#but oh god its so old - and it started to blow up again with the release of the remaster | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

queenburd · 5 months

Text

Cross posted to ao3. Very mild formatting differences. Comments make me happy.

Hey, folks, this one is heavy, long, and full of repetitive text and phrases. While I know that's par for the course with this game, I bring it up because I know writing it made me feel weird at times, and it intentionally leans into its theme of deterioration. Take care of yourselves. We're dealing with the Figurines Ending, the Epilogue, and the Skip button.

If you like my writing, please consider tipping me. I also have commissions and a paypal donation button.

|.|.|.|

The first thing Stanley does, when the reset hits and he finds himself staring at his desk, is pick up the mug that sits on the corner and hurl it out the door of his office. It hits the wall beside the doorframe on the opposite side of the room, and shatters on impact.

“Stanley?! What in God’s name—“

He screams.

It’s a hoarse noise. It’s deep and it’s broken and it hurts to get out, but he screams because there’s something horrible inside him, something he needs to purge. The noise cuts out, and then begins again.

The chair is grabbed next—he hooks his arms around the backrest and lifts the thing to chest height before he flings it with all his strength. A wheel catches on the doorframe to his office and the chair crashes to the floor, hitting the wall with an almighty, horrendous crash and sliding partway across the hideous beige carpet.

“Stanley!”

His chest heaves with fierce, angry panting. His cheeks are wet. Another noise wrenches itself from his throat. Stanley turns to his desk and swipes his arm across everything on it, knocking pencils and papers and pens to the floor. He slams his fists on it. He turns and kicks one of the filing cabinets, turns and paces in the little room like a caged animal.

There is so much built up inside him that he doesn’t know what to do with. All he knows is that he’s going to rip this place apart with his bare hands.

It’s not just anger, you must understand. It’s much more complicated than that. You see, Stanley has just come from the Epilogue.

The sand blows around him. The wind is cold and fierce. The sun is unforgiving. The moon is a large lamp in the sky.

And Stanley is alone.

He walks for what feels like eternity. He walks for what seems like mere minutes. He walks towards nothing. He turns in every direction. He puts one foot in front of the other.

And Stanley is alone.

The fire doesn’t warm him. He can’t dislodge the chairs from the ground. There’s sand in his shoes and shirt and mouth. He wraps his arms around his chest and walks and walks.

And he is alone.

“Yes, I'm remembering something now. I remember before this whole story got started.

Back then, I was... I was different; I used to make big decisions, I was passionate! I was skeptical! I weighed each decision with profound thoughtfulness.

And then, somewhere along the way, I stopped making decisions.

I became lazy. And I came up with—well—I came up with a character named Stanley, to do my thinking for me. He would make the decisions, he would decide which way to go, I would cheer him on as he collected figurines for no reason.

Why did I invent Stanley? Was I lonely?

Yes, perhaps that's it. Perhaps I needed to imagine I had companionship. And Stanley really did make for a wonderful companion, even if he was a fiction.

But—ahh, I suppose it's grown old. I-I want to think for myself again. I want to go back to how it used to be.

Yes, I can be on my own again. I can do it! I'll be stronger this time. I'll take care of myself. I don't need Stanley anymore.

Oh, but he truly was so much fun to play with!

You know what? Since we're in the Memory Zone, how about one more good memory?

Let's go back, just once, and give Stanley one more run of the office! And then, I'll retire him for good. I did enjoy telling his story—so very much.

Okay, here we go.

This is the story of a man named Stanley.”

The Memory Zone is flooded with sand. The bucket does little to comfort Stanley, even as he holds it to his chest. He follows the power cord deeper into the deserted building, feeling numb.

[ Narrator? ]

[ Narrator, what are you talking about? ]

[ Can’t you see me? Hey! Hey! Narrator! ]

[ Why won’t you answer me? Answer me, please! ]

[ Narrator! ]

“I’ll take care of myself. I don’t need Stanley anymore.”

“Jim.”

The buttons glow softly. He presses them mindlessly.

“Jim.”

What once was a source of amusement leaves an ashy taste in his mouth. The bastard never tried, in the end, to make these buttons work. Like everything else, he half-assed it, then abandoned it when something else caught his interest. Left it to collect dust. Left it to be forgotten, with the rest of the oh-so-precious memories.

With Stanley.

Hurt blooms in his chest. It’s been minutes—it’s been years. Time doesn’t mean anything at all in this stupid game. Nothing means anything. The thousand thousand runs they’ve played don’t mean anything. The conversations they had don’t mean anything. Their friendship doesn’t mean anything.

He doesn’t mean anything.

“Jim.”

“Stanley.”

“Stop sniggering, Stanley, you’re ruining my take! Oh, it’s no use, we’ll have to start from the top.”

Stanley giggles around the hand he has pressed firmly to his mouth. He wants to be apologetic, and he’s glad the Narrator is involving him in this new promotion for the upcoming update, but the delight in him keeps bubbling over. It’s so rare to see the fellow direct that old familiar vitriol at someone other than Stanley himself. After so long knowing him, hearing him attempt to be menacing and nasty is outright silly.

“Wh—Silly?! You impetuous—Stanley, stop laughing!!”

Sorry, he’s sorry! A little off-balance from his own laughter, Stanley climbs onto the set and adds another tally to the whiteboard there.

“Unbelievable,” the voice mutters while he climbs back off the set and makes sure the camera is still centered on the tripod. “Here I am, trying to make a serious critique of game developer habits, and you demand to be included so I include you, and what do I get? Mockery. Absolutely ridiculous.”

Comments like these do little to dampen Stanley’s spirits, but he does attempt to sober himself. He does, after all, appreciate that the fellow has gone through all the effort to include him in brainstorming this one and setting it up. It was his idea to include the clocks and the tally board, and he really does think the shot is improved for it.

He sits back into the metal folding chair quietly. No more laughing. Promise. He’ll manage it this time.

The Narrator clears his throat. “Right. Let me review the script again.”

Stanley nods. His eyes flick around the small office set, then back to the computer monitor.

Man, has it really been almost nine years? It feels like they’ve been doing this for much longer.

“Well, really it’s only a little more than eight years, if I’m being honest. The original HD game released in October of 2013, so depending on when Ultra Deluxe drops in 2022, it may only be a couple months past the eighth anniversary.”

That’s being a bit generous to the developers, Stanley thinks. Does the Narrator really think it will drop in January?

“Oh, I don’t know, Stanley! I’m guessing, same as you.”

Still. Over eight years. Why does it feel like they’ve been here for much longer?

“Well,” the voice sniffs, “it could be for a number of reasons. Time is relative in the Parable, after all. Then of course there’s the fact you rarely sleep, since you don’t need to, so you get a lot more time than most proper humans would, since the usual human circadian rhythm makes them lose at least eight hours in a day. That’s fifty-six extra hours a week you have over most. Multiply by fifty-two, and then again by eight, and that’s not an insubstantial amount of time, I would say.”

That's fair. That's... shoot, Stanley isn't fantastic with numbers. That's... Fifty by fifty is twenty-five hundred, then six and and two is twelve—

“Twenty-three thousand, two hundred ninety-six hours. Divided by twenty-four, it's an additional 970.6 days, which means over two and a half additional years.”

Did he just pull up a calculator?

“Didn't.”

He totally did. Stanley heard the tapping of old clunky buttons.

There's a derisive sniff. “Yes, I suppose you would be the expert on buttons, and not maths.”

Also, is that two and a half years extra per year, or altogether?

“....I don't know.”

This is gonna give him a headache.

Quite without their meaning to, the both of them begin to chuckle at the same time. It's ridiculous, honestly. They're bickering over math, over time and takes and it's all just so ridiculous.

Eight years, give or take two or possibly twenty. That's how long it's been since Stanley started wandering these halls with little more than a voice for a companion. That's... that's a lot of time together. It's a lot of time for things to change. He kind of likes how things have changed.

And, as the fellow said before, time is relative here. They can and have experienced things on a different scale from how an experience would play out in the real world. Their own individual experiences are different even from each other's, with lost time, pauses between death sequences, loading screens—it's all subjective. Guess Einstein was on to something there. Bet he never imagined it in this kind of context, though.

Still. It's a long time with one other person. The universe spins on, and they have each other.

There's the tapping of keys again, a little soft muttering. He smiles.

He's double-checking the numbers, isn't he?

“No! No, I'm not, thank you!” The defensive tone in the Narrator's words confirm that yes, he is. It's made further obvious by the following deflection. “Now, that's enough of a break, let's get back to work. And no giggling this time, Stanley!”

He clears his throat, and the lights dim on the set. Stanley settles back in the metal chair with a grin, arms crossed.

“What does it mean to be a video game developer?” The voice begins. “It means lying, boldly and brazenly to your audience; promising them release dates that are wildly outside the realm of reality...”

“Stanley.”

Why is he still pressing it? Why can't he stop? Why is Stanley shaking, fingers pressing down on the plastic again and again?

“Stanley.”

When did the Narrator make this? When did he—and why is it here, with the rest of the discarded buttons? Why would he go through the effort to make something, just to leave it behind?

The button doesn't answer him. He presses it, and presses it, and it says his name until the word loses all meaning.

“Stanley.”

Every time you restart the game, we’ll advance the number of the sequel by 1, and then we’ll pick a new subtitle. That way, The Stanley Parable will never end! And nothing in the game itself will change when you do this, either. Adding more content sounds like work, no need to do that. It’ll just be the same content, recycled again and again and again, with a new title screen! What do you say? Should we go forward with this plan? I like it, but I want you to have a say as well. [Let’s do it] [Don’t do it]

He stares at the dark screen, but he doesn't really see it.

Stanley feels cored out. There's an emptiness in him that he can't truly comprehend. It hurts, he thinks, but he feels it in a detached sort of way.

The Narrator is gone. Stanley is alone. Yet, even now, he faces choices that are designed around traps for one or both of them. How is that fair?

How is it fair to ask him if he wants to go back to the office, to go back to companionship, when the companion in question has apparently abandoned him? How is it fair to ask him if he wants to drag that person back into hell, when they've supposedly freed themselves from it after years?

“How they wish to destroy one another. How they wish to control one another.

How they both wish to be free.”

He doesn't want to be alone, in this wasteland. He knows in the end what he's going to choose, and he hates that he does.

He's selfish. He's so, so selfish. His loneliness is more important than the Narrator's happiness, that's what this decision says. It says that he would rather force them both to live through the Parable, again and again, forever, than have the Narrator leave him.

And then, here's the kicker! Is this even Stanley's own choice? Is he coming to the conclusion himself, or is there another force at play, a Player, influencing his decision? He can't know! He only ever knows the Player's presence in the godforsaken Real-Person ending, they only ever fully yank the control from him there. Can he even trust his own mind?

Does... Does it matter?

[Let’s do it]

Stanley is not a good person.

So. As I said before, reader. Stanley's emotions are a complicated tangle of hurt, anger, despair, and uncertainty. It's almost impossible to tell where to begin when it comes to unraveling it all.

Still, one must do one's best.

For as long as the Parable has existed, it has spun around conflict. Taijitu, or yin-yang, is a circle made up of two teardrops, one black and one white, circling each other endlessly. A wheel that turns forever. Opposing forces that will never overtake the other. Always equal, always opposite.

But you recall this, don't you? This isn't new information. We've been here before.

Stanley and the Narrator are equal and opposing forces, circling each other. Stanley makes a choice, and the Narrator responds. Stanley moves forward, and the Narrator tries to pull him back. A battle for control—one only ever responds to the other. Neither of them can claim to want this, but if they didn't want different things, then there would be no game to play.

Time and again, the Parable tests the bond that has been crafted through time and care. Memories are taken. Time is stretched thin as it can go, like a rubber band. Stanley makes a choice, and it brings the Narrator joy or suffering. If he stops, the Narrator will be at peace, but then there will be silence, and silence cannot be tolerated. Silence is the equivalent of inaction.

At the risk of sounding like a broken record, this is a game about control, and the lack of it. If you could find happiness through a single choice, but it would bring another person pain, would you do it?

How they both wish to be free.

But these two have turned a battle into a dance. There will always be a drop of yin in the teardrop half of yang, and vice-versa.

So how do they fight back? How do they choose to progress, when the wheel turns ever back? Or are they doomed to repeat the cycle forever?

When Stanley has had enough of his pacing, when the silence has become too oppressive for him to take, he turns on his heel and sharply faces the open door.

Well? Nothing to say? Nothing at all?

“Well,” comes the bitter retort, slower than expected, “I would ask what you expect this tantrum of yours to accomplish, but that isn't exactly the most constructive comment, is it?”

A hiss escapes through Stanley's bared teeth. That's it?

“What do you want from me?!”

It's desperate. It's hurt. It's confused.

“What have I done, Stanley? I can't make sense of you right now, your mind isn't making any sense!”

Of course he doesn't remember. Of course it's Stanley's job to be the one who remembers, who chooses, who deals with the consequences of both their actions. That's how it's always been, that's—

“Stanley, I know our situation has never been balanced fairly in your favor, but I—“

Stanley storms out of his office and kicks his chair out of the way. He grabs a cardboard filing box off the floor and lifts it over his head before flinging it hard. It hits the cubicle wall by the copy machine and the lid flies off, papers scattering across the floor and box bouncing off the top of the copy machine to fall harmlessly to the floor.

“What has gotten into you?!”

Stanley snarls again, at the open air, the ceiling, wherever he thinks the Narrator might be perceiving him. Never been balanced fairly?! Understatement of the millennia! Speaking of millennia, did the Narrator enjoy his little vacay away from Stanley? Was it fun, “thinking for himself”? Leaving Stanley in the sand with the rest of his discarded little game, his figurines and buttons?

“I—“

Did he come up with new stories? New protagonists? Was he stronger? Was he happier without him?

Did Stanley drag him back to hell?

The silence this time feels distinctly more shocked and hurt. Stanley lets out another noise, pacing across the carpet and then turning to door 429. He lifts his fist and slams hard on it, face twisted up into an amalgamate of pain and anger. He beats his fist on the door again, desperate and despairing.

Say something! Say anything! Fight him! Argue with him! Be angry! Be angry that Stanley was so selfish, that Stanley decided to get revenge for being abandoned, please just—

“I'm sorry.”

He flinches.

