitches himself upward, his hand raising to find a bacta patch plastered there beneath the rivets.

“Echo?”

Omega’s voice sounds so fragile. She lays his name out delicately, like she’s afraid she’ll break it. He immediately forces his eyes open to give her a reassuring smile, desperate to rid her of that timid tone.

“Hey, kid.” He cuts her off when she opens her mouth again– “I’m fine. Promise. Good as new.” A quick scan of the room, and he sees his brothers around him, all in varying stages of regained consciousness. All with matching scars on their scalps. Marking them, finally, as free men. If Echo was awake enough to have full use of his body, he would smile at the thought. His gaze lands on Rex, standing guard in the doorway, and he finds that the smile grows completely on its own.

It had taken months for Echo to feel like a part of Clone Force 99. That was mostly by his own design: any attempt at bonding from his new teammates had been met with a wall of solid durasteel. He’d lacked even the decency to respond with anger, denying the others the barest hint of emotion. Scared that even hostility was too much of an intimacy. But his brothers had worn him down, for better or worse.

“Echo, you ever play Sabacc? Cross always cheats, but if we team up on him we might win!”

“I noticed on the last mission it seemed your cybernetics were somewhat miscalibrated. If you like, I can take a look at them and make some improvements?”

“If you’re going to sit up and brood in silence again, you can at least make it worth your while and drink with me. …And for the record, I don’t cheat at Sabacc. I’m just better.”

Before he knew it, he had four new brothers.

Just what he got for vowing never to get attached again. 

Rex offers him a hand when he tries to lift himself to his feet, one he gratefully accepts.

“Did it feel this strange for you?” he asks, blinking hard. Rex gives a stiff shrug. 

“Didn’t have time to think about it. When I got my chip out, I… had other things to think about.” 

Echo doesn’t pull at that thread.

“So… He really was right.”

No matter how many times Rex had explained Fives’ death, Echo had never made sense of it in the past. It didn’t help that Rex’s own recollection of the incident was garbled, fogged over by confusion and grief. All Echo could gather was the vague notion of fear, paranoia and conspiracy. His brother had died desperate and frantic, with a warning to Rex that made little sense in the moment and even less when retold after months of rumination. 

It made far too much sense now.

“Yeah,” Rex sighs, eyes flitting to each of the other clones in the derelict room. “Yeah, he was. I just wish…” 

Echo nods.

“Me, too,” he breathes. It’s silent for a moment, until Rex speaks again. Echo isn’t sure what makes his brother say it now: despite Echo’s probing questions since he’d first been rescued, Rex had never answered. Now that he does say it, though, it hits Echo like a punch to the gut.

“He never got over it, you know.”

Even after he had begun to consider himself a real member of the Bad Batch, Echo had done little more than coast. Though he still put all his effort into their missions –it was hard to break such a hardwired work ethic– his heart was rarely invested in their assignments.

And then, just like that, the war had ended.

Standing aboard the Havoc Marauder, watching Kamino turn into a pinprick of light in the ocean as they fled, Echo had felt a sudden, harsh pang of relief that Fives was no longer with him. He would feel it often in the coming months as The Empire tightened its grip on the galaxy, sometimes morphing into a bitter jealousy: Fives never had to see what had become of the Republic. Of their brothers.

Slowly, he and the others gather their bearings, carve out as many seconds of rest as they dare before scraping themselves together to leave. They aren’t naive enough to consider anywhere safe for long. The silence as they trek out of the rotting venator is heavy, and it’s jarring when someone breaks it.

“One of your men really figured all this out?” Hunter says to Rex, sounding sceptical in a way that sparks an involuntary flare of anger in Echo. “The chips, what they were for, Order 66, all of it?”

“I don’t know if he knew what it all meant,” Rex says, kicking aside a hunk of warped durasteel to make way for Omega. “But he definitely knew what the chips could do to us. And he figured out the Chancellor was behind it long before anyone else ever did.”

“The Emperor,” Tech interjects, “technically speaking, now.”

Rex shrugs halfheartedly, then continues, eyes trained firmly on the ground in front of them;

“I shouldn’t have been surprised. If anyone was brave, skilled and stupid enough to pull that kind of stunt off, it was always going to be Fives,” he says, smiling wistfully. “But I’m sure you’ve all heard far too much about that since Echo joined you.” The silence from behind Rex makes him pause, turn to see the others’ confused expressions in the light of his headlamp. He looks to Echo, gives him a bewildered, questioning frown, and Echo shrinks, unable to meet his eye. As close as he has grown with his new brothers, there are still a few nerves too raw to touch.

He stays in touch with Rex as often as their situation allows. It may be an unnecessary risk, the number of calls he makes to Rex’s encrypted comm frequency. He always disguises it under some flimsy justification, sharing a scrap of intel or paltry status report. Hardly anything substantial. Nonetheless, Rex answers every time. And he never ends the transmission when the information runs out and the conversation turns trivial.

“She’s getting good,” Echo tells him, smiling vaguely out into hyperspace. “She’ll be a better shot than I ever was.”

“Sounds like she’s got a good teacher.” There’s pride in Rex’s voice. Echo never did manage to outgrow his giddy reaction to positive feedback. Especially from his Captain. Silence takes hold, and Echo searches for something to keep the transmission going, but Rex gets there before him.

“You know my offer still stands,” he says gently. “There’s always a place for you here, brother. I’d be glad to have you back.”

Echo isn’t quite sure what makes him pause. Months ago, in the last days of the war, and even after its end, he would have jumped at the chance. To be back with Rex, to return to something he knew, to what he could only assume was the closest a clone could get to home. He’d been so directionless, disconnected from himself, unsure there was even a self left anymore.

“I…” He begins the sentence with no way to finish it. There’s a lot he wants to say. A lot he wants to do. He’s still getting used to wanting things again at all. It was a strange feeling after spending so long adrift, running on inertia without drive or purpose. But once the Batch had turned from soldiers to brothers, then to sister as well… Once his chip had been removed, and he’d learned exactly what his brother’s death had meant, all Fives had done to try and protect the family he had left…

“I think I understand,” Rex says, and Echo wonders in dismay if he’d said any of that out loud.

