#I think I even knew about the fishhook part

[if-loki-was-a-fox]

I keep just randomly thinking about various scenes from Malevolent as I'm going through my day and just having to pause for a moment to go Jesus Fucking Christ that happened once

[piratecaptainscaptainpirates]

"What about this one?"

Ed tucked his smile against Stede's bare shoulder as he felt Stede's fingers circle around his wrist, and he propped himself up properly, folding his hand beneath his chin. The scar on the side of his wrist was a skinny, fishhook-shaped thing, faded with age. "Must've been about...I dunno, nineteen, maybe? Tried to impress some guy by spinning my knife around my finger and it slipped."

Stede, encouraged by Ed's huff and fond eyeroll at his teenage antics, laughed, the arm around Ed's shoulders pressing down into the small of his back.

This was a game they played, sometimes. Stede picked the smaller scars, most of the time, the ones without too much baggage. He'd never asked about the ugly knotted scar above Ed's hip, or the nasty twisted thing that pushed his kneecap sideways, or the faded X carved over Ed's heart, and definitely not the even, uniform scars on his thighs that had been covered up with shaky tattoos of flowers and hearts and sharks.

There were lots of scars that weren't those, and Ed didn't mind most of them. Past foolishness, past bravery. Stede's favorite scars were the cluster of puncture scars on Ed's tummy and the long, swooping scar under his chest, because they were proof of living, of outsmarting the world. He liked to lick the scar under Ed's chest during intimate moments to make him whimper, knew just how to rest his hand on that sensitive patch of tummy to make Ed gasp.

And, tonight, Ed was halfway towards taking this little game somewhere. He had a very convenient scar from his twenties (didn't fully clear the railing during yardies and landed on a deeply unfortunate section of wood) right along the crease of his hip that Stede could explore -

Stede's voice turned thoughtful, then, his fingers trailing over Ed's shoulder blades. "Don't tell me if you don't want to. But what about...these?"

Ed practically bit his tongue. Those things were faded to hell, only really visible along his shoulders though they'd once stretched down to the small of his back. They were from the first and only time he'd ever gotten flogged.

Ed pushed himself up, resting fully on top of Stede's chest, now, his arms crossed under his chin. "So," he started. "I don't think I'd turned fifteen yet."

"Oh, Ed," Stede whispered, his face crinkling with sympathy.

Yeah, Ed thought, he wanted to get this one out. Pretty often, Stede's reactions to the rough ones felt like cleaning an old wound.

See, if his plan for that day had worked, he probably would've described it as his first fuckery. Because he meant to get caught stealing extra food, and he'd had a plan that seemed perfect.

He'd been sailing on ol' Hornigold's crew for maybe three months. And one of the other cabin boys looked out for the fresh ones. He was a couple years older than Ed, always shared the food he stole and never got caught. Ed had had the biggest crush of his young life on Felix.

Now, Jack had told him one night that floggings weren't shit. Jack was about Ed's age, but he'd been around longer, so Ed had believed him. Jack had said there was nothing to it, you just had to bite your tongue a bit and it'd be over before you knew it.

Ed should've known something was up when he'd winked at Jack and Felix over his shoulder as he was marched to the mast and they'd looked scared out of their heads. He'd stuck his tongue out at them through his smile, cheerfully admitted to his charges, imagining laying in Felix's arms that night as Felix gently patched him up -

The first strike took the breath out of Ed's lungs. He'd screamed himself hoarse by the time it was finally, finally over, laid there on the deck sobbing for much longer as Jack and Felix tried to stand him up.

The worst part was how the older guys laughed, even the ones Ed had thought were pretty cool just that morning. Ed would never look at anyone the same again, for as long as he lived.

He had wound up in Felix's arms that night, but he'd still been too busy crying his eyes out to really appreciate it.

"Pretty fucked up," Ed concluded. Stede's face was all crumpled up, his lip wobbling, and Ed gently cupped his face in his hands. "I'm alright, babe, c'mon. I'm right here."

Stede's voice was steady enough. "Are we sure everyone who laughed at you is already dead?"

"Yeah," Ed snorted, leaning forward to press a kiss to the tip of Stede's nose. "Stede, man, really, it was so long ago -"

"That's the worst part," Stede said. "You were fourteen, Ed! You deserved so, so much better."

Ed paused.

Stede met his eyes, taking Ed's hand and holding it tight between both of his. "You deserved so much better," he said firmly. "You are precious, Ed, and you deserve to be treated like it."

Maybe Ed couldn't fully believe that, not all the way, not just yet. But he wrapped his arms around Stede, tucking himself in sound and safe. "You treat me like I'm precious."

Stede's hand landed on his shoulders, rubbing gently, like he was trying to soothe the pain of decades-old wounds. "Making up for lots of lost time."

[coire-non]

madatobi wip

i call this scene "madara and tobirama having the most hideous morning after vibes they can possibly create" -

If Hashirama knew where Tobirama was at this very moment, whose bed he sleeps in, he’d have to consider taking a long trip outside the village.

Hashirama would… It hits him, unnervingly, that he’s not sure what Hashirama would do.

He’s always been Izuna’s nii-san. Half-raised him, carried him on his shoulders, cut his hair and taught him kenjutsu until the day Izuna outstripped him with the sword. He’s never heard Tobirama call Hashirama anything other than anija. Vaguely, he knows that the Senju heir and spare were kept apart as children to prevent an easier and more devastating assassination. That Tobirama cared for their younger siblings, and somewhere after their deaths a bridge between brothers was lost. There’s love there, but not much understanding. 

Would Hashirama understand this?  Uncomfortably, he admits that if he knew a man had put Izuna to his knees and done half of the things he himself has done to Tobirama, he’d kill him. Burn his cock off and crush his throat with his hands and kick the remains off Hokage Mountain to splatter in the street. 

“Forgive my intrusion.”

He blinks, and lowers the pipe.

“Morning.” Tobirama stands in the doorway between corridor and kitchen, green yukata belted tight and haori drawn up around his shoulders. His hair has been reasonably tamed by his fingers - but the bruise under his jaw betrays his composure and how he’s spent his night. In Madara’s imagination, he runs his finger along the flat collar of Tobirama’s clothes, dips down under it to the heat of his skin along his jugular.

It would be a more seductive picture if he didn’t look so severe. He left soft, warm Tobirama in his bed and found this stiff, formal shinobi in his kitchen before he could even finish his pipe. This is always the part he’s bad at. Where he’s too sober to move on simple, stupid instinct, and too protective of his own private space to play host. It’s not that he doesn’t want to share this morning with the man whose legs he spread open last night - but that nothing about it comes easy. Tobirama doesn’t help, either. Standing there, waiting and cold in a way that sets Madara’s teeth on edge. He makes a strong attempt. “There’s tea on the irori. You could have a cup with me.” People raised the way Tobirama was don’t fidget. The way he plucks at his own sleeve must be a thoughtless habit born of a perfectionist nature. Yes. That sounds more right.  “I…ought to attend to the hospital recruitment meeting. The proposed heads of department have to be reviewed.” “You’re hardly fit for that.” Tobirama stops picking. His voice is very level. “There is nobody else to take this task on.”

He gets the sense that he’s quite seriously insulted Tobirama. Replaying his words, he sees it, winces, and tries to think of how he can explain himself. That he meant Tobirama must have a splitting headache after last night and needs rest, not that he’s - not that he isn’t good enough, damn it. That he’s not capable, after doing all the real labour of building Hashirama’s fantasy village.

“I must decline your offer,” Tobirama says stiffly. “Thank you, Uchiha-san.”

Shame catches his gut like a fishhook. “Senju -”

The door slides shut hard enough to shake dust from the rafters.

He takes a long breath, and blows out the smoke forcefully.

[pants-magic-pants]

✧⊹JARETH BALLROOM COAT⊹✧

[This post is part of a series about constructing Jareth's entire masquerade ball costume. Visit the master post here.]

The Nightmare of the Lace [Part 2 of 2]

In part two, we will explore the decoration of the lace pieces that would be sewn/stitched on top of the velvet of Jareth's ballroom coat. This moment in costume construction was all about peering deeply into exhibit photos, pondering, designing, and stitching beads for countless hours. It took at least a month or two to finish, but it was definitely all worth it. Read more below!

Creating a design -------------------------

Trying to map out what I was seeing in photos was a bit of a challenge. There's a lot going on. What's under there? Is there a point to adding the beads if you can barely see them? And the answer is: yes. Because in photos, their splendor is not captured. In person, they're beautiful, so if you were thinking of forgoing this step for your own costume, or any costume with what you may call "discreet" beading, I ask you to reconsider. They really add a magical dimension to your work.

ANYHOO, I put photos into a program, and tried to draw what was there, and it didn't seem to be anything more complex than random loops and fishhooks, which got a little more deliberate further down, where it was no longer covered by hot glue. Towards those buttons, they start to interact with and frame them.

Photo (c) Yosa Addiss

I’m sure you could come up with all sorts of cool designs that work, and you could get more complex, but me, I basically just made, uhhh… florally fishhooks. Hahaha But I did give them some… hm… some joints, so to speak? They’re a bit branchy. 

The designs were drawn on my original pattern pieces for the lace. I pinned the lace to these, then unpinned where I was working on, so I could work on it, lie it flat, and see which direction I was supposed to be going. An embroidery hoop might've been more ideal, but it wouldn't really work in this situation because I couldn't trace my design on the lace. Maybe thin paper could have gone into something like this, without tearing? But I didn't have one anyway so I just did it the way I did it.

There was less loyalty to my design when it came to the shoulder piece because it was so massive, and a lot of it would be so heavily under beads and jewels, there was no point in making it too specific – there just needed to be something the eye could catch sight of between small windows. 

At a certain point, the designs stop, and I had it marked off where I knew you would not be able to see them anywhere.

Selecting a bead -----------------------

The most obvious choice for something like this would be a kind of seed bead, which come in different sizes. What I chose was a size 11/0, which are only about 2mm wide. Proportions (how big everything looks within its context) matter as much as "objective accuracy", so even if the original had slightly larger beads for this, which I think it did, I also was making a very tiny coat, and definitely doing other math to decide on what size other decorations should be, so for me 11/0 made sense. If the coat itself were bigger, more firmly in the adult size range, a seed bead size of 10/0 or even 8/0 might've worked better.

In the original, there's also something a bit course about them. They may be oblong, like tiny pebbles. You can find seed beads like this, but by the time I realized that, it was too late. I did think mine seemed so very clean and consistent, but *raises hands*

Also, it seems as if they're all black, but I wanted to have a bit of fun, so mine were a mixture of 75% black and 25% dark iridescent. Photos make them seem silvery, but in person they appear faintly blue/green.

Stitching the beads ---------------------------

If you are new to stitching (as I was) and would like to do some for your project, any project, I would suggest learning the back stitching technique, as shown here. It was easy to get the hang of, and you can do curves, not just straight lines. I did anywhere from 1 to 4 beads in a row, caught a single thread of the lace, pulled the needle back towards what I had already stitched, and then stuck it through the last bead again before adding more. At extreme curves, only 1 or 2 could be done at a time, but in places where it was a more continuous trajectory with only a slight curve, I could get away with 4. At 5 beads, things looked a little too straight.

Here are a couple pictures on the journey:

It took a f*&^ng long time to complete this. For things like this, you go into it knowing you'll be chipping away -- you'll spend hours working on something, step back and look at it, and go "oh.. okay... that little part is done. woo---hoo..."

Long-term tedious projects can scare people away, and I understand that, as someone who feels overwhelmed by her thoughts and what she wants to do, often. It was easier to get this part done by pairing it with something else that I could enjoy and that would engage my mind while my hands were busy. So, for a little while, it was my hobby to stitch while listening to Better Call Saul, which I'd seen before, but I'm also a huge Breaking Bad universe fan so revisiting it again and again is a pleasure. I'm sure you could pair your projects with all kinds of stuff: shows, movies, audiobooks, podcasts, youtube channels. I love a good story, but I also love to learn, even just passive learning, having people discussing something interesting in the background while I do whatever it is I'm doing. It becomes a joint hobby (some kind of engaging content + your project) which you can look forward to and appreciate as a ritual.

Moving on, here’s some of the finished pieces before they were added to velvet:

Some trimming was done afterwards, to make the lace's edges look less blocky, especially around the shoulders.

That concludes the seed bead business. But, if you look in front, despite that the lighting is not our friend, you may see that there are extra designs comprised of larger, more raised beads/cabochons. I edited this photo and upped the contrast:

Photo (c) Aria Couture

It’s not clear. My take on it was that they were black, shiny cabochons, so that is what I used. Really basic cheap ones. They seem to be placed in synchrony with the seed beads. Some are in wavy streaks. Other, large ones are stand-alone, but never too close to the buttons. I added these with hot glue before the assembly process.

Voila!

Attaching to the coat -----------------------------

This part was the true hell of the process, as mentioned in the first post about the lace. The plan originally was just to (very carefully, and with buffer fabric between the sewing machine foot and edge of the bead design) combine velvet and lace pieces, at the seam allowances that had been created for them.

However, there was slight distortion and shrinkage of the pieces because of all the bead stitching, and I did not know ahead of time what to do to avoid any issues this may cause. In retrospect, the lace pieces shouldn't have been exact replicas of the velvet pattern pieces... they should have been a teeny, tiny bit larger in all directions, with generous seam allowances. Because I had no foresight about this, it was difficult to attach the lace to the velvet without falling short, or tugging on the velvet in random places where warping had occurred.

Combine that with the impossibility of keeping these two fabrics still, and you have the reason for these posts' names: the nightmare of the lace. It would not stay still, and there was not enough of it.

My solution for this project was to expand some of the lace pieces by sewing more lace onto the edges (dear god it was so silly), and place a non-slippery fabric in between velvet and lace, baste it, sew it, and then cut away the middle fabric, so that it wouldn't go past the seam allowance, effectively hiding it once it was sewn into the garment. *heavy sighing*

Once all the hell of getting these pieces attached to the velvet was past, what I ended up with when it came time for assembly was a standalone collar and two standalone cuffs (velvet + lace). There was the lace shoulder piece by itself, which went in first (since the shoulder seam is one of the first places you start when assembling a coat), and there were the two lapels, which were stitched to the top of the inner facing velvet. 

You see how much that seam allowance struggled?! -->

Those pieces were large and strange-looking, and connecting each part of them in the right order just so was key to the whole coat looking good. Because of the slipperiness of the material, I needed to work downward, so first the top of the inner facing pieces were married with the collar and outer fabric. Then I had to baste-stitch the seam with the zipper inside, turning it back right-side out each stitch to check that there were no hiccups and that the zipper was discreet. The right angle between the front and the tails was another tricky spot, because clipping the lace diagonally was the only way to get it folded into that seam. 