“I don't—I don't know what I did, but I think it must have been something terrible. I just can't stop, can I? Even when I'm trying to, to be careful, I can't stop being cruel to you. You're angry with me, I can see that, and you don't—you don't like to be angry, so I—“

The voice trembles. It sounds on the verge of tears. Stanley hits the door again, because it hurts to hear, and that's not fair.

Damn him. Damn his own empathy.

“I'm sorry,” it says again. “Whatever I did, I'm sorry, I'll make it up to you somehow. Do, do you want more endings? I'll make new endings, I'll find a way. I'll find more for you to do, I'll come up with something, please just let me fix it. I'm sorry I don't remember, but I'll fix it.”

Stanley screams hoarsely again. His legs give out and he drops, leaning against the bottom of the door with his fist pressed to it. His chest heaves, shaking sobs that wrack his frame, though there's barely any tears. It's just so hard to breathe.

Stop, stop. Stop. Stop apologizing. Stanley is the one in the wrong here. Stanley turned the wheel back. Stanley tore him from his happy ending.

Didn't he?

“I didn't go anywhere,” the voice responds, distraught. “I never left.”

Then what was that?

“I don't know,” it pleads. “Even if I could go, I wouldn't. I wouldn't leave you behind, you're my best friend. I thought you knew that, Stanley.”

He thought he did, too. But then the voice had called him a fiction again, something dreamed up for companionship, and had decided it didn't need him anymore.

The Narrator is quiet at this, and then he says, very carefully and in a voice terribly controlled, “I only ever thought that when you were frozen with the Skip button.”

The Narrator waited, but he was not stagnant. At some point, while Stanley was in a small concrete room, lit with only the glow of a yellow button on a pedestal, the Narrator decided to pass the time by making something new. Surely, when all this was over, when they were back in the office, they would put this behind them and pass the time as before.

For all that the new content for Ultra Deluxe had been a disappointment, hidden in the download were folders and folders of unused assets. It seemed that the developers had had countless ideas, and yet had done little to expand on those ideas, choosing instead to box them away. Well, the Narrator would show them what new content was supposed to look like! Who cared about Ultra Deluxe? No, he would really knock the reviewers' socks off. He was going to make a sequel! Stanley would love it!

When he came back.

If he came back.

No, of course he would come back!

And so time passed, and that was fine. More time meant a chance to perfect his work, to work out his new features and to even perhaps address some of the complaints people had had about the original game. And more time passed and he thought he might make a button that says the name of the player, wouldn't that be rewarding and engaging? Stanley would love that! A button of his own to say his name, wouldn't that just be delightful?

And Stanley stared unseeing at the Skip button, and the Narrator thought to himself, perhaps not. Perhaps Stanley wouldn't care at all.

But that was fine, because there were plenty of new features for him to explore! He'd love the Bucket, surely. All the silly secret Easter eggs, the little references to lore that went nowhere, he'd get a kick out of it for sure! And the figurines! There wouldn't be anything special about them, of course, but the fact they were Stanley! His silly face! Oh, the Narrator would be so excited to see Stanley get them all, and of course Stanley would, because he would do everything. He would find every single one.

And, and the Narrator was so excited for that! Maybe he didn't know how Stanley would react, maybe Stanley would think it all silly, but the sheer fact he would find each one, it would delight the voice to no end. It would say “you found one of them! One of the figurines!”

It would be so much fun! Wouldn't it, Stanley?

Stanley?

Ah. Still frozen. Of course. Not a problem. The Narrator would be here when he got back. The sequel would be here. The figurines would be here.

He would just get everything ready in the meantime.

Wouldn't it be wonderful, when Stanley was here, and able to play? There would be so much for him to explore! He would love the Bucket and finding its secrets, and oh, the figurines! He'd find them all, surely he must. And the Narrator would say “you found one of them!”

And one of them would be by the red and blue doors, and Stanley would probably get that one last, but there was no guarantee, he did like to keep the fellow on his toes, but when he did collect the last one, the Narrator would say “and now the first number equals the last number!” And it would be so exciting! Even though there was nothing special about them, just the experience itself, doing something for the sake of it, was so special, and he'd think about it always.

“It was such a wonderful fantasy. And so in his head he relived it again, and then again, and again, over and over, wishing beyond hope that it would never end. That he might always feel this free. Surely there's an answer down some new path, mustn't there be? Perhaps if he played just one more time.”

And the Narrator would say, “yes, another Stanlurine under your belt!”

“But there is no answer. How could there possibly be? In reality, all he's doing is pushing the same buttons he always has. Nothing has changed. The longer he spends here, the more invested he gets, the more he forgets which life is the real one.”

And the Narrator would say, “I haven't stopped thinking about them since you nabbed every last one.”

And the Narrator would say, “science tells us that it's impossible to forget your third time doing anything.”

And the Narrator would say, “No, no I'm not ready to move on! Stop the loading screen!”

“And I'm trying to tell him this. That in this world he can never be anything but an observer. That as long as he remains here, he's slowly killing himself. But he won't listen to me. He won't stop.”

And the Narrator would say, “We'll do the Memory Zone again from the opposite direction! See how that feels!”

And the Narrator would say, “I want to keep going! What else is there? What came before this?”

And the Narrator would say, “And before everything else, there was your office.”

And he would pause, and then wonder aloud, to nobody in particular, because nobody would be there, “Was there anything else?”

There must have been. He was sure of it. He was sure there was something, or perhaps someone. But that couldn't have been right, you see, because if there was someone, then he wouldn't be alone. He wouldn't be talking to himself, someone would be listening to him. Someone would hear him. That's what—that's what Stanley was for!

But Stanley wasn't doing that. Stanley had not done that for a long time. Had he imagined Stanley? He must have. He imagined many things, after all. Yes, he must have made Stanley up, to listen to him, to have a companion. It's terribly lonely, after all, being a voice without an ear.

Maybe he should move on. Try something else. Maybe that would be for the best. But—oh, but Stanley made him so terribly happy. Just like those wonderful figurines. He loved to think about Stanley's adventures, he loved telling his story so much. Just like the figurines, he'd have to indulge himself.

Just one more time.

And the end was never the end. Was never the end. Was never the end.

Can you see? Can you see how much they need one another?

“I'm sorry, Stanley,” the Narrator says again, sorrowful. “When the game reset, everything was saved. The sequel content, but also the things I found myself saying during the interim. It's all here, somewhere. It's all my fault.”

So he never left?

“Never.”

And Stanley hadn't dragged him from his happy ending?

“No.”

He slumps further against the door. A hand absently lifts and scrubs at his face. So he's just stupid.

“No, I don't think so,” the fellow says generously. “I think you're hurting, understandably so. I think the Parable seeks out ways for us to try to make the other miserable, so that we will keep trying to control each other. You know the song and dance.”

Where it cannot find conflict, it will manifest it.

“Yes. We've been here before, haven't we?”

They have.

I asked you, before, how they overcome it. I told you they'd made a battle into a dance instead. How do they do it? How do they choose to progress when the wheel turns ever back?

But you already know the answer. You've already seen it. Don't you remember?

We've been here before.

“Stanley, I'm not going to hurt you.”

He didn’t want Stanley to be scared of him.

“Whatever it is, we can figure it out together.”

[ New path, new story. Just me and Stanley. ]

If Stanley gave him context, he could get to the memory himself?

“I—I can’t recall if I’ve said it before, how grateful I am to you, Stanley.”

This time, by the time the hold music has kicked on, Stanley is on the floor, laughing so hard his sides hurt.

[ Don't ever. Call yourself DADDY. Again. ]

Did he just pull up a calculator?

He’s listening. He’s listening, and listening, letting his friend know that they exist, together, the space between them closing again, and for as long as he can he won’t let the narrator be alone in the void.

The unwavering strength in his voice feels like an untapped well of passion. Like he’s working to fuel them both through this damnable path, letting Stanley know that yes, yes, they are moving towards something, he has not abandoned him.

“Please listen. This is important to me, alright? It’s not your fault.”

Stanley's fist has loosened and relaxed against the door. Now it rests there, gently curled, as he thinks.

They have been here a long time, in this game, and he is tired.

So now what?

“Well, now I think I'll close the figurines exhibit, so something like this doesn't happen again.”

The Narrator's voice is rather cool and detached. It lacks distress. It's professional. Words stated in the same way as a script, memorized by heart. Stanley doesn't like it.

He presses his hand flat to the door and rests his temple against it. It's cool against his face.

And after that?

“That's up to you, isn't it?”

Quite without meaning to, Stanley flinches again. The Narrator nearly speaks, before he cuts himself off, seeming to think better of it.

It's hard on the spirit, to be the one who has to make choices. Thinking of what they might mean, what the consequences could mean for others. Certainly, there's power in making decisions, but with that power comes the burden of responsibility. Include the added ordeal of being the one who remembers every consequence, every outcome, and one is left with the distinct feeling that they are being punished. There is no winning here. There is no gaining the upper hand.

He is so tired of making choices.

“Then, perhaps I could convince you to listen to me, and follow direction, for a few minutes.”

Something prickles in the back of Stanley's head in old familiar irritability. He doesn't want to do the story. He doesn't think he can get up.

“I didn't say anything about doing the story, now, did I, Stanley? Close your eyes.”

An innocent enough direction. He obeys, adjusting his position against the door to lean his back against it, hands in his lap.

“Good. Very good, Stanley.”

Still all professionalism. Still lacking familiarity, or anything more than casual approval.

“Now. Take a deep breath. Good. Now let it out, slowly. There you are. Again.”

His breathing steadies and his heart slows. Tiredness gives way to calm.

“Excellent. Now. I'm going to speak, and you're going to listen. That's it. No choices, no paths. Just my voice, and your ear.”

That's not a game.

“No, it isn't. It's a story, and you're my audience. Now. Quiet your mind, there's a good lad.

This is a story about my very good friend Stanley.”

“Stanley's had a rough go of it in his life. He likes simple things, like pushing buttons, and drinking coffee completely black. This isn't to say Stanley is a simple-minded fellow, oh no, not at all. In fact, Stanley is one of the most intelligent and compassionate people I know.

The problem is that, for all that Stanley prefers simplicity, he's been put into an impossible position. He's a protagonist of a story.

Now, everyone knows that the best stories aren't the ones where things just happen to a protagonist, but instead the ones where the protagonist plays an active role in progressing the plot. Making choices that result in changing the direction of a story, towards its climax and resolution. It's all well and good that Hansel and Gretel have been left in the middle of the forest, but they choose to be clever and leave a trail of pebbles behind them, before being forced to resort to breadcrumbs—and then of course the choice to use breadcrumbs changes the trajectory of their tale.

The truth is that being a protagonist is anything but simple. Quite without his permission, Stanley has become inundated with responsibility. It isn't an easy life, and it can quite honestly be an unfair lot to give to the fellow.

But if you ask me, there's nobody better suited to the job.

Now, perhaps this is unfair of me to say. After all, I'm not the one who has to make the decisions. All I have to do is tell his story, as a passive observer. Look at him, look at how he struggles, doesn't this make for an incredible tale of overcoming odds? I of course will never have to shoulder the burden he does, so I can say what I please without any regard to his own well-being. Oh, don't give me that look, Stanley, you and I both know it's true. I wouldn't want to be in your shoes if I were paid to do it.

Yet I've been watching Stanley for quite frankly a ridiculous amount of time, so long one might call me an absolute creep. It's true! And so I feel I am at liberty to say that, for all that it's an unfair position to be put in, and a terrible burden to carry, there's nobody who carries it like Stanley does.

You see, he makes every choice to the best of his ability. He thinks about its ramifications to the best of his knowledge, and does his best to consider what his decision might mean in the long run. Take this recent choice, for example. He's decided to listen to me, for a few minutes, even though it's in his very nature to take action and to disagree, because he knows that I asked him to. He's chosen to compromise, despite the fact I could press an advantage.

He's done so, because he knows in his heart and in his mind that I care about him. I want him to be happy. He knows, based off prior knowledge and based on his own gut feeling, that listening to me will make him feel better, because he matters to me.

And this is a simple choice, deceptively so, but in its simplicity it is a perfect example of what I'm trying to convey—

That Stanley does everything to the best of his ability, with all the care he can muster, and that no one could ever judge him poorly for doing the best he can.”

Stanley doesn't know when he started crying again, body wracked with the force of it. It's quiet, at least. When the Narrator stops speaking, he still feels him all around, comfort on every side.

Does he mean it? Does he really—?

“Of course I mean it,” the voice huffs, faux offense warm in his ear. “Don't you know by now that I mean what I say? Don't you—“ it wavers a little, before pushing on, a touch shakier. “Don't you know how much you mean to me?”

He cries. The sigh is fond, and gentle.

“You're alright, darling. It's alright.”

Taijitu. Balance between black and white. The symbol didn't always have the two dots, you know. In the original concept, yin and yang symbolized stillness and activeness of all things in the universe, respectively. The substance of the universe moves as an active force, until it reaches its limit and becomes still; and yet even that stillness reaches a limit, and becomes active again. The dots, added during the Ming Dynasty, have since their inception been a portrayal of how one will always be the source of the other, and so both will always exist. There will always be an interconnected, interwoven, powerful bond between these two forces in flux.

Which doesn't mean much, to those of us who don't study Taoist philosophy or history. Most of us just appreciate the duality of opposites, who cannot help but have a grain of commonality. One does not and cannot overtake the other. Round and round they go, an endless chase.

Or, one might note, a dance between partners. Momentum carried through. Weight supported. Stepping in sync.

The wheel turns, as do the dancers. This is how they succeed. When one slips back, the other grabs them by the hand and guides them forward with the grace that's only gained through years of practice and familiarity. The wheel turns without catching, and neither are caught under its grind, because they're standing on its face, using it as the platform on which they perform only for each other.

Stanley dries his eyes and wipes his nose. He's sorry for causing such a mess.

“Please, I've seen you do worse and we both know it. Remember the time you threw every chair and box out the window to see if you could make a ladder back up into the office?”

He laughs weakly. Not one of his brightest moments, admittedly. The Narrator had threatened to navlock every last item in the office down if he tried it again, after.

“Which, of course, only motivated you to try again.”

Yeah. Because he's a bastard.

“That you are, Stanley.” The Narrator chuckles. “Now, up you get. Up, up!” he reinforces, while Stanley sluggishly gets to his feet. “I have a surprise for you!”