“I want to go with you,” he finally blurts. “I want to help you, I do. Eventually. But right now…”

“It’s okay.” Rex’s voice is softer over the comm. Too soft. Echo digs his scomp into the side of his thigh, breath tight in his throat. “You’ve got to do what’s best for your vode. And right now, the best thing you can do is stay around for them.”

A noise in the cockpit behind him sends Echo scrambling to wipe at his eyes, whirling his chair around to find Omega peeking down at him from her tailgun-come-bedroom.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she says, like she’s apologising. “Are you talking to Rex? Can… Can I sit up with you?”

Who is he to say no to her, when she looks at him like that?

Rex keeps the frequency open far longer than he probably should, regaling Omega with war stories, some true to life and some Echo knows for a fact are embellished. Still, he doesn’t correct him, not when it would only dull the spark in Omega’s eyes, listening so intently. Echo says nothing when Rex begins the story of two particularly brave ARC troopers, incredibly daring and heroic on the battlefield, but– 

“–absolute idiots everywhere else.” Omega giggles uncontrollably, and even Echo smiles: he’ll cop that one. Though he does have to cringe at some of the misadventures that follow. At least Omega enjoys laughing at these two ridiculous, childish ARC troopers and their exploits.

“They were always better when they were fighting together,” Rex tells her, and Echo’s chest seizes, “but even when they were separated, even when they didn’t realise it, they still fought for each other.”

Echo makes the decision right then and there, with his brothers asleep in their bunks behind him, Omega perched on the arm of his chair and Rex’s stories in his ear. When (not if, when ) this is all over, he and his family will go travelling.

Naboo first.

#drabble #fic #do i write a fic now where rex tells echo about umbara and echo has to deal with knowing what his brothers went through #or do i finally leave these poor men alone #sw tcw #tbb #star wars: the clone wars #star wars: the bad batch #sw tcw fic #tbb fic #arc trooper echo #arc trooper fives #domino twins #captain rex #clone wars angst #angst #grief

[gcthvile]

Fractured Soul

Characters: Thiego Strange and Estella Strange

warnings: violence, angst

fandom: marvel

summary: Driven mad by loss, Thiego Strange unleashes darkness; hunting his sister through realities to save her from her death as the evil Darkhold corrupts his soul, damning him forever in the abyss of his creation.

The multiverse swirled around Thiego as he drifted between worlds, shadows of other lives glimpsed through tears in reality. Always he searched, guided by the cold whispers of the Darkhold.

This time, he found purchase in a form all too similar. His grey eyes opened to a mirrored Sanctum, then narrowed as dark magic surged within stolen flesh.

"Stella?" His voice, though not his own, echoed through empty halls. No reply came, setting his new heart racing.

Rushing through familiar rooms revealed only dust and silence. "Hermana, where are you?" Panic rising, Thiego tore through portals to the other dimensions, seeking any trace of her light.

In the mirror dimension, he finally stopped short. On the ground lay a girl, dark hair splayed in a halo of blood. His hands shook as he knelt, rolling her still form over to find eyes devoid of life gazing back, empty of the joy they once held.

A tear slipped down his stolen cheek, but no more sorrow could be felt - only an all-consuming rage. "Who did this to you?" he hissed, gathering Stella's fragile frame in twisted arms.

A presence intruded then, and Thiego whirled to see his alternate self staring in horror at the scene. "What have you done?" the other gasped, backing away in fear and disgust.

His voice a growl, Thiego advanced on the trembling form before him. "I? I have done nothing. But you...you failed to protect her." With a maddened cackle, dark magic writhed between his clenched fists. "For that, you must pay the ultimate price."

The other's screams rent the air, but Thiego felt only a grim satisfaction as he watched the final vestiges of light fade from wide, betrayed eyes. Another Thiego fallen, another Stella lost, but he felt one step closer to his goal - to undo his crimes, no matter the cost.

The sound of shattering reality echoed in the void as Thiego strode between worlds once more. His stolen body lay lifeless where he'd left it, another failure to add to a growing pile of ashes.

He emerged in a city under siege, spells and explosions lighting the chaotic night. A version of himself fought valiantly below, sending bursts of magic towards an advancing horde. But for all his skill, he was outnumbered - and so was she.

A flash of dark hair caught Thiego's eye, and his stolen heart froze. Stella battled back-to-back with her brother, protecting civilians as they fled destroyed buildings. But a mutant slipped through their defenses, claws slicing through the air.

Time seemed to slow as horror rooted Thiego in place. A screech, and Stella crumpled; his counterpart's anguished screams echoed her name to the uncaring stars.

Rage turned his vision red once more. With a wave of crackling energy, Thiego swept the remaining beasts from this world. The other sank to his knees amid the carnage, cradling Stella's still form as sobs wracked his bleeding form.

"You failed," Thiego hissed, dark presence announcing his arrival. Twinned grey eyes, one pair drowned in tears, snapped up to meet his cold gaze.

"I tried—" a hoarse whisper was all that could be uttered past guilt and grief.

A sneer twisted Thiego's face, corrupted by the blood on his hands and madness in his heart. "Not hard enough." Dark magic curled around clenched fists, eager to deliver punishment upon this broken shell who dared call himself Sorcerer Supreme.

Time lost all meaning as Thiego traveled the endless paths between lifelines. Stella's death played out in infinite variations, each one tearing him further into the abyss.

He saw her cut down in battle, ravaged by plague, struck down by common illness - any fate but growing old at his side was unacceptable. And with each failure came retribution, another version of himself destroyed for his inability to keep her safe.

Some Thiegos begged for the mercy of his blade, madness and grief consuming them from within. Others raged and wept, but met their end all the same upon his hands of twisting shadow.

He witnessed Stellas perish by manipulation, falling prey to those who sought to use her gift for evil. Times when even her power could not withstand the horrors that crept in shadows.

And through it all, the Darkhold fueled his rage, whispers dripping promises of undoing the past if only he had the strength to pay its price. Reality unraveled around the edges as Thiego plunged deeper into the void between, losing even the memory of why he quested to begin with.

All that remained was the cold need winding through his veins, to save her or punish any who failed - an endless, maddened loop with no escape but the complete destruction of all that ever was. His soul shattered into fragments scattered across infinities, leaving only an unleashed darkness in his place.

Months passed in the blink of an eye as Thiego drifted through reality itself, shattered psyche clinging to the ruins of a single goal - to undo what could not be changed.

