#and also personally salty because i want to read a fic that will peel the skin from my bones

[suckinitup]

gets up on my little stage with my secret little four followers blog and turns off reblogs. i think that a lot of current mcyt/mcyt fandom rn would be defending anne rice literally suing fanfic writers who shipped her characters. creators do not have a say in fan works or fan spaces for a REASON. they dont get to say what we make just like we dont get to say what they make. if we dont like their work we can avoid it just like if they dont like ours they can avoid it- UNLESS. someone else. decides to shove it in their face. can you fucking imagine. youve got this one story trope that you absolutely hate or that makes you really uncomfortable and this one jackass keeps showing it off to you. and that is somehow the norm for some of these fandoms??? i have seen elder fans cringe away in HORROR at the concept of how involved mcyt creators are in their fanbases. i grew up writing fics plastered with "I DONT OWN THIS" disclaimers on a website that, straight up, Did Not Allow You to post about certain works by certain authors. if an author didn't want you to create any fanwork, you Were Not Allowed. Doesn't that sound familiar. stories are built on top of other stories on top of other stories on top of other stories. it doesn't matter if someone creates something that grosses you out- all those authors who were disgusted by the queer shipping of their characters were ABSOLUTELY grossed out. the point isn't protecting the creators from others' creations the point is to take inspiration from something you love and to MAKE !!

[ghostofbambifanfiction]

Part 1 of ?????

Started writing this fic a while ago and then lost faith in it. Should I continue? Feel bad for not posting much lately so I thought I'd share this. Read on and weigh in.

COME OUT TONIGHT

NO

You don't have to fucking shout?

Said the pot to the kettle?

Oh you grandmother The caps were an accidental by-product of voice-to-text Blame Siri if you're going to blame anyone

You have a Samsung Galaxy S20.

HAD. It got smashed. Worst luck. Listen, come out with me tonight.

Urghhhhhhhhhhhhhh I'm tired!

https://www.boots.com/wellness/vitaminsandsupplements/vitamins-supplements-shop-by-ingredient/echinacea

Hah (indifferent)

Just come out with me! Isaac has to go see some godawful student performance of the Antigone in wherever the fuck Chichester is and it's Sirius's flatmate's birthday party so I have to go and I don't know any of his weird mates

You don't HAVE to go.

Have to/want to Semantics

I'm not in a birthday party mood. I'm having a stressful week. My arse has been tense since Tuesday.

I will wade into the deep and massage your arse if I have to, just come It's a swank pad in Belgravia! I bet they'll have all sorts of expensive nibbles!

I read that as expensive nipples.

Those too!

Partying it up with the children of wealthy Tories. Sounds super fun.

Just come out with me, for fuck I'll pick you up at 7 and we can steal their silverware if it's boring as the grave

URGH I'll go but I'm NOT dressing up!

You don't have to dress up!

FINE!

*

take the drawings down please i'm begging you i'm actually begging you

Nah mate

siriusssssssss pleeeeeease

Nah

PLEASE

Nah

PLEASE ffs it's MY birthday!!!! there are going to be PEOPLE there! standing around! AT EYE LEVEL

I don't see what the problem is.

EVERYONE will see what the problem is! they literally will not be able to IGNORE what the problem is!

Sounds like a recipe for lively discussion to me tbh

that is NOT what i want people talking about at my birthday!

If I take them down, I'll have to take all the nails out and that'll leave nail marks all over the walls. It would be unsightly.

MORE UNSIGHTLY THAN YOUR DICK, SIRIUS?

My dick is bewitching.

DIE

*

She walks in expecting to find herself the infiltrator of a Made in Chelsea/Royal Ascot/Henley Regatta netherworld, filled with a gaggle of giggling, SW-postcode socialites wielding suspiciously powder-edged Harrods Amex cards in the place of horses and boats, but that's not what actually greets her on the other side of the lacquered front door.

What greets her is really quite ordinary.

Aside from the naked drawings of Kingsley's mate, which aren't.

Otherwise, the whole affair is pretty relaxed. People her age are clustered in their small groups, swigging beers. There's a table of oven-heated party foods, salty snacks and rapidly depleting ramekins of guac. She spies more band shirts than there are dress shirts. There's a round of Fortnite in full swing on the TV.

It's all just...startlingly normal. A normal birthday party.

And that's sort of embarrassing, really.

Where are all the visible Tory toffs, she wonders? Where is the braying laughter? The Eton alumni reunion? The glimpse of hunting-happy tweed and shotgun barrels as a coat cupboard door swings shut? Where's the indelible air of sneering superiority, of "we're richer and more privileged and better than you, so fuck the NHS and death to foxes!" that she'd been expecting? There's a fucking Henry Hoover in the corner of the hall, for Christ's sake. Lily came here to smile through her teeth at them all, to listen to the champagne problems privilege that bubbled from their lips and tell herself that she was the one who knew better, who thought better. Her plain white tee and skinny jeans and scuff-toed, high-top trainers were supposed to be a statement, a subtle setting-apart, but she's not even the most underdressed person in the room.

She pre-judged a house full of people. What's that about?

There's a lesson to be found in this. Perhaps.

*

James covered all of the dicks in Paw Patrol stickers that he bought from the newsagent on his way home from his mum's, but Sirius peeled them all off while he was taking a soothing lavender bath, so what's the bloody point in birthdays anyway?

It's early in the evening, and he's wedged—against his will—between the dining room bar and Shane Ruttle, who has just pointed at one of the many lamentable dicks and asked, "Is this one of yours?" which James kind of wants to thump him for. It's bad enough that he looks like a madman who stuffed his house with naked drawings of his brother, now people are actually assuming that he drew the damn things, even though most of the compositions are appallingly far beneath his skill level. He's a professional illustrator, for the love of god, and Shane is really standing before him like the posturing prick he is, asking him if he's the one who drew Sirius with one arm disproportionately longer than the other.

He knows that he should cheer up.

It is his birthday. There is cake.

Good cake, too, not the kind that gets buried in too-thick fondant that he has to pick off before he can eat what's underneath.

The problem is, there's also a party, and his friends are his friends, Peter and Sirius included, and Peter and Sirius can both get drunk much faster than James can. When Peter and Sirius get drunk, serious injuries tend to follow, Remus tends to fuck off in a flash and James tends to be the one who calls for an ambulance or mothers them back to health—physical, mental or otherwise. He has just turned twenty-six, and these repeated, drunkenly dramatic medical emergency scenes are starting to wear a little thin.

Can't a man get comfortably drunk and have a laugh at his own birthday party?

No, he can't, because Peter's already halfway to trashed, wobbling unsteadily towards the French doors that lead to the terrace, wearing that look on his face that says I'm definitely going to vomit or maybe even shit myself like I did on that one night we all spent in Munich with the Belgian handball team and the creepy tour guide who couldn't keep his sleazy hands to himself. For the sake of sparing the lawn such a punishment, James hastily removes himself from Shane, grabs Peter by the collar, shoves him in the direction of the downstairs loo and retreats to the safety of the living room, where there are, at least, no naked drawings of Sirius gracing the walls.

Most of the people in here are transfixed by Saffy Stephens, who is down to the last three in her Fortnite game and cursing like a sailor, but there are a small pile of birthday cards on the end table where James and Sirius normally keep their keys. He perches on the sofa arm, sets his half-drunk beer bottle on the carpet, pushes his dark, disheveled hair away from his forehead and begins leafing through them. It's a necessity when one lives with Sirius, who thinks nothing of swiping gift cards when the mood strikes him and he's had enough to drink.

They're mostly from his female friends, and all pretty standard, until he reaches the middle of the pile and finds a card bearing a picture of a moustached tabby and the caption: Have a Purr-fect Birthday!

The inscription inside is written in a lovely, swirling hand.

To Jasper/Jack/Jason/maybe Ja Rule?/J-something idk

(see above: everything I've learned about you from the friend* I came here with, verbatim)

(*who can't remember your name)

Happy Birthday! Thank you for (not) specifically inviting me, a stranger, to your party to celebrate this momentous event in your life. Please enjoy this festive card/social nicety/convention from me to you. My friend brought rum which you may prefer.

I'll be around. Not that you'll know.