Oh boy. That can only be good, he's sure.

He's led through the office to the TSP 2 Expo sign, which has returned to take the place of door 416 for good, it seems. When the Narrator guides him through the display environment, he takes care not to rush Stanley, since the thin monitors and patterned carpet delight him more than he ever thought possible, but it's also clear the fellow is eager to get a move on, to show Stanley something he's sure will knock his socks off.

So when Stanley gets to the Jump circle, displaying twenty-one jumps left, he's distinctly unimpressed.

“Just trust me,” the Narrator says, with nothing but earnestness.

And so he does. He steps into the circle.

“Jump!”

With a barely-there smile, and a roll of his eyes, Stanley jumps.

And then the game resets.

THEENDISNEVERTHEENDISNEVERTHEENDISLOADING

Stanley blinks, looking at his computer monitor, then up. Uh... What?

“Stanley,” the voice says slyly, “when have I ever given you reason to doubt me?”

“Now. Jump.”

Stanley's eyes widen. He blinks.

And then he jumps.

He jumps again.

And again.

And then Stanley begins to laugh, utterly befuddled and delighted and surprised and joyful, and the Narrator begins to laugh as well, and the wheel spins on, and so do they.

#the stanley parable #tspud #may writes #the sparrow parable #tsp #idk why i am bothering to tag when the embedded links mean it wont show in the tag but #here we are.

71 notes · View notes

cookiesupplier · 3 months

Text

Every Rose Has Its Thorns - Part Twenty-Three

pairing: Ricky Olson x ofc x Chris 'Motionless' Cerulli

warnings/tropes: slow burn, soulmates, strangers to enemies to lovers, betrayal, angst, fluff, smut, language, panic attack, stalking, online bullying.

summary: In a world where soulmates inexplicably receive a tattoo that will match that of their soulmate the moment they turn eighteen years old, being famous and covered in very visible tattoos can make finding your true soulmate a questionable fate. For everyone involved.

author’s note: Unbeta'd, readers beware as always lol.

tags: @tearfallpixie @cncohshit @jordynyingling0219 @faceless-mirror @nyxthedestroyerofworlds @wild-child-7747 @witchyweeb34 @black-damask1999 @jilliemiw86 @ilovesamkiszka @lyschko666 @lacktoesandtoddlerants @bngurngheart @collapsedglasshouses @laurpartyprogram

Tag List is Open, please let me know if you would like to be added to it or in general.

Talia woke up to her head hurting like hell, but otherwise, she was toasty warm, and cosy in her bed, which was, strange. She didn’t remember going to bed. She remembered.. She remembered..

Oh, god. She remembered being with Ricky, in the kitchen, talking about their soulmate tattoos.

No, no, no, this was horrible. It happened again, it all happened again, her hand flew through her neck, and now he knew how mental she was.. The fact that he could feel it too just made it worse. Look at what she’d done, because of course, it was on her, it had to be on her, she’d been dealing with this for so long, how could it be anything else? Pushing the blankets from her body, sitting up, she was still dressed, not that that had been a problem, she hadn’t been wearing anything strange anyway, she’d barely gotten out of bed when Rick came over here in the first place. How had this been her day? How?

Climbing out of bed, checking the time, Ava would be home by now, hopefully, maybe, she didn’t know.. Did she want her to be back? As much as she loved her, and wanted to spend time with her, it was also starting to get painful to admit, that it was hard to spend time with her sometimes. Especially with Vinny. Their girl day at the spa had been nice, but to come back and be blindsided like that..

No one had told her about deciding to go public. Sure, it wasn’t her relationship, but Ava used to tell her everything, she used to talk to her about everything.. And the painful realisation was that she wasn’t telling Ava everything either, now was she? She’d not told her about the party, what he’d said to her, how he’d treated her, what they’d done.. She hadn’t told her about how her tattoo was reacting, how she felt about it.. Furthermore, she didn’t think she could tell her at all. Everything going on with Ricky, would just threaten to antagonise her against him, and that would put a strain on her relationship with Vinny, and her whole point for being here was to support her, not tear them apart. Ava wouldn’t understand that Talia honestly thought that yes, Ricky had done some stupid thing, but something else was happening here. Something neither of them could control.

Look at what had happened just this morning, they’d gotten swept up again, and she’d been just as involved. She’d pushed just as much as he had, what did that say about her? No, she couldn’t let Ava blow up her relationship trying to protect her just because she got pissed off at how Ricky was acting. Even if some of the things he’d done, he’d deserve it. They could work this out on their own, they could figure out what was happening with the tattoos. If she was right, she assumed Ricky had told Chris, so maybe they weren’t completely in this alone any more, she wasn’t sure about that, though. He could have lied through his teeth about it.

Making her way to the bathroom, Talia sighed, her hands pressed to the side of the counter, looking into the mirror. Seeing her reflection, looked like a wreck after the morning she had. Ironically, she felt like talking to Ricky, and whatever you’d call what had happened in the kitchen this morning, for all that he’d done over the past weeks, didn’t touch on what she'd done to herself today. Talia felt so stupid spiral like that, and just unable to calm down, not until Chris had gotten there and then between the two of them, she finally managed to calm down and breathe, slowly. After that she didn’t know what happened, she must have drifted off, feeling so safe with the both of them there. It wasn’t that she’d never felt safe around Rick, but she certainly wanted to slap him one more than she felt like she would curl up and drift off to sleep with him there, and yet, that seemed to be exactly what she had done.

Huh.

Now, Chris, she wasn’t surprised. He was so easy to be around, he’d put her at ease from the moment they’d met and struck up their friendship over coffee. She didn’t know how or why he’d come, assuming Ricky had to do with that, but she was thankful that he had.

She was splashing water on her face when she heard a knock on the bathroom door and opened it to come out. Finding Ava standing there, she smiled slightly as she stepped out and closed it behind her.

“Hey Avie.. you okay?”

The worried frown on her face spoke volumes, which was why Talia was asking,

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

Sighing, Talia just shook her head with a shrug, figuring Ricky and Chris must have told her something, hopefully not everything.. She didn’t want Ava to know everything about the tattoo issues and all the problems. It was personal and her own.. Or well, Ricky and hers, she guessed at this point.

“I’m fine Ava, I just, had a bad morning, that’s all.”

She didn’t look convinced, not even close. So he told her enough at least.

“That's not the way it seemed when we got home.. Rick tried to call Vinny, he tried to call me for help Talia, he never tries to call me despite Vin giving him my number in case of emergencies.”

Talia sighed, yeah, not that it had helped any, had it.. No, she shouldn’t be bitter, and she wasn’t going to ask what they had been doing that neither of them had picked up their phone, but…

“Not to mention Chris was here too, I mean-”

“I know.. I don’t know exactly how or what happened after a certain point, I just know Chris was there.. I had a bit of a bad spell, and I couldn’t calm down, it happens Ava, you know that, so you pushing right now is not helping.”

The moment the words came out of her mouth, she felt guilty voicing them, snapping at Ava wasn’t going to help either. Still, Ava pushing her for the information she didn’t have right now, was just making her chest feel tight, and if Ava got here and knew she was out.. Asking her what happened, when it had been what had made her freak out? Was that really wise? So could she please step off? Ava knew well how it felt to have people push her for information before she was ready.. She knew.. Talia knew she knew first hand.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry Avie, I.. today has been.. A day. I guess Ricky and Chris went back to Chris’ then?”

Ava nodded slightly,

“Yeah, they’ll be back though.. Um.. Chris helped me get you in bed and comfy, I thought you’d prefer it if it was Chris,”

Ava smiled slightly to her, but Talia could only bring herself to return it a little awkwardly, she wanted to feel more vibrant, she wanted to be more alive and happy for her friend, she just didn’t feel it right now, and she could see it in Ava’s eyes, how upset she was now, probably at Talia snapping at her.

“And then we talked to them both, and invited them over for dinner.. We thought we could all spend some time together, hang out, talk… maybe about what happened?”

Oh.. oh..

Talia tensed.. No, Ava, don’t do this. Don’t do this.

She couldn’t believe the others had agreed to do this, this, this.. Why did this feel like they were going to ambush her over dinner?

“No. No. Just… No.”

If she was doing to sit down and talk with Rick it was going to be on her own terms, and maybe now she knew it was going to be on opposite sides of the table where they couldn’t touch.

Talia moved to walk down the hall towards the guest room, leaving Ava gaping a little,

“Wh-what do you mean, just, no? Talia, hasn’t this been going on long enough, the two of you need to talk! You’ve been arguing with each other, and now you’ve had a breakdown, I’m worried about you!”

Talia just kept walking, she wasn’t going to let Ava guilt trip her, for some reason, she had Ricky in her head, pushing her, pushing her to call him an asshole, pushing her to stand up for herself. Ava had done it so many times before, but this time, this time it was Rick.. she’d never thought she’d have to stand up, to Ava.

“I get that, Ava, but you don’t have the right to try to push the issue just because you think you know what's right for me.”

As she came to the door to the guest room, she turned to face her..

“If you want us all to have dinner together tonight, great.. But don’t you dare presume to think you have the right to decide how my relationship or lack of one with Ricky goes. I have tried to be as respectful as possible of everything between Vinny and you while I’ve been here.. At your insistence might I add, so I ask you do the same… consider this my boundary.. And back off, Ava. I love you, but don’t.”

She was dealing with enough insanity which all started from one dammed place and branched out from there, with a lot of problems and idiot mistakes.. Aka, a mystical tattoo she couldn’t explain, she didn’t need to add Ava to that.

Ava looked like she was almost about to cry, and it was taking everything in Talia not to break down and apologise, to apologise for being harsh, horrible, and strict, but she just couldn’t handle her pushing for more and more information before she was ready… she couldn’t… years and years of her family pushing and pulling, and she couldn’t do this.

Talia’s hands clenched her fingers by her side as she audibly heard her best friend gulp slightly..

“I’m sorry.. I… I’m sorry you’re right..”

A tiny whimper..

“So um.. When Rick and Chris get here, Vin and I will go out for dinner.. Up to you to deal with Chris, I can spend some more time with Chris later, he’s your friend too, maybe, maybe he can help you, deal with Rick, or whatever.”

She smiled, Talia was grateful, she knew Ava had made friends with all the guys from the band during her time with them on the bus during those last weeks of the tour. Chris had been Ava’s friend before he was ever Talia’s. Hell, and for a little bit there, she’d been worried she’d lose her to the bunch of boys entirely. In the kind of intense bonding of the tour, she figured, either a lifelong friendship could form, or they’d kill each other. She was glad it was the former, she’d have hated to destroy her favourite band because they’d killed one of her best friends.

“It wasn’t Rick that made me spiral this morning Ava, I swear, it wasn’t anything he did, so please don’t, don’t be mad at him.”

Oh yes, she heard it, what she’d said, that, dealing with Rick. Looking to Ava who was just looking back towards her sceptically,

“I swear, it was a strange morning, really strange.. But what I was thinking about when I started freaking out.. That..”

She swallowed..

“That wasn’t strange, that I know.”

Sighing. Ava paused..

“Any time you want to talk, honey..”

Nodding slightly, Talia looking down to her hands, twisting her fingers around each other,

“I know Avie, I know.. But I’m just so tired.. And I have a feeling I’m going to have to talk enough tonight with Ricky.. I completely freaked out on him, and I know he has been an asshole but, it was so bad.”

From the look on Ava’s face right then, the way she cringed a little, and didn’t even try and counter her and tell her that it hadn’t looked that bad.. Talia knew she was right, it had been horrible, which meant it had probably been even worse than she had imagined. Well, that was just fantastic. So yes, now she had to explain to Ricky… and Chris, since he’d been dragged into this too. Heaving in a huge breath, the next thing she knew, her best friend had her arms around her, holding her in a warm tight hug.. She needed one, so badly right now.

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

48 notes · View notes

nyoomfruits · 7 months

Note

about the director’s cut: did the wedding in home already always look the way it was published or did you originally have a different idea you wanted to write?

p.s. I really love home already, I read it all at once and felt so many emotions 😍

oh my god anon its like you are in my walls because YEAH there IS an alternate version of the wedding actually!!!!! so i struggled a lot with how i wanted to portray the wedding, and originally i was actually going to write out the whole thing but that kept not working and not working and then eventually i decided to write the aftermath and then come back to it later. but i actually really liked it like that? so then i just kept that hahah. BUT here is a bit i wrote for an alternate version of the wedding (forever sad i never managed to sneak in the line about 'lando's hoodie collection doubling in size when he became oscar's roommate' in another scene)

City hall is a lot colder then Lando expected, despite the fact he’s actually wearing a suit, with a jacket and everything. Oscar had insisted that even though it was just a marriage for convenience they couldn’t just show up in hoodies, no matter how much Lando had pleaded.

So here he is, in the same suit he wore to Cecilia’s wedding, which is actually an old one of Oscar’s that somehow fits him like a glove. It’s always been terrible convenient, how they’re pretty similarly built and have the same size. It meant Lando’s hoodie collection got twice as big when Oscar became his roommate back in college.

Oscar’s in a suit as well, but he’s always in a suit, so it’s not that special. He keeps glancing at Lando with this weird expression on his face, and Lando can’t tell if it’s because he’s scared Lando’s going to make a run for it or if he’s just not used to seeing Lando in a suit. Lando has been fidgeting pretty much consistently since they got here, hopping from foot to foot while they wait for Max and Logan to get here, so he figures it’s probably mostly the first.

“Hey,” Oscar eventually says, when Lando has pretty much started spinning around his own axis. “Are you okay?”

“Are you?” Lando counters, but stops spinning so he can actually look at Oscar.

Oscar sends him an unimpressed look. “Lando,” he says, raises an eyebrow.

Lando blows out a breath, flops forward so his forehead bumps against Oscar’s shoulder. Without hesitation, Oscar wraps an arm around his shoulders, pulls him close. “We can still back out, if you want to,” he says, mostly into Lando’s hair.

“Mngf,” Lando says, allowing himself a moment of being wrapped up in Oscar’s arms before pulling away again.

#landoscar #already home #ask game #i like to keep deleted scenes in case i can sneak parts of it back into it later #but it also works out for stuff like this lmao

51 notes · View notes

slashingdisneypasta · 8 months

Text

Evil Queen x Fem!AFAB!Reader ll Drabble

Plot: Your gentleman caller thinks you're being attacked by a goblin 🧝‍♂️ before his eyes. He doesn't know about you and your queen's escapades... not even the rumours.

