#slash light hearted of course but it’s like Huh every time I see a drawing say of him with a smooth face akin to a 20yr old

[purecommemasolitude]

Tos bones just doesn’t look right without some level of eye bags or face lines tbh. Put some visible signs of aging on that man

#og #star trek #tos #leonard mccoy #slash light hearted of course but it’s like Huh every time I see a drawing say of him with a smooth face akin to a 20yr old #bones mccoy #dr mccoy #mccoy #there are ​too many tags for him #tos bones #tos mccoy #I could go on but I won’t

[moondustis]

killjoy (m)

pairing: johnny + reader genre: angst, smut, band!au / word count: 4,7k  summary: He looks at you with his dark eyes and as his hand run lazily on your thigh you realize that Seo Johnny is a demon. A demon messing with your head and you’re letting him. warnings: age difference, kind of asshole johnny, mentions of drinking and drug use, intoxicated sex (both people)

The first time you see him you’re too drunk to stand still and you’re high off something that you can’t remember exactly what it is. 

It was a sketchy bar, filled with college students that just wanted to do something to take their minds off stressful lectures and exams, and Doyoung had brought you to it to celebrate something about an internship that you also can’t remember quite exactly after your sixth shot of the night. He, as a good roommate, had paid for all of them so you weren’t afraid to go all out.

The him in question was Seo Johnny. You don’t know that the first time you see him, of course, but here’s what you know:

He’s in the band, called The Killjoys, that is performing tonight at the bar and they are currently playing some weird indie rock song that is pleasant enough and suits the whole alternative kid atmosphere. He’s the drummer and he moves with such ease that you can’t look away from his hands. Lastly, he’s so beautiful, even with hair covering his eyes, that you wouldn’t mind getting on your knees for him.

Your mind is spinning and your vision blurry when you look at him, almost shining and moving so fast you feel like you’re dreaming. That’s the last thing you remember when you wake up with your head pounding and on the couch.

✱

The second time it happens, you know you’re going to see him. Had invited Doyoung to the bar again for this very purpose. 

The thing is, you are not an obsessive person, not at all. But once something got into your mind, it was a little hard to just drop it. And it's not hard at all to find out that the band played on the sketchy bar every friday night, an ugly flyer posted to their instagram page tells you that. So what else were you supposed to do but put on your best short dress and drag your best friend slash roommate along to your impending downfall? 

The lights in the bar are dim, a few red ones swirling around near the stage  in a cheesy way. It’s more crowded tonight than it was that day, probably something to do with spring break approaching but that's the last thing on your mind as you scan the room looking for something that you know exactly what it is. Doyoung gives you a weird look as he hands you a beer. 

Now, a disclaimer. All of this will sound like you are some silly girl with a crush but that's not what you are. What you are is a girl with a purpose, or at least that's what you tell yourself for comfort. But you believe in going for what you want, even if it is a cute boy you saw once and had to see again. 

The band comes on stage one hour after your arrival and you’re literally shaking from excitement, or the three beers you had, when you see him take his seat by the drums. The song starts and you’re tipsy, mind so clouded that it feels like a scene from a movie with his hands moving fast as another dude sings about some girl that broke his heart. He has a gentle face you think for a second, and whatever girl made him sad was probably mean.

“That’s my friend Taeyong.” Doyoung says excitedly close to your ear but you don’t really pay attention to it at first. “On the keyboard.” 

When it finally dawns on you, your mind feels like it’s swirling. “Oh my god, what? Do you know the rest of the band?” Your voice is just shy of being desperate.

“Not really, but we can go talk to him after they’re done if you want.” He offers but there's a look on his face that tells you he knows exactly what's going on in your mind. Again, it wasn't hard to know when you had such a clear goal.  You’re nodding excitedly even before he finishes talking.

You finish your last beer as the last song is ending, as if to gather some confidence and Doyoung assures you that you look fine when you ask him, but you can’t help but run your fingers through your hair for the fifth time. 

The introductions are simple, Doyoung hugs Taeyong like he hasn’t seen him in ages but they banter playfully as if they have been friends for a while. Then proceeds to tell them about how you two met in high school and became so close that being roommates was just a natural choice. You keep your eyes on Johnny the whole time and he seems bored, like he wants to leave already.

That’s what he does when Doyoung starts talking to Taeyong exclusively. moving from the crowd and you follow him.

✱

The outside of the club is mostly dark, the only light coming from a streetlamp that flickers every now and then. It’s too cold to be here now, your bare legs protesting at your dumb decision of wearing a dress this short. Theres a feeling in your stomach that this would not be the first dumb decision you make tonight.

Johnny lets his back press against the wall, hand disappearing inside his pocket and retreating with a pack of marlboros and a lighter, because of course he had to smoke. You shiver a little from the cold air. 

“You don’t look old enough to be in a bar, pretty girl.” He says, lighting up the cigarette in his hand and bringing it to his lips. The pet name makes your legs feel like jelly at the same time it makes you cringe. 

“Well, I am.” Barely, but still, you are.

“Oh, really?” His voice is teasing, like he doesn’t believe you. “How old are you then?”

He moves closer to where you are standing next to the door, your own back pressed against the wall. When his eyes meet yours with an eyebrow raise you don’t look away. “I’m nineteen.” It makes him scoff.

“That makes me almost 8 years older than you.” He says, the traces of laughter on his lips. “What are you? Fresh outta high school or what?”

You watch as he takes a drag of the cigarette, holding the smoke for a couple of seconds before letting it out in the cold air. The smell doesn’t bother you that much you realize. “I graduated two years ago.” Is your reply and he just hums, like there’s nothing he can add to that. It makes you antsy and a little annoyed. “What are you an asshole or what?”

That makes him laugh out loud. “You're funny.”

You give him a fake laugh at that as he continues to smoke, eyes fixed on you as you watch his tattooed hand bring the cigarette to his lips. It’s quite embarrassing, really, how you just met Johnny today and barely exchanged words with him, but there’s already a tingle of excitement inside of you when his eyes run through your whole body. Is almost as if he’s pondering what he should do. Doesn't help that his confidence is as hot as it makes your blood boil in an unpleasant way. 

“Well, are you just gonna stare at me while I smoke?” He asks cockily.

“You could offer me one then.” You don't even smoke, but that's the coolest thing you think of saying. 

“Ha! I don't think I should be indulging you in that.”

“Why not?” 

“Smoking is bad for you.” He says in a funny voice and you scoff again. How many times exactly is this dude trying to make you do that.

“Wow, how much more patronizing can you get?” That makes him laugh again. 

He watches you for a moment, taking another drag of his cigarette. It feels like he's analyzing you, thinking of what else to say to get under your skin and a part of you hopes it's a good one. What is it about bantering that just made a thrill go through your body? Maybe it was the fact that nothing that came easy was as good as the things that took a little pushing.

“I think you came outside for something but here you are still watching me.” Is what he decides on saying, again with the teasing voice but now cuter as if to annoy you further. It only makes you smirk.

“We could be doing something else.” You suggest, maybe too confident and he lets out a raspy incredulous  laugh as if he can’t believe your nerve.

“You really are something else.” He finishes the cigarette then, throwing it in the ground and stepping on it with his black vans.

Your breath hitches when he moves even closer to you, a tiny smirk on his lips. You can smell the tobacco on him and you don’t know if you are dizzy from the drinks you had or from the proximity. Your hands go to his shoulders when he stands in front of you and it makes him laugh. “You want me to kiss you?” It’s embarrassing how your head moves quickly with a nod, a small smile on your lips. So embarrassing that your face gets warm and you can do nothing but stare at him. “But you look so cute, angel. I don’t think your little virgin ass could handle it.”

He’s so close that you could just do it yourself. The hand he has on one of your thighs, drawing little circles, makes you shiver and you probably look pathetic right now, eyes pleading as he hovers over you. “I’m not a virgin.” You bite back and he has the nerve to laugh again, that’s all he seems to do.

“Aren’t you grown up, huh? Still, girls like you always get too attached.” He slaps your thigh softly and then moves away from you. You wish you could punch the perfect smile on his face, want to scream in frustration at his teasing, You’re not underage, not an innocent little thing so you don’t understand why he’s denying you. Why he’s playing this stupid game of going back and forth for nothing. “You should go for someone closer to your age. I’m sure Mark, or I don't know... Jaehyun would die to get into your panties.”

Then he opens the door and gestures for you to get inside the club again.

✱

If you look at the bigger picture there is the thing you should have done and the thing you do. The thing you should’ve done is forget about it and continue to live your life peacefully. And you do that for two weeks in total. But after those two weeks you get bored, and in your defense you’re stubborn, like a challenge maybe a bit too much. So you find yourself at the club again, alone this time and with a shot of tequila running through your system.

After the band performs you move quickly, congratulating the boys like you've actually known them for more than a day and replying casually when they ask about Doyoung. Then you are eyeing Johnny for a good minute, him smiling at you knowingly, before you’re moving to chat with Mark.

And Mark, bless his soul, he’s so sweet it could make your teeth rot. You are not the most experienced at his, but you know by now what a guy looks like when he's flirting and Mark goes all out with it in his own shy manners that make you want to have fun with him. He calls you pretty, blushes when you call him handsome, asks if you want to get high and tells you about the band in an excited way. He's fun, someone that you would genuinely want to befriend and share a joint with, and in the back of your drunk mind you have half a mind to feel guilty about what you are doing. 

But here’s probably a reason why you do all of it, a very stupid one, but still a reason. Why you chose one of the shortest skirts you own to come tonight, why you laugh and touch Mark more than necessary when he tells you an unfunny joke. Why you grab Mark’s hand and drag him to the dance floor with him weakly protesting and blushing at your forwardness. 

You hate the song that’s playing, something that plays all the time on the radio, but still you let Mark move his hands to your hips as you dance, almost grinding against him. Johnny is watching you, standing next to the bar with a glass of something in his hand, and it makes your insides tingle, like you achieved something. You’re not sure what you expected from this,. for him to be jealous or just to get his attention, but the way he’s looking at you dance while he downs his drink is enough for you.

You don’t expect Mark to kiss you but you still let him. His hands move to the back of your neck as he eyes you with care, pupils blown for the alcohol that you can taste on him when he kisses you. His lips are soft as they move against yours and not for the first time tonight you feel guilty for using him like this, because it feels nice enough to have your head cloudy.  

But it's short lived and when the kiss ends you can see Johnny smirking as you look behind Mark, his eyes still on yours as he raises one eyebrow when you look at him.

You feel bad when Mark asks if you would like to go spend the night at his house, voice low and fingers brushing at your hair. So you lie, tell him that you are not feeling very well and that you should probably head home. Guilty takes over you again when he tells you to text him when you arrive home safely.

✱

“Well, look who it is.” Is what Johnny says the moment you step outside the bar. He has a cigarette between his lips this time too and a t-shirt on from a band you never heard of. “Left poor Mark hanging?”

“I told him I was going home.” You say, letting your back touch the wall. You feel tired and your mind spins a little when you close your eyes.

“Still, I’m glad you followed my advice,” he flicks the cigarette somewhere in the dark. “And went for someone your age.”

“Sure, let's put it like that.” Is your reply and it’s embarrassing how you are here right now instead of with a boy that actually gave you indications he wanted you.

“Well, then why are you out here and not with him? Trying to steal my high again?” He sounds bored almost, cocking an eyebrow at you in what seems like a challenge.

“Oh my god, are you really this annoying or is it an act?

“It's fun making you pissed off.” He laughs, deep and genuine and you hate it. You don’t understand why, after all the things he has said and done, you still want it. “And still here you are with me, in the back of this club for the second time.”

You scoff. “You’re an asshole.” You should’ve left already. You move to get your phone on your purse and order an uber so you can leave and never have to look at Johnny again.

“Thank you, sweetheart.” He says laughing again, his eyes not leaving you. “Never been called an asshole and annoying at the same time, it’s very considerate of you.”

You don’t reply, just roll your eyes and wait for the uber to arrive in silence. The cold makes you shiver and you curse yourself for even getting out of the house today.

When the uber arrives you get in without a word and you promise yourself you’ll never talk to Seo Johnny ever again.

✱

Obviously, you have never been good at making coherent decisions, making the right choices. You had a thing for danger and things that seemed out of your reach, a challenge. That’s why you do what you do when Saturday night comes.

While you put on your skirt you think of the time you decide to smoke a blunt inside of your room thinking your mother wouldn’t be able to smell it later. It felt dangerous and stupid but it sent a thrill in your stomach that felt good. 

That same thrill pumped inside your veins as you walked inside the bar for the third time in the span of two months.

It's not a friday, so the band isn't playing you know that for sure. But still, you feel your eyes search for him as you stop by the bar and like a magnet you find exactly what you are looking for. Seo Johnny stands there, in all black and chains on his hips as he talks to Taeil while the music plays loudly. The red lights swing around the bar and there’s so many people dancing that you get overwhelmed, wanting to escape because you shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be chasing for someone that clearly didn’t want you.

The shot you take is bitter against your tongue and your dress keeps riding up in an unpleasant way. The girl sitting next to you looks as distressed as you are and you decide to observe her to clear your mind. She’s drinking something red that looks sweet and matches her lip while checking her phone every 2 minutes. You wonder if a boy stood her up, thinks that she should just tell him to fuck off and go home.

It gets boring after a while and you take another shot. The song has changed three times already and you turn to look at the dance floor. The magnet pulls again and your eyes fall on Johnny, except this time he’s looking right at you and you can feel your body on fire. His eyes are low, like he’s high off something and you wish you were too.

It’s automatic, almost. He raises one eyebrow at you and then starts moving toward one of the more secluded areas of the bar. So you follow, like your body is not your own and you’re blinded by the meaning of it all. You pass the dancing bodies, a slight buzz in your head from the shots and the loud music and the lights. You wonder if you’ll finally get what you want.

When you finally reach him his back is against a wall and he looks at you lazily, a tiny smile on his lips. The music is not as loud here but somehow the red light is stronger. “Found your way into the rabbit hole again, pretty girl?” He asks and you’re once again between liking the pet name and wanting to punch his face.

“I was busy the last few weeks.” It’s not really a lie, you were busy trying to convince yourself you didn’t want to come here and find him. You stand a few steps away from him, not wanting to give him the luxury yet. 

He just hums and signals for you to come closer. You shouldn’t, nothing good will come out of it but the way he smells when you get as close as possible is intoxicating, causing your mind to twirl even more. His hand moves to put a strand of your hair behind your ear in a manner that is too  sweet. “You’re so lovely.” He says, voice as low as his eyes and you feel like your whole body is melting. “Tell me, baby, did you come here tonight to see me?”

You shake your head. you won’t give him what he wants, not so quick at least. Trying to pay back in the same coin he gave you. It’s stupid and silly, something inside of you says that this is just proving his point. That you are too immature for him. “No, I came to have a good time.” Is your reply.

His laugh still pisses you off. “Come on. You’re really gonna lie to me?” The song changes and someone passes the both of you on the way to the bathroom. You feel self conscious for a second, like you got caught doing something you shouldn’t. “But you know, I have to admit that I have been waiting for you to show up again.”

You don’t understand why he’s acting like this. Like he hasn’t denied you just weeks ago. He looks at you with his dark eyes and as his hand runs lazily on your thigh you realize even in your drunk state. Seo Johnny is a demon. A demon messing with your head and you’re letting him. “Shut up.” Your voice is weak, barely convincing.

His smile is perfect, you notice and it shouldn’t be from how much he smokes. He smells like some expensive cologne and cigarettes, making your mind clouded and he looks like a boy who would ruin your life. A boy who you would let ruin it. “Now tell me this, baby, and don’t lie this time.” Honey melts on your ears. “Do you want me to kiss you?”

Yes, is what your lungs want to scream. You want it so bad, want to taste him and to make him feel as ruined as you do. Your head moves on its own accord.

“Come on, use your words, ___.” He says teasingly and you lose your patience. You press your lips against his a bit too forcefully, the thrill of confidence running through your veins frenetically. As if he predicted what you were going to do he kisses you back just as forcefully, his hand gripping at your neck, not letting you have any more control.

It’s good. So good your mind spins and you think you might pass out. The wait and anticipation making it all better. He drags his teeth against your bottom lip, biting softly before he’s dipping his tongue inside your mouth and letting it move against yours.

Your mind starts to wonder what changed, why he finally gave in but you’re interrupted when his free hand moves underneath your short skit, moving to press against your damp panties and you can’t help but moan a little. You’re shaking against him, you are sure, and the way he smirks against the kiss only aggravates it.

He breaks the kiss then, eyes staring at you as he swipes his thumb on your lips. You must look a mess. “It’s adorable how desperate you act for me, baby.” His voice is husky. “Makes me want to take you to that bathroom and fuck you.”

He smiles at the way you whimper. “Then do it.” You are good at putting on a brave face.

“Would you like that, huh? Want me to fuck you nice and good in the bathroom like a dirty girl?”

It’s embarrassing, really. How you dumbly nod and almost go as far as saying please. How he has such an effect on you, that you just let him take you to the bathroom. Him immediately presses you against the wall after closing the door.

Something shifts and he kisses you so softly, with no rush and you melt against him. The sound of the music is muted, only the beat vibrating on your body and you let your mind fall numb. It feels like something you shouldn’t be doing but so right and perfect at the same time.

You feel his hands everywhere, on your neck then down your waist and gripping tightly on your ass, your front  pressing closer to his. And he's so tall he practically hovers over you, making your mind wander with thoughts of what he could be doing. It isn’t until he hikes your skirt up and dips a hand inside your panties that you are moaning. The mere touch of his finger on your clit sets your body on fire and you’re gripping at his shoulders. “You’re so cute, baby.” He coos “All wet for me. Has anyone else ever made you this wet before?”

“No…” You sigh as he massages your clit, lips pressing on your collarbone and you can feel the smile on his lips against it. You’re so on edge that the moment he presses a long finger inside of you, with some difficulty due to the angle, you feel ready to come. 

He hums pleased and moves to kiss you again, this time more desperate and messy. You grip tight at his hair, earning a moan from him against your mouth. Someone knocks on the door and yells something but you don’t care, all your mind can do is chant Johnny’s name over and over like you’re intoxicated with him.

Your experience at this runs short and he can probably tell with the way he looks a little gone when he inserts another finger inside and your walls clench as pleasure washes over your body. It's a tight fit and realizing that he seems to spur him in trying harder to get you ready. “I don't think you are going to be able to take me, baby.”

He punctuates the words by pressing his fingers deeper, fucking you with them so nicely that the moment he adds his thumb to your clit you’re coming with a deep whine that makes him chuckle.

Then he removes his fingers, following with the fumbling around to get his pants down with the chains clanking around. When he finally enters you it’s pure bliss, with a little resistance from you from how big he is but despite it with a little try he manages to bottom out. He fucks you deep and slow and whispers the most filth and lovely words. The only thing you can do is grip his shoulders and moan like you’re losing your mind because he hits so deep inside that you have to bite your lips to ground yourself from coming too fast. 

“You’re such a good girl, aren’t you?” He says against your ear as he pounds into you. He sounds raspy and breathless “Taking me so well, bet no one will ever fuck you this good.”

It’s cocky and makes you feel dirty but you still nod, agreeing with every word he says. “Yes, Johnny, please, please.” You cry out pathetically. “I’m so close.”

You want to fall apart, to reach heaven in his arms and he takes you there, fucking you so good that your back hits the wall repeatedly, his grip on your thighs so hard you’re sure it’ll leave a bruise. It’s raw and nothing like you imagined your second time having sex would be and for a moment you remember Johnny’s words about how girls like you always got attached so easily. How could you not get attached to this? To the way he brings you to your orgasm praising you in the dirtiest way possible. All you see is white and your mind goes blank, his name falling out of your mouth.

After he comes too, discarding the condom and pressing a kiss too sweet to the corner of your mouth, he guides you outside of the party and asks if you’d like an uber to take you home. Your tired mind agrees, the tiniest bit of disappointment that he won’t take you to his house there.

✱

He didn’t give you his numbers, didn’t promise to call or to take you out someday. His intentions were as clear as glass but still your mind still made you think the opposite. Hope, or whatever it was took you to the club on another friday night. With another dress too short, Doyoung by your side and butterflies in your stomach. You arrive just in time for the band to perform the last song, your eyes stay on Johnny exactly like the first time you saw him up there, playing like he would die if he didn’t. The chains on his neck bounced just a little and his hands moved as fast as possible. It’s a scene you could watch forever.

A while after the song finishes you move closer to the dressing room to get to him but you wish you didn’t. He's there, with a dark haired girl in his arms and laughing at something she says. The scene moves fast and then his lips are on hers.

You blink and storm out of there. 

#johnny scenarios #johnny smut #nct smut #nct scenarios #:D #this is an old fic i rewrote #part two just needs rewriting but idk we shall see how this does #hope yall like it im excited to hear your thoughts

[iturbide]

today was a wash have a chunk of bad end au vent writing

The first thing Claude became aware of -- besides pain, but he didn’t want to focus on that any more than he had to -- was a steady, rhythmic swaying, something he could feel in his bones as he lay still in the darkness.  Next came sounds, drawing his attention one by one: the creak of shifting boards, the scrape of metal across metal, the subtle clink of glass muffled by wool padding.  Then the smell of the sea, the tang of salt at the back of his throat edging out the metallic bite of blood (if only for a moment, but he’d take what he could get)...

He knew where he was before he opened his eyes: an Almyran ship at sea, tucked away in the infirmary belowdecks.  But the confirmation was still nice, and he spent an extra moment or two watching the brass lamp sway on its hook, the dim ring of light it cast rocking back and forth as the ship cut through the waves and illuminating shelves of tinctures and compounded remedies, copper instruments cleaned and secured in their cases, berths and braced cots in neat rows for the medics to tend.  An alarming number of them were full from what he could see, sporting burns and dark blisters from toxic magic along with the more commonplace bindings and slings for arrow wounds and slashes...though he noted wryly that his own bunk was directly beside the doorway: the immediate access by the medics coming through at both the start and end of their rounds said a lot more than he cared for about his injuries.  The cot on the opposite side was occupied, too, and he waited patiently for the swaying light to sweep across it, curious who else was in sorry enough shape to warrant such special treatment--

A few locks of pink hair gleamed at the edge of the wandering glow, and Claude jerked upright -- only to immediately regret it, slumping back down and reminding himself to breathe, in through his nose, out through his mouth, focusing on keeping the rhythm steady rather than on the pain burning through his chest and threatening to steal his consciousness again.  It took a while...but eventually the agony subsided to a manageable ache, pulsing in time with his heart; even then, he kept still for an extra minute before trying to open his eyes, confirming that the light wasn’t spinning any more than it should be before looking back across the aisle. 

“Hilda?” he whispered.  “You awake?”

She stirred slightly, and he stretched his arm across the divide between them, cursing silently when his reach fell far short.  “Don’t try to move,” he rasped.  “I made that mistake already.  Don’t be like me.”

He swore he heard a reedy laugh as she turned her head toward him...and in another moment, her hand drifted out to touch his, their fingers twining weakly as they both put what little strength they had into holding on.  “You made it,” she breathed. 

He mustered up a grin, hoping she could see it in such weak light.  “So did you.”  He’d been hopeful, even when he fell, that she’d get out...but he could remember, hazily, the sound of her shouting, the weight of her body over his before everything blurred and faded out; he could feel her hand shaking, and squeezed her fingers as best he could.  “...why didn’t you retreat?  I thought we agreed, if something went wrong, you’d get out of there in one piece…”

“I couldn’t leave you like that,” she mumbled.  “You were counting on me.  I wasn’t...it would’ve let you down, if I left.”