AND THEN, ULTIMATELY, I gave up on sewing the lace into the seam! Folded it around and stitched it inside because it was tugging and slipping and all its usual fuckery.

The last thing that needed to be done to the lace was to stitch it down anywhere else where it would need to lie flat. The lapel lace folded inward in a curve parallel to the lining. The back drips needed three easy stitches. The lace is free-falling past the armpits, but around the waist area it was also tucked back and stitched there. 

It seems as if Jareth’s own coat has windows cut out of the lace in front, near the buttons, but for me, I was so sure that it would have disrupted the delicate balance and caused drooping in random places, that I just forwent it. 

And there you have it! This feels like it was too long, but maybe it’s not because it is really so important to talk about this part. There are a million ways to screw it up, that I myself didn’t always escape from. As always, I hope that was, erm, helpful.

-J 

[belovedcorvid]

❣ | @onepiecc :: From Here |

Rocinante's expression pinched sympathetically as the other hissed through the pain that came with applying antiseptic to a wound; he was usually on the other side of this activity, so he knew how badly this could sting - even if it was only a temporary sting. " Sorry, sorry - " he mumbled in response, brushing a thumb in a comforting circle along the other's wrist. Once this part was over, he could check to see if any of the wounds needed sutures. The question made him pause for just a moment in his search through the kit for more supplies, and he tilted his head as he thought about it. They did have some food, but depending on this weather they could stretch it further if they supplemented with foraged food. " It might not be a bad idea - anything in our gear we could use as a fishhook? " The occasional disaster aside, fishing was something we wasn't bad at.

Even though they were now out of the wind, the cold - or at least his awareness of it - was really starting to set in. Best to keep working, talking: both to keep warm and to keep their minds busy. The next question still took him by surprise. " Me ? " he smiled and snickered a little at the idea as he worked, though the expression didn't quite reach the eyes, " Hah, I appreciate it but I don't think I'd do very well - I'm a hazard even when I'm trying to be careful. Can you imagine me running an infirmary ? Or giving injections ? Besides - " Rocinante paused as he chose his words, " I don't really have to think about that . . . choosing, I mean. My courses have been planned since I started. " Sengoku had always approached his training with something of a '10-year plan', especially once the potential of his devil fruit became clear to his superiors. " I think you'd be good at that, paperwork aside. " Leigh's continued commentary made a snort of laughter escape from his chest, his expression openly puzzled but amused, " Blonde specifically ? Not leaving yourself a lot of choices, you know. "

[stargirlfics]

Pretty When You Cry

Lloyd Hansen x Black Reader

Summary: He’s sick, he’s mean, he’s cruel and he’s all yours too

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, daddy kink, degradation and mocking, lloyd is a bit mean in this, smut: doggystyle, rough sex, fishhooking, dacryphilia, dirty talk, use of “daddy”, brief creampie mention, general filthiness

Word Count: 1.7k

Note: Dedicated to @hansensgirl!!! A bit of a belated birthday gift for you Sab angel! Your works and love for Lloyd helped inspire me to write this so thank you! Lub you! 🖤

Lloyd Hansen had you wrapped around his pinkie a little more than you wanted to admit but god did you love it. 

He was a bad man, as sick and twisted as they come and none of his mean nature was tempered for you, especially not when he knew just how wet you got for his harsh hands and even harsher tongue.

Your body yielded to him so much faster now than it did at the start when you held more annoyance and contempt towards him than the molten desire causing the slick between your thighs now. The best part was that you were his, his pretty little star. 

It’s precisely what he loved about you, that despite the bambi eyes and tear stained cheeks, you wanted him, craved him, by all accounts needed him. 

That’s how your current circumstances came to be; your face flush against the silky gray sheets, your ass high in the air, and Lloyd thrusting into you from behind. There was no mistaking your high whines and moans, how they all sounded like incoherent babbles but Lloyd knew you best, good enough to make out the pleas for more, for “harder” and “please” and his personal favorite…”daddy” amongst the tangle of sounds.

“Ah, but I’m already in your tummy, sunshine. I don’t know if you can take my hardest, I don’t think you’re up to it.” 

It was precisely his mocking that got you here in the first place.

Earlier, the pout on your face when Lloyd had teased you about being “such a goddamn slut” for when he was being mean, effectively calling you out and making your cheeks burn. You refused to admit he was right, denying his accusation up and down. 

Oh, how you should have known it would only fuel his antics. The devilish smirk that graced his features as he chuckled and steadily backed you into a corner made the heat swirl in your core, protests to his continued teasing harder to come up with. 

“Don’t lie to me, sweetheart, I don’t like little girls who lie.” 

You tried so very hard to stop the needy whimper from tumbling past your lips but he heard it, Lloyd never missed a thing and you realized you had nowhere to run, your back pressed uncomfortably against the wall and his broad shoulders the only thing you could see in front of you. 

It made you feel so helpless, heat prickling your thighs at the anticipation of it all. How easy it was for him to bring it out in you, the itch that made you so desperate for him and whatever he was gracious enough to give you. 

In the end, you always let him pull you under, always surrendering to the fact that yes, your man, sick and cruel and mean, knew best. 

“N-no, please, daddy. I can take it, I can! Please give me more,” you whined, turning your head a little more to look back at him. 

It was a sight that made you flutter around him, Lloyd and his toned arms on display. His forearms tense with the way he held onto your hips firm enough to hurt just the way you liked. 

But just to toy with you, he slowed his pace down, still pushing in deep to nudge against the deepest parts of you only agonizingly slow, pinching your skin when you start to push back against him. 

“Those are big words for you, cupcake. Does your stupid little slut brain really understand what you’re asking for?” his grip loosened from your hip to slide up your back, finding its place at the back of your neck where he tugged you up onto your hands. 

You whined at his words, your center pulsing at the way he dumbed you down, how easy it was for him and then you, left scrambling to answer, trying to think while every thick inch of him was buried inside you. 

All you managed to get out were breathy pleases, your brain cloudy with utter need, all your energy spent trying to keep from fucking yourself back on his length.

Lloyd’s dark, amused chuckle made your spine tingle, “Oh, I love it when you get this desperate to be fucked, it’s so cute seeing you forget that your pussy just can’t handle that. But if that’s what you want so bad…”

There were all but a few seconds to register his words before he was pulling back and pushing back in roughly, your back arching with the force, hands fisting the sheets below you. 

He felt incredible, every thrust sent searing heat throughout your body, your limbs turning boneless by the second as he handled you how he wanted, pounding into your pussy at that angle that made you breathless and pliant to his whim. 

“Oh my god, thank you, daddy, thank you,” your moans collided with the harsh slap of his hips meeting your ass. 

“And she still knows her manners, I trained you well, huh? Good girl.” Lloyd’s voice startled you now that it was at the shell of your ear, his pace unwavering even as he was leaning over you now.

The reward for your good manners had you reeling, two of his skilled fingers hooked against the inside of your cheek, pulling your head to the side so you could watch how he was taking you apart, your position from head to toe, exactly where he wanted it to be. 

It was exactly what you had wanted, filled up, fucked rough, made to cum as many times as Lloyd wanted or allowed, a complete mess by the end of it all. 

Your moans only seemed to climb higher, tears starting to well under your fluttering lashes at the flood of pleasure, almost too much, almost bordering on the edge of pain. The fact that your arms had finally given out underneath you wasn’t the least bit an issue for Lloyd, his free hand returning to grip the back of your neck, keeping you upright, using the hold as leverage to rut into you just a little harder. 

“Mm, that’s it, there she is,” he grunted lowly when he felt your body sink into his grip, impressed with how well you were doing so far but not mistaking the signs of your exhaustion and impending climax.

He knew your body like the back of his hand, always paying special attention to all those little details, the shifts in your breathing, the pitch to your moans that always told him when you were getting close, the tension in your limbs, and most importantly, the look in your eyes the longer he pounded into your soaked hole. 

How doe-like they were, especially when the tears started, exactly as they were now. 

“Fuck! It’s t-too much, daddy, oh god,” you brokenly sob out against his fingers still in your mouth, the words thick, slow as they make their way out. 

Lloyd tsks at you, forcing your body back, bottoming out deep with every thrust. 

“Aww poor thing. But that’s what you wanted isn’t it, sunshine, wanted daddy to fuck your guts out, right? Are you asking me to stop?” his tone was as condescendingly sweet as it gets, his words making your vision a touch bleary with unshed tears. 

If he stopped right now it would shatter you, that much you were sure of. There was nothing more you wanted than for him to keep going because that perfect release was almost within reach.

“No, no please don’t stop! Just feels so good, I-” whatever words you were going to say died in your throat once Lloyd propped a foot up on the bed, the new angle allowing him more leverage, and your back deepened to an even meaner arch. 

Obscene moans and whines turned into near screams as he fucked you good, his thrusts controlled and steady, keeping himself deep with every drag against your walls, cursing under his breath at how you clenched around him, how drippy and soft your walls felt, and the sight of you too, your puffy lips swallowing his length again and again. It made him throb. 

The white hot edges of your orgasm began to creep up your spine, the tears welled in your eyes now fallen past your lashes, streaked across your cheeks that were smeared with your spit as Lloyd took his fingers from your mouth to snake around your front, finding your sensitive clit with ease. 

“Fuckin look at you, such a mess, so goddamn pretty crying on my dick. That’s my girl.” 

You couldn’t turn your eyes away from him as hard as maintaining eye contact was, you knew how much he liked seeing you this wrecked for him and the intensity of his gaze, of his body language was what kept you focused, a lifeline as you began to fall apart around him. 

“Daddy!” you sobbed, and more tears cascade down your cheeks, dripping onto the sheets below you. 

Sharp gasps filled in the gaps of your loud cries as you felt his heavy balls slap against your core, his fingers still rubbing your clit, the combination making you shudder and squirm. 

“I know, sweetheart. I can feel you coming, yeah that’s it, cry harder,” Lloyd encouraged you, cooing in your ear, that mean edge still in his voice, the very thing that made you obey, more sobs leeched from you as you creamed on his length. 

You were shaky and fucked out of your mind by the time your orgasm subsided but that didn’t mean any of this was over, no by all means it had just begun, his pace slowing for a moment as he decided what position to place you in next. 

It was both a blessing and a curse to be with a man who had such stamina and control, that was meticulous and insane enough to spend hours teasing you, fucking you senseless, pumped full of his cum and your limbs sore and screaming by the time he decided you had enough. 

Who could blame him though? You were just so utterly gorgeous when he made a mess of you and it only made him hard to see you crying those pretty little tears.  

You craved him, wanted him to surround you, crawl into your skin and never leave, fill you full of pleasure every hour of the day, even when he was being the cruel man he was through and through. 

Lloyd Hansen was a bad man, the kind of bad that made for a deliciously sadistic lover, all yours to have, and as long as that was so, you’d shed all your tears for him.

_______________________________________________

A/N: I want him to do so many terrible things to me it’s not even funny, like if he’s so bad why is he so hot?! I hope this was a good read and hope that the way I wrote him feels and sounds like him! 

Thanks for reading and please reblog and comment, I wanna hear what you thought! 

Some tags: @jannqt @ozarkthedog @maroonsunrise83 @onsunnyside @sweetlilbambi @afriendlyblackhottie @honeystevie @comfortcap​ @geniedetails​ @superhoeva​ @evanstache​ @falconssweetgirl @squidlywiddly87

[tennessoui]

For the FanFic Ask Game F & N!!!

Also I came by to tell you that your last chapter for the fishhook… (sorry I don’t know the name) au was as amazing as always!! Thank u so much!!

I have been rereading some of your fics to pass the time in quarantine (i tested negative but we still decided that we will all do quarantine when my father tested positive) and reading them again is as amazing as the first time. They have kept me company as I watched the beach from my window 🥺

Hope you are doing great and you succeed in everything you have set your mind into. Please drink lots of water!!

oh!! thank you for this and also the compliment :o i never reread my fics so i'm actually very happy to hear that they hold up the second time through !!! and also im glad youre negative <3<3<3

as for the questions, i've already answered N here!

F: Share a snippet from one of your favorite dialogue scenes you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

“I love you!” Anakin states, a mix of angry, frantic, and hurt. “Of course that’s enough! We’ve been dating for four years! People--” People get married after less time, he has started to say. But he has to cut himself off. He has to not go there. Not now. Not until he can fix whatever doubts Obi-Wan has thought up that are making him say such absolute fucking shit. “Obi,” he tries in a softer voice, stepping forward until he can put his hand on his arm. “Baby, you know I’ve loved you since I was five years old. You’re a part of me. Tell me what you need from me, you know I’d do anything for you. How can I make this better?”

Obi-Wan stares down at his hand. When he looks back up, his eyes are distant and cold, as if Anakin’s struck the final nail in the coffin. “Throwing a rock at a kid who made fun of your lisp when we were five isn’t grounds for an actual adult relationship, Anakin.” he says stiffly. “I’ve been thinking about my future. And I think it’s for the best if it doesn’t involve you. And if yours doesn’t involve me. For...a little while, I don't know.”

Anakin drops his hand away, but he doesn’t even mean to. He just can’t feel it anymore.

“But I love you,” he says, and then he regrets saying it because it feels too raw and vulnerable of an admission when Obi-Wan’s looking at him like that. But what else can he say?

“I applied to the Jedi Temple University in January.” Obi-Wan sounds so distant, like breaking up with Anakin is just one of the things on his to-do list and he’s already wondering about the sales at the grocery store. “It was a long shot, but I got in.”

Anakin stares at him.

“And I know you got into the University of Naboo with a really good scholarship. Your mom told me. It has one of the best architecture programs in the entire world, Anakin. Coruscant College...we never should have even applied. I don’t know what we were thinking--”

Anakin was thinking that he wanted to be with Obi-Wan for the rest of his life. Anakin was thinking Coruscant College had good programs for both of what they wanted to do, was not too far away from their parents, was comparatively cheap--Anakin was thinking that he would have followed Obi-Wan anywhere the boy went.