*Inspired by Grumpy suggesting that she can turn herself invisible.

Warnings: This is VULGAR, guys. 'Ghost' sex, eating out, public sex, exhibitionism!!!, dubcon on your end (this is a whole surprise from her) and non con for your poor date. Horny lesbians this is for you.

You're out in the grounds on a walk with a possible suitor (one who obviously doesn't know about your dealings with the Queen. Not even the rumours. A foreign nobel), having stopped under a particularly pretty tree to talk - at a respectable distance from one another, -, when you feel it.

Soft lips on your neck. You're startled, eyes widening for a moment. What in the worl-

The lips, belonging to someone apparently invisible standing between you and the nobel talking on about grain to you, press another cool, lingering kiss on your neck before trailing more of them all the way up your neck- leaving heat all over your skin in their wake. Then theirs a hot breath on your ear and you're truy wondering whether possiblh a malevolent castle ghost, or a goblin or something equally devious and scary has taken interest in you- when Hilda's voice whispers ever so softly in your ear. So soft you almost mistake it for the wind.

"Don't react just yet, pet. Let him think everything is fine... "

The words make you nervous but excitement licks at your insides, too, like a flame; A very bad flame that you should put out. You should, you should, you will...

You can't. You've always been weak when it came to the wills of Grimhilde, your Queen. She could make you do anything far too easily, like some sort of siren. You let her teach you things, familiarise you with things... no Lady should know about.

Like how to kiss, and how to use ones lips and tongue on another lady under her skirts when its just the two of you, and the feeling of two wet 'pussies' gliding against eachother... not to mention that vulgar word... You can't help eagerly anticipating whatever she has in store for you right now. Even if it is a wholly innapropriate moment, and you feel terrified that this man will notice, or see something, and call you horrible names. Ruin your reputation. Ruin you.

As if the Queen hasn't already done that.

Except for your reputation, which is still intact by a loose string in this palace- if only because she handles the rumours. 'Gets rid of them'. How? You're not sure. And you're afraid to ask.

While Hilda continues to leave tantelising ghost kisses all over you, your jaw line and the little sensitive spot where your jaw ends just under your earlobe (There she sees it fit to glide her tongue gently, making you shiver when the breeze blows against the area), you try your best to listen to your date. He's talking about- what was he talking about again?? Oh god oh god!-

"Anyway- my apologies, I must be boring you. No one wants to talk about grain for an entire walk." Grain! Yes, it was grain! That was the topic! As Hilda moves over your chin and to the other side of your face and places a hand on your waist and you wonder shortly if her invisibility spell works on her clothes (or if she's naked right now), the nobel gives a lovely smile and nods. "What are you interested in? Do you read?"

Oh, he's kind. You feel bad for what's happening right now- but Hilda doesn't. Her hand starts to rub slowly up and down your side as she lathers you with kisses. "I do! U-um, recently I've been reading some old fables... a l-little childish, I realise, but they're in Portugese so I'm using them to, ah, learn."

"I think that's very admirable. What made you inclined to learn a foreign language?"

"I wish to travel. And, I figure, if I'm going to be there I should know how to communicate there." Hilda allows you to reply, before leaving a particularly sweet kiss to the corner of your lips. More then the corner. Almost half your mouth. You can't kiss back, though, even if you want to- that would surely be an odd sight.

"Very good." Your nobel date laughs, before going into another tangent- this time about Portugal. He's been there, apparently, and if you were listening you would be revited- but Hilda's kisses are straying down onto your throat. She sucks a little on her way down there before she gets to the neck of your dress, and you feel her smirk against your skin. If you didn't feel unbearably hot before, from the affections and the embarrassment, your skin would definitely boil now from the fluster. She's definitely doing this at least partly to torture you.

It's one of her favourite games.

When she starts kissing down your body, over the swell of your chest and down your corset area, your heart truly starts to beat hard in your chest. Like the wings of a bird fighting to stay in the air.

What is she doing!??

Your skirt is long, brushing against the beautiful green grass of the Queen's gardens (matching the gorgeous, magnificent trees you're under), so she can't possibly go any further!! The man with you would definitely notice!

Absolutely not. She wouldn't. That's too-

You feel breeze on your ankles that wasn't there before and the presence of a hand slpping up between your legs. Fingers rubbing one of your thighs.

The nobelman notices the slight lifting of your skirt, despite the lack of wind and the fact that your hands are far from your skirts, and raises a curious brow. "- I'm sorry, my lady, but there seems to be uh- some malfunction occuring with your dress... "

"Oh, um, I'm not sure- " How to lie about this.

The feeling of Hildas hand rubbing your thigh, along with all the kisses before (and, you'd hate to ever be made to admit it- but the danger of the situation as well) are making you feel familiar tingles in your lower area. A greasy slick is beginning to drench your thighs, and you can't take it!! A dark part of you wants her to continue whatever she's doing.

Make you come, right there.

In front of this man. Out in the open. You know it would be the biggest orgasm you'd ever experienced so far, the most pleasure she had shown you so far, even though you know you would be

Mortified.

And the damage to your reputation, by way of this nobleman, would be irreparable.

- Yet, you feel it in your soul, and between your thighs, that you want it.

... that doesn't mean you have to be slave to those feelings, though. You can stop this, you know it. You should.

Hilda can't possibly make you go through with this, can she?

Even though her fingers are now starting to stroke your dripping wet folds, your skirts raising up higher as they probably glide up her shoulder. You just know that she must look devious. Evil, as they call her in the villages.

... you're about to speak up again, suggest you both (you and your date) go back to the castle- but then something happens that makes your stomach completely flip. The nobleman's eyes blow open wide and he looks horrified.

"G- goblin! A goblin has you!!"

The nobleman grabs for his sword after Hilda pushes your skirts all the way up to reveal you to the outside world, but he's quickly shot with a spark of some kind of magic; sparks of fire erupting from the handle of his blade and causing him to drop it instead kf valiantly 'rescue' you. He goes to grab it again, hurried and clumsy, but another shot of magic makes him still.

"H- " You try to say Hilda, and the nobleman (fully conscious with his wide eyes stuck on you- or more specifically your glistening folds) probably thinks you were going to say help. But it doesn't matter either way, as that is the moment Hilda starts to play with your clit. A choked moan forces its way up through your throat, the sensation of her soft, dexterous fingers rubbing prompt circles in the middle of your folds- spreading your wetness all over your lips. Oh god!- oh fuck!

Your thighs beg to part more widely, give your Queen more room to rub you and finger you, make you cum, but you refuse them. No, no. This can't be happening. Fine, you will allow the man watching to think you're being attacked by an evil forest creature- but you won't spread yourself out before him and give yourself over. Even if it feels magical. No. You can't. You have to at least look like you're in distress! You must!

Hilda starts rubbing her finger in a line through your lips, stroking skilfully against your clit as if it were her own she were pleasuring. It's not, though. It's not her. Its you. She's using yours.

Before you can even think anymore, you feel her juicy wet tongue slide against your pussy, a hot flat stroke all over. A sigh slips out of you, your hips twitching.

Oh fuck- your eyes snap up to the noblemans as Hilda continues to lick you, taste you, take away your fucking sanity.

He's still watching, he saw your face change from horror to pleasure. His brows are furrowed in horror, concern and... confusion. Are you liking this!?? Being taken by a damn fae creature!?

You're so close to just giving in now, because how much worse can it really get with this guy, when Hilda's tongue dips between your delicious folds and her lips touch your delicate private skin. Her tongue is just as adept as her fingers, scooping into you and playing with your clit like a filthy whore would in a brothel (you would never tell her such a thing, but she's aware), and you completely give in.

Your feet step apart in order to make more room for your majesty between your wet thighs so she can kiss and fondle your hole even more with her tongue. She smirks once again into your skin and you hear a devious giggle; her fingers coming up between your thighs again and holding open your folds for her to abhse your hole more directly with her dirty, hungry tongue.

For the gentleman to see better, of course. You know thats what she meant, that's what she would say. At this point you're completely hers. She could make you do anything with her tongue deep in your hole like this, your pussy absolutely loving the feel of her fucking you with it in the open air, clear for this man to watch and see. You notice he has a bulge in his nice pants as well a damp spot, and you look away; closing your eyes.

He deserves a bit of respect. What you can give him, at least. Even if that's just pretending to not notice his arousal at your situation.

Before too long a finger slips into your hole instead of her tongue, digging in deep and stretching your walls so much better then her tongue could. You start moaning more frequently, rocking your hips onto her hand. She adds another finger, ripping you open so good, and then one more, and all 3 begin to thrust firmly in and out of your tiny squishy hole. Your moaning is unabashed now and you know the nobleman is seeing you stretched open in front of him but you can't bring yourself to care at all anymore. In fact- it might be making it feel better, that you're being watched- and wanted.

Your hips roll in the air and one of your hands dissapears into your hair; tugging at the strands and begging Hilda. Pleasepleaseplease. Makememakememakeme. Ijusywannacomeijustwannacome!

When her tongue comes back to you as well as her fingers, licking at your hard clit, you open your eyes a crack and see the man once more before you're sure Hilda will 'get rid of him' like she does all the rumours about you. He looks a terrible mess, caught between horror and lust, and it sends you over the edge.

One more hard thrust from Hilda, her curling her fingers inside you to rub viciously at your tight meaty walls squeezing her, hitting your sweet spot so beyond perfectly, and you come harsher than you ever have before.

#Evil Queen x Reader Drabble #The Evil Queen x Reader Drabble #Evil Queen Grimhilde x Reader Drabble #Drabble #Evil Queen x Reader #The Evil Queen x Reader #Evil Queen Grimhilde x Reader #Smut #Evil Queen #The Evil Queen #Evil Queen Grimhilde #Disney Villains #Disney Villains x Reader

70 notes · View notes

yourtouchismidas · 11 months

Note

hi there! could you write something about one of the girls getting sick and matty ends up catching it after looking after her and then the whole family is plagued except rg and she had to take care of all her babies (including matty lol).

matty notices that shay isn't herself at breakfast. normally she bounds out of bed ready to start the day. today she comes down stairs slowly, after everyone else, dragging her tattered blankie after her. the other girls are already at the breakfast table, matty plating up toast. you're at the book shop early, so he can go to the studio later and you can do pick up. shay climbs up onto the spare seat.

"you okay, lovey?" he says, pausing mid butter to look at his girl. she looks pale, he thinks. shay nods.

"uh huh," she says in a small voice. he puts some toast in front of her and she nibbles it. the other girls chatter around him while they eat. shay leaves half her toast on the table.

"right is everyone ready?" matty says, "we need to get off to school."

the other girls jump up and start running to put their shoes on, but shay moves slowly. so slowly, that matty grabs her, hands under her armpits and lifts her up to his face.

"whats up love?"

"nothing," shay says.

"you werent hungry?"

"no," she says. "didnt want toast."

matty puts her down and puts a hand over her forehead. she's hot.

"oh god you're burning up," he says.

"burning?" shay says, her eyes widening in panic.

"means you're not very well my love," he says, picking her up again and settling him in his arms. she goes to speak, but its almost like she can't be bothered.

"i'm not very well," she says, and starts crying.

"oh, i know," matty says, as she buries her face in his jumper. "no school today."

but he has to take her to the gates at least. you're out, so everyone needs to come on the school run, attending or not. the twins are old enough to toddle there with you all, and gigi has strapped their shoes on. so matty gets a fluffy blanket from the lounge, wraps shay in it, and asks gigi to hold the twins' hands as they all walk slowly to school. shay coughs in his arms, barely awake. he balances his phone in between his shoulder and ear and tells you that shay is poorly.

when they get back, he gets her out of her school uniform and into pjs, her lifting her little arms, lathargic. then he puts her on the sofa. he puts the twins down for a nap, trying not to worry that lexie feels a bit hotter than stevie. he opens the window for them.

he gets calpol from the kitchen, and has to wake shay up to spoon it into her mouth and then she falls asleep again. matty could go about his day. he could clean up breakfast, text george about later, do some writing. but instead, he scoops shay into his arms, goes into the twins room, and sits down in the rocker, watching over them all sleep, blowing cold air onto shay's face in an attempt to cool her skin.

you ring and tell him that you are on the way to pick up gigi and valley from school, and you'll be back soon.

"i'm not going to the studio," matty says, "not when she is like this. and i'm worried about alexa. she was hot when i put her down and her cheeks are all red."

"oh dear," you say, "we're in for a rough one."

when you get back with valley and gigi, matty can tell, valley is getting it. she looks pale. she feels fine, and insists on playing, but matty keeps telling her to watch some tv instead, and relax. the girls are their usual chaos, although lexie's eyes are rolling closed even though she'd taken two naps today already.

matty claps his hands to get everyone's attention. shay is still in his arms, still in the blanket, crying whenever he put her down so he ended up just bringing her with him everywhere.

"family movie night," he says, "no questions asked. let's go."

halfway through the movie, matty starts to feel off. he shifts himself under the weight of all his girls, thinking he is just warm from their feverish little bodies. but no. it's worse. it's much worse. he pushes his way out as gently as possible and runs from the room to throw up. when he's back, you're looking up at him.

"oh baby," you say.

"i know," he pouts, "ugh."

all of them end up in the master bedroom. matty, now pale and dressed in only a tank top and boxers, surrounded by his little baby girls, all snuffling in their sleep. his long arms reach around all of them, their heads lying on his chest. you make sure they have everything they need, then you let them sleep.

#ruins #ruins behind the scenes #matty healy x reader #matty healy x you #matty healy #matty healy x y/n #the 1975 fanfic #matty healy fanfiction #dad!matty

110 notes · View notes

wallydarlingsnumber1 · 11 months

Text

posting my cringe old shit i wrote on wattpad. #1

OH GOD. help me. | SMUT | [ P A I R I N G ] ; Ayato Aishi x Reader [ WARNINGS ] ; P in V, Unprotected sex, AND BAD STUPID SMUT. last fucking warning! under the cut you promise to willingly suffer for your actions of this smut.