“No it wouldn’t.”  From his place at the pier, he’d watched the battle, keeping an eye out for the classmates who’d come to make the final stand with him: he’d seen Petra batter Ignatz until he couldn’t hold his blade anymore, and felt a rush of relief when she hesitated before dealing a killing blow, giving him just enough time to retreat; he’d watched as Lysithea took aim at the Empress herself, only to be blindsided by Hubert’s magic, and when he saw the mage take Edelgard’s hand he’d felt the strangest jumble of sorrow and solace, knowing she would live on but equally sure that Fódlan would soon become a bleaker place for those that survived to see it.  “I was counting on you to get out of there in one piece.  I...you weren’t supposed to die in a fight we couldn’t win.”

“...did you know we couldn’t win it?” she asked. 

“...I’d hoped we could,” he sighed, feeling her trembling grip tighten.  “But I knew it was a long shot.  It’s why I told you all to retreat if things got out of hand.  But...it’s why I pulled out all the stops, too, to try and even the odds.  Requesting support from Almyra, calling in old friends from Garreg Mach...it’s why I asked you to come.  Didn’t really think you’d go for it, when I did.”

“Were you disappointed I didn’t send my brother instead?” she teased. 

“No,” he replied, tightening his grip on her fingers.  He didn’t even need to think about that.  “Having you there...that’s what made me think we might be able to pull it off.  But...it wasn’t enough.  All that planning, all the preparations...I let you down--”

He thought he heard her huff as she squeezed his fingers.  “Hardly.  You tried: you kept us out of the war for five whole years, and gave the Empire a fight they weren’t expecting when they finally came.  Anybody who’s let down by that should try doing it themselves, see if they can do better.”

Claude immediately thought of Lorenz and blew out a thin sigh.  “Guess we’ll see how that goes, huh?  Hopefully he won’t run it into the ground.” 

“I give him a week.”  

Chuckling to himself, he glanced over and saw her smiling back.  They’d made it out -- only barely, but still (and he tightened his grip, just a bit, reassuring himself that she was really there, warm, alive…

“Oh, well!  Look who’s back among the living.”

Claude blinked, tilting his head back at the man standing in the aisle between them.  “Nader?  ...please tell me you’re not helping the medics.”

“Of course not,” the man huffed, crossing his arms.  “I just came to make sure you were still breathing.  Been a day or so since we got a word out of you, I was starting to worry about what I’d have to tell your parents when we make landfall.”

...he hadn’t actually thought that far ahead.  But near-death was also not an eventuality he’d planned for, when war was normally a matter of kill or be killed.  “Please don’t tell my parents I almost died.”

Nader snorted.  “They’re going to find out one way or another.  Would you rather it be when they see you in that sorry state?”

“No,” Claude groaned.  Not that he could keep it from them that long, given that they were bound to ask why he didn’t come along when the general flew back to the capital to make his report.  “Can you at least not make it sound too bad?  You know how they get when they think I’m dying.”

“Last time I checked in the medics still thought you were,” Nader pointed out. 

“It takes more than that to kill me,” he grinned.  Maybe not much more, but he wisely kept that to himself. 

The general sighed, but apparently decided to give up on arguing further.  “Yeah, well, let’s try to avoid finding out what else it would take.  Stay put, kiddo, I’ll round up a medic and be back in two flaps of a wyvern’s wing.”

“Not like I could go anywhere,” Claude called after him, relaxing into his berth and glancing over at Hilda...to find her squinting at him.  “What?  I couldn’t.  Not without regretting it.”

“I don’t even know what you two were saying,” she pointed out. 

...he hadn’t even registered that they’d been going at it in Almyran.  “Nothing to worry about,” he reassured her.  “They’ll have us back on the mend in no time.”

“Well, that’s a relief, at least,” she chuckled.  “Holst would never forgive me if I didn’t make it back.”

Only when he felt her grip tighten on his hand did he realize he was shaking.  The Empire had every reason to think both of them died at Derdriu -- which meant Hilda couldn’t go back.  For Claude, it was only ever a matter of not seeing the Alliance again; for her...she couldn’t go home.  “Do you think you’ll regret it?” he whispered.  “Fighting for me?  Not getting out while you had the chance?”

He could barely muster up the nerve to look at her.  But when he did, she was smiling at him through the wan light.  “It was worth it.”

Even he wasn’t certain of that anymore.  “How can you be sure?”

“Because it was for you.”

His eyes stung, and blinking only made his vision blur.  “Would you mind sticking with me for a while longer, then?”

“Do you even need to ask?” she giggled.  “You just say the word, and I’ll be there.”

Drawing in a slow, unsteady breath, he squeezed her fingers as best he could.  “Thanks, Hilda.  For everything.”  

As the ship’s medics came marching in and finally shooed their hands apart, Claude closed his eyes.  His goal was even further away now than it had been when he first set foot in Fódlan, and he doubted it would get any closer while Edelgard held power.  But he could still plan.  He could still prepare.  And when the day finally arrived when it came back in sight, he would be ready. 

He was still alive.  And so long as he lived, he’d work to make his dream real.

#fire emblem: three houses #fanfiction #bad end au #claude #hilda #nader #snippets #part of this had already been written admittedly #but roughly half is new as of today #i'll circle back to the asks tomorrow #so feel free to send one in if you haven't already #i just needed to decompress with this first

[leahxx129]

Truth or Cut (Dean Winchester x Reader x Sam Winchester)

Hello there! This my * very VERY * late submission to @dontshootmespence​ ‘s   Alphabet Angst for 8k Challenge. I am incredibly sorry for this delay but I had to take a break away from Tumblr and social media in general in order to focus on my mental/physical health & other issues in my private life. Now I think I’m ready to return and create content again. As for the story, I hope you like it. This is my first attempt at a love triangle. Important: does not include Wincest so it’s safe to read for anyone who’s not into that. Also, I inserted a ‘Keep reading’ line, I hope it’s visible.

Summary: The British Men of Letters try a new approach to acquire the Winchesters’ cooperation, which leads to heartbreaking revelations. 

Warnings: cursing, bloodshed, mentions of sex, character death

Word count: 2.750-ish

* Moodboard is mine, pictures used are not.

You gain consciousness to two male voices calling your name frantically.

“She’s opening her eyes, Sam! She’s alright… Look!” the hoarse baritone belonging to the elder Winchester reassures his brother a second after your eyelashes have started fluttering.

“Well, that’s the overstatement of the year, Dean… Let’s just say I’ll live.” you grumble once you fully come around. “What the hell?!”

Usually you’re more eloquent than that but at the moment it’s the best you can muster, considering that you’ve awakened in what appears to be an abandoned warehouse and all three of you are handcuffed to uncomfortable metal chairs organized in a neat triangle, facing each other. The only source of light are a few flickering candles placed on a table nearby.

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out, babe.” your long-term boyfriend Sam replies in a soothing tone.

His handsome face seems intact – minus a couple of scars he obtained in previous fights – so being ambushed is crossed off the list of possible explanations on what happened and how you got here. Maybe you were drugged? If yes… by whom? The things that go bump in the night prey upon their enemies and slash their throats open, not abduct them.

A heavy silence falls on the place, only the crackle of the candle flames can be heard.

You have no idea how much time has passed – it could’ve been an eternity as well as ten minutes – when suddenly a consecutive knocking sound fills your auditory canals.

“Are those… are those high heels?” you ask aloud incredulously.

“Louboutin’s to be exact, my dear.”

Every head snaps to the accent’s direction just in time to see an elegantly dressed slender woman step into the candle-lit area.

“But excuse my manners… talking about fashion before introducing myself? How rude of me. I’m Lady Toni Bevell on behalf of the British Men of Letters.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Dean growls “You know, here in America no means no, Lady! We’ve already told your stupid little boyband to fuck off. We’re not here to do their bidding, we’re here to save lives.”

“So I’ve heard.” She nods in understanding. “But yet, we’d still like to gather some information, one way or another.”

She walks over to the table and unfolds a neatly wrapped package, revealing a knife. Suddenly, Sam’s sarcastic chuckle fills the place.

“And you think you can get us to spill by torturing? Seriously?”

A predatory smile spreads across Toni’s face as she casually picks up the weapon of her choice.

“I was thinking about playing a game that may involve torture. It’s up to you whether it does or does not.”

“What game?” you ask suspiciously.

“I’d like to call it Truth or Cut. Maybe Truth or Stab, depending on the importance of the information you intend to withhold. The rules are the following… I ask something and if you reply, that equals truth, and nothing will happen. If you do not wish to answer, just say cut and I’ll sink my knife into your flesh.”

“You’re crazy!” Sam exhales in disbelief.

“Thank you, Sam! I’m going to take that as a compliment. And since we are already engaged in a conversation, let’s start with you.” She walks to the center of the triangle to face the younger Winchester. “I’d like you to give me the names of American hunters you consider the best.”

Sam leans a bit forward, his face is unreadable.

“Bite me!” he hisses through gritted teeth. “I’m not gonna participate in your psychotic game. You can’t make me.”

Toni flashes a dangerous smile once more.

“Are you sure about that?”

She slowly walks behind your chair and places the blade under your right collar bone.

“If you refuse to pick either truth or cut, your loved ones will pay the price for it, big guy.”

Sam’s eyes search yours for confirmation of the next step and you nod.

“You’re bluffing.” He counters Toni.

The next second you feel the metal pressed against you slash into soft skin and you can’t suppress a loud grunt of pain. Blood starts oozing from the wound and your white tank top soon begins to acquire a shade of crimson.

The brothers yell ‘No!’ in unison, then Dean delivers an impressive selection of curse words – sneaking in some that were new even to you.

Toni strolls over to Sam.

“Now I ask again. Name the best American hunters you know.”

“Cut.” Sam responds in a tone just above whisper. He soundlessly flinches when the woman draws blood by sliding the blade across his left forearm.

“Alright… Who wants to be next? Perhaps Dean? List all the places where we can find extensive knowledge on the supernatural, not counting the Man of Letters safe houses of course.”

Dean’s gaze meets Toni’s and for a second you think you can see her confidence falter because of the deadly rage and utter disdain that radiates from the hunter, but she soon regains composure.

“So? Is it truth or cut, Dean? You know what will happen if you refuse to choose.”  

“Cut!” he emphasizes the t at the end.

You’re next and you pick cut as well. Then the cycle starts all over again...

You’ve made three rounds without anyone breaking and giving Toni what she wants, which visibly annoys her.

“Let’s shake things up a bit by changing the topics, shall we?” she announces out of the blue, making all of you knit your brows.

Spinning around on her heels, she turns to Sam.

“Sam! Did you manage to decide where you want to propose to Y/N? In my personal opinion the place where you said your first I love you-s is more romantic than the place where you first met, but that’s just plain old me.”

Sam’s eyes widen in shock, reflecting your own facial expression.

“Sam? What is she talking about?” you question in a thin voice, perplexed.

A shy, boyish smile appears on his face as he looks deep into your eyes, reminding you of the very first time you’ve seen him.

“Uh, yeah. She’s right. Although I have no idea how she knows this, but I did indeed plan on proposing to you at one of those places, probably where we met… up until now. Now I have to come up with something else I guess.”

A mixture of emotions floods your heart, making you undecisive what to say first. You finally open your mouth to speak but before a sound can escape, Toni directs the next question to Dean.

“Alright, that was a truth, so no cuts. Now, Dean! I am certain she will not get offended so you can tell me honestly… Is Y/N a good kisser?”

“How would I know?” he asks back, lacking any hesitation. “I think you’re mistaking me with Sam, her boyfriend. You know, the tall guy whose proposal you’ve just ruined? Next time you play this game with someone, have your facts checked first, Suit pants.”

The confusion on Sam’s face slowly starts to fade away, but Toni presses on relentlessly.

“Oh, Dean... That was a very convincing performance! But, unfortunately for you, I did have my facts checked. And according to these facts, you and Y/N locked lips passionately just two years ago, in 2015. Isn’t that right, Y/N?”

Everybody’s eyes are on you waiting for your reaction, and you can’t help but reminisce about the event in question.

You were having a hard time finding the key for the motel room you were renting - courtesy of the bottle of bourbon you’d consumed earlier. All those keys on the chain looked the same and neither of them seemed to fit into the lock, let alone open the damn door… In addition to that, the world slowly started spinning and you had to prop yourself against the doorframe to prevent an ugly fall.

“Need a hand there, Sweetheart?”

Your heart skipped a beat from the scare but soon calmness washed over you as you identified the person. You could recognize that husky voice anywhere, intoxicated or not.

“Dean Winchester!” you exclaimed, turning around to find him leaning against your car you’d parked near the doorway. “The world’s deadliest hunter and mightiest panty dropper turned hell’s cruelest demon! To what do I owe this pleasure? Considering that you’ve gone out of your way to ignore both me and Sam in the past couple of months.”

He leisurely pushed himself from the car and started walking towards you.

“I needed a breath of fresh air, that’s all. But speaking of whom… where’s Sam?”

He almost left no distance between your bodies when he finally stopped. What was he doing? If he wanted to kill you, he probably would’ve done it already…

“I don’t know. Why don’t you give him a call, huh? Ask him how he’s doing? You could make him the happiest man alive…” you replied with a bitter undertone.

A shit-eating grin formed on Dean’s handsome face.

“Uh-oh. Is there trouble in paradise?”

“Shut it, Dean! It’s really none of your business.” You said, crossing your arms and averting your gaze.

His comment hit a nerve – you both knew that – but the last thing on Earth you wanted to do was discussing your relationship crisis with him. If you still had a relationship, that is.

To much of your surprise, the next second he grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at him and pressed his lips against yours. It felt terribly wrong but incredibly right at the same time… It took you half a minute to gather all your willpower and push him away.

“Y/N? Is it true?” Sam’s voice brings you back to reality.

Tears start dwelling up in your eyes, providing a wordless answer. He swallows hard.

“Why?”

“It’s all my fault, okay?” Dean speaks up as you’re clearly unable to form a coherent sentence. “I kissed her, man. It happened when I was a demon… I figured if I kissed her, I’d piss you off enough to leave me alone. Besides, she was totally hammered and still pushed me away.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better, Dean?!”

“I don’t know… a little, maybe?”

Sam scoffs then all of a sudden realization hits him.

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“What?”

“Is my girlfriend a good kisser?”

Both you and Dean stare at him in shock.

“C’mon man, you can’t seriously want me to answer that…” Dean attempts to change the subject but doesn’t succeed. Sam’s stare makes it obvious he won’t let this one slide. He won’t let go until he hears the truth no matter how unpleasant it may be.

“Yes.” Dean blurts out. “She’s a good kisser. In fact, she’s one of the best kissers I’ve ever encountered in my entire life. Happy now?”

The only response is a nod.

“Oh wow…” Toni lets out an excited sigh. “Changing the topic was the best idea ever, don’t you agree? Now, let’s move on to Y/N. She’ll get the most interesting question in my repertoire.”

She slowly walks over to you, her Louboutin’s menacingly tap against the concrete every step of the way. She crouches down, tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and asks the most ruthless question in the sweetest voice.

“Which one of the Winchester brothers is better in bed?”

The tears you’ve been holding back for quite some time now break free and roll down your cheeks swiftly.

“I mean, it’s not entirely true what Dean said, now is it? You did push him away but then you pulled him back...”

Complete silence ensues and you swear you can hear three hearts break if you listen closely.

You were standing there more confused than ever. What the hell was Dean doing?! Was this a long time coming or was he playing some sort of a game? Either way… If you were sober, you most certainly would’ve punched him in the mouth. But due to your condition – or at least that’s what you’ve been telling yourself ever since – you pulled him back and kissed him there instead. The part of how you got inside the room was a blur, but soon enough you found yourself tangled up with him in the sheets. Torn clothes peppered the floor, a smell of bourbon lingered in the air and Dean treated you as if you were the single, most important person in the entire universe. You truly thought you’d never been happier – then came the morning and shattered everything to a thousand pieces.

“You know, to encourage picking truth regarding this question, I am going to tell you something you yourself may not even be aware of, Y/N.” Toni breaks the silence. “There is something else that’s not true in what Dean said. He did not spend that night with you just to piss Sam off… He’s been attracted to you ever since you’ve met and being a demon allowed him to shamelessly do something about it.”

You whisper ‘Cut’ as a reply and Toni’s face hardens.

“Oh, honey… withholding this information is worth a stab.”

Before you can comprehend her words, she swings the knife and it ends up in your right thigh. You don’t think you’ve ever seen this much blood come from a stab wound… Both Winchester men yell in protest, but their voices become distant as you slowly slip into unconsciousness.

Mary and Castiel tracked down your location and arrived just in time. You almost bled to death, but the angel managed to heal the wound. For a while you wished he didn’t.

Three weeks later you’re sitting in your car at an abandoned gas station. About fifteen minutes after your arrival, a black SUV parks near you. You limp to the vehicle and tear its door open, barely containing your fury.

“What the fuck was that, Toni?!” you question while getting in and pointing a gun at her.

She glances at the weapon then looks you in the eye.

“Is that necessary?”

You cock the gun in response.

“Alright. So, as you know, the management decided that you delivering information to us about the Winchesters is not enough anymore.”

“Yes, that’s why you’ve contacted them directly, I know.”

“Correct. But since they refused to cooperate, the management came up with a plan of disrupting their unity. This way it’s just a matter of time and one of them will be knocking on our door. I suspect it will be Sam.”

A bitter laugh escapes you lips.

“So that’s what this was? A disruption of unity? Really?! And why didn’t I know of this, huh?”

“We needed your reactions to be genuine.”

“God, you’re a bunch of psychopaths… You know what, I’m not gonna do this anymore. I quit.”

She lets out a loud scoff.

“Please… what are you going to tell them? Furthermore, how do you think they will react when they learn that the love of their lives is a snitch?”

You let your gun down.

“I’ll make sure they know why I became a snitch... I’ll make sure they know how I made a crossroad’s deal years ago to save them both. I’ll make sure they know how you offered to delay the hellhounds in exchange for some information every now and then. I have no idea how they’ll react, but maybe someday they’ll understand and find it in their hearts to forgive me.”

Toni stares daggers at you.

“I suggest you think this through carefully, Y/N, as we still hold your deal. One bad move and the hellhounds will come and get you. No more delaying.”

You flash her the biggest smile you can summon.

“Well, it’s been a while since the last time I played with puppies from the pit… I think I’m ready.”

Not waiting for her reaction, you get out of the car and start limping back to yours. By the time you get in, Toni is gone.

You’re all alone.

Well, not entirely alone to be fair.

The grumbling hellhounds in your backseat keep you company.

You take your phone out of your pocket avoiding any sudden movements and type a quick message to the Winchesters:

‘My nightstand, second drawer.’

Toni thought she could prevent you from exposing the truth by taking action quickly, but she wasn’t paying attention. You never said you were gonna tell them everything. You said you would make sure they know. And the detailed farewell letters you left for them in your drawer will serve the purpose well.

#nicolesalphabetangstfor8k #dontshootmespence #dean winchster x reader #dean winchester #sam winchester x reader #Sam Winchester #supernatural fic #supernatural #SPN #spn fanfiction #sam x reader #dean x reader #sam x reader x dean

[whump-princess]

Birthday whump✨

In honor of my 20th birthday, I’m sharing with you all some birthday whump! Hear me out, okay? Just think...

🖤The caretaker singing Happy Birthday to the whumpee like a lullaby, cuddling them close, petting their head. Their in captivity but the caretaker hasn't forgotten their birthday.

🖤Or the whumpee hugging themselves, curled up in the corner of their cell, quietly singing a happy birthday song to themselves like it’s a secret, tears breaking apart their voice. It’s that special birthday song that only caretaker used to sing to them.

🖤The whumper helps their captive whumpee celebrate their birthday, bringing them a cake and gifts.

🖤Poison cake that makes them sick? Or hears a creative one, cake with glass as a filling. The whumpee takes a bite and they feel the shards slice up their tongue and pierce their gums they spit it out and it’s a bloody mess. Uh oh! Did they swallow some already?

🖤Do they get to blow out the candles and what do they wish for? Freedom? The sweet release of death? Their caretakers freedom?

🖤What gifts do they get? More torture devices for the whumper to use on them? An extra special b-day beating and lashes? (Getting whipped for each year, how thoughtful!) Maybe their gift is freedom… Hahaha jk!!!

🖤The whumpee breaking down and crying. It’s their birthday, their birthday was always so much fun. Their family/ caretaker/ partner always threw them a party even though they said they never wanted one. They always had a homemade strawberry cake with ice cream. They would always blow out the candles and wish for the same thing; another prosperous, happy year. But that wish didn’t come true this year. They realize how much they took for granted. Now they have nothing.

🖤The whumper thinks their crying over their gifts and cake or they haven’t said “thank you” and praised them yet. They get upset like “look at all I've done for you! This is all for you!! Aren't you happy?! You're so ungrateful! How dare you!!” and proceeds to hurt them, cut them with the cake cutting knife (with the frosting on it and all), smashing the cake or throwing it at them (ya know cuz it’s sticky, and they would haut have to sit there with no way to clean it off. I mean, so much dirt and grime would stick to them lol) throw them back into their cell/cage.

🖤Literally being cut like a piece of cake. Like “your so sweet, just like a piece of cake, I could just cut you up and eat you!” lol or something like that, but let’s not get into cannibalism. Like just a big chunk out the leg like a slice of cake (would also mostly kill them bc they would bleed out, it would not be able to heal right without surgery and medication.) or ya know big slashes from one of those sharp, teethed cake cutting knives.

🖤And imagine this one!! The whumpee is kept in a dark room, like a basement, perhaps in a cage or cell, tied up/ chained up, whatever. They don't know what day it is, but the whumper does. They hear heavy footsteps across the ceiling above them, drawing near outside the door, whistling to the tune of ‘happy birthday.” The whumpee’s heart starts to pound. This happened every time when they knew the whumper was coming, it was never a pleasant visit. It feels like the captors hands are already around their throat, their lungs can’t get enough air. The door swings open and light spills in down the old wooden stairs. They watch the whumper appear as they slowly make their way down the stairs, twirling a knife, dragging a bat behind them, letting it hit each step with a loud “thump” on the way down. The whumper begins to sing “Happy Birthday” and it’s just the most horrible, spine chilling sound for the whumpee (even better if the whumper has a really smooth, calm voice) The whumper doesn’t really wish them happy birthday. They hope they have a horrendously painful birthday and they plan to make it so. The Whumpee’s birthday will never be the same.

🖤Pet whumpees getting a big, extravagant party where all the whumpees friends gives them gifts of fancy collars, leashes, outfits, whips and other punishment devices. They get a full meal and even cake. All the other fancy rich whumpers feeding them cookies and cakes and treats like their dog. At first pet is excited that they get to celebrate their birthday… but to be honest, it’s more about their master showing off their pets than it is about them. They get to stand around be fawned over, played with and touched, they still have to obey and be a good little birthday boy/girl. They’re just being displayed and paraded around, and they realize this. None of those gifts were anything they would directly use or there for really enjoy. It was things to cause them pain, to humiliate them, but it didn’t matter if they enjoyed them or not; their purpose is to make their masters happy and serve them. They're still just a toy.

🖤The whumper telling the whumpee it’s their birthday and they realize they have been in captivity for much longer than they thought.