He lost count of the Thiegos destroyed, the endless Stellas who slipped forever from his grasp no matter what path he took. All that remained was the howling emptiness and the Darkhold's cruel song, promises twisting into darker vows with every failure.

Time came when he could no longer remember why he quested, what face belonged to the light he chased through the long tunnels between worlds. There was only the seductive whispers from aged pages, realities unraveling at his merest thought as the book's pull overwhelmed his ravaged mind.

It was then that Thiego returned to his original universe, the first ghostly remnants of a life now lost to the ravages of torment. But where once stood a shining Sanctum and loved ones, now only ruins remained in his wake.

Here, in these bones of a dead world, the last shreds of his sanity fell away into the waiting jaws of the Darkhold. With a wave of crackling darkness to mirror the void within, Thiego rent reality asunder, tearing down all that yet stood with howls of maddened grief and rage.

In the smoking ashes of creation, only he stood amid a dead, formless waste wrought by his hand alone. The Darkhold's calls were silent now, its dark spells fully imprinted upon his blackened soul with none left to enact further tragic mercy upon.

Alone in the frigid dark he had made, the broken remnants that were Thiego Strange knew only an eternal abyss, damned to wander lifeless eternities with only memories of lost lights to keep him company in the lonely dark.

welp, enjoy this tiny bit of angst 😁

tags: @missstrawbs2001 @jackiequick @blueboirick @cherrysft @meiramel @purpleprincessonfyre @ask-missparker @askstevella @therealdaydreamstark @rickb-chaos @luna-d-marsh @rooster-84 @gaminggirlsstuff

#oc post #oc rp #oc rpg #oc introduction #marvel #marvel roleplay #marvel oc #marvel x oc #thiego strange #estella strange #stephen strange

[disruptivevoib]

may I ask on how Yarn got those scars? Like I know he was holding the trident and he was bleeding with scars and stuff just wanna know what happened and yeah :)

Ooh! Are you talking about this post

? (Semi-gorey images in link btw for those who haven't seen that art)

If sooo! I will try to summarize up what happened with Yarn in the Chatroomverse rp! Ahead of time though I will say that this involves @/agent-8449's au Voice of Reason too ^^.

Essentially, for reasons with far too much of a story on their own, Yarn and Voice of Reason!Heart, nicknamed Ozzy, swapped Psyches (Brains or basically universes and worlds). They did not swap immediately thus things within VoR's Psyche were rough. No body can live well without a Heart, ykno? Everything starts slowly falling in. Same goes for if your Mind or Soul were gone.

Anyhow, Yarn arrives to help save VoR!Mind (Ulysses) from VoR!Soul (Coda). The two get into a pretty nasty fight. Which, side note: Sun Down!Thirds (HMS) have slower regeneration, it's faster than human healing but they're not immortal by any means. The VoR!Thirds however, regenerate rapidly and constantly, their bodies always adapting to a change and thus.. they are immortal.

So, Coda got very violent with Yarn, and thus wound up cutting into the Heart's neck with his halo (a ring of red usually behind his head), which is broken up in the chatroom story. Agent.. idk.. might be willing to tell you all more about the VoR guys if you ask nicely. Cant promise!

Anyways, the injuries to his stomach were due to transferring himself across time and space into an alternate universe!

Yarn's neck did heal, he linked with Coda briefly (his strings connecting to the halo, this giving them shared.. not consciousness or thought but something close to that.), and Coda's rapid regeneration healed him. Though his voice is kind of scratchy now. Sorry Yarn.

#chonny jash #cj heart #sun down au #asks #voidthoughts #cjverse chatroom rp

[singinghands]

1 2 4 6

How often do they have ‘bad’ days?

((It really varies! Early on, not many, but since it's chronic damage, you're better off counting good days for brevity after a few decades or so.))

What helps the most with their pain? 

((Let's just say for now it's something the US criminalized in 1970. He has a personally cultivated variant that's definitely not human-grade.))

What does their typical ‘good’ day look like?

((For Seth? His good days tend to be pretty active for him at least since he doesn't want to overdo things and make the next bad day even worse. Make sure he's eaten something, maybe make some easy to eat soft food for next time, get something liquid (usually water) within reach of the bed. Water his in-home plants & make sure none of them are ill or dealing w/parasites. Maintenance things. If there's energy after that, or there's less to do, catch up with the other Fallen (or human members of a local Family) he wasn't able to contact until then.))

Do they feel the need to hide when they’re in pain?

((It's not so much a need to hide as much as a need to conserve energy. So yes but also no.))

@thekavseklabs

#answers #alternate: broken halo #drug use ment tw #outofsigns

[froggyworlds]

listen listen ok I was going to put something menacing or lyric-y but every lyric I looked at fits every voice belongs to you and I can't put them all so just take this before I explode

@mustangsart here's one of the fics I promised/alluded to I can't remember which

tw for minor self-harm, guns, and a moment of contemplated/mentioned suicide. plus other typical htb-related content warnings (ask if you want smth tagged tell me and I'll add it!)

If Mark had been holding anything a few moments ago, it would've dropped to the floor by now. His hands shook at his sides, and the trembling spread up his arms to his chest and his legs and for a few moments he was certain he was going to fall over.

He didn't, though he did stumble back a step. Somehow he even found it in himself to remember to breathe in a wheezy, gasping inhale that made his lungs ache and his throat go dry. The man's hands flew almost subconsciously to his waistband, and he watched as a pair of eyes followed them with a spark of- no. Stop it. Don't do that.

¬ Don't shoot me, Mark. ¬

Mark's fingers twitched, an itchy, clawing feeling tugging on the threads in the back of his mind like a kitten kneading a wool blanket. His hand froze, but didn't fall back into place at his side.

Standing across from him, within arm's reach, as far away as anything had ever been, was-

It was-

God, it was-

"F-fuck," Mark stammered, and took another step back.

The thing that looked like Cesar didn't move in kind. Besides the flicker of its eyes, it didn't even seem like it was breathing. As much as Mark was trying to avoid looking at its eyes, the two kept locking gazes.

He- it. It wasn't Cesar. It wasn't Cesar. It's not him. It's not him. Stop thinking it is. It's not what you think-

It looked exactly the same as it had last time Mark had seen it, and the last time Mark had seen it was three years ago. Phantom pain echoed across his scars, and the man winced at the memory of a halo of glass. But everything was the same- the Cesar standing before him was as frozen in time as the one in the photograph weighing heavy in his left breast pocket.