It's a bit long so sorry about that but this is from how to say someone's name like it's just a string of letters ! i think it's one of my favorite fics, but i like this bit specifically because i've never written an obikin break up before other than this and i think it's very sad. but also i think if you reread it after you read why obi-wan broke up with anakin, you can see the reasons reflected in the dialogue! when i was writing it, i knew from the beginning what the reason would be so i was trying to give anakin the grounds of being absolutely devastated by the break up but then leave space for someone to then understand why obi-wan was saying what he was saying :>

[aerialflight]

Fic Recs (cause it's always nice to give a shout out and get people into things I'm into rn)

[The Magnus Archives] (I recently finished the podcast and I fell into a hole for a while so here you go)

Sing a Song of Sixpence by Kaiel

Ship: Jon/Martin

In which Jonathan Sims is a Siren, and he fails to notice any new abilities granted to him by the position of Archivist. Or really anything about the Entities at all.

Takes place in season 1 featuring Jonah Magnus’s slow decent into madness

(The new mythology interwoven with tma's worldbuilding is so freaking good and I love how all the characters change and develop because of these changes. Also, f you Elias)

Along Came a Spider by Dribbledscribbles

Ship: implied Jon/Martin

Sasha James is the Archivist, as expected. Martin Blackwood is menaced by Jane Prentiss, as expected. Elias Bouchard weaves his web, as expected.

All goes as it should.

At least until something calling itself Jonathan Sims steps in.

(Web!Jon in this makes me want to weep, it's so freaking good. A pretty long, very excellent oneshot on what could've happened if Jon got taken by the web when he was a kid. And Sasha as the Archivist is ALWAYS so cool, we love her in this house.)

A Break in the Clouds by Ash_Rabbit

“I’m eight.” the kid sniffs as if eight was any different from four, maybe not an unspeakable horror then, just a regular horror. “And I heard that the Magnus Institute deals with-” his little nose scrunches, cute. “-spooky things.”

“Do you have a-” he cracks a grin, and then rethinks it as small hands tighten against their burden.”-spooky thing to deliver?” gods he hopes not, it’s bad enough when adults walk in and lay out all of their baggage, but for a child-

“There’s a spider in this book.” the kid says solemnly, raising his textbook sized parcel. “It ate Evan Pritchard.” a bloody fucking Leitner. Of course an eight year old would find a murder spider book. “This seemed like the best place to bring it.”

(I never thought about what the Original Elias could've been like AND NOW I CAN'T STOP THINKING ABOUT IT BECAUSE OF THIS FIC. I LOVE HIM, HE'S COMPLEX AND HE CARES AND JON CARES AND THEY BOTH CARE ABOUT EACH OTHER. THIS IS THE CONTENT I WANT, OMG. Also, Jon being even smaller than usual is adorable, so cute. No wonder Elias wants to hug him, a LOT.)

See the Line where the Sky meets the Sea by The_Floating_World

Ship: Jon/Martin, Jon/Oliver Banks

When Jon is a child he looks into the infinite abyss of space. The Vast looks back into him.

(One of my all time fave fics in this fandom, no questions asked. I have reread this three times and am open to doing it again, god. Vast!Jon, such a concept. It's written so beautifully and the relationships Jon develops, so good. ugh. My heart. Please please read.)

Sweet As Roses by Prim_the_Amazing

Ship: Jon/Martin

“Come in, Martin,” he says, not looking up from his notes.

“Hi, Jon,” he says, and Jon stops writing at the sound of his voice. “We’re out of the green tea, but we’ve got lemon?”

Jon looks at him. Martin smiles at him in his usual tentative way as he sets the mug of tea down on Jon’s desk. Heat spikes so sharply in his gut that he twitches with it.

“Thank you, Martin,” he says, mouth dry, and he stands up.

“Oh,” he says, sounding almost surprised. He smiles again. “No-- no problem-- um, what are you--”

Jon takes Martin by the shoulders, leans up on the tips of his toes, and kisses him.

(You have no idea how much I howled through this fic, my god. *buries face in hands* The number of times I wanted to cry from sheer hilarity and horror reading this good lord.)

Things Could Always Be Worse by theOestofOCs

Ship: Jon/Martin, Georgie/Melanie

Sometimes, the most horrifying thing of all is what might have been.

Somewhere, Jon could swear he heard a crowd laughing.

Or: in which Jonathan Sims is forced to swap places with his alternate self—a tall, chivalrous hero extraordinaire, who knows neither fear nor nuance—and is sent to the aggressively straight alternate universe the Magnus Archives was never meant to be.

“Whatever place this is,” Jon announced, “I just want to be sure it knows I hate it.”

(I will say this once, THIS IS THE MOST CURSED THING IVE EVER READ EVER. Like holy hell. I can't believe this thing exists. please read it oh please please please)

-

[Supernatural]

heard from your mother (she don't recognize you) by Schmuzz

Ship: Dean/Cas, Jessica/Sam

A man named Cas wakes up in 2003 with no memories, but he's able to piece together a few things:

1. Supernatural creatures exist, and most of them will hurt innocent civilians if he doesn't stop them; 2. He has abilities that no human hunter should have, but he knows enough about human hunters to keep that to himself, and finally; 3. He keeps running into another hunter named Dean Winchester, who seems to be about as lonely as he is if he's willing to put up with those former facts long enough to help Cas unravel the mystery of who (or what) he really is.

For his part, Dean's still (not) dealing with Sam's departure to Stanford, and figures distracting himself with a bit of mystery and intrigue is as harmless as it gets, right? Right.

(THE fic I'm most into right now, been following this from the very start and it's AMAZING. Cas has agency and is making friends and S1 Dean is growing out of John's influence and is becoming a Person and the both of them first being friends then more. The slow burn as their relationship develops, SO GOOD. SO SO DAMN GOOD. *screams* Seriously one of the best spn fics I've read in a long, long time.)

anamnesis by cenotaphy

Ships: Castiel/Dean, Sam/Eileen

Chuck is depowered, Jack is the new god, and the world is free. Dean and Sam get into the Impala and chase down the miles on an endless highway, and their story is finally, finally their own to follow. At least, that's what Dean tells himself. But the diners and motels and painted interstate lines are blurring together and the smallest details keep catching at his brain like tiny fishhooks and he can't quite shake the feeling that not everything is exactly as it should be.

* Fix-it/alternate series finale. Canon-compliant through the end of 15.19.

(THIS IS THE FIC THAT GOT ME THROUGH THE FINALE OKAY. WHY COULDN'T THIS HAVE BEEN CANON. It's Disturbing and honestly plot-wise this makes more sense. Why couldn't we have had this. *screams*)

-

[Avatar: The Last Airbender]

where the stars do not take sides by WitchofEndor

Ship: Sokka/Zuko

When Azula is nine, she becomes an only child. She hears the Fire Lord call for Zuko's life, and in the morning, her mother and brother are gone. Azula may be young, but she isn't naive. She knows what happened to them.

Which makes it all the more surprising when Azula tracks the Avatar down and fights his group of peasant friends, only to find herself staring into an eerily familiar face.

(The fact one of the tags in this fic is, "Sibling Dynamic: Fucked Up But Wholesome" should give you an idea what this fic is like. Chaotic as HELL and I just love Azula here, she loves Zuko so much in her messed up way and Zuko loves her back in the exact same way lol. It's batshit and I am Here For This.)

-

[Naruto]

Eclipse by AislingRoisin (JayBird345) for HybrisAnaideia

Ship: Nara Shikaku/OFC

"In life, it's easier to remain stagnant and wallow in your troubles. But life isn't merely about continued existence, nor is it meant to be gone through alone."

(This is a fic that's slept on and I NEED people to read this. A self-insert fic that I find really interesting in its approach and the worldbuilding for the post-third war shinobi world is fantastic. I feel like there's a certain pattern with self-insert fics, not that is a detriment in any way to how much I enjoy them, so this fic feels fresh to me in a way I haven't read in a while. I am waiting eagerly for this to get updated! Please read!)

On Freedom and Other Formalities by iaso

Ship: Kakashi/Genma/OFC

When push comes to shove, Hiwa Inuzuka doesn't go down easy. Reborn into a new, dangerous world? She puts her past life as a spy to work. Thrown into a war? Hiwa does her duty, for Konoha. And when she's forced into an arranged marriage? All there is to do is beat them to the punch and get married first. Thankfully, Genma Shiranui is willing to lend a hand. Literally. SI/OC

(Listen, LISTEN, it's about the slow burn, the longing, the communication (it both has and hasn't and isn't THAT great??), the messy way you fit three very different people together, it's so freaking good! Also, Kakashi is so Chaotic here this is my fave characterization of him, you can't change my mind. And Genma is a Good Boi who is Doing His Best, along with the Self-insert character who I LOVE SO MUCH, SHE'S FANTASTIC FNEIWOPAF. Sped past this fic in the speed of light, I could not stop reading!)(Honestly, read all of the author's fics, they're all really REALLY good!)

Building a Castle by WhisperingDarkness

Without needing anyone to tell her, Sakura knew that talking to someone no-one else could see or hear would make her weird. It would draw the bad kind of attention to her, something people could make fun of her for.

She didn’t like being weird, but she did like the voice. Her inner voice was helpful and it was a part of her that had always been there. The idea of it not being there would have been so much weirder than anything else.

It was during her first year at the Academy that Sakura realised the voice was not in her head at all, but that it came from a cloudy shape floating next to her.

(Basically a short-ish retelling of Hikaru no Go. Only with more Shogi and Nara and Ninja's)

(Sakura can see ghosts (I'm noticing this is a popular trope for her) and it's really cute haha! Her relationship with Tobirama is sweet and I just enjoyed reading this so much.)

-

[The Magicians]

So Long (And Thanks For All The Books) by IncompleteSentanc (Erava)

Ships: Quentin/Eliot, James/Julia, Quentin/Margo/Eliot

When Quentin is told Julia wasn't admitted to Brakebills, he realizes he has a drastic decision in front of him. If he tells Julia about magic, he'll have his mind wiped as well as hers. But he can't just leave her behind, either. He can't lose his best friend, and he can't let her life a life with her magical potential stolen away from her.

So he makes a third choice.

(Really, and I mean REALLY well-done canon divergent fic, this is the Quentin & Julia friendship fic I have been looking for forever. It explores so much of what could've happened and I just love Quentin here, I really really do. Characterization done so right. I also recommend the author's other works too. Been a follower of them for a long time, they're great.)

-

[Game of Thrones]

The Road to Victory by writing_as_tracey

Too late in preparing for the Night King and the Long Night, the last stand at Winterfell is close to falling. Bran takes desperate measures to ensure victory, and Jon, Sansa, and Arya pay the price for it in a time unfamiliar to them, on the cusp of another war. [GoT, time-travel fix it]

(I swear, this fic made me laugh so many times, all the Stark are BAMF and fantastic, and Rhaegar gets Wrecked lol. It's crack btw, and the plot goes in directions you'll never guess and it's amazing hahaha!)

-

[Haikyuu!!] (I am very very late to the fandom but here I am)

Ballare (To Dance) by MidnightSparks

Ship: Iwaizumi Hajime/Kageyama Tobio/Oikawa Tooru, and platonic Kageyama & Kentarou (really love their friendship)

Kageyama’s first love is volleyball. His second, however, is ballet.

In one world, Kageyama Tobio is left behind by his parents. In this world, the existence of soulbonds keeps Kageyama’s parents in Miyagi and leaves Kageyama in the care of his grandma and grandpa.

(In which soulmates exist and that changes everything and nothing at the same time.)

(*buries face in hands* I have fallen for this ship so hard and I can't get out fudge me. I understand now. Their DYNAMICS FIEWONPAF)

Kings of Tomorrow by bokubroya (liarielle)

Ship: Kageyama Tobio/Oikawa Tooru

On the eve of Tobio’s 16th birthday, he counts down the seconds to midnight, and emerges with Oikawa Tooru’s name on his wrist.

It’s been two years since then, and Tobio thought they had an understanding. A silent, never spoken about understanding that this thing between them is nothing, and they’re going to pretend it doesn’t exist.

Of course, it’s just like Oikawa to change the game and leave Tobio wondering what comes next.

(I am WEAK for soulmate fics between these two, I don't even really like soulmate fics half the times what is WRONG WITH ME-)(Please suffer with me, I'm begging you. Its a good fic, thumbs up.)

-

[Crossover]

Honey and Magic by JustARatherVerySillyWriter, White_Squirrel for Super Carlin Brothers

Fandoms: Matilda (yeah you read that right), Harry Potter

Everyone knew Matilda was a rather extraordinary child, but even she didn't know she was a witch. Matilda Honey receives her Hogwarts letter in the year of the Triwizard Tournament, and soon, she will leave her unique mark on the magical world.

(Do I even need to explain how amazing it is to have Matilda in the wizarding world? And Matilda is a HUFFLEPUFF AND I WILL DIE ON THIS HILL THIS FIC IS GREAT PLEASE READ!!!)

An Eye for an Eye by DpsMercy

Fandoms: The Magnus Archives, Welcome to Night Vale

In which Jonathan Sims is not from the UK but instead, if you took his origins and turned them sideways twice then flipped them over, he technically would be from the US, the town of Night Vale specifically. Elias can’t do shit about it and gets a headache and slowly creeping madness instead.

(Look, I know probably everyone has read this because if they haven't, what have you been DOING with your lives??? Jon interning at Night Vale is Incredible, nothing phases this man, it's Delightful. I laughed so many times reading this, I'm not even kidding right now. Read or perish.)

The Favour by R_Cookie

Fandoms: Harry Potter, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them

Ship: Original Percival Graves/Harry Potter

Percival is ten years old when his grandfather tries to tell him that he's ensured the greatness of the Graves legacy for him, that he ought to be eternally grateful - but the explanation is hijacked by a stranger who manages to intimidate Chester Graves with an ease never seen before.

or: Hadrian (Harry) Potter is the Master of Death, who grants Graves a boon. Nobody could have known that the Deathly Hallows didn't turn you so much into the 'Master of Death' as into the anthropomorphic personification of Death. And so, Death becomes Percival's guardian angel, and Percival does not spit out his cereal.

(Look, I don't know how I stumbled back into the FBAWTFT fandom either, it just happened and I'm grateful for that. Otherwise, I wouldn't have found this amazing fic. Their relationship is slow and strange and I just love how Percival is characterized here. Also, one of the tag promises that it deviates from canon so I am really, really excited for that! XD)

baby that's what i do by natanije

Fandoms: Naruto, Katekyou Hitman Reborn!

"Are you telling me," Hidan exclaims, incredulous, "that you collect money all this time to give to orphans?!"

Kakuzu pauses. He blinks a few times.

"Huh. I guess I do."

(Tsuna reincarnates as Kakuzu and it's HILARIOUS. HE'S SUCH A MOM HAHAHA)

[insomniac-dot-ink]

things I don’t know

Genre: wlw slice of life

Words: 1.4k

Summary: Two girls come back from college and reunite to stargaze and see if they still know each other. A love story of waiting and finding.