🖤And my favorite!! Whumper brings whumpee a very special birthday surprise; Caretaker. It could go like this: “I’ve brought you a very special surprise for my birthday boy/ girl!” The whumper chimes. The whumpee is just like “oh, great. A new knife? A cattle prod?” The whumper leaves and comes back dragging someone by the chains connecting their wrists across the floor like a sack of flour. The whumper tossed them down in front of the cell, and they just lay there without any kind of fight. Whumpee almost thought the person was dead if they didn’t see the shallow rise and fall of their chest. Peeking out from under the dirty oversized tee shirt, they could tell their emaciated body was littered with bruises and caked with grime, they looked even worse off than them. This was their gift? Who was this poor person? “Surprise! Aren’t you happy?” The whumper questions, pushing locks of matted hair out from the frail little person's face, revealing their identity to the whumpee. The prisoner gasps moving up to press themselves against the bars. It’s caretaker. Their beloved caretaker is right in front of them and at first they didn’t even realize. They don’t look the same as they remember. They look cold and broken. “I’ve been preparing this gift for quite awhile now!”

🖤The whumpee had a bad experience with their birthday long ago (like they got whumped real good for their birthday). They don't celebrate it and explain this to their friends and their partner/ caretaker time and time again but their partner insists they have a party. They come home after having to hear “happy birthday” all day, forcing themselves to smile instead of cry, having to accept everyone's gifts and treats instead of running away. Of course they were thankful but it reminded them of that day… “Happy birthday,” huh? They would never have one of those again. Thinking they made it through the day, it's finally over, they can come home to their cozy little house and cuddle up to their partner and hope they don’t say anything about their birthday. Just a quiet night, just the two of them.  Upon unlocking and opening the door they are bombarded with confetti and balloons. “Surprise!!” Their family and friends gather all around them and once again they have to force themselves to smile. All night they’re fighting tears, having flashbacks that drag them away from all their friends and family around them. They tried to repress all those memories, the ones that make them feel claustrophobic, but they’re having a hard time ignoring them. They can’t escape them now. They’re spiraling deeper and deeper into their own little world they created, filled with darkness where no one can see them, where they are safe. They sit on the couch with a drink in their hand.  Spacing out, left behind, they’re almost invisible. Even in this dark little world of theirs, they hear someone calling their name. They don’t answer, they can’t. They’ve barely drunken anything but they’re shaking, they’re pale, beads of sweat clinging onto their skin. Someone’s calling their name. The music is loud, too loud, too many people, all having fun, laughing, dancing, drinking. The bright lights. It’s all too much. Someone places a hand on their shoulder, calling their name once again. Whumpee lashes out shoving the person with the strength of all their cooped up hurt and anger and fear. They snap. Their partner stumbles back into the crowd. They can’t breath as if their being choked. “Shut up! Stop! Everyone just shut up!” Their holding their head like it’s going to explode pulling on their hair. The music quiets, everyone stops dancing and laughing, the room freezes. Everyone watches in horror and confusion as the whumpee mumbles nonsense under their breath. Their tries to approach them again and the whumpee backs away. “I told you I didn’t want this, any of this!” They yell, tears streaming down over the apples of their cheeks. “I told you and you didn’t listen! You did this for you, not for me! You just don’t understand!” They run off to their room or whatever. (Angst to the max.) Their partner is left to clean up the mess and send everyone home, feeling awful for putting whumpee through so much. They knew something horrible happened on whumpees birthday many years ago, that they had some unresolved trauma, but they never imagined it was that bad. They never really knew what happened to whumpee that day.

🖤What about the whumpers bday? Maybe they make the whumpee sing them “happy birthday.” Or they have to sing it while being tortured and get hurt more if they mess up or stop singing. (This would be so much fun for the resistant type whumpee!)

🖤The pet whumpee who tries to do something special for their master. Maybe they end up just fucking shit up and gets in trouble.

🖤The new whumper who is given a pet for their bday. (In a pretty box and everything.)

Sorry for the long post! Happy bday to me tho and to all your whumpees 💕🎁🎉💖🎂🧁

#whumpe tropes #whump prompts #whump trope #whump blog #whumplr #whump community #whumpee #whumper #whump prompt #whump #whump scenario #whump story #writing #writing prompt #birthday Whump

[anika-ann]

Hands Too Cold, but Heart of Gold - Pt.1

The Recruitment

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader, Matt Murdock x reader (no SR x MM x r)

Word count: 2120

Summary: Avenger!reader AU, love triangle. Every hero has an origin story. Yours not soall that great. One more reason not to mention it during the first face to face meeting with DD. ...right.

Warnings: mention of death, mentions of violence, swearing, fluff, mild angst…?

Story Mastelist

────── ·❆· ──────

“No, no way. I’m not doing it,” you exclaimed resolutely, spinning on your heels.

Heavy, yet somewhat gentle hand fell on your shoulder, turning you back. You bit your lip and looked up at your boss and the closest friend in one person.

His eyebrow was raised in challenge. “Are disobeying your orders?”

You could hear his light teasing just like the serious note in his tone. And of course, Captain America’s authoritative voice was unmistakable. You just gaped.

“It’s a waste of time, St— Captain,” you bit back wryly and he made a disapproving face.

“Don’t pull that out, you know I-“

“Yes, Captain?”

His expression turned annoyed at the interruption and your snarky tone.

You knew you were being cranky, but trying to convince Daredevil, freaking Daredevil, the patron not-exactly-saint of Hell’s Kitchen, was not on your I’d-love-to-do-this list. More like the opposite. That guy was very obviously a lone wolf who loved playing on his own playground and you were not judgemental of that – he was dedicated to his home and that was fine. His way of saying no to joining the Avengers might be a bit rude, but given how many people – well, people – had been trying to convince him to step up to the plate and think on a larger scale than ten blocks, you couldn’t really blame him.

Steve’s hands caressed your shoulders and you bit your lip harder. His baby blue eyes were staring at the bottom of your soul, making you shiver. He had beautiful eyes, serious most of the time, getting incredibly charming when a spark of mischief appeared in them; and make no mistake, Captain America had a lot of mischief in himself despite the righteousness radiating from him to miles.

You blinked, trying to escape his gaze; it was annoying how it always sent your heart racing.

“Just give it a try. No one will be angry with you if you fail. I won’t either. But I believe in you,” he pronounced softly, making you swallow embarrassingly loudly when his thumbs caressed your shoulders.

Jeez, you were such a sucker for his ‘I believe in you’.

Of course, you had a good reason. His speech had been the one that inspired you to join the team. To stop pitying yourself and woman up – yes, that was exactly the term he had used, because his love for strong women was infinite –, to use your accidently gained powers to do some good. He had been the one to find you almost five months ago in the completely frozen lab – your work, not that you had intended it –, shaking, but not from cold. You had been scared to death – you had killed people. You had killed the people who had been trying to help you-- and he had come to you, slowly, putting his shield away despite your warnings and offered you a literal helping hand, promising he hadn’t been there to harm you and he had believed you wouldn’t have hurt him. That he had believed in you.

You fought tears at the memory – you always had. You had hurt him in the end – just a little frostbite really, nothing his super-soldier’s body couldn’t handle – and yet, you had felt almost as sorry as for taking the other people’s lives. But Steve Rogers hadn’t been mad at you. He had stuck around, helped you to get a hold of your powers and the two of you had become colleagues slash friends. Very close friends, actually. Also, you had a bit of a crush on him, but who hadn’t.

“Goddammit, Steve,” you whined silently and his face lit up as he realized he had won. Not from his boss position, no; he had won the way he always had, as a friend of yours.

“I knew I could count on you, Frosty,” he whispered, enclosing you in a short gentle hug.

You rolled your eyes. “You know, Rogers, for someone who napped for about seventy years in ice, you really are pushing your luck.”

Secretly, you loved the nickname he gave you. People called you Frostbite, but Steve never had, aware what kind of a painful reminder of what you had done to him and everyone else the first time using your uncontrollable powers it was. No, he called you Frosty or Snowflake, because he was a sweetheart. Tony, on the other hand, was a dick, calling you Elsa. The others called you either your first name, or your last name. And then there was Thor, calling you the Lady of Ice. You loved your team. It was a delight to work with them. A very exhausting delight.

“Nah, you like me too much.”

You scoffed. He was perfectly on point of course. “I still don’t understand why it’s not you coming, Captain Righteousness. I’m sure you would have handled him better, oh Star Spangled Man with a Plan.”

He let go of you, ruffling your hair to show how much he was still cranky about Clint showing you the videos, both old and rather recent ones. To be fair, you deserved that; but you couldn’t help but tease him about it; some of them were cute, while the others were just hilarious.

“Careful, you still have a problem for saying a bad word.” You rolled your eyes. You had said ‘goddammit.’ Wuss. “And I do have a plan.”

You expectantly raised your eyebrows, curious. He winked.

“I have you.”

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‘This is ridiculous. I’m tracking a man in a Devil suit in, myself in an icily blue catsuit, Captain America’s voice in my ear. What is my life?’

“Still copy?”

“Yep.”

“He’s around the Piers 42/44, heading North.”

“Rogers that,” you mumbled, not fighting the smirk that always found its way to your lips when talking to Steve via comms, saying ‘Rogers that’ instead of just ‘Roger’. It was just too funny and you needed funny in your life. Even if you could basically hear him rolling his eyes at that. Rude.

You created an ice slide, rising and falling to help you to move faster. Tony had designed special shoes for you to move easily on it, while not giving yourself a shiner – it had taken quite a lot of tries and lots of black-eyes plus one broken radius, but hell if it hadn’t been worth it. Ha, hell.

Never mind. You had a task to complete.

You saw him now, the Devil. He slowed down visibly, which surprised you. He had actually managed to disappear on Tony in the sewers once. He had walked away in the middle of Cap’s recruitment speech, ignorant. Sure, he hadn’t shaken Natasha off, but hadn’t agreed either. Thor and Clint hadn’t tried yet. You wondered what Devil’s strategy was this time.

He stopped completely then and you landed few steps from him, a bit wary. You had done your reading on the Devil; he was fast, efficient and didn’t hesitate to break a bone or two. Or six. To be fair, you read about why he did it, on what occasions, and you truly weren’t judgemental.

“Wasn’t expecting any black ice tonight. It’s only September,” he commented nonchalantly, his voice deep. Not necessarily hostile though – you took that as a win.

Perhaps Steve knew what he was doing, sending you – you weren’t as notoriously famous as the others who had actually been present during The Battle of New York were, so maybe the Devil found it refreshing or something.

You wordlessly let your icy toboggan-bridge disappear. “Daredevil.”

“Why are you here? Have your teammates not gotten the message yet? Did you draw the shortest straw today?”

“Something like that.”

“The answer is still no.”

“Why?” you asked, already guessing the answer.

Because he belonged in the Hell’s Kitchen. Because he was a vigilante, not a hero, not an Avenger.

“I don’t really feel like fighting aliens. And someone needs to take down drug rings and smaller things that escape your notice,” he replied wryly and you sighed.

“You think we don’t see that?”

“Press harder.”

“Sounds like you don’t, given what your friend is saying,” he noted and you closed your eyes in defeat.

Steve’s voice was quiet, for you only, but it wasn’t news the Devil had extraordinary hearing. You couldn’t quite blame him for not liking you coming alone and not alone at all. You reached to your ear, turning your communicator off.

Daredevil tilted his head, seemingly confused.

“You think they don’t see that?” you corrected yourself, letting out the doubts you had despite the warm (ha) welcome the Avengers gave you. “You’re needed here. What you do matters, which is why they are letting you.”

“Why are you saying ‘them’?”

“Do I look like an Avenger to you?”

“You sure call yourself that.”

“Well, I don’t feel like one. But I let them talk me down. I’m a destroyer, yet, they convinced me I can help. And maybe I found a calling. Maybe I found a way to possibly redeem myself,” you whispered, being sure the Devil would hear you. He heard everything.

“I am answering a calling. By doing what I do,” he replied, aiming for firm, but failing. Could he tell the emotion behind your voice, the way you opened unexpectedly (to your own surprise too)? Could he hear the regret? Did he imagine what had caused it? Did it move him?

“And I understand that. Actually, kudos for aiming for achievable goal of managing ten blocks of Manhattan and not letting your ego get in the way too much. I mean, these guys are trying to save the world, talk about unrealistic goals,” you noted, lightening up the mood a little.

You imagined the man behind the mask frowned. “I’m sorry, I’m confused now. Are you still trying to get me to join, or…?”

You chuckled. “Doesn’t look like it, huh? I guess that’s fair.”

The corner of his lips quirked in an approximation of a smile. Your heart skipped a beat. You bet neither of your Avenging friends managed to do that. Not that this was a competition or a manipulation – you were being completely honest. Painfully so.

“I… I’m gonna be honest with you. Steve wants you on this one. And frankly, I have no idea why-“ you paused, realizing how it sounded. “I mean— I know why, we can always use some help saving the world and stuff, but... yeah. So just once for now, let’s team up. No strings attached.”

“That was quite a direct strike. Didn’t see that coming,” he chuckled and you blinked, your eyelashes brushing your eye-mask.

Did he just chuckle? Did he laugh at you? Not that he didn’t have the right, but it was still a bit incredible. His face returned to the mask of seriousness. For some reason, it seemed softer now. “It was… Steve, wasn’t it? You say they convinced you, but you mean Steve Rogers.”

You escaped his gaze – or you thought so. Escaped the way the glassy eye-covers of his helmet burned through you. Whatever.

“Yes,” you whispered. He didn’t comment on that. But you would swear he relaxed.

“How did you get your powers?”

You froze almost literally at the direct question. Well, he sure wasn’t beating around the bush. What was it to him? Was it a test? Did he want to know you before saying no? Was he considering a yes? Did he trust you?

You licked your lips, fighting a shiver.

“Untested treatment. I had a rare liver disease and they tested a treatment with some chitauri crap on me. I always had troubles with thermoregulation. The meds messed it up on a completely different level.”

“I’m sorry.” And he genuinely sounded as if he was, his voice dropping.

“I didn’t ask for this. I hurt people. I’m paying my debt, because I think it’s the only thing I can do apart from creating icicles and toboggans for kids and do some cold-drying of fruit for missions,” you said seriously and his shoulders slightly shook with laughter. You found yourself smiling too. Dammit, how did you switch from misery to joking so fast in one sentence?

“No strings attached?” he asked slowly and your mouth literally fell open. Did he just-

“Did you just-?”

“Yeah. How bad it can be? Plus, your friend is approaching with the jet, I guess he didn’t like you turning your comms off.”

“Oh I’m gonna be on detention for like a week, okay. Or until they need another cold-drying, Tony’s addicted to his dried blueberries.”

The Devil chuckled once more before a cute smile settled on his lips. He took several steps closer to you. “I’m sure they’re delicious.”

────── ·❆· ──────

Part 2

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Tags:  @murdermornings​ @mermaidxatxheart​

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Heya, people :) I decided to share one of my older fics with the tumblr, I hope a few of you will like it O:-) Whenever you want to be (un)tagged in anything of mine, shoot me an ask or a message or something like that. 

Thank you for reading :-*

#marvel #mcu #fanfiction #steve rogers x reader #matt murdock x reader #steve rogers imagine #matt murdock imagine #captain america x reader #daredevil x reader #avengers #avengers fanfiction #avenger reader #hands too cold but heart of gold #anika ann

[artgirl130]

Graphite and Lipstick

Pairing: Isabelle Lightwood x Clary Fray

Requested by: @cheese-toastie-skam​

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Summary: Clary’s day was not going well until she got to her art class.

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Clary Fairchild was in a foul mood. She’d woken up late, missed her bus and arrived late to her first class where Simon had spilled his coffee all over her new white jeans. Thankfully, she had a plaid shirt in her bag that she could use to cover the stain until she got home. Suffice to say, it was not looking to be a good day.

Pushing the door to the art classroom open with a sigh, Clary noticed that the easels were set up in a circle surrounding a metal stool perched on a makeshift raised platform. Moving over to her station, Clary called out to her tutor, “Hey Hodge, we doing life models today?” The older man spun around at the sound of her voice, adjusting the glasses sat on the bridge of his nose, “Ah, Clary, how nice to see you early. Yes, we are. One of Magnus Bane’s old science students is coming in today, she’ll be our model.” Placing her bag down by her feet, Clary removed a bobble and pulled her hair up into a messy ponytail, “What’s her name?” she asked, removing her pencils and charcoal from her bag so that she could get at them later.

“Isabelle.” Came a new voice, light and airy. Clary’s head snapped around to the door, eyes landing on the woman who had spoken. She was beautiful. Long, raven black hair, gently curled down to her waist that framed her heart-shaped face. The blackness of her hair complemented her tanned skin and contrasted the deep slash of red that her lipstick provided. Clary held her breath, allowing her gaze to roam down the other woman’s tanned, muscled body encased in slick, black leather pants and a sleeveless maroon halter neck that permitted Clary to ogle the tattoos that littered her arms, a large one positioned on her throat over her pulse point. Releasing the air from her lungs, the fiery-haired woman brought her gaze up, jade eyes slowly making their way up to look into Isabelle’s. Oh! And what magnificent eyes they were! Sparkling sapphires set deep into her face, lined with oily black kohl, enhanced by the faint shimmer of the other woman’s golden eyeliner. “And you are?” she asked, teasingly.

Swallowing lightly, Clary averted her gaze, aware that she had been staring too hard and too long. “Clary.” Forcing her eyes onto the pencil in her hand, the red-head missed both the gleam in Isabelle’s eye and the soft smirk that had etched itself onto her face. Embracing Hodge in a side hug, Isabelle smiled softly, “So where do you want me for this?” “Oh, there’s a screen over there. You have brought a robe, haven’t you?”

Nodding, Isabelle crossed the room to the folding screen set up by the radiator, aware that those striking emerald eyes had found their way back onto her. Clary couldn’t help herself; she had never seen anyone that beautiful in real life. She couldn’t quite believe that Isabelle was real, it felt like she belonged in a story or a myth or a hyper-edited Hollywood photoshoot, not in the studio of a second-rate art college, modelling for a bunch of amateur artists.

Clary could see the silhouette of the other woman’s body behind the screen as she undressed, placing her clothes on the top. Trying not to stare, Clary went back to fiddling with her pencils, making a few marks on the paper and then sharpening them so that the lines were clearer. Watching the raven-haired woman emerge from behind the screen, draped in a short, scarlet, silk robe, Clary felt herself bite her lip, a pink hue tinting her cheeks. Rubbing out the marks on her paper, she watched Isabelle climb onto the raised platform, standing next to the stool that matched the one that the red-haired woman was sat in herself.

Oblivious to the rest of the class filing in slowly, Isabelle kept her azure eyes fixed on Clary, studying the other woman, her slight shoulders, waist encircled by a purple, black and white plaid shirt, a few stray hairs escaping her ponytail, tickling the base of her neck. Sliding her gaze away from the ginger beauty, the Lightwood woman straightened her posture, shooting small, polite smiles at the students. She watched Hodge greet them all, explaining her presence and their task before turning to her, asking her to remove her robe and take a seat on the stool. Isabelle obliged, watching the red-head’s intake of breath as the scarlet silk slipped from her shoulders, slowly exposing her smooth skin inch by inch.

Watching Isabelle, her breath caught in her throat, a violent blush burning at her cheeks and throat. Swallowing lightly, she grasped at her pencils, seeing the dark haired woman sit and the runic tattoos that wrapped around her body, not just on her arms, neck and hands but covering her legs, back and stomach, one large one that looked like a diamond with wings sitting carefully on top of her breasts. Forcing her eyes away, Clary glancing at the rest of her class, watching the stunned and amazed expressions that covered the faces of her every single one of classmates. Keeping her amusement to herself, she moved her gaze back onto the other woman, putting in an earphone and beginning to sketch onto her almost pristine white paper. Letting the dulcet tones of Ruelle pouring through her ears, Clary got to work, her eyes darting between the woman and the paper, lines merging together over the course of a few songs to form the outline of her strong, lithe body before moving onto her other features. Graphite copying the gentle curve of her nose, the almond shape of her eyes and the distinct cupid’s bow of her mouth, the full lip jutting out below it.

During the hour, Isabelle kept almost perfectly still, only shifting a few times due to a chill. Mouth set in a smirk, she had watched their reactions to her naked body, every wide eye, every startled intake of breath, every slack jaw kept her entertained during her period without movement. Allowing her eyes to roam, she breathed lightly, eyes landing back on the red-head. Eyes fixed on the woman; Isabelle watched as Clary bounced her head along to her music while she was drawing.

Soon enough, Hodge called for the class to stop and pack up so that he could set up for the next class. At his words, Clary shut off her music, putting away her supplies and wiping her hands on a wet wipe to clean off the grey smudges covering her fingers. Swiftly throwing back on her robe, the raven-haired woman made her way off of the platform towards Clary, her mind focused on her mission. Tying off the belt, she leaned against the easel, crossing her ankles and resting her chin on her hands, “So, Clary, can I see what you’ve done?”

Breath catching, green eyes darted up to take in the beautiful woman inches from her face. Spine straightening sharply, she felt her face flush, feeling herself nod at Isabelle, moving back so that she could see the drawing properly. Turning slightly, the Lightwood girl took a full look at the page, her eyes going wide as she took in the almost perfect likeness, all in black and white save for the slash of red colouring her lips. “Wow…” she breathed out, looking back up at Clary, “You’re good. Like really good.” “Yeah, I suppose so.” Clary agreed, trying not to stare. “I’m… umm… I’m glad that you like it.” Isabelle looked up at Clary, a bright smile on her face, “What are you doing now?” “Huh?” Clary asked, blinking briefly. “Um, nothing, why?” “Have coffee with me.” Isabelle blurted out then, realising that might startle the red-head, corrected her wording, “Would you like to have coffee with me?”

Clary paused, processing the other woman’s request before nodding slowly, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, “Yes. Umm- yeah, I- I would like that.” “Great!” Isabelle grinned, drumming her fingers against the easel frame, “I’ll get dressed and we’ll head out.” Clary grinned in response, watching Isabelle make her way back over to the screen, glad that her day wasn’t going to end as badly as it had begun.

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- Also available on AO3 (under the same username) -

#isabelle lightwood #clary fray #clizzy #shadowhunters #mortal instruments #art school au

[sweetiepie08]

Rebel Z (Chapter 1)

Invader Zim fanfic

While analyzing Zim’s PAK for weaknesses, Tak discovers strange coding that sends her on a search for answers. The clues lead her to uncover a conspiracy that governs all of Irken society. When the truth sends her on the run, she has no choice but to return to the one place the Tallest would never willingly go: Urth.

Meanwhile, Dib has noticed odd changes in Zim’s behavior. Has the invader simply grown bored of his mission over the last few years, or is there something more interesting going on?

People who asked to be tagged: @incorrect-invader-zim , @messinwitheddie, @reblogstupids, @cate-r-gunn

If anyone else would like to be added to the tag list please let me know.

Chapter 1. Chapter 2. Chapter 3.  Chapter 4. Chapter 5. Chapter 6.  Chapter 7.  Chapter 8.  Chapter 9. 

[-]

Tak sat on the sidewalk, leaning against Zim’s fence and making sure she stayed out of sight from the security cameras. Her fingers tapped an impatient rhythm on the top of the gift box by her side. She kept her eyes trained on the street, waiting for the SIR unit to arrive home.