For the first time since its appearance, the alternate moved. It reached up and, in a gesture that seemed all-too-painfully human, drew its hand back in again hesitatingly. Its brow furrowed in what could almost be mistaken for worry.

"Mark, you- you're crying."

As they say, "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me."

Mark felt his legs buckle anyways. Call him a fool.

The man let out a sob and bit down on his left forefinger- hard. It didn't do much to stifle the sound, and something tasted like crimson now, but it gave him something to focus on besides-

"Mark! Are you okay?"

I think I'm going to throw up, was going to be his response, but unfortunately all Mark could muster in response was another half-choked sob, and he jerked away from the hand that reached out for him even when every part of him wanted nothing more than to cry into his friend's arms until his sleeves were soaked and for them to go home and pretend like nothing bad had ever happened in their lives, even if only for a few hours.

After a second, a word escaped his throat: "No." It evidently stung, because Cesar the alternate recoiled and a pang of something heavy struck through Mark's heart that he immediately grabbed and tossed away. This wasn't Cesar.

"You're a monster - a fucking thing. My best friend is dead and you fucking killed him!"

Sweat-slick hands gripping the handle of a gun. The click a millisecond before the bang.

“You’re not him. You’re not Cesar. You aren’t- I didn’t shoot- You’re not him.”

No matter how broken its expression looked. No matter how tired and terrified Mark was.

"I'm sorry. Mark, I'm so, so sorry."

¬ I'm sorry. It's complicated. ¬

Memories rang like church bells in his ears. Half-human shrieks. Half-human.

"It hurts, Mark. It hurts."

Mark couldn't fucking do this.

He pulled out his gun before he could think and for a second the world teetered. Overwhelming déjà-vu coursed through him as he gripped the weapon, sweaty palms and safety off and maybe it would be so, so easy to turn it around and forget all of this ever-

Mark dropped the gun. Clicked the safety back on and nudged it away. He could feel Cesar's eyes on him the whole time, noticed the way he inched away slightly and still hadn't come back yet.

"Fuck." Mark looked up, expression pulled tight and the shakiness of earlier suddenly gone in favor of an all-consuming exhaustion. Cesar still looked like he was eighteen. He still looked exactly as he had the day at the church. Mark dragged a hand down the side of his face. "Fucking Hell, Cesar."

The alternate's expression brightened, a glimmer of hope-but-not-daring-to-hope in his eyes. Mark stopped him with a slightly stiff wave and brought his hands in front of him to pick at his cuticles. The sidewalk was cold and slightly damp from the rain, and Mark pushed himself to his feet, brushing himself off and watching as Cesar did the same.

"I can't-" He sucked in a breath. The air reeked of petrichor. "I don't... know. How or why you're here." He motioned to the alternate and something zipped up his spine. The man shivered and adjusted his jacket, doing his best to ignore the dry, hollow coldness that momentarily jabbed his thoughts. "And I can't just- forgive what happened."

Three years since then. That's a fucking lifetime. It feels like yesterday.

Cesar thought for a beat, and Mark did his best not to do a double-take on how much it really did look like him.

¬ I was alone. That whole time. I missed you. ¬

And in words: "I understand."

Mark bit his lower lip, but not enough that he could taste blood. "We'll work on it, okay?" He clenched and unclenched his fists a few times. "We should go home. I'm exhausted." The man paused for any sign of a change, a sudden dark smile or something or anything one would usually expect from an alternate. He wasn't sure how to feel about the pang of hope in his chest when there was none, just an almost vaguely relieved look from the other.

Mark let out a yelp, suddenly finding himself wrapped in a pair of arms that ended in hands that held onto the fabric of his jacket like a lifeline. It was a hug.

Oh, it was a hug.

Mark held on in return, almost instinctively. Cesar felt oddly small now, but still familiar enough to imagine just for a second that things were normal. He wasn't sure if either of them would be able to let go.

#this is a first draft like everything else and listen I was half-possessed writing this probably #also I totallywasn't projecting how shaky I am rn onto mark that's ridiculous lol why would you suggest such a thing #this has been floating in my brain since the end of chapter six so uh. here's me finally getting the courage to just write it already #also thank you to everyone who contributed to the poll lol #I refuse to apologize for any damage this caused. I hope the ending made up for it at least somewhat. I guess it's hurt/comfort tonight #mark refuses to go through all of that again I think. and can we blame him #hail true body au #mark heathcliff #cesar torres #the mandela catalogue au #the mandela catalogue fic #the mandela catalogue #mythic's drabbles #tmc au #tw suicide mention #tw guns #tw self harm #¬ Two have become one. ¬ #¬ You won't leave me again. Right? ¬ #:)

[redhead-writes]

Every angel needs their halo

Huge contribution from my lovely friend @pollyna. Alternative name for this is: “ Halo🤝the daggers: we're going to fix what it's broken because mavdad and icepop can't be sad”.

Halo had impressed the Admiral Kazansky a lot and so he put her on this mission team. He knew she would do her best on this and keep an eye on Maverick for him. 

When Maverick found out that Callie ‘Halo’ Shen will be on this mission team, he realised he has to impress this young WSO because his husband cares about her a lot, but it seems they didn’t get off to best of the start. Mav seemed to get into a lot of trouble while Halo was working with his husband.

Maverick would go around talking with himself,saying stuff like "Don't fuck this up Mav, you need you're husband's kid to like you" and so everybody starts to think Halo is actually Adrmial Kazansky's kid. Mav is so embarrassed because they tell that to Halo. She doesn't understand why someone would think something like that!  It confuses hell out of her until she heared Mav over the comms.

Halo sends recording to Ice. Ice goes on spiel that he would love to be, he would feel honored to be counted as father figure to Halo, of course, if she wants to. Because Mav had Bradley and yes, he co-parented. Halo is different. She brings out his soft side again. He feels responsible to take care of her. Callie also never treated him with gloves like others after his sickness. Halo even tears up and says yes but that she will grill Mav for some time. She can’t allow the old man not to pay for his sins.