Prompt : Ayato (male Ayano Aishi) gets horny and starts making out with female!reader :)

I asked my bestie for a prompt so uh here we go 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

BURN!! ^^^(i might delete this chapter idfk) (maybe ill make a masc one >:v) Also this is my first smut so it might be bad 💀💔

Comment here what the adventure was like after the story 💙

(Also you guys are in ur house n shit Its also night Netflix And chill (Even though my bestie didn't say this but i thought to just add this 💀💔))

💔💔💔💔- Ayato's pov Oh my gosh. She fucking right there next to me. Im gonna blow up right now. She's so pretty. Her gorgeous E/C(eye color) colored eyes. The most beautiful H/L(Hair length) hair she has. She dressed up in her little favorite jammies. So cute and only for me.

I wanna fuck her.

I felt hard but ignored it, and grabbed one of the pillows and my legs with it to make sure she wouldn't see.

💙💙💙💙-Y/N's Pov

I felt Ayato's eyes lay on me, i felt tension growing.

I just continue on watching the movie, leaning onto Ayato. My hands move over to his hands and held it. He seemed suprised, but caressed my hands gently.

I kissed him on his cheeks. Smiling at him like a cute little doll.

A few minutes later during the movie

I felt his cold hands snake onto my thigh and rub it gently. I was getting butterflies. He used his free hand to reach for my chin and smiled at me. He kissed me softly. He whined a bit when i pulled away but we both smiled at each other. He pushed me to lay down on the sofa. "Y/N, please~," he said crawling over me. He covered my neck with gentle kisses. I shivered at how cold he was.

He scooted over closer and started to take off my pants and my undergarments.

Revealing my pussy. He took off his own and revealed his member, with some little precum on its tip. It was... Probably a bit big to say the least to fit it in. He inserted his long, cold, finger inside and started to pump it in and out.

"Does that feel good, My little sweetheart?~" said the man with lust-filled eyes. Admiring the scene of you being finger-fucked by him. And i mean, only, Him. "Ye-Yes~" you quietly moaned out. He stopped and inserted two fingers inside you this time and pumped it in and out slowly. You whined out; "P-please~ Ayato, put it in~" His fingers stopped again and smirked at you, his cock was throbbing anyway. He inserted in slowly.

"Tell me when it hurts or you when want to stop, okay?~ I dont want to hurt you THAT much~" he started moving in and out of you. He chuckled. Which, kind of made you a bit worried.

Only a minute passed and you were already moaning mess.

It hurt a little but you didn't care. "H-Haah!~ AYATO!~" You moaned out, "Thats fucking right, moan out my name. Let everyone know how much of a slut you are for me and me only, let everyone know you are mine~"

Now that? That was so fucking hot for you to handle.

He started to suck on your neck and leave hickeys and sped up. "You like it when i do this to you? Hm?" He said, he wasn't even close to being done with you. You moaned, loving the feeling and sensations he had given you. You were close to your climax and so was he.

You came and he did too, of course he pulled out before doing so. "Oh my~..." He chuckled, You tried to sit up but you were pinned back down. "Now, now! We aren't completely done yet~" He rubbed your pussy, he chuckled and loved the thought for another round, the movie seemed to not be done yet, the time was 1:34 am, did you both care? Nope. You both continued.

For what felt like hours. And hours. You both had 3 rounds. The aftercare he gave you was nice though. He loved you so much. Your leg was very sore still though...

Guess you wont be able to walk tomorrow.

___

Oh my gosh what dafuq. WHY DID I DO THIS DURING MY WHOLE ENTIRE CLASS HELP

END OF THAT CRAPPY SHIT I COPY AND PASTED. I HATE IT. BUT YEAH.

anyways listen to bag of bones in album 'lush' by mitski bbyz baiiii xoxo

#originally posted on wattpad #help.#i hate my life #wattpad #ayato x reader #ayato aishi #ayato aishi x reader #ayano x reader #ayano aishi x reader #yandere #yandere sim #yan #dere #yan sim #yandere simulator #yandere simulator x reader #paul dano please marry me.#IM SERIOUS.

121 notes · View notes

septembercfawkes · 4 months

Text

**long post** A baby. Graduation. A new job. A just-booked vacation. Newlyweds. A blank canvas. New Year’s. I am convinced one of the reasons so many human beings love these things, is because we are in love with the concept of potential.

It’s exciting, a fresh start, with so many ways things could go and grow.

But sooner or later, we all grow up to be disappointments.

. . . I love New Year’s because I love a new year.

I love new beginnings—that fresh start and that blank slate.

But I also love old beginnings.

What do I mean by “old beginnings?”

Well, you know last year’s resolution that you abandoned after five months? After two months? After three weeks? And maybe it’s that resolution you’ve written down year after year after year?

And maybe, just maybe, you are courageous enough to write it down again this year?

That’s an old beginning.

And like anyone, I have my fair share of old beginnings.

Today, modern society often thinks of perfection as meaning something that is flawless—something that has no mistakes, ever.

So often, this is how people approach their New Year’s resolutions. “I’m not gonna have soda this year”—for example. And then, three weeks into it, they have a soda. “Oh man, I blew it. I always blow my New Year’s resolution. I’m a failure. Why do I even try? I’m never going to get off this diet coke.”

But I don’t believe that is the way God wants us to view failures and setbacks.

In fact, failures and setbacks, are part of His plan for us to become more like Him.

The word “perfect” comes from the latin word, “perficere,” which means to bring to completion. Or more accurately said, “to make or do to completion.”

While we usually use it today for something that has never had flaws, the word originally came from the idea of making something whole, complete, or I guess you could say, mature. To achieve its best potential.

I believe we all have a divine potential.

And it’s not a race to see who can fulfill it first.

What matters is that you are trying.

What matters, is that you are brave enough to try that old beginning again.

I’m not saying there aren’t things that we shouldn’t let go, that’s important too.

But don’t fall under the misguided spell of society that old beginnings are lesser than new beginnings.

We don’t become perfect at something by avoiding flaws and failures. We perfect something through proper perseverance, which comes from overcoming flaws and failures.

Disappointment is temporary, usually.

It isn’t about not messing up. It’s about eventually bringing something to completion. “To make complete.”

And ironically, in some sense, you have more potential to complete an old beginning than you’ve ever had previously. Because you have some experience now. You know what to expect.

Don’t give into the world’s dooming concept of perfect. I do not believe that is what the world was made for.

Instead strive for “perficere” perfect. And that is a state that is achieved at the *end* of a journey, not a game of chance to maintain flawless-ness from the beginning.

Divine potential doesn’t disappear. No one here is capable of messing up so bad, or being so far gone, it completely vanishes.

It is always there.

I hope this next year you will strive toward “perficere” perfect.

Best wishes, and Happy (soon-to-be) New Year 🥳🎆

(And if you actually read all that, I think you deserve brownie points 😆)

#new year #new years #2024

14 notes · View notes

omniblades-and-stars · 6 months

Text

Don't Forget the Rules (A Game of Charades)

Wicked Game Part 2

Read on AO3

"I'm sorry," she whispered against his lips, and she meant it, despite the bitter taste on her tongue. Or because of it, rather.

Poison. A toxin crafted specifically for her target, hidden in a little capsule beside her teeth. A trick she picked up from old spy vids. This trick was so much less dangerous in a world where her target didn’t have hemoglobin like her. At worst, she'd get hives and a violent stomach ache. She already felt sick to her stomach.

Those endless pools of black galaxies staring at her, calm, serene. Even in the face of his upcoming death. It drove her crazy.

He drove her crazy.

The way he was so good at their shared profession. He was the only one she'd ever encountered who could match her skill for hand to hand fighting. And he had this unsettling way of disappearing into shadows that set her teeth on edge. It bordered on supernatural.

It was also in the way he made her lose focus and make mistakes. The way his voice thrummed through her body, like a song that hit just the right notes to make her skin prickle and a shiver roll down her spine, igniting more than just desire.

The way the low light in the room shimmered across brilliant scales, made so much more vibrant in the familiar haze she was under the influence of.

He didn't say anything to her. Didn't fight her. He didn't even try to stop her from leaving. And he didn't beg for his life.

He never begged for his life.

She gathered her things quickly and slipped out into the surprising, nonstop daylight of the Citadel wards. The lack of a true night cycle made her miss Earth ... sometimes.

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand as she darted away to disappear into the crowd of club-goers waiting in line by one of the many loud, blacklit clubs there. She told herself the tears were just from the sudden, intense light. Definitely not the unsettling guilt worming its way through her guts, gnawing on her ribcage, sharp like a vulture's beak.

No. Absolutely not. Like hell did she feel guilt over him. How many times had his blade kissed her skin? Almost as many times as his lips.

Sure, she'd tried to kill him first, and several times after that, but he played the game just as much as she did. Their games had rules, they fought each other "to the death" before they eventually ended up naked and blowing each other's minds. Or, they started with the mind blowing to try to get each other's guard down and made the attempt.

She had just been following the rules.

No. She didn't miss him already. Or at all.

Ever.

And she didn't regret it.

The Shepherd wiped her eyes again and pushed bodily past a group of tittering asari maidens.

“Excuse me! You spilled my drink all over my dress! This is genuine leather,” one of the women called after her.

The Shepherd pulled a credit chit from inside her jacket and turned back to the group of women. She placed it in the woman's soft hands and looked up into beautiful golden eyes. “I'm so sorry. It's just ... oh,“ she brought her hand to her mouth and choked back more tears. ”Sorry, sorry. My boyfriend just broke up with me, and... God, I'm so embarrassed.”

The woman pushed the chit back into The Shepherd's hands, “Oh, no I'm so sorry, sweetie. Please, don't worry about it.” The asari leaned in close, "Do you want me to go find him and rough him up a little with biotics?" Her breath was heavy with asari brandy.

The Shepherd giggled weakly and shook her head, "No. I mean, it would be funny, but he's in C-Sec and it would be a whole mess." She made a show of sniffling and trying to clean her nose on the sleeve of her jacket and offering a weak smile.

Why was she even doing this?

She couldn't help herself.

"By the goddess! You're bleeding!" One of the other women exclaimed, grabbing the edge of The Shepherd's jacket and pointing at her chest.

She looked down to see scarlet spreading across the front of her glittering yellow shirt.

Clever. Fucking. Drell.

Between the medigel anesthetic effects after their battle, and his venom in her system from …

Well, she couldn't really be surprised she hadn't felt one of his insanely sharp knives. They were like scalpels. Stupid mistake. She'd gone toe to toe with other assassins before, and never almost got killed so easily as she did with him.

The Shepherd grabbed her ribcage dramatically before hunching over. "Oh my God! He stabbed me! Please call the paramedics, I don't want to die!" She wailed for effect. Hopefully she wasn't actually bleeding to death. It would be so embarrassing if he managed to get her like that.

She also really, really didn't want to die.

This job had been a lot of work to get to goal. She ran herself ragged all over the Citadel to make her alter ego someone who could be counted on to get things done. And to show a real pride in civil service and other vomit inducing garbage like that. She ran errands for cranky ambassadors, sad, past-their-prime generals, argumentative hanar, made herself useful to some C-Sec detective running an undercover op, and even promised to look into some asari diplomat's kidnapped sister.

Something she wasn't going to do. That crazy bitch was lying through her perfect, beautiful teeth. The Shepherd knew a liar when she met one. As the old saying went, “Game recognize game.”

Also, she was not actually an Alliance Marine in charge of a starship. She just spoofed and updated old credentials, fed them into the Alliance’s personnel records systems, and infiltrated C-Sec systems and added false records of her arrivals and departures on the station. Child's play, really.

All to earn the trust of her target, a retired turian C-Sec captain who was apparently looking for an ambitious young person to mentor, and she was just that person. Her last tour was almost up, she was growing tired of life on spaceships. She was looking to join the civilian sector once she was officially out, but she just really wanted it to be an honorable job. And didn't you know you have to have recommendations and approval from the Council to join?

They often met in a park in the Presidium to play chess, or rather, he thought he was teaching her chess. She wouldn't have even bothered with actually doing all of the work she had done to gain his trust, but her research into the man showed that he was thorough and slow to trust. If she couldn't fake the paperwork, so to speak, she needed people to back her up.

It would certainly have been easier to just scope and drop the man from the keeper tunnels and catwalks. Or break into his apartment and slit his throat in his sleep. Or poison his food. Any plethora of much easier, quicker methods.

Well, she was definitely going to poison him, but not without spending some time with him first.

Maybe that was fucked up, but it was about the challenge. The risk of getting discovered, the thrill of having to improvise when things went wrong, the adrenaline rush when it turned into a battle. If she wanted a job that was formulaic and safe, she'd have gone into varren wrangling, hedge fund management, or joined the Eclipse Sisters instead.

"How was your day, Nora?" The older turian asked as he moved one of his pieces. She wasn’t really paying attention to what he was doing on the board. It was much easier to pretend to be bad at the game if she let her mind wander.

The Shepherd sighed forlornly, propping her elbow on the table and resting her cheek in her palm as she made her move. “Well, I helped out the Consort like you asked. She’s a lovely woman, by the way, thank you for introducing us, Quintus. But while I was running all over the Presidium to help iron out that whole debacle, I had an … interesting encounter with a diplomat.”

The man hummed gently as he watched the board, “Tell me about it.”

“Well, this asari woman waved me down while I was stopping to chat with the bartender over in the Embassies, Wilson. He knows all of the people to talk to around here, so he’s a great resource,” she started to explain. Wilson was mostly just a great resource of overpriced cocktails and the sort of conniving gossip that The Shepherd loved to listen to. Even if she was never going to meet the subjects of their talks.

“Anyways, she tells me that she heard about how I was helping Sha’ira and that she needed my help to rescue her sister, who had been kidnapped.” She moved a pawn, and he captured it immediately. “She asked me to keep it hush hush because she already paid a ransom to secure her sister’s release, but the pirates just took it and are blackmailing her now.”

“As I understand it, diplomats are required to report any attempts at ransom or blackmail to the Council.”

“They are, but that’s not what rubbed me the wrong way,” she started, then she shifted uncomfortably before adding, “Well, not the main thing.”

The old turian looked up at her and met her gaze with piercing blue eyes. His brow plates shifted, furrowing in an inquisitive way before he asked, “And what is it that bothered you about it?”

“How exactly did she know I was helping Sha’ira?” The Shepherd gave Quintus a meaningful look with a raised brow. “I was discreet, I only spoke about the job with those involved. And given how embarrassed two of the parties were, I doubt they spoke of it at all. And I also doubt that the Consort would be as popular as she is if she made a habit of disclosing information like that to people unless she had a very good reason. I don’t take her for a gossip.”