It’d been years since she first came to Urth and tried to snatch the planet out from under that undeserving worm. She told herself it was nothing personal. The Irken Elite didn’t get caught up in petty personal vendettas. It was about proving her herself worthy as an invader and proving Zim unfit for even a fake mission. She’d lied to herself then. Not anymore.

She made a few more attempts over the years. Each time Zim and those meddlesome humans thwarted her. Every failure ended with her going off-planet to regroup and examine where she went wrong. After so many defeats, she finally had to admit to herself this was personal. This was about Zim and her fatal flaw was underestimating him.

A whistled tune caught her antenna and she looked up to see Zim’s SIR unit, called GIR, walking toward the base. He was dressed in his dog costume and he carried a bag of groceries. She stood up and put on a fake smile as the robot skipped its way over.

“Excuse me,” she said, her voice gratingly sweet. “Aren’t you Zim’s SIR unit?”

“Hellooo…” Gir sing-songed in reply.

“Listen, I know Zim and I haven’t had the best relationship and I wanted to make it up to him. I got him this present to say sorry for all the times I tried to ruin his mission. Could you make sure he gets it? There’s a jumbo bag of gummy bears in it for you.”

“Okie-dokie!” The head of GIR’s costume opened up and a claw arm flew out of his head. It snatched the gift box and drew it back inside his head’s storage compartment. He then gave her a little wave and scampered into the house.

Once he was inside, Tak got down and army-crawled to the base’s window, careful not to set off any motion sensors. As she peered inside, she could see Zim, sitting on the couch, looking over something on an Irken computing tablet.

“GIR, good, you’re home,” he said, not looking up from his work. “I’ve just finished drawing up the plans for-”

“I got a present for you!” GIR squealed as the gift box popped out of his head.

“Eh? A gift for Zim?”

GIR nodded vigorously.

“Huh.” Zim set aside the tablet and slid off the couch. “Well, thank you GIR,” he said, picking up the box. “Wait, this isn’t full of moldy tacos again, is it?”

GIR shrugged “I dunno.”

“You don’t know?”

GIR shook his head.

“This isn’t from you?”

GIR shook again.

Zim narrowed his eyes and examined the box. He gave it a light shake and placed an antenna on it to listen. Finally, he looked at the tag.

TAk smiled. She could imagine his heart dropping as he read the words.

“Night-night? Tak?” Zim threw the box on the ground. “Computer! Activate defensive maneuver number-”

Before he could finish, MiMi jumped out of the box holding an electrified shocking fork. She jabbed it into his neck. Electricity coursed through his body and he fell to the floor in a heap.

“Master?” GIR gave Zim a poke.

MiMi swept to the door and let Tak in. Once inside, she disabled her human disguise. “He’s napping,” she said, dropping a large bag of Urth candy at GIR’s feet. “Here’s your gummy bears. I’ll take him downstairs to rest.”

The SIR unit began gleefully digging through the bag as Tak grabbed Zim’s ankle and dragged him to the kitchen. MiMi followed close behind. They took the elevator down to the base’s main computer lab and walked over to the control panel. She stuck Zim’s body in the control seat and plugged in his PAK. The computer lit up, showing a log-in screen. She placed Zim’s hand on the identification pad and, just like that, she gained access to the computer network.

“MiMi, restrain him.”

Her SIR until gave a solute, then pulled a roll of duct tape out oh her head and taped Zim down.

Tak turned back to the computer and inserted a programing disc. She grinned as her coding filled the screen. It was her best work yet, a near perfect copy of the Control Brain’s PAK reading system. Only the Massive held such technology. She’d waited three Urth years for this moment. Three years of consorting with shady figures from the back alleys of space. Three years of making deals with backdoor hackers. Three years of trading favors to gain access to the technology she needed. It all lead up to this moment, the moment when she finally learned how to crush Zim once and for all.

MiMi tapped her on the shoulder. When she turned to look, MiMi pointed to Zim and made a slashing motion across her throat.

“No, Mimi, we can’t kill him yet.” It was true. She could easily kill him now while he was vulnerable, but it wouldn’t be satisfying. When she finally claimed her vengeance, she wanted his eyes to be wide open.

The computer dinged, alerting her that the program was ready to run. She turned back to the screen and looked into the wicked eyes of her own reflection. “Alright, let’s see what makes Zim, Zim.”

She swiped her hand across the control panel, opening a starting page. It outlined Zim’s basic information.

Name: Zim

Age: 16.6

Occupation: Food Service Drone

Assignment: Foodcourtia, Banishment.

So far, so good. Now she just had to run the error check simulation. She typed in the command and waited for the program to work its magic. When it finished, the alert sound blared and the word DEFECTIVE flashed across the screen in big, red letters.

“Hmmm… No surprise there, MiMi, but I need more. Let’s get more specific.”

She typed in a few more commands and the screen showed her a list of all of Zim’s defective areas broken down by category. The list was long, too long to go over before Zim woke. Two categories caught her eye: PAK Installations and Irken Traits. These two seemed curious. She opened the file for PAK Installations first. A list popped up.

PAK Installations

·        Perseverance: 89342/10

·        Loyalty: 324/10

·        Penchant for destruction: 352301/10

·        Susceptibility to propaganda: 134/10

Tak’s mouth turned downward as she read over the list. Every Irken knew the PAK boosted certain personality traits to ensure successful service to the Empire. However, only the highest-ranking PAK engineers knew what. Some of these were to be expected. Of course, an Irken must persevere in the face of opposition and remain loyal to the Empire. Those were obvious. And she supposed a soldier must be capable of a little destruction. But susceptibility to propaganda?

She switched off the PAK Installations and looked into Irken Traits. Surely this section would reveal enhancements made to the already superior race. Why else would the PAKs monitor their natural Irken inclinations?

Irken Traits

·        Creativity: 3342/0

·        Personal ambition: 3625/0

·        Need for companionship: 334/0

·        Need for affection: 3420/0

·        Sense of individuality: 4280/0

·        Survival instinct: 4406/2

Tak took a step back as she analyzed what this meant. Suspicion crept through her like a parasite and the truth glared down at her from a screen. Irken traits were meant to be blocked? This couldn’t be the norm. There had to be some mistake. Zim was a defective after all. Perhaps these blocks were just part of his defects. Or maybe his PAK was changed after the mess he made of Impending Doom I. Yes, that must be it. The Control Brains must have tried to take away certain skills to prevent further disasters. But if these blocks were deliberate, why didn’t the levels match up? Surely the Control Brain would have caught these errors during re-encoding. And could she even be certain that these blocks were unique to Zim? To be sure, she’d have to compare his results to those of a standard PAK.

Her hand unconsciously reached back and brushed the top of hers. It was the only PAK immediately available. She hadn’t tested the program on herself before. It would have been the smart thing to do, instead of coming all this way without testing it on a real PAK. She told herself that her ship wouldn’t have enough power to generate a full reading, but that wasn’t entirely true. She could have at least attempted a partial reading, just to make sure.  What stopped her?

She unplugged Zim’s PAK and plugged in her own. Her start page appeared on the screen.

                                                                   Name: Tak

                                                                   Age: 16.9

                                                                   Occupation: Janitorial Squad

                                                                   Assignment: Dirt (planet)

She scowled at her demeaning encoding. It should read “invader” or at the very least “Irken Elite.” She had everything they wanted. She excelled at every training. She passed every testing simulation she took. She made herself the best of the best. The final test should have been a mere formality. If not for the idiot taped to the chair behind her, she would be in her rightful place.

She typed in the command for the error check. Yet another formality as far as she was concerned. It was required to view her own stats. An error reading should be impossible. After all, she was everything the empire wanted her to be. She worked, and studied, and molded herself into the shape of a perfect Irken soldier. There was no way she could be…

DEFECTIVE

              The word flashed across the screen in glaring red letters. The alert sound shook her antenna and the light from the screen burned her eyes. Her mouth fell open and her body broke into a sweat. “No! It can’t be!” She must have gone wrong somewhere, made some mistake. It was the software. That was it.  That was the problem, not her PAK.

              You know that’s not true, her own sinister mind whispered back to her. It was right. The PAKs were designed to be completely secure from enemy tampering. A PAK could only be accessed with specific Irken equipment and software. If there was a flaw in her coding, it should not have connected to the PAK at all. The only way for her to even be seeing this word was if her software perfectly imitated that of the Control Brain’s programing.

              She pressed on, swiping straight to the PAK Installations.

PAK Installations

·        Perseverance: 1344/10

·        Loyalty: 10/10

·        Penchant for destruction: 10/10

·        Susceptibility to propaganda: 5/10

So, at least her errors were not as off as Zim’s. Her loyalty and penitent for destruction were at the ideal levels according to the reading. But her susceptibility to propaganda was too low? And perseverance too high? And these were considered errors? Were these not good qualities to have? There was something strange going on here, to be sure.

She swiped over the Irken traits.

Irken Traits

·        Creativity: 3542/0

·        Personal ambition: 5437/0

·        Need for companionship: 23/0

·        Need for affection: 10/0

·        Sense of individuality: 4281/0

·        Individual survival instinct: 4192/2

A smug smile came to her face when she realized her creativity and ambition outmatched Zim’s, but it quickly disappeared when she saw what her ideal levels were. Zeros all around, just like him. According to the reading, she should have no creativity, no ambition, no individuality… She barely even had a survival instinct. She should be nothing. Was this what the Empire really wanted? Just mindless drones?

This wasn’t right. Something deep down in her gut told her so. These characteristics were assets. They were what helped make the Irken race so great. But if Irkens were superior, why were their natural traits being blocked? Something was wrong, very wrong.

Perhaps the problem was in the encoding. She and Zim were technically assigned to menial occupations when they both had the training of the Irken Elite. Their jobs didn’t match their skill-level. Tak was clearly meant for something greater and Zim… Zim was an anomaly all his own.

But even if that was the case, these stats still didn’t make sense. Did a janitor or food service drone not have the right to see themselves as an individual? Did they not deserve the ambition to aspire to something greater? Or to be creative in their assigned professions? And what did a level 2 survival instinct entail, anyway? Just the wherewithal to get out of the way of a crashing ship? Or the ability to look before falling off a cliff? Nothing about this added up.

Still, she only had the data for 2 allegedly defective Irkens of low rank. If she wanted answers, she’d have to look at a PAK which bore a higher rank. Luckily, she knew just where to find one.

“MiMi,” she said, shutting down her program and removing the disc. “We’re leaving.”

MiMi cocked her head to the side and pointed at Zim.

“Leave him for now. Something more important has come up.”

MiMi nodded and followed Tak out of the room.

After a quick raid of Zim’s fuel stores, Tak and MiMi made their way out of the base. They went to the backyard where she parked her ship. She uncloaked it, revealing a grey, outdated, Vortian vessel. It was all she’d been able to acquire since she was forced to eject from her Spittle Runner. Yet another loss she could attribute to Zim. It wasn’t quite up to the standards of modern Irken vehicles, but she’d been able to modify it to run on an Irken operating system. At the very least, it allowed her to blend in both inside and out of Irken controlled space.

As MiMi added fuel to the tank’s ship, Tak climbed inside. “Computer,” she commanded, waking the ship’s A.I.

“Yes Master,” the robotic voice answered.

She’d never bothered to download her personality into the A.I. like she had on the Spittle Runner. It didn’t feel right. Her last ship was her pride and joy. She’d turned that thing from a pile of scrap metal to a vessel capable of outrunning even the latest creations of the Irken military engineers. That ship was worthy of her mark. What she wouldn’t give to have it back.

“Awaiting orders,” the computer reminded her.

MiMi finished fueling and hopped into the cockpit.

“Computer, bring up the coordinates of the last known location of Invader Skoodge.”

#invader zim #invader zim fanfiction #iz fanfiction #zim #zadf #tak #invader tak #rebel zim #rebel tak #rebel leader tak #GIR #Dib #gaz #skoodge #sweetiepie writes #sweetiepie08 #sweetiepie fanfiction #RebelZ #the resisty #invader skoodge #parasite au

[chasseurdeloup-retired]

Here We Go Again || Solo

"Any fucking minute now, huh?" Kaden grumbled to his dog who insisted on making the last walk of the night as long as humanly possible. God forbid he just take a shit in any spot. No, had to find just the right one. He sighed and flipped the coin in his hand a few more times. He'd grabbed off the beach after clearing off one of the last straggling karkinoids. It made such a satisfying clink as he flipped it in the air.

Still, only so many times he could do that until it got boring. And the dog still wasn't done. Merde. He sighed again, this time putting the coin back in his coat pocket and pulling out his pack of smokes and a light. Seemed like he was going to be out here a while, might as well.

"You really shouldn't smoke so much. It'll kill you someday," a woman behind him said as he lit the cigarette and let out the first cloud of smoke.

"I don't remember asking your opin--" Hold on. She'd spoken French. And he was replying in French. Weird. His brows furrowed. Was that Evelyn? It didn't really sound like her. Couldn't be.

"Not unlike that poor performance with the camazotz the other day. What were you thinking?" she continued before he had the chance to turn and take a look at who was speaking. His heart stopped a moment and his eyes grew wide. He didn't need to turn to know that voice. Hell, he'd know that anywhere. Even though it'd been years. Now

But that was impossible.

Putain de merde, was he going crazy? Hearing the voice of his dead mother, that wasn't-- he couldn't.

Kaden shook his head and took another draw of his cigarette. "Ici, let's go, Abel." He didn't make it two steps when the voice chimed back in.

"You know better, I taught you better. Never go for the head without first taking off at least one talon or slashing a wing, it nearly sliced you in two." Kaden was ignoring whatever fucking delusion he was having. He heard that voice in his head all the time, that's all  it was. Just him manifesting his parent's teachings in his head. A little more visceral than normal, sure, but that was it.

"If I hadn't thrown that rock to distract it a second before it cut you clear through the chest, you would be dead by now but I'm not sure why I bother if you're going to insist on killing yourself with cigarettes," she continued.

"Fuck off," he mumbled around the filter in his mouth, rolling his eyes. "You and dad smoked all the time. Hypocrites, merde."

"Kaden Arthur Langely. Don't you dare walk away from me or take that tone of voice with me when I'm talking to you."

Kaden froze. Abel gave a small yelp. He must have jerked the leash when he stopped. This wasn't real. It couldn't be. But that tone, it was so-- he would never imagine that. His heart was racing a mile a minute. He didn't want to admit to himself but truth was, he was scared to look behind him. Had been the whole time. As much as he wanted this to just be in his mind, he was pretty sure Blanche's fucking ghost theory was coming back to bite him.

Deep breath. He closed his eyes a moment. Abel tugged on the leash, hunting for new places to sniff, but the hunter ignored his dog, as much as he didn't want to. He'd much rather keep on fucking walking. But he knew he had to turn and look.

When he opened his eyes, there she was. Poised, sharp, and stoic. Ice cold blue eyes, brown hair pulled back in a tidy braid, silver bullet dangling on a chain around her neck. Every part of her, every hair on her head looked exactly like the last time he'd seen her. Well, alive at least. She looked very different the last time he saw her body, mangled and torn to shreds.

"Maman?" He asked. Like he didn't fucking know.

"Don't maman me, Kaden. You know better. You're slipping on your training. No discipline, none. You're sloppy and making mistakes here left and right. You've almost died more times than I can count and if I wasn't here trying my best to protect you, you would have died a long time ago. You can't even tell the difference between a werewolf and a witch anymore. What's wrong with you?"

He felt like he was three feet tall again, just a child thrown into rings with vampires and werwolves, forced to fend for himself and meticulously critiqued after every encounter he survived. He didn't know how she could still do it. "You-- you've seen it? Protected me?" It had been a long time since he'd been that scared of her. Then again, it had been a long time since he'd spoked to her.

"Of course I have, did you think I'd leave you? Just because I died? You. Know. Better. Kaden."

He couldn't process the full weight of this conversation, his jaw just dropped open, mouth agape with nothing to say. Then he felt the tug on the leash and heard a bark. Kaden shook out of it. "You're right, I do know better. This isn't real. Can't fucking be. I'm not a medium, I can't see ghosts. Whatever the hell you are, leave me alone." He turned away from her and kept walking, Abel happy to be trotting along beside him. Finally.

"That's the only smart thing you've said all night. You're still wrong. It's me. I don't know how but I'm real and you can see me. I'm sure you have quest--"

"Bullshit," he cut her off. He wasn't going to let this thing act like it was his mother. He didn't turn back around. Not once. He stormed back to his apartment, keeping his eyes dead set ahead of him the whole time, practically dragging Abel along home. He could outrun a ghost. Fucking watch.

#wickedswriting #writing #solo #here we go again #wickedsevent

[epicfangirl01]

Dead WIP Files: The Fallen

TW: Character death, mild gore, ego shipping 

King Chase looked up from his throne, looking at the tapestries on the walls. Depictions of past kings hung down, their eyes boring into him. He could feel their anger, disappointment, and shame. Finally, his eyes landed on the tapestry of his brother. King Jack. So kind. So fair. He was more of a king than Chase would ever be. Tears fell from his eyes as he saw his brother’s smile. Chase covered his face and sobbed. *He should be here. He would know what to do…*

“Your Highness!”

Chase wiped his eyes and regained his composure as Jackie, captain of the royal guard, ran into the throne room. His face fell slightly as he looked at the king. *Dammit. He saw…* Jackie cleared his throat and spoke. 

“The Dark King. He’s here, and his army is swarming the city. They’re going to storm the castle, and they have King Jack with them,” he reported urgently. 

Chase’s eyes widened and he looked back up at his brother’s tapestry. *We have to save him.* He took a deep breath as he mustered his strength before turning to Jackie. 

“Assemble the troops. Defend the city and send a team to rescue Jack. *Do not* let them into the castle.”

Jackie nodded. “Yes, Your Highness.” The captain turned and rushed out of the room. 

“Your Highness,” Chase chuckled softly. Of course it was ‘Your Highness’. He wasn’t Jack. He was the prince, and that’s all he would ever be. 

An hour later, Chase looked down the hill at his forces, watching as the Dark King and Blood Witch grew closer. He was clad in shining silver armor with a deep blue breastplate that was accented with vines of golden ivy. A golden crown of sapphires and emeralds sat on Chase’s head, the band covered in carefully sculpted leaves and vines. 

Chase took a deep breath and his face filled with determination. His brother was coming home. He was sure of it. Chase turned to a general, looking over the formation of the two armies and making adjustments. “Send archers to the woods behind the castle to perch in the bushes and trees. Disperse after finding coverage.” The general nodded and left to command her troops. 

Minute by minute, the Dark Forces gained land, coming closer to the castle.Chase cursed under his breath, rubbing his face with a gloved hand. He barely heard the drawing of a sword over him. 

Chase rolled out of the way as an assassin leapt down, lowering their sword where he stood only a moment ago. The king unsheathed his sword and turned, facing his foe. His blade swiped, connecting with the assassin’s leg, lodging into their calf. They grunted and swung their sword toward Chase’s neck. He quickly ducked and grabbed their wrist. With a swift twist, the assassin was disarmed. Chase slashed and their head fell away from their neck, hitting the ground with a thud. *Just like you taught me, huh, Jack?* 

“Your Highness!” 

Jackie ran over to Chase, bringing two royal guardsmen with him. “You have to get inside. We need to evacuate the castle. The enemy’s forces are too strong. We have to get you out of here. *Now.*” 

Suddenly, a loud boom filled the air, and Chases turned to see an army of demons, witches, and creatures break through the doors to the castle keep. Enemies flooded into the yard, attacking Solas soldiers. Jackie grabbed Chase’s arm and started pulling him away. The group ran through the castle, making their way to the throne room. 

Crashes and bangs rang out through the halls, filling their ears. Finally, they reached the throne room and Jackie pushed the door open. The soldiers quickly barricaded the door behind them before turning to the king. “Your Highness, you have to get out of here. They will take you to a safe house in the woods. From there, we can regroup. Take the tunnel underneath the throne. My soldiers will guide you. We need to get you out before the Dark King and Witch find you.” Before Chase could reply, the soldiers rushed past him, making their way over to the throne. Jackie hurried over to the window, scanning the castle grounds below. Hordes of demons, fae, and Ghlórian soldiers swarmed the stone walls, slaughtering the Solasian army. 

A loud thud drew the group’s attention back to the ornate wooden doors. Fear crossed Jackie’s face for a moment before turning to determination. Jackie grabbed Chase’s arm again as another thud rang out, guiding him to the revealed passageway. 

Chase’s mind was racing, images flashing in his mind. Clashing swords. Bleeding corpses. A screaming Jack. Chase’s blood ran cold, and he pulled his arm away. *I cannot leave him. He needs me.* 

“Go. Evacuate the castle and save everyone you can,” he commanded.

Jackie gazed at him incredulously. “Sir, I am not leaving. I swore on my life that I would protect the royal family until my dying breath.”  An even louder bang came from the door. Chase's face hardened, and he put his hand on the hilt of his sword. 

“I am tired of running. My brother needs me, as does my kingdom. Leave me. Protect the civilians. That's an order.” 

Jackie looked at him for a moment before giving a small nod. “Yes, Your Majesty.” 

He turned away from the King and ran over to the secret passage, jumping in after the soldiers. He hesitated for a moment and glanced at Chase. “May the gods be with you,” he said before disappearing, the throne pushed back into place. The wooden doors thudded once more, and Chase turned to face them, drawing out his sword. He got into a defensive position, waiting.

….

….

….

Silence filled the room as Chase stared at the doors. His heart was pounding out of his chest, dreading whatever was to come. Suddenly, the doors burst open, booming as a rush of green magic broke through the barred entrance.

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This fic was planned to be an instalment of @cutewarmachine 's Twisted Disney Community AU, where every version of the tale is cannon, because it is changed as it's retold like old folktales. This fic is probably the one that I'm most proud of, tied with Remembrance. I had a lot planned, as you can see, and of course I stopped right at the climax.  What was supposed to happen next was that Anti and Marvin, The Dark King and Queen, were supposed to walk in dramatically like they owned the place. And they do. They walk arm in arm and stare down the "false king", Chase. Of course, they would be slaying the whole place, especially Marvin because he's a fierce and sassy queen that can make your cells combust with a passing glance. And Anti absolutely adores Marvin and is still the twisted sick bastard that everyone loves to the power of 10. Anyway, they would give him one chance to stand down and be their little pet before bringing in their biggest weapon. Chase, blinded by his love and devotion to his brother and kingdom, refuses and immediately regrets his decision. Jack would then walk in with his royal armor corrupted and adorning the Ghlórian colors and crest, along with a crown of black thorns. He was cursed, brainwashed, and trained by Anti to serve him and swear his undying loyalty to the Dark King and Blood Witch. Wielding the sword Chase gave him for his coronation, he's commanded to kill Chase. Chase is torn and continues to defend himself, pleading for Jack to listen. Since Jack taught Chase, he knew every skill and mastered it years before. Chase fights on with all he has before he gets stabbed in the stomach. He collapses and falls limp, the last thing he saw was Anti and Marvin taking the thrown with Jack at their feet, staring with cold dead eyes. As you can see, I was super passionate about this story, and I wish I could have finished it. Who knows. Maybe some day. A couple notes I wanted to add were for the kingdom names and an explanation of Jackie saying "Your highness". Jack's kingdom, the kingdom of Solas, is Gaelic for "light". Anti and Marvin's kingdom, the kingdom of Ghlóir, is also Gaelic and means "glory". I wanted to show the contrast of the two kingdoms drastically, so I found words in Gaelic and I thought that it was a nice touch to the story. Finally, I wanted to explain a little about why Jackie kept calling Chase "your highness". Technically Chase was made king at this time, in Jack's absence. Jackie was close to the two brothers, but Jack was definitely the most diplomatic and outgoing. Jack was the heir to the throne, and Chase didn't mind, since he was just happy with his brother. When Jack was captured, the kingdom never gave up hope of finding their list king. Chase was king, but everyone always thought of him as he was in charge until Jack returned. Jackie was friends to them both, and he never wanted to upset Chase. He didn't even realize that he was calling Chase a prince. Chase was always the more whimsical and laid back brother, so he was always seen as the little brother. At the end of the story, Chase had taken so much responsibility while keeping a clear head that he truly proved himself to be a king. Jackie still didn't realize that that was the first time he called Chase a king, but he was very proud of him in that moment. Unfortunately, it came too late and the kingdom fell to dark hands. I love this story so much. In fact, as inspiration, I listened to "Ready, Aim, Fire" by Imagine Dragons when I was trying to brainstorm or get in the zone. And that's it! That's my first Dead WIP File. I hope you guys like it, and if you want to finish my fic off, I'm completely open to new changes or interpretations. Just please give me credit for my portion of the fic/inspiration as well as give credit to @cutewarmachine for his amazing idea. Rems if you're reading this, I hope you liked it and I hope I made you proud. I look up to you so much. Thank you for being one of my writing idols. Thanks for reading, guys! 💖💖💖 -Mya

#character death #gore #GORE TW #tw mild gore #ego shipping #Dead WIP files

[carli113]

Story

Its been so long since I’ve been back here.  I joined the xuania fandom and wrote a chapter for a non existent story.  Now I want to draw some pics.