---------

The things I don't know: I don’t know how rockets function or how birds fly home for winter or how adjectives in other languages work. I don't know why we know more about our moon than our oceans. I don't know how time and space are actually the same thing. Time doesn't exist, not really, but maybe I know that when I look over.

You are laid back on the roof all long legs and loose limbs like the city made you edgeless instead of full of honking cars. A dull ache spreads through my chest and that list of “Things I Don’t Know” is longer than ever.

We sit apart, knees almost touching, and enough room for sneezing and not mush else. We don’t look at each other, not yet.

“There’s something about the stars here,” you say because we were waiting for something to say. “You know?” I know. I knew it in the way I know nothing else.

“It’s the rabbits . . . Allota feet hopping around out here. Gotta be lucky.”

“I was going to say it’s the lack of pollution.”

“Nah, we��re just God’s favorite.” I scratch my chin and try not to think about how little I know what to do with my hands. I don’t know how to fix a sink. I don’t know how to change a tire. I don’t know how to hold a baby or build a house—the list was endless.

“You still kicking a ball around?”

“Not since it kicked my ass first.” I gesture. “Ankles still wrong.”

“Aw. Grade 11, right.” You say softly and get lost somewhere in your head, you do that sometimes. We’re both looking up again.

The sky is velvet black, spread thick like jam, staring down with diamond eyes, and there we were, on the roof of a building not cleaning. We were supposed to be inspecting and helping make the place presentable for the church. It could be a day-care or meeting space or maybe just a storage shed, but first we needed to dust and mop and check the roof for leaks. Which we weren’t doing, but maybe this wasn’t why I went to church anymore.

"You still sing?" I basically grunt.

Your smile is a curved sickle, it punctures.

"Sure, in the shower every morning."

“Not out there in the world?” I snort. “Waste a water.”

“You kidding me? You’re the only who thought I could hit high notes. Pastor Dave asked me to stop doing Silent Night last Christmas.”

“Tell ‘em the high notes aren’t the point.”

“What’s the point then?” You tease. My smile returns sloppy, no edges, just dull hills to fall off of.

“All the other ones.”

You run a hand through your short hair, it’s short now, I’d never thought it could do that; I try to know you again. You are tall, and wiry and the divot above your eyebrow is fishhook-shaped. The fishhook scar looks the same, white and curved and deep, but it’s different now, unhidden by bangs.

I sit there, trying to figure it all out. We both flew away, both to college and bigger places, maybe that made our movements slower and more deliberate. Maybe breathing in the Oklahoma City air had worked its way into my joints and bones and tendons and shifted their weight. It pulled my ligaments into new orbits and other directions.

I don’t know how bodies work though, I don’t know how joints stay put or knees hold up all that weight or how bodies come together—what a frightening thought. And yet I’m still looking at you.

“How have you liked it?” I ask deliberately, or try to at least. “Really.”

“How is it really?” You tease, again.

“Yeah, Sammy, really.”

Your little grin fades. A long pause follows, thoughtful, you’re always thinking and going places I can’t follow. “I like it,” you say in that simple way. “It’s different.” I nod and ache and do all those other things without names. “I think good different. Maybe.”

I gesture to the jewel-knitted above. “But they don’t got this.”

“Oh no, God no. They don’t have this.” You shift, I feel the ghost of you there even without touching. “How about you? How is it really?” You’re never done teasing me, but luckily, I’m never done being teased.

“You know me . . . Though, I dunno, I wish, I wish some,” I swallow thickly, and let my heart squeeze in several languages I can unfortunately understand. My gaze darts over, quick and guilty, and then away again. “Stuff.”

“Yeah?” You blink at me, leaning forward. I inhale like I can’t get enough of the stuff. “Come on, Tricky.” You called me Tricky since we were 6.

“I just wish,” I whisper, eyes fogging over, “I wish I had known some stuff sooner.”

“What kind of stuff?” It’s gentle, gentle as a mended bone, and your knee touches mine.

“Lots of stuff . . . That’s all.”

You seem to frown and nod and think all at once. It’s something you did since 3rd grade before every spelling bee; and time right then is a patchwork, existing and not existing all at once. A series of tiny moments of belly-hurt laughter, tickling breath against my ear, secrets told, and hands clasped together under blankets. I don’t say it of course, I don’t say: you never left me, you never leave me, even when you’re not there. Time is a jumbled mess like that.

“And there’s a lot I still don’t know . . .” I find myself mumbling.

“Alright, what do you know now? And don’t just say stuff.” You slow-grin, it punctures, I turn to face away and try not to shrink and disappear under it.

“Well for one, my brother was right about 8am classes. It is the work of the devil.”

“I could have told you that,” you chuckle.

“Oh yeah? Never pegged you as know-it-all.” I wink and you roll your eyes. “So then what did you learn in Boston, Miss Ivy League?”

“Not much.” You run a hand through your hair again, and I can see the edge of that fishhook working into your thoughts. “Not enough.”

“Guess that’s disappointing. Lotta money to learn nothing.” I sniff.

“I think that’s what I’m paying for.” You shrug. “Plus, it’s not over yet. I just . . . there’s so much. You know?”

“Too much,” I agree softly.

The silence between us dries like paint on the wall. I can hear you considering something, turning it over and over to find the seams. You turn to me glacially, like you’re moving through cement. I could always tell when you found something after all that digging.

“I feel it though. I feel like . . . like maybe I missed out.” Our eyes meet when you say that, and maybe it feels like the first time. Had I ever been looked at before that moment? I didn’t know.

“It’s not too late.” I say it, I do. "I learned in physics . . . time doesn’t exist. So nothings too late, it can’t be.”

You chuckle and it’s sparkling and young, just like 5 and 13 and now. “I’m not sure that’s how physics works.”

“It could.” I almost pout.

“Well,” you stare down at your lap like your legs might leave. “I’d like it to work like that.”

“It really could,” I say again this time, but dangerously.

My mouth is dry and empty and I’m leaning forward like the fool. The fool doesn’t know when to stop, the fool doesn’t know when she's going to ruin everything, a fool doesn’t know a damn thing. I am the fool.

But maybe even Harvard lets in fools as well.

You follow, trailing down until our foreheads touch, sweaty and delicate. I’m at your mercy, stopping right before your big brown eyes and feeling the breath hot on my cheek. You could have killed me right then and I woulda done nothing.

I gulp though, cheeks heating up, and remembering all the things I don’t know. I kinda wish I was dead.

“I’m not sure how to. . .” I search the air. I search every part of myself.

You grin, feral and terrible and close enough to kill. You take my face between your hands. 

“You think too much.”

I stop breathing. I don’t know what to do with my hands, but maybe I don’t need to. We close the gap, desperate and opening; we come together.

Your mouth tastes like cherry jam and summer heat. I can feel you there, all gangly limbs and damp skin. I kiss like I want to know it. Your lips press warm and urgent to mine. Your hands are all familiar ridges and rough pads and your soft skin flushes splotchy as we meet and meet again.

The list of things I do not know is longer than God’s sin list and a rabbit hole with no bottom. The list of things I don’t know is too much to handle, vast as skies, but there is one thing: I know you. I know that first kiss in the way physicists understand rockets. I knew it in the way birds know true north and the moon knows the weight of the ocean.

I know it in the way you learn new languages: all taste, clumsy and earnest, trying to savor every new word.

We kiss on that roof with the stars bursting in the Oklahoma summer, because there’s just enough rabbits to make me that damn lucky. And maybe time is just a little less real.

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[honestsycrets]

Forgotten Favourite | [ Lagertha x Reader, Ubbe x Reader ABO ]

❛ pairing | ubbe x reader, referenced!lagertha x reader and ragnar x reader and ragnar x lagertha x reader, lagertha x astrid

❛ type | triple shot [SFW this chp]

❛ summary | once upon a time, when things were simple, it wasn’t so difficult to keep Lagertha’s attention. Now that she has Astrid, that’s something else entirely. Maybe Ubbe can help.

❛  tags | ABO, Alpha!Ubbe, Alpha!Lagertha, Omega!Reader, Older Reader, Polygyny, some hallucinations but very minor, angst heavy, much sads reader, but maybe she can get back her voice, dub!con (this chapter has nothing too graphic), chasing, non-canon compliant.

❛ sy’s notes | “Shithead Ubbe” in action.

“Are you well?”

You looked into her eyes, steely and calm, and nodded. Your gaze fell back to the pool of mead between your clean fingertips, chewing on your lower lip. Her hand ran by the neatly woven braid that tumbled down your chest, imbued with gems she brought you from England, and they’re all pointless. If they no longer caught her attention, that was.

“Are you sure?”

“I must be tired, Astrid. I’ll go rest.”

“Should I come with you?” Astrid asked. “It’s…” her hand drops, hovering then at your stomach. “Unsafe.”

“No, no. Don’t strain yourself.” You quipped quickly. “She’ll be looking for you. It is only Kattegat, after all.”

You slipped outside of the Great Hall where a ravenous feast waged the night away on the back of barrels of ale and heaps of bread and fish. She was only a few crowds away discussing alliances with men that she’s earned the respect of being the single most important valkyrie with women like Torvi and Gunnhild. Women of the shield and sword; strong, sexy women like them.

Perhaps that was why she lost interest.

You were regretfully pathetic with a sword. In the world of the House of Lothbrok, you know that outside is not a place you can stay for long being so bad with sword, shield, and even your own fangs. Perhaps its curiosity that led you outside that night. Would she come find you after all these years? After moments turned to minutes, you exhale a cool breath of air.

The answer was plain.

You stepped away from the Great Hall and looked toward the pins with quiet fat piglets, illuminated by the forgiving full moon in the sky. The red hue indicates the start of the festival. Time for sex, drinks, and bond gifting. The mother squeals sound painful as they rutted against their mother for milk before their night’s end.

Your fingers ran across the mark upon your neck. There’s no fancy sigil there, no glowing golden marks, nor claims. Just… the knowledge and reminder of her scent, hurtling you toward a better time. The vastness of the memory is both wide and deep. It would consume you if you let it. It feels less of a bond and more of a distant memory.

“Is something on your mind?” you lifted your eyes from your prison of self-pity to look behind your shoulder. It’s as if the world comes into focus when you recognize him standing there-- Ragnar, his rugged face fading, smoothing-- and no, it’s not Ragnar. Not the man that would steal away in a moment to find you. That face is too smooth, too princely, entitled. It’s Ubbe. He stands a reminder of his father before him when things were easy and good-- and you mattered. He speaks. “You weren’t inside with Lagertha.”

“I didn’t take it anyone would notice.”

He gazes out toward the empty wooden homes, then back, training his eye upon your mutual bonded neck. Your fingers fall away from your neck. “Everyone notices when an omega goes missing.”

It gives you a moment of pause. In the bright moonlight, his long rolls of hair mimic Ragnar’s. Though they weren’t thick and there were no searing tattoos across the expanse of his pale skin. Not like Ragnar’s. How chiseled his body was, cut by scars his younger doppelganger lacked, the likes of the fishhook that dragged from his chest to his bicep. It pangs, strangely, and the memories with it.

And yes, in the heat of the night, under Lagertha’s comforting touch, how he used to sink into you thrust by thrust. You scanned Ubbe over, dragging the soft fur over your shoulders, and stand upright. “Your father told me that once.”

Ubbe’s slender lips pressed together-- firm on thoughts that you could never touch. He ignores the comment. “Come back inside.”  

It’s not a request. It’s an order. He must think that he has something over you to speak to you in such a way, flat and dry, but level in as many parts with commanding. He’s speaking to the wrong woman. Your eyebrows knit together.

“I am not going inside, Ubbe. I am tired of being a wallflower for one night.”

As dramatic as that knowledge was, it was a fact. You had put effort into looking like this, weaving the pearls, fluttering your lashes at her, the only beg for a night. You knew as well as she did that you wouldn’t beg. You were too proud. As was she.

“She’ll miss you.”

Your lip twitches. You look up to hold his gaze, when you can’t anymore because it’s too painful to tell him. Inevitably, you scoff and look at the band around your finger. “We are old enough to be without one another. She has Astrid.”

He grunts. Bent his head down with a small kick out of the rock under his leather boots. Then turning one way before another, he steps forward into your space. As a bonded omega, you instinctually lean away from him, though his arms are unoffending turned one over another, rather than raised against you. His breath is warm against the cool air of the night. “Then let me walk you to your cabin.”

You couldn’t shake him if you tried. You took the first step toward the dusty street that would lead you to your cabin when things had gotten too loud. Bjorn, Astrid, and Lagertha would undoubtedly drink and talk. Bjorn might venture off for sex. Astrid and Lagertha would go to bed together and-- you shook your head to the thought. Your earrings jangle with it.

“Is it an offer or a demand?”

“Maybe both,” Ubbe follows your quick steps with wide strokes. He’s a big man, perhaps bigger than Ragnar, reflecting his mother’s size. He’s like his father, and yet, nothing like him. His eyes share that same heavy shadow after you, but they lack Ragnar’s curiosity. Not in the absence of it, but the purity in which Ragnar was willing to learn.

“You’re approaching a heat. That is why you wanted to leave.”

You stop.

“Is this what--”

“Another strong scent. I thought you were barren. That’s what I’ve been told, after all.”

This then is the part where your lips part, unable to speak your truth. There’s something off-putting about the way he puts it. It isn’t that he’s necessarily off. In recent years, your heats had been coming with less frequency. Your hand feels itchy, fingers twitching, your words were growing in your mind, and failing to come off your tongue.

There’s nowhere to run.

“Ubbe--” you took a step back, then another, and Ubbe doesn’t mind. It excites him. His eyes are wide blown, rimmed with a blue that was clearer than the sea. He is strange. Most men would turn away from older women and yet-- he comes closer. “When was your last rut?”

“Why does that matter?”

He knows why it matters. You know why it matters. It was pure instinct for Ubbe to mate. It did not matter what Torvi or Margrethe said of the matter. You had only thought you were exempt-- given who your woman was. He feels huge compared to your body, illuminated only by the soft glint of the moonlight-- moonlight. It shone in the sky in brilliant disarray. It was a full traitorous moon.

Words fold on one another in your chest, rising and falling with renewed effort, as if to know what he was about to do. Your eyes make the mistake of latching upon his, delving into deep eye contact, one where his eyes look infinitely darker, and where you’re petrified to break it as if to know that the first one who released it would be the first one to act.