“She is not. She holds many secrets.”

“Precisely. So this diplomat says she’s being blackmailed, and somehow knows what I’m doing. I think she’s lying about something, and she definitely has her pretty blue fingers in systems she shouldn’t.”

More pieces moved around the board, and she lost track of what she was doing while watching a couple get into an argument close by. “So what did you do about it?”

“Reported her to the Council, of course. Besides, if the Alliance found out that I ordered my ship to fly out to some barely inhabited planet to fight pirates for some random diplomat, they’d be very upset. And rightly so.” She sighed again, “I may be ready to leave the military, but I would like to have my integrity intact when I do.”

“You have a very keen intuition, Ms. Carlson. If your skills at chess leave a little to be desired.“

The Shepherd smiled as the turian crowed his checkmate. “I guess I just don't have a great head for this kind of strategy.”

“My dear, these are just pieces on a board. Anyone who tells you that being proficient at chess means you're proficient at real world strategem is a liar.”

She lifted her head off of her hand and began moving the pieces back to their original places on the board, “There are some people on some extranet message boards that would be very angry to hear you say that. Another game?”

“Not today, Nora. I have some errands to run,” he answered while shaking his head. “Listen, I'm having dinner this evening with a private sector investigator, internal affairs for corporations, that sort of thing. I think you have a knack for sniffing out corruption that would make you a brilliant candidate for that sort of work. Would you like to join us?”

“Oh, that would be greatly appreciated, but I would hate to intrude. An unplanned guest is almost never as welcome as they like to believe,“ she responded with a cheeky smile and a wink.

”Nonsense! Truthfully, I already let him know that you would be joining us.“

”Quintus, you conniving, old bastard!“ The Shepherd said playfully and reached across the table to push his shoulder back.

The old man smiled, ”I saw an opportunity open up for you, my dear, and I took it. It's all very casual, I assure you. We aren't even going out, we're meeting at my apartment in four hours.”

“I will be there on time, and not a minute before, sir.”

The Shepherd walked into Quintus' apartment, following his explicit instructions to let herself in, and was immediately simmering in anger. The old man sat on his couch casually with one leg crossed over the other. It would have been a relaxed aura he was giving off, if his neck wasn't broken, head hanging graphically at an unsettling angle. And if there wasn't a smug fucking drell standing in prayer in front of his body.

”Oh, fuck me,“ she groaned as the door slid shut behind her. She punched the hololock, ensuring no one could walk in on her unplanned showdown.

“Is that a request?” The bane of her existence asked dryly without turning to her. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end, and goosebumps rose on her arms. It had been three or four encounters with the man since their last, nearly deadly meeting here on the Citadel. And each time, he threw her off balance more and more.

She took two careful steps inside, as though she were navigating an active minefield. “You. You're the 'private sector investigator'?” She asked, choosing to ignore his question (and the urge to say "yes") entirely. Anger rose hot in her chest, and flushed her cheeks.

”A deception to get close to Mr. Stratis. He is a very careful man, and very difficult to get close to,“ the very irritating, achingly beautiful man explained as he finally turned to face her. A small, smug smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Greens and blacks covered his face and head in beautiful iridescent scales, and large, black eyes watched her twitching hands, waiting for her to draw a weapon, or throw him back with biotics.

"Krios, please tell me you did not use me to get close to this asshole!" Her voice went shrill as she pointed at the worldly remains of Quintus Stratis, respected former C-Sec captain, and to some, a renowned pervert.

And not the fun kind.

Thane Krios, professional assassin, and expert thorn in her side, shrugged his shoulders, "I've been monitoring his extranet activity and messages for quite some time. Imagine my surprise when a military personnel verification request turned up with a file bearing a photograph of you. It was a simple matter of figuring out what game you were playing this time, and inserting myself as a player. A trick I learned from the master of such schemes." He bowed his head deferentially to her, like it was a compliment, and not the worst thing in the entire universe. Outplayed at her own game, by him.

He was trying to send her over the edge, and she knew it. And what was worse, it worked. Her response was an incomprehensible yell that started out as "Fuck you,” and descended into utter nonsense as her body ignited with biotic power. She ran towards him, wanting to wrap her hands around his head and watch as she cooked his brain down to a lovely cerebral fluid reduction.

Thane sent her sprawling backwards with a subtle thrust of his fist. A blue globe of light met her stomach with a force that winded her, and she fell back over Stratis' coffee table. Some rounded decorative piece dug up in between her shoulder blades, and made her cough. “Asshole.”

“Shepherd, you are sloppy when you forget yourself,” he chastised her as he drew in close. And she allowed him to.

Once he'd gotten close enough, she drove the heels of both of her boots up into his abdomen, forcing him several stumbling steps backwards. Quickly, she rolled over onto her feet again, and took a defensive position. As Thane recovered, she grabbed the globular object, a bronze replica of Palaven perhaps, and hefted it right at the drell's head.

Irritatingly, he threw up a barrier as he righted himself, and the projectile went bouncing off. It fell to the ground with a loud thunk. Suddenly, her skin prickled hot, and the extremely uncomfortable sensation of thousands of tiny needles ripping, tearing, and crawling over her flesh overwhelmed her. She could feel the thin membranes in her sinuses breaking down before a trickle of blood dribbled from her nose.

Tit-for-tat. She concentrated past the pain blooming all over her body and threw a warp field at the assassin in return. Thane's lips curled back as he clenched his teeth. The Shepherd saw her opening and jumped towards him, landing in a crouch right under his anticipatory blow, and she swept her leg out, hooking it behind his foot and pulling.

The man's lifelong training to become a near perfect killing machine was not lost on her as he shifted his momentum and used it to drive his palm hard against her sternum.

It felt like her lungs got forced through her ribcage and sent out of her body for just a moment, and her throat locked up around the sudden lack of oxygen. She stumbled back just enough to give him space to advance on her. She dodged around one strike, took a kick in the side, and then grabbed both of his wrists, yanking him forward.

Just as she was about to use the forward momentum to pull him stumbling past her, and hopefully to the ground, frantic fists started beating against the apartment door.

"Quintus! Quintus, are you alright? What's happening?" The two assassins stared at each other, wrists held in hands, frozen as though they'd both been enveloped by a stasis field. The panicked knocking continued, "Quintus! If you don't answer, I'm calling C-Sec!"

"Vents?" They both asked simultaneously at a whisper, looking up toward the large vent grate in the hall.

The Shepard released Thane's arms and nodded resolutely before adding, "First split off, I go right, you go left."

"Agreed," he confirmed as they both darted toward the vent. Without another word, he knelt and held out his interlaced hands for her to step into. With a boost from her sudden ally in escape, The Shepherd unlatched the vent and crawled in.

She turned and thrust her hand out and helped pull him in, though in reality, he probably didn't need the help. Near as she could tell, the man had a ten foot vertical leap. And that was probably only a little bit of an exaggeration. As Thane pulled the grate shut behind him, he whispered, "I am surprised you did not simply leave me."

"What and let C-Sec be the ones to take you down? Keep dreaming, Krios," she replied as she began to crawl through the vent shaft. "It's going to be me who does you in, or it's going to be no one."

"If I did not know better, Shepherd, I would say that you're possessive of me, " he said smugly from somewhere behind her. His voice vibrated the thin metal sheeting beneath her fingertips, adding even more tactile sensations to the absolutely filthy ways her body already responded to it.

"Of having the great pleasure of ending your life? Absolutely."

Horrible, awful, beautiful, delicious, rumbling laughter was his only response. Why was it so easy for him to slither into her head and turn anger to something else?

"Fuck you, Krios."

He was in her head still. They split off like planned without another word. It had been hours and somehow he was still in her head.

The Shepherd found herself in a club in the lower wards. It was the kind of club with too dark lighting, and probably a list of health and safety code violations light-years long. And where absolutely everyone was wearing black leather and vinyl adorned with a dizzying array of metal chains, spikes, rings and anything that added a touch of risk of harm if you got too close. It was the kind of place where at any given moment there was someone in the bathroom smoking, fighting or fucking. Or some confusing (satisfying) combination of all three.

She could feel the tacky residue of someone else's black lipstick smeared across her lips, she couldn't even remember whose lips put it there, and the remnants of cheap eyeliner and mascara, melting from the heat of her body as she danced, rehardening in the creases of her eyes. She could have been there for minutes or hours, it was impossible to tell. She was lost in the music. The heavy, grungy distortion of the guitars scraped inside her mind, drowning out her conflicting, inconvenient thoughts. And the bass?

Oh, the bass.

It thundered in her chest, felt like it changed the rhythm of her heart. It punched over her skin like an electric shock, rattled her teeth, and settled heavy in her spine. It enveloped her in a blanket of sound that she felt more than heard. And it blessedly robbed her of the memory of the way his voice overtook her senses, raised the hair on her arms, made her shiver.

Made her yearn. Lust, she could deal with, but actual wanting? A need for someone to actually know her? That was dangerous.

The flashing strobes that filled her vision with stutter-stop dancers, and the oppressive, humid warmth of strange bodies against her were almost enough to make her forget that ache that was in her chest.

She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms over the shoulders of the stranger pressed against her, and allowed herself to get pulled into the undertow of the slow, driving waves. Soon she found herself sandwiched in between two people, the heat of the space, and her own body, growing just shy of unbearable.

It was perfect.

She didn't even care when arms wrapped around her from behind filling the miniscule space between bodies, and familiar, fused digits roamed over the bare skin of her stomach, deliciously cool compared to the blinding heat of her sweat drenched body. Or when soft, smooth lips pressed gently against her neck, murmuring lurid promises against her pulse that she couldn't hear, but God, could she feel. And suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to let him fulfill them.

It was easy to pretend they weren't who they were under the steaming water of a hotel shower, the lathered bar of soap long forgotten next to the drain, and her back pressed against cool tiles, and the tingling, citrusy taste of his tongue in her mouth.

It was easy to forget the way they destroyed each other with the way she floated, nerves alive and hungry for every reverent touch. He whispered prayers against her skin as he explored her, treating her body as his temple. As though she were something worthy of devotion.

It was hard to feel wicked surrounded by satin sheets with someone so beautiful bringing her higher and higher with every movement. A glittering mosaic of emeralds and onyx breathed the only name he knew to be hers in her ear, and she fell into the obsidian abyss of his eyes with a soft whimper, holding onto him as though he were the only thing anchoring her soul to her body. A body that was writhing and overwhelmed by pleasure, and still her voice returned to beg, "Yes, Thane. God, please, more."

God wasn't listening, if he existed at all.

But the assassin, he was always willing to oblige her whispering pleas. Every brush of lips against her fevered skin, every answering moan rumbling against her chest, every scraping bite at her throat, and every careful graze of talons on whatever part of her he touched overwhelmed her senses and sent her plummeting over the edge again, dizzied and breathless, and chanting his name like an ancient hymn.

It got harder to imagine in the afterglow. As they lay in each other's arms, tracing each other's scars. He always asked about hers, and she always told outrageous lies about them, even the ones from him. Lies like, "Oh that one? I got drunk and challenged a pyjack to a fight! His handler taped glass to his silly little paws." Or "Oh, you know me, so clumsy. I was walking on Omega and tripped in a pothole, landed right on the bent edge of an old shop sign." He always told her the same stories about his, the truth, near as she could reckon.

Tonight, he gently scratched her scalp through her short, Alliance-regulation bob as she ran her fingers over the soft, rosy ridges on the side of his chest. Their charade was almost over, it wasn't safe for either one of them to drop their guard enough to fall asleep. "What is that?" He asked, suddenly breaking the lull that had fallen over their little game of scars.

"Hmm?" She mumbled without looking up, still sluggish and terribly entranced by the sensations playing out beneath her fingertips.

"The song you are humming," he clarified, pressing his lips to her hair.

Her cheeks grew unbearably warm, and almost certainly terribly red. "Was I humming? Doesn't sound like me."

He responded with a low chuckle, "Do not think you can lie your way out of this one, little darling. I can feel you humming."

She was quiet for precious seconds before her mouth opened, and the truth fell out without her say-so, "It's a lullaby. My mother taught it to me. It's about the only thing I remember of her."

"It must be very distressing to remember so little of her." Of course, the drell would think that.

"It can be. But it's for the best. It's better that I can't imagine her. It makes what I do easier without the specter of parental disapproval hanging over my head," she answered, lying again. She grew quiet before her humming returned, and before she knew it, her mouth was opening again. Whispered lyrics came out, tight in her throat, "The other night dear, as I lay sleeping, I dreamt I held you in my arms. When I awoke, dear, I was mistaken. So I hung my head, and I cried."

I have no one.

She felt hot tears gathering along the edges of her eyes.

"I should go," she said suddenly.

And just like that, the charade collapsed.

He was in her head in ways she couldn't get a grip on. It went so much further than their psychosexual rivalry. It had been months since Quintus, and she felt like she was genuinely losing her mind now.

Who could she tell, other than her contacts and other assassins, what she did for a living? And if she could keep up a double life long enough to form a lasting friendship, much less any sort of meaningful romantic entanglement, whose life would she put in danger by doing so?

The Shepherd was on Nos Astra for a pretty simple job, really. During the research and preparation phase of the venture, she had a string of good to disappointing flings and one night stands. The worst was actually the time she tried staying the night and seeing the same person more than once. And not because the sex was bad.

She made it three separate overnights before that came to a horrible, upsetting end. For her. The girl was probably alright, if a little disappointed. They'd only known each other for a total of two weeks.

The Shepherd was laying on the girl's bed, Lirae, or maybe Lorae, something adorable like that, staring off into space. Her thoughts were light-years away, going over her plans, running through mental checklists for setting up her new identity, and running the risk analysis on how boned she would be if she got discovered and had to engage in a fight with a former asari commando. And she definitely was not thinking about him. And she definitely wasn't thinking about him in a way that didn't have anything to do with murdering him.

"Shepherd?"

Her heart skipped a beat and her eyes flew open. Oh, were her eyes closed? She looked with furrowed brows down at the very pretty blue face looking up at her from between her legs. Oh, were they having sex? She forgot. "What did you just call me?"

The woman cocked her head and crawled up next to The Shepherd, apparently the endeavor was a lost cause. "Your name. Shirley, right? Are you okay? You looked like you were in pain."