Okay.  Continuation of Dong Hua and Bai Feng Jiu Eternal Love Drama story.  This was supposed to be something that could transition from the drama to the novel without much trouble. 

Bai Feng Jiu held back the tears as she formerly responded to Donghua's message upon her coronation.  The time for games was over, she had to become queen and with that new position, many new responsibilities would come her way.  She remembered that when Si Ming had answered her request regarding a message from Donghua,  he had mentioned that the secrets would be inside the map. Her curiosity was peaked and for many hours she waited awaited, until finally the crowds had filtered out of her home.  

“Thank goodness!” she cried when all was quiet , “Who knew that a coronation could  be so exhausting?”  With that the young queen retired to her bedroom, trying not to notice the fancy gift that was carefully situated beside her bed.  Doing her best to ignore the map, Feng Jiu crawled into her covers  and did all she could to get comfortable.  Her attempts were in vain as she tossed and turned, but to no avail.

With the mysterious map staring at her from the side of  her bed, Bai Feng finally gave up.  Her curiosity had peaked, and Bai Feng couldn't  help but open sacred treasure. “Oh my.” she gasped as she slowly revealed the picture.  The map was absolutely beautiful.  From the eloquent calligraphy to the perfectly inked and detailed map of the ages.  The world had indeed changed, not a thing remained, but why in the realm would Dong Hua give her such a valuable item?

Peering over the map with laser eyed focus,  Feng Jiu  grappled to see if there was any message that he could be trying to give her, but could find none.  Scanning the map with her essence, Feng Jiu sighed  in defeat. She had no idea what Donghua's message was, or even if there was a message.  Grumbling away, Feng Jiu began to return the map to it's  place.  It was then that a small piece seemed to resonate with her touch.

“What's this ?” she thought quietly,  and quickly focused her energy on the strange oddity.  An unusual fog began to settle in when a chime rang loud and clear from the Wu Wang sea.  Startled out of the fogginess overtaking her, Feng Jiu slammed her hand on a sharp rock that seemed to appear from nowhere.

“Ouch!” she hissed, her eyes wide with horror as the object disappeared and two drops of blood fell upon the priceless treasure.  “No!” she cried, her body suddenly feeling weak.

“Feng Jiu!”  

“Feng Jiu!”

“Your Majesty!” Came the faded cries, but it was no use.

Feng Giu woke with a start as her body seemed to burn like flame and her whole body seemed to be encased in an inky blackness.  “Where am I?” she asked quietly, “Is this a dream?”

“Little flower, little flower,” called a frightful voice, loud as the thunder, and deep as the sea, “ Why have you hidden from me?”

“Hidden from you,” she asked , “What do you mean?  Who are you? ”

“I am you, and  you are me,” said the strong voice, “A Shadow of what once was and still can be.”

Hazily an image appeared in the inky blackness, a tall man, swift and strong with eyes as stormy as the ocean and hair as bright as the moon. “Is that...” she whispered, as the hazy image soon became clear ans sharp.

“Donghua.” Feng Jiu whispered quietly, her face pale as the figure slashed through hundreds and thousands of bodies.  Never had she seen such a deadly look in his face.  Soon  a striking man with sharp eyebrows  and long black hair revealed itself.  “Yehua?” she whispered, then taking a look once again, “No... “ she whispered, “ Mo Yuan?”

“Yes,” the voice called, “This is an image from long ago,  when the demon uprising nearly destroyed the world twice over.  The battle was long and harsh and millions of souls died,  god and man a like, even more so then battle of Roshui from so many years ago.  Times were harsh than and the needed light had not yet appeared.  Three great sacrifices were needed to stop the war filled with death to no end.”

“Three sacrifices...” trailed the young princess, Feng Jiu did not understand at first, but as she reflected on the most recent goings in her present life. “Are you saying...”

After a long pause, the voice rang out loud an clear once again.

“Yes,' whispered the haunting voice, “Of these three, there are two that you know quite well.  The Donghai bell, a powerful artifact that required a powerful spirit to seal or quell the spirit of the vilest soul, the phoenix heart to scatter the darkness and start the world anew, and loss of love to tame the passionate  fury of the strongest soul.” a pause, “Tell me little flower...do you know what this means?

“No...no.” stuttered the young queen, though a dawning of understanding seemed to appear behind her eyes.

“The Donghai bell has been destroyed, the strongest soul has weakened, the light has appeared, and the calamity that threatens the world has begun to move...”  after a long pause, “ Your role, little flower, has come into play.”

“No. No, ” Cried the young princess, “ My role?  What do you mean?”

“The phoenix blade is calling for it's master, and you little flower, must light it's way.”

With that the darkness seemed to fade, and Feng Jiu cried out as her essence seemed to melt away, and every inch of her body turn to Ash. Never in her 30,000 something years of life had she ever experienced such pain,  not when the pagoda beast slashed her, the lightning struck her, or she took the full brunt of the Demon Lord's power to protect Donghua.

Feng Jiu bit her lip as a shining tear fell from her eye. The unbearable heat had been calmed and  thousands of images filled her mind. Images of what once was and what can be came into play. Her purpose had been found, and her dear Donghua had guided the way. Feng Jiu just  smiled, as her burning body began to cool and a bright red gem appeared on her forehead.  “Donghua...” she whispered, “I understand.”

“Huh!” gasped the young queen.  She was back and her body felt much stronger than before.  Grabbing the mirror to her side, Feng Jiu looked at her appearance to see the half closed flower mark on her forehead had appeared to bloom.

“Majesty!” cried the beloved Migu as he attempted to embrace her.

“No!” cried the princess, putting her hand out , a fiery flame engulfing her palm.

“Princess!” he exclaimed in surprise, “What happened?”

“I-”

“She's ascended,” came the familiar voice of Si Ming. “Congratulations once again, high immortal Bai Feng Jiu.” he said, bowing slightly.

“Si Ming, what are your doing here?”

“His majesty Dong hua, requests your presence,” he said calmly.

Widening her eyes, Feng Jiu willed her heart to stop it's wretched hopeful pounding. Donghua and her no longer had anything to do with each other, so why was he requesting her presence?   She hadn't talked to the ancient deity once since Yehua had been taken from their home three years ago, though she had indeed been tempted. With all he had told her on their last acquaintance, Why would he be summoning her now?

I don't understand, she thought silently, but her words came out, “I understand, please tell his majesty I will meet with him shortly.”

“His majesty Donghua Dijun requests your presence immediately.” emphasized the lord of dipper.

“ But father...”

Silently the familiar blue cloaked figure slipped out behind the silver clad figure. Clearing his throat, he gave her an almost proud look.  “The manner has been addressed, ” quietly the man put his hands behind his back and gave a slight bow.  “Though your power is strong, your discipline is lacking, do not keep the Dijun waiting any longer.”  Though he did not say it, Feng Jiu could tell her father was not pleased with development,  most likely do to her shameless actions,  but no one was to stand against the formidable Dong Hua.

“Of course.”

“Little highness,” bowed Si Ming, and Feng Jiu nodded before following him to the aforementioned place of meeting. Swallowing slightly, Feng Jiu tightened her fists as the entered the deity's chamber.  She had been here hundreds of times for thousands of years,  but for after her ascension to high immortal, she had learned so much more about him.  Suddenly being in his chambers seemed a thousand times more intimidating.

Presenting himself to the ancient deity, Si Ming bowed and announced his formal greeting,“ Lord of Dipper has arrived with Her highness, high immortal Bai Feng Jiu as per your request.”

“Thank You,” spoke the high deity, “ you may be excused.”

“Your majesty.” he responded and disappeared into a puff of smoke.

“No. Dont leave me!” squeaked out the young queen,   her heart pounding as the object of that had earned her respect, awe, affection and recently her fear transported within a few centimeters  and pulled her close to him.

“Don't leave me?” he quirked his eyebrow, ignoring the little prick of annoyance that cropped up in his stone heart.  “Since when have you wanted his presence so much?” he teased  before letting her go and stepping a way, arms folded behind his back.

“W...what?” she sputtered, “Thats not it...I just did..” want to be alone with you right now.  She thought silently, not after-

Stopping less than a meter away from his little fox, Donghua . “Since when have you been afraid to be alone with me, little fox?”

“What?” oh dang it, she cried silently, I forgot! “Well I mean...”

“I seem to remember a little fox here not too long ago who dispersed just before my waking, snuck into my quarters with drinks, snacks, and lets not forget those lovely outfits...had I been a normal man, it may have been too much to bear.”  

“Eep.” Feng Jiu squeaked out, body stumbling backwards as the man stretched out his arm and wrapped it around her , a knowing smirk on his face. “You mean ...You knew.”

The stone hard God nodded his head, “Of course I did.”  he stated as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “After spending all that time at my palace, do you think I'd be fooled by your tricks?”

“N..No. I mean ” she breathed, face as red as a tomato. “I know I shouldn't have but.”

Remembering how her aunt used to break into the back way of heaven Feng Jiu decided to disguise herself as one of the deities and did the same.  She didn't see much harm in it as she quietly watched over her Lord Emperor, brewing his favorite tea , dressing in his favorite outfit, or making his favorite snacks. As long as she left no trace, it would be fine.

“Now now,” he said almost kindly, “Did I say anything against it?” Though he should have dissuaded her from returning, her presence was like a drug, and whether or not he could be with her, he would drink it in like the addict he was.

“No.”

“So pray tell” he stroking something attached to his belt, “Why are you so frightened  now?”

Based on the set up in the end,  I strongly believe the new producers could do it.  However, Dong Hua would need to continue that change from after he saw the rock of three incantations, Bai Feng Jiu would have to train and Ji Heng ( Bai Feng Jiu’s rival) would have to be introduced differently.

#dong hua dijun #bai fengjiu #pillow book #eternallove

[thebigpalooka]

The Star and her Knight

@narsaksas mentioned being curious about my star knight and princess mice, and @shewhowantsmouseears​ wrote a precious little drabble of a verse like that, so I thought I’d write a little scene from the original VERY DRAMATIC star!universe that @boxlunches​ and I dreamed up.  Enjoy!

There were too many of them.  Mickey fell to one knee, his light flickering.  This was bad.  There was blood trickling from a scratch on his cheek, more from one on his lip, but that wasn’t important compared to how tired and dim he felt himself becoming.  The shadowy creatures assaulting the castle grew bolder, sensing his growing weakness, and moved closer, their inky forms constantly shifting and warping.  Mickey swallowed hard, then forced himself to his feet again.  He would fight them to his last breath, until his last flicker of light went out, if he had to.  But it wasn’t going to be enough.  He growled, his light flashing hotly for a moment in response to the spike of desperation he felt.

It would’ve been all right if he could save her.  That was the whole trouble though. She wasn’t safe, not at all.  He’d die, and she’d still be in danger, and that was the part he couldn’t accept.  He didn’t mind dying, not if it was for her.  But to leave her alone?  To fail her?  No, that couldn’t happen.  He had to protect her, she was - she was his princess.

His princess.  His Minnie.  He let himself admit that much to himself, just this once.  Of course he loved her, obviously he loved her, always had, probably since they were kids.  He’d been born to protect her, had been her knight since he was old enough to earn his armor, he was the only one who was fast enough, bright enough to protect a star as precious as Minnie.  And none of that mattered, because he would’ve protected her no matter who or what he was, no matter who she was.  That she was the princess only made it obvious to others what Mickey’d known from the start; she was the most important and beautiful star in the whole galaxy.

And now he was going to die, and leave her all alone.  Mickey slashed through another wave of the invading creatures, but they seemed endless.  His normally brilliant, firey light was fading, he could feel it, fatigue creeping into every fibre of his body, but he kept on fighting, thought only of her.  And he wished, even though it was selfish, that he could see her again.  Just once.  That he could tell her the truth, all of it, just one time.  Minnie….

He fell to his knees once more, feeling shadows pressing in closely around him.  It was hard to breathe.  Just a little longer, he had to hold on a little longer.  But he was so tired, and his light was fading.  He wanted to see her.  Just once.  To feel her light again.  Cool and soothing, blue-violet at its softest, but so bright...so brilliantly shining….

Mickey sucked in a breath, eyes flying open.  He’d been half-unconscious, or dreaming, but it wasn’t a dream at all.  He could feel that light; it was all around him.  He struggled to his feet, turning to find the source of it, drawing his sword just in time to slash it through one of the shadows as it closed in around him - and she was there, her blue-white light as bright as he could remember seeing it.  It was all around him as he took one step, and then a clumsy series of them to reach her.  It wasn’t until her felt her hands clutch his arms that he really believed it.

“Min!” he gasped, and never even realized that he’d failed to address her formally like he was supposed to, like he’d promised himself he would.  She noticed though, her pale cheeks flushing even in her fear, her wide eyes scanning him for injuries and finding far too many signs.  He drew her in with his free hand.  “W-what’re you doin’ out here?!  It’s dangerous!”

This was obvious, but he couldn’t help saying it.  Minnie understood that, and so she didn’t try to argue.  She only shook her head.  “...I had to find you - they told me where you’d gone!  I had to come!  Oh, Mickey!”

The next thing Mickey knew, she was in his arms.  He couldn’t remember pulling her in, but she was clinging to him so fiercely, he knew it wasn’t an accident, no matter how it happened.  And it felt so good, he had to close his eyes a moment, holding her close.  He loved her, loved her.  Was it possible she felt the same, somehow…?

He knew he ought to scold her, and soundly too, princess or no princess, but there were two problems.  First, no matter how much it might’ve bruised his pride, he was honest enough to know that she’d just saved his life.  Second, which was much worse, he knew in his heart that he’d wanted to be with her more than he’d ever wanted anything, no matter how shameful and selfish that was.  “...I’ve gotta get you outta here - get somewhere safe,” he settled at last, forcing himself to pull back, turning to cast a desperate look at the legion of shadowy monsters that still swarmed around them.  “But...I ….” He looked back at her again, desperately.  “... I’m not bright enough,” he almost whispered.  “Minnie, I -”

She touched his lips, and when he pulled in a startled breath, she actually smiled.  “Oh, Mickey… of course you are.”

“Huh?”  He blinked stupidly.  Minnie’s smile only glowed more.

“...Can’t you feel it…?”

And, looking around, he realized for the first time that it was true.  Her blue-white glow was melting into his, hot and bright and as brilliant as he’d ever shone in his life.

#mickey mouse #minnie mouse #the mice #mickey and minnie #fanfic #my fic

[kylorengarbagedump]

No Accounting for Taste (NSFW)

Read on AO3.

Summary: Where the eyes should be, there is a void bordered by rows of chrome lines, and the mouth is muzzled by a flat, carbon slate. It is as human as it is inhuman, an echo of something familiar, like the look of death on the face of a stranger.

Heart pounding, you speak, your voice creaking inside of your throat. “What the fuck is happening?”

The voice that responds crackles inside the mask, mutated and mechanical. “Something very unfortunate for you.”

Word Count: 7100 (oops)

Warnings: Literally everything. This is NSFL. Rape, verbal abuse, literal torture, graphic violence, death. This is a Red Room fic.

Characters: Kylo Ren x (Fat!)Reader A/N: Hello, and welcome to the actual Worst Thing I've Ever Written. I went through this for a few reasons--one, just to prove to myself that I could, two, out of spite, and three, to gift this work to my beautiful friend @daddyrenn / @rosalinaballerina. She has listened to and supported me for like, years now, which is crazy, and I realized I never wrote her anything to thank her. So, here ya go, cupcake. I love you so much, and I hope you enjoyed this.

I also hope that whoever else enjoys gross nasty shit like this enjoyed it. It was really cathartic for me to write, so, I'm happy to put it out there for anyone else. Love y'all so much! Thank you for all of your support all these years. <3

laetus_lacrimosa: when’s the show starting?

blueeyeswhited: are you new here? he’s always late

laetus_lacrimosa: it’s been 30 minutes already

xwaifusayorix: yup

laetus_lacrimosa: i’m paying how much for some dickhead who’s always late?

mg3453: hopefully not as much as the rest of us

kyloren has logged in.

kyloren: Five minutes. Bidding at .52 btc begins now.

kyloren: Any other complaints will be addressed by me. In person.

kyloren has logged out.

A droplet of water hits your forehead, and your eyes open. The lights are still on, but you are alone. 

The roof is leaking, and not just over your bed, but in several spots across the room. You’re not particularly surprised--you hadn’t paid a fortune for the hostel, but to wake up to cold rain was still not an expected consequence. Sighing, you sit up, wipe your head, and swing your legs over the edge of the bed. Thankfully, your mattress is entombed in plastic.

Your brain spins. You’d wanted to sleep through the storm, but it doesn’t seem like that will be an option. And you’re not sure if you can manage sitting on your bed, alone, for the next however many hours. The last time you’d tried it, your legs ended up with a bunch of knife-slashes from the three-inch blade you keep in your backpack. The rest of your hostelmates have abandoned you, apparently, but there’s no surprise there. A knot in your throat grows thick. You can’t run away from your inferiority.

Planting your face in your hands, you draw in a deep breath, hoping the air will quell the burgeoning volcano in your chest. They left because you had said you wanted to sleep. That doesn’t mean you’re inherently uninvited from wherever they went. In fact, you could get up and meet them right now, if you wanted. And want you do.

You stand, shaking the jitters out of your fingers, and step through the sleeping quarters to the living area. Under the heavy rhythm of rain, you hear music, like a stereo blasting from inside a wave--and in its direction, flashing, rainbow lights. A party. A grin tugs at the corners of your lips. That didn’t sound like such a bad way to pass the time. Better than sitting in your room, alone. You snatch a hoodie from your bag and slip on your flip flops before darting through the storm, skipping over stone and sloshing in the tiny puddles already pooling in the grass. And after a few hops, you see it, beyond the curtains of rain: a tent, a safehouse by the shore.

By the time you reach it, your grin is erupting into a full smile, laughter eking out of you as you pull the hood off your head. You can’t remember the last time you’d run through the rain. And as the lights splash onto your face, you realize that you can’t remember the last time you’d danced, either. The music is spirited and electric, a classic reggaeton beat under lyrics in a language you don’t understand. Before you know it, you’re sliding further into the tent, looking for familiar faces, your hips rolling to the beat 

You spot a younger woman you’d shared a few light-hearted conversations with this afternoon--she looks totally trashed, but she’s definitely having a good time. Hopefully, being drunk allows her to be even more forgiving of your social awkwardness. But before you reach her, a hand on your shoulder halts you, and you yelp into the noise, whirling around to face the intruder.

“Evening,” he says, sounding as if he’d somehow whispered into your ear from feet away. “Thought you wouldn’t make it.”

“Hey, yeah, I did!” You search his face, brow furrowed. It’s a handsome face--hazel eyes, dark hair, full, pink lips--and it’s on top of a tall, muscular frame. But somehow, you don’t remember him. You’re more self-centered than you thought. “I’m so sorry, can you remind me who you are?”

A tight grin crosses his face, and your name rolls off of his tongue in mock-disappointment. “Really? I’m hurt.”

“Aw, no!” Frowning, you latch onto his forearm, trying to placate him. It’s thick and firm in your grip, and a shudder crawls up your spine. “I’m so sorry! I’ve just been… kind of off. Remind me, please!”

Smiling, he tugs you closer, and your cheeks grow hotter. “It’s Kylo.”

You nod. “Ohh, okay! Hi, Kyle!”

“No,” he says, “Ky-lo.”

“What?” Your face twists, and you turn your ear toward him. “Kylo?”

“Yes,” he replies, and his breath brushes your face. “You’ve got it.”

Hiding an idiotic giggle, you inch back. “This is kind of cool, huh?” What you can’t hide is how your gaze travels his body. All he has on are black jeans and a black t-shirt that clings to his thick chest and arms. Fuck, he’s built. “I mean, uh, the party.”

“The what?”

You cup your hands around your mouth, shouting over the music. “The party!”

“It is.”

Kylo stands there, staring, his eyes like voids, absorbing every flash of color in the tent. Under his gaze, your heart throbs, and in the back of your skull, the reptilian bit of your brain catches flame, screaming. But you can’t figure out what it’s telling you. Is it to run? Or to stay?

“Let’s dance,” he says, and barely waits for your nod before he curls one of his large, strong hands around yours and spins your back against his chest. Now you are on fire, your hips rocking with his, your face ready to melt when he leans his lips close to your ear. “Have you ever been to El Salvador before?”

“No!” Heat courses through you when you realize how loud you’ve been. The black-sand beaches of El Salvador weren’t your first choice for a runaway destination. But they happened to fit the three primary criteria: cheap, secluded, and U.S. dollar-friendly. Squeezing his hand, you tilt your head. “I mean, um, no.”

“Really? I come here all the time.”  Kylo tugs you closer. The air seems thicker, now. “It’s beautiful.”

“I think so too.” Your palm is slippery, and you adjust your grip again.

Kylo’s mouth scrapes the shell of your ear. “Let’s go somewhere quieter.”

Silent, you nod.

He leads you through the rain back to the hostel, through the living area and into the sleep quarters. You wait by the doorway as he saunters over to his bag, his shirt sticking to the rippling muscles in his back. Holding a sigh, you chew your lip. Kylo reaches into his backpack and pulls out a wine bottle--it’s wrapped and corked, brand-new--and urges you over with a nod. Lizard-brain wailing, you oblige.

“Where are you from?” Kylo is peeling the foil from the bottleneck while he speaks.

You glance at your feet. “The States.”

“Mhm.” The foil floats to the floor. “You must think I’m an idiot.”

“What?” Head snapping up, you meet his gaze. It’s empty. “No, no. Not at all. What?”

“I meant where in the States.” His fist is tight around the wine. “Given your accent, though--New Jersey?”

“Philadelphia.” Blush creeps onto your cheeks.

“Really,” he says. “Say w-a-t-e-r.”

Your lips twist into a mock-frown. “Wuder.”

