#Muscle Team Fuzz

[charliemwrites]

SpecGru au part 9!! (Getting back into the groove of it, but happy to be writing for it again!)

Content: safe/sane/consensual sexual content - fingering (reader receiving)

You wake up warm, in the dark. Pleasantly drowsy and heavy.

There’s a big body behind you, a line of muscle and heated skin. It takes a moment to remember it’s not your captain behind you, but your Nitko, snoring softly against the nape of your neck. He’s cuddled you in close and tight, a thick arm tight around your waist, wrist nestled between your breasts. His hand, broad and calloused, is curled lightly against your collarbone.

His arm is under your head, a perfect plush pillow. You run your thumb over the ruined tattoo wrapping his forearm. He says it used to be a skull, but you can’t ever make out the design with the heavy scarring interrupting the ink.

“любовь,” he rasps into your ear.

You press back against him, twist your head to kiss the lax muscle beneath your head. The change in your breathing must have awoken him. He squeezes you a bit tighter for a moment, feeling like an oversized teddy bear. You smile, realize he can feel it when he puffs with amusement.

“детеныш,” he murmurs, lips brushing tender skin.

You sigh, try to dig your voice out of slumber, but it’s slow to come these days. Even when you haven’t had a bad night, you have trouble speaking in the morning. None of your team minds – but especially not Nikto, who hardly ever speaks more than a handful of sentences a day.

For a while, the two of you doze, breaths sinking, enjoying the time darkness before daylight heralds the return of his mask. You don’t mind it, of course, respect his need for privacy and protection, his discomfort with the scars of his torture. But you won’t feel guilty for enjoying the rare access to his mouth, either.

His fingertips begin to trace over the curve of your collarbone, a featherlight caress that makes you shiver. Eventually his palm travels up to your throat, cradles you there, thumb against your quickening pulse. Not gripping or restraining. Just holding, measuring. You tilt your chin back to give him access, finally manage a soft hum against his palm.

“Can I take care of you?” he asks.

“Hmm?”

You almost mourn the loss of his hand on your throat as it maps down your bare body. But then it stops at the soft hair of your pussy, curling almost playfully. You inhale softly, a thrill jolting through your stomach, sinking low and simmering in your gut.

“пожалуйста,” you whisper.

You’re already warm and wet for him, know it as soon as guides your thigh up and over his own. Leftover pleasure from your private time with the captain and a night with your ass cradled against Nikto’s pelvis. You grind back against him now, feel the delicious bulge of his cock parting your cheeks.

He hushes you, peppering kisses along the line of your neck. “Relax. Let me take care of you.”

You stop pushing back against him, making your body go lax and compliant again. He murmurs praise against your skin, a single finger dipping into your slit, skating over your slippery, swollen clit. You gasp softly, slumping back against him, spreading your thighs a bit wider.

There’s nothing hurried about it, just a gentle, coaxing pressure and leisurely circles. Almost hypnotic, the novel texture of his finger pad setting your nerves alight. You’re still sensitive from the previous night, melting in his arms as pleasure quickly turns your hazy brain to cotton fuzz. When the pleasure starts to crest, he changes the rhythm, rubbing circles in the opposite direction. Doesn’t stop the climax altogether but delays it, spools it out.

You make a soft noise, not sure if your disappointed by the denial or grateful that he’s drawing the pleasure out. When he’s treating you like this, the build up is just as good as the orgasm itself. You could live forever in moments like this, soft and blurry and riding on a constant thrum of ecstasy.

“Easy, easy,” he soothes, “let me take care of you.”

You squeeze his arm in agreement, moaning softly as he changes the direction again. He sucks gently at the sweet spot behind your ear, nothing that’ll leave a mark – but enough to sweeten the pleasure into something syrupy, dripping from your lips on humid breaths. His pace never changes, never hurries or rushes you to the end. Like he could spend all morning playing with your pussy too. Just lets it build and build…

“Whenever you’re ready, любовь,” he murmurs. “I won’t deny you anything.”

The pleasure crests like sunrise, liquid gold pouring over you. You moan, voice pitching low in your throat, none of the desperate high pitch of the night before. His teeth sink gently into the spot he’s been lavishing. No pain, just a pleasant ache that makes you tingle from head to toe.

Nikto doesn’t stop until you whimper softly, tapping twice at his arm that you’re overstimulated. He stops instantly, eases away, squeezes your hip and thighs until you catch your breath.

“Alright?” he asks.

“A-alright,” you breathe, craning your neck back to receive a languid kiss from his rough lips. “Do you want to…?”

“Not today,” he replies, sparing a moment to adjust himself in his underwear. “Just wanted to be good to you.”

You hum in understanding, wriggling around to press your hands to his scarred chest. “You’re always good to me.”

He hums, drops a lingering kiss on your forehead. “Need help cleaning up?”

“No, love, thank you though,” you murmur. “Should I grab your mask while I’m up?”

“It’s on the dresser.”

“Got it.”

You sneak one last kiss before shuffling out of bed.

--

Price’s arms are crossed tight when Simon files into his office with the rest of the 141. His expression could be carved of stone, jaw tight. There’s no evidence of it, but Simon can tell he’s been pacing. Has the grim look of a mission with shit odds and no backup, but they’ll have to make it work anyway.

“I talked to her captain,” he begins without preamble.

Simon stills, doesn’t acknowledge the guilty glance Johnny shoots him. Gaz audibly swallows and tucks his hands into his pockets.

“He’s agreed not to contact Laswell for an exchange.”

Something in Simon’s chest loosens. If your captain contacts Laswell to get a new team assigned to the mission, it means you’re gone again. Beyond their reach. He could have made peace if he never saw you again. But to have you here, within arm’s reach – even if you can barely look at any of them right now… well, you always saw reason once you got the worst of your feelings out.

Simon knows he’s banking on your forgiving nature, but the 141 was your first team. The fact that you’re still so angry with them means they still mean something to you, even after all this time.

“This needs to be put to rest,” Price continues. “I know we’ve all got bad feelings about what happened, but it can’t keep interfering with the job.”

Johnny and Gaz duck their heads, ashamed. Simon’s own chest twists. In retrospect, throwing his fight with you was stupid and desperate. He had been hoping that a few good swings would soften you up to a real conversation – but he shouldn’t have discounted your pride. Especially when it comes to him.

“He’s agreed to talk to her, see if she’s willing to hash things out with any of us – but under the caveat that we keep it professional.”

He rocks back on his heels, pins them each with a hard look. The kind that promises retribution.

“Whatever you’ve got to say, save it for after hours and hope she doesn’t swing on you. Dismissed.”

Even Johnny is quiet as the three exit Price’s office, a somber frown on his face. Simon doesn’t wait to ask him what he’s thinking; he already knows. Johnny may have put up a haughty front earlier, but eventually his true feelings will surface. The hurt and guilt, the confusion and fear. He and Gaz loved you in a way Simon couldn’t manage. Even if you’re still pissed, Johnny’s such an earnest sort that you’ll soften to him eventually.

Same with Gaz. Forgiveness is a light at the end of that particular tunnel.

It’s a coin toss for Price, your poker face is especially blank when it comes to him.

But for Simon…

Simon’s made peace for a long time that there’s little redemption for him. On Earth or anywhere else. With you… at the very least you deserve an explanation, even if it doesn’t absolve him of anything. You should know that his intentions were never to have you removed, by your own volition or otherwise.

Maybe he wasn’t too far off with the initial idea – let you get the anger out. He’s the one that deserves it, not Johnny or Gaz or even Price, really. Went about it the wrong way, maybe, but not a bad idea all around.

So, he doesn’t make the turn to the 141 barracks. He pivots instead for the SpecGru hall.

It’s quiet, all the doors closed, with no indication of who is staying in which rooms. But Simon doesn’t need it. He knows that yours is the third door down on the right, across from Russ.

He pauses outside, stares at the cheap woodgrain as he loads words like bullets.

Raises his hand to knock, knuckles white beneath his gloves—

“Daddy!”

He freezes. Denial flares hot and bright for a moment, a desperate hope that he didn’t actually hear that. But then it comes again, that desperate, needy pitch he remembers on his weakest, loneliest nights—

“D-daddy!” your voice slithers out from beneath another door, wraps around Simon’s throat and strangles him. A hitched moan follows, one that he knows from experience means you’re out of your mind on pleasure.

And it’s like his mind is working against him, because he picks up the little, damning noises he didn’t notice before. The obscene slap of skin on skin, the deeper, quieter cadence of a man’s voice. It only takes a moment to recognize it as your captain’s, the rasp of it unmistakable, even if individual words are inaudible.

Simon feels his stomach curdle and sink, chest burning with something he can’t identify. Anger? Jealousy? Shame? He can’t figure it out – not right now, right here. With the sound of your impending climax making you louder and louder, clawing memories from his brain. A life he should have had with you, a relationship he never had the strength to acknowledge.

He turns on his heel and storms away, almost shoulder-checking Nova on his way.

--

Nova greets you rosy and bright at breakfast later that morning, a coffee for you already in hand. It’s such a sweet gesture that you can’t help yourself. You curl an arm around her waist and kiss her, licking the taste of too-sweet tea from her lips. Your precious girl.

“Morning, pretty thing,” you hum.

There’s a blush blooming high in her cheeks as she pecks your nose. “Mornin,’ babes. Made it right?”

You accept the mug from her, take a quick sip. Not too hot, just the right amount of cream and sugar – you even catch a hint of cinnamon, her calling card for your drinks.

“Perfect,” you reply, kissing her forehead, “thank you, love.”

She hums, sends you off to Keegan and your captain with a little pat on the ass. You sit at the table with a warm greeting, leaning into Keegan when he curls an arm around your shoulders. In the kitchenette, Nova and Nikto are exchanging their own good mornings, a sly grin on her face as she teases him.

“Here, baby,” your captain calls, sliding a plate of pastries your way. “You haven’t eaten since dinner.”

You tuck into a muffin while he and Keegan continue chatting – sounds like they’re discussing plans for the day. Training schedules and dealing with the 141. It’s too early for you to be bothered by talk of your former teen, so you just listen quietly, enjoying your breakfast. Nova takes a seat beside you, snuggling in extra close with her thigh against yours.

“How was your sleepover with the cap last night?” you ask.

“Cozy. We watched one of Keegan’s true crime docs,” she replies happily. “Missed you and Nik, though.”

You smile, knock your knee lightly into hers. “How about you and I start that new season of Doctor Who tonight? I’ll do your hair while we’re at it.”

She lights up. “Yeah? It’s a date.”

She flicks a glance over your shoulder, you turn and catch Keegan watching you both, eyes half-lidded. Fond, warm. With the mask, he can be inscrutable to others, but you know how to read the light in his eyes. Never knew you could understand someone so well when they want you to know them.

You only realize that Ghost was there in the doorway when you notice the dark flicker of him walking away.

First | Previous | Next

Masterlist

[fratttymatty]

Stereotyped Part 2

(All characters are 18+)

Not everyone forgot.

A small group still remembered the real Jared and Mia — the soft-spoken, nerdy, queer teens who used to spend lunch break debating Star Trek morality and designing custom D&D characters. Their disappearance, and the grotesque rise of Matty and Cassie, hadn’t gone unnoticed.

The ones who remembered?

Sam, the sharp-witted programmer who’d had a quiet crush on Jared.

Nick, the gentle artist who sketched queer comic heroes in secret.

John, an anime-loving introvert with a heart of gold.

Mike, a soft-spoken violinist who always stood by his friends.

David, a closeted gamer who lived for late-night raids and Reddit threads.

And Ashton, who'd once told Jared, trembling, that he thought they might be more than friends someday.

Together, they became The Resistance.

They met in the old library basement after school — the one with flickering lights and dusty CRT monitors — and pored over everything. Magic symbols, memory manipulation theories, ancient myths. Ashton was convinced they could reverse the transformations. That they could bring Jared and Mia back from the cheerleader-and-jock hell they'd been trapped in.

“We just need to reach them,” he whispered one evening, eyes wild. “Like, speak their true names or something. Deep down, they’re still them. I know it.”

They even tried a spell — a homemade incantation scrawled in Sharpie on a scroll of printer paper. They lit candles. They chanted. They believed.

But they didn’t know that Matty had been watching.

He was the leader now — not just of the school’s social elite, but something bigger. Something darker. The same magic that had transformed him was in his blood now, and it responded to threats.

When he kicked down the basement door, the air shifted. His towering frame filled the space like a monster from a video game, broad shoulders wrapped in his black hoodie, MAGA hat twisted backward like a crown.

“What the hell are you losers doin’?” he barked, stepping forward, football in one hand, glowing faintly. “Tryin’ to make me a nerd again? Tryin’ to make Cassie wear cargo pants or somethin’? Nah, bro.”

His voice was poison, laced with mocking power. “Y’all really think you can stop me? You think I care who I used to be?”

The others shrank back. But Ashton stood tall. “You were our friend, Jared! You loved who you were — and who we were!”

Matty smirked. “That guy was a faggot. I’m a fuckin’ beast now.”

The moment the words left his mouth, the football in his hand exploded with light — a surge of energy that slammed through the room like a sonic wave. The six boys screamed, their bodies writhing as they were ripped apart and rebuilt from the inside out.

Their glasses shattered. Their shirts tore as muscles erupted across their frames. Spines straightened, posture widened. Gay, nerdy softness burned away in seconds, replaced by testosterone-soaked swagger.

Their clothes melted into varsity jackets, tank tops, joggers, and gym shoes. Minds fuzzed over with static and dumb, aggressive confidence.

Sam became Ethan — cocky, flirtatious, with a backwards snapback and biceps he couldn't stop flexing. Nick became Caleb — obsessed with deadlifts and creatine, always down to “smash chicks or weights.” John became Oscar — tall, quiet, but with the blank stare of a jock who'd taken too many protein supplements. Mike became Evan — the bench-pressing prankster who loved locker room talk. David became Josh — dumb, loud, and totally convinced his pecs were more important than calculus. Ashton became Leo — the worst of them all. Arrogant, homophobic, and completely loyal to Matty.

“Damn,” Matty grinned as he looked over them. “Y’all are slayin’, bros. Welcome to the team.”

The new jocks looked around, blinking in confusion — and then laughing, high-fiving each other, punching shoulders and bragging about gym routines.

The Resistance was dead.

Now, it was Matty’s Crew — the school’s new kings. Seven 10/10 alpha jocks, straight as hell, dumb as rocks, and ready to bully anyone who looked like who they used to be.

When Cassie strutted into the basement to see the results, she squealed. “Like, oh-em-gee, babe! You did it!”

Matty kissed her, hard and messy. “Told you, babe. No more weirdos in my school.”

And so, the last hope was crushed. The old world forgotten.

Now, there was just protein, gym selfies, MAGA hats, and cheerleader drama.

Forever.

(Ethan, Leo, Caleb)

(Oscar, Evan, Josh)

But Matty was their leader.

[miaaaxxz]

Lucky | LN4

summary: After a bad year and a Grand Slam win, she’s not sure how to feel. But he sees her, even when she’s not sure she sees herself.

word count: 1.0K

tennis champ. formula 1 driver. one night in Paris.

It’s been an hour since you won Roland Garros, and you’re still shaking. Your fingers are sticky with champagne, your voice is wrecked from a karaoke session you barely remember, and your legs feel like they’re moving on autopilot. The club is loud.

Your team is still screaming at the DJ to play “Freed from Desire” again, like the song personally won the final. And maybe it did. You’re not sure anymore.

You know you shouldn't drink. But what are you supposed to do, refuse champagne when you’ve just won a Grand Slam? Exactly.

It’s hot there. Your skin is damp, your heart’s still racing from the match, or maybe the alcohol. Either way, you’re dizzy.

That’s probably why you don’t see him until you’re already crashing into his chest.Your hand shoots out instinctively, grabbing onto his forearm to steady yourself. It’s solid. Warm. Muscle under soft fabric. And he smells, oh, he smells good. Something dark and clean.

“Sorry,” you croak, and wince immediately. Your voice is half-gone.And then you look up.

Of course. Because it’s not a real Roland Garros final unless there’s at least one Formula 1 driver in the crowd. But you didn’t expect to see it here too.

“You good?” he asks, leaning down so you can hear him over the music. His mouth is close to your ear, and you feel his breath against your skin.You nod. “Yeah. Don’t worry.”

“I’m Lando,” he says.You let out a soft laugh. “I know. I’m Y/N.”His lips curl into a half-smile.“I know.”

Of course he knows. You’ve seen him at your last few matches, always alone, always watching.

“Nice to officially meet you,” you say, a little too stiff, a little too late. The words come out awkward, and you immediately hate them.You don’t wait to see if he responds. You push past a group of people dancing and make your way toward the toilet.

Your mascara’s smudged, your cheeks are flushed, and your eyes look wild. You splash cold water on your face and breathe. One. Two. Three.

When you step out, your team spots you immediately. “Here’s our champ!” someone shouts, and suddenly you’re pulled back into their orbit.

They’re all smiling now. Wide, genuine, glowing. Like they’ve waited for this just as long as you have. Maybe longer.

This year was hell. You know it. They know it. And for once, the universe gave you a little win. A big win.You try to enjoy it.

But then, you feel it.That invisible tug on your spine. Like someone’s watching you. You scan the crowd, subtle, careful not to look too paranoid. Nobody’s looking at you.

Still, the feeling lingers. Heavy. Strange.You shake it off. You’re just tired. Or tipsy. Or both.

Hours blur by singing, dancing, someone pouring tequila directly into your mouth. You smile. You pretend. You keep going.Until you can’t.

Your body gives up before your mind does. Your legs ache, your head spins.You lean against the bar, gripping the edge like it might disappear. Your vision fuzzes at the edges. The music warps. The lights flicker too fast. You can’t see.You can’t hear.

“You okay?" A voice. Close. Familiar. Low. Same question from the same person. You blink, slowly turning your head.

He’s right behind you. Lando. One eyebrow raised, that same unreadable expression on his face, somewhere between concern and amusement.You open your mouth to say yes, because that’s what you always say. You’re fine. You’re strong. You just won Roland Garros, for God’s sake, how could you not be okay? But nothing comes out.

He steps a little closer, and now you can see him properly. He’s not sweaty like everyone else. His shirt is creased at the collar and the sleeves are slightly rolled, like he’s been here long enough.

“You don’t look okay,” he says quietly. You let out a laugh that’s more like a sigh. “That obvious?”

“Only to someone paying attention.”You blink slowly, and your fingers loosen their grip on the bar. You hate that his voice is the only thing cutting through the noise. Hate that it’s soothing in a way it shouldn’t be.

“I think I need air,” you admit, your voice nearly drowned by the music.He nods once. No hesitation. “Come on.” You don’t ask where. You don’t argue. You just follow.

He leads you through the crowd past a group of sweaty dancers, past your team who barely notices you slipping out, and toward a narrow hallway that smells like mint and spilled gin. A door opens, and suddenly the club is behind you.You’re outside.

It’s still Paris. Still loud. But different loud. Wind instead of body heat.You breathe.

Cool air hits your face and you tilt your head back like it might settle everything inside you. Your pulse, your thoughts, the aftershock of a win that hasn’t even sunk in.Lando stands next to you, arms crossed loosely, leaning against the wall.

“You deserve it. Your win. After everything,” he says, like he’s been reading your mind since you stepped outside.

You scoff, your head tipping slightly as you lean back against the cool wall of the building. The air helps, kind of. The champagne hasn’t quite left your system, and your knees still feel like they don’t trust you.“Maybe,” you say, eyes half-closed. “Or maybe I just won because she wasn’t at her best.”

You’re surprised how easy it is to say it out loud.How much of it has been sitting in your throat all night.Lando’s quiet for a second, then shifts his weight so he’s standing right in front of you. You look up, slowly,and meet his eyes.

“Do you actually believe that?” he asks, gentle.You let out a breath. “Sometimes it’s easier to believe I got lucky. That way people don't have many expectations from you and they are not that disappointed when you lose.”

“And when you win?”You shrug, your head rolling lightly against the wall. “Then I guess I just have luck”He watches you carefully, his brows drawing together like he’s trying to figure out what part of you actually believes what you’re saying.

“You didn’t win because of luck,” he says eventually. “You didn’t even win because she had a bad day. You won because you fought harder.”You smile, slow and tired. “You sound very sure about that.”

“I was there,” he says simply. “You didn’t fluke it.” You look at him for a moment, the streetlight making his eyes look warmer than usual.

part 2

author's note: This is my first time trying to write, I hope the action doesn't feel rushed :)

[cheeseatlantic]

I DOMT KNOW WHAT TO CALL THIS BUT ITS ANGST

Pain hits first.

White-hot and blooming, a flare that rips through his side like someone shoved a steel rod through his ribs and left it there. No sound at first, just a rush of pressure and the wind punched from his lungs. Then the noise catches up — the gunfire, the shouting, the thunder of boots against wet concrete.

“Ghost’s hit—!”

No time. No fucking time to die here.

He falls hard — hip first, then elbow, sliding on cracked tile and dust. The whole safehouse is crumbling around them. Intel was wrong. Reinforcements came early, heavy. And now they’re boxed in, with walls thin as paper and no evac window.

Ghost’s fingers twitch. Reach. Drag.

He claws himself behind a broken slab of rebar and wall, biting down hard on a grunt as he presses his palm to his side. Warm blood coats his glove. It’s bad. Bad enough he knows without even checking — he won’t make it out of this.

And the comms are down. Of course they are.

He taps the side of his earpiece. Static.

Nothing.

⸻

He blinks hard, forcing the grey fuzz from the edge of his vision. Forces himself upright enough to get eyes on the hallway. The rest of the team is moving — he can see them in flashes between pillars and debris. Johnny’s yelling something. Price is at the far end shouting orders, voice hoarse and cracking.

They don’t know he’s gone down.

Good.

Good.

They don’t need to see him like this. Crumpled. Leaking. Slower than he’s ever been. He’d only slow them down.

So he stays down. Keeps his rifle up. Keeps cover on the flank, picking off one target, then another. Then another. Muscles screaming with every pull of the trigger. It’s muscle memory now — nothing more. One shot. Reset. Breathe.

Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Just a little longer.

Then it gets quiet.

Too quiet.

The others are gone — or maybe out of range. Maybe the last of them escaped. He can’t hear them anymore.

Only the sound of his own breathing. Wet. Rattling.

His rifle tips. He grabs at it again, but his hands aren’t listening. His arms feel like they’re underwater — slow and numb.

He blinks again.

Everything’s getting darker.

He leans back against the wall and lets his head fall forward, resting against his chest, the mask still stuck tight to his face. The ache in his ribs is bone-deep now. Echoes through every inch of him like a tolling bell.

This is it.

He’s dying.

Alone.

⸻

His fingers twitch toward his vest. He fumbles with the zipper. Gets it open on the second try. He digs past the spare ammo, the crumpled field dressings, the empty magazine pouch — until he finds it.

The folded square of paper.

He unfolds it slowly.

It’s the photo he printed two missions ago. One of you, blurry, taken in the hallway of your flat. You’d been laughing at something he said — real, full-body laughter, the kind that softened all your sharp edges. He hadn’t even told you he took it.

Didn’t need to.

It was just for him.

Something to carry in the field. To keep the nightmares at bay. To remind him that not everything about him was bloody and wrong.

He stares at it now. At your eyes. That stupid hoodie you always wore. The way your mouth turned at the corner when you smiled for real.

His throat goes tight. The pain’s worse now. Deep. Inside.

I didn’t come home.

He swallows hard.

You waited. And I didn’t come home.

⸻

He wants to say something. Anything. But there’s no one to hear it.

His mouth opens. A dry rasp escapes. Almost a laugh.

“You’re still waitin’,” he murmurs, voice barely audible beneath the wheeze of blood in his lungs. “Christ… I’m sorry…”

He closes his eyes.

And he breaks, finally.

Breaks in the way he never let anyone see.

He sobs — just once — not from the pain, but from everything he left unsaid. Everything he was too proud or too scared to give you. All the years he wasted thinking he didn’t deserve softness. Didn’t deserve you.

You were his future. Someone to raise a kid with one day, to marry, to grow old with.

And now—

It’s gone.

⸻

The last thing he sees is the photo, still clutched in his hand.

He dies with your face in front of him.

And the silence swallows everything.

—————————

hi author note im so sorry for this. public apology with ukelele coming soon x

[octopiys]

hmmmm I'm thinking about olympic ring gymnast!simon.... his almost too pale skin, like he's perfectly sculpted from the same marble the Greeks used for their statues, the way his muscles ripple beneath his leotard, smearing chalk onto his hands. It clouds up the air in front of him, catching in the slight fuzz crossed his chest. The mat isn't too springy. He used it earlier, before the comp started. Not too much an advantage, but he just used his resources. Just a landing pad.

His coach is on the sidelines, as are many other gymnasts, some he recognizes, and some he doesn't. This will be his third individual gold. His difficulty can't be matched.

The rings are warm, a familiar fit to his hands. In, and out, he breathes deeply, before he begins.

It doesn't even cross his mind as he performs. His fingers flay out across the rings, he doesn't think he's ever done a false grip in his life. The lights flash, and he straightens his arms, flipping himself, pointing his toes. He forgot to do that once, and the media gave him hell. Like they could ever dream of doing better than him. He holds himself straight, slipping upside down, perfectly vertical. Someone cheers as the ropes groan, and he flips again. A muscle in his wrist strains uncomfortably. It's hot in here.

Off, off, off....

He misses the sit. He flips again, and nails it, pointing his toes as his legs straighten in front of him. He can't forget to point his toes. His arms shake with strain, the ropes shaking with him. He's got to reign it in. He's just getting to the finale.

He tucks his legs, and flips once, twice, three times, repeated, melodious, using his momentum to come out of the third with his arms straight out to his sides, parallel to the floor. His legs tense, straightening where they are, pointed towards the ground.

In, out, and off. He holds the iron cross for a few moments, before pulling himself up, the rings in towards his sides. Sweat beads on the back of his neck. He brings his legs up, swinging once, twice, and flips, letting go of the rings.

He can't tell how many twists he does. It was supposed to be three. His feet plant on the mat, knees bending to absorb the shock. He... he didn't stumble.

Blood rushes in his ears as he straightens, leaning forward slightly, his arms out to hold his balance. His back is tense. There's a pain in his wrist. The tips of his fingers point out, and he pivots on his heel to face the judges, dipping his head in a bow of acknowledgement, and the sound of a roaring stadium returns. They cheer for him.

In, out, and back on again. The adrenaline crashes into him as he makes his way towards the team benches, Price meeting him halfway with a cool cloth, and a water bottle. Price is grinning like a madman.

Simon can tell he is, too.

[onelittlespiral]

I'd like your BOGO offer. I am the scrawny waterboy for my college. I'd like the kicker of the football team to get taken down a peg or five. I want him to be a nerd and no one else remembers him being a jock.

Subject: Order #100567

Dear (REDACTED),

Thank you for your recent purchase from The Spiral, home for all your transformation needs! Your order #100567 has been received and is on its way as we speak. Your order includes:

(1) Nerd(Assort)_From_Football(Kicker)

(1) Mystery(Self)

Expect delivery in 3-7 days.

Sincerely,

The Spiral

We knew you’d come around and round and round and round…

You had seen just yesterday that your order from The Spiral had finally come through. When you saw some nerd hanging around the practice field, you checked your inbox for the email confirmation. They had provided some details on how they had done it. As the kicker had been leaving practice, they grabbed him and pulled him into an empty supply room. They had him bound and gagged before stripping him of his cleats and cramming his feet in a pair of penny-loafers. The changes, they said, were near instantaneous. Change rippled up his legs as muscle deflated and his lower pads turned to cargo shorts. His stomach flattened and his jersey and pads changed into a sweater and bow tie. He had shrank so much that his restraints had nearly come loose, not that he would be able to fight the men holding him now.

He was already defeated by the time his new glasses were slipped on, which triggered phase two of his changes. Any and all past as a jock we’re gone in an instant, replaced with memories of his advanced mathematics degree and research projects. His memories of summer workouts and practice were now late nights in the library. Football games turned to Quiz Bowls. His mind would no longer be focused on working out his body, instead it was filled with stretches and skills for prepping himself for bottoming. His IQ was shooting up, and he could now understand exactly how to calculate an integral and when to squeeze tight around a dick to elicit the deepest grunts. The team packed up as he was left tied up, growing hornier at the thoughts of his old teammates dominating him like they did the opposing teams…

You couldn’t believe the efficacy of service. Hats off to them for the quick turn around. But you knew you were supposed to get a delivery of your own. You were tired of waiting. But as you were walking home from practice, after scrubbing out bottles and avoiding harassment from the team, you noticed something off. It was strange, but you thought you had smelled one of those jocks following you around. You turned around, worried that some guys were following you home, but the streets around you were empty. Instead, the smell was still coming from behind you, in your book bag. Rolling your eyes, you searched the pockets, expecting to find a jock or some other nasty garment as a dumb prank, but you instead find a chain, buried down at the bottom. In an instant, you feel compelled to hold in in your hands and take a whiff. The scent is metallic and cold how you would expect, while at the same time rancid and wet. You don’t fight the urge as your hands open the clasp and secure it around your neck. The feeling is electric. Your body ripples in response, and you feel your body begin to ache. The cold metallic feeling reaches into your bones and fills your veins with ice. A cold sweat breaks out of you as your body stretches taller and your muscles are filled with cool, hard lead.

I have to get warm, you think, I have to.

Your body seems to respond, as peach fuzz erupts from every inch of your chest, itchy and burning like fire. You scratch, and the hair only grows more in response. It begins to curl around your callousing hands and take root up your arms, spreading its fiery tendrils. You make the mistake of scratching your face, where it also takes root, as a beard erupts from your baby face. The hot licks of fire and freezing spikes of ice is reaching a crescendo as your body is engulfed, ready to reach a melting point and boil off all together when finally… it stops. You are left panting like a dog, sweat dripping from every pore. You knew the transformations offered were powerful, but you never expected this. You take stock of your furry, sweaty body, inspecting every inch of muscle. You feel so… powerful. Flexing your guns and let out an animalistic shout.

But then, something begins to tickle your nose. It smells like the necklace has surrounded you in that layer of stench. Except, it isn’t the necklace. It’s you. Your own sweat is beginning to dry and fill your head. Your past rolls off your brain like the sweat rolls down your washboard abs. Drop by drop you are no longer a waterboy for your football team. You hardly can even understand the sport. You have spent the last few years perfecting your reps and carving your physique. College sports? Who cares. You were lucky enough to graduate high school. You only saw those guys when they needed a personal trainer like you to give them an extra little boost. Those boys spent most of the game standing around. Real men need stamina. And you knew a cardio routine that would get their hearts racing. Bottoming for you was an hours long affair that left boys like them sore, sweaty, and moaning for more. Just how you liked them. You got up off the ground, dusted yourself off, and smirked in the mirror.

Gotta meet my next client in an hour, you think, sticking your tongue out.

In your pocket, you receive an order confirmation from some company called “The Spiral”. Whatever, probably some scam…

Subject: Order #100567 Fulfilled

Dear (REDACTED)

Your order has been fulfilled. We know you have many options, but thank you for supporting The Spiral.

Sincerely,

The Spiral

[romanscool]

maxiel kith (kiss) prompt 27 on a place of insecurity if you want :))

#27: a kiss on a place of insecurity - maxiel: sfw

hi anon!! thanks sooo much for this prompt, I've actually giggled when seeing it cause I've been wanting to write it so bad haha

I hope this is what you had in mind when you asked for me this!

anyways, enjoy <33

->

Max had seemed down all morning. It’s not usual for him to be this way.

Actually, he’s generally pretty open about everything. Daniel likes to jokes that he literally wears his emotions on his face like his goddamn Red Pull polos and skinny jeans, to which Max always answers, in usual Max manor, ‘fuck off.’

Classy. And, open. 

But now, Max is weirdly backing up. He’s hiding and holding his own hands under said disgusting Red Pull polo merch, and his socked to ankle feet are together in a way to bend his knees and make him look like he’s those insects that roll up. Rounding up. He looks seventeen again with a little baby fat still hanging to his face, red round splotches of teenageness like constellations on his jaw. He looks young, Daniel realizes. 

Except not the right young version of Max. Young Max was brash. He was frank, and frankly blunt, and Daniel liked that about him. He doesn’t really like that weird dystopic version of young Max that has him belittling himself on his own sofa, cat on his lap burying his hidden hands under its little fur body. Daniel still can’t decipher Sassy from Jimmy, but right now it doesn’t seem like it matters. 

« Hey, Maxy what’s going on? » 

Max turns to him, chin propped on his chest. Daniel hears the familiar ‘ding!’ of the lunch that’s been cooking in the oven for the past hour signaling it’s done. He ignores it when he sees Max grimace. 

Daniel circles round the sofa and sits by Max’s feet. He takes one and puts it on his lap, silently asking Max if it’s fine with him. Max doesn’t answer. Daniel takes it as a yes, and holds Max’s other ankle just above the sock, which he accidentally pulls down a little as he sets Max’s left foot with the other one. Daniel has always liked that about Max, too. How pliable he always was. He’s a little tense, Daniel can see it in the twitch of the muscle in his shin, but he still lets Daniel in a little. 

Daniel pulls the sock back up and asks, « Wanna tell me what’s been on your mind this morning? ». He’s gentle with it, too, setting what he hopes to be a comforting hand on Max’s leg, where the peach fuzz sits so pretty and is the perfect amount of rough under Daniel’s hand scar. 

Daniel tries to find an answer in the way Max’s brows furrow, and usually he does, but apparently nothing about Max makes sense today. 

Max takes out his hand from his t-shirt in one quick motion, pulling the hem of it over his sleep-shorts over it as soon as he’s done. Daniel can’t even stop to stare at Max’s little trail of hair there. He doesn’t wonder why he’s a little disappointed at that, because he knows. He’s been with Max long enough to know he’s crazy about anything Max. Even the weird shit. 

« There’s nothing, Daniel. » Max answers, but. Daniel doesn’t believe him. He doesn’t. Not when Max gives him this awkward little smile that barely lifts the corner of his mouth, the one that doesn’t make his eye crinkle and soft, soft, soft. 

Daniel shakes his head. His hand goes up Max’s thigh on its own. « Nah, don’t believe you. » When it reaches the bottom of Max’s shorts, it stops and goes back down. Leaves little goosebumps in its trail. « Tell me what it is, » He sees Max opens his mouth, and can sense it in the air that Max is about to say one of those PR-friendly answers the team has taught him to say when he doesn’t want to comment on something but has to, so Daniel stops him, « also, yeah, no, none of that please. » He keeps his tone light, sing-song-y and all high pitched on the ‘please’ to drag the truth out of Max. It’s been a while since he’s had to do that. 

« No, it’s just-, » Max stops for a second, and Daniel relishes in the dutch accent peeking out during the ’s’s, making them sounds like little waves that never crash on Monaco’s shore. « It is stupid, really. »

« Nothing’s stupid. » Daniel says, and he sees Max kind of pouts and the expression on his face is back to very much translating ‘fuck off’ but Daniel brushes it off, though he’s glad Max is starting to open up a little. Crack like his voice used to do in the early years of his career. « No, nothing’s stupid, Maxy. ’Specially if you get all grumpy like that. » 

Max’s lips turns just the smallest turn upwards and Daniel wants to kiss them. « You always say I am grumpy in the mornings. » 

Daniel giggles, because it’s true, Max is always grumpy in the morning, and Daniel does have an habit of pointing it out. 

« Yeah, you are. » Daniel says it so fond he’s worried for a split second if maybe it’s too much, but Max doesn’t say anything about it, just has to weird downturn smile plastered on his face that makes his chin wrinkle slightly, and Daniel’s hand seems to think that’s enough of a reason to allow itself to go further up Max’s shorts. « It’s not that this morning, though. » 

Daniel hears Max take in a short breath more than he sees it, because he’s following his tattooed hand closely, gaze fixated on it, so much that he has to tear his eyes from it to see Max’s flush spreading just below this awful navy polo. 

« So, you gonna tell me what it is? » Daniel adds a small smile of his own, just for good measure, just to really relax Max. 

He sees his shoulder slump a little and Sassy-or-Jimmy stretches on his chest and claws at his collarbone slightly. Max goes to pet her-slash-him, but the cat gets frightened and runs away quickly. Jimmy, then. Daniel feels his hand bob up and down a few times as Max chuckle. Feels fucking amazing.

« It is stupid, Daniel. » Max says it like a warning, but it’s hard to find it convincing when his furrowed brows ease just slightly, and his bottom lip is a little tucked between two rows of perfect straight teeth. 

Daniel shakes his head and takes Max’s feet from his lap and sets them back on the sofa. He climbs slowly between them and sets his head on Max’s clothed thigh, just a little higher than he’s allowed his hand to roam up to. « Tell me, baby. » 

« It has been a while since the last race. » 

And, yeah, that’s true. Just a couple month ago, Abu Dhabi happened and Max got out of the car for the last time of 2024, fourth championship tucked away safely in his pocket and a big smile on his face. 

Daniel remembers it very clearly. Remembers the sweat pouring down Max’s forehead, meddling with the champagne that Lando showered him with, even though he was the one that had won the race. He remembers the white fabric of his fireproofs turned a little yellow and transparent during the podium, remembers the way he could almost do more than imagine Max’s pinkish nipple under them. Daniel wanted to lick then, and he wants to lick now, nipples under Red Bull merch that Max has been wearing for two days straight. Disgusting and sweaty, just as he had been then.

« Yeah, and? » 

Max flushes again, probably from the long time Daniel took to answer him, probably because he remembers that night too, the hotel and the morning. « It’s been a while since the last race, Daniel. » Max says, again, parrots, really, with that insisting look on his face that Max wears when he’s trying to Make Daniel understand something. 

Daniel doesn’t understand. « Yeah, I got that. Two months, it’s been Maxy. » He tries to think harder, to put the pieces together, and he suddenly gets an idea, « You miss it? Racing? » 

« No, this is not, » Max sighs, and intertwines his hand on his belly. The fabric of his t-shirt ruffles and Daniel can just see the skin above Max’s boxer’s waistband. « I mean, I have been in vacation for too long. There is, uh-, » Max closes his eyes and the back of his head hits the arm of the sofa, « Photos. On the internet. » 

What. « I don’t get it, Maxy. » Daniel picks up his hand from where it’s been staying on Max’s thigh and starts to trace that little band of skin. Pale and so so pretty. 

« Daniel, just, » Max sighs again, long and desperate. « I have been letting myself go a little. »

Daniel feels himself frowning. His cheeks smushing up against Max’s sleep-shorts. « Well, yeah. It’s winter break, Max, what the hell you gonna do? » 

« Train. » Max swallows and pulls down the t-shirt way more than it should be, « Control myself, maybe. »

And that’s such a weird thing to hear Max saying that, because he’s never been that way. Self-conscious. He’s never been the one to-, « Are you quoting the media, Max? ‘Cause if you are, and I mean it, what the fuck. » 

Max suddenly gets this strange look of impeding doom fall on his face, melting all his feature in the wrong way, « You have seen it, too, then. » 

Daniel lifts his head for Max’s lap and sits on his knees between Max’s legs. « No, no, I haven’t-, Max, you-, » He sighs and leans down to kiss him. Just a quick one, to make his brain stop screaming ‘what, when, why, who, why’, « The media all say shit. You know that, they don’t-, they don’t fucking speak the truth. Like, ever. » 

Because Daniel has seen the fucking articles, in a way. He’s seen shit talk about the way Max’s chest looks at the beach, or how his t-shirt hugs him tighter than it used to on his lower belly, on his shoulders, his arms. How there’s more of him. Daniel has seen this shit and thanked the fucking world that Max looks like this, that there is indeed more of Max, more to love, to fucking worship and touch, swallow, bite into.

He hadn’t thought for a fucking second that what those dumb reporters had said was true. He doesn’t understand how Max could, either. 

« I know, Daniel, I know that. » Max sighs, and Daniel tries to search for the smallest hint of something that isn’t shame in Max’s eyes but he can’t find it, so he has to listen to Max say, «  It is only that, I’m starting to see it. »

And Daniel wants to scream, throw middle fingers at all the fucking people who make a living on hating Max fucking Verstappen, four times F1 world champion, biggest dork on the planet, and perfect, perfect, perfect man. 

The only thing that Daniel can say is, « Maxy, » and Max doesn’t seem to understand, eyebrows together and bottom lip slightly jutting out, so Daniel makes him understand. Makes him see himself like Daniel sees him. 

Daniel climbs between Max’s legs again, and takes hold of Max’s waist. It’s such a perfect fit too, the curve of it allowing Daniel’s palm to slot just right, to hold and dig his fingertips in the flesh that has Daniel’s brain think crazy thoughts. Daniel leans down, rubbing soft circles on Max’s waist and starts to kiss over the fabric of his polo. Just soft pecks of fucking gentleness that Daniel wishes Max had for himself. He curses the world as he starts working up Max’s chest, landing on his neck. 

« Daniel, » He hears Max whisper, but Daniel acts like he didn’t hear it. He continues his way up, planting his lips on Max’s jaw, where pebbles of pimples used to sit, now replaced by awkward and unevenly shaved stubble, and Daniel is glad for it, glad for the slight itches he gets on his mouth as he kisses there and higher, on Max’s ears and cheekbones, going left to land on his eyebrows and eyes, which Max closes, bracing for Daniel’s lips on them. 

Daniel kisses there as he starts working his hands up Max’s t-shirt, whispering a small, « this okay? » centimeters away from Max’s lips, getting a silent nod and a hot breath on his own mouth that has his fingers dig on Max’s hips. He pulls away for a second and takes Max’s shirt off, Max’s back hitting the sofa again in a dull thud that has him giggling and Daniel wish he could record the sound and listen to it every fucking hour of the fucking day.

Daniel kisses Max a small kiss on the lips, one that has Max whining a little, a small sound in the back of the throat he always does to ask Daniel to do something again, whether it’s pass a hand through his hair of put toothpaste on his toothbrush, because Max is weird and has decided when he was a kid that using three times the amount of toothpaste required was a good idea. 

Daniel kisses and kisses down again, hands still rubbing soft circles on Max’s waist. He kisses between his pecs to his belly button. He finally gets to see the little trail of dark dirty blond hair that half-hides under Max’s boxers. He leaves it hidden but doesn’t forget to plant kisses on top of the weirdly smooth material of Max’s shorts. 

Max giggles, and Daniel feels it under his fingertips, feels it under his breath and in his ears, tingles all the way to his toes that are starting to cramp up. « I get it, Daniel, please I-, » 

« Ticklish? » Daniel teases, plants another kiss just under the bare skin he’s kissed countless times, just above what he doesn’t want to think about right now, because this isn’t about that.

« Kinda. » Max’s voice cracks and Daniel thinks he’s just heard the fucking world speak to him. « You’re so fucking weird, Daniel. » 

Yeah, Daniel thinks. So fucking weird. « Obsessed, too, maybe. » Daniel knows his voice is breathy, but he doesn’t really care. Max is open, bare skin all over the leather sofa, clammy hands far, far from his stomach, and Daniel’s been allowed to kiss him better. That’s like a fucking victory.

I've started to post those on ao3 so please check them out!

don't hesitate to leave a comment/ask/tag for other (kiss or non kiss) prompts! I always appreciate them a lot <33

lots of love, and see you in the next one!

[allfryam]

mama’s boy

Bobby was an all star athlete at his high school. It was his senior year and he was captain of the football team. His perfect curly hair complemented his perfect face. And his perfect face just made his perfect body look even better. He was lean, with chiseled abs and toned muscles. He was perfect in every way. Nothing could ever change that.

one day at football practice, Bobby was d doing drills when one of his teammates tackled him from behind and landed on his foot. With a loud crunch, Bobby yelled as he looked down to see his leg was going in the wrong direction. He was rushed to the hospital and quickly X-rayed. “It’s a nasty break. Will definitely take at least 3-4 months to completely heal.” The doctor said. Bobby felt like his entire world just collapsed. “I don’t want you to do any physical activity for the next 3 months. That includes walking! I will have your teachers send you your work online so you can do it from home.” He said. Bobby’s mom nodded and drove him home.

Bobby laid in bed staring at his ceiling. His leg was resting on some pillows to give it elevation. “Can I get you anything sweetie?” Bobby’s mom asked. “Pizza. I’m starving”. He said. “Sure sweetie.” She said as she began to call dominos.

over the next few days. Bobby fell into a rhythm. He didn’t bother getting dressed anymore, so he laid in his underwear most days. He just laid there and watched movies or played on his computer. There was a small upside to this though. Bobby discovered his mom felt bad and would bring him anything he asked for. Whenever Bobby was hungry or thirsty, he would just say the magic word… “MOOOOOM” and she would rush in and ask him what he needed. She normally didn’t like him eating too much junk food, but under the circumstances, she let him eat anything. This didn’t come without consequences however.

after a couple weeks, Bobby’s mom had noticed something. When looking at Bobby’s stomach she had noticed his abs begin to slowly disappear. There was a bit of pudge growing on his midsection. “Sweetheart, maybe you should try to eat just a little bit healthier.” She said one day. “Mom! Are you calling me fat?! You are such an asshole! Bring me some donuts!” Bobby snapped back. Scared, Bobby’s mom ran off to pick up some donuts. Bobby looked down at his pudgy belly. He squeezed it and shook it a little. It jiggled. Hmm. Must just be a little water weight. He would work it off when he could play football again. Later he ate every last one of the dozen donuts his mom brought home.

after 3 months was up, Bobby was fatter than ever. His bit of pudge had grown into a ball hit that sat happily on top of him. A bit of fuzz had grown on his belly and his belly button had become deep. Bobby hardly noticed. After examining his leg, the doctor determined Bobby was ready to get back onto the football field. Bobby was ecstatic. His first day back at practice. All of his teammates slapped and grabbed Bobby’s gut. “Dude. How did you get so fat?” “That no exercise thing really took its toll on you huh?” “What’s up pudgy!” Bobby shrugged it off and tried to put on his jersey. He struggled with it for a minute until finally getting it the cover his gut. His tight pants hugged his thighs that were significantly bigger than the last time he wore them.

practice was awful. Bobby was slow, out of breath, and his stomach was in the way of everything. He laid in bed and called for his mom. “Mom bring me a pizza” he said. “Gut up and get it yourself.” She replied. “ your leg isn’t broken anymore.” Bobby huffed and waddled to the phone to buy a pizza. The next day at practice, Bobby had an idea. “Jake! Tackle me. Hard.” Bobby said. “You sure? I don’t want you gettin hurt again.” Jake said. “I’m fine. Just do it” Jake ran full speed and leaped onto Bobby. With another crunch, Bobby was back in bed with a broken leg. He smiled as he downed a cheeseburger in two bites.

[howlingday]

Jaune's Shampoo

General Arc

"DAMMIT, NORA!" Jaune opened his shower door. As he exited, he noticed his body had drastically changed. Using a mixture of his shampoo and experimental goo found at the fiendish Dr. Merlot's laboratory, Nora had unwittingly created a mutagen just to prank her team leader.

"Huh?" Jaune brought his hand to his lips, curious as to the strangely baritone voice that came from it. Before he could question how his voice became so suddenly deep, he felt hair around his mouth. And not peach fuzz hair, but a full-blown forest of hair grew over his cheeks and past his chin. "What the hell?"

Jaune swiftly opened the shower door, almost breaking it as it slammed against itself. He winced at the sound of almost breaking. Apparently, hair wasn't the only thing that had grown from his shower. Looking down, he flexed his massive palms, noting the thick bushel of arm hair coating both his chest and his arms and his... Whoa! Not gonna get into that description until he figures out what happened to his face.

Wiping his hand over the foggy mirror, he found a strange face staring back at him. It was a face aged by years, perhaps even decades of experience. Thinking on it, he kind of looked like old pictures of his grandpa and his dad, from back in their huntsmen days. But looking in his eyes, he saw the truth of the matter; despite all the changes, it was still him.

"Jaune?" He heard a voice call out to him from outside the bathroom door. "Is everything okay in there?"

Jaune looked at the door, then back to the mirror. What should he tell Pyrrha? 'Yeah, everything is totally fine except I'm 40 all of a sudden in the span of a 5-minute shower!' No, no, he had to play it safe. Or at least try to get some help.

"Uh, actually, I think I might be getting sick." He lied to his partner. "Do you think you could get some medicine from the nurse's office?"

"Uh, okay then, Jaune."

He crept to the door and put his ear to it. He heard something slide, then slide again. Pyrrha left. Good. He opened the door, creeping into his own dorm room to find something he could wear. No way was he streaking across campus, new body or old body. He pulled on some boxers, finding them to be a bit tight for his new mass, and ripped some tears in them to ease his pain. Nothing in his closet even looked like it still fit him, so he'd figure something out. Maybe if he tied his hoodie over his lap, it would pass enough to be a loincloth?

"Jaune, I went over to Team RWBY and they... had... some..." Jaune looked to his partner, having returned from her search for his fake illness. "...medicine." Yes, that.

"Uh, h-hey, Pyrrha." He cleared his throat. "So, uh, funny story, but, uh... You remember when Weiss told me to grow up?"

"Okay, first of all-" The young woman stormed in, raising a finger at Jaune's torso as if her arm was already used to being positioned to his old height. Following her digit to it's point to find the now massive leader of JNPR looking back at her with innocent, blue eyes.

"Uh, h-hey, Weiss." He waved his gargantuan hands at her. "Uh, so I don't think you'll have to worry about me asking you out anymore."

Weiss didn't say anything. The shifty gaze that adornered her reddened face told Jaune she was too distracted by the titanic mass of muscle and body hair to focus on anything at that moment. He looked to Pyrrha who looked about the same. He noticed their eyes wander down a bit too far.

"O-Oh! Sorry!" Jaune took his hoodie and BARELY managed to tie it around to act as his loincloth tarp thing. "Uh, better?"

--------------------------------------------------

Jaune panted as he sprinted down the halls of Beacon Academy. The screaming masses behind him only urged him to push himself harder. Making his way Beacon Tower, where the headmaster's office sat at the very top, he tapped repeatedly on the elevator call button.

"Come on, come on!"

"There he is~!" Squealed Yang, flanked by her team and Pyrrha. Of all the times for Ren and Nora to be out on their 'totally not together together friendly luncheon as just friends and nothing more to it than that I swear'.

"I have him, girls~!" Squeaked Velvet as she clung to his neck. Damn! If only he wasn't so distracted by Nora's long and overly complicated name for 'not a date' that she insisted on! "Mm, he smells like an ocean beach house~!"

"Let me smell!" Blake shouted, practically foaming at the mouth. "I've actually lived in a beach house! I would know!"

Before she could sink her claw-like fingers into him, he tossed off Velvet (as gently as he could) and when he realized the elevator wasn't coming, he decided there was only one thing left to do. He turned around, grabbed the wall, and launched himself into the air! After gaining some feet or yards or whatever, he dug his fingers into the wall again and propelled himself higher!

"Weiss!" Ruby looked to her partner.

"Alright!" Weiss summoned glyphs on the wall, all the way up to the top, in the direction of Jaune.

--------------------------------------------------

"No, sir."

"Come on, I'm sure the students will love it."

"Sir," Professor Goodwitch sighed at the ridiculous glasses on the headmaster's face, "I just don't think anyone will want to see anyone else wearing such ridiculous glasses."

"Oh, come now, Glynda." Ozpin removed his glasses. "It's not like the students will revolt and start climbing up the-"

Just then, a large, nearly naked man with wild hair swatted at a young Ruby Rose that swarmed over him like the most annoying bug ever. He clung to the window frame of the office, swatting away until he fell from the tower, leaving Miss Rose to hang from roof.

"Mm..." He mused "Perhaps these are a bit too wacky..."

--------------------------------------------------

Jaune Arc was dead, laying in the heap of rubble that was once the statue of the two hunters that greeted every student as they arrived at Beacon Academy. Many of the girls wept around his body, especially Ruby, whose tears soaked her hooded cape as she dressed it over his body. The teachers tried to get through, but the more burly students, such as Yang and, oddly enough, Team CRDL, stood in the way of the faculty as the funeral procession continued.

"Don't you think this prank went to far?" Ren asked.

"No." Nora replied, not looking at her best friend, her eyes focused on her dead leader. "T'was beauty that killed the beast."

"C... Can I get up now?" Jaune groaned.

"Just... Just five more minutes." Pyrrha sobbed, holding her partner's head in her hands.

[dappersautismcreature]

mushroom stew

characters: Bad, Cellbit

tws: cannibalism, violence, gore, slavery/indentured servitude, child solider(ish), death of many npcs, spiders

Bad stretched and yawned as he strode out onto the field— he looked over his opponents for the games.

Nobody looked particularly dangerous. Most of them were young, 18-25 looking, with tough faces and plain clothes. That was pretty usual for the games. People joined or were forced to join by a company or a slavers crew, either for their own money, or someone else’s money. Bad had almost never met someone who was there purely by choice, they could say they were, but the unbearable hunger in their eyes gave them away. Life spent drifting from PvP server to PvP server was wretched, and poor. People needed to hope for more— the games gave them that. 

But there was a price— Bad grimaced as he did another pass of examining his enemies— the first fifty of these people to die would be perma-killed. Forty-five would be stuck in limbo for anywhere from a couple days to a month, depending on how long it took between the time they died and the game’s end. Only the last five could come out alive— and only the winner would be blessed to erase all his wounds. Bad had met people on these fields with limps, with twisted spines, and burns, broken fingers, and missing limbs, eyepatches. Bad himself sported almost a dozen deep scars on his torso and neck and face. In his early days he’d been stuck in limbo for almost three weeks. Now though, after a few decades of practice— he was confident in his ability to come in the top five. Now he could actually fulfill his purpose, the reason he was here.

Snow crunched under a hundred bodies, everyone held their breaths. Silence was mandatory before the start. The horns sounded— and Bad had never felt so alive. He took in a deep breath, letting time slow, and watched as people around him scattered. Boots skidded on icy ground, there were yells, cries of terror. Bad blinked, coiling his muscles, and leaped from his position. His feet thudded against snow, he lengthened his stride, running and running. 

A body slammed into him, small, compact. Bad fell straight on his ass, hissing. The demon sprang to his feet, hands clutching his wooden ax. “Who dares.” He growled, tail curling up like a scorpion’s. The air fizzled, his Thor’s Curse reacting to the sudden threat. 

“I-I-” a kid gasped. His voice was thin, and young. He was still on his back, scattered snow and mud all around him. The young human’s curly brown hair hung around his face, covering his ears completely. He was ragged and boney. Stark blue eyes wide and rimmed with exhaustion. Barely a wisp of peach fuzz graced his chin and upper lip. 

Bad’s posture relaxed slightly. The demon knew what he had to do. He grabbed the kid by the wrist and hauled him to his feet. Then the demon began to run again. “I’m Bad.” He said between breaths. “My name is Bad.”

The kid could barely keep up, stumbling over himself. Eventually he seemed to find his feet, and his breath. “Cellbit.”

They slowed down when they reached the outskirts of the swamp. Bad took his ax and felled a tree, while Cellbit gathered mushrooms. Both of them worked with ruthless efficiency— and Bad was calmed by the fact that at least this wasn’t the kids first game. Somewhat friendly people ran by, calling his name in recognition. But a few called Cellbit’s. Bad’s ear flattened against his head, ok, definitely not this kid’s first game. How old was he? The demon held his ax out to anyone who got too close, tail lashing. He made it clear, this kid was his team now. 

“Stone swords?” Cellbit asked once they had a good supply of mushrooms and wood tucked into their backpacks. Bad nodded, and followed him to a cliffside. He quickly made himself a wooden pickaxe, and got just enough stone to craft a stone sword. He could hear Cellbit working next to him. 

When he looked up, another player was in front of him, staring wildly at him over his crafting table. Flames licked their limbs, and they had glowing red eyes. They looked hungry. Bad stared back, gripping the handle of his new sword. “Cellbit?” He called.

“Yeah?” The kid called back.

“I’m going to kill this guy, I’ll be right back.” He lunged at the player, hearing a faint confirmation from Cellbit. His opponent desperately held up his wooden sword, parrying Bad’s first blow. But the demon was too fast for him, stabbing underneath his defense and sliding his sword clean into the other’s ribs. The player’s red eyes widened, and he sank to his knees, mouthing something that Bad couldn’t understand. The demon stepped back, his sword was yanked from the body with a slick noise. Blood fell on the grass. 

As he walked back over to Cellbit something nagged at him, the way that player had stared— he hadn’t fought back. Maybe he knew him, maybe he knew of him. Dread sank in his stomach but he shook his head and turned to the kid. 

“There’s a guy over there, in a ditch.” Cellbit said, eyes stony. He was clutching his new stone sword with one hand, and with the other he pointed. “Let’s go kill him.” 

Bad’s breath stuck in his throat, but he nodded and the two crept over. The demon gave the go-ahead to the kid— time to see how he came this far in the games. Time to see what he could do. 

The kid leaped over the side of the ditch, sword held low and out. “Die!” He screamed, stabbing it into his opponent's stomach. The player fell without a sound. Bad watched as Cellbit twisted the sword deeper and lunged forward to bite into the dead body’s throat. Blood sprayed across the kid’s cheeks and he tore up, stripping flesh from where the neck met the torso up to the jaw. Cellbit raised his head to meet Bad’s eyes, and the demon shivered. The hunger in them— stronger than he’d ever seen. 

The kid did not break eye contact, as one hand left the sword’s handle, and shoved the hanging strip of gore into his mouth. Blood still fountained out of the hole in the body’s neck, bubbling and spilling into the mud. Bad looked away as Cellbit went for one more bite. This kid was muffined. 

A few moments later Cellbit met him at the top of the ditch— with his sleeve the kid wiped dripping blood from his chin. Then he took his fingernail and picked at his teeth, all the while watching the demon in front of him. Bad had at least three feet’s height on the shrimp, but he would be lying if he said he wasn’t intimidated. 

“Well done.” Bad spat out. It wasn’t near the worst thing he’d seen here, but it was close. Still, time to put his mind back to the games. “Nice kill. Let’s go find a ravine.”

They found one a couple hundred meters away, Bad dropped down and killed the player hiding in it. The ravine was all theirs. Time to get some iron. Bad mined some of the more open veins, then set up a furnace. While he was stationary he brought out some of the mushrooms and began to make soup. Cellbit returned with more iron, and together they crouched in the corner and waited. Bad leaned against the stone walls and stared at the sky. Cellbit awkwardly checked and rechecked the furnaces. 

“So how old are you kid, hm?” Bad asked in the quiet. “Don’t lie to me, I can smell when you do.” 

“I don’t believe you.” Cellbit snorted. But he still answered the question truthfully. “I’m fifteen.” Now that he was talking more, Bad could hear an accent in his speech. 

“You company?” Bad asked, tail flicking lazily. 

“No, why? You company?” Cellbit grinned, showing his teeth.

Bad rolled his eyes. “Nope, just curious. Slavers then? You get snatched? Slavers are scum, but slavers who take kids are worse.” 

Cellbit was quiet, staring into the coals of the furnace. “Worse than scum. Yeah.” He shifted to curl tighter up into himself. 

Bad allowed himself to close his eyes for a second. A fifteen year old who was experienced in the games, kidnapped and entered into them by slavers. Muffins. He had to get Cellbit out of here. “And your curse? You really chose Cannibal, you know what that can do to a person? Why not Stomper? Something safer?”

“I didn’t choose.” Cellbit growled, baring his teeth again. “Shut up Thor.”

Bad thudded his head against the wall and laughed coldly. He was going to find these slavers and tear them to bits. “Do you wanna know why I’m here then?” He offered an apology.

“No.” 

“Okay.” Bad stared up at the blue sky, watching for enemies. He turned to the furnaces to check on things, musing over calculations in his head. They’d probably have enough now. He made himself an iron sword and some armor. 

“Guy up there!” Cellbit shouted quietly to him. 

Bad’s head shot up. “Oh snap!” He held his sword up, spotting the guy crouching over the edge of the ravine. “Don’t come down here!” The demon called, showing his teeth and swinging his sword. 

Cellbit quickly crafted himself iron gear and jumped up on top of the furnaces. “I’m full iron!” He cried defiantly— despite definitely not being full iron. 

Bad’s eyes caught sight of the white ball in the player’s hands, but before he could call out Cellbit had already seen it. “Switcher!” The kid cried, backing up. Bad also retreated, staying out of sight under some rock. The two of them crouched down, waiting for the enemy to make a move. 

Another player fell down, landing on some rock’s above them. They cried out as they took damage from the fall, still raising their sword. They were no match for Cellbit who lunged at them and sunk his sword into their stomach. The player’s dead body fell with a sickly sound at the bottom of the ravine. 

Bad raised his head at the death message, realizing that over half of the players were now dead. No more permadeaths from now on. Deep down he breathed a sigh of relief. Up above them, another player ran away. Bad shook himself. “I forgot I was a Thor!” He laughed, raising his ax and sending lightning down to strike them. He missed. 

Cellbit handed Bad an iron chestplate as he watched for more opponents, ax still raised to the sky. Lightning thrummed through him and he whooped. His hair stood on end, he felt unbeatable. “We’re going to dominate this game kid!” The demon grinned. Cellbit handed him iron pants and shook his head in disbelief. 

Bad continued to send lightning towards anyone who got close to their ravine. Soon they were ready to leave. They both quickly ate some mushroom stew, then towered up quickly to the top. 

The sun was setting, and they ran through the darkening swamp. Using their compasses, they looked for more people to kill. “Over here!” Cellbit called. “There’s one of the people that tried to get into the ravine earlier!” He ran off. 

Bad followed, pulling out his sword in one hand, compass in the other. 

“They are going to pay for that!” Cellbit cried darkly, letting out a fake evil laugh. Bad snickered. They lost sight of the player a few times, but eventually found him again, they got closer and closer. 

Cellbit was right on their tail. “Come back here!” He snarled. 

“I’ll cut him off!” Bad called as they turned. He dove around a pond and a tree, readying his sword as he closed in on their victim. The player turned towards him, a few seconds too late, as Bad slashed them across the chest. Cellbit got in a good hit on their shoulder, making them stagger away. Bad chased, slashing twice through their back. But the player was fast, and gained ground, getting out of the demon’s reach. 

They lost sight of him going around a ravine, but they kept up the trail. Bad met up with Cellbit and the two of them ran hard, keeping the same breakneck pace. Eventually Bad had to stop, bending over with his hands on his knees. Curse these old lungs. He gasped. Shouldn’t have smoked so much in his early days. “You got this!” He called to the kid, who was still sprinting ahead of him. After a second’s rest Bad ran after them. The chase wasn’t over.

They burst out of the trees, and back onto the snowy plains. Bad caught sight of Cellbit once again. The kid was booking it across the flat space, closing in on their target. Bad grinned as he saw Cellbit work to curve the frantic player back towards him. They met soon enough, sandwiching them between the two. Bad swung and missed.

“How did you miss it!” The kid growled, running past him. Bad rolled his eyes and gave one last burst of speed. He got ahead of Cellbit, and with one swift brutal slash to the back of the neck, he severed the player’s spine. They fell face-first into the snow, head twisted unnaturally. Cellbit pounced on their backpack, looting it quickly. 

“Nice one.” The kid panted, shoveling containers of mushroom stew into his own backpack. He sat back on his haunches, staining his pants red with bloody snow.

“You too, you too.” Bad hunched over again, breathing deep. “C’mon let’s go.” He hauled Cellbit to his feet, the two of them took up a steady jog once again. 

They found the next player on the edge of a ravine, Cellbit got the first few hits with his sword. Then they were chasing again. The player tried to double back after crossing another ravine, getting a good hit on Bad. The demon fell back. 

Cellbit growled and body slammed the enemy into the deep hole. The kid leaned over the side. “They survived!” Bad joined him at the edge and peered down. A moment later they saw the player’s death message. Bad met Cellbit’s eyes, and then they both turned back to the ravine.

“Must be a team down there.” Bad grit his teeth. He saw movement, at least two people.

“There’s water over here!” Cellbit called from one end of the ravine. “C’mon!”  

“Cannonball!” Bad jumped down first before the hotheaded kid could, landing perfectly in the small cave pool. Cellbit landed behind him. Both of them were soaked up to their knees now. They advanced. The remains of a mineshaft lined the sides of the ravine, cobwebs and oak plank supports. They scrambled over collapsed rocks.

“They’re dying to the spiders!” Cellbit laughed, jumping over the last pile of stone and leaping towards the players. 

Bad caught sight of one of them running for cover, a giant cave spider right on their tail. When the two of them caught up, the players had squeezed themselves into a hole and sealed it off with cobblestone. 

“Look at them!” Cellbit cackled. “They buried themselves with the spider!” The kid was loose and happy, seemingly in his element. He swung his sword lazily in arcs. 

“That’s- yeah that’s not a good idea.” Bad laughed, bringing out his pickaxe and smoothly tearing into the rock. Cellbit joined him.

“Careful Cell-” Bad called. Suddenly the players spilled out of their hiding spot, getting two good solid hits on the kids shoulder and chest. Bad stepped back and was caught off guard as two thick fangs sunk into his calf. “Go away!” He growled, stabbing his sword straight into its skull. He turned back to see Cellbit holding his own against only one of the player’s. The other had retreated back into the hiding spot. 

From the side he surprised the one attacking his kid by stabbing his sword deep into their ribs. Seeing their friend being double teamed, the other sprung back out and both focused on Cellbit. 

“Die!” Bad snarled, slashing at both of them from behind them as Cellbit was backed into the wall. Bad managed to sink his sword into the first player’s stomach, ripping it out brutally, almost cutting them in half. The body fell, glancing off of the demon on its way down. Bad felt gore slide down his iron chestplate. 

“Help!” Cellbit cried, blood dripping down his face. The remaining enemy had him pinned against the stone, their blade plunged deep into his shoulder. His sword had been knocked from his hand, and was now a few meters away from his straining hand. The kid kicked at his enemy desperately. 

Bad slammed into the player with his shoulder, throwing them off balance and allowing Cellbit to fall away and scramble for his sword on the stone floor. The demon snarled as the player turned to lunge at him. Bad twisted, letting the blade slash through his shirt and ribs. He spun and slashed his opponent across the chest. The player fell back and returned the hit. 

Cellbit came in and slammed the flat of his sword against the back of their knee. They buckled and swung their blade around to meet Cellbit’s iron as the kid blocked. Rising back to two feet, the player pushed down, trying to overpower him. Bad stabbed them in the shoulder, making them twist as the demon drove the sword into an oak pole, pinning them there. 

“Just die!” Cellbit finished them off by driving his sword through the middle of their throat. Bad met the player’s eyes as they went dim. Blood gushed out to fully coat Cellbit’s blade, spilling down the body’s chest and onto the dusty stone. 

Cellbit staggered to the side, leaning heavily against the wall. “Holy shit, that was close.” He gasped, hand reaching up to the cuts on the side of his torso. He winced. 

Bad yanked the sword out of the body’s neck. It slumped against him on its way down and he kicked it to the side with his knee. “Good fight kid.” He handed Cellbit his sword back. He wiped his own sword off on the body’s clothes. The demon stayed alert. “Stupid spiders.” He growled, keeping his eyes peeled for more. “Must be a spawner somewhere.”

Cellbit just nodded, exhausted. He started rooting through the backpacks, pulling out a few iron ingots and some sponge. “Must’ve been a Launcher.” He murmured. 

“Oh! You wanna use those to get out of here?” Bad asked, scooping a few from his hand.

“Can we?” Cellbit asked, hesitant. “I thought it was just Launchers.”

“Yeah.” Bad nodded. “If you take them from a Launcher you can use them yourself.” He started placing them on the ground. 

“Oh.” Cellbit watched him. The kid cried out as a spider leapt onto him and sunk its fangs into his upper arm. “Shit! Spider!” 

Bad stabbed it through the abdomen, knocking it off of him. Cellbit staggered away, biting his lip to keep from crying. This was clearly getting to be too much for him. The demon reached out to pat the kid gently on the back. Then Bad kept stacking the sponges, and climbed up the rocks.

“Wish me luck.” He said, then jumped onto the top sponge. “If I die-” the demon shot upwards, flying over the top of the ravine and crashing to the ground up above. “Ouch.” He grumbled, sitting up and leaning over to see if Cellbit was coming.

“Ah! I hate spiders!” He heard the kid cry out— voice cracking— before he too was sent flying. Bad just stood back as Cellbit also crashed into the grassy mud. “That was cool.” The kid groaned, lifting himself off the ground. Bad laughed. Cellbit laughed back, near hysterical. They were both absolutely done with things. 

They found a place to take shelter for the rest of the night and heal. Bad helped Cellbit dress his wounds, and taught him to use swamp lily for cave spider poison. Then the demon started a fire and cooked up some warm mushroom stew. Cellbit had set out his bed roll against a huge log, and was curled up against it. His thin blanket was draped over his shoulder and tucked under his chin. Bad wouldn’t be surprised if the kid fell asleep before dinner was ready. 

Tomorrow was the Feast, when a big supply drop would happen. Whoever got this drop was almost sure to win, Bad was humming with tension,even though the drop was at least 7 hours out. He wasn’t sure of the exact time, as nobody carried clocks on them, but his idea would improve once the sun began to rise. The kid could sleep, Bad would keep watch. He didn’t need as much sleep. 

The mushroom stew didn’t take long, Bad ladled a portion each into the two bowls he always carried with him. He crawled over to Cellbit’s still form, gently tapping his shoulder twice with the tip of his tail. The kid was awake after the first, a hand darting out— fast as a snake— to grab the tail tight in one fist. 

Bad grimaced and smiled. “Just me.” He whispered. Cellbit let go. “Before you go to bed, eat some stew, drink some water. Please.” He handed the kid his bowl, and crawled back to his spot— on the other side of the fire. 

Cellbit sat up slowly, no doubt his entire body was sore. He took his spoon from his pack and shoveled bite after bite into his mouth. They were all used to mushroom stew, the same two edible mushrooms that spawned in the swamps were always there, always quick to take and eat. But Cellbit’s eyes lit up at the taste of Bad’s stew. The demon knew how to make those knobby, nasty mushrooms taste somewhat decent. “Thank you.” The soft accented whisper was barely heard over the fire. But Bad appreciated it, and bobbed his head in acknowledgment. 

After soup was eaten, and water drunk, Cellbit turned back over on his bedroll. The kid had one hand on his iron sword, which he held down by his side. His other arm made a makeshift pillow against his face. 

Bad pretended like he didn’t watch as slowly, Cellbit allowed himself to let his guard down, and sleep. The demon wondered just how often the kid had slept during these games— if he’d ever slept on these fields. Bad certainly hadn’t, even in his many rounds. Only six-ish more hours until the sun rose, and they’d pack up, head out for the Feast. Bad leaned back against his tree, and kept his ears perked for movement. They’d set up camp in between the swamp and the snowy plain, tucked in a ditch with a log and a few small trees. There was cover for them, but not much beyond that, several dozen meters of empty ground were their best protection. 

He was used to this— running scenarios through his head the night before a Feast. By his estimation there should be less than a fourth of the original number of players. If he was going on averages, the number was more like ten to fifteen. Bad squinted at the leaves over his head. Most people who survived this long probably had a teammate, at least one. So they could probably expect six to ten teams to also be after the Feast, maybe minus a few because of distance or reluctance. There were always a few people who just hunkered down and hid until the Pit. A shiver went up Bad’s spine, the amount of times he’d died in that Pit ran through his mind. Death after death after death, his hands scrabbling at the stone. The worst part was always knowing he was so close. 

Bad let out a small scream as he felt teeth gouge into his upper arm. His other hand came up to press back against the forehead of Cellbit. The kid’s fangs were fully dug into his flesh and Bad winced as they tugged the wound wider. “Cellbit!” His eyes were fully narrowed into slits, shiny and hungry and violent. Bad shoved again, shaking his shoulder in another attempt to dislodge the grip. Blood shone on Cellbit’s chin as he only dug in deeper. “Cellbit stop! Please.” Bad hissed louder. “I don’t want to hurt you.” The kid did not let go.

Bad grit his teeth and with his free hand reached to where Cellbit’s jaw hinged. Pressing down with a firm thumb, he worked at the joint until the pressure caused pain. Cellbit yelped and his grip on the demon loosened. Bad slipped away, leaping over the fire and on top of the log. His tail was curled up over his back in a defensive position. 

Cellbit stayed frozen, teeth snapping shut with a click. He opened his mouth again, and shut it again. Then repeated the action a few more times. His eyes were still, empty hungry slits. He turned his head to stare at the demon on the log. 

Bad shook his head and sat back, gripping the bite mark and wiping the blood away. “Kid, it’s too late at night to do this please.” He swung his legs back and forth. “Wait until morning?” He spoke softly and calmly, not letting fear into his heart. As far as he knew it was the only way to calm the Cannibal Curse, to show it no fear, and hopefully no more blood. 

Cellbit stayed still, only his chest moving up and down in slow, steady breaths. Bad crept down from the log, reaching into his backpack to retrieve some bandages. The kid’s eyes watched his every movement. Bad kept talking calmly to him, telling him about the ingredients in the stew, and where they were, and how very very chill he was right now. Yep, Bad was not creeped out by this at all. It definitely wasn’t disturbing to see a Cursed kid staring into his soul with the demon’s own blood staining his teeth. Bad cleaned the bite wound and wrapped bandages around his upper arm. When that was settled he sat down where he was, only a meter from the kid.

Cellbit was crouched in the dirt. His hair was wild, mussed from sleep. Somehow his eyes had gotten crazier than his normal. Bad stared back at him, blinking slowly. Seconds passed, then minutes, and finally after about half an hour Cellbit was settled and awake. The kid groggily stared at the fresh dressing on Bad’s arm. His hand slowly rose to his mouth, and he twisted his body to sit back down on his butt. With dirty hands he wiped the sticky dark red blood from his lips— again, again, again he wiped. He couldn’t get clean, and he was frantic for it. Frantic for the demon’s blood to never have been spilt by him.

Bad wilted with sympathy, and handed the kid his water bottle. “It’s ok, I’m not mad, you do what you have to Cellbit.” Bad scooted over to sit next to him.

The wild haired kid laughed. “Never had someone have that reaction to me trying to eat them.” He took a big swig of water and spat it out. 

Bad smirked. “Never had someone try to eat me before. There’s a reason why people don’t choose the Cannibal Curse.” 

Cellbit’s cracked smile morphed into a sour frown. “Yeah.” He murmured.

“Hey.” Bad flicked his tail. “Once you’re out of here, you’ll be free, okay?” 

“Sure.” Cellbit growled. 

“I mean it, you point me at em and I’ll rip those bastards to shreds. You’ll never have to see this place again.” Bad clenched the dirt beneath him in his clawed hands. 

Cellbit leaned into his side, the kid’s head smashing against his heart. “I don’t know if I want to believe you.” He mumbled, then yawned. 

The demon was stiff with shock. The kid— besides the time just now when he’d tried to eat him— had never even brushed up against him. Muffins, had he like, imprinted on him or something? He didn’t know how kids worked! 

Bad patted Cellbit’s head awkwardly, cooing noises coming from somewhere deep within him. His fingertips brushed up against something hidden within the kid’s wild hair, two somethings actually. They were ears, two small, fluffy cat ears. Perched where Bad had expected human ears should be. The demon froze again, was this kid seriously also a cat hybrid? Bad looked up at the sky and cursed the universe for sending him the cutest little murder-muffin child ever. Cellbit fell asleep like that, and Bad could swear he started purring. 

When the sun rose, Bad was deep in meditation. His legs had long since fallen asleep but he didn’t dare move and disturb the sleeping cat hybrid. But as the birds started chirping, Cellbit blinked himself awake. The kid sprang away from Bad, embarrassed. Smoothly— the demon just ignored him and stood up to stretch. 

“Time to get going for the Feast.” Bad murmured, doing a quick survey of the fields around them. No players in sight, good. They were a good 1000 blocks out from where the drop would be, they needed to leave, now. Bad had his things packed up in a minute, and Cellbit was right behind him. The kid was oddly cheery given the circumstances, but Bad just accepted it. The games made everyone a little weird, even if that weirdness was being a morning person. 

The two of them trekked towards the coords, alert for danger. Their compasses pointed to people ahead of them, at least a couple. Bad readied his sword and advanced— Cellbit was about three meters back and at 4 o’clock, flanking him. The players came into view, one dashing by and the other ahead, in full iron. 

Bad signaled for them to focus the fully armored player first, they were the most dangerous. Cellbit nodded in agreement, and they crept up towards them. A lava pool sat to their right, and Bad circled around it, hoping to catch the player off-guard and knock him into it. Unfortunately they saw him. When the demon lunged, they met him with equal force, exchanging blow after blow. Cellbit came up behind both of them and body slammed the player into a nearby ditch. They scrambled to their feet and took off running. Bad and Cellbit took up the chase. 

Horns sounded, nearly knocking Bad off balance. He stopped running. Cellbit skidded to a halt next to him. “The Feast!” The kid cried, spinning around. The two of them focused on a thin beacon in the near distance, announcing the location of the large supply drop. 

“Let’s go! Go go go!” Bad shouted, sprinting off towards it. Cellbit whooped and followed. They dashed towards it, anxiety building the longer they were away from it. The horns meant that there was 40 seconds until it dropped, hopefully just enough time to get there— and kill anyone guarding it. 

Cellbit passed by Bad, terror spurring him onward. “There’s a full iron!” He called back once he reached the lip of a large circle of cleared terrain. The ground below was pure stone, inorganically dug out just for the Feast. Cellbit paused, staring down at it.

“Let’s get them!” Bad cried, running straight up to him and leaping down without hesitating. The two attacked the full iron player viciously, Cellbit taking on the bulk of the attack. The kid swung his sword over and over again, clashing against his opponent's iron chestplate. Bad helped him at his flank, getting in a few good hits before he was hit from behind.

A wildcat dragged him off his feet, sinking its claws into his shoulders. Bad twisted and stabbed wildly at it. “A Chameleon!” He cried out a warning to Cellbit as the wildcat shifted back into a player and ran off towards the middle of the circle. Bad ran after it, running directly into Cellbit’s fight. He took his chance and cut through the full iron player— wedging his sword in the slot by his armpit, shoving up and through the important artery there. Blood spurted around the iron blade as Bad uncaringly dragged it back out and the body collapsed. 

In just a split second Bad glanced up at the tower above them— made of spindly oak planks. Muffins, a player tower. He brought up his ax, calling a warning to Cellbit. Thunder shook his heart as he called down lightning— directly to the top of the tower. The wood was burnt almost immediately to a crisp, showering debris down on the both of them. 

Another lightning strike landed just a meter from him— and suddenly the Feast was here. A player jumped down and landed brokenly on one of the chests— desperate for anything. Cellbit dispatched him swiftly with a calculated slash to the throat. “He’s dead!” The kid called, giddy. 

Bad opened the closest chest to him and snatched the diamond sword within. As he was scavenging Cellbit called out warning him. Bad turned around to see another desperate player attempting to open another chest, Cellbit chased him off with a couple of well placed hits. It was a mad frenzy. As Bad took a second to watch, he saw another player run up out of the corner of his eye. 

“Oh no you don’t!” Bad yelled, lunging and slamming the butt of his new diamond sword into the side of their helmetless head. The body crumpled immediately. Bad stepped over it to run and help Cellbit with one of his fights. But the kid had his teeth sunk in— and the player dead— by the time Bad arrived. They turned back without a word to the Feast.

Quickly they looted. Like deer, looking up every other second. Bad slipped on some diamond boots and gathered precious health potions into his backpack. The demon grinned as Cellbit slipped on a diamond chestplate. 

“I need boots!” The kid called and Bad spun, looking over the dead bodies around them. 

“That guy has boots.” He said, gesturing to the full iron player he had finished off earlier.

“Look out,” Cellbit warned, rushing over to yank the boots off of the dead player. “There’s a guy up there.”

Bad looked up and sure enough, on the lip of the circle was yet another player. This one waited, and watched. Bad switched between watching them, and the other player, who’d slowly been towering above them still. The demon shifted on his feet, anxiously holding his ax. With a cry he called lightning to hit the tower once more— another miss, more burnt wood and splinters. 

Cellbit and Bad stood back to back, ready, waiting. The demon aligned himself with the tower, and called down yet another strike. His teeth tasted weird in the back of his mouth, and he could see faint spots in his eyesight. But Bad felt on top of the world. “Die!” He cried, sending another, then another, until the tower exploded violently.

“Woah!” Cellbit shouted from behind him, the kid turned to stare.

Somehow the player was still alive. Not for long, if Bad and his undefeatable lightning had anything to say about it. The demon waited, aligning himself perfectly this time. “Die die die!” He laughed, lightning struck once more, and the player’s body slammed to the ground. 

“Nice one!” Cellbit called. Bad turned back to the Feast, ready for more. 

“Let’s clear these out.” Bad instructed, digging into the chests. Cellbit lay his chestplate on the enchantment table in the middle. Mere seconds passed. 

“Watch out! Behind us!” Bad jumped over the chests and sprinted towards a player who was headed their way. He hit them once, a slash deep in the shoulder, and they turned away. Bad returned to Cellbit, not wanting to lose anything good in the Feast. 

They stayed like that for a bit more, anxiously scaring off other players. They were gathering like hungry ravens around a kill, eyes dark. Bad and Cellbit burned any remaining items, and exploded the chests, before heading out once again. On their way they added yet another player kill to their list. Bad had lost count at this point. 

The sun had risen on a cloudy day in the snowy plains. Their breath turned to wisps of fog, and the wind nipped at their faces. Distantly small songbirds sang in the bushes, but nearby it was silent, scared. Bad pulled out his compass, looking for their next targets. They headed towards the swamp once more. 

But the demon’s compass pointed down, deep down. So they dug down as carefully as they could, passing by a spider spawner on their way. It was good for gaining levels, so they camped it and each enchanted their swords. 

Eventually they were met with an underground ravine, and spotted the player they had been searching for. Bad pulled out his tnt and raised an eyebrow to Cellbit. Cellbit stared back at him and then nodded once. The demon snickered, and placed it right above the player's head. He was lost in it now, as Thor Curse’s said, he was lightning sick. Bad lit the tnt with his flint and steel and backed up. The first missed, so he placed another, then another. And finally, their enemy was dead. 

Embarrassingly, on their way out— they got lost. The cave tunnels were winding and dark, with random torches placed by the player they had just killed. The two bickered and complained. It was a whole hour before they were finally out again. Rain was falling lightly on the swamp grass, but dark clouds and rumbles on the horizon forecasted a big storm. 

They searched for loners in the swamp, using their compasses and hefting their backpacks over their heads to keep dry. Cellbit’s ears kept flickering in annoyance at the wetness. Bad had such an urge to tease him about it— but something told him he’d be bitten again for that. 

A lone player they found was trying to hide in a small hole. Cellbit quickly finished them off out of sight of Bad. When the kid emerged he was wiping bits of flesh from the corners of his mouth. Bad’s tail danced in the rain, he didn’t care anymore— whatever it took to win. It was raining steadily now, and rolls of thunder made their ears ring. Lightning lit up the fields in the distance— the sun had set. 

They went after a team of two next, these players had also chosen to stay underground. Bad was cautious, ready for traps. He knew of at least a few that meant death for them, almost instant death. 

Cellbit found the players first, driving one of them— unarmored and defenseless right into Bad’s waiting sword. The demon cut them almost in half, sword sinking up through their ribs and lodging into their spine. Bad hissed as he drew his blade out— and wiped it on the body’s clothes. 

Next, the teammate. Bad found them first this time, as they quite literally ran into each other. Bad sprung back as they placed lava in between them. The demon sidestepped and stabbed at his enemy. He quickly disoriented them and spun smoothly to strike them from behind, killing them instantly with a blade through the back of the neck. 

Bad checked, four players left, two enemies. They could do this, they could actually win. Bad would let the kid take the win, and then they could both go kill his slavers together. The demon almost skipped at the fantasy. 

They went back up to the surface, compasses out and ran across the snowy plains hunting for the last two people. Eventually they came across a tower, and Cellbit groaned as the compasses pointed down once more. 

“You gotta be kidding me.” The kid moaned, throwing his head up. 

“Underground again.” Bad rolled his eyes, crouching down to pinpoint the location. The demon offered to dig down, and in a one by two hole, started his descent. Dirt turned to stone. Cellbit followed him down with a water bucket, and soon they were right on top of their enemy. Bad frantically mined through stone, teeth bared, ready for a fight. Cellbit broke through the rock first, jumping down to brutally stab through the poor player’s iron chestplate. Bad only heard a choked scream, and they were dead. 

Bad sighed, and backed up. The kid emerged smiling wide. “Good fight.” The demon murmured. Cellbit shrugged and started towering back up. Bad followed. One more person left.

Their compasses pointed right at them, off in the distance. They were on the hunt again. Red poppies stood tall out of snow covered grass. Scattered footprints scuffed the white powder, spraying it every which way. Bad and Cellbit thundered past. 

Bad looked down at his compass, swerving side to side to check if they were close. The needle barely moved, they were. The demon slowed down next to a pond, circling it. Cellbit was opposite him, also examining his compass closely. 

“Another one underground.” Bad growled— pocketing his tool. His tail lashed with frustration. 

Cellbit looked up at him, a quip forming on his lips. He disappeared. Just like that.

“Cellbit!” Bad yelled. Muffins, this wasn’t good. That meant only one thing— this player was an Endermage. The demon dug his pickaxe desperately into the earth, nearing the fight, not hearing anything besides his own desperate breaths. His kid was going to die if he couldn’t get there in time. He tore at the stone, lightning sparking in his eyes and mouth. He could smell the ozone— like burning plastic. 

Bad’s heart sank as Cellbit’s death message popped up. The demon screamed out in rage and dug even faster. Panic shot through him, he could be next, at any minute. There was a cool down— and five seconds of invincibility immediately afterwards— but it was still putting his life in his enemies hands. A horrible tugging feeling in his gut was the only warning he had before the demon was pulled through space. 

Then he was falling. One. Solidly hitting lava, screaming as he expected to burn. Two. Bad wasn’t burning, wasn’t dying. Three. Get up, get up, get up. Four. The demon screamed again, dragging himself out and onto nearby cobblestone. Five. 

The heat from the cobblestone hit him suddenly as the invincibility wore off. He was down in a ravine— lava pool right next to him, enemy above him. Bad crouched, backing up until he was hidden from sight by a large stone overhang. Good, the Endermage shouldn’t know where he was. His breaths came heavy as the heat sucked the oxygen from the air. Bad set his backpack down carefully— and withdrew his bow and quiver. He slung his quiver onto his back and then the pack after it. Carefully, the demon nocked an arrow, and swung up and around to where he’d last seen the player. He aimed, and fired. Bad didn’t know if he’d missed or not, but he nocked another arrow and waited three seconds. No retaliation. He popped his head out again, and shot once more. The player had built up a wall, blocking Bad’s arrows.

“Muffins.” The demon cursed under his breath. There was no other option besides chasing after them. Bad started towering up, building a wall at his back first so he couldn’t be knocked off. When he was level with where he’d last seen his opponent he looked over, a similar— but taller— walled tower had been built. Bad rolled his eyes. Now what.

The demon scooted over to it, sliding along a precarious ledge in the wall of the ravine. Grasping a handhold he leaned forward and placed two tnt, hoping one would launch the other towards the tower. Bad lit it and scrambled back to his tower. When he looked back— the top of the tower, and the player, were gone. He flicked his flint and steel desperately needing light, and spotted them just as they whipped around the corner on a ledge across from his.

Bad growled and bridged over the ravine as fast as he could. The demon crept quietly along the wall, sword drawn. He fought off a skeleton that blindsided him— but once he was done with that, the player had disappeared. The compass pointed down into the ground once again. Bad wavered, unsure of what to do. The player could have laid down traps, they could still Endermage him. And the Pit was coming up soon— when they’d be teleported instantly into a deep deep hole to fight to the death. 

Bad decided to follow the player down, parallel to their deep tunnel. He dug and dug, getting closer and closer. The compass in his hand was shivering madly. Bad could practically smell the blood already. He needed to get his revenge for Cellbit, needed to sink his teeth into the flesh of this player. 

That same tugging feeling was back, swooping his stomach out from under him. For a second he thought he’d been Endermage-d again. But when he blinked his eyes open and staggered on his feet— he could see the tall walls of the Pit surrounding him. Bad lashed his tail and spun around, ready to face his enemy. He twirled his sword once, gripped the handle tight, and raced over to where the player was desperately towering up the side. 

In a flash of brilliant thought, the demon whipped out his only enderpearl. Bad tossed it smoothly a few blocks above the player’s head— then he held his breath. Bad sprang into re-existence right on top of them, wrapping his legs around their neck, he leaned back into the wall and pushed. The player toppled off of the tower and the demon spun midair to catch himself on the lip of the tower. Bracing himself with his feet against the stone wall— he looked down at his enemy.

The player had staggered to their feet and taken a few steps— desperately trying to distance themself. Bad shook his head, grinning— and leapt off to land smoothly in front of them. He advanced, sword out. “Bring it buddy.” The demon slid his tongue over his sharp teeth and tensed. With brutal force and no time for his opponent to react— Bad stabbed his diamond sword through their neck and up into their skull. The thrust carved through flesh, cartilage and bone— settling the blade solidly into the body. Bad swung the sword to the side and sent it crashing to the stone floor. That was honestly a little underwhelming.

He kicked dust at the body— before turning and looking up at the sky. Bad felt the familiar instant drain— as the lightning left his blood and exhaustion swamped him. He always hated the silence right afterwards, how it made his skin crawl and jaw ache. Soon, he would be teleported back to the Game Hall, and paraded around in front of businessmen and server owners. The demon tapped one clawed finger against his palm— anxious, tired, and sick. 

He was looking forward to finding Cellbit. No doubt the slavers would be bragging about their prized third place catch. Bad would find them— Bad would probably meet them, shake hands with them and memorize their faces, as Cellbit was trapped somewhere, still wounded. Bad had talked to slaver’s catches before— those types of organizations had special arrangements to teleport their players right back to their cages. 

The demon stretched with his arms over his head, and yawned. The Game was over— but another one was beginning. Bad lunged to one side, then the other, working cramps out of his legs. His tail twitched. The pull returned one more time, sinking into his gut harshly and tugging him through space. Time to go rescue his kid. 

[manyothermusingsofmine]

Forest Hearts || Drabble

Fandom: Xmen Warnings: Nightmare Terrors that include the concepts of total annihilation, character death, and the deep profound fear of being alone Wordcount: 1356 Summary: Give me a character and I'll write you a nightmare. No really, I love pondering how a character's subconscious likes to manifest their deepest fears. ---------------- She had to get away from them. Sentinels of all shapes and sizes were after her, and in seemingly ever growing numbers. They had already overtaken the mansion; taken both the main team and her team. And unless she kept running she would be next to fall to the mechanical monsters that couldn't be held back or persuaded to stop even by begging for your life. Her only way out was through the thick forest that surrounded the mansion, no matter how much her mind begged her not to go there. It was dangerous, she had been warned so many times by Wolverine that the forest around the place were no playground.

Wolverine was dead.

He got stabbed in the stomach by one of the hybrid Sentinels, and never got back up. He was their last line of defense, the last person she could count on for help and protection, and he was taken away from her as ruthlessly as everyone else. He never got back up, no matter how much she had begged him to do so. To please, please, not leave her all alone.

Miranda fled into the forest as soon as she heard the sound of the mechanical death machines behind her draw closer. And she ran until her legs whined in the language of burning muscles. The further she had gone in, the larger the trees seemed to grow; the more the trees seemed to multiply just to surround her further. While she was no longer chased by the machines that wanted her dead, the miles of unmoving and yet ever growing forest around her offered nothing but a sense of deep unease and a promise that she would never find her way back out.

Not without help, and there was no one coming to help; because aside from her there was no one left alive. Not in the mansion, not in the city; probably not even in the world- the mutants killed by humanity which had all been turned to hybrid Sentinels.

She was utterly and truly alone.

The weight of that realization sat on her heart until it shattered apart under the pressure of it, tears pouring out of her like a flood as she tried to breathe. There was nothing she could've done to help any of them, the sentinels with their heat vision easily dismissing her invisibility and bringing down better mutants than her. They killed Wolverine. What chance did she have at survival if Wolverine couldn't even make it through?!

The forest didn't answer, nor did it forgive her that she ran.

She wobbled, unstable on her legs. Balling up her hand so her nails were slightly digging into her palm, she placed that hand upon the tree beside her in some attempt for her to steady herself- only to look up and blink when her mind registered that the tree felt wrong. She looked at it, detecting nothing like moss or some other growth that would explain why the bark didn't feel like tree bark in the slightest. And as soon as her mind noticed that the tree didn't feel like what it was supposed to feel like, the object started to warp and morph almost to try and become something that would explain why the tactile feeling didn't match up to expectations; tree bark with no moss or other plant growth wasn't supposed to feel fuzzy.

And trees weren't supposed to purr.

In a jolt she opened her eyes, to the black nothing of a darkened room in the middle of the night- her eyes hadn't adjusted to anything so everything around her was just shapeless colorless blobs.

It had all been way too vivid to really just be a nightmare, right? Despite waking up, this did feel like reality. Her hand protested, not liking the fact that her nails were still pressed into her palm, and she uncurled it only to feel a bigger surface area of soft fuzz underneath accompanied by a very soft purr and calm heartbeat next to her ear

Kurt.

Her brain almost sighed in relief itself the moment it realised that had been what caused the discrepancy between expectation and actual feel of the tree bark. She felt his arms and tail around her, protectively, as he was still fast asleep. Thank God he was still asleep, that her night terrors hadn’t woken him up.

Miranda pressed her hand down a little further, slowly moving her hand up to his shoulder just to feel the soft fuzz being smoothed down by the motion. A very light, almost chirp of a sound left her sleeping lover; as if his subconscious was asking her if he should wake up after all to help and comfort her. She just pulled her hand back, pressing a soft kiss to his chest before nestling herself back on his chest. His embrace shifted ever so slightly, his arms and tail gently tightening their grip while he sleepily burrowed his face in her hair with a slight purr. Kurt remained asleep, the soft sound of his breathing and heartbeat soothing Miranda.

Her hand still laid flat on his chest, near her face, until she pulled her fingers back and made her palm curl upwards and away from the soft fuzz. With just her pointer finger she started to doodle little drawings in his fur, the repeated motion and feeling of the fur obeying whichever direction she pushed it into easing her mind and slowly making her realise that this was real. She was in her bedroom, in the mansion; safely kept in the embrace of her partner. He was there, really there; there was no faking the sensation of his blue fur under the tips of her fingers or the hold he had on her.

"I'm glad you're here with me," Miranda muttered, very softly in the hope she still wouldn't wake him up, wanting him to sleep peacefully though the remainder of the night, "I love you."

She closed her eyes, allowing his embrace to pull her back to sleep. He was so comfortably warm, like curling up in front of an active fireplace on a cold winter night; helped by the familiar smell of woodsmoke that lingered in his fur. Everyone was fine, she wasn’t alone. She was safe.

Morning came too soon for Kurt's liking, but his alarm was unrelenting. He hit the button to shut it off, slowly and gently prying his lover off him. He lightly pushed the big cat plush on the other side of the bed into her arms, just to give her something else to snuggle with while he had to go get ready for his day after he pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. He threw a look in the big mirror on her wardrobe and stopped, thinking for a moment to process what he saw before looking back in the mirror as a double take.

Yeah, it had been exactly what he thought he saw; a bunch of little hearts had been doodled into the fur on his chest, going up to his collarbone and creeping towards the ball of his shoulder.

"Well," he mumbled to himself, "That's the cutest fur graffiti I've seen on me. I love you too, Miranda."

He smoothed out the ones on his shoulder and gathered near his collar bone, only leaving the ones that would be hidden by the tank top he intended to wear for today anyway. Nobody needed to know how she soothed herself in the middle of the night after all- at that thought he halted, pushing the strap of the top aside and looking at one of the hearts that revealed itself through this motion by looking at its reflection in the mirror. The hearts weren’t perfectly uniform, but they had a clear pattern to them of someone who had repeated the motion of drawing them over and over to ease an apparently troubled mind; and before he had smoothed them out there obviously had been more doodled into his fur.

He quietly noted to himself that he would have to ask Miranda about them later.

[thewelllajolla]

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[thebowmanandhisbeloveds]

“Absolutely you can,” I give her a soft smile, “we’ll be home in no time, you’ll see.”

Louella smiles softly and gives you a little nod, giggling as Haymitch makes a mustache out of bacon.

From then on, the two of them really hit it off and she follows him almost everywhere he goes- until all of you are separated for the pre-parade prep.

You and Louella are taken to the same general area, though you’re separated by a sheet as the makeup teams work to shave you, wax you, wash your hair, add a gloss to it, trim your nails, do your makeup, check your nose and ear hair, shave the peach fuzz off your face- anything you can think of, they do it.

They give you robes to go meet Tigris in, as she will oversee specific costume fittings and making sure they look alright.

Louella meets up with you outside to wait for the boys, her eyes a bit red-rimmed from crying at the pain of the waxing. “I don’t like-”

The boys come out in their own robes, and Louella frowns a bit at the way they’ve messed with the boys’ hair. Firstly, Burdock’s hair is shorter. They’ve cut it. And Haymitch has a completely different part, but his curls are fine. His hair isn’t the problem- it’s the way they’ve messed with his eyebrows, too. They’ve taken away all the wide growth so they’re no longer as bushy.

Haymitch raises his eyebrows as they approach, “Well, I think enough people have seen my dick today. Now we gotta see one more person, right? At least the waxing shows Burd’s muscles more.”

[toxichem]

✧･ﾟ ——— ❛ @galaxythixf . ❪ ill & injured . ❫ "Hang in there. I'm not going to let you die." - Brim

✧･ﾟ ——— ❛   despite the bleeding wound in her stomach   ,   the chemist could ' t help but chuckle   .   a moment later   ,   the rest of the air in her lungs whooshed out with a harsh cough   ,   spasming muscles in her abdomen depriving her of breath   .   ❝   no laughing   ,   ugh   .   ❞   letting herself fall back against the shipping container hiding them   ,   she rolled her head to look over at brimstone   ,   blinking away a blurriness that fuzzed his profile for just a moment   .   ❝   it ' s not like sage couldn ' t bring me back if i did   .   ❞   long fingers grasp her half - mask   ,   pulling the filter away from her face for more unobstructed air flow   .   taking a deep breath   ,   she grimaced upon realizing the poor taste that joke was made in   .   ❝   sorry   .   if my anatomy lessons are remembered correctly   ,   though   ,   i still have several hours before this becomes a bigger issue   .   ❞

viper shifted her weight   ,   breath hissing between her teeth as she pushed herself into a more proper sitting position   ,   compared to the slumped way she ' d been moments prior   .   ❝   hey   .   look at me   ,   brimstone   .   ❞   the hand not pressed against her stomach   (   thankfully not bloodstained   ,   she never wanted to see her blood on his skin   ,   never again   .   )   lifted to turn his head towards her   ,   bright green eyes meeting pale blue   .   ❝   liam   .   i will make it out of here   .   i ' ll be all right   .   go finish the mission   .   ❞   dark hair fell from behind her ear as she nodded towards where the rest of their team was   ,   systematically pushing and clearing out remaining resistance   .   the former firefighter had pulled her back to an area they had already secured   ,   after dealing with the assailant that had gotten the drop on her and put one shorty round into her stomach   .   she ' d be safe enough there with the frenzy he ' d dropped in her lap until evac arrived   .

[yanderemommabean]

I HAVE AN IDEA! A darling royalty for the bees, who is allergic to pollen! Picture someone coming in, offering the ruler some food, and poor thing starts sneezing, and it looks like they’re crying! Poor bees panic!

You’re sniffling and struggling to keep your nose from clogging, and the pollen only gets worse. The bees are covered in it from head to toe in the spring on their planet, and at first you didn’t really get bothered, but now? Now you’re sneezing and coughing, with watery eyes and itchy skin.

It’s not the end of the world, but when a few bees come in to serve you breakfast and see your state, they assume the worst.

They all surround you, furiously searching you over and asking you if you feel sick, if you can breathe, if you’re even able to stand as they help you out of bed. Would a shower help? What about those bumps on your skin? Your eyes are filled with tears! Why tears? Have they let you down as you’re in this sickened state?!

“I-it’s just bad allergies” you manage, the water from the shower warm and soothing while the bees chirp and buzz in a panic, asking question after question. “Just tell us what we need to do! We’ll get the medical team here right away! Don’t worry we won’t leave your side!”.

“N-no no! I just need some antihistamines! I’m not dying I promise!” You try to reassure, seeing the worry in their faces as they start to tear up themselves. “Y-you can’t be in such a terrible state and be fine! We have to get you help!” A few whimper in sync. They’re pouts and brittle voices make your heart feel heavy, as they simply don’t understand and are worrying over nothing!

“It’s ok, it’s ok” you softly speak, petting their head softly as you sit down under the water, the warmth hitting your back and soothing your muscles. “I promise it’s nothing lethal or terminal. We can get the medical team here and I’ll explain everything I can, ok? You guys have nothing to be upset about”.

One bee gently nudged your hand as you pet their fuzz, eyes closing as they indulge in your touch. “Are you sure? We wouldn’t be upset if you’re sick, dear ruler”.

You wanted to sigh in exasperation, but stifle it. It’s just their nature, you’ve been here long enough to know that. You lean down to softly kiss their cheek, earning a fluttering of wings as a result. “I swear. Now let’s just get ready for the day ok? I know you all want to share breakfast with me”.

(Was this ok? @-@ -Mommabean )

[hakodate-division]

"The little things in life are sometimes the most important."

Introduction

Ted Bridges is the second member of the Hakodate Division rap battle team, Kuma no ie. He is known by his MC name, Teddy. A former veteran in the Canadian army, Ted retired from military service after WWIII ended and vowed to give up violence. After the death of his beloved wife, he fled to Hakodate and now lives a quiet life in the mountains with his son. But what will happen when unfortunate circumstances force him to give up his life of peace and take up arms again?

A heavily-built man in his late 30s with a rugged mountain-man appearance, Ted is a lot heavier and taller than most men. He has very noticeable muscles on his arms and chest due to his time serving in the army, and his current life as a mountain man. He has brown eyes and bright red hair that is cut short. His hair color is not natural, as he dyed it, along with his eyebrows, a different color when he escaped to Hakodate. He also has some peach fuzz growing on his chin. His body is riddled with faded scars, most of which he got while wrestling with bears up in the mountains. A few are from his time serving in the military. The most noticeable one is the one on his face across the bridge of his nose.

For his attire, he wears a tight black muscle shirt that outlines the muscles on his chest. Over it, he wears a brown leather military jacket that is unbuttoned. On his bottom, he wears a pair of black jeans and a pair of brown boots with matching-colored socks. Around his neck, he wears a dog tag that is also from his time in the military. And around his head is a black bandana. In one of the pockets of his jacket is a gold locket, which is a memento from his wife.

Name Meaning

Ted - 'Wealthy guardian. Also an abbreviation of Theodore.'

Bridges - 'variant of Bridge. In some cases, this name denoted someone from the Flemish city of Bruges (Brugge) in Belgium meaning ‘bridges’ which had extensive trading links with England in the Middle Ages.'

Aliases

"The Bear"

Dad/Father/Papa - His son

Teddy - His wife

Ted-san - Kotan

Biographical Info

Gender - Male

Age - 38

Birthday - March 23rd

Ethnicity - American Canadian

Hair Color - Bright Red (Dyed)

Eye Color - Dark Brown

Height - 209 cm/6'10"

Weight - 134 kg/295 lb.

Star Sign - Aries

Piercings - None

Markings - Multiple scars on the majority of his body, most of which are faded. He also has a bear tattoo on his upper right arm, and one covering the majority of his back.

Family

Mother (Deceased)

Father (Deceased)

Wife (Deceased)

Son

Voiced By - ZORN (Rapping)

Fun Facts

MC Name - Teddy

Occupation - Lumberjack

Division - Hakodate

Position - Second Member

Favorite Food - Grilled Fish

Least Favorite Food - Sauerkraut

Likes - Peace, the mountains, his work, cold mornings, his son, his wife, bears, the Ainu people, sunsets, cold beer after a hard day's work, brewing his own beer, Nature, solitude

Dislikes - Violence, thinking about his past, anything related to Chuohku, anything that disturbs his peaceful life, harm to his son, noise pollution, poachers, disrespect to bears

Hypnosis Microphone

Ted's Microphone is a gold condenser microphone on a silver stand. The mic, itself, takes the form of a labrys, a double-bladed axe, and the mic appears in the middle of the blades.

His Speaker takes the form of a gold heart-shaped locket, similar to the one he keeps in his coat pocket. When he begins rapping, it opens up, revealing a speaker inside.

His rap ability, Heart of the Mountains, drastically increases Ted's defense, protecting him from minor blows from his opponents. He can keep this ability active for as long as he wants, but the longer it's active, the more stamina and energy he uses up.

Ted's rap themes are centered around his life, and his desire to keep it as peaceful as he can. He often raps about incidents from his past that have shaped him into the man that he is. He also mentions the love he has for his life, his family, Hakodate, and Japan, as a whole.

Personality

To say that Ted is an intimidating figure would be putting it lightly. He is quite scary when angered and his large stature doesn't exactly help matters. He doesn't make attempts to hide his disliking for people strangers or people who he feels are attempting to ruin the peaceful life he has made with his son. An excellent judge of character, he can easily discern what kind of character a person is just from their look or stance alone. It has caused him to chase more than a few people off the mountains where he lives.

Once a decorated war hero who made a name for himself during the Third World War, Ted was known as a remorseless and cold soldier. His fury in battle, as well as his appearance, gave him the moniker, "The Bear". However, he was also known to be very cautious, often taking precautions in battle. It was this behavior that caused the death of one of his closest war buddies, whom Ted feels he could have saved if he had been more aggressive. After witnessing the horrors brought on by conflict, the gruff man eventually resigned and went on to start a family. From then on, he was known for his kind, yet firm demeanor and humbleness.

Knowing what it's like to go into battle and have to kill, Ted strongly dislikes senseless violence and has an extreme disliking for killing. That's not to say that he doesn't enjoy a good brawl now and then. In his spare time when he is not working as a woodsman, he'll often be found wrestling with some of the bears found in the mountains, considering it a good sport. Also, whenever he comes across poachers or people who seek to do him or his son harm, he always hurts them to the point where they get the message to not return to the mountains again. Usually, one well-placed punch is enough for most people to get the message.

Underneath his rough demeanor, Ted is a loving father who only cares for the well-being of his son. Though it takes a while to earn his trust, he is known to be a good friend to many. He automatically befriended the Ainu people living in the valley below the mountains when he saved a bear cub from a bunch of poachers. This caused the Ainu people to see the foreign lumberjack as one of them. And though he didn't have to, he saved Kokomi when she was injured, nursing her back to health, which earned him her friendship and admiration.

Another aspect of Ted is his hatred for anything involving Chuohku. He dislikes the matriarchal government due to the fact that he blames them for the death of his wife. Though Chuohku insists that her death was a "workplace accident", Ted firmly believes that she was killed for less-than-honorable reasons. He now dislikes anything to do with them. Despite that, he hasn't done anything to directly oppose them, not caring at all what they do so long as they leave him and his son alone.

Background

*Coming soon*

Trivia

Though he owns a chalet to sleep in, he often chooses to sleep outside, feeling more at peace on the ground.

He ferments and creates his own type of beer, which is a hit for the people of Hakodate and the surrounding cities. He refuses to give up the recipe or market it.

His birthday is the same day as 'World Bear Day'.

As stated, he often spends his free time wrestling bears. Out of 200 matches, 199 of them have been won in his favor. The only one that wasn't was declared a 'draw'.

Though he has no solid proof, Ted believes that his wife was approached by Chuohku because she had the ability to "speak" to animals, as if able to understand what they were saying. He often worries that his son has the same ability, which was one of the reasons he moved to Hakodate from Okinawa.