There’s something to be said for an old omega-- they know how to run, how to escape the advances of a drunk alpha, who caught a little bit too strong of a whiff of something he was never entitled to have. But, as alphas go-- once the scent was imprinted in their memory, they would never let it go. You know you don’t stand a chance at outrunning him. He’s too young, too spry, too ready. And you had just fallen headfirst into his trap of the perfectly calm carer.

You pivot your heels and run an omega’s run.

Her name is on your tongue like a chant, sobbing past the frustration of your woven sandals snatching sand through the alleyway. He’s not at all like Bjorn. Bjorn you can outrun, his shape isn’t made for long-distance runs. He’s heavy muscle and bad decisions. When you’re faced with someone like Ubbe, limber and quick, you know there is an issue.

It’s too easy for him to slam into longhouses. You scramble over the empty barrels of ale, scratching with desperate squeaks crying out to the stragglers on the streets for someone to hold him back. You fall on the other side of the barrels, catching your long skirts in bundles, and rush out the alleyway.

And it’s quiet.

Your head snaps down the alley where one sole barrel rolls on its side onto the ground. On the other side, it’s eerily still. The only noise is that of your chest rising and dropping to the tune of Kattegat’s rich ocean some great distance away. His scent is there, foggy and strong, seeping into your lungs in suffocating realization. It hits you all at once, connecting your back to an abandoned barn, where only slaves and pigs lived.

“Don’t move.” He’s so strong, pinning your hips to the barn, that you don’t realize how strongly he’s crushing you, ensuring you couldn’t run. Or think. Or cry out with his mouth fitted clasped over your neck. His gnashing fangs bite the fight out of your lungs, snapping time and again, and it hurts, but what can you do?

You sought something out— anything that is a bridge between reality and the teeth sinking into your neck. That encouraged the flow of your juices over your thighs and an undoubted excitement of the hunt. Instead, you’re so full of the rich, syrupy scent of a lover that reality melts like a pat of butter under summer day. It’s all Ubbe, flooding your nose, infesting your senses.

It hurts. And yet, it soothes the distant ache of your loneliness.

@tephi101 @alicedopey @supernaturalvikingwhore @tootie-fruity @titty-teetee @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla @ethereallysimple @deathbyarabbit @deathbyarabbit @readsalot73 @natalie-rdr @lol-haha-joke @lisinfleur @hissouthernprincess @marvelousse @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol @vikingsmania @wish-i-was-a-mermaid @lif3snotouttogetyou @gruffle1 @cris101071 @gold-dragon-slayer @babypink224221 @wonderwoman292 @naaladareia @beyond-the-ashes @generic-fangirl @chinduda @laketaj24, @peaceisadirtyword, @ly–canthrope @cris101071 @daughterofthenight117 @unassumingviking @ladyofsoa, @inforapound @winchesterwife27 @feyrearcheron44@readsalot73 @squirrelacorngliterfarts @gold-dragon-slayer @medievalfangirl @sallydelys  @bluearchersstuff @affectionrabbitt @whatamood13 @notyouraveragegirl17 @igetcarriedawaywithyou @unacceptabletatertots @ivarandersen @stra-vage @tgrrose @cookies186 @learninglemni-blog @theleeshanotlouise @soiproclaim @msmorganforever @destynelseclipsa @soleil-dor

[alphinias]

103/117/25 for jiara cause I'm obsessed with them

“She’s my daughter, I can read her diary” / “She’s six, how can she scare you?” / “Aren’t you supposed to be the adult here?”

Ace Grubs was a twig of a boy with more attitude than bones in his body. JJ caught saw him pulling worms out of the ground and stabbing them through his fishhooks like he’d come out of the womb doing it, and he laughed at all of JJ’s fart jokes.

Normally, he got a kick out of the boy who came to play while his dad worked next to JJ in the shop. In fact, he reminded JJ a lot of himself. A little kid from a rougher side of town just out to have a good time, but thankfully one that came with a loving mother attached. He liked the little guy.

That is until Marley, his fucking six-year-old daughter, the light of his life, came waltzing into the living room. There was a gap-toothed grin stretched across her face and a shiny starfish clip in her hair. 

Now, this JJ wouldn’t have noticed much about. It was a starfish. Marley liked the ocean, was on the fast track to a savior complex the size of her mom’s, which made JJ’s insides stupidly warm. He liked the thought that she was taking after Kiara.

Kiara’s brows shot up from where she was bagging up her freshly cut brownies. “Sweetie. You like that clip now?” There was a hand on her hip, and JJ got the impression that he’d definitely zoned out during a fight about this at some point.

“Mhm. It makes my hair look pretty.”

“You look positively beautiful,” JJ cooed from the couch.

But then Marley’s grin widened, flashing a dimple that matched his own, and she said, “I think Ace likes when I look pretty,” and the smile fell right off of JJ’s face.

“He what?” he practically growled.

Kiara tossed him an eye roll over Marley’s head, but no further comment was made, because a loud knocking echoed from the door. “That’s Emily,” she said, tan hand looping around Marley’s elbow.

There was a conversation at the door, as per usual when Marley had a play date with one of her friends. Normally, JJ would’ve been more than thrilled to see her going to fish off the dock with her friends, that she was growing up to enjoy the same hobbies he did, but suddenly the thought of her fishing with Ace Grubs and his mom was horrible. He didn’t like it at all. In fact, he hated it.

Kiara seemed to find no problem with it. She waltzed back into the living room, her rapidly growing belly on full display when she turned around. There was some sort of pregnancy yoga routine she turned on to follow on TV, which normally would’ve given JJ ample opportunity to ogle her legs and ass from the couch.

He couldn’t even do that. 

His thumb tapped against his knee, and he wondered whether or not Ace Grubs had complimented Marley’s starfish clip before. He’d been chasing girls on the playground at Ace’s age, but the memory was significantly less amusing the more he dwelled on it.

“What time is Marley coming home?” he demanded, a little while later.

Kiara was in some type of forward position. She made a face at him from between her ankles. “Uh, six? What did you do, take a trip to Mars while I talked to Emily?”

“Didn’t hear,” he grumbled, and he heard Kiara let out a little laugh under her breath. He glared at her back.

There was a more useful way he could occupy his time. He may as well get his arsenal ready.

He wandered over to the kitchen table, one of his favorite places. A few of Marley’s things were strewn about it, including Marley’s favorite little dolphin notebook. He cast a glance at Kiara; her attention was totally on the way too flexible woman on the television, so he thumbed through the book.

The contents were unintelligible, for the most part. There were a few times Marley had practiced writing her name, and several drawings of what might have been fish. One of two blobs holding hands caught his eye. A whoosh of dread crashed into him, until he realized the drawing wasn’t in fact Marley holding hands with Ace, but one of himself and Kiara with a smaller blob between them.

A lump formed in his throat as he stared at it. The reality he was living still caught him off guard, at times.

“JJ Maybank. Is that Marley’s diary?”

JJ jumped at the sound of Kiara’s voice. She was staring at him from across the table, half glaring, half amused. “Shit! No.”

“JJ,” she urged.

JJ threw up his hands, not bothering to hide the book that flopped in his grip at the movement. “She’s my daughter. I can read her diary, thank you very much.”

“Sounds like a fast track to invasion of privacy and lack of parental child trust to me.” Kiara didn’t sound impressed. She inched her way around the table towards him.

“This is… Not that,” he said, lamely. He cleared his throat, trying and failing to look stern.

Kiara had reached his side at the table now. She leaned over his shoulder, one hand propped against it to see what he’d been looking at. He couldn’t help but breath in deeply at her proximity; no matter how many times he smelled it, her coconut scent never failed to loosen the tension in his back.

“Wanna tell me what’s going on? You’re buzzing out a little,” she said.

JJ shrugged. He wasn’t totally sure how to find the words to explain what he was feeling, or if he even really knew it, himself. “I dunno. She just… Scares me, I guess.”

He could feel Kiara’s eyes boring into the side of his face. She nudged further into him, trying to make things more playful. “Scares you? Babe. She’s six. How can she scare you?”

“Did you not hear what she said about that little Ace kid?” he finally exploded. “Sounds like a little punk.”

She cocked a brow at him. “Why? Because he has good taste?”

“No, but if he lays a finger on Marley—“

“JJ,” Kiara accused. “Aren’t you supposed to be the adult here?”

“No,” he said automatically.

“Babe,” Kiara said, softly. Her fingers drifted to the nape of his neck, twisting in his hair there, just the way that lulled him back to sleep when he woke up with a particularly terrible nightmare. “Marley’s gonna have boyfriends.”

“Or girlfriends,” he supplied helpfully. Kiara’s smile grew.

“Or girlfriends. Point is, we have to trust her. Things would’ve been a lot easier with my parents if they had just trusted me.”

JJ brushed a kiss across her forehead. It was still hard for him to believe it, sometimes, that Kiara had chosen him. Him, nothing but trash that needed to be brushed off the street to most (And sometimes even to himself. He was working on that part, though).

But if Kiara hadn’t taken a chance on him… Not only on their relationship, but on just giving him the time of day, on being his friend, he sometimes wasn’t sure where he would be. He was sure he wouldn’t like it.

He breathed a sigh into her hair, and she sunk into him. “Maybe. I’ll try.”

“Mhm.” She slid her lips across his chin. He couldn’t tell if it was another bought of pregnancy hormones, or if she was just being comforting. It was hard to tell these days.

“Can I at least sit on the porch like, cleaning some fish hooks when they come to pick her up? Because I think they deserve it.”

She snorted. Pressed against him with another kiss, a few inches lower this time. “Absolutely not.”

[fluorescencefuture]

Homestuck^2: How I’d write the Omega Kids (and the Candy timeline villains)

I haven't reread Homestuck nor the epilogues in a while so correct me if I'm wrong with anything here. This was all in one go, too, so I probably missed something here or there. I'm also not a native English speaker so pardon some grammar errors.

In General

I’d give them a five-letter name scheme. Names of a group being the same length was a big deal in original HS (human first names had four letters, troll names had six, Ancestors had eight-letter titles, Cherubs had eight letters too, etc.), so it’s odd seeing this new group have names of varying length

I’d also give them all shirt symbols. It’s odd that something so iconic to Homestuck isn’t present in the new kids, either.

I'll write for both the canon post-canon with evil Jane and for my own version with different villains. Evil Jane happens because a highblood troll who hears of the old ways of Alternia attempts to kill her and take her crown, as she's technically the heiress. Jane wins, but she starts to see trolls and Alternian culture in a different light from then on. At first she was only trying to prevent the worst parts of Alternian culture from coming back, but over time grew to despise trolls, and ended up trying to force human culture onto Alternians.

The other Candy villains are a dangerous terrorist rebel group that wants to overthrow the creators and destroy them. They say the creators made the people, abandoned the people for years, then suddenly came back and decided they control the people. The group is made of humans, trolls, carapacians, and even consorts. The mysterious shadowed leader claims to be doing this for the people, but really, all they want is to have control for themselves, and they don't care if any innocents get in the way.

Harry Anderson

Has nothing to fix, he’s perfect as is

Okay but seriously, the guy is the kid with the least questionable things around him. He has no baggage from sharing the same name as an established character (ICP Harry Anderson doesn’t count), and he didn’t come from infidelity.

He also has actual color to his personality. He likes musicals and sewing. He has a good relationship with his dad. Like many kids with divorced parents, he wishes his parents were together again. What do the others have? Vrissy is just a slightly less aggressive Vriska. Tavros is just OG Tavros and Jake combined. Yiffy’s thing is being a dog girl named Yiffany Longstocking. The others could be fleshed out eventually, but with the slow pace and meandering plot we have right now, I doubt it.

If Jane's the villain, things would mostly go the same way. If Jane isn't the villain, it goes two ways: he decides to join Vrissy's guerilla anti-anti-creator group and fight because he wants to protect his parents, or he's just very anti-conflict and avoids the fight because he doesn't think he's up to it. He's frequently threatened but doesn't tell his parents about the threats. Eventually, he gets convinced to join and fight.

Vrissy

So Vrissy’s in relationships with guys who are technically her cousins. At first I was like “well, they’re not biologically related nor were they raised as family so it’s not weird”. But then Tavros called Kanaya “Aunt Kanaya” and now I’m thinking “oh god, that’s really weird”.

Now she’s just a troll girl from school. She's just close to Kanaya and Rose, but isn’t their kid. She isn’t related to anyone. Anyone except Vriska, who she was named after. Vrissy’s new nickname is just Vriss.

Alternatively, her name is something completely different. Honestly, it just seemed like a way to shoehorn in a Vriska for the story. Only for actual Vriska to come back anyway.

Uhh, Eshtha (from Jyeshtha, a Hindu nakshatra Scorpius is associated with)? Oriona (from Orion, the myth where Scorpius is mostly attributed to)? Naiaka (from Manaiakalani, as Hawaiians saw Scorpius as the demigod Maui’s fishhook)? Oh wait, I’ll have to make nicknames for those names too. Uh, Eshty, Riona, and Naiah.

Maybe have her have a personality that’s rather opposite to Vriska’s than have her as Vriska 2. She's more a perky goth, more cheerful and sweet. More "I knew you could do it!" than "So you can do something after all." A beast in battle, of course. She doesn't like to use her mind control powers, because she finds them disturbing.

If Vriska had to come back, the conflict would come from their conflicting personalities. Vriska would pretty much act the same way she did to (Vriska), but this time, Vriss doesn't take any of it and stands her ground.

Whether the villain is Jane or not, she's the one who decides to fight back, and she gets her friends and others to join her. The creators have been nothing but good to her, and she cares about them a lot, especially Rose and Kanaya. Not to mention they're also her friends' parents.

Tavros

Yeah, we’re gonna have to rename that kid. It never made sense to me why Jake and Jane named their kid after some guy they don’t know that well. I don’t remember everything from the Epilogues, but I’ll assume the reason was Gamzee or something. Also weird that Jane, who’s supposed to be racist to trolls, would just...let her kid be named after one.

Something old-ish would work. Flynn? Silas? Avery? Clyde? Niles? Louie?

He's moirails with this Vriss instead of kismeses. The Vrissy/Tavros kismesis also felt like re-hashing the kismesis that Vriska and OG Tavros kinda had.

If we went post-canon villain Jane, he'd be reluctant to join the rebellion and is more of a pacifist who would rather try to talk his mom out of it.

Alternatively, Jane and Jake are separated (but not divorced) and he lives with Jake. Because Jane was never terrible to him and Jake doesn't tell him how bad she's gotten, he disagrees with her but still tries to justify and rationalize that Jane's really doing it from a place of good intentions.