Something twitches on his face. A grin, you think. “Right.” Kylo twists the cork, easing it free. “What does your family think of you traveling alone?”

“Oh.” Your thoughts tangle. For some reason, you want to lie. “They, uh, they’re okay with it.”

“Hm.” A pause, and he locks you in his stare again. “They don’t know, do they?”

“Um…”  A swift twist and tug, and the cork pops out. You flinch. “No,” you admit. “They don’t.”

Kylo shrugs. “No shame in that.” He sits on the bed, beckoning you with a nod. “Sit. Have a drink.”

You gnaw your lip again, looking at your backpack. You consider grabbing your knife, just in case. He’s incredibly fucking hot, and you’d love nothing more than to hop on what you are sure is his massive dick, but something about it seems wrong. But you aren’t sure if what you’re feeling is real discomfort, or your own fucked-up brain working to deny anything good might ever happen to you.

“I don’t know… Something seems weird about a strange drink from a strange man.”

Kylo smirks. “You saw me open it. And besides…” He pauses to take a long swig, the knot in his throat bobbing with each gulp, and then pulls off with a short gasp. You find yourself wanting to swallow, too. “I hope that’s satisfactory.”

Sweat beads at your nape. “Uh…” Shrugging, you shuffle over and sit next to him. He radiates heat. After the rain, that seems particularly inviting. “Sure. Why not.”

You wet your lips and tip the edge of the bottle into your mouth, the lukewarm liquid spilling out. It’s tart and dry with a lingering salty tang, and you wince as you swallow, smacking your tongue against your palate. You pause for a moment, waiting for the inevitable wooziness and unconsciousness to hit--but they don’t. Maybe he isn’t full of shit. Warmth ebbs through you, and you look over at him, holding out the wine.

“Weird taste. What is that?”

His eyes scan your figure. “You didn’t like it.”

“No, no,” you say, shaking your head. “That isn’t it. It’s just weird and salty. I’ve never had anything like that before.”

“Hm.” Kylo blinks, gaze flitting to the bottle, then back to you. He takes it from you and has another drink, imitating you by smacking his tongue. “That’s what it is.” He does it again. “You’re aerating it. Don’t do that.”

You raise a brow. “Really? I’ve never heard of that before.”

“There’s no accounting for taste.”

“Oh, shut up.” You roll your eyes. “You’re fucking with me.”

He presents the bottle. “Try it.”

Pouting, you grab it, taking a long, slow drink, and pull off, fighting the urge to--how did it he put it?--aerate. But you still taste salt. Your brow furrows, and you look at him. The sirens in the back of your head are deafening, now, and you swallow, fingers starting to tremble. You glance at the wine, but the label is in Spanish.

“Um, hey, so… what… what is this? This wine?”

Kylo’s blank gaze meets yours. “Oh. Right. I forgot you asked.”

“Yeah. I did.” Your heart slams against your ribcage.

“It’s gammahydroxybutyrate.”

Shaking your head, you play it over in your head. “Gammahydro--what? What? Kylo--” You reach for him, but you miss. “What the fuck?”

He is flat. “Ecstasy.”

The next thing you remember is hitting the floor.

Darkness is torn from your face, and a matrix of light blinds you, pain leaking from you in gasps as your ears are swallowed by a shrieking whine. Groaning, you shift, attempting to jerk away from the brightness beyond your lids, but your arms stall, your body rocking into the chair. Wait--the chair? You kick, but your legs strain against the bonds around your calves. Wincing, you bow your head, waiting for the ringing in your skull to die before you even try to remember what the hell happened. Then, shade, interrupting the assault on your eyes, cooling your skin for a brief moment. A grunt escapes you; your lids flutter open. 

Light is a halo around shadow, the figure in front of you the shape of a man, if men are shaped how you remember. Your vision is water, the sound dull, like you’ve been plunged into a shallow tub. But as it clears, you make out details. He is tall, broad, muscled, wearing… black. A black tank top, black leather pants, black boots, all melting in the murky slime of your brain. The one detail you can’t discern is his face--because it is obscured by a mask. Where the eyes should be, there is a void bordered by rows of chrome lines, and the mouth is muzzled by a flat, carbon slate. It is as human as it is inhuman, an echo of something familiar, like the look of death on the face of a stranger.

Heart pounding, you speak, your voice creaking inside of your throat. “What the fuck is happening?”

The voice that responds crackles inside the mask, mutated and mechanical. “Something very unfortunate for you.”

“What? What are you talking about?” You want to shout, but every bit of effort you make to speak or move is tripled against the weight of your scrambling consciousness. “Let me go. Please. What the fuck is happening?”

He is silent. Your gaze darts around the room--the floor is dirt, the walls are blank, and there isn’t a single window that you can see. To your right, a large, flat screen displays text… lines of it, you think, discussing something. A chatroom. You see one of the names--kyloren--and your blood turns to ice.

El Salvador. The wine. Ecstasy.

Kylo.

Before you can speak, your gaze catches the lines on the screen moving, talking. And they’re talking about you.

laetus_lacrimosa: i love how fucking scared she looks

blueeyeswhited: it’s awesome. she has no idea what’s about to happen

gawinulim11490: what are the limits?

mg3453: are you serious?

xwaifusayorix: lol

Your stomach lurches, and Kylo moves, the light burning your vision again. You squint while your pupils adjust, and see that he’s walked to a terminal where a camera and laptop are arranged. The acid in your belly roars like a wave, eroding your esophagus and singeing the back of your throat, and your chin quivers, quakes resonating to your toes. Fighting your fear, you overcompensate, instead, and glare at the camera, hocking a thick wad of mucus and spitting it at your captor. It falls short, a glob in the dirt. Kylo doesn’t seem to even notice, but the chatroom has.

blueeyeswhited: she’s an animal

gawinulim11490: like every other female who doesn’t get her way. strip them of their privileges and they resort to this.

xwaifusayorix: lmao are you an incel

kyloren: Bidding begins at .29 btc. Open now for the next 30 seconds.

As he types this, the screen explodes with chatter. From what you can tell, there are five people in this room, watching you. Bidding on something. They spit out different numbers, trying to one-up each other in a value you don’t recognize. .88 btc, 1.46, 2.19. The integers climb and climb.

laetus_lacrimosa: 2.93 to strip her and cut her fucking nipples off.

xwaifusayorix: oh shit 

mg3453: yeah i withdraw, i wanna see that lol

Breath flies out of you, and you choke. “What? What the fuck? What the fuck is this? What the fuck?”

kyloren: Going once. Twice.

No other person speaks.

kyloren: 2.19 btc to watch. Beginning now.

Kylo clicks something, and the chatroom changes. One, two, three of the people who had been in the previous room appear in this one. Kylo appears to adjust the camera pointed at you and turns, pulling a knife from his belt.

You whip your head back and forth, straining at your bonds, toes digging into the dirt, hips twisting to rock the chair. “No, please, stop, what are you doing. Please stop. Kylo, or whatever your name is. Please don’t do this. Please--”

He doesn’t appear to respond, but grabs the back of the chair, stilling it while he slides the knife underneath your shirt. The metal is ice on your skin, and you shiver, whimpering as tears blur your vision. You can’t stop your chin from trembling, your heart from wanting to explode out of your chest. Kylo turns the blade to the ceiling and rips, standing to the side so the camera catches when your belly, chest, and breasts are uncovered. Noise wants to escape you, but it doesn’t--you can only whisper as the tip of the knife shreds the hem of your top.

“Please… please stop…”

If he is moved in any way by your display, his only reaction is to tear the fabric to the side, making sure the entirety of your torso is exposed for the three strangers watching you on camera. Snot slips out of your nose, and you whimper, a chill washing over you. Kylo stares at you--or at least, you think he is. The inability to identify any hint of humanity from his facade makes your blood run faster.

The pause is only brief, however. He grabs the chair again, and slips the tip of his knife underneath your shorts. You want to struggle, but the threat of a blade against your belly paralyzes your limbs. All you do is sob while slices open the front of your shorts, digging the knife into the fabric of your crotch until the mound of your pussy peeks out. You thank your stars that you’re fat enough that your belly sits on top of your thighs, but Kylo sighs.

“I forgot how fucking fat you were.”

Growling, he takes the knife and rips open the hems on your sides, tearing the fabric away so that your front is now completely naked to the camera. After that, he bends forward, working at the bonds at your feet, and for a moment, there is a tease of relief. The ropes--or zipties, or something, you can’t tell--come off, and your heart roars with adrenaline. You pitch forward, attempting to leap up, but the chair only squeaks, and Kylo’s head snaps toward you.

“Fuck you!” With a shriek, you try to drive a heel into his shoulder, but he snatches your ankle in a large, gloved hand, and before you even move your other leg, that one is seized, his strength so overpowering that you wilt in his grip, collapsing against the chair.

You realize that was his goal, now, all along, while he spreads your legs wider, revealing your cunt to the camera. Another sob wells up in your chest, and you wiggle in protest, feeling helpless as he rebinds you to the chair. Under his breath, you hear him laughing.

“There we go,” he murmurs. “It’s so much easier when you behave.”

“Fuck you.” Your breath shudders in your chest. “Please stop.”

Through your tears, you glance over at the chat--and immediately wish you hadn’t.

blueeyeswhited: christ she’s so fucking disgusting--her body is a fucking mess. has anyone ever actually fucked that? lmfao

mg3453: her tits are fucking embarrassing. she’s in her 20s and they’re already sagging to her pussy

gawinulim11490: are you kidding. her tits have looked like that since she was a teenager. her body is just fucked up.

laetus_lacrimosa: females actually do this to themselves

The terror and anguish inside of you boils, and you glance over at Kylo. You see nothing but a silhouette of darkness.

“Fuck you! Fuck all of you!” You’re spitting, now, snot and saliva soaring from your face. “You’re all sick pieces of shit! Fucking sick misogynistic pieces of shit!”

xwaifusayorix: LMFAO

blueeyeswhited: “misogynist” is she a fucking feminist LOL

gawinulim11490: yes she is, but she doesn’t know the first thing about it. she’s a fucking idiot.

You hate that person in particular. They seem to know you. They talk about you like they’re an expert. You glare at the camera.

“Fuck you, whoever you are. I swear to god, when I get out of here, you will fucking pay for this!”

xwaifusayorix: lol

mg3453: well it makes sense that she looks like that now if she’s a feminist

laetus_lacrimosa: cutting off her nipples will be an improvement

Out of the corner of your eye, Kylo moves toward you, and you snarl. “Fuck you. Don’t even come near me.”

“You have no choice in that matter.”

He tosses the knife, catching it by the handle, and grips the chair again. Heart in your throat, you cry out, thrashing against your bindings, muscles tensing and untensing as words and spit fly, unfiltered.

“Please! Please, fuck no! Don’t do this! Don’t fucking do this Kylo please fuck don’t do this! Please!”

Underneath the mask, you hear a low, quiet laugh. Kylo stands behind you, steadies the chair against his body, and grabs one of your tits, pulling the skin of your areola taut. Your breath is rapid, drool streaming out of your mouth as you scream again, begging him to spare you. He brings the knife to your flesh, and you thrash, trying to slam your head back into his hips, hoping to knock him off balance.

Grunting, he crushes your breast in his hand, making you squeak. “Might not be smart to struggle while I have a knife so close to your chest.”

Face crumpling, you release a shuddering whine, tensing as you watch the knife pierce your flesh.

Searing pain streaks through your nerves, echoing in your fingers and toes, and you screech, throwing your head back in broken sobs while cuts through the layers of skin. A warm fluid spills down your abdomen, pooling in the crevices of your thighs and dripping onto the floor. Your teeth pinch your lower lip, lids shut tight as he carves through you, jolts of hot pain hitting you with each millimeter of skin removed. You can’t decide if you want to go to sleep or wake up.

Your breast flops against your stomach as the last bit of your flesh is removed, and you hear him toss it onto the ground. The thought of opening your eyes makes your stomach turn, but you find yourself cracking open a lid.

Blood has painted you in crimson buckets, and the fleeting pace of your heart is only making it pump out faster. Gasping, you feel faint, and close your eyes again, focusing on your breath, hoping to slow your heart rate so you don’t bleed out. Your entire body is pulsating, and you are trembling--you don’t want to go into shock, either.

Kylo clutches your other breast, tweaking your nipple in his fingers. Another laugh rumbles under the mask, and he cuts into your skin once more. The pain is duller, this time, your adrenaline still spiked and your brain focused on keeping calm. Yet you feel like a fish, filleted live on television, strands of hanging skin snipped and ripped from you, and you are bathing in warm fluid pumping from your own heart. Your second breast drops, and you groan, dizzy. It’s a lot of blood, leaving you--you don’t even need to look.

“That’s an issue,” says Kylo. His voice sounds filtered through water.

You hear rustling, and then the flicking of something--a lighter--and your lids pop open. Dread sinks into your bones when you watch him wipe his knife on his pants and hold it over an open flame. Whinging, you shake your head, the tears coming again.

“No, no, no no no…” You heave, swallowing vomit. “Please, no, no, we can do a tourniquet or something, please, no no no…”

“You’d rather bleed out?” His voice is dull, even under the modulator. “Besides,” he says, spinning the knife over the lighter. “We need you awake for every part of this. Otherwise it isn’t any fun.”

Vomit threatens again, but you swallow, shuddering. “Fuck you.”

Kylo releases the lighter and moves forward. Before you can even protest, he presses the flat end of the blade against your wound, and you scream, tears streaming down your cheeks, shivers wracking your body as blinding pain whites your vision. A sob crawls out, and then another, and another, before you are heaving, drooling, and wailing in desperation. You try to breathe, but can’t, gasping and whining for air--and you finally vomit, hurling onto your chest, the rest bubbling out down your chin in an acidic burble.

“Stop. Stop, please,” you wheeze. “Please, just stop.” A rare breath fills your lungs, and you cough. “Why? Why are you doing this?”

The weight of his gaze heavy on your frame as he re-heats the knife over the flame. “Because someone paid someone to pay me.” He steps forward and cauterizes your other wound, and you screech again, agony wracking you as your skin sizzles and pops under the heat. The smell of burnt flesh permeates. You want to vomit again.

Finished, Kylo wipes the knife on his pants again and puts it back into the sheath on his belt. You are quaking with terror and pain, sweat has drenched your lower back and hair, and you are still trying to focus on your breath. Kylo clicks something at his terminal, the rest of the voyeurs are back in the chat.

blueeyeswhited: holy shit she looks fucked up

laetus_lacrimosa: dumb fat bitch lol

mg3453: this is exactly what all these commie cunts deserve

gawinulim11490: don’t compliment her by insinuating she knows anything about being a communist.

xwaifusayorix: lmao shit

Your head is spinning. Is that it? With the bidding done, are you just going to be tossed out like this? Maybe he won’t even let you go.

“Kylo, please…”

Then, he types.

kyloren: Bidding open again. Starting at 2.93 btc. Open now for the next 30 seconds.

mg3453: 2.93 to shut her up. rape her mouth and make her vomit again

blueeyeswhited: nice

gawinulim11490: he’ll rape her?

xwaifusayorix: lmao cuck

laetus_lacrimosa: he’ll do anything--he’s a monster

kyloren: Going once.

gawinulim11490: i’ll double it. 5.86 btc to rape every disgusting hole. choke her. make her lick cum off the floor. remind her how repulsive she is.

Your heart sinks into your gut. Your mouth is dry.

kyloren: Going once. Twice.

kyloren: 5.24 to watch. Beginning now.

The chatroom changes in the same way it had before, only now all five people who had been in the chat before slowly join. After the last person appears, Kylo turns, pulling the knife out from his belt once more. You can only swallow, staring at him with pleading, wet eyes, hoping that if you seem pathetic enough, he’ll let you go, or spare you, somehow, with any hint of kindness.

When he cuts you free of the chair, you kid yourself into thinking, for a moment, that he’s done just that. You swivel to try and look at him, to catch his intention, but find yourself horrified when you turn to see him pulling his cock out of his pants, guiding his hand up and down the hardening shaft.

Heat licks up your spine, and you babble something nonsensical before shaking your head, blinking away the tears.

“Bend over the chair.” His voice is even darker, more commanding, under the mask.

You don’t want to bend over the chair, but you are so weak and tired, the thought of what might happen if you don’t bend over the damn chair is even more terrifying. You try to move, but find yourself slipping on your own blood. Puke hits the back of your throat again, and you gag.

“Bend. Over. The chair.”

“I’m trying, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry who?”

You pause, and stare up at him. Static has blanketed half your brain. I’m sorry…

A flash of black leather smacks you hard across the face, and you whimper, too exhausted to even grasp at yourself in shock. “You’re sorry who?” he asks, again.

Clenching your quivering chin, you look at the ground, the dirt spattered with your blood. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Much better,” he says. “Now move.”

“Yes, sir,” you mumble.

You sit up, and the parts of your shirt that hadn’t been shredded stick to your sweat. Your shorts, however, stay on the chair, matted a dark red. When you try to stand, wooziness slams you, and you stumble, grabbing onto the chair as your vision doubles, spinning out like a car wreck. Part of you wants to look at the chat screen--see what they are saying--but the other part turns with tiny steps until you are facing the side of the chair. Wincing, you lay yourself across it, ass in the air, knees off the ground. It’s hard to be still, as the seat is still slick with your blood.

“Let’s see if we can find your pussy in all of this mess.”

Leather gloves grip your ass, and you close your lids, wishing that you wouldn’t shiver as he pushed aside the hills of your flesh to find your cunt between your legs. You thought back to when you’d met him at the club--you would’ve happily had consensual sex with him, then.

“You really thought I wanted to fuck you?” he says, as if he’d read your mind. “Answer me.”

Your cheeks flush with fire. “Um… I, uh, guess I did…”

Thwack--your ass and hips jiggle with tremors of pain. He just fucking spanked you. “You what?”

Choking back, a sob, you say, “Yes, sir. I did.”

He laughs with an inhuman derision. “You’re fucking pathetic. I would never be desperate enough to fuck something like you.”

Kylo’s fingers dig into your hips, and the head of his cock pokes between your thighs--but before he can drive himself inside of you, you glide off the chair and collapse in a pile on the ground, and you retch while your burned tits scrape the dirt. Dust erupts in clouds, and you roll to avoid the pain, particles getting into your mouth, forcing a cough.

“Fuck,” you groan. “Fuck…”

Through your fit, you look up at Kylo, who is still stroking his cock--now fully erect. Your heart drops even further. It’s enormous.

“Get up, bitch.” Behind the mask, you know he’s smiling. “Get back on the chair.”

You push yourself up on buckling elbows, dragging yourself like a corpse back onto the chair. Shaking, you drape yourself across it, and Kylo once more grapples your hips. The warm, throbbing head of his dick slides across your legs, seeking out your cunt, aching to tear it open and make you scream. You bite your lip, grimacing in anticipation--but when he thrusts, you lose grip on the chair again and tumble back onto the ground, rolling onto your back while you stifle a whine.

“Stupid whore.” Kylo kicks you in the stomach with the toe of his boot, and you heave, curling into a ball. “Can’t even stay on a chair.” He sighs, his erection bobbing in need. “But you’re used to being fucked like an animal, aren’t you?”

“What--”

Kylo pounces, clutching a fistful of your hair as he whips you around, shoving your face straight into the dirt. You moan in pain, drool dripping in globs from your face, caking your mouth and cheeks in mud. Gloved hands pull your legs apart, and then a hard, thick cock is pushing at the folds of your dry cunt. Grunting, Kylo cranks your head back, his voice low in your ear.

“Not wet for me yet?” A smothered laugh. “That’ll change soon.”

Gasping for breath, you almost beg for him to stop--but then he rams into you, ripping through your walls, and you screech, bucking against him, arms flailing. He lays his entire weight on top of you, like a boulder pressing you to the ground, and curls his fingers in your hair before thrusting again. A throttled shout escapes you, and Kylo’s other hand wraps around your throat, strangling any other noise. All you can do is slobber as tears trickle along your jaw.

“Mm, fuck,” he hums into your ear. “I feel you getting wet. You like this, don’t you?”

A long, agonizing pull out, and then another excruciating drive in. Shame seeps out of your pores as you realize--he’s right. The base of his dick pulses when he seats himself inside of your pussy, and your body reacts, walls instinctively squeezing. He laughs, tugging you somehow closer, the cold muzzle of his mask settling in the crook of your neck.

“That’s right,” he says. “You feel like a whore.” He drags out, and slams back in. “You look like a fucking pig.”

Kylo finds his rhythm, punishing you with his dick as he growls into your ear, hand just tight enough around your throat to keep you conscious while you fight for lucidity through the pain. Your pussy is wet, now, a humiliating and automatic reaction to the painful fucking he’s forcing upon you. It’s only then that you can actually process it--he’s raping you. This is all actually happening. The realization is almost anesthetizing--you can’t feel your face anymore, anyway, you think it’s been numbed with tears--and any sound you make escapes as guttural, animalistic sobs.

“That’s right, little pig,” he says. “Squeal for me.”  Kylo releases your neck to smack the side of your face, and the sharp pain provokes something inside of you--you squeal, like a rutting, dirty farm animal, and when he returns to choke you, you squeal again, in shame. He snickers. “Good pig…”

The constant raking across the dirt has rubbed your body and pained nipples raw, making every movement above you torturous. Kylo pumps deep into your cunt, piercing your cervix over and over and over, his breath leaving in dark, mechanical huffs. You want him to cum so badly, just so this will be over. In angst, you groan, loud and long.

“It feels that good?” he asks. “You love taking cock, don’t you? You’ll take it wherever.”

Kylo pulls out, but before relief hits you, you feel the tip of his slickened cock pass over your asshole. Horrified, you groan again, but in his grip, under his weight--you are weary, helpless. You can only whine and screech in protest as he presses against you.

“You want it so badly. You’re fucking disgusting. But I knew that the second I realized you wanted to fuck me.” He huffs when he pushes the tip of his dick into your ass, and you grunt in pain. “You were so desperate. So lonely.” Another thrust, deeper, more unbearable. “And those cuts on your legs…” A hard, deep thrust this time, and you howl. “Do you think anyone actually wants to give you attention?” He pauses. Smacks you, and gasp. “Do you?”

Voice ragged, you reply, “N-no… No, sir…”

Kylo tugs you back and slams his hips against your ass, and you wail in agony as he splits it open. It feels hot and cold and empty and full all at once. You are dizzy with pain and exhaustion, overcome while he pounds you, fucking into you harder than before. His cock is hard and sharp, a nail trying to splinter you like a board.

“Go on, pig,” he growls. “Squeal for me like the filthy little swine you are.”

He slaps your cheek, and like a stupid, trained pig, you squeal--a horrible, wretched sob that scrapes its way out of your throat. Another moan leaves him, and he gives you two hard thrusts before pulling out of your ass, his dick like sandpaper against your sore flesh. You gag, and then yelp as he yanks you to your knees by your scalp. He is quick, smacking the side of your face to part, and then shoving his dirty cock straight into your mouth.

You retch, the taste revolting, but Kylo grips your skull in both his massive hands and fucks down into your throat, your hair his reins. There’s a visible urge to let his head fall back and cum, but he fights it, locking with your stare behind his mask. Water spills over your cheeks again, your eyes rolling as you fight your own urge to pass out. It is almost impossible to breathe with his thick dick constricting your airway, stretching your jaw, making you drool.

“Such a good little squealer… Almost made me cum.” His voice is uneven, now, his thrusting erratic. “This is all you’re good for, isn’t it? And you’re barely good for this.” He slaps you. “Stay awake, cunt.”