LE

James lowers the card and twists on the sofa arm at once, eyes darting around the room in search of its author, as if they might be laying in wait to watch him read it and see how he reacts. Nobody appears to have ducked behind the couch, however, so the situation merits further scrutiny.

Obviously, he needs to meet this person.

A mystery! At his birthday party!

He perks right up after that.

*

She's coming out of the downstairs loo when a short, blonde man in a garish Hawaiian shirt barrels past her and pukes all over the chequerboard tiled floor, narrowly missing her jeans.

"Oh no," he moans into his wet hands. "Oh no—"

"There there, mate," says Lily consolingly, never one to judge somebody for getting drunk early at a party. She pats him on the back before squeezing past him and rejoining Kingsley, who is standing in one of this meandering Georgian house's many hallways, chatting to a bloke in a houndstooth sweater vest and holding two glasses of something very, very sparkly that she must try at once.

"It's like...it's like everything and nothing at the same time," Houndstooth Bloke is saying when Lily draws close, gesturing to a huge canvas painting of a rain-soaked fairground at night.

"Is it?" Kingsley asks.

"Mmm. Very." Houndstooth shakes his shoulders like he's slipping out of a robe. "Meant to be esoteric, I suppose."

That sounds suspiciously like pretentious bullshit to Lily, who doesn't find the concept of a merry looking fairground all that difficult to absorb. Kingsley knows more about the art world than she does, but he must agree with her assessment because he grunts and shoves her glass into her hand when she stops beside him, and more roughly than she deserves, as if she's the one who landed him in this mess of a conversation to begin with.

Trust him to find himself stuck with the only dick (not etched by a 4B Steadtler graphite pencil) in the building, and trust her to be stuck with the person who got himself stuck with King.

"What are we talking about?" she asks brightly, just to fuck with him.

"Drink your champagne, there's a good little hen," King mutters, his teeth clenched together, hallway lights bouncing off the smoothly waxed dome of his bald head.

"We've been discussing this piece." Houndstooth nods to the painting, but his limpid eyes narrow on Lily's face. "Christ, you're very redheaded, aren't you?"

It's decided. She'll wait 'til Houndstooth is drunk and trip him up with Henry Hoover's hose.

"Ergo soulless, yes," she agrees.

"And you...enjoy that?" he asks, as if being redheaded is her profession.

"Very much, thanks."

"Hmmp. Well. I came here with Saffron," he announces, pronouncing it Sef-ron. As if Lily is supposed to know who that is. "Platonically, of course. Actually, we're some sort of cousins, I think. What do you think the artist is trying to convey?"

He's very pointedly asking her, so Lily blinks at the painting, her eyes on the outstretched arm of a child on the carousel.

"I like the pretty colours," she decides aloud.

"Right," says Houndstooth, "but that's not—"

"And the lights, too. The lights are really pretty."

"But—"

"I love funfairs, actually," she brightly continues, finding a strange satisfaction in playing dumb in front of Houndstooth and his overbleached fade. Although she does really like the colours. "Haven't been to one in years!"

"Yes, good, whatever, but what is the artist trying to convey?"

"What artist?" comes a voice from behind them.

Lily glances over her shoulder and finds herself looking up at the man whose penis she's spent the past thirty minutes avoiding eye contact with, though he is taller, better proportioned and infinitely more beautiful than any of those crudely drawn depictions could possibly convey. He is also beplumed and bejewelled like a pirate, wearing a sumptuous velvet jacket over a loose white shirt, numerous rings on his fingers and an assortment of silver chains around his slender neck, while his grey eyes and elegantly high-set cheekbones are framed by a tumble of black hair that genuinely looks like silk.

The man is so beautiful, in fact, that Lily immediately wonders why he's been taking sketches home from the life drawing class that he and Kingsley pose for—hence their acquaintance and Lily's presence at this party—when nothing she's seen tonight has done him any justice.

Most happily, his penis is tucked safely out of sight.

"Alright, Sirius?" says King.

"Alright, Marvel?" Sirius claps a hand to the taller man's massive shoulder. Kingley's muscles bulge in a way that cannot be hidden by modern habiliments. "What are we talking about?"

"Not much." Houndstooth looks put out by the arrival of yet another person. "We were just mesmerised by this piece."

Lily refrains from gesturing to the painting with both hands and a "ta-dah!" choosing instead to sip her champagne.

It's very good champagne. Mmm. Yes.

"Oh, yeah, it's really something," Sirius agrees. He brushes past Kingsley and runs a finger over the illegible squiggle of a signature on the canvas. His nails are beautifully manicured. "Local guy, young up-and-comer. I assume you've heard of Algernon?" he asks Houndstooth, fixing him with a steely-eyed stare.

"Er, yes." Houndstooth's gaze slides from Sirius to the painting. "I know him."

Sirius's eyebrows lift. "Know him personally?"

"Well—"

"That's so weird, I heard he never speaks to people."

Houndstooth chews on the inside of his cheek, weighing up the challenge. "How…funny."

"Funny?"

"Oh, nothing. It's just, I know I've spoken to him before, and since you've bought his painting I assumed that you'd have—"

"That is funny, actually," Sirius interrupts, "because the artist is my brother, and Algernon is the name of his cat."

Kingsley has been tugging on his earring and almost rips it out of his ear as his body convulses, champagne spraying from his nostrils, while an alarming red flush sweeps across Houndstooth's face and he begins to sputter on his own self-importance. Sirius has clearly decided that he's done with all of that noise, however, because he turns back to Lily instead, looking her up and down with great and sudden interest.

"Who's this then?" he asks Kingsley, cocking his head to one side. "James's present?"

The champagne glass swings down and Lily fixes him with a deadpan stare. "Excuse me?"

Sirius slants a grin at Kingsley, a quick flash of teeth. "This one's queenly, isn't she?"

Kingsley wipes his nose with the back of his hand and laughs again. "Hardly."

"This is Primark, mate," Lily retorts, tugging on her t-shirt.

"Queenliness is a state of mind," says Sirius, "not a state of wardrobe."

"You had me marked down as a prostitute not ten seconds ago."

"Oh, that. I was only joking," he sighs, and grips her arm at the elbow, his long fingers cool against her skin. "But still, you're far too attractive to stand here talking to this clown. Come with me and I'll find you someone better."

*

James's friends are useless.

And drunk. Useless and drunk—or sort of drunk, in Saffy's case. Remus is certainly already pissed, but Remus is on meds so often that he drinks but once in a blue moon. One cocktail is usually enough to set him off, and he's been hard at the gin since he turned up with Peter at six.

"I don't know anyone with those initials," Saffy declares, once she has read, examined and even sniffed the birthday card for clues. "Except for Lisa Edelstein."

"Who's Lisa Edelstein?"

"Cuddy from House," says Remus, lowering the negroni from which he has been drinking deeply.

James pulls a face. "What the fuck is a Cuddy?"

"Oh, actually, it could mean le?" Remus suggests.

"Yes!" Saffy points at him like he might be onto something. "Like the French word for the?"

"Exactly, like—"

"It doesn't mean that!" James interrupts, unwilling to allow such profanity in his home. "That doesn't make sense, why would somebody sign their name as the?"

"Now you're asking me to explain how French people think?" says Saffy derisively, adjusting her bra strap beneath that burnt orange waistcoat she loves, the one that makes her look like she's directing a pornographic movie in the 70s when she pairs it with her tortoiseshell-framed aviators. It clashes wildly with her electric blue buzz-cut. "Am nooooo drunk enough for that."

"They could be one of those one word moniker pop stars, I suppose," Remus pipes up, smiling slyly. "You know, like Madonna?"

They think James doesn't realise that they're taking the piss out of him, but neither of them are sober enough to attempt their gambit with any kind of subtlety or grace.

"You know that's actually her real Christian name?" says Saffy.

Remus turns towards her with interest. "What, Madonna?"

"Yeah!"

"Really?"

"Yeah!" Saffy repeats. "I thought it couldn't possibly be her real name because, I mean, Madonna, yeah? But then I looked it up and apparently that's the name her mummy gave her, just goes to show—"

"I'm sorry," James interrupts, "but is Madonna relevant to this conversation?"

"Yes, always," says Saffy.

"She's an international pop megastar," Remus seconds.