If the villain isn't Jane, then Jane and Jake have been hiding him away, and his friends can only see him when they visit him at his swanky home. You might say he's...housetrapped. He joins because his friends are in it, and doesn't quite grasp how serious things are until the rebels try to kill Jane (the rebels try to kill Jane first because you always kill the healer first).

He's in contact with a mysterious guide who's kinda spacy and a little terrifying at times. His friends think the guide might just be some creepy predator. It's revealed to be Candy Gamzee, out of the fridge and legitimately harmless, but untraceable and doing mysterious things behind the black. Again.

Come to think of it, Dirk's missing too...

Yiffany Longstocking

Yiffy is now the ectokid of Dave and Jade. She looks more like a DaveJade kid than JadeRose, really. Dave and Jade are also either happily married or coming close to an amicable divorce. Yeah, the toxic shit Jade did and the erasure of Dave's bisexuality also don't exist here. Jade, Dave, Karkat, and Terezi are backing Vrissy's anti-anti-creator group.

Her new name is something unisex. Riley? Logan? Robin? Sloan? Salem?

She spends a lot of time outside doing sports and doesn't talk much. She's not very close to the other three kids, but she's surprisingly pretty close to her Aunt Rose.

While Jade and Dave are out on a mission for Karkat (this is the mission Candy Dave dies), she gets kidnapped by the opposing force (Jane/the terrorists). She gets a shock collar forced on her, then is hidden away in a Boarding School for Inconvenient Girls, enrolled under the name "Yiffany Longstocking". Jade comes home to find that her family's been taken from her. Again.

Yiffy almost escapes, but she gets knocked out and taken back to base, where they lock her in a cage and treat her like a dog. She's still defiant to the end.

If Jane's the villain, Jake is inspired by Yiffy's defiance, grows some balls, exposes Yiffy's treatment to the press, and sets her free. She beats up the guards trying to stop her. Jake gets surrounded by more guards. In response, he pulls out his pistols and a one-liner, and bam, cliffhanger.

If it's the terrorist group, Terezi picks up on Yiffy's scent when they're in a base, and she's saved by the other three kids, where she immediately turns around and beats the crap out of the guards. They become proper friends from there.

The reunion panel still happens and this time it's her reuniting with her loving mother and aunt instead of...y'know.

BONUS: Sadstuck

Harry gets his own “im not a hero” speech after trying and “failing” to be the hero that John was

Vriss is eventually forced to use her mind control powers. It’s either a “Katara using bloodbending" situation, or she forces her friends to leave her behind when they want to stick by her.

Tavros finally witnesses his mother’s true nature when Jake defeats all the guards, but is stabbed from behind by Jane and killed. In the other version, it seems Jane is finally safe and able to come home to her son. Then she’s killed right in front of him.

After the big hug with Jade and Rose, Yiffy pulls away. She smiles, looks around behind them, and asks “Where’s Dad?”

So, please tell me what you think!

[pinnithin-writes]

Hardly An Apology

Written after 417 aired. 2093 words.

There was still blood on Pleck’s face.

This wasn’t necessarily a problem exclusive to him. They were all a little bloodied, a little shell-shocked, a little worn out. The entire crew had been put through the ringer, atoms arranging and rearranging in rapid succession as the Dame took them on a ride through time. On her last day alive, too. That was nice of her.

Lately, Pleck had thought a lot about what he was going to do on his last day alive. Y’know, after he’d learned about the whole “throw yourself into the Allwheat” thing. He’d tried to stay optimistic about it - he wasn’t exactly a master problem solver, but he hadn’t resigned himself to oblivion just yet, poking at the dilemma from different angles as he tried to find another way out.

Late at night, with the eldritch thing whispering to him, he had to admit his fate was hard to ignore.

He stood at the bathroom sink, mechanically rinsing the blood from his mouth and nose, avoiding his own reflection. He knew he needed a shave. He knew he needed to comb his hair. The chores of self-maintenance piled up as the days bled together in a meaningless smear while Seesu’s campaign spun its wheels. At least they’d finally gained some traction today.

No thanks to him. Sometimes, Pleck wasn’t even sure why he came on the missions for all the good he did them. He lacked Dar’s confidence. C-53’s intellect. Even AJ, headstrong and fearless, pushed them toward their goal with his actions. What did Pleck do? Well, lately, he just sort of hung around.

A favor for Dar, really. They had asked him to be there, to be him, so Dar could effectively be Dar . And because Dar had asked, Pleck had done it. He owed Dar a hundred favors for how many times they’d saved his sorry skin.

He cut the water off. Dried his face with a towel and let out the ghost of a laugh - a short, humorless exhale through his nose. It sounded louder than it had any right to be in the silence of the bathroom, with only the buzzing fluorescent light overhead to keep him company.

Pleck had been promoted today. Second Lieutenant. Or, Lieutenenant, he guessed. A rank and a job, given out of what, sympathy? Kindness? It didn’t matter, really. Turns out he’d repaid that kindness with a blaster shot to the brain.

Coming back to Bargie after all of that was a nauseating experience. He grimaced at the memory as he hung the towel up to dry. They all had a bad habit of putting up humorous walls around themselves when they were uncomfortable, grasping at distractions, latching onto funny details like they were lifelines in a stormy sea. Making jokes was something they knew how to do, something they were good at, something grounding. It anchored them, but anchors were oh so heavy.

Yeah, keep it tight! Great slogan! Great pants! Great job! Good one, guys!

They still watched someone die right in front of them. And then watched another someone pass on moments later. A one-two punch to the gut. Nothing a couple good jokes couldn’t fix, right?

A brief moment passed where Pleck thought he was going to lose the contents of his stomach, slapping a hand against the bathroom wall to brace himself as the vertigo twisted his gut. He saw it on the backs of his eyelids when he blinked. The zing of blaster fire, smashing in a starburst against Dar’s body. They were dead before they hit the ground.

His fault. Just like everything else.

He pulled in a shaky breath, managing to fight down the nausea. Rodd, he’d been mid-apology when it happened, too, as part of owning up to his long and exhaustive list of mistakes. It didn’t matter that he’d pulled the trigger years ago, when he was someone else entirely. It was still something he needed to make amends for. “Sorry I shot you,” he’d meant to tell Dar. “It was wrong and I feel terrible.”

Now what was he going to say? Sorry I killed you and left your body in the mud? Sorry you had to watch yourself die and then clean up my mess?

Guilt crawled into Pleck’s throat and settled there. He tugged his robe tighter around his torso, a self-soothing habit he’d developed over the past few months, and exited the bathroom. Instead of wandering down the hall to his closet, his feet carried him in the other direction to the adjacent room. He heaved open the door and flicked on the light, greeted by the gentle hum of the air unit and a distinct rise in humidity as he stepped inside.

The memory of the thick air on Flerp smacked him in the mouth and he had to take a second to lean back against the door. Calm down, calm down, he told his racing heart. You’re in the hydroponics room. Aboard the Bargarean Jade. You’re not on a distant planet in a downpour watching your friend die. He rubbed the heel of his hand into his good eye and pulled in a steadying breath.

It’s okay. You’re okay. We’re all okay.

That was it, right? Why he felt so wrong about it all. Like he didn’t have permission to grieve. There was nobody to grieve - Dar was with them on the ship now, and Dar was with them on the ship in the past, and everything had turned out alright. It was fine, they had a laugh, and they went about their business.

Pleck still felt shitty, though. He tried to swallow past the guilt in his throat.

He pushed off from the door and padded to the first rack of grow trays. He’d been coming in here a lot lately, having nothing to do around the ship. The warmth of the air and the moisture it held made him think of warm summer rains back on his home planet. Pleck remembered walking barefoot out in the grass fields as a kid, feeling the soft give of the soil under his toes as he watched the irrigation structure crawl a lazy track across the farm.

This room wasn’t exactly like that, but he did often go without shoes in here. More for nostalgic purposes than anything. The smooth metal flooring still felt nice on the soles of his feet, warm from the blaze of the grow lights. The system in here was automated, racks of machinery operating the whole process without any assistance needed from a sentient. There was no possible way Pleck could have jucked this one up.

Just like he’d-

He’d-

Pleck shook his head to clear it, focusing on the hum of the fan and the gentle sway of the plants in front of him. It made him feel a little homesick, actually, following the little seedlings to maturation. These were mostly leafy greens - butter lettuce, romaine, some spinach, a few varieties of cabbage - kept in the dark as they germinated for a few days within a square plug of peat moss and polymer. Watching the mechanical arms rotate the baby sprouts from the darkness to the light was hypnotic, and Pleck often found himself passing hours in here without realizing it.

It made him feel useful, even if he wasn’t really doing anything, making a slow circuit of the room and checking on the plants. Pinching off dead leaves where they appeared, refilling the nitrogen caddy, checking the roots for rot, harvesting and bagging the vegetables for the fridge later. Mindless, repetitive motions that slowed his pulse and passed the time.

He needed to be here right now.

Pleck tended the greens, grounding himself in a tactile comfort as he tentatively turned over the day’s events in his head. He skirted around the time stuff - it hurt just thinking about it and he preferred his feet planted firmly in the present - instead uttering a small prayer for the passing of Adelaide Wiggles. The last of her species. The Memorex had died with her, slumped to the cobalt floor of a crumbling mansion. Dignified, somehow, despite the biscuits clattering across the floor as she fell.

She’d looked her end in the eye and greeted it jauntily. Pleck wished he had that kind of resolve.

Watching the Dame’s life gently snuffed out like candlelight, while quite sad, was much easier to focus on than the other thing that gnawed at him. The thing he had done. It lodged in his neck like an extra set of teeth. He traced a fingertip over the gentle arc of a lettuce leaf, wondering if that had been the one to pull the trigger.

Pleck didn’t make a habit of firing guns, not past the old peashooter his father used to let him borrow as a kid. Sometimes they’d go out after X-Marse to the ditch behind the farmhouse and shoot bottles off the broken fridge that had lain there rusting for years. A rare treat. A Rangus vacation. Pleck smiled softly to himself at the memory as he plucked off a sick leaf and discarded it.

A blaster was different, though. It held all the kick and the power needed to kill a sentient, and in a blind panic, Pleck had done exactly that. It had happened so long ago he didn’t even really remember what it felt like, but he did just watch it happen, the stock hammering into his ribcage because he was holding it wrong. He at least remembered the purple bruise that had bloomed there afterward. Taken two weeks to heal.

How selfish he’d been. How utterly ignorant. The fact that his cowardice had gotten Dar killed snagged in his brain like a fishhook.

He stopped in his tracks in front of a healthy grow tray, pressing a trembling hand to his mouth.

He’d really done that, hadn’t he?

Killed Dar.

His captain, his friend, unshakeable in their confidence. That powerful solar flare of a being, all loud words and bold decisions and unstoppable will. Barreling through life like a freight train. And they cared about Pleck even when Pleck didn’t care about Pleck. One infinitesimal moment and they were dead.

Second Lieutenenant. Please. If he had a badge he’d turn it in.

The sob that escaped his chest was more of a thin sigh, rolling over him like one of those summer Rangus storms. His shoulders curled up and he pressed his hand harder against his mouth, as if he could hold the emotion in. He was so sick of having breakdowns in here. It was his cry spot of choice, the ventilation fan just loud enough to keep Bargie from overhearing, and he’d lost track of how many times the Allwheat’s record scratch of a voice had knocked Pleck’s feet out from under him.

He sucked in a shuddering breath through his nose, blinking away the burning in his eye. Dar wouldn’t want him crying over this. He had no right to be crying over this. He wasn’t the one who watched themself die today. Dar alone held that privilege - they were the only one who’d actually done anything about it, stepping up and taking charge, as was their nature, while Pleck stood there uselessly, as was his.

First Beano, now this. Pleck had to start keeping a tally of the friends he’d killed. Another joke for the crew to anchor themselves with. Who was next? C-53? AJ? Watch out, guys. Pleck’s coming for you.

He stood there, trembling in the misty room while the guilt soaked him to the bone, knowing he could never make this right. Dar had already done that for him.

Minutes passed, and the tension eventually ebbed from his shoulders. His breathing evened out. The greens in front of him bobbed passively on their trays of water, up-down-up-down, gentle like his heart. Letting out a long, slow exhale, he leaned his head against the cool aluminum of the hydroponics structure. He was grateful for this room full of life after the death he’d witnessed today.

Maybe one day they could talk this over. Maybe he’d find the impossible words needed for this insurmountable apology. And they could laugh about it, for real, full and genuine and from the heart. For now, though, he needed to hide himself away in this sanctuary, entombed ever so softly by the humid air and the swaying leaves. He couldn’t face them just yet.

“I’m so sorry, Dar,” he whispered to the empty room.

I’m so sorry.

[steves-on-a-plane]

Dental Dread

Words: 1298 Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader Warnings: Dental procedures described. Summary: Reader hates going to the dentist, but it’s time for their regular dental check up so they force their boyfriend Steve to go along with them to the visit. Steve, who grew up sick and around doctors most of his young life doesn’t share Reader’s mistrust of dentist and willingly tags along to comfort his significant other.  Author’s Note: I had a dental emergency yesterday and had to go the the dentist. I ended up needing three fillings and honestly the idea of Steve Rogers being at the dentist with me was the only thing that got me through it. 

Your knee bounced impatiently. The back of your legs stuck to the cheap vinyl seats of the waiting room. Your stomach was turning. You should have had something for breakfast like Steve suggested, but well it was too late for that now. You were going to die with an empty stomach. You sighed, fighting hard to expel air from behind a paper mask. A warm hand reach over and came to rest on your anxious knee. The hand grounded you back into reality. Right, you weren’t going to die. You were just being dramatic. You weren’t even sick; it was just a routine dental visit.

“It’s going to be okay, [Y/N].” Steve promised.

“Easy for you to say, you’ve already had your dental exam.” You hissed. “And I bet you passed with flying colors!”

“It’s not a contest.” Steve chuckled, but the sound was slightly muffled by his own paper mask. He enjoyed seeing this side of you. The side that was capable of fear. Steve had seen you beat up thugs twice your size and launched yourself across rooftops without a second thought, but the idea of the dentist terrified you.

“They’re going to find a cavity; I know they will.” You wrapped your arms around yourself. “They always seem to find one no matter how many times a day you brush your teeth or if you floss or not. It’s a scam.” You continued to ramble, and Steve didn’t make an attempt to stop you. For once he was glad there was a mask hiding his smile. “I mean why do we even have these mandatory check-ups? Just so they can bill my insurance?”