Gurgling against his erection, you nod to the best of your ability. Your compliance has you wanting to throw up, too, but there has been too much to fight--knowing it is almost over, you want him to hurry so you can leave and forget him forever. After a lot of therapy, probably.

“Fuck… fuck--”

Kylo’s hips pitch, and he groans, pulling out of your mouth and jerking his cock as it twitches in front of your face, holding your head still. A gasp, a groan, and he climaxes, jets of hot cum splashing your eyes and lips, mixing with spit and tears and dirt. Sighing, he squeezes the last drops of his release from his dick, wiping them on your face and shoving you back into the dirt. 

You hit the ground and shatter, the pent-up fear and adrenaline pouring out in broken, weeping breaths. Part of you wants to cover your face with your hands, but the other part is too disgusted to touch any reminder of his presence.

“Clean it up,” comes Kylo’s voice.

It is an echo in the chamber of your bawling. You can do nothing but wheeze, ache, and cry. There is nothing left in you to do an ounce more.

But Kylo is unsatisfied with this. “Clean it up.” His foot collides with your stomach on the final word, and you screech, crying harder.

You fold into a ball, trying to block him from your private break-down. The crying is uncontrollable, at this point, all you can do is ride the waves of anguish. Then you hear Kylo snarl.

Pain explodes in your skull when he stomps on it, jamming his heel into your temple, and he kicks you again, knocking the air from your lungs. “Clean it up, you filthy bitch.” 

Coughing, you try to nod, acknowledging his order, shivering while you pull yourself up from the floor. Every part of you aches, resonating with pain and the tremors of torment. Glancing at yourself, you are covered in blood, dirt, spit, vomit, and semen. You can’t bring yourself to view the chat screen. What have they been saying this entire time? You suppose it doesn’t matter. 

Swallowing what scraps are left of your pride, you wipe the caked semen off of your face, gathering it in dirty clumps and dragging them onto your tongue. The taste is acrid, bitter and salty and dry and sticky--and you heave trying to finish the first glob. Closing your lids, you persist, steeling your stomach as you clean your face of every last viscous drop of his semen. As you finish, you open your eyes, blurred tears clear, and see the chat. 

blueeyeswhited: holy fucking shit

mg3453: that was fucking incredible

laetus_lacrimosa: i knew she could take a big cock

gawinulim11490: what a fucking whore. she fucking loved it.

xwaifusayorix: like every other female, lol

laetus_lacrimosa: look at her cunt, it’s so fat and wet

blueeyeswhited: what kind of feminist loves being raped? lmao

gawinulim11490: she does. she’s a fucking joke. i told you that she’s not a real feminist. she’s a boring, joyless, leftist cuntbag.

mg3453: goddamn lol. are you sure you’re not an incel?

gawinulim11490: fuck off.

Their words don’t bite, as they did at first. You’re too fucking tired to care. Glancing over, you see that Kylo has already tucked himself away, and is making his way to the terminal. This had to have been the last part. Surely his plan is to sign off and let you go. Surely… 

kyloren: Bidding opens at 5.86 btc. You have 30 seconds.

Adrenaline again. “No.” You try to scramble toward him. “No, no!”

blueeyeswhited: cut her fingers off. 5.86 btc

kyloren: You’ll need more than that.

xwaifusayorix: 7.86 to cut off her toes

laetus_lacrimosa: 9.44 to cut her guts out

xwaifusayorix: oh fuck lol

You slump onto the ground. They’re not going to stop until you’re dead. Heart skipping out of your ribs, you claw to Kylo’s feet, curling your arms around them, scratching the leather like a hopeless cat.

“Kylo, please… please, don’t…”

kyloren: Going once.

“Please, Kylo, sir, please, please, please…”

kyloren: Going twice.

“Kylo… sir, don’t do this…”

gawinulim11490: 15.73 to cut the dumb bitch’s head off. spare the world of another fat leftist idiot.

Breath freezes in your lungs. No one else in the chat says a word.

kyloren: Going once.

kyloren: Twice.

He pauses, you think, for a second longer. You don’t dare speak.

kyloren: 11.79 to watch. Starting now.

The chat switches, and the only one who joins is the person who bid.

You hug Kylo’s legs, trying to hold him, pleading and pleading for him to release you. It is mostly gibberish, nonsense strung together with despair. God, you didn’t want this, you realize now, if you were let go you’d be better, you’d do better, you’d do whatever you needed so that you were never hated this badly again. On some end, you must deserve it, if someone is willing to pay money over and over to see you brought to this.

Beyond your sorrow, you feel Kylo moving, dragging you across the ground while he moves in front of the camera. Without a word, he gnarls his fingers in your hair, wrenching you to your knees, twisting your body so you kneel facing the camera. You are sniveling, and just as silent as him.

It’s not that you think, perhaps, you deserve to die. It’s that you realize that it is inevitable. It is, you hope, the same revelation that hits a cancer patient after a grim diagnosis, or the one that blinks into the mind of a driver during a head-on collision. The same revelation that perhaps only half of the population is lucky enough to have, before they collapse or bleed or pass in their sleep. And here you are, having it now--you are about to die at the hands of this monster. At least you’ll finally be free.

Kylo stands behind you, and you hear a hiss and metal squeak. To your left, a heavy thump. Fingers still tangled in your hair, he snaps your head up, and you see his face again. For a moment, you can’t understand why he’s done this--but you realize the camera must only see you.

His eyes are voids. Yet he looks just as pretty as you remember. You should’ve known that no one this attractive had good intentions for you.

Then the blade of his knife slices into your neck, and you sob--but the blood is hot, spurting in a river, and you feel his fingers tighten in your scalp, and then another tear in your flesh, and you choke on your blood, coughing and sputtering and twitching in pain, and everything is fuzzy, and numb, you can’t feel your fingers, or your body, or even feel your breath, and soon you know you aren’t breathing youaren’t seeingand everythingis blankandemptyandblack.

blueeyeswhited: oh fuck that’s a lot of blood

laetus_lacrimosa: not exactly a clean cut job

mg3453: look how upset she was lmao

gawinulim11490: she deserves it.

gawinulim11490 has logged off.

mg3453: shit. good show anyway.

xwaifusayorix: i still think that guy was an incel

laetus_lacrimosa: incels don’t have cash like that, idiot

xwaifusayorix: true.

xwaifusayorix has logged off.

laetus_lacrimosa has logged off.

blueeyeswhited has logged pff.

mg3453 has logged off.

Session has ended.

kyloren has logged off.

#kylo ren smut #kylo ren x reader #kylo x reader #kylo ren imagine #kylo ren #kylo trash #no accounting for taste #dead dove: do not eat

[skeletonscribbles]

Wishes - Ch. 2

she promises, she delivers. this is the Mike Hanlon chapter which means it is Blessed. I think I got everyone on this taglist but if I missed someone lmk I’m a little outta my head atm

Rating: M, eventually. G right now, except for cursing. Pairings: Reddie, Stan/Bill/Mike, Benverly WC: like 3k? idk math Summary:

you know what tumblr there was gonna be a summary here but since you keep fucking up my apostrophes ive decided you dont deserve it

Other: Martin Short is actually a blessing dont listen to Mike

Chapter 1 / Read on Ao3

Tag List: @roobarrtrashmouth @jem-carstairs-is-perfection @tozier-club @aizeninlefox @stanheartsbill @latinxrichie @softeds @pretzelstoday @melancholypurple @wheezygreens @ayyyymichele @loser-marsh

MIKE HANLON - KIDCOT STATION AT THE CANADA PAVILION, EPCOT CENTER THURSDAY, OCTOBER 8TH 6:55 P.M.

There were two hours and five minutes until the Epcot fireworks show began, signalling the imminent close of the park, which meant there were three hours and five minutes until Mike Hanlon could finally clock out.

Not that he was counting, of course.

Sighing, he shifted in his seat at the Canada KidCot station. He’d been scheduled for an afternoon 8 hour shift, 11 to 7, but they’d asked for someone to extend because they were short-staffed and he apparently couldn’t help himself. He agreed to work until close, which was an extra three hours. Normally, he wouldn’t be phased by that, but he was bone tired today. He’d been up late with his Imagineer roommate, poring over plans and ideas for Star Wars.

He should have known better. No amount of arguing for Lando Calrissian or Finn was going to make Bob Iger, the CEO of the company, less racist, which meant that there was little to no hope for representation in the new Star Wars World. His roommate Ben had tried to warn him, but he’d pushed the issue anyway, feeling restless and irritated that he worked for a company that didn’t value people like him.

Now, he was paying the price. He stifled a yawn as a mother with two children hustled them by his table - he would kill for someone to actually talk to, but he wasn’t the type to hustle people over to him Gaston-style. (The Magic Kingdom Gaston was notorious for cat-calling girls, which Mike supposed was in character...but it was deeply unsettling to watch.)

Sighing, Mike picked up a marker and began to color one of the Duffy* drawings at his station. As bored as he was, he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. Disney, for all its flaws, was more of a home for him than Canada had ever been, and KidCot was his favorite rotation. He loved telling stories and teaching kids about his home country - he loved teaching.

He loved Canada, too...it was his home, after all, but it had never been freeing for him like Florida had. Home came with expectations - from his peers, from his teachers, and most of all, from his parents.

Mike loved his parents, but he was definitely not the son they needed. He had no interest in hanging around and taking over the farm. His dreams were bigger than that.

His parents, for their part, had totally supported his move...at their own expense. He felt guilty about that sometimes, but he had a feeling that all three of them knew, in their hearts, that it was the right choice for Mike to go.

He’d come to Disney World because he hadn’t known where else to go. Disney had a work program for international students that promised to give him opportunities to connect with people around the world, and that promise had really appealed to 21 year-old Mike Hanlon. It had been the right choice, definitely - his first three months at Star Tours had been like a dream. He got to talk Star Wars all day, he got to choose Rebel Spies**, the ride wasn’t that complicated, and he hadn’t had to slog all the way around the perimeter of Hollywood Studios to get to his attraction like the Tower of Terror bellhops did. (There had to be a more efficient way of moving around backstage, and someday, Mike imagined they’d invent it, but for the time being, it was long walks and bikes over at Studios.) All in all, it had been a perfect fit for him.

Then, he had three months doing outdoor vending (ODV) at Studios, and that was...less exciting, to say the least. ODV was hot, sweaty work, and the guests that wanted popcorn or pretzels or light-up Mickey ears were usually tired, hungry, and cranky (and sometimes racist). Still, that was manageable, especially when he got into the groove of Fantasmic shifts. In fact, he still picked up Fantasmic shifts from time to time, for nostalgia’s sake.

After that, his program was over, but he didn’t feel ready to do something else, so he went to Casting to see about applying for a more regular job (and what he would have to do to renew his US work visa). The only full-time position they had to offer him was in the Canada Pavilion, so that’s where he was for the time being. It wasn’t ideal (he was putting in to transfer back to attractions as soon as he was able), but he’d gotten that temporary worker visa for it, so he had no choice but to make it work. So far, the only thing that had been completely ruined for him was Martin Short movies, because after watching the Martin Short ‘O Canada’ film a thousand and twelve times per work shift, he’d sooner die than watch Three Amigos ever again in his life. (He considered himself extremely lucky to have found the roommate that he did via the CM Housing Facebook page, but if Ben put on Father of the Bride one more time, Mike was going to kick him out immediately and permanently.)

Mike finished coloring his Duffy and looked around. There were no kids anywhere in sight. It was around dinner time, and the Canada pavilion wasn’t a highly popular family destination to begin with, so Mike was going to be alone for a long while, people-watching as young hipster couples walked by with Disney shopping bags full of maple syrup and plaid clothes.

He was so zoned out, he almost missed the two attractive men that were walking out of a shop and towards him.

Now, Mike had spent quite a bit of time coming to terms with his sexual identity. His father extremely traditional - which was not to say close-minded, but there was just no opportunity for exploration on the farm. It wouldn’t have made sense.

Disney was on the extreme opposite end of that spectrum. A huge percentage of male Cast Members were gay, and for the first time, Mike had the opportunity to consider his own feelings.

As it turned out, he was pretty equally interested in men and women. He’d had a couple of short relationships during his time in the States with people of both genders, and they’d all been pretty nice...just, not lasting, and none of the people he had dated had been as compelling as the two men - a redhead and a boy with light brown curls, he could see now - that were walking his way.

It was a bit disconcerting, actually. Mike usually wasn’t attracted to white people (they were so entitled and pasty), but there was something almost cosmic about these two. It felt like the universe calling.

Before they got close enough to see him, Light Brown Curls stopped and turned to the redhead, holding up a Disney bag and smirking. The redhead blushed and grabbed for the bag, but Curls swiftly moved it behind his back. They began to engage in a game of keep-away. Mike was mesmerized.

“You trying to stamp their passports?” Mike jumped at the sound of a leering female voice, and almost fell out of his chair. “If you know what I mean?”

“Ma’am, I---” he began, turning to look at the perpetrator and stopping short when he saw her pretty green eyes. “Huh?”

She laughed prettily. “The ginger making an idiot of himself is named Bill. He works Guest Relations over at MK, and he’s been super hung up on these two guys he saw in passing in the Boardwalk slash Epcot area recently. Classic pining gay.”

Mike looked back over at the two men. The ginger (Bill) had retrieved his bag, and was waving it in front of Curls’ face. Curls seemed unimpressed.

“Is the skinny brunette boy one of the guys Bill was pining over?” Mike guessed, watching the bounce of the haughty man’s curls.

“Yep,” said the girl, joining Mike in looking over. “His name’s Stan, apparently. He’s a front desk coordinator over at Yacht, because of course he is. Everyone at Yacht is so fucking put together. Pardon my French.”

“It’s a relief to hear cursing every once in a while,” Mike admitted. “It can’t be princesses and rainbows all the time.”

The girl nodded appreciatively. “I like your style. I’m Beverly. I work in costuming over at MK.”

“Oh, word.” Mike stuck out a hand for her to shake. She took it, and he was immediately impressed by the subtle strength in her grip. “I’m Mike. You wanna learn about Canada?”

“At some point,” Beverly said, smiling amusedly. “Right now, though, I’m trying to play matchmaker.”

Mike squinted at her, confused. “Aren’t your friends already together, though? I thought you were just third-wheeling.”

“Fourth-wheeling, if all goes to plan.” Beverly waggled her eyebrows. “Weren’t you wondering who else Bill has a crush on around here? I did say that he was pining over two guys.”

Mike’s stomach lurched. Pretty boys weren’t generally in the business of looking Mike Hanlon’s way...unless he was reading the whole thing wrong?

“No, but there’s already...they’re already….” Mike protested weakly, hoping his assumptions were correct. “I couldn’t intrude.”

Beverly shrugged her freckled shoulders, looking down nonchalantly. “Two’s an arbitrary number, bud. You can do whatever you want.”

The boys’ eyes were on Mike, now - they must have noticed him talking to their friend. The redhead was smiling, and Mike suddenly felt hot.

Being with more than one person at a time had never occurred to Mike, but now that the idea had been planted, it was taking root in a really fast and embarrassing way.

“Bill, Stan,” Beverly called, beaming, “meet my new friend Mike. He’s from Canada.”

Feeling a little stupid, Mike gestured to his nametag. “Saskatchewan.”

“Mike from Saskatchewan.” Stan stepped forward, confident and smooth. “Very, very nice to meet you.”

Bill smiled knowingly. “Told you, didn’t I?”

“You were right,” Stan said, eyes never leaving Mike.

Mike looked between the two, hoping for an explanation, and Bill promptly provided him with one. “I saw you here the other day, talking to kids. You’ve got incredible charisma.”

Mike was painfully cognizant of the blood rushing to his cheeks. “Thanks. Uh. Bev says you guys are CMs, too?”

“Yep!” Bill tapped his chest where his name tag would be if he were in costume. “I’m in the Magic Kingdom, and Stan’s your neighbor over at the Yacht Club.”

“It’s a shame you don’t have any guests,” said Stan, examining the Duffy coloring pages at Mike’s table. “I don’t know why people aren’t flocking to you, honestly. You seem like the kind of person that I’d actually enjoy learning about Canada from.”

“Do you wanna hear some facts?” Mike asked, and then immediately cringed. Why couldn’t he say something compelling for once?

Fortunately, Bill and Stan seemed to find it endearing rather than weird. Stan opened his mouth to speak again…

...and was immediately interrupted by a freckly, frizzy-haired tornado of a human being, who swept in and slung his absurdly long arms over Bill and Stan’s shoulders. Mike blinked rapidly, trying to take stock of the situation, but before he could get his bearings, the new person adjusted his glasses and started speaking in a thick Russian accent.

“Eet eez veddy hahd, Comrade, for me to trahhck you eef you do not answer calls, da?” He was talking to Stan, but Bill seemed to recognize him, too, if his eye roll was any indication.

“Why the fuck did you need to find me at all?” Stan groaned. It was obvious that he was fond of this weird, lanky guy, but he was playing at irritation. “I turned off my phone for a reason, you nerd. Take a hint.”

“Eh, I was bored. Also kinda sad, thanks to Big Bill here.” The guy abruptly stopped with the accent, turned to Bill, and tutted loudly. “Can you believe that Bill stood in the way of true love today? Also, how the hell do you know Bill, Stanny?”

“We’ve literally just met,” Stan said, “and preventing you from feeling love is only serving to make him more attractive to me, so by all means, Bill, continue.”

“It’s not up to me,” Bill said sadly, “and tragically, Eddie does think he’s hot.”

The third guy inhaled sharply. “Hold on, say that last bit again.”

“Mike, this is Richie.” Bill ignored Richie’s request and turned to Mike. “He’s bad, sorry.”

Richie’s eyes flicked up to Mike for the first time. Mike sat awkwardly as Richie took him in, smiled, and said, “A fucking pleasure. Has anyone ever told you that red’s your color?”

“Just you,” Mike replied honestly.

“Glad I could be your first.” Richie winked, and Mike felt charmed in spite of himself.

“Okay, so how do we all know each other again?” Bev asked, frowning. “I know Rich because he’s a giant pain in my ass when he comes through costuming, I know Bill because I know Bill, and now I know Stan and Mike through Bill…”

“Richie’s my roommate,” Stan said flatly. “Unfortunately.”

Bill whipped around to stare accusingly at Richie. “You’ve been keeping that from me?”

“Hey, I didn’t know you were into stuck-up assholes,” Richie shrugged. “Besides, that’s justice in action for not giving Cute Character Attendant Eddie my number.”

“He was working,” Bill said defensively.

“He was working,” Richie parroted mockingly. “That’s never stopped me from hitting on him before, and it won’t stop me again.”

“I wouldn't,” Bill warned. “Eddie’s no joke.”

“Didn’t say he was,” Richie agreed, bouncing excitedly. “Did he actually say I was hot, though, because--”

“Where do you work, Richie?” Mike asked, trying to save Bill from the conversation.

Richie’s smile was huge and sweet. “The World Famous Jungle Cruise, of course! Why, you itchin’ to ride my bote?” His expression turned suggestive. “Because I’d let you. It’d be worth the long, painful death Stan and Bill would put me through--”

“Beep beep, Richie,” Bill said loudly, elbowing Richie hard in the gut. Richie doubled over on to the damp wood of the pavilion floor.

Stan quirked an eyebrow, obviously impressed. “Beep beep, huh? I’ll have to remember that for next time.” He brushed Bill’s arm with his hand as he said it, and the corner of Bill’s mouth twitched up. Mike was enamoured by the interaction, and wanted more than anything to be on the other side of the table, included in whatever it was they had going on…

...fuck, he was so fucking fucked.

“Richie, if you’re not here for any real reason, then you should come with me,” said Beverly, looking like she was already regretting her offer. “I was gonna ditch these three in a couple of minutes, anyway. Let ‘em have a Food and Wine date, or something.”

“You’re sweet, Bevvy.” Richie gave her a sappy look as he peeled himself off of the floor. “Askin’ me out. Adorable. Unfortunately, I’m gonna have to pass, because Bill, I’m not going anywhere until you promise to get me Cute Eddie’s number.”

“You’re really dedicated to that, huh?” Bill asked, tone halfway between ‘impressed’ and ‘alarmed’. “What the hell happened between you two to make you so frigging obsessed, Rich? Normally you’re all jokes and no follow-through.”

Richie tried to be nonchalant, but Mike could see a bit of red creeping up his neck under the collar of his shitty Toy Story t-shirt. He was silent for a moment, and then when he spoke, his voice was soft. “He’s just...I don’t….he’s all the stuff I like, you know?”

Mike looked at Bill, whose forehead was scrunched up in obvious concern at Richie’s words, and then at Stan, who had his hands delicately on his hips and was trying and failing to not seem affected, and understood that he, Mike Hanlon, knew exactly what Richie was talking about.

“Let’s talk more about this later,” Bill finally suggested after a long moment. “Okay?”

Richie nodded quietly. Something had happened in the last few minutes...it was like someone had toggled the Richie off-switch. Mike hoped it wasn’t something he had said. “Roger that, Billiam.”

“Hey,” Mike said, feeling suddenly bold in the wake of Richie’s vulnerability. “Listen. I can’t hang with you all now, because I won’t be off of work until 22:00. If you guys are free and still awake at that point, though, y’all can come to my place after I’m done. I can write down an address. I bet my roommate won’t mind.”

Bill’s responding smile could have lit up the whole park. “I’d love that.”

“Me too,” Stan said immediately, looking between Bill and Mike with a soft expression (well, soft for Stan the consummate professional, anyway).

“You want us there, too?” Richie asked cautiously.

Mike nodded, and was relieved to note that Stan and Bill were nodding too. “Dude, I could really use some friends. I’m fresh out of those.”

With that, the tension was broken. Richie let out a great howling laugh, and moved over to clap Mike on the back. “Oh, Mikey! You just hit the friend jackpot, my man. Just ask Stanley Uris! Richie Tozier’s a top notch amigo.”

Stan shrugged listlessly. “I mean, if you like people that try to give you sloppy handies every time they’re intoxicated.”

Richie’s expression twisted up, and for a split second, Mike thought he was gonna lose it, but then instead of yelling, Richie groaned. “They’re not sloppy, Stanley, Jesus Christ.”

“Jesus who?” Stan asked, reaching out to yank on Richie’s sleeve, which presumably was meant to signal that he was kidding. “Anyways, yes, the three of us will be there, Mike. Bev?”

“That depends,” she said slyly. “Is your roomie hot, Mikey?”

Mike couldn’t help but laugh at that. Ben was an objectively handsome man, but he was less sexy than he was warm and comforting. “He’s a beautiful, wonderful guy, Beverly.”

“Then of course,” she agreed, laughing her little laugh again. “Write your address on the back of one of these Duffys, yeah?”

Mike obliged her, and when he was done, Stan took the paper and folded it up neatly, ultimately placing it in the breast pocket of his shirt.

“All right,” Richie announced. “Parting is such sweet sorrow, Micycle, but we must go purchase overpriced cocktails now. Adieu.”

“Bye!” Bev called, and almost immediately, the two of them were off, merrily making their way to the main World Showcase walkway.

Stan and Bill lingered for another moment. They were both looking at Mike with expressions that made Mike feel like his stomach was going to explode with butterflies. He didn’t know what it was about these two that made him feel all of 17 again, but he wasn’t complaining. He hadn’t been this excited about romance since middle school.