James stares at his friend incredulously. "Drinking really chips away at your wit, y'know?"

"Does it?" Remus grins lazily and jiggles his cocktail in the air. "Oh, well, I'm negronly joking."

Saffy does a spit-take without the spit and clings helplessly to Remus's shoulder as she laughs, knees buckling, bangles tinkling, but James fights his own urge to start snickering.

"It's not that funny," he lies, and Remus eyes him with an alarmingly teacher-like shrewdness, despite the tellingly intoxicated flush that has crept into his thin, freckled face.

James's love of puns is tragically well known.

"You didn't get it." Remus points at his drink. His speech is starting to slur. "This is a negroni, what I said was—"

"Yeah, I got that part, I just—"

"Jesus fuck, look at her!" Saffy suddenly hisses, staggering sideways into Remus and sending him into the wall in a flurry of giggles—Remus giggling?—her voice hushed and urgent. "Who the hell is that?!"

James does look, following the direction of Saffy's gaze. Sirius has just entered the living room, casually clutching the elbow of a……

……goddess.

An actual. Like. Goddess.

A goddess. In James's house. In his living room. In the place where he eats his chocolate boulder cereal and rewatches Scrubs (even season 9, which is hilarious, and very unfairly disparaged by Joe Public) on Saturday mornings.

She's a goddess. A real one, and cleverly disguised as a mortal, sure, with her slouchy white t-shirt and her big hoop earrings and her light blue jeans that are torn at the knees, wearing her shoulder-length red hair half up, half down and slightly messy, but that doesn't hide what she is.

"Oh my god," he murmurs. His heart is pounding all of a sudden, which is so...utterly bloody stupid, but Saffy's right, bloody look at her, Jesus fuck.

"Surely she can't be with Sirius?" Saffy murmurs back.

"No, she—" He watches Sirius lean down to mutter something in the redhead's ear. A ghost of a laugh flits across her beautiful face. "She's not his—he isn't—"

"D'you think—"

"No, I—"

"Good," says Saffy firmly. She lets go of Remus and rises, lengthening her spine. It is a battle stance of some sort, presumably. "Because I saw her first."

"No!" James cries, wounded, and the redhead shoots him a curious look with a pair of eyes that are startlingly emerald green, even from all the bloody way over here. He spins to face Saffy and lowers his voice, face burning. "It's my house!"

"What are you arguing here, ownership rights?"

"No but it—it's my birthday!" James retorts, jabbing at his own chest. "And, actually, and—"

"It's in the bloody post!"

"—you didn't get me a present!" he finishes in triumph, not that he knows what he's arguing for, because the likelihood is that his tongue will glue itself to the roof of his mouth if he even dares to look in her direction one more time. "Plus I set you up with Vanya Petrich, with whom, as I recall, you enjoyed four years—"

"Stop throwing that in my face!"

"—four blissful years—"

"Is it my fault that you've never fancied any girl I've set you up with?!"

"—promised me an Easter ham for setting you up with her and I never got it—"

"So now you'll trade a woman for a ham?" Saffy accuses, though her face is too lit up, her brown eyes too crinkled at the corners—she's having fun with this and she isn't going to fool him and she knows it. "That's so low, even—"

"Don't start with that," James scathingly cuts in. "You offered me Sean Connery's autograph for Bonnie Grogan's number—"

"Which you never gave me!"

"Because you forged the bloody signature!"

"And now she's bloody married!"

"Yeah, well, Isabella wouldn't give me a counterfeit present, would she?" he retorts, and Saffy lets her shoulders drop, smirking. "This is pointless, Saf, we can't—"

"She's just left with Sirius," Remus informs them, and burps.

[markedasinfernal]

Tagged by @crackinthecup​ thanks :3

how many works do you have on AO3?

23 (but some are compilations of many short fics)

what’s your total AO3 word count?

524011

how many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

Just the Tolkien fandom - predominantly Silm but sometimes with drift into LOTR

what are your top 5 fics by kudos?

This Game We Play (788 kudos) - this fandom loves to sin as much as Melkor and Mairon do. Is this fic infamous at this point? I want to say it is, for being unapologetically saucy and for the flagrant overuse of the word ‘puissance’

The Brave and The Valiant (732 kudos) - this fic is like my apology for all of the evil I have written over the years. Really sweet Sam Gamgee and Maedhros, and tbh half of the kudos are owed to then givenclarity for their fantastic bit of art accompanying this fic that sent the kudos count skyrocketing. 

Violent Delights (714 kudos) - did you read This Game We Play and/or An Evil Cradling and think, yes I need more of this in my life? Then this series of short fics is the one for you. Quick and dirty, for the most part, but gets the job done. 

Open Wounds (482 kudos) - my answer to Tolkien’s rather glossed over version of events of Maedhros’ recovery after Angband. You will learn about medicinal plants and shoulder anatomy, and you will experience Emotions.

An Evil Cradling (462 kudos) - if Open Wounds left you thinking ‘omg but what’s Maedhros’ real damage?’ It’s this. This is the damage. It’s slow, it’s brutal, it’s overly descriptive and kind of leaves you feeling crushed. But is it worth it? Absolutely. I should write ads for Loreal omg

do you respond to comments, why or why not?

Oh you’re going to put me on the spot with this one but the real answer is, kind of? If someone has left a long and detailed comment then I try my best to answer because real time and effort went into that. If a short comment is left, then know that to the depths of my heart I love your comment and it made me smile so much, but I might not give a reply. But your comment was still so so appreciated and I read every single one of them <3

what’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

It’s like the Angst Olympics up in my fic catalogue but I guess This Game We Play takes it for having the angstiest ending in a fic that was not wholly about angst in the first place.

do you write crossovers? if so what is the craziest one you’ve written?

No. 

have you ever received hate on a fic?

Not hate per se, more comments where I’m like ok you went out of your way to write to me about how you didn’t like some aspect of what I’d written, uhhh great what do you want me to do with that info exactly? Unless you’re a paying client then I will write whatever the f I feel like so your salty self can just simmer down. Nobody was forcing you to keep reading a la Clockwork-Orange-eyes-peeled-open style, so you were free to leave at any time before you worked yourself up into a lather... So all of that to say: I don’t have much time for the haters.

do you write smut? if so what kind?

Yes, plenty of it. Kink of many a flavour. Not much vanilla, not that I couldn’t but personally I find it dull. 

have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not to my knowledge. 

have you ever had a fic translated?

Yes, a fair few of them. 

have you ever co-written a fic before?

Discussed ideas that later became a fic, yes. Full on writing and editing process, no. 

what’s your all time favorite ship?

Gotta be that classic Angbang <3 

what’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

I have an idea for a Dagor Dagorath fic but I’m not sure if it will ever be written. Sadly I just don’t have much time to write these days, and certainly not anything of length as I used to. 

what are your writing strengths?

Description, world-building, rhythm and Tolkien-esque style 

what are your writing weaknesses?

>If you don’t like description, then you’re not going to like my writing all that much. > Overly complex sentence structures (I know full stops won’t kill me but sometimes it feels like they might)

what are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

Not something I come across often, but I guess tread lightly unless you the author actually speak the other language fluently. Peppering in the odd widely-known greeting or phrase to set the language tone is fine, but much more than that is just awkward for all. 

what was the first fandom you wrote for?

I started out with the Silm and just never really left. 

what’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

I love all of my children but I really like Sins of our Fathers - the worldbuilding I got to do throughout Eregion, Celebrimbor’s court, and the recipients of all of the Rings of Power were second to none in this fic, and it was so much fun to write. Also balancing an increasingly pissed off and manipulative Annatar with a sexually frustrated Celebrimbor desperately not trying to give into his Feanorian heritage was a delightful treat, and overall this fic does edge out the favourite spot for me. 