Ice is taken by all that and how Mav is concerned that he tries to do his best to shoot his husband's cautions away because I could never ever feel less for you even if Halo doesn't like you. “You're my wingman, Mav, and I'll take you with me even to afterlife, my love.”

But Mav still wants to impress and be on Halo's good side because she is the first kid after Bradley that his husband had shown his soft side to. This is important to his husband, so he is gonna nail it whatever it takes him. When it comes down to Ice and proving to his husband that he cares deeply about people he cares about? He wants to nail it down but it has to be good too, so it's extra work but it's all worth it.

And like Mav telling Halo after a strenuous training session I SEE WHAT HE SEES IN YOU AND THANK YOU FOR TAKING CARE OF HIM FOR ME. After that Callie can’t keep grilling Maverick. He had broken down her walls, too, like he had done with Iceman before. So she answers with the same to him, taking Mav by surprise. That spurts Maverick asking her and Phoenix to come to dinner on Friday.  He knows they are dating each other and has since they were deployed together on previous mission. Mav has constant need to fill their nest and now he has the chance again.

Mav didn't even know he wanted all those people around until he started having them and now he just continues to invite people over and it's awesome because he can cook with Ice and it's the win of a win. When the Navy made you lose so much but finally it is giving you back what you deserve and finally these old men can be happy. And Mav takes it all, and sometimes he thinks he's a little selfish but then he looks around and on Ice's desk mostly and realizes he's hoarding too, all the moments he can in pictures and he can finally breathe.And they are the first piece of Mav's family? Literally the first two people he can call his own?

Halo teaches them how to cook her national dishes that her grandma thought her how to. Halo teaches Maverick how to eat with chopsticks and Ice sends video out to the '86 group chat because some tries are too funny. Halo is happy. She now has two gay dads that are proud of her chosen career and of her partner. Also she notices baby Roosters on the mantel and how sad her dads look at them. So she gets Phoenix help for intervention because Halo knew Rooster was an idiot but this is some kind of absurd level of it. Ok, intervention could wait because the anger was too great right now. She could not believe that someone could carry anger for over 15 years.

Bob is first to join Halo and Phoenix at these dinners. He is shy at the start but then he warms up and Ice is amazed by how smart this WSO is, not only about planes but life, when you allow him to feel safe to talk. They get into deep discussion. Next time Bob brings books that he thinks Ice would love to read. That house becomes Bob's safe space. Bob brings Fanboy next and he is amazed by the science fiction library Iceman has because secretly Ice is a geek. So Fanboy starts bringing over Lego sets. They start with Dark Star from Star Wars that they all construct together.

Bradley tries to think of what he did to piss off Halo. Because she won't stop glaring at him. He asks Phoenix but she also is curt with him. Bob looks like he is contemplating murder and it seems it is Bradley's.

Hangman: Hey, Rooster. What did you to piss off those three? Usually, it is my job. Like even Baby on board looks murderous. Even my dumb jokes never get him like that.

Rooster: Wish I knew, Bagman.

So next they bring in Hangman and he isn't his usual cocky self. More like a star struck puppy, catching every word that comes out of the admiral's mouth. But after time he also relaxes and lets his walls down. Iceman had talked with him about his attitude that reminded Ice of his own once. The hug Jake got at the end of conversation brought him close to tears, to be honest, he cried a bit. It was nice to be just Jake. Now he got why Halo, Bob and Phoenix looked so murderous to Bradley. How would that prick choose loneliness over this? Over being loved and cared for. After Hangman the rest of mission squad ends up in Icemav house, except Bradley because that would end up in drama. Ice gives them all the keys to their home. Rooster finds it strange that each Friday all the mission group disappears somewhere without bringing him along.

And Bradley is like : “Weird, where everyone has disappeared to?” He asks them but everyone tells some lies because they still need to fly this mission with him. Even if right now they would trust Hangman more than Rooster. Shame, that they aren’t the ones in power of choosing who flies it.

Tom comes in the car to get all the kids and promises doctors that he will wake Bob and Nat up for their concussion checks. So they all are allowed to leave. Fanboy and Payback had taken over the kitchen, making dinner for everyone. The Ivy league and Omaha are turning living room in one huge bed.

Halo is the one to walk in on Bradley shouting at Maverick. She had heard raised voices on her way to get Javy to hospital. Callie just stands between them both because no one talks to her Dad like that, not even this child who he raised. Rooster is towering over her, seething but she is not breaking the eye contact she has with Rooster. He once again had hurt Maverick. The man finally had started to look happier but he had to ruin it. Now Halo had seen that man really could carry anger for over 15 years. Well, if he was gonna hurt Maverick, she was gonna hit back even worse.

Halo: He has me, other daggers and his husband. Who do you have, Bradshaw?

With that she puts arm around Mavs shoulders and leads him out of room, feeling the older man's body tremble under it.

Halo: We are gonna get you some juice, dad, pick up Jake and Javy and go to hospital to visit Bob and Phee.

The older man just nodded and allowed himself to be led out of the station. There were people behind him who wouldn't leave him. He had his kids who he was going to bring back from this suicide mission.

Tom was scared when he got a call about an ejection accident because it still hit too close to home. After hop 31 every ejection is a mini heart attack for Ice and Mav. But seeing both Bobby and Phee coming out of their hospital room on their own was enough for him to relax.

So everyone stays in the living room. Those two old dogs guarding the kids and watching their chests rise and fall. Like a reminder that they all are here and okay.

Ice to Mav: You have to bring them all back.

Mav: Isn't that the reason why I am the instructor?

Ice: You know that was always just half of the  point. You have to bring them all and yourself back, Mav. I won't tolerate any less.

Mav: I promise and then I am gonna take the promotion so you don't have to worry anymore. But if you promise to come up with me again?

Ice: With you I would go anywhere. I am happy that you for once will be close by again. Just one piece of the puzzle missing.

#top gun maverick au #top gun maverick fic #icemav #tom iceman kazansky #pete maverick mitchell #halix #callie halo shen #callie halo bassett #natasha phoenix trace #robert bob floyd #jake hangman seresin #javy coyote machado #mickey fanboy garcia #reuben payback fitch #mavdad #icepops #my precious

[gasha40k]

Making hobby baby steps! I haven’t gotten much painting done since my last post since my motivation has waned for some unknowable reason, but I got my hands on some Microset and Microsol in the mean time.