“We’ll see you later, okay?” Stan said assuringly. He slid his hand into Bill’s after he spoke, and Mike watched their fingers entwine. Absurdly, he wasn’t jealous at all...any interaction at all between the three of them felt right and good.

“Have a nice couple of hours,” Mike said, trying to convey the giddiness he was feeling through his words. “Enjoy the fireworks!”

“It’ll be nicer when we’re all together,” Bill said meaningfully, and then he and Stan were disappearing into the throng, too.

It looked like it was going to be another late night for Mike Hanlon...but somehow, he didn’t think he was going to regret this one tomorrow.

One hour and three minutes until park close, two hours and three minutes until clock-out.

Notes:

we don't deserve Mike Hanlon

*Duffy is Mickey's teddy bear, apparently. He's very popular in Japan. You used to be able to go to a Duffy meet and greet in Epcot, which is fucking wild.

**There's a moment in the Star Tours ride where one guest on that particular simulator is identified as a "Rebel Spy". The cast members get to pick that guest. I have never been that guest, and I will be bitter about that until my dying day.

#reddie #reddie fanfic #mike hanlon/stanley uris/bill denbrough #mike/stan/bill #mike hanlon #bill denbrough #stanley uris #benverly #ben hanscom #beverly marsh #losers club #it 2017 #stephen king's it #disney au #mike hanlon is a good man

[welcomethefears]

The Captain’s Bride - Steve Rogers x Reader - Chapter 5

Chapter 1 || Chapter 2 || Chapter 3|| Chapter 4 || Chapter 5 (This is it) || Chapter 6 || Chapter 7  || Chapter 8

Tony watched as everyone finally disappeared behind the ruins, the morning sun now shining enough to give light, but not enough to cast an orange glow across the landscape. Tony scampered to the edge of the cliff, looking down and spotting the man in blue holding deftly onto the side of the cliff. Although he was climbing, it was slow going, and clear that it would take the man a while to finish. Tony huffed, growing impatient, his fingers itching on his sword hilt, waiting for a fight.

“Hello there,” Tony called, seeing the man looked up at him. His eyes watched Tony carefully, and although he couldn’t properly see the man’s face, it was clear he was confused at the interaction.

“Slow going?” Tony grinned cheekily, baiting the man’s reaction.

“Look, I like to use my manners and in no way am I trying to be rude. I’m just informing you climbing this cliff is much harder than it looks, so I’d greatly appreciate it if you didn’t distract me,” The man replied, turning his attention back the dark jutting rocks. Tony grimaced at this remark.

“So-rry,” He exaggerated, still watching the man.

“Thank you,” The man put simply, returning to climbing. Tony sat for a minute, just watching him get no more than a few centimeters higher than he was before.

“Is there any way we can speed this up, I’ve got a hot date waiting for me,” Tony proposed, the man looking up at him again, this time his lips twisted into a frown.

“If you’re in such a hurry you could lower some rope or a tree branch. Or maybe you could actually find a date,” The man replied, Tony feeling the burn of the insult.

“I guess I could do that, I still have some rope up here. I don’t think you’d accept my help though, since I am only waiting to kill you,” Tony commented casually, waving his hand around lazily to prove his point.

“That does put a damper on our relationship,” The man commented, Tony snorting at his words.

“Look bud, I promise I won’t kill you until you get to the top, how’s that sound?” Tony bargained, watching the man as he processed the words spoken for a few seconds.

“That’s very comforting but I’m afraid you’ll just have to wait,” The man replied, returning to his climbing. Tony huffed at this, turning away from the edge and stomping his foot on the ground. He glanced at the rope, taunting him in his exploits. He turned his attention back to the cliffside, poking his head over, his brown hair covering his face.

“I hate waiting, got better things to do. Could I give you my word as a philanthropist?” Tony asked, cocking an eyebrow at the man. The man in blue shook his head, a slight grin forming across his lips.

“I can’t see your riches nor your donation of them, so no can do sorry,” The man put simply, attempting once again to go back to his climbing.

“Is there any other way I can get you to trust me?” Tony asked, hoping the masked man would have a solution.

“Nothing comes to mind sorry,” He replied, this time not taking his eyes off his climbing.

Tony shook his head, thoughts flowing in his mind, trying to find a answer. He snapped his fingers, finally coming to a clear solution.

“I swear on my father, Howard Stark, that you will reach the top alive,” Tony replied, seeing the man stop his actions. The man in blue stared him down for a moment, his eyes, however, showing no malice, although Tony struggled to read his face at such a distance. He heard the man let out a heavy sigh until he finally formed words.

“Throw me the rope,” He put simply. Tony nearly jumped for joy, racing towards the rope and grabbing the free end. He unlooped it from around the rock, racing back to the cliffside and tossing it over. He watched as the man grabbed onto it, pulling his self to the top. Tony saw as the man’s forearms flexed even through the fabric, and he became intimidated. However, this did not deter him from helping the man, as he offered him a hand to get over the top of the cliff. The man in blue accepted, being pulled over the top. The two started panting, Tony standing with his arms crossed and the man in blue leaning against a rock to try and regain his breath.

“Much appreciated,” He replied, going to draw his sword.

“Wait wait wait wait wait! Wait until you’re ready,” Tony instructed, putting a hand out in a stopping manner.

“Thank you,” He replied breathlessly, sitting down on the ground and removing his shoe. He tipped it upside down, a couple stones falling out of it before he placed it on his foot again.

“I don’t mean to pry, but you wouldn’t have a metal left arm?” Tony asked, his eyes zeroing in on the man. He pulled off his glove on his left hand, revealing nothing but flesh.

“Do you always start conversations this way?” He asked, a questioning look being thrown at Tony. Tony shrugged his shoulders before resting a hand on his rapier, which was bejeweled with a golden handle.

“My father was a sword and weapons maker, but he was slaughtered by a metal-armed man. The metal armed man showed up one day and requested my father create a sword especially for him, and he took the job,” Tony explained, his eyes clouding over as he went through the memory. Tony finally pulled out the sword he had been fiddling with, and the golden hilt shined in the dawn light. The man in the blue suit covered his eyes for a second, before admiring the fine handwork.

“I’ve never seen it’s equal, truly it is the mark of a master sword maker,” The man replied, his blue eyes now clear to Tony.

“The metal arm man returned and demanded it, for only one-tenth of the promised price. Of course, my father refused, a man such as him could never stoop to such low standards for such fine quality. Without the bat of an eye, the metal-armed man slashed him through the heart. I loved my father, so naturally, I challenged the man to a duel. I failed… the metal-armed man left me with this,” Tony explained, sliding a finger over the scar under his eye, “And this,” He explained, pointing to a scar under his other eye. The man in blue nodded, however, his face remained neutral, showing little emotion.

“How old were you?” The man asked, reclining back on the rock comfortably now.

“I was eleven years old. When I was strong enough, I dedicated my life to the study of fencing; so next time we meet I will not fail. I will go up to the metal-armed man and go ‘Hello, my name is Tony Stark. You killed my father. Prepare to die,’” Tony replied stoically, staring into the distance, watching the waters of the channel swish back and forth in a swell of deep blue.

“You’ve done nothing but study swordplay?” The man asked, intrigued by Tony’s words. Tony turned his attention back to the man, nodding quickly with his usual grin taking over his face.

“More pursuing swordplay rather than studying it as of late,” Tony shrugged, a casual glint in his eye, “You see, I cannot find him. It’s been more than twenty years, I’m starting to lose confidence honestly. I just work for Loki to pay the bills y’know, you never really get much for working in the revenge business.”

Silence enveloped the two men, realizing the conversation was finally over. The man in blue drew in a breath, standing from where he was before and unsheathing his own sword. It was coloured red, white and blue with a handle comprised of a star. Tony seemed in awe for a moment, until he realized the man was getting into a fighting position. He sighed as well, responding to the call.

“Well I… I certainly hope you find him someday,” He replied, genuine sympathy in his words. Tony faltered for a second, seeing the true intentions of the man. Maybe he wasn’t horrible, there was something about him that convinced Tony otherwise, but that money sat at the back of his mind and he knew what he had to do.

“So, we all ready then?” He asked casually, giving his sword a flick, weighing it in his hand to get comfortable. The man held his sword in his left hand, and Tony eyed it softly.

“Whether I’m ready or not you've been more than fair,” He shrugged, his sword hardly moving in his grip, compared to Tony’s flimsy hold. The two got their feet in position, squatting down to fight until Tony stood up straight again, his shoulders loose and his actions fluid.

“You seem a decent man… I hate to kill you,” Tony responded, the man in blue however not once faltering from his crouched stance.

“You seem a decent fellow, hate to die,” He responded slyly, however, his face staying completely level.

“Begin!” Tony exclaimed, confidence exuding from his form as the words left his mouth.

Tony went to strike first, but the man in blue deflected his advance. The man in blue tried to retaliate, but Tony managed to block as well, raising an eyebrow at the man who only grinned in reply. The two then clashed blades gracefully, a ringing sounding around the ruins. Each of them attempted to get the upper hand, but every time they made an advancement on the other it ended up with a block. Sweat grew on Tony’s forehead, but he tried to sustain his cocky grin, hoping to throw off his opponent.

“You are using Bonetti’s defense against me, huh?” Tony inquired, holding his right hand behind his back to try and improve his overall balance. He became worried, watching the man in blue move around on the balls of his feet with ease, maybe this would be harder than he thought.

“I thought it was fitting, well considering the rocky terrain,” The man replied, a smoothness to his voice appearing that Tony had been unable to hear before. Tony tried to concentrate, but the fact his voice changed like it did during a duel indicated trouble for him.

“Naturally, you must expect I attack with Capo Ferro though, wouldn’t you?” Tony asked, hoping and praying he was still keeping up his façade.

“Naturally, but I figure the Tibal cancels out the Capo Ferro, don’t you?” He asked condescendingly, Tony becoming increasing disdainful towards the man in blue.

“Unless the enemy has studied the Agrippa… which I have,” Tony gloated, continuing with the fighting. The clashing of steel continued as the two men parried and tried to strike at each other.

“You are wonderful!” Tony exclaimed, becoming in awe of the pure power the man was now showing.

“Thank you, I’ve worked hard to become so,” The man replied, deflecting one of Tony’s lunges.

“I admit it, you are better than I am,” Tony explained, blocking one of the man’s casual yet powerful attempts to hit him. A grin stayed on his face, knowing he had the man now.

“Then why are you smiling,” The man asked.

“Because I know something you don’t know,” Tony’s grin now reached his ears, his eyes shining with a sense of mischief that could put even Loki to shame.

“And what’s that?” The man in blue asked, continuing to try and block his attacks. Tony suddenly threw the rapier from his left hand, catching it deftly in his right.

“I’m not left-handed,” He gloated, now fighting with an intense pace. The man in blue did not falter, however, still fighting in a way that left him on top.

“You’re amazing!” The man exclaimed, his words stroking Tony’s already gigantic ego.

“I ought to be after 20 years,” He huffed, fighting with all his might, his sword slicing the air with ease.

“There’s something I better tell you,” The man replied, now struggling to fight Tony off.

“Tell me!” Tony cried excitedly, finally feeling a sense of control in the battle of blades.

“I’m not left-handed either,” Now the man in blue grinned, and Tony’s face fell at this revelation. He switched hands as well, swirling it around in the air and performing amazing feats. Tony stepped back for a moment, and the man in blue saw his intentions, stopping the fight briefly.

“Who are you?” Tony asked, raising an eyebrow. The man in blue seemed to stand up straighter, his back rigid but still excluding an air of control.

“No one of consequence,” He replied simply, a smirk forming on his face.

“I must know,” Tony complained, shrugging his shoulders, his voice pleading.

“Get used to being disappointed,” The man informed smugly, only for a loud audible groan to come from Tony.

“Okay then…” Tony trailed off, getting in position to fight once again. The man in blue raised his sword and once again the battle raged on, however, Tony could feel himself lose dominance, his face distorting in panic as this happened. Never once had he lost a fight, and he became rushed and impulsive with his strikes, losing control over his actions. The man in blue sensed this, and carefully dodge each of his attempts. Finally, with a final effort, Tony put all his strength into lunging towards the man, only for him for his sword to get knocked from his hand in one foul swoop. He knelt down in defeat, knowing he had finally been beaten. The man in blue circled around him, inspecting Tony who placed his hands behind his head.

“Kill me quickly, finish me so I don’t feel pain for long,” He requested, feeling tears well in his eyes at the prospect of seeing his father again so soon.

“I would as soon destroy a stained-glass window as an artist with a sword like yourself. However, I can’t have you following me,” He apologized, before slamming the hilt of his rapier into the back of Tony’s head, causing his to limply fall to the floor.

“Please understand I respect you immensely,” He complimented, before running off through the ruins, following the steps before him. A determined look overcame his face as his feet carried him off.

Tag List: 

@laneygthememequeen

#steve rogers x reader #steve x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers imagine #imagine #x reader #reader insert #captain american x reader #captain america x you #captain america x y/n #marvel #avengers #MCU #tony #tony stark #iron man #captain america #captain america winter soldier #captain america civil war #civil war #princess bride #the princess bride #princess bride AU #the princess bride au

[quintheowl]

Wide Eyed

 so... i wrote a fic.

THERE IS HEAVY ANGST UP AHEAD. PLS DO NOT READ IF SELF HARM IS A TRIGGER OR MAKES YOU UNCOMFORTABLE

AO3

Summary: Keith’s soulmate self-harms. He doesn’t really know what to do.

Rating: probably T-M

Pairing: Keith Kogane x Lance McClaine (from Voltron: Legendary Defender)

Word count: 1,853

Warnings: self-harm mentions and vivid description. implied suicide mention. 

Note: i am in no way glamorizing self harm. its a painful subject and my goal was not in any way to make light of it. most of the things from this fic are based on experience - either mine or someone close to me. also it’s 230a and I wanted an angsty Klance fic and I’ve read them all. pls dont send me hate.

Keith wakes up to the stinging skin on his thighs. 

He winces, the pain minimal, but surprisingly sharp, as he rolls out of bed to check the time. 6:04 am. Way too early. 

It isn't until he's in the bathroom and drops his boxers to relieve himself that he realizes why his skin feels so marred.

His upper thighs, concealed by the fabric of his underwear, are covered in cuts. Some are deeper than others, but almost all are scabbed over. He frowns, perplexed and slightly alarmed. What the hell? Did he scratch himself in his sleep?

He carefully bandages the cuts as best he can before returning to the room and sitting on the edge of his bed, listening as his roommate Shiro snores soundly, still blissfully asleep. 

Keith chews on his fingernails as he debates his next course of action. He ultimately decides to try to figure this the fuck out, because seriously, what the hell? He opens his laptop and clicks through another tab. 

Shiro wakes up to him still furiously typing questions into the web browser an hour before class, Keith's brow puckered in concentration and his hasty bandages peeking through the edge of his boxers.

"I'm telling you, Pidge, I don't know what it is! I woke up to find 'em fucking lining my thighs! What am I supposed to think?"

Keith knew his friends wouldn't believe him, that he didn't do it to himself, but he finds himself frustrated at their disbelief nonetheless.

They're sitting at the campus cafeteria, occupying their regular table with everyone else giving them a wide berth. Pidge has flung her jacket to the seat next to her for Hunk, and Allura's done something similar with her purse for Shiro. Lance, sitting beside Pidge and across Keith, is cautiously picking at his burger.

Keith finds himself next to Allura, who's look of concern is becoming particularly irritating.

"Keith, if you're feeling overwhelmed, you should go to counseling," she starts, and Keith has to grit his teeth. 

"I'm NOT overwhelmed. I'm telling you: I woke up to the cuts, and I DIDN'T do it. I'm not cutting, guys. I'm pretty sure you'd know if I was."

The girls still look skeptical, so Keith finds himself staring at Lance instead, who's barely said a word. In fact, upon closer inspection, it looks like Lance's hair has gone unwashed, and the bags under his eyes look darker than normal. 

But before Keith can say anything, Hunk and Shiro arrive at the table. 

"Keith's cutting!" Pidge begins, and Keith groans, openly disgusted.

“I AM NOT CUTTING," he growls. As expected, Shiro begins to launch into a lecture, and Hunk throws the same expression Allura has stitched across her face.

Keith is at the end of his rope when Lance stands suddenly in the middle of Keith's intervention, wrapping his unfinished burger and stuffing it into his bag. A hush falls over the group, and Keith finds himself frowning.

"Lance, you okay?" He asks, and Lance blinks, staring at everyone before cracking into a smile.

"Yeah, yeah. Fine. I'm just heading to class.”

Shiro glances at his watch. "Don't you have Professor Coran's philosophy?" 

Lance nods, still smiling. There's something off about his expression, something fabricated. A pit of dread begins to bloom in Keith's gut.

"Coran's doesn't start for like, another half-hour," Keith points out, and Lance shrugs, swinging his bag on his shoulder. "Got something to take care of," he says. He gives a half-wave as he walks off. "See you guys later.”

To Keith's surprise, the rest of the group recover quickly. New conversations begin, and Keith is still stuck staring after Lance.

"Did he seem a little off to you?" He asks Hunk as they pack up to head to class. Hunk shrugs, tossing the wrapper of his fish sandwich in the trash. "He's Lance. He goes through mood swings all the time. Try being his roommate for a while.”

Keith should trust Hunk, who happens to be Lance's oldest friend.

He can't shake the feeling that something is very wrong.

Lance is ten minutes late to Coran's philosophy class - something that does not go unnoticed.

"Ah, Lance!" Coran belts as Lance tries to shut the door as quietly as possible. "Thank you for joining us today!"

Lance grins, flexing his left bicep. "Thought I'd have a little fun," he says, and Keith scoffs with the rest of the class. As Coran jumps back into his spiel, Lance takes his seat next to Keith, setting his bag at their feet. Keith can't help but notice that despite the heat of the lecture hall, Lance's cargo jacket is hanging off his frame.

"You cold?" Keith asks, and Lance shakes his head, but doesn't reply. The lecture is long and boring. Halfway through, a girl named Nyma asks Coran something off-topic, and by this point, both Keith and Lance have completely tuned out.

Keith is scribbling furiously on the corner of his notebook when he hears something that breaks him out of his stupor.

"-so powerful that they can feel their partner's injuries as they happen." Keith nearly jolts, his notebook easily forgotten, and concentrates on Coran's words.

"Of course, this is all just speculation, but the bonds between soulmates are a sacred thing. They say any wound, no matter how big or small, that happens on one partner will manifest itself on the other.”

Keith leans back in his chair, his fingers absentmindedly running over his cuts. Is that what happened? Could his soulmate be the one doing this to them?

"So hypothetically, how can soulmates communicate with each other?" Nyma presses, and Coran twirls his mustache contemplatively. "Soulmate bonds are expressed through skin. If the skin is changed enough on one partner, the other will be able to see it."

"What's wrong?" Lance whispers suddenly, and Keith pries his eyes away from Coran to glance at him, confused. "Huh?"

Lance nods to Keith's thighs, where his jeans are thick enough to hide the bandages and his fingers are still running over them. "You okay?"

Keith nods. "Yeah," he says, stilling his hands. "I think I just figured something out."

Satisfied, Lance hums and goes back to burying his head in his arms. Keith is still frowning at his lap when he sees a faint mark on the underneath of his arm. Lifting it wonderingly, he sees the faint outline of a butterfly.

He has a suspicion he knows what it is, and he shows Coran after class.

Coran nods, his expression suddenly heavy. "It's a self-harm mechanism," Coran says. "It's called 'The Butterfly Project.' The idea is that a butterfly is drawn on the skin. You're not allowed to cut while the butterfly is visible, as cutting would harm the butterfly, so it forces the person to think hard before doing it."

"I think my soulmate cuts," Keith tells Coran, at the expense of feeling silly for believing a superstition, but Coran offers a sad smile. He pulls up the sleeve of his sweater, exposing faint, horizontal scars lining his skin, and two deep verticle lines on each arm. 

"So did mine."

Coran tells Keith that the best he can do is to be there for his soulmate. "If you try to do anything drastic, you may lose them forever," Coran warns, and Keith has a sinking suspicion Coran is speaking from experience.

So Keith invests in a high-grade permanent marker and deepens the outline on his butterfly. Then he draws another one on the other arm and writes "I'm here" on his left thigh.

For the next two weeks, the cuts heal without giving way to new ones.

Keith feels sick when he wakes up one October morning with slashes down his legs, slicing the already healing scars open. His heart breaks when he sees "I'm sorry," scribbled on his stomach. 

He cries that night. He doesn't know what to reply.

It's a vicious cycle: Keith would wake up to cuts. He would draw butterflies all around his skin for the next week or so. The cuts would stop. Keith would start to relax. Then he'd wake up to the scars slashed open.

Eventually, he becomes so frustrated he punches the mirror in the bathroom. Shiro opens the door that night to find Keith sobbing, his right hand and thighs bleeding, fragments of mirror laughing at them from the floor.

Two weeks later, Keith discovers his soulmate. 

It's snowing, the first snow of the season, and he and Lance are outside, hats on, mittens secure, and scarves wrapped tightly around their necks.

Lance laughs. Genuine, boisterous, Lance laughs. It's been months since he's seen Lance this at peace. With finals finally over, everyone can relax, though the change isn't as drastic in everyone else as it is in Lance.

Furthermore, his soulmate has stopped cutting. The unspoken for now ticks like a bomb in his brain, but Keith ignores it. 

He can hope. He feels so at ease.

Keith grabs a hold of a tree branch to catapult the snow and winces. He'd grabbed it with his bad hand, which he had forgotten was still healing. 

He leans against the tree instead, content on watching Lance. Lance - a Floridan by heart - had never seen snow before. He seems fascinated by every flake, and Keith is fascinated with watching him. 

Then Lance pulls off his right mitten, and Keith feels like he's been sucker-punched in the gut. 

Lance's knuckles are bruised and scarred, evidence of stitchery still displayed on the healing skin. It wouldn't be such a jarring sight if it also wasn't familiar.

Before he knows what he's doing, Keith is striding over. He takes Lance's hand in his, ignoring the way Lance jumps at his suddenness, or the way he feels electric where their skin touches. 

"Keith, wha-" Keith shushes him with a look, and gingerly inspects his hand. It's too familiar. There's no way.

Keith pulls of his glove, showing his own knuckles, and Lance visibly pales. Keith can feel the shift of the atmosphere. He watches as tears fill Lance's eyes. He forces his knees not to buckle. 

"I-I'm sorry," Lance murmurs, his lip quivering in the effort not to cry. Keith furiously wraps him in his arms, cradling his head and reveling in the way Lance grips his coat like a lifeline. 

"I'm here," Keith tells him, relieved, guilty, upset, elated all in one. "I'm here."

Keith kisses Lance's scars that night. He shows Lance his mirroring marks and Lance bursts into tears and apologies again. Keith forgives him immediately (there's no way he can hold a grudge,) and makes him promise he'll go to counseling. 

Lance falls asleep in his arms, tear-stained and exhausted, and Keith kisses his forehead and strokes his cheek with his thumb.

He thinks of Coran, and the soulmate that was stolen from him. He's relieved his soulmate is Lance. It made it easier to find him. Though, honestly, even if they hadn't been friends, Keith reckons he would've found him anyway. He would cross the universe to watch Lance heal.

End.

wow ok this was angstier than i intended. im going to bed.

#klance #keith x lance #klangst #voltron: legendary defender #vld #sarahwrites #TW: self harm #tw: sucide mention #soulmate fic