“[Y/N] [Y/L/N]?” A young man called your name from a nearby door. You grabbed Steve’s hand while you tried to decide if the cartoon teeth on the hygienist’s scrubs were cute or sinister.

“I’ll be right here when you get back.” Steve vowed.

“No, no.” You shook your head. “You’re coming in there with me.”

“I don’t think they’ll let me, we’re not married…” Steve started to argue but you weren’t having it.

“Oh no, you and Tony ordered these mandatory visits. That means at least one of you has to come in and see me suffer. C’mon, Rogers.” You rose to your feet and tugged him along.

“I’m sorry,” Steve apologized to the hygienist. “I’m sure it’s against the rules but..”

“Actually, as long as the patient is fine with it, we do allow one other person in the room.” The hygienist smiled. “It tends to make our more…trepidatious patients feel more comfortable. Right this way, [Y/N].”

“I’ll be right here the whole time.” Steve said as he sat in a small rolling stool in the corner of the examination room.

“That’s too far away.” You complained.

You didn’t say much after that as the hygienist began to take X-Rays of your teeth. It was uncomfortable as he continued to wedge plastic pieces of various sizes in your mouth at seemingly random angles to get the films he needed. The only comfort during this process was the heavy lead blanket like apron he’d placed on your chest. It held you down like a vinyl coated hug. A small corner of your brain wondered if when Bruce went to the doctor or the dentist did they make him wear a lead apron. Considering the aprons were designed to protect the wearer from radiation.

“She’ll be right in.” The hygienist promised as he removed your lead security blanket.

“See, that wasn’t so bad.” Steve commented from his stool in the corner.

“That’s because she didn’t start poking around with the weird fishhook thing yet.” You told him.

“I think it’s just called a dental pick.” Steve guessed.

“Well, whatever it’s called, I don’t like it.” You complained.

“Okay [Y/N], oh and Captain Rogers, a pleasure as always.” The Avenger’s dentist smiled as she entered the room. “[Y/N], your X-rays look great, I’m just worried about this molar here.” The dentist pointed to a monitor that you could barely see from the bedlike dental chair. “You see this dark area here? It seems like you might have a cavity on that tooth. So, what we’re going to do is have Andy continue with your scheduled cleaning and then I’d like to take another look at this tooth okay?”

“Uh okay.” You agreed meekly. The dentist left the room and you were alone with Steve. He expected you to start ranting again about how you were right they always find a cavity. You very well may have if you weren’t semi paralyzed with fear. The only thing worst than the fish hook tool during a cleaning was the lidocaine needle they used during fillings. You heart was racing and your stomach felt like it was twisted in an impossible knot.

You tried your hardest to disassociate through the entire cleaning. You forced your mind to think about anything else other than the scratching sound that seemed to radiate through your skull and the slight ting from the dental pick as it pulled away from one tooth an on to the next. You tried to separate your mind from your physical self. It was an admirable attempt. When at last Andy the hygienist offered you a small cup of water to rinse your mouth with you felt your heartrate slowing. That is until the Doctor returned, and you watched Andy prepare a tray of instruments for her.

The dentist decided definitively that the tooth in question did need a filling. The thought alone had you gripping the arms of the chair until you left crescent shaped marks on the undersides of them. You knew it would do no good to protest, avoiding the cavity would only make it worse. So you nodded and said nothing.

“I can hold your hand, Doll.” Steve offered. “Do you think that would help?”

“Please.” You breathed, trying not to sound too childish. So, Steve wheeled his stool over to your side. You reached for his hand and held it with a vice like grip.

“Alright, you’re just going to feel a little pinch.” The dentist said as she poked a needle into your gums. “Great!” Now Captain Rogers you can stay there while [Y/N] gets numbed up but once we start doing the actually filling Andy and I will need some space to work.”

“You got it, Doc.” Steve promised. “You’re doing great, [Y/N]. Steve assured you. The hard part is over now.”

“Okay, [Y/N], are you ready?” Andy the hygienist asked.

“No.” You told him honestly.

“Captain Rogers is right,” Andy agreed. “the hard part is over. Just lay back and relax, you’ll be done soon.”

The remainder of your visit wasn’t terrible. Thanks to the lidocaine you heard more than you could feel. You were almost starting to find the whirl of the dental drill soothing before the dentist removed the tool and began filling in the cavity. At last you were offered another small cup of water to rinse your mouth and then the visit was over.  

You breathed a heavy sigh of relief and shakily reached for Steve’s hand as you climbed down from the dental chair. You leaned against him for support, not exactly feeling your best. The feeling would pass, you knew that much, but as your body came down from its state of shock you felt nauseous and dizzy.

“I’m proud of you, [Y/N].” Steve said as you walked down the hall together, away from the dental office. “What do you say I take you back to your room and we snuggle under the covers. I’ll put on a movie for us and you can watch it till you fall asleep?” He offered.

“I’d say, I love you, Steve.”

[my-whumpy-little-heart]

Llyr and the Pirates - Day 13

Day 13: Fishhooks

For @amonthofwhump​‘s Water Whump May, where I write a part of this story every day according to the prompt. Alright, a little late, but a longer part today as promised! The real good whump is coming tomorrow, but I accidentally wrote too much ominous dialogue to fit it in.

Oh, and this is the second whumper I’ve named after a knight of the round table; someone please stop me now lol Tag list: @spiffythespook​, @castielamigos-whump-side-blog​, @insanitywishes​, @whumpingonarainyday​ Content warnings: manhandling/noncon touching, threats of death

They stepped through a doorway and came out right in the area Llyr had entered through just earlier, and he could see both Ray and Hugh, halfway across the sand, now staring up at the unexpected company.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” the man in front of Llyr said, “how may I help you this fine evening? You look like you might be lost.” 

Ray made eye contact with the man, but turned its eyes to Llyr for just a second, shooting a concerned glance.

“Well, we’ve just crashed on the beach nearby and were looking for shelter and a missing crew member, but I see that you found him before we did. I’m really sorry if he’s done anything to offend you, but if you let him go now we’ll get out of your hair and I’ll handle him from there.” Ray said, face held in a blank mask of compliance even though fear and anxiety were hidden just beneath. 

“Mmh…” the man seemed to consider it for a moment, looking both other humans up and down. “...what did you say your names were?” Hugh and Ray shared a quick glance.

“We didn’t…” Hugh started, obviously considering questioning this person before realizing what a disadvantage he had in that situation. “...I’m Hugh Williams.”

“And I’m Captain Raymond Bates of The Thief’s Halyard.”

“Thief’s Halyard,” the man parroted thoughtfully, “Yes, that does sound right.”

“The name is only exaggerated of course,” Ray amended, waving his hands in front of him. “Keeps others from mistaking us for weaklings, though we try not to make a habit of outright thievery…”

“Raymond, I’m not sure I agree with you. I found the name fitting, really, considering how this little one seemed dead set on stealing right out from under our noses tonight, weren’t you?” It turned to Llyr, giving a wide, predatory smile.

“No, I didn’t,” he grumbled, “I thought it was abandoned. I just wanted to get dry.” 

“Oh, but apparently getting dry also involves digging through the chests of current residents to steal their possessions,” it responded dryly, and Llyr narrowed his eyes.

“I didn’t do that,” he insisted, “and I wouldn’t have even had the chance to before you all found me.”

“Really? So if I searched your pockets, you’re sure I wouldn’t find anything in there that proves what you did?” It turned to him with a curious tilt of the head and he paused. It felt like a trap. A dirty trick where he’d be found guilty whether he confessed or not. But he genuinely hadn’t taken anything from them, so there was no way to prove it in the first place.

So then why did this human still look so satisfied with itself?

“I. Didn’t. Do. Anything.” Llyr huffed through gritted teeth, and he felt the grip around his arms tighten.

“Alright, okay. We’re just going to make sure you’re telling the truth.” It raised its hands in a mocking surrender before gesturing to one of his men. It was shorter than Llyr, and possibly even shorter than Ray, but it still looked like it could snap his arm in two with the flick of a finger.

It wasted no time in checking his pockets, reaching first into the one in his shirt, then the ones in his pants. Llyr squirmed the whole way through, trying to get away from the invasive hands, but he was braced against someone else’s chest behind him, allowing the quick search. He was about to breathe a sigh of relief when the hands left, only to see something long, metallic, and shiny in the man’s hand. What the hell?

“Look familiar?” it held the chain up, metal glinting in the light of the lantern. There was a pendant hanging at the bottom that it grabbed and squinted at to read. “There’s an engraving here that reads… oh, huh. It’s your name, captain.”

Llyr’s breath catches in his throat as the leading man, the so called ‘captain’, leans over behind him. “Would you look at that? ‘Gawain Davis,’ it says. My precious, prized locket indeed.” it said, a thin frown across its face. “I keep that in my personal quarters at all times. You filthy wretch; did your foolish captain really send you snooping around in there?” Gawain asked, but Llyr was still staring in disbelief at the locket. He hadn’t stolen that, obviously, but he hadn’t even noticed anyone putting it in his pocket. It was the captain’s own too; did he have this planned the whole time?

“Knew it,” Hugh muttered, almost too quietly to hear, “Come on, Ray, we’re going. Leave the kid to the sharks and we’ll go find Mabel.” It tugged on Ray’s elbow, and Llyr looked up, shooting both of them a pleading glance. He didn’t want to die, and no matter their intentions, they hadn’t wanted him to either. They couldn’t leave him with these ruthless humans.

“No. We’re not leaving him. I don’t believe what Sir Gawain is saying,” it mocked the name specifically, but he wasn’t sure why, “because I didn’t order any of this. We crashed here on a smaller craft and need a dry place to sleep. I’m sure that’s what Llyr was thinking too.”

“Is that all you needed, then?” Gawain asked, contemplatively. Ray hesitated.

“...yes.” 

“Oh, we’re definitely open to helping, then, if that’s your problem!” it said, tone of voice flipped completely on its head, but his face still stone cold and impassive. Without warning, it reached for the sword around its waist, drew it, and laid the blade flat across Llyr’s neck. His breath caught in his throat, and his eyes went wide. This was it.

“Stop it! What the hell are you doing?!” Ray shouted, shifting its weight anxiously between feet. It looked like it was seconds away from taking off towards him, but was only held back by the threat held tight against Llyr’s throat.

“If you want him to live, you will stand completely still and hold your hands out, palms up.” Gawain commanded, voice chillingly cool again within a matter of seconds. The crew members that had been standing back came forward then, chains and manacles in their hands, just like the pair they’d forced on Llyr. 

Part of him wanted to whine and shout that it wasn’t worth it; they should just leave him to die and let that be the end of it… but the other part of him knew he wasn’t that brave.

No, that wasn’t it. He just didn’t care so much about these humans. Justifiably, too. One had already hurt him, and one was clearly planning to. So if they had to stay here and suffer with him, he wouldn’t be so upset.

He looked up to see Ray hesitantly holding out its hands, confusion and fear still clouding its eyes, but Hugh didn’t seem to be relenting just yet. It looked like it was about to bolt even as the sailors approached, and as soon as it seemed like they might try and force it into the cuffs, it did run. 

“Fuck this, I don’t care about the brat! Kill him if you wanna, I don’t care I don’t care-!” It only made it a few meters before two people were on it, wrestling it into the sand and wrenching a pained shout from it. When they finally secured the chains and lifted Hugh from the ground, Llyr saw that it’d landed directly on a splintering piece of wood and scratched up its chest which was now beading up with blood.

He stood very still now that both of the others had been restrained and the sword was still pressed against his neck. He expected it to cut in at any moment, bleeding him dry on its blade, but instead Gawain pulled it away and sheathed it, clean of blood.

“What do you want from us?” Ray asked, looking at Llyr, then back to the captain.

“From you? Nothing, really. I’ll give you your nice, dry night of sleep, but before that, both of you need to be taught a lesson on lying to a nobleman,” it scoffed, but that name didn’t mean very much to Llyr. Ray held its ground as well.

“I didn’t lie to you, and neither did he.”

“Do you have anything to genuinely prove that? Both of you seem to be spitting accusations and forgetting the locket I had to fish out of this brat’s pocket.” Gawain smiled when Ray didn’t respond, and took hold of the chain between Llyr’s wrists. 

“You being a nobleman means nothing,” it tried again, but even it seemed to realize this was futile. Hugh shook its head in disappointment.

“Oh, it doesn’t mean anything out on the open seas, of course. But if I were to take you back to the palace I’m not so sure they’d be so merciful to a lot of pirates like yourselves. You could all be dead right now. So, be grateful.”

Gawain yanked on the chain again and Llyr stumbled behind him to outside the ship where, surprisingly, the rain had nearly stopped. It was more of a mist through the air that dotted the landscape. The sun wasn’t up quite yet, but it was already lighter than it had been earlier. 

It led him over to a wet, puddling, sandy patch near the ship, seemingly testing it with its foot before deeming it alright for Llyr to stand on. Gawain looked up to the deck above where… there were ropes lowering down. What were those for? Who had set them up?

“Hands up, over your head,” it commanded, and he looked around shakily. The ropes were lower now, and on the edges there were sharp hooks, like fishhooks but larger, sharper, and more menacing. He swallowed nervously, raising shaky hands.

“What- what are those for?” 

“They’re to pull you out when we’re done.” it replied, simply, and he gave a puzzled look. Pull him out of what, exactly?

Llyr glanced around himself, feeling the sand shift and squish below his feet. It took him a few more seconds to realize he was sinking alarmingly quickly into it, but the panic only set in when he realized-

He couldn’t pull his feet out.

Next part

[missroserose]

We’ll Become Who We Meant To Be

Donation prompt #1.  For @ihni​.

“I think that we all do heroic things; but hero is not a noun, it’s a verb.”  --Robert Downey, Jr.

*

“Good morning,” Joyce Byers said with some irony.

She was sitting at the table in the darkened kitchen, lit only by the hood lamp over the aging stove and the bright cherry of her cigarette.  Steve glanced at the clock over the range; it was past one AM.  He avoided looking at the freezer, even though he knew the corpse of the demo-dog was gone; he’d buried it himself, yesterday.

“Sorry,” he said, felt a little like he was intruding on a private moment.  “I couldn’t sleep.”

Joyce smiled, looking for a moment like an old priestess, careworn but welcoming.  “That makes two of us.  Come on, sit down.”

Steve sat, gingerly—Joyce looked so tired, the perennial circles under her eyes even darker than usual.  Not that his own mug was any great work of art, in its current condition.  

As if sensing his thoughts, Joyce asked, “How’s your face?”