Woah! Heraldry!

The shoulders of my Thunderbearers have been remarkably unblemished for far too long, so I finally got around to putting transfers on my painted models. All of my (painted) Intercessors now have a black arrow on their right pauldron—a decal sourced from the Imperial Fists transfer sheet—denoting their position as battleline Astartes.

A few of them have numbers on their golden knee pad, but most of my normie dudes have sparse transfers beyond that and the shoulder arrow. I purposely didn’t put numbers on everyone because, frankly, I’m not sure what they signify yet.

I think I’d like them to denote the Company that the individual warrior originates from or holds the closest connection to, since squads are constantly broken, shuffled, and reformed in a Thunderbearers order of battle. I haven’t decided quite yet, though, as it’d also make sense for the numbers to represent what squad the Astartes is part of. I’m definitely leaning away from that, however, because that’d require me to slot my dudes into specific squads, which I don’t want to do at all. Breaches the rules of my weird organizational brain.

2nd Lieutenant Simon Sadrian of the Thunderbearers 1st Company

My Intercessors aren’t the only ones with new decals, though. Lieutenant Simon Sadrian, seemingly in a never-ending quest to be my most pimp infantry model, is sporting fresh livery as well. He’s got about three new decals, all of which adding considerably to his noble regalia, further emphasizing him as an important and stand-out unit.

The transfer on his front left kneepad, a numeral ‘II’, represents the fact that Sadrian is the 2nd Lieutenant of his Company, that being the venerable 1st Company. I’m debating where I should put a white ‘I’ to represent the actual company he’s a part of, but I’m thinking of putting it on his forehead to give him a more distinct appearance. I think it’d look cool, and would pair nicely with the white of his Armor Indomitus.

The transfer on his gold-trimmed right shoulder is a Codex-compliant Lieutenant symbol signifying his role in the Chapter. This was pretty much a no-brainer decision, he’s a Lieutenant so he gets the Lieutenant logo. Whatever. But speaking of shoulders and trim, I think I might make it so only 1st Company gets the gold shoulder pad trim. It would be a good way to have my Veterans stand out, and would explain why all my Command units have gold trim, while my goons do not.

Sadrian’s bracer was another broad surface to plaster shit onto, so I decided to give him an Iron Halo symbol. His actual Iron Halo, previously placed atop his backpack, has long since snapped off and been lost. Despite this, he usually has an invulnerable save when I’m playing him on the tabletop due to him frequently being kitted with the Armor Indomitus relic. I figure the Iron Halo symbol signifies that he has alternative forcefield tech somewhere on his body or in his armor, maybe contained within in the bracer, itself.

The Chapter’s most revered Dreadnought, the Aurum Eternatus, an indomitable warrior sentience birthed from the melding of interred Chapter-Master Lucius Harold and the remnant soul within the Hail Aeterna

Moving on, Big Harold, another venerable (awesome pun) veteran from the 1st Company, has received his transfers, as well. Being the Chapter’s previous Chapter-Master, Big Harold has seen an unknowable number of combat deployments. The Chapter sees him a veteran of the absolute highest regard, considering him with as much honor as one can a walking coffin. Suitably so, he’s kinda been plastered with decals to bring him closer to that venerable status in appearance.

Put some “text” (scribbles) on his purity seals and I also cleaned his little Dreadnought engine backpack up a bit

On the top-center of his chassis is a white, Codex-compliant Command skull, which represents his role of Chapter-Master prior to his interment within the Hail Aeterna, despite him not technically being a member of Chapter Command. The large ‘I’ numeral on his left arm states his belonging to the 1st Company, as well as his honor amongst even the revered Dreadnoughts. There’s also some prayers inscribed around his arm, but I couldn’t get a good enough picture of it.

His left leg panel is either a campaign badge or an honor mark. I can’t decide, and it doesn’t matter that much, to be honest. It just looks sick. On the right side, though, is a Codex-compliant Veteran symbol and another ‘I’. This is further veteran regalia, harkening to his history in the Chapter, both past and present.

The ‘Raijin,’ a recovered pre-Indomitus Interceptor with a particularly furious machine-spirit

That’s it for my transfers quest, but as a closing note, I’ve decided to say that my Interceptor is tentatively “finished.” The black-lining is solid and… most of it is properly colored. It’s not a fantastic tabletop presence and I definitely plan on highlighting it at some point, but I’m done with this shit for now. Hallelujah.

My classic Daemon Prince has been at my local GW for a long ass time now, so hopefully by my next post I’ll have that in my hands. I’ve also gotten my hands on a couple things from a friend who plays Orks, and it may or not be an Ork. That’ll be a project for my World Eaters that I’ll talk about later. I’m also gonna make a finalized heraldry sheet because third time’s the charm, I guess. Back to painting I go.

#warhammer 40k #miniatures #painting #adeptus astartes #thunderbearers

[magioftheseas]

Stop Being Mean To The Heroine!!

Summary: Shen Yuan just wanted her underrated and overhated best girl, Luo Binghe, to be happy. So why the fuck was she put into the role of the bitch who tormented her Bing-mei the most?!

Rating: T+

Warnings: Mentioned physical and emotional abuse, internalized misogyny and homophobia, language, mentions of sexual content, Shen-brand clownery.

Notes: Look. Maybe if I could find more than ONE fucking villainess isekai yuri, we wouldn’t be here. But I cannot, so here we are. This is more of a preview/for fun idea. I know I wrote something similar with shuake...but this one has lesbians so it’s completely different.

***Alternate Ao3 Link*** Commission? Donate?

Light shined through the glass windows of the greenhouse, basking the inner garden with an almost halo. That halo, of course, couldn’t compare to the one atop a young maiden’s head, no matter how much that maiden’s head hung low between hunched, miserable shoulders.

“...Luo Binghe,” her most wretched tutor began. Slowly. Cruelly.

Luo Binghe flinched, and that flash of panic and unease was enough to cause any gallant man to launch himself forward to protect her from the world and its horrors. Those helpless garnet eyes darted away from her tutor, those precious cupid-bow lips trembling.

“Y-Yes, madam?”

Such a pitiful quiver! It should’ve been a siren call to every knight far and wide!

The most beautiful maiden is in peril! Come save her right away! What the fuck are you waiting for?! Doesn’t your heart cry for her torment?!