She let her head fall back into the pillow and covered her face with her hand with an exhausted groan. "Sorry, yes, I'm fine. Just very distracted, work has been a lot lately." She was very suddenly remembering why she only ever went to bars and clubs during the planning phase. She was too steeped in it to be able to do much of anything else.

And why had she chosen a name that had a "sh" sound? Rookie mistake.

Lirae snapped her fingers and then motioned for The Shepherd to roll over onto her stomach. And she did, exposing the scarred expanse of her back to far too much scrutiny. The lithe young woman knelt over her and started massaging the Shepherd's shoulders. "Tell me about it?"

"Not much I can say about it. You know how ironclad Illium N.D.A.s are." Bless Illium contract law, it was always the easiest cover. "Let's just say my boss has me spinning a lot of plates, and keeping them all in the air has been difficult."

The woman currently doing positively sinful things to the muscles that made up The Shepherd's upper back giggled, "What does that even mean?"

"It's a complicated balancing act, I mean."

Lorae hummed her understanding as she continued to reduce The Shepherd to a puddle with masterful hands. Her finger traced a jagged scar just under the Shepherd's shoulder blade. "This looks painful, what happened?"

The Shepherd cocked her head to the side, "Back in my freelancer days, I went head to head with the largest vorcha I've ever seen. He carried an improvised knife made out of the broken remnants of a barstool and nails that he called Gut Ripper," she lied, saying the name of the imaginary weapon in the characteristic hissing growl associated with the spiky aliens.

The asari gasped, "That sounds awful!"

Oh, she believed her? That was no good. Lirae was too sweet, too naive. And fuck, too good at whatever it was she was currently doing to the Shepherd's spine. Magic maybe.

This wasn't going to work. Guilt wormed its way into her head. And the lies felt isolating, and cruel. This girl would never know who she was, and that was for the best.

But it also kind of sucked.

Later that night, when Lorae was firmly asleep, The Shepherd slipped out. She actually left a note. There was a first time for everything.

I'm sorry. You don't deserve to get tangled up with me. My name isn't even Shirley. Keep being sweet, someone else will come along who actually deserves it.

P.S. - Go into massage therapy immediately. You'll make a killing.

"I'm going to the restroom, I'll be right back," the very handsome man sitting next to her at the bar winked before disappearing into throngs of over-dressed party goers.

The Shepherd fiddled with the heavy, sapphire earrings hanging from her ears as her eyes darted around her. All around her people were dressed to the nines, shimmering fabrics draped on arms, false laughter from painted lips, and expensive drinks in every hand. There was even a dance floor, where they played classical dances from many species and cultures. Bright lights dazzled across glittering jewelry, and everything just oozed excess.

She was no stranger to these sorts of high-society Presidium parties. Rich people hired her to kill each other at these sorts of events all the time. One time, she had three targets in one party, and managed to get them all without raising any alarms until she was long gone. But it was different when she was an actual guest. There wasn't a target, there wasn't a job. She was just supposed to relax and enjoy a night of luxury in her expensive, rented, ocean blue, chiffon dress.

Right, relax.

It felt like a trap.

Too much time passed, and she assumed that her date had abandoned her for someone who was in the mood for pretending to be interested in following him back to his hotel room. She tapped the bar top with manicured nails until she made eye contact with the turian bartender who took the hint and approached.

"What can I get for you?"

The Shepherd cocked her eyebrow and planted her heels over the bottom rung of the barstool, standing to lean forward on the counter and scope out the plentiful offerings of top shelf liquor. "I want a lot of that vodka," she pointed at a bottle of clear liquid behind the turian. "And I want you to mix it in a big glass of cranberry and pineapple juice. I'm talking about the kind of glass I need two hands for, krogan size at minimum. I want it to be sweet, and I want it to wreck me."

The bartender raised an amused brow plate before turning to grab the bottle of vodka from the shelf, "Not used to these kinds of parties, I take it?"

She sat back down on her stool, straightening the lines of her dress and messing with the heavy necklace around her throat. "Plenty used to them, but I still manage to feel out of place. This isn't my world, people just like how I look in it."

"Why come if you don't enjoy it?"

Because I'm usually working.

"I always think, 'This will be the time I enjoy it.' The only thing I enjoy about these is how drunk you can get on the alcohol they serve here."

He slid a comically large brandy glass filled with red-orange liquid over to her. He even put a straw and a tiny little umbrella in it with a mischievous wink. "You humans have a saying, 'The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result'," He advised sagely before turning away from her to go attend to some demanding heiress pouting because her champagne wasn't bubbly enough.

Shepherd sat sipping on her drink and trying to read liquor labels from her seat for several minutes. The vodka settled in her stomach, pleasantly warm, while the cranberry-pineapple medley masked the awful taste of the liquor.

"What is the old human saying? What is a girl like you doing in a bar like this?" That velvety baritone slithered up next to her, bringing a strange sense of comfort and relief. She'd officially lost her mind to admit that was the case.

She snorted, and spit her drink back in her glass. A wide grin cracked across her lips. She grabbed a cocktail napkin and delicately dabbed dribbles of juice from her lips and chin. "Is that the best pickup line you have, Krios? No poetic metaphors for pussy-eating, or promises of boundless pleasures that somehow border on religious heresy?"

He took the seat next to her and leaned in close, brushing tendrils of her dark hair behind her ear as he whispered, "I can promise that you will be praying to me while I take my communion between your thighs."

There went the hair on her neck and arms again, betraying his effect on her. And the tops of her ears felt hot. "Filthy, wicked, devil of a man," she sniped as she took another sip of her drink. She set it down carefully on her left side, far away from Thane's clever, quick hands. "Which of these lovely party goers is your target tonight?" She asked as she spun on her seat to face him.

He was wearing a suit that shimmered as he moved in the light, like he was wearing cloth made out of the fabric of space itself. It was just like him to wear black nearly head to toe at an event like this. What did he need ornamentation for when his skin glittered like starlight?

"He is already quite dead," he responded. "And your target?"

The Shepherd picked up her glass again and took a noisy sip from the straw before answering, "No one. I'm a real, honest guest tonight." She searched the room for any sign of her erstwhile companion, and found none. "I had a date, but I think he may have thought I was an escort until I told him I was going straight home after this. He ditched me to "go to the bathroom" almost half an hour ago now."

"Tall, human man? Dark, curly hair and startling eyes the color of emeralds in the sunlight?"

She coughed, abandoning the straw and downing the rest of her drink in one obscene gulp. "I wouldn't have put it quite so poetically, but that is-was him." She shook her head, "That's a new one. You've never killed one of my dates before."

Thane hummed thoughtfully, "If it is any consolation, he was a vile man. And you were correct, he did not go to the bathroom."

The Shepherd shrugged her shoulders, "I am entirely unbothered. I didn't even know him really, not sure I could tell you his name."

"Now, I know you're just saying this to vex me. I do not believe that human memory is quite so fallible."

She smiled and winked while reaching for his hands, "What does it matter? Not like I was ever going to see him again anyways. Now, since you killed my companion, and you've already propositioned me, you're my date now, and I want to dance."

He laughed as he allowed her to pull him to the dance floor. Her cheeks were warm, and her muscles pleasantly loose. His hand fell to her low back as they took their place among the small collection of dancers stumbling over the steps of dances that fell out of fashion centuries ago. "You have taken great pains to hide your weapons beneath that dress," Thane remarked quietly in her ear.

The Shepherd laughed, shaking her head as she did. "Already told you, I'm not working tonight. I didn't bring any. No blades, no poisons, civilian omni-tool and … you don't believe me." The realization curdled in her stomach. Because why would he believe her? She wouldn't believe her. "Nevermind. I don't need weapons or poisons to kill someone anyways. You're not the only one here who can lodge a fountain pen right through the death center of a turian's brain, or find a neck to snap on an elcor."

"I think I would like to see you snap an elcor's neck. Your arms are so slender, and you are so small. I think you would need to employ the use of a complex system of ropes and pulleys to accomplish this," he deadpanned.

"You calling me short, Krios?" The threat in her tone was entirely ruined by the way she pressed herself in close to him and leaned her head on his shoulder.

"Hm, I am indeed," he answered with a smile as he led her in circles around the floor.

After several minutes, The Shepherd looked up, "Let's get out of here. I actually hate parties like this. What do you say we ruin this dress together?"

She felt the chill of the metal before she felt the searing agony of the cut. The Shepherd clutched his arms, her fingernails digging deep into his skin. She looked up at him, stunned, disbelieving … terrified. It was deep, so very deep, she couldn't speak. She felt blood, warm and thick spilling down to her chest. "Why?" She tried to ask, but no sound came out.

"We can't keep doing this. This is the last time," he whispered to her, like he was wishing her a tender good night. Not sending her to his precious oceans, if she was lucky. Hell, if she was not. He caressed her cheek like he actually cared about her.

Thoughts came juttering through her venom adled mind all at once and they crashed through in torrents.

I didn't tell any lies tonight.

I'm going to die.

I'm so scared.

He didn't believe that I wasn't going to try.

I have no one.

I don't want to die.

I'm going to fucking die.

I forgot the rules.

She didn't want to die.

#mass effect #fanfic #thane krios #femshep #shrios #assassin vs assassin trash #reposting my earlier work because i can and it's free #wicked game #part 2 #daisy screaming into the void

14 notes · View notes

kintatsujo · 9 months

Text

LoZ AU- The Courage of Running Away LABRYNNA EXPANDED (long post alert)

Let's start with a link to the original masterpost since this is plunked in the midst of Part Five of the OG plotting posts.

Labrynna was practically a footnote in the original CoRA plotting posts, it and Holodrum basically getting covered in one post.

But as I've noted since, it turned into its own storyline, and I got wrapped up in Politics, and fantasy politics are my fucking catnip so I have at this point gotten through two whole ass NaNos with it oh god.

Image descriptions will be in ALT this time around so theoretically the seventeen to twenty pictures in this post won't be quite so bad???

So where things pick up, Link has just left Windfish Isle on Uncle Torik's ferry with Marla and Tonbo and they're headed to Labrynna.

...I was going to post the map of Western Aurule here but that. I'm gonna put that in its own post. Here's a link to the map of Aurule proper as it currently stands.

And the first thing Link does, before they even get all the way to Labrynna, is piss off a pirate:

A lot of you are not going to look at the alt text so I'm going to say that he's based on a thorny devil and I did not mean for him to turn out so adorable. (But also I love lizards so maybe it was inevitable that my fondness would show through.)

Link was MOSTLY trying to get him to leave Crescent Island alone so he blows up the figurehead of Kragg's ship.

Which was of Kragg's wife.

Kragg is gonna show back up.

Link and Marla and Tonbo manage to escape to Jabu City, which is based on the fact that there's an OoT-style-Zora Village underwater off the coast in Oracle of Ages because this fic is nothing if not wild extrapolation.

Jabu City is a mixed-peoples city, with Zora, humans, Rito and some Gorons, but it's largely Zora.

Note on mister "Oh I'm in DANGER:" A running gag is that Marla is considered a very attractive Zora and Tonbo is having absolutely none of people hitting on her. Marla takes a lot of delight in this.

Have some more Jabu City fashion because I got carried away:

The trouble is, Jabu City is a beautiful place but the Zora there are generally kind of... hoity toidy high on themselves. There's a few crass comments made about Marla being from Windfish Isle, for example.

So Link, Marla and Tonbo don't spend especially long there and instead head north to the town of Brynna, where Link finds himself instead running into his mother's past-- stories of her adventures, but even more importantly into a traveling story collector who has a bit of a connection to Catena.

I want you all to know that hitting on the idea that the Graceful Gorons are called that because they're all Victorian era-style boxers was the single most inspired moment I've had in this AU setting's worldbuilding, my brain is enormous and I am sexy as hell XD

Anyways Allemande and Courante were Catena's friends for years, and then Catena died so Allemande started taking journeys around Aurule every few years so that he could collect stories about her and about adventurers like her. Think of him as being a bit like an earthier Kass without an accordion.

Allemande suggests that they go to Lynna City, Labrynna's capitol, partly because another one of Catena's old friends lives there now.

But on the way they run into Politics again (they've already run into these politics in Jabu but now it's even more in their face), because they have to cross the Kappakon River to get to Lynna City, and that means interacting with the Kappakon River Zora, who are quite a different deal from the coastal Zora:

What Enhir means when she says "what they're doing to us" is that the mayor of Symmetry City next to Dimitri Bridge is dumping garbage upstream of the nearest Domain, Nuun Domain, trying to get rid of them and mostly making their Patriarch and their tadpoles desperately ill. (I didn't include a sketch of the Nuun Domain Patriarch even though he does have a design because at the point I drew this I already knew this post was longer than most of the original posts for the AU, waagh)

Symmetry City is also where Link, Marla and Tonbo first meet Sturmaz, who essentially joins the party for pretty much the rest of the storyline because I love him and he's a good boy.

I made a post about Sturmaz before and it features a little more art that is absolutely him yelling at Symmetry City's mayor about this mess.

So it takes some yelling at the right people but eventually Link gets the Nuun Domain sorted out and they head to Lynna City to meet his mom's best friend, Githa, who actually lives here because she got banished from Hyrule for reasons that might be clear after the picture:

Notes on Githa: She was originally inspired by Agitha from TP as she appears in Hyrule Warriors with a bit of influence from Purah; for some reason when Invid and I were playing through HW Agitha being a secret criminal or mob boss turned into a running joke along with her NPC mode constantly clinging to giant bosses whenever it was absolutely inconvenient. That turned into Githa.

Also, she doesn't know Catena thought of her as her best friend, which is the real reason Link decides she's a disaster person.

The problem is, now they're in the Capitol and naturally there's more Politics there. For example, Sturmaz's uncle:

(Marla and Tonbo don't want to let Sturmaz or Link think that having shitty father figures is normal.)

And indeed, the stupid hat does come with the job, as Link discovers when he goes with Sturmaz and Nimbas to the Labrynna Senate:

So the idea behind Labrynna's government is that in CoRA's version of events, Labrynna abolished the monarchy after Queen Ambi because they weren't putting up with that shit again (the official line is that so much power is considered too much strain on one person.)

As is evidenced by the Presiding Lady still being a member of Ambi's bloodline and the senator of Brynna being her sister, however, nepotism is still alive and well in Labrynna.

Also Link gets a cute outfit so that he doesn't stand out so much in this crowd:

(It was an emergency situation I swear.)

To be clear this is a man's dress and Link's entire reaction to it is "I don't know how my father puts up with a floor length skirt." Fuck your gender roles.

Nimbas turns out to be more than a bit of a professional jerkass.

(By "river monsters," Nimbas means the Kappakon Zora. Just to be clear.)

Link also visits the Maku Tree, because you don't go to the capitol of either Labrynna or Holodrum and just not visit the Maku Tree.

I wanted the Maku Tree to have an equivalent to the Kokiri for a number of reasons but one of them is that over on the Ghirahim side of the story he's having a silent existential crisis about his backstory and I like narrative mirrors. *thumbs up*

Credit goes to Invid for the idea that the Koroks and Kokiri are actually just the same thing entirely and that the Kokiri put on the Korok masks in order to leave Korok Woods safely.

Also Kula is actually a canon Breath of the Wild character. I made a sound like I was greeting a cat when I found her in TotK. XD

Link finds out, among other things, that the Golden Kragg seems to still be pushing his way up the Kappakon despite that he has to fight every single river Zora on the way. It turns out that Kragg is upset about more than Link blowing up his ship's figurehead:

At some point several years before in Yoll Province, the local dragon went missing, the local lizalfos started acting up, and then the Labrynna Senate, partially spurred on by Senator Nimbas's arguments on behalf of Senator Aldo from Yollton, well, absolutely exterminated the Lizal presence in Yoll Province, and executed the lizalfos leader in Lynna City Square.

Leaving behind her husband, the Golden Kragg, and his lizalfos pirate crew.

So THAT'S not great.

Have a chonky dragon.

Obviously that means that Link has to investigate this shit.

Kragg is heading straight for Lynna City with full intent to carve a new statue of his wife out of the Maku Tree herself, and while the River King Izemaz, living in the Maku Domain, is absolutely going to step in if Kragg tries it, the main bridge Kragg would have to come through is a major marketplace in Lynna and Link can't stand idly by even if it means his destiny as a Called Hero is sort of chasing him around a little at this point.

Which means that Link and party take an express glider to Yoll because time is now of the essence (it is terrible that I didn't draw this. Imagine them sitting in one of those steampunk engine-less plane contraptions and getting launched from a catapult. Also Marla doing lots of screaming.)

Well, shit.

(Link can hear Gabbrosald's sickened godsong because of the pointed ears while Zora are just really sensitive to Things Being Wrong in the Environment. LORE.)

Anyways shit goes DOWN. They have to do a dungeon and everything. And finally, at the end of it, once they've freed the dragon in distress, Gabbrosald gives them a ride back up to Lynna City so they can stop the Golden Kragg from burning Maku Park and using the Maku Tree as carving base, because actually Lord Gabbrosald was rather fond of those lizalfos and would prefer that the Golden Kragg not get himself killed.

Now Link just needs to convince Senator Nimbas that killing the lizalfos that the furious local dragon god is fond of is maybe not the best idea.

#my art #loz #loz au: the courage of running away #au august #holy fuck goodnight everybody #I should not have tried to fit this whole storyline into one post

35 notes · View notes

historia-vitae-magistras · 8 months

Note

I'm a bit delirious now but regarding the lumber incident, is that the one last 2017? I read that Canada placed tariffs on US gypsum exports in retaliation, and even planned to impose tariffs on coal and other products made in Oregon (the hometown of that senator who advocated for tariffs against Canada but I can't remember the name). but I remember that the book I read about this was by Thomas Oatley

anyway, NA bros pettiness 😭

So preface: This is one of those topics where I am blatantly a Canadian. Like violently angry about the US bullshit on this. Like you want a topic that instantly makes me a blue-flannel, blowing-up-busts-of-queen-victoria Quebecois stereotype, this is it. My family has been seasonal loggers for literally centuries and my ancestral plot of old growth trees was obliterated in a fire this past summer so this is an emotional topic for me. That said, its BC that gets fucked more in the ass every time this happens nowadays but still.

The Canadian side is absolutely as petty about it but the consequences on the Canadian side are profound. The lumber industry beef goes back to.... fuck. The Conquest really. It's older than the US or Canada as independent states but where it really came to a head was back in 1982. But tbh, on a civics level, what it comes down too is a difference in how two nations exercise sovereignty over undisputed, internationally recognized territory. In Canada, the government, represented by the crown has automatic ownership over the vast majority of land where softwood lumber farms exist, rather than being in private hands like the US. It's an inherent aspect of Canadian democracy that often moderates our politics. And the Canadian lumber industry is a fucked up thing, I might call it evil, and GOD knows there's labour exploitation but there are usually more and better unions, labour negotiation and working conditions on the Canadian side of this argument that get shaken everytime this shitshow resurges. And it fucks over indigenous peoples and people of colour especially.

In the US, the lumber industry has a powerful lobby that takes what has often been a series of difficult but more or less even handed agreements between two governments at least pretending to operate on a more or less respectful level by using institutions like NAFTA and the World Trade Organization to negotiate. Instead of moving forward, these people turn it into a nationalist shit show that takes US economic power and says "oh you want to be a fully recognized neighbor? fuck you. take your beating and say thank you or you'll get another."

Like tbh save the Northwest Passage which in practical military terms Canada likely won't have choice but to cooperate with the US and its giant defense budget this is one of the issues where the US really allows capitalism to fuck us up in the face of American law and international trade standards. And honestly in the grand scheme of things, God knows we've got it better than pretty much anyone else who lives next to a large superpower but its really sad to see that a majority of Americans in the last few years would rather take a nationalist stance, blame Canada for being 'communist' than take their own corporations to task. Its yank consumers getting fucked over here too. It should be a fucking solidarity issue on both sides, with workers and unions demanding the adoption of more and better legislation but instead its devolved into a nationalist shit show. On both sides, honestly but its kind of hard not to feel a lot resentment when people I've known for years as kind, cooperative, pro-labour people start parroting fuck Canada over they're dirty foreign communists like its 1924 all over again.

I generally try to shy away from headcanons about specific and more current stuff like this but considering its been a major contributer to Canadian economic woes and global inflation, its a topic where Matt vomits blood and Alfred says "have you tried not being a socialist?" and gets a mug thrown at his head. They're both fucking assholes but Alfred is still driving a tank to a knife fight.

#was this a rant was it informative was it a headcanon idk #but call me driftwood because I am one salty tree fucking canuck over this one #the ask box || probis pateo

18 notes · View notes

juneknight · 2 years

Text

Idling//5

Previous drabble here.

About this: MK/fem!reader. Graphic violence, blood, and injury. Recreational alcohol.

You meet Moon Knight.

It makes sense that you would meet him this way. So much sense in fact that for a moment you were afraid that Marc and Steven would think you had contrived it—but then you have much bigger things to worry about.

It starts with a girl’s night out. You’d been blowing off your friends for weeks, too caught up in your new relationship (though after six months now, it was hardly new). You were lucky that they were even still reaching out to you; you owed them a girl’s night.

“Can we stay in, though?” you’d asked. “Meet up at my flat, maybe? I’ll order—yes, Mr. Hoffman. I’m confirming right now that the package is to be marked return to sender and not destroyed. Oh, no, it’s absolutely no problem—alright, sorry, my boss walked by and you know how she is about us taking personal calls on company time. Anyway, I’d rather not have to walk home in the dark of London, you know?”

“Wow, I can tell you’ve been cooped up for too long,” your friend says. “There’s absolutely nothing to be scared about as a woman walking home at night in London these days. Don’t you know?”

You reach up, pressing the phone closer to your ear. “Know what?”

It turns out that Moon Knight is London’s worst kept secret. You feel sick thinking about how the whole city seemed to know what Marc and Steven’s body has been up to at night except for them.

Drinks. Laughs. Dancing. You do your best to enjoy the evening even as you look at your phone far too often. Steven said his goodnight to you an hour ago but sometimes his insomnia wakes him. As lovely as it is to see your friends again, you wish more than anything that you were with Steven back at his flat. There’s only so much you can share about your boyfriend—not his struggles, not his nighttime extracurricular activities, not his alters—without his wishes. You can’t help but feel like you’re keeping secrets from them, which has you feeling more morose than ever while you listen to their cheerful updates on their lives.

One of your friends gets too drunk. She’s about to leave alone but Moon Knight or not, you feel obligated to go with her. Maybe safety in numbers isn’t needed, but making sure she doesn’t stumble into the wrong flat is.

Arm in arm, you traipse along sidewalks tracing the way to your friend’s flat. Afterward you’ll likely just head home to your own.

“Lookit the moon,” your friend says, voice round and loose as you watch her buzz her way into the building. Above the both of you, it is a sharp crescent, threatening violence even as it gives you butterflies. She’s so busy staring upwards that she has to buzz again. “My god, it’s beautiful isn’t it? Thanks for walking me home, love. Don’t be such a stranger!”

You’re nearly in between Steven’s apartment and your own, but you decide to head back to yours in the end; the last thing you want to do is wake him if he’s fallen asleep. Every now and then you are drawn back to look at the moon, feeling its strange pull. Or maybe you were more buzzed than you thought.

Looking up makes you collide head on with a man looking down at his phone. He curses as it goes flying from his hands.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” you say, leaning down to pick up his phone—an old flip phone. Dinosaur, it is, you think. Haven’t seen someone use one of those since you made Marc and Steven join the twenty first century. “Oh no.”

The phone is missing its back and its battery.

“Fuck,” the man sighs. The two of you scan the darkness of the sidewalk to no avail.

“Maybe there?” you suggest, pointing to the alleyway beside you.

“Does your phone have a light?” the man asks, holding his phone up and angling it towards the dim streetlamp to look for cracks in the case. “Can’t see shite without my own.”

Phone light on, you sweep the glow back and forth along the mouth of the alleyway.

“I’m sorry, I don’t see it.”

“I feel terrible,” you say. “Please give me a way to contact you and I’ll pay for a new one.”

“It’s alright,” says the man. He reaches out and wraps his fingers around your wrist, squeezing tight past the point of pain. “Guess I’ll just have yours.”

He wrenches you into the dark alley. Even just a few feet off of the street changes the entire atmosphere; it is darker here, quieter, smelling like a London alley would. Caught off guard as you are, one swift push knocks you off your balance and down to your hands and knees.

A voice comes from deeper within the alley, and for a moment you think you’ve been saved—you don’t even need a hero, just a Good Samaritan who can maybe scare off the man above you. But when he rips your phone out of your hand and hands it to the other, your hope is snuffed like a matchstick in the wind.

“Keep quiet and this will be real easy. We don’t want to hurt you,” says the first man. “We’ll take the phone and your purse and we’ll call it even.”

“Fine,” you say. You aren’t sure if you can believe them, but you’re at their mercy. Hands shaking, you work to unclasp your clutch from where you had secured it around yourself before leaving with your friend.

“Come on,” the second man groans, bouncing up on his toes to keep an eye on the end of the alley where the occasional car passes by. “Jesus, hurry it up or we’ll cut it off you.“

“I’m trying,” you snap.

He strikes you across the face, a dizzying blow that brings instant tears to your eyes. “What’d I say lady? Keep quiet. Just because we don’t wanna hurt doesn’t mean we won’t.”

You nod, barely hearing him over the ringing in your ears. Trying to unclasp the purse is even harder now though with your blurred vision, the complete lack of moonlight.

That darkness is where he comes from. The man who struck you is there one moment and gone the next, pulled deeper into the alley and out of your vision. There is the sound of a struggle that is then cut ominously short.

The other drops your phone and makes a break for it, but the Knight is faster. You’ve heard Steven and Marc describe the ceremonial armor—and Steven’s suit, which you imagine he looks very dapper in—but unique as this alter is, he has an outfit all his own, with gray bandages across his every surface except for a bare strip revealing his eyes. The cape and cowl are in tatters, having seen better days.

On his hands, it looks like he has pulled on a pair of worn leather gloves.

The Knight breezes past you as if you weren’t there, rustling the air around you. One savage kick to the back sends the retreating mugger sprawling with such vigor that his head strikes the concrete and his body goes still.

All at once, they are alone.

You feel breathless, even as you pant. One hand reaches up to tenderly touch the arch of your cheek, feeling wetness that could be blood or tears for all the pain it brings.

He approaches you with slow, thoughtful steps. Bending down, he picks up your phone and offers it to you without a word.

His eyes—those eyes you know so well—scan you from head to toe, narrowing in on your wounded face. Before you can open your mouth to say a word to him, you both hear the sound of one of the men coming to.

“Vete,” Marc’s body says to you. His voice gives you goosebumps, so similar to Marc’s but so different. He stalks into the alley and with ease picks up the man who struck you, forcing him to stand even as he sways dangerously. To the man he says: “Oye. No te ves tan bien. ¿Necesitas un médico? Hel-lo? No. Un médico no puede ayudarte.”

The Knight seems to conjure from thin air a piece of metal just as thin, curved, and dangerous as the crescent moon above you.

“Hey—“ you say, scrambling to your feet. Your head still spins as you struggle to get your balance, but you see that the Moon Knight has frozen at the sound of your voice, narrow strip of exposed eyes turned towards you even as he holds the struggling man in place, blade pressed beneath his chin. “Hey, you, you don’t have to do that. They wouldn’t want you to do that.”

You approach him like you might a scared, wild animal. The man who tried to mug you goes still as he realizes that you’re actually trying to save his life, barely daring to breathe unless the blade breaks his skin.

“Do you recognize me?” you ask lowly. He doesn’t respond, but those eyes—those eyes know you. The revelation makes you feel faint. “I know you. Sort of. I know your flatmates too. This…isn’t what they would want you to do.”

You reach out, fingers trembling, palm up. He stares at your open hand, and his grip on the blade shifts.

Marc’s body slits the man’s throat in one smooth motion. Your entire being recoils in horror, a spray of blood splattering against your bare legs. The mugger doesn’t even seem to realize what has happened, reaching up to touch at the gaping wound in his neck. He is let go, crumpling to the dirty ground of the alley.

“No me importa,” the alter says to you. He slips back into the shadows and is gone like smoke.

Next drabble here.

#jake lockley x reader #steven grant x reader #marc spector x reader #tw: graphic depictions of violence #tw: blood

207 notes · View notes