He gave an embarrassed sort of half-shrug.  The truth was, it hurt like a bitch.  “Nothing broken.  It’ll heal.”  A pause, as he scrambled for something to say.  “How’s Will?”

She gave a wry half-smile to match his shrug.  “He’ll heal, at least.”  A pause, as she took a drag on the cigarette, held it in for a moment, blew it out.  “Or he won’t.  But he’s a tough kid.  Tougher than people give him credit for.”

Steve thought of the sight that met him when he checked on the kids a minute ago, sleeping preteens draped over each other like puppies sharing warmth.  “He has good friends.”

“Better than yours were?”  Her question prodded at a less physical sort of bruise, and Steve winced.  Joyce shook her head in a vague apology.  “I’m sorry.  I don’t mean to pry.  But you seem awfully lonely.  The kids are great, but…”

Steve understood what she meant.  “I guess.  All my friends were...assholes, really.  They were assholes because I was an asshole.  Then...I fell in love with Nance, and she wanted...someone better.  Someone decent.”  The words started out hesitant, but soon began daisy-chaining together, one after the next, a magician’s scarf pulled from a sleeve.  “And for a little while I thought,  I could do it.  I can be that for her.  So I dumped my asshole friends.  I gave up on being the cool guy, tried to be a decent guy instead.  Tried to be the hero she needed.  And now—”  

He didn’t have to finish the story; they both knew how it turned out.  Joyce simply looked at him, the cherry brightening as she took another drag.

Steve shrugged again, suddenly bashful.  “I was just fooling myself, anyway.  I’ve never been that type.  I think—”  His voice cracked a little, but Joyce pretended not to notice, for which Steve found himself decidedly grateful.  “Honestly, I think she was right to dump me.”

The words sat between them, heavy pebbles polished to a high sheen by their constant tumbling in Steve’s mind.

After a moment, Joyce reached into her pocket and handed over the pack of cigarettes.

“Do you want to be a hero?”   

*

Behind the mall, standing just upwind of the dumpsters and sweating in the humid June afternoon, Steve doesn’t feel like a hero.

He feels…ordinary.  An ordinary wage slave, working an ordinary gig in a mall that, despite what the ads on TV would have you believe, is about as ordinary as you can get.  Dozens of them, all across Middle America.

He finds the thought—the anonymity—oddly comforting.

Which doesn’t make the job itself suck any less.  He lingers for a moment, working up the courage to cross the parking lot in his ridiculous sailor uniform.  There’s just enough wind to ruffle through his hair, dry the sweat that somehow always accumulates there despite the mall’s air-conditioning.  Taking the trash out is possibly the least glamorous part of an unglamorous job, but Steve appreciates precisely one thing about it—it means his shift is over, which means he can finally ditch the stupid fucking hat.  

He takes a couple of breaths, savoring the warm soupy air after hours spent in refrigerated, fluorescent-lit hell.  He fingers the pack of cigarettes in his pocket, debating whether to light one.  He knows Dustin would get on his back about it—haven’t you seen the news?  Those things will give you cancer, Steven!—but he’d like to see Dustin do this job without something to help him keep his cool—

“Boy, we’ve talked about this.  You know good and well what happens when you mouth off in front of your sister like that.  You want her to learn your disrespectful habits?”

The words only half-register in Steve’s distracted state, the anger in them leaving more of an impression than the actual meaning.  It’s the response that catches his ear—he knows that obstinate baritone.  “Are we talking about the same Maxine?  She doesn’t need my help to be smart.  She just keeps it bottled up around you and Susan.”  

That voice doesn’t sound like Steve’s ever heard it.  It’s…whiny, almost.  Petulant, with an undercurrent of something he can’t quite place, something that’s wrong in it the way demodogs were wrong in the junkyard.  Something that doesn’t fit.

“Then perhaps you should learn from her example.”  The voices are coming from round the corner, where (Steve knows, because it’s an excellent spot for a smoke break) two protrusions along the mall’s side make a convenient alcove.

Steve knows he shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but he tiptoes a little closer anyway, careful to keep out of sight.  

“Sure, if you want me to act like a little bitch, I’ll start studying right the hell up—”

Punches, Steve has had reason to discover, sound nothing at all like they do in the movies.  The noise is somewhere between a slap and a thud—the tangible thwack of skin hitting skin, the darker, more visceral thump of the bones beneath colliding with barely a thin cushion of meat between them.  Steve’s gut clenches, and without realizing he’d made the decision, he finds himself rounding the corner.  ”Hey!  What’re you—“

He hasn’t seen Billy Hargrove since graduation—since before then, really; Hargrove hadn’t bothered to show up to the ceremony, and Steve, who had endured what felt like hours of smiling and shaking his father’s friends’ hands, had found himself a little envious.  Now he stands against the wall, posture defiant despite the fingers gathered in the collar of his t-shirt.  His eyes meet Steve’s, widen, something of that same wrongness in them.  “Harrington?” he says, his voice rough as if the word had been dragged out via fishhook—then his gaze drops, perhaps in preparation for the fist that’s pulled back, ready to strike again.

Steve follows that fist along its arm back to its owner.  He doesn’t recognize the man, and there’s not much resemblance—broader build, haircut that might’ve once been military, square jaw.  But the sudden hollow sensation in Steve’s stomach, as the man’s intense blue-eyed gaze turns on him, is horribly familiar.

This has to be Billy’s father.

It’s not his business.  This is clearly a family affair.  It’s not on him to interrupt.  He should turn around and pretend he didn’t see anything.  It’s not his place.  He shouldn’t get involved.  People will be angry at him if he tries to step in.  He’s wearing a fucking sailor suit, for god’s sake—

Billy’s lip is bleeding.

And Billy’s father—is smiling.

The smile has an edge to it, a glitter like the fresh-cut edge of rusted rebar.  It reminds Steve of his own joyless grin, captured in that stupid commercial for everyone in Hawkins to see in between reruns of M*A*S*H—and Steve’s hit with a terrible sense of deja vu, waits for the man to throw his head back.  Hears Billy’s wild laughter in his head.  I’ve been waiting to meet this King Steve everyone’s been talking about—

But he doesn’t laugh, only lets go of Billy’s collar, turns.  Straightens.  “Ahh.  You must be the Harrington boy.”  He takes a step towards Steve.  “I’ve heard a bit about you.  Seems you got a couple good hits in on Billy here last fall before he laid you out.”

Despite the casual tone, despite the sweltering heat, Steve can feel the words trickle down his spine, icy trails left as they pool cold in his gut.  He wants to bluster, he wants to cower, he wants to run; he can’t move, doesn’t even know how his voice will sound when he opens his mouth.  “I’m sorry—”

The man waves a hand, the same hand that had been pulled back in a fist just moments ago.  “No, no.  No need to be sorry.  Boys will be boys, and my son—” here he glances back at Billy, who’s staring resolutely at the asphalt—“has an attitude problem.”  He runs a hand through his hair, adjusts his collar.  “In any case, I should be getting back to the family.  I’ll let the two of you work things out.”  A hand comes down on Steve’s shoulder, somehow far heavier than it should be.  “And Billy?”

Steve doesn’t miss the way Billy flinches when the man says his name.  “Yes?”

“Don’t be too long.  I expect to see you in an hour for the movie.”

They stand for a moment after the man leaves, minutes or hours or days.  The hair on the back of Steve’s neck eventually lays back down.  Billy still refuses to meet Steve’s eyes.

Finally, Billy speaks.  “Go on then.”  He doesn’t look up.  His voice sounds more normal, just…tired.  Defeated.  “You heard him.  Take a swing.”

Steve blinks.  And, for a moment…

…but that, as Dustin would say, is the Dark Side talking.  And didn’t the green guy with the big ears have something to say about that?  Forever will it dominate your destiny…

“I’m sorry,” he says instead.

Billy finally looks up again, and as those blue eyes meet his, all thoughts of Star Wars are immediately gone from Steve’s head.  If there’s one thing Billy shares with his father, it’s that ability to project danger.

“Don’t be sorry,” Billy spits.  “Just punch me and get it over with.  We both know you want to.”

“And have you lay me out again?”  Steve scoffs.  “Thanks, but no thanks.”

“I won’t.”  Billy lifts his chin a little.  “I can take my licks.  I’m not a pussy.”

And Steve…is tempted.  Curls his fingers into a fist as he imagines the deeply satisfying slap-thud of landing a punch on Billy’s jaw.  Payback for days spent with a swollen face, weeks of watching his supposed friends drift away, months of frustration at the constant snubs and taunts and put-downs.

It’d be a good thing, in the end, says a voice in Steve’s head.  A preemptive strike.  Show the enemy your strength, deter them from attacking in the future and causing greater damage.  Heroic, even—

Do you want to be a hero?

Steve takes a breath.  Uncurls his fingers.

“It’s not right,” he says.  “Doesn’t matter if it’s him or me.  You don’t deserve that shit.”

Billy’s eyes flash at that, and he pushes off from the wall.  Gets up in Steve’s face.  “Don’t tell me what I fucking deserve, Harrington.  You don’t know shit about me.”  He jabs a finger in Steve’s chest.  “You don’t know what I’m like.  What I’m capable of.  Don’t you ever fucking pity me—”

Steve holds up his hands, steps back.  Is about to turn on his heel.  Serves him right for trying to be a decent human being to this asshole—

Billy’s hand is shaking.

He glances at Billy again.  Really looks him in the face.  In his eyes.  And something there causes a fluttering hollow, deep in his stomach.  An alien feeling. 

Carefully, exaggeratedly, he looks down, then up.  “Do I look like I’m in a position to pity anyone?”

He watches as Billy’s gaze rakes over his outfit.  Watches his expression turn from angry, to vulnerable, to confounded.  “...the fuck are you wearing?”

Slowly, Steve reaches into his pocket.  Pulls out the cigarettes.

“Tell you what,” he says, keeping his voice casual.  Taps out a cigarette, holds it out to Billy, a peace offering in a white cylinder.  “I’ll tell you if you tell me what your father was so pissed about.”  

“Like he needs a fuckin’ reason,” Billy mutters, but he takes the cigarette between his lips, reaches into his own pocket for a lighter.  “I’m disrespectful, is all.  A bad seed.  Anyone can tell.”  Flicks it, once, twice, but his hands are shaking too hard to get a proper catch on the wick.

“Here, let me,” Steve says on instinct, reaches up to help.  

He only means to take the lighter from Billy, but his fingers brush Billy’s hand, and he nearly jumps at the sensation.  Skin on skin, tingling, almost electric.

Billy goes still.  Steve flicks his eyes back up to Billy’s face, half afraid he’s having some kind of fit, but he’s breathing—rapid and shallow, blue eyes fixed on the lighter, on the place where their hands touch.  Those eyes raise to meet his—not quite a question.

Not quite a denial, either.

Delicately, Steve wraps his hands around Billy’s.  He flicks the wheel on the lighter, holds Billy’s hand steady as he guides it to the cigarette.  The space between them is so quiet, Steve can hear the paper shrivel beneath the heat.

Belatedly, Billy sucks in air, lights the cig properly.  Steve snaps the lighter shut, withdraws his hands.  Waits for the awkward moment to pass, for Billy to step away.

He doesn’t.  Billy pockets the lighter.  Looks up at Steve again.   And there’s something…not wrong in this eyes, this time, but different.  Clearer, like a window that’s been cleaned of grime.

“It was Max.”  The words are mumbled around the cigarette, barely more than a bitter whisper.  He takes a drag, turns his head to the side to blow it out.  “Little bitch was pocketing a lipstick.  Neil was already in a mood, was about to round the corner and see her.  So I—I said some shit.”  He shrugs, looks down at the bloodstained cigarette between his fingers.  “I don’t remember what.  Doesn’t really matter.  It got his attention.”

Steve feels something sour turn over in his gut.  “Does he hit her too?”

A flare in Billy’s eyes, the usual defiance reappearing; for a moment Steve is convinced he’s gone too far.  Steels himself for more venomous words, maybe for a punch.  

Then Billy’s eyes brighten again, and—a tear slides down his cheek.  

“Not yet.”  A trembling hand to his lips, another drag on the cigarette.  “Not ever, so long as I’m around.”  

Their gaze has gotten a little too intimate.  Steve sucks in a breath, moves to the side, takes a few steps over to the wall.  Leans with his back against it, pulls out a cigarette for himself.  Billy joins him, and they smoke together for a moment, in silence.

Steve’s emotions are a jumble.  Surprise, that Billy would care so much.  Anger, that this would be the choice that defines anyone’s life.  Fear, for Billy and for Max.  And something else, something he can’t quite define, but that fills his chest with sweet-scented air.

Awe, maybe.

“Some people would call that heroic,” he finally says.

Billy gives a sort of half-smile, though it’s more bitter than sad.  “Yeah, well.  We’re family.  We’re all we’ve got.”

Steve shakes his head.  “Not true.”  He bumps his shoulder, lightly, against Billy’s.  “You’ve got me too.”  He laughs, then, just as bitter.  “For what that’s worth.  No college.  No apartment.  Three bucks an hour scooping ice cream.  No future.”  He makes a sad little jazz-hands motion.  “Ta daaa.  King Steve, at your service.”

Billy turns, takes a moment to savor the sight of Steve in his uniform.  “Could be worse,” he says.

“Oh?  How, exactly, could it be worse?”

A little of the old cockiness comes back into his stance, as he shoots Steve a wink.  “You look fuckin’ adorable in that suit.”

*

“Do you want to be a hero?”

Steve had smoked his cigarette halfway down by the time he answered.  “Doesn’t everyone?  Fight evil?  Save the day?  Get the girl?  All the movie stuff?”

It was Joyce’s turn to shrug as she tapped her butt out in the ashtray.  “I guess it depends on what you mean by ‘hero’.  Some people want all of that.  Some people prefer things…quieter.  They want to have friends, and a life, and maybe someone to love.  But put those people in danger, put the people they love in danger…and they’ll do anything to save them.  Face down a monster.  Spread a rumor.  Take a beating from a bully.”  She pauses, looks at his face meaningfully.  “Does that make them less heroic?”

Steve hadn’t known that blushing could hurt.  “I dunno.  Maybe those people could’ve done more.  Maybe…what they did wasn’t enough, in the end.”

To his surprise, Joyce sat back in her chair, thought it over.  “Maybe they’re not heroes, then.”  She nodded, as if she’d come to some conclusion, and smiled at Steve.  “Maybe they’re just decent people.”

*

“There is only one heroism in the world:  to see the world as it is, and to love it.”  --Romain Rolland

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