To make matters worse, the system glowed menacingly before the wretched tutor. An unwavering text box with a single question.

How should she be scolded?

And it only provided three options.

>Throw tea at her.

Ah, yes. The tried and true punishment of dumping hot tea on the poor girl and then forcing her to sit properly for hours. And if scalding hot water to the point of blisters wasn’t enough to push Luo Binghe to the brink of tears…

>Smack her arms.

Then there was always the pure physical fucking torture! Why even be shy about it, ah?! Why not just beat this poor girl like a fucking drunkard if you just want to see her battered and broken?! Might as well keep it simple! And you can still force her to sit properly for hours after! Why! Not! Why the fuck not?!

>Scold her verbally.

This one could only earn a helpless sigh from the wretched tutor. The mega bitch whose only purpose, it seemed, was to abuse the pure-hearted heroine. Keeping her face hidden by her fan, the bitch finally spoke up.

“Straighten your shoulders. A lady must always have good posture.”

Stern. Cold. BITCH.

“Yes, madam!”

Luo Binghe, ever the dutiful darling, hurriedly squared her shoulders and…and, and, and…

Bounce.

Yep. There they were.

Luo Binghe’s greatest weapons.

Her bountiful bosom rising with the motion, now at attention. Even stuffed into an unsightly gown didn’t fully obscure the perfect curvature nor the plush swell. The tits that launched ten thousand ships in the flesh! No wonder many a man lost their heart and mind immediately!

And now even the mega bitch tutor was ogling her like a dirty old uncle! What the fuck?! Could this wretch’s degeneracy know no bounds?!

The tutor quickly resumed hiding behind her fan, a racing heart where the cold void should’ve been.

Indeed, Shen Yuan was truly gobsmacked by the precious fruits of her most cherished idol. So much so that she nearly broke character! While the mega bitch tutor would indeed eye Luo Binghe’s chest, that was more so with disgust and disdain than…the awestruck marveling that she was actually doing.

That stupid fucking system was blaring fucking OOC warnings at her, too.

Shen Qingqiu is a cold-hearted woman who never breaks face. Whose cruel eyes only grow frostier. If I cannot play this role, then…who knows what might happen to me.

And already, the system shifted into another text box.

How will you respond?

With three wretched fucking options.

>Throw tea at her.

>Tell her she looks like a whore.

>Verbally reprimand further.

Why the hell is this bitch’s first thought to always throw tea at Binghe, ah?! Luo Binghe has probably been doused in tea more often than she’s been bathed!

And body-shaming was just out of the question! That was a betrayal of womanhood and clearly just a display of insecurity! Just because Luo Binghe’s body type was enviable and unattainable did not fucking mean it was okay to tear her down for it! Just what the fuck!

Biting her lip in frustration, Shen Qingqiu gritted her teeth through the third option.

“Chin up. Eyes straight.” And before she can even stop herself, “You’re such a disappointment.”

Are you really so goddamn petty that you can’t be a little polite to this poor little sister?!

“Yes, Madam.” And Luo Binghe! That sweetheart! Her chin went up and her eyes valiantly locked on the fan of her tutor (whose face was still hidden). “This lowly one apologizes for her incompetence.”

Don’t apologize! Don’t! Not only is it not your fault that your tutor’s just a petty mega bitch…

Inside Shen Qingqiu’s head was only screaming.

But the more pitiful you are, the greater the karmic retribution will be at the hands of all your vengeful husbands!!

–

To start with, the world of the game was…trash. It was utter trash.

Pretty Immortal Demon Girl was an uninspired and vapid title, but Shen Yuan was drawn to the premise and figured she had time to kill. If this dating sim boasting hundreds of husbands was any good then maybe it’d be fun for an afternoon or two.

First of all, it was less a dating sim and more a hubby collect-a-ton. Oh sure, some of the meat bags had names attached to their handsome faces but it wouldn’t be long before they got lost in the sea of hot dogs all panting over and crawling over one another to slobber on the heroine’s feet. It was one of the most shameless indulgences of wish fulfillment that Shen Yuan ever sat through.

And of course, the cursed thing had amassed a cult following of tons of fans and fujoshi over the various men from the sweet-faced childhood friend to the sexy and seductive demon lord’s son. However, one character often lost in the shuffle was, ironically and yet predictably enough, the heroine.

Luo Binghe was…frankly the only reason that Shen Yuan kept reading even after she long lost track of the guys following Dude No. 42.

Her beginnings were as humble as could be. She was an orphan discovered in the river by an old washerwoman and raised with a lot of love and care. Tragically, her adoptive mother passed away from sickness and age, leaving the poor girl alone once more.

And then, she was discovered to be the secret daughter of a well-respected knight of the palace! The old palace master, who had cared deeply for that knight then took Luo Binghe in.

But rather than fortune shining down upon her, that palace turned out to be a special kind of hell. Like any other weepy and victimized heroine, Luo Binghe was forced to suffer all kinds of humiliation and bullying from her peers and even the palace staff, but the worst offender was no doubt the wretched mega bitch tutor.

Shen Qingqiu! Once a respected swordswoman and sorceress who following an unfortunate deviation was forced into early retirement and could only continue in the field as a teacher. She still commanded respect with not only her intelligence but also her clever handle on social posturing and networking, so if you thought to feel even the slightest bit sorry for her, think again!

Shen Qingqiu had always been a bitch who delighted in tormenting her female squires and underlings while shamefully lusting after the men. But as she was the beloved sworn sister of the highly respected master of swords and magic, Yue Qingyuan, no one dared speak a word against Shen Qingqiu.

And because of that peerless reputation, Luo Binghe was dropped off in front of Shen Qingqiu without a second thought.

And Shen Qingqiu, the petty fucking hypocrite that she was, took one look at this filthy little orphan only taken in due to her supposed bloodline…and decided that the new purpose in her life should be tearing Luo Binghe to shreds.

Yes, Shen Qingqiu was loathsome to the bone! Not a single soul mourned when the witch had been torn to shreds by the army of husbands.

But Luo Binghe didn’t fare much better within the fanbase.

Once pure-hearted and innocent, once her demonic blood was revealed and Shen Qingqiu’s immediate attempt on her life was evaded… Luo Binghe had gone through a devastating transformation.