[howdidthisevenhappenanyway]

I’m sorry I’m still so bewildered by a certain conversation last week where someone said they don’t want anakin x consequences aus because they’re all about punishment, and I was like …what?

from where I’m standing, the whole point about character x consequences aus aren’t purely about punishment. punishment generally does happen, but at their core, the better ones are more about focussed on peeling away the narrative bias inherent in heroes journey type stories or just popular media, and saying ‘actually let’s all slow the fuck down and take a breath, because this huge thing was majorly glossed over in text, and I want to take a moment to look at what that action would have wrought out on people and the world’.

if it was just a ‘this person get’s arrested au’ then I could see that attitude; but it’s not. it’s about consequences. acknowledging that actions have consequences and that big actions have not just big consequences but a thousand little ripples go out into the world and have their own consequences, which then affect other things and other things etc.

feeling positive about seeing a skilfully written Anakin x Consequences au when it comes to the outright massacre of an entire village of sentients before the war even started, and being like ‘no look we have to dig into this because what the fuck?’ is natural, because lucas moved on very quickly and basically put it in there for the sake of narrative symmetry. a good au will be fairly neutral on the perpetrator, and not being all like ‘donging a bell while marching them through the village in shackles’ but instead will hold their face gently but firmly so that they can’t look away when they are shown what their actions are really were, and how significant and weighty and consequential they were.

Anakin feels guilty and torn up but his guilt is more about himself falling, and how could i have done this rather than ‘these people suffered at my hand and I should make as much of an amends as I can, how much damage can I reverse or how much can I try to enact positive change to possibly make up for my actions that I made with full knowledge and consent as the adult that I have been arguing very loudly that I am.’

and in a complex story like this, there isn’t just one perpetrator, either. anakin made those choices and did those things but there were a lot of things that went ary at that time, and reasons his grave acts weren’t discovered, acknowledged or followed up.

a good consequences fic is generally quite salty, but still manages to tease out a thousand ripples and show a situation in a much more complex way than the authors of the source material did. a good consequences fic will have nuance to them, and not have the pov be outright hostile to the main subject, but instead let their actions speak for themselves as they lay out the true consequences of their actions.

so when the punishment is eventually laid down, everyone is clear on why.

I also get that we don’t always want to read these fics about our little meow meows, because while I wouldn’t class them as purely bashing fics, they’re certainly in the same family. but saying ‘they’re just about arbitration and punitive in nature’ is not something I agree with either. because it’s not about the satisfaction of seeing them hit, it’s the satisfaction from the ‘truth’ being told. it’s saying ‘look at what you have done. see it clearly.’

and there are many in the tag that are saltier and genuinely bashing fics, and those can be satisfying (if you agree with the pov), but often when you’ve finished on it you want another. After a good, cathartic, character x consequences fic you feel thoughtful, a little tired and sore, scrubbed clean, cleansed and a little weepy, and generally are not as thirsty for more salty salty fic (that will of course only make you more thirsty haha). not everyone can write them. I don’t really feel up to it, as my brain is slow and being able to untangle threads and find the ones that will make the story good is hard, and I just do not have the spoons or mental fortitude to chase ripples so attentively. the one I got any headway into was a tony stark one (even though I’m very much anti mcu steve rogers lol).

the cathartic stories I write tend to be judgements by innocents or acts of magic or some other force that are ungentle and generally hurt a lot of people when they swipe the subject with the proverbial massive hand (usually written when I’m bedridden and in a bunch of pain, and inspired by things like the ending of snowpiercer as like such a stellar, fantastic, amazing way to finish that movie, my god!) but that’s not what I’m talking about here.

here, it’s humans (or in this case, mortal sentients) that need to judge, and the reader is generally shown lots of povs, and given things that are like ‘hmmm, perhaps palpatine should maybe not have been given time alone with a kid wtf?’ esp if they find out what palps had been doing with him (even talking him to bars was suss af)

the prize for anakin x consequences aus that I’ve seen so far—and admittedly I haven’t found a huge amount in this fandom—is as yet incomplete. we haven’t even gotten to the trial yet, and the camera hasn’t even been with Anakin or his prosecuting Jedi, but instead with the 501st who he left behind when he was taken in, and their stand in Jedi. but there are quiet, subtle ripples already being acknowledged. the biggest one that points to it being an excellent quality ‘x consequences’ fic is that padme has already been…I don’t want to spoil it, but she has already seen consequences to her cover up. and as padmè is one of the author’s acknowledged faves, I’m like oh awesome. we aren’t flinching are we?

anyway that’s my two cents. not coming for anyone or trying to start any drama. these are not fighting words. but as this is one of my favourite tags and fic genres, I felt like I wanted to net it out and explain why I like i so much so that if I ever enthusiastically put that on a post or something you can know what I meant. also, frankly, I’d love to see more anakin x consequences fics, and ones for other characters, because there are a lot of things that happen in star wars that get brushed over in a massive way, lmao, and lucas isn’t really one for digging in to say the least.

[vaguely-concerned]

The Mandalorian Chapter 11; the rewatch edition

I have found a bit more enthusiasm for this one on the rewatch, so here goes!

- din snapping ‘I’m trying my best here!’ in a vaguely annoyed tone as his entire ship is going up in flames around him because he mostly doesn’t get angry as much as sulky... the height of cinema 

- I love frog husband’s clothes, because they’re in a very similar style and colour scheme to frog lady’s but also incorporate the knitwear we see on the people of trask, so it both underlines his belonging with her and implies that he’s been on this moon for quite a while, they may have been apart for some time  

especially his scarf is a darling detail and there’s a bit of contrast in texture to it next to his wife’s, it’s nice. he’s wearing a similar kind of vest to what we see on the fishermen later, too 

- I think my favourite part of this entire episode (well second after din cradling the baby against him after nearly drowning) is just the design and Vibe of the planet and especially this harbour

for one I LOVE that it’s shown that even in the middle of the day it’s dark enough that the electric lights are still on when it’s overcast (it reminds me a bit of norway during the winter, actually, when dawn just never quite breaks and then slinks off in embarrassment before it’s even noon). and there’s also the... sails? nets? hanging around looking almost like flags, which are very Aesthetic but god knows what they’re for. maybe for drying fish on in the summer? 

I think the building in the distance behind frog husband’s back here is a lighthouse? or it could be one of those towers for loading you see when they scout out the empire ship too, I suppose!

and one for my strange obsession with Texture on this show: these fabric-covered crates!!! they look exactly as dingy and moldy as you’d expect them to be in this climate, I wonder what they’re for (& I vaguely want to touch them) 

- from the sound of it din’s vibroknife is uh ‘on’ when he pokes the squid thing, and he also goes for the tentacle the furthest away from the baby <3

proof the calamari flan have been scratched up a bit during all that time in din’s pockets! (the attention to detail in this show sometimes istg) 

- this is 100% me reading too much into things again, call the overthinking police I’ll do my time meekly lol, but the boat looks a little bit like the mudhorn signet from this angle: 

again din keeps his hand on or sooo close to his blaster in this entire scene, he knows this is sketch as all hell 

a) once again I want to praise the effects team for how GOOD the aliens look in this episode holy shit and b) the hell is this dude wearing on the straps of his overalls tho 

- the dude mando (axe woves) uses his little... wrist launcher thing to shoot with to finish two off the fishermen, so my theory that they can be loaded with other things than the whistling birds for slightly less effective use (maybe without the level of honing we’ve seen din’s be able to do?) is looking good!

- din actually has quite good form when diving into the water, I’m guessing he can swim at least tolerably when not in full armour, being stabbed at from all directions, having just had his son eaten by a sea monster and also being trapped in with said sea monster (I’m a strong swimmer and I can tell you that there’s a reason they make you swim with clothes on from time to time to see how hard it is, it sucks. with metal plates strapped all over you as well? yeah good luck) people don’t tend to hit the water that gracefully without some kind of training in my experience lol. might be some of the training with the jet pack has carried over too, considering he throws himself off that cliff in chapter 12 with similar confidence?

it’s interesting that they’re once again showing us a threat where the armour doesn’t help and even hinders him. we’re so used to the ways it can make him near-invincible, but it can also drag him down (literally, in this case. aha ha ha. well if I’m not here for my own entertainment then what am I here for honestly)

- din’s voice sounding like he’s just on the verge of crying as he cradles the baby (and the sound he makes as he realizes the baby’s alive) is my kryptonite, turns out. fucking breaks my heart into tiny pieces every time, I would die for this man and he wouldn’t let me

- in support of din’s paranoia: so far this season we haven’t been able to go five minutes without someone talking about peeling the precious beskar off a mandalorian corpse, I can see why his mind was primed to move in one particular way there

- I think the fabric of din’s cape has been treated with something that makes it waterproof; the water seems to pearl on top of it rather than soak in! can you imagine how heavy it would get if it did absorb water tho christ

(a bit hard to see at this size but that’s what it looked like to me close up anyway! could also be that it’s wool and that’s why it looks that way but I prefer an elaborate sci-fi explanation here, because it doesn’t look particularly weighed down afterwards) might also explain why he doesn’t seem worried about it catching on fire when he uses the jetpack haha, maybe this is something the mandos do with fabric they’re going to use for a long time 

I also enjoy part of the gambeson/undersuit thing poking up from under the shoulder pauldron and cape; I think this is about as disheveled as we’ve seen him since immediately post-mudhorn 

- the sound mixing in this scene, where din’s breathing is layered a bit over everything else so you almost feel like you’re in the helmet with him listening to what the others are saying........ oh my GOD, it embeds you so deeply in his POV but so subtly 

- not to be biased or anything... but din and the armorer’s armour design is so vastly superior to these guys it shouldn’t even be a competition lol 

din looks like an honest to god knight in shining armour except also sci-fi western and the armorer looks like a fucking war goddess from a time beyond memory; the clone wars mandos look like high end cosplayers (eh maybe it’s just my dislike for the boobplates that has me so 😒 lol. also a lot of dudes were very shitty about that whole thing and I don’t say anything but the ‘vaguely-concerned will remember this’ telltale message pops up in the corner every time) 

moment of saltiness over: I do like the differentiation between their individual character designs 

the differences in body type and helmet design is nice! they look like a unified team, but with individuality. I suspect the ladies have those belts and their armour plates on the hips instead of the front of the thighs to emphasize the ‘female’ silhouette, which. okay fine whatever

- bo katan looks very pointedly down at the baby after saying ‘a group of religious zealots who want to return to the ancient ways’ which makes me VERY nervous for reasons I can’t quite articulate

- the mournful guitar version of the mando theme as din watches the sunset...... hmmmmngh (this might be some Symbolism happening to us folks strap in for the identity crisis he still hasn’t processed) 

- I Cannot get over din being so unimpressed by and uninterested in bo katan’s ‘retake mandalore’ sales pitch from literally the first moment dfhasdkjfhsad sorry lady kryze this man just does not do main quest shit, he’s all side quests all the time and that’s why I love him  

- as someone who after chapter 8 wrote a whole-ass fic that was wholly & exclusively about din telling the baby he’ll always come back for him... some of the shit he’s been saying this season does feel like it’s been written to mercilessly victimize me, personally and specifically 

- guessing this structure in the background is the traffic control tower! doesn’t really matter, I just thought it was neat

- this part of the soundtrack is called ‘ship o hoj, mandalorians!’, which I found incredibly charming haha (it’s ‘ship ahoy’ except how you write it in swedish, good one herr göranson)  

- bo katan is vague about who exactly the new mand’alor would be if they took back mandalore to begin with, she doesn’t specify she is planning to be the ruler until she’s already got din on the ship and in no position to refuse to help. gotta respect the grift at least lol  

I do love her voice, though, it reminds me a bit of jennifer hale as shepard

- “I need to get back to my ship, with the foundling” your honor I uh love him so fucking much 

- frog lady stroking the baby’s back a bit as she holds her hand behind him to make sure he doesn’t fall backwards while playing with the tadpole ;___________;

and also frog husband and frog lady reaching out to hold hands and frog smooching as din and yodito leave ;____________________________________________;

- when din says the exasperated “mon calamari. unbelievable” line, the baby makes that little blowing a raspberry sound he does as if to agree ‘uh-huh unbelu -- unbelly -- unbelievable dad smh’ and it is very very adorable 

- there’s quite a bit of Stuff in the concept art that didn’t make it in this time around; I wonder if maybe they cut some stuff for pacing or whatever and that’s why this episode is so short? water leaking into the cockpit of the razor crest, something that looked a bit like whaling going on on the docks and more spaceships taking off (maybe there were originally meant to be some smaller ships defending the big empire one?), there’s quite a bit here  

[yourdeepestfathoms]

Argonaut Atalanta

[Tour!Verse]

This was supposed to be a fic about body image issues...but then I was writing it...and it didn’t become that at all

This also isn’t my best work. It feels kinda rushed but 🤷‍♀️

Word count: 2596

Prompt: “Look at you… Goodness, you’re so cute.” “Thank you for staying with me.” “Don’t look.” “No, please! No, no no no no no!”

Tw: Blood

———————

A wave roared into the beach and crashed around Howard’s feet. Her toes sank into the wet sand. Her pink and dirty blonde hair billowed in the wind.

She couldn’t really remember whose idea it had been, but someone had decided they were going to spend the week away at a rented beach house. Not that she was complaining. It felt nice to finally get out of the cities and get away from performing.

Suddenly, there was a blur of aquamarine to her left- Maggie crashed into the water a moment later. Howard watched her flounder around in the small, but powerful waves in amusement for a moment before she managed to roll over and get back to her feet. She threw her arms up with a triumphant yell before stomping further into the ocean to go swim. Anne and Maria soon joined her, while the others finished setting up.

“Alright, kids,” Aragon said, flipping on her sunglasses. “Do not bother me for the next four hours. There will be hell to pay if you do. Toodles!” She waved and then loped over to a beach chair, which she promptly lounges her elegant body on. If she was trying to show off her toned stomach and muscles arms in her golden bikini, then it was definitely working.

“Do you have mommy issues?” Cleves strangely asked Joan, who had been caught staring at the queen. “Because isn’t Catalina like your—”

“Shut up! Shut up!” Joan cried. Aragon lifts her sunglasses to peer over at her when she yelled, but resumed sunbathing when she was sure the music director was okay.

Howard shook her head before looking around curiously. It only took her a moment to find who she was looking for.

“There’s my sweet girl,” She cooed, walking over to Bessie, who had been rooting around through the fluffy white sand.

Bessie looked up at her and grinned brightly. She, like Joan, didn’t have a bathing suit showing, instead donning a white sundress. Although Joan was wearing swim trunks and a rash guard because she would fry in the sun. But Howard could assume why Bessie wasn’t taking off her covering.

“Found anything?” Howard asked, crouching down next to her.

“Not yet,” Bessie shook her head. “But we just got here! So I’m sure I will soon!”

Howard ruffled her hair, which was dyed pink at the tips (she had wanted to match with her mother), affectionately.

“Wanna go in the water?” She asked. “Or do you want to keep digging?”

Bessie perked up. “Let’s go in the water!”

Howard laughed and helped the girl to her feet. They both snagged goggles from the beach bag before venturing into the cool water.

“This is freedom, Bessie,” Howard said, taking in a deep breath.

“Freedom smells a lot like fish.” Bessie observed, and Howard splashed her playfully.

They both walked until they were in stomach-deep water. Well, stomach-deep for Howard, closer to her shoulders for Bessie. Still, the shorter girl seemed content as she put her goggles on and then disappeared under the surface. Howard watched her swim down with a loving smile before joining her.

Swimming was a tad difficult to say the least. The current kept trying to shove her back up to the beach and then yank her out again, turning her body into the rope used in a game of aquatic tug-o-war. Bessie, however, didn’t seem phased, as she pulled herself through the water to look at the sea floor. She grabbed at handfuls of sand for grip, but the ground was far too loose to hang onto, and she was left flapping her hands awkwardly as she tried to stand at the ground. Howard laughed as she watched this, flurry of bubbles exploding from her lips, and Bessie stuck her tongue out at her—only to remember she was in saltwater.

“Silly girl,�� Howard chuckled when they both resurfaced. Bessie was still spitting and sputtering. “You’re such a good swimmer! Like a little bleached frog.”

Bessie’s face flushed red and she laughed awkwardly, but Howard can tell that comment made her uncomfortable. She could see her arms snake around her stomach in the water, and her theory of why she kept the sun dress on was suddenly proven.

“Hey, hey,” Howard said quickly. “I’m sorry. That was the wrong thing to say. I just meant you were swimming like a frog. You know—they do that kicking thing with their legs. That’s what you were doing.”

That just made Bessie blush harder and she sunk below the water without a word. Bubbles burst on the surface as she sank. And then she’s careening right into Howard’s legs like a cannonball when a vicious current knocked her forward.

“Sorry!” Bessie cried when she came back up. “I’m so sorry, Kat, I didn’t-“

“Shh,” Howard cupped Bessie’s wet cheeks after regaining her balance. “What did I tell you about apologizing for things you didn’t cause?”

“Don’t do it...” Bessie’s shoulders hunched. “Sorry. Argh! Dang it!”

Howard chuckled lightly. She leaned forward and kissed the girl’s forward, then immediately began spitting out the salt that brushed her lips.

“Ew.” She said in distaste. “Anyway, we’ll still work on that. Now...think you can find me a nice shell?”

Bessie lit up. “I’ll find the prettiest one!”

With an excited giggle, she disappears under the surface like an eager dolphin. Howard watched her go with a loving shake of her head, then turned around to observe what everyone else was doing.

Aragon was still lounging on her beach throne, although she was in a different position. The closest person to her was Joan, who sat under an umbrella and was simultaneously reading and drawing. Cathy and Jane were sitting on the bay, letting the tide lick hungrily at their legs as they drizzled mud on their thighs and knees over mild conversation. Maria and Cleves were playing with a volleyball in the shallows, while Anne and Maggie were somewhere further out. Howard thought she saw a flash of her cousin’s emerald green bathing suit a few meters away. Then, there was her wading in the water and her precious Bessie exploring the depths below her.

Where Bessie was, the water was much warmer and bursting with aquatic life. Plain sandy plateaus turned into a petrified forest of pale pink and washed out orange coral. Bessie stared at the underwater jungle with wide eyes before getting another breath of air and paddling over excitedly.

There were so many shells!

She dug her hands into the sand as best as she could after deciding that grabbing onto the coral wouldn’t be the best idea. She gawked at all the shells around her and grabbed a particularly pretty white and grey one. She turned it over and was immediately met by a grumpy hermit crab. It flailed its little legs and pinched its claws in the air angrily until she put it down. The tide captured it almost instantly and Bessie watched it bounce around the sea floor until rolling to a halt a few feet behind her. She giggled, then moved on.

After a bit of searching (with two trips back to the surface for air), she spotted a long, brown and pink-white shell with a pointing end. She picked it up and made sure there was no residence inside before darting back to Howard.

“Oh!” Howard yelped when Bessie suddenly popped up in front of her. “You startled me, baby.”

Bessie giggled, then proudly held up the shell she had found. Howard gave an impressed coo and plucked it up from her palm.

“Pretty?” Bessie asked hopefully.

“Very pretty.” Howard confirmed, smiling at her.

“Yay!” Bessie cheered. “I’m really glad! There’s a lot more over— EEP!!”

The girl suddenly leapt into Howard’s arms, wrapping all her limbs around the woman to cling onto her like a frightened koala. She looked fearfully over her shoulder to peer into the water.

“Something touched my foot!” She cried.

Howard gasped. “How dreadful! I’ll make sure to squash it to tiny pieces so it’ll never do such an evil thing to my princess ever again!”

“Mum,” Bessie groaned, burying her nose against Howard’s wet neck. She giggled when she was given a quick peck on her salty cheek.

“Look at you,” Howard said, bouncing the bassist in her arms. “Goodness, you’re so cute.”

Bessie made a flustered noise and pressed her face further into Howard’s neck. She was lucky the queen didn’t mind her throat being touched or else she surely would have been shoved off.

“What? I never had a daughter, darling. I’m going to gush over you. You know that.” Howard chuckled. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Bessie said back. She peeled away from Howard after a moment, although she felt colder when not in the queen’s arms. She felt like she fit perfectly in them.

They began the short trek back to the beach after that. Howard retired to a towel to tan on, so Bessie bounded off down the shoreline so she could find some more things.

She passed by Joan, who was sculpting a very intricate sandcastle and didn't seem to be aware that her arms and legs were baking in the sun. Bessie winced at the alarming shade of red the skin has already turned to.

Further down the beach, quite a ways away from the little campsite, Bessie found that the sandy bay turned into a rocky shoreline that was dotted with colorful tide pools. Pale pink starfish clung to the edges of the dugouts while schools of bright yellow and orange fish spiral through the enclosure. White and grey oysters and clams sat lazily at the bottoms in the grains of sand.

Bessie stepped carefully over the pools to get to the edge of the shore. The waves were much stronger there, crashing heavily against the sides of the rocks and sending a spray of white foam splattering through the air. The water cascaded over her feet, churning around her ankles, then sucked back jarringly. Bessie stumbled at the force, then fell.

The riptide seized her. She’s pulled into its raging body and smothered with its mass. She struggled when the shock wore off, but something caught her in foot and anchored her back down. Something sharp and pointy, which elicits a despaired wail before salty water rushes down her throat and clogs every passageway.

—

Howard jolted upwards on her towel. She looked around, then shot to her feet and briskly walked down the beach. Uneasy was prickling through her and she wasn’t sure why. She felt way too restless to just lay in the sand and try to tan.

Something was wrong.

Something was wrong; because she soon spotted a figure convulsing under the water further down the beach.

Bessie.

Her daughter.

Howard broke out into a sprint, adrenaline now pumping through her veins. She dove into the water and swam over to where Bessie was struggling. Flailing limbs whacked Howard several times in the face, and as hard as she tried, she couldn’t get the gel to calm down. She just kept writhing in the angry tide.

Clouds of murky red were billowing around her. Blood. She was bleeding.

Howard took a breath and submerged herself. Despite the horrible sting of salt water, she opened her eyes and began to search, quickly finding what had her daughter ensnared—a fishing wire.

She pulled, but all that did was cause Bessie to make an agonized cry. Howard tried again to no avail. She swam lower, feeling the undertow claw desperately at her waist and legs, and just decided to bite the wire, cutting it in half with her teeth.

Bessie convulsed as she was freed and Howard grappled her body, swimming her to the surface. A wave instantly crashed over them and slammed them both into the rocky shoreline. Howard took the brunt of it, wincing when her waist hit against the rough stone. She shook the pain off and clambered onto the bay, pulling Bessie up with her. She half carried, half dragged the girl back into the sand then set her down. Immediately, Bessie began to cough, and seawater came flooding out of her mouth.

“Get it all out, sweetheart,” Howard encouraged, helping her roll over. She patted her back. “It’s okay. You’re okay now. I’ve got you.”

“Mama,” Bessie sobbed through another watery cough. Her head flopped back miserably against the sand.

“I’m right here, baby girl.” Howard brushed her soaked cheek. “I’m right here. Mama’s here.”

Her eyes slowly gazed down as Bessie continued to struggle with the water she had swallowed. There was a dark stain in the sand around her legs—blood. There was blood on her left foot, too, from where a fish hook was pierced all the way through her flesh.

“Oh no,” Howard muttered.

“What?” Bessie said fearfully. She tried to get up to look, but Howard eased her back down.

“Don’t look.” Howard said. “Just relax and try to breathe for me. Think you can do that?”

Bessie nodded shakily. She rested her head in the sand, doing her best to maintain her breathing, but it was hard after nearly drowning and with the panic he mother was giving off.

“You’ve got a hook in your foot, baby.” Howard told her grimly. She saw Bessie’s entire body tense up and her heart ached for the girl. “I’m going to pull it out.”

“No, please! No, no no no no no!” Bessie begged. “It’s gonna hurt. P-please don’t!”

“I have to, baby,” Howard frowned. She brushed a clump of pink-white hair out of the girl’s face. “It’s going to hurt worse if I leave it in. I’ll be quick, I promise.”

Bessie just made a miserable whimper and screwed her eyes shut. Howard took that as permission to get to work, so she held Bessie’s left ankle down with one hand and carefully grabbed the hook caught on the side of her foot. The tip had gone all the way through and was now sticking out of the top. Howard winced; Bessie was not going to like this.

The cry Bessie made when Howard slid the hook down was heart wrenching. Her body convulsed with pain and she wailed again as Howard continued to pull the hook out of the hole it created until it was free from her foot. She threw it away and then cradled Bessie’s head in her lap as she wept.

“It’s out, sweetheart. I got it out.” She told her, stroking her hair and face. “You’re okay now. The hook is out.”

Bessie sniffled weakly and opened her teary brown eyes. Howard was smiling down at her warmly.

“I-it is?” She asked. Her foot twitches slightly.

“It is.” Howard assured her. “I promise.”

Bessie took a few deep breaths, then nodded. She squeaked softly when Howard suddenly scooped her up in her arms.

“Wh-what are you doing?” She asked shyly.

“Carrying you,” Howard replied. “You can’t walk in the sand with an open wound!”

“But everyone is gonna laugh at me,” Bessie whined, hiding her face.

“Then I’ll kill them.” Howard simply said and Bessie giggled.

“Thank you for staying with me.” Bessie said softly.

“Of course,” Howard said. “I wouldn’t just leave my princess on the beach with a hook in her foot!”

“I’m glad,” Bessie closed her eyes. The panic of being stuck underwater surfaces for a moment, but then she hears the sound of Howard’s heartbeat and calmed down slightly. “Did you see Joan’s sunburn?”

“Oh yeah. That’s BAD.”

[kylorengarbagedump]

No Accounting for Taste (NSFW)

Read on AO3.

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

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

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

Word Count: 7100 (oops)

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

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

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

laetus_lacrimosa: when’s the show starting?

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

laetus_lacrimosa: it’s been 30 minutes already

xwaifusayorix: yup

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

mg3453: hopefully not as much as the rest of us

kyloren has logged in.

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

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

kyloren has logged out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. “Ohh, okay! Hi, Kyle!”

“No,” he says, “Ky-lo.”

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

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

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

“The what?”

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

“It is.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silent, you nod.

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

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

You glance at your feet. “The States.”

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

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

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

“Philadelphia.” Blush creeps onto your cheeks.

“Really,” he says. “Say w-a-t-e-r.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Weird taste. What is that?”

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

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

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

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

“There’s no accounting for taste.”

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

He presents the bottle. “Try it.”

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

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

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

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

“It’s gammahydroxybutyrate.”

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

He is flat. “Ecstasy.”

The next thing you remember is hitting the floor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

El Salvador. The wine. Ecstasy.

Kylo.

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

laetus_lacrimosa: i love how fucking scared she looks

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

gawinulim11490: what are the limits?

mg3453: are you serious?

xwaifusayorix: lol

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

blueeyeswhited: she’s an animal

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

xwaifusayorix: lmao are you an incel

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

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

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

xwaifusayorix: oh shit 

mg3453: yeah i withdraw, i wanna see that lol

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

kyloren: Going once. Twice.

No other person speaks.

kyloren: 2.19 btc to watch. Beginning now.

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

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

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

“Please… please stop…”

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

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

“I forgot how fucking fat you were.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

laetus_lacrimosa: females actually do this to themselves

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

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

xwaifusayorix: LMFAO

blueeyeswhited: “misogynist” is she a fucking feminist LOL

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

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

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

xwaifusayorix: lol

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

laetus_lacrimosa: cutting off her nipples will be an improvement

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

“You have no choice in that matter.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

blueeyeswhited: holy shit she looks fucked up

laetus_lacrimosa: dumb fat bitch lol

mg3453: this is exactly what all these commie cunts deserve

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

xwaifusayorix: lmao shit

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

“Kylo, please…”

Then, he types.

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

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

blueeyeswhited: nice

gawinulim11490: he’ll rape her?

xwaifusayorix: lmao cuck

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

kyloren: Going once.

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

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

kyloren: Going once. Twice.

kyloren: 5.24 to watch. Beginning now.

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

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

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

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

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

“Bend. Over. The chair.”

“I’m trying, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry who?”

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

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

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

“Much better,” he says. “Now move.”

“Yes, sir,” you mumble.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck,” you groan. “Fuck…”

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

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

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

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

“What--”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck… fuck--”

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

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

“Clean it up,” comes Kylo’s voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

blueeyeswhited: holy fucking shit

mg3453: that was fucking incredible

laetus_lacrimosa: i knew she could take a big cock

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

xwaifusayorix: like every other female, lol

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

blueeyeswhited: what kind of feminist loves being raped? lmao

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

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

gawinulim11490: fuck off.

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

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

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

blueeyeswhited: cut her fingers off. 5.86 btc

kyloren: You’ll need more than that.

xwaifusayorix: 7.86 to cut off her toes

laetus_lacrimosa: 9.44 to cut her guts out

xwaifusayorix: oh fuck lol

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

“Kylo, please… please, don’t…”

kyloren: Going once.

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

kyloren: Going twice.

“Kylo… sir, don’t do this…”

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

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

kyloren: Going once.

kyloren: Twice.

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

kyloren: 11.79 to watch. Starting now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

blueeyeswhited: oh fuck that’s a lot of blood

laetus_lacrimosa: not exactly a clean cut job

mg3453: look how upset she was lmao

gawinulim11490: she deserves it.

gawinulim11490 has logged off.

mg3453: shit. good show anyway.

xwaifusayorix: i still think that guy was an incel

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

xwaifusayorix: true.

xwaifusayorix has logged off.

laetus_lacrimosa has logged off.

blueeyeswhited has logged pff.

mg3453 has logged off.

Session has ended.

kyloren has logged off.

[a-shakespearean-in-paris]

Writer’s Questionnaire

tagged by @galadrieljones! Thanks! :)

Short stories, novels, or poems? I write a lot of short scenes, but I prefer reading novels as well as writing them. It’s so fun to see how your character grows and changes, how they develop, and how things you thought would happen don’t, or happen in a way different from what you imagined. It’s wonderful, though difficult. (Constantly I have to ask myself have I used this turn of phrase in the story before?)

What genre do you prefer reading? Looking at the books that caught my interest of late, (and in general) the stuff I read has some sort of family dynamic present. More often than not, there’s also a love story. Typically my favorite books are sagas that take place over different generations. (thorn birds one of them, and when I was younger and read a lot of Sidney Sheldon, one of my favorites of his was Master of the game, which took place over fifty years of family. my older self though now really likes Rage of Angels...I would love to like modernize that story...) My dream is to write a long family saga one day.

What genre do you prefer writing? there’s no contest: Romance. I was once very adamant about not using that word due to the stigma behind the romance genre, very keen on...a story about two people who happen to be in love! But you know..it’s romance. I’m just endlessly fascinated by the different ways people can fall in love, and how their love manifests and effects others. 

Are you a planner or a write-as-I-go kind of person? Hmmmm.....a little of both. With Our Immortal longings I made an outline of events, but things changed, shifted around, or flat out didn’t happen. Back in the day I was very strict on following the outline I wrote, but now I’ve finally found the happy medium of following it but understanding the story is going in a different direction. I think one of the reasons my modern AU is stagnant right now is because I didn’t make an outline.

What music do you listen to while writing? Usually I don’t. However, there are a few scenes I have written throughout my resume where there was a song I replayed over and over again, because it just fit the mood. So now when I listen to one of those songs, all I can think about is the scene. :)

Fave books/movies? Hmmm I have books that have meant a lot to me over the years. East by Edith Pattou (which now has a sequel. Like..wha?) The Thorn Birds by Colleen McCoullogh, Phantom by Susan Kay. I also love so many plays. Of course Shakespeare, but also Anton Chekhov. 

Movies: Howl’s Moving Castle is arguably my biggest inspiration. And when I watched gone with the wind when I was 12 I swear it changed me. I wasn’t used to seeing female characters being so unapologetic, and while I certainly don’t idolize Scarlett O’hara, I find her endlessly interesting as a character. Some other favorites are The Sound of Music, That Hamilton Woman, Wuthering Heights(1939), Bridesmaids. And I saw the new A Star is Born and it’s on my eternal favorites list.

Any current WIPs? My DBH fic has become my main focus, Our Immortal Longings. (Which I would really love to shorten to Immortal Longings but hey what can you do.) I also have a post blight fic with cullen, that details the relationship he develops with one of the chantry sisters. I also have a modern AU with Cullen and Lydia. I like the fic in theory, and I was experimenting away from the romantic feel of my previous work to something blunter and more realistic (for lack of a better word.) But I just feel for Connor’s character when I played DBH, and I really wanted to tackle how he would deal with falling in love. In the process I seriously became enamored with my own OC and the dynamic she has with him. Odd because I was never interested in robots or stories about robots before...but now...well....look at all the possibilities! 

also I had a MGIT story about a Shakespearean actress. I’m sorry to those who liked the story, but I’m not going to continue with it.

If someone were to make a cartoon out of you, what would your standard outfit be? A pink colored sundress decorated with flowers, and ballet flats. My hair is big and curly.

Create a character description for yourself: She was alive. That was always good, though perhaps not in the best of her appearances with her glasses on, face unmade and hair in a messy bun. She was also wearing one of her dumpy nightshirts. But again, she was alive, and she was writing. Every single word she wrote was a victory. 

Do you like incorporating people you actually know into your writing? Bits of them sure, not blatant insertions to where people I know would know. Maybe just a wink.

Are you kill-happy with characters? Well, people do die IRL and in my writing. But I wouldn’t say I’m kill happy. IWD had two causalities. Will OIL have any? Well....I can’t answer that. Some of my favorite movies/books have poignant deaths, and I will admit the one major death scene that happened on screen in IWD was very cathartic and powerful for me. 

Am I George RR Martin kill happy though? no. 

Coffee or tea while writing? Morning: coffee. Night: Tea.

Slow or fast writer? I’m reasonably fast, though it certainly depends. sometimes it takes me a while to start. 

Where/who/what do you find inspiration from? Everything and anything. I always have my eyes peeled. When I was in Disney I came up with so many scenarios for Connor and Sophie, and yesterday doing sparklers and fireworks with my family I imagined a Cophie new year, lol. 

mainly though? Music. Definitely music.

If you were put into a fantasy world, what would you be? In my best life I’m a bard that follows along an adventurer and becomes their companion as they travel the the world. 

Most fave book cliche? Least fave book cliche? I’m a sucker for a lot of romantic tropes. The dance of romance, forehead touches, died in your arms, (Is that morbid? lol I’m sorry I just find it so dramatically satisfying.)  I love broody guy, gentle girl and variations of that trope. Friends to lovers. in fact I view my two OtPS a variation of the above. I probably have more too. Bedsharing too. I did bedsharing back before I knew everyone else loved it too :)

I’m of the opinion that most things can work if done properly but least favorite is by far the whole liar revealed story arc. at best I tolerate it, but...no. Just no. I’m getting a little tired of “we can’t be together” story lines and love triangles too. I also have tropes that I think are okay but everyone else loves: fake dating. (I know, I know. I even have my own fake dating story too. mostly I wrote it because I wanted to see if I could grow to like it.) and dramatic height differences. but this is mostly because I’m tall, and when I read young adult fiction as a youth, the LI was always so much taller than the herione...and I’m salty ok? lol. 

OH on young adult books: I’m tired of the heroine that “isn’t like other girls because I’m tough and reclusive and I don’t like makeup or whatever” (BELLA SWAN) I would like 2019 to be the year that I say you can be a powerful female and still like things that are traditionally feminine, and there should be no shame in it. I love writing characters that draw their strength through their femininity, because guess what...it’s not inherently weak! 

Fave scenes to write? I love scenes where the characters just talk. I love grand romantic gestures. I love moments of reflection. And of course, I love a love scene. :p

Most productive time of day for writing? When the muse strikes. 

It’s also strange to me that I most want to write when I’m in a crowd of people. maybe sometimes I feel like people are talking without listening and I feel a bit lonely so I imagine my characters, because they make me feel less lonely. 

Reason for writing? I always have in some way. The simple reason? I like to. It’s my therapy and my art. I just do :)

this took a long time for some reason! tagging @bitchesofostwick @negotiator-on-site @inquisitorsmabari @fourletterepithet @whatsherfacewrites @laraslandlockedblues @out-of-the-embers @ladymdc

[mercurytail]

Glide

^u^ Happy Halloween everybody! This is a little mini-Mchanzo fic I wrote up for the holiday! With help, excerpts, musing, and support from my friends: @the-hallowed-lady @captainneedsnosleep @drizzerey @Nobodysangel1980

You can also click the link to read it on Ao3 <3 Leave a comment and let me know what you think!

a slight gore warning since this is a Wendigo fic - its nothing intense, so no worries. Also, Its not a super happy fic, but it has a happy ending! (No he does not eat Hanzo)

Glide (down the throat)

How would it feel? To be so hungry...so in need and yet there is nothing to eat? 

Yet, there is 'food' all around you...but, nothing you CAN eat. 

Like putting a feast in front of a starving man and tying his hands.

How would that feel?

Would you break?

It started off so small. A finger here, an ear there, little things that could staunch the hunger inside him. Things easily explained that could be missing from a body. So small, so easy. He almost didn’t notice when he started devouring hands, organs, hearts, and still the hunger grew. It seemed like every time he ate, his stomach demanded more. The curse demanded more. IT demanded more.

He refused to tell Gabe about the hallucinations. The monstrous creature that stalked him on missions, the lanky, skeletal form that would crouch in the corner of his bunk, antlers scraping the ceiling. There were never any marks in the morning. He could see it even now, grinning away at him, wrapping those long, inhumanly long hands around his stomach, pressing inside and Scratching. Tearing. Demanding more, more, more…

He couldn’t tell when deer and boar and bear and whatever else he could shoot down didn’t cut it anymore. When it finally tasted too rotten, too ashy to swallow down without gagging…The day he realised he’s eaten over half the corpse he’d shot down, he almost threw it all back up again. But the monster wouldn’t let him do that. What a waste of food.

At least the cemetery helped…The monster always demanded more, but at least it didn’t care if it was dead or alive.

Sometimes, late at night when the fire in his tiny shack couldn’t quite chase the cold from his bones, when the monster was pacing through his home on silent hooves, growling and dragging its long hands over the ground. Sunken eyes staring him down from across the fire, and jagged teeth stretched wide in its grotesque face as it listened to how Jesse’s stomach growled and groaned for food, he remembered his mother’s old stories –

“The Wendigo are cursed beings, Jesse, but as long as you never consume a person’s soul – have enough restraint that they may have one piece of them left to carry that spirit over, then a wendigo will be trapped to its human. Never let it consume everything, and you can keep it bound.” 

~ the-hallowed-lady

Jesse McCree, a victim to a 'hunger curse', The 'Wendigo's Curse' . He craves human flesh/blood/bone.

When his hunger takes hold of him he transforms into a Wendigo like creature with horns, mangled teeth, sharp claws, and strange swirling eyes.

In Native American mythology, the Wendigo was a creature that came into being when a human consumed the flesh of their own kind. His grandmother had told him the story and many others. She had seen it. 

In Deadlock, they told him to shoot a young man who had been running drugs for them and was skimming off the top. Jesse refused, ‘it wasn’t right’ he said and tried to get the target out of there - He was caught, locked up, beaten and starved...

...until one day they gave him a huge roasted piece of meat. Told him if he ate it all, he'd be forgiven.

He lunged for it. The grease squelched through his fingers as he took it in his hands tearing into it. The first bite so satisfying, so juicy. Like eating chicken off the bone but amplified by the month of starvation. Its flavor so salty sweet on his tongue, he rolled each bite in his mouth wanting to savor it, the fear it was a trick prominent in his mind. Taking a bite, then another and another, the skin of it crisp and breaking just so under his teeth. The bone came into sight too soon, his stomach still growled...almost as if it hadn’t been fed at all.

...it was only afterwards he found out where it had come from.

The curse set in after that...planting its roots deep. Binding him to the creature he was cursed to become if he gave in.

The nightmares came every night, he dreams of a stag-like creature hunting him down, waiting to consume him just as he consumed human flesh, to take over him, to be free in the mortal world - to eat and eat and eat because it is here now and it is here to stay.

He’s still himself. The curse had not taken him yet. But, it was so tempting in Deadlock. He killed everyday...the bodies were so fresh and supple.

Blackwatch came and they took him. “Raw talent” they said. At least it was a home. He’d say it was his first. Gabe treated him like a son. They helped him curb his appetite, fed it and kept it under control. Genji was his only friend. The only true friend he’d ever had.

Moira grew him flesh from human stem cells.

But, after Blackwatch It got worse. On the run, food