The white flower blackened into a spiteful and vindictive seductress. One who still pretended to be a lamb to all the men to twist them into doing her bidding. One who was not above fucking men into submission and dangling pleasure over their heads as she ordered travesty after travesty. All in the name of destroying those who had wronged her.

Shameless! Perhaps even vile! A pure green tea bitch!

And so fucking interesting, Shen Yuan thought! Anyone who complained clearly had no taste or it was just sexism.

Sure Luo Binghe wasn’t the typical virtuous heroine, but she was complex! Still tortured! Under those thorns of cruelty and sexuality was still the broken, delicate heart of a maiden! One that just needed the right mending by just the right man…

Which. Never. Fucking. Happened.

Every ending was the fucking same with a cold Luo Binghe ruling the kingdom with her harem army. The only real difference was some of them focused on a specific husband or two. This resulted in the fanbase raging against Luo Binghe for being a tyrannic empress and writing fic after fic where <insert husbando here> came to his senses and vanquished the dreaded beast.

Whereas Shen Yuan looked at all these useless fucking fuck boys and was like, “NONE of you could reach Luo Binghe’s maidenly heart?! Not a SINGLE fucking one?!”

What a fucking waste of time! To think another woman wrote something so deeply unsatisfying! Even Shen Yuan could do better! She could do much better!

Shen Yuan could easily write a story where her precious Bing-mei found love and happiness with the perfect man of her dreams!

And then Shen Yuan died.

Shen Yuan then woke up…in the body of the mega bitch Shen Qingqiu. With the system happily blipping into view to inform her of all the torment that she was to inflict on Luo Binghe lest the world be destroyed and she get sent back to her real world where nothing more of her than a corpse remained.

Motherfucker.

–

So. She couldn’t have been reborn as Shen Qingqiu before meeting Luo Binghe. Oh no, that would’ve been too fucking easy. By the time Shen Yuan’s soul rolled around into the black hole that supposedly housed Shen Qinqgiu’s stone-cold heart, it had already been three years since Luo Binghe was taken in.

Three years.

Three years of getting tea thrown at her. Getting locked in the shed. Being forced on her hands and knees for hours. Being forced to fast for days after body-shaming. To make matters worse, Luo Binghe’s hair was currently shorter than a boy’s.

This was the case…because Shen Qingqiu had wrenched up a handful of Luo Binghe’s curly tresses and forcibly sheared them off. Blaming a sobbing Luo Binghe for having such untameable hair.

God. Fucking. Dammit. Shen Yuan knew she was fucked. That she was forced to keep torturing this poor girl was the cherry on top of this shit sundae!

But if the host does well, the system cheerfully chirped. She may freeze the dialogue option and the OOC warnings.

By the time she fucking managed that, Shen Qingqiu would’ve already dug her grave six feet under.

It sucked. It really, really sucked.

–

“It sucks so much!”

OOC, the system informed her smugly. Shen Qingqiu would never whine and kick her feet like a spoiled brat.

“Fuck off! Let me act however I damn well please in my own room!”

Permission granted, the system decided.

Piece of shit. Shen Qingqiu threw a pillow which just flew right through the screen. The system flicked out of existence but no doubt it was cackling at her misery. Shen Qingqiu had half a mind to yank her own hair out of her scalp and scream.

Unfortunately, it was for the better she not be overheard. Shen Qinqiu was thought to be as strong and silent as a statue. One who only spoke when necessary and never drew attention to herself by any means beside a sheer force of presence.

What a fucking laugh considering what a monster the woman actually was.

Shen Qingqiu sighed, opening and shutting her fan a couple of times.

The rest of that meeting with Luo Binghe had, thankfully, passed by without further incident. Once Luo Binghe’s posture had been corrected no less than five times, the system stopped bothering them and Shen Qingqiu could sip the tea in peace. It was tea that Shen Qingqiu had brewed herself to ‘teach Luo Binghe how it was done’ (read: so that she’d have one less thing that the system would force her to get on Binghe’s ass about), and thankfully she retained enough physical memory to not embarrass herself with a weak cup.

Luo Binghe still seemed hesitant, but she sipped the tea and complimented Shen Qingqiu earnestly and sweetly. Shen Qingqiu never responded to anything. Because anytime she spoke, it was always, always, always to say something fucking nasty.

“I can’t compliment Bing-mei on anything!” Shen Qingqiu lamented.

Because that would be OOC, the system reminded her.

Shen Qingqiu groaned, waving the system away.

OOC. Once she unfroze that feature, she’d be able to treat Luo Binghe justly. She’d be able to shower the child with praise instead of hot tea. She’d be able to pat that curly head without pulling out the strands. She’d be able to get on her knees and grovel for forgiveness so that Luo Binghe wouldn’t send the dogs after her!

Change her fate! Change the ending!

And then, Shen Qingqiu thought with the utmost seriousness. Weed through all those useless sausages and find a truly worthy man for my darling Bing-mei.

But did such a man even exist? Maybe, as the reformed and oh so dutiful tutor, Shen Qingqiu could keep that precious flower to herself to painstakingly nurture and care for…

DEGENERACY WARNING!!!

“It was a fucking joke!” Shen Qingqiu hissed at the blaring system. “Obviously, the best thing to do would be to retire to the peaceful countryside once I can be sure that Luo Binghe won’t have me hunted down!”

Besides, even if I were a man, Luo Binghe deserves better than a bitter nag.

Unfortunately, matchmaking would have to come later. Much later. She needed to find a way to freeze the dialogue options and OOC restriction stat.

She didn’t think the system would stay satisfied with mere verbal abuse. So before the dialogue forced her into doing something truly heinous…she had to act.

No pressure.

Shen Qingqiu fanned herself rapidly.

No pressure at all.

Best of luck to the host! The system cheered.

She sure as fuck was going to need it.

It’s not just for my sake, Shen Qingqiu thought, biting her lip as her head filled with images of that sweet, pure-hearted heroine. I want to do right by you as well, Bing-mei. It might be tacky, but please stay strong!

Once your madam freezes the dialogue and the OOC, there will be nothing stopping her from throwing herself at your feet!

#bingqiu #bingyuan #luo binghe #shen qingqiu #shen yuan #scum villain's self saving system #svsss #lf you can find the line that drove me to write this entire fic then I'll give you a prize #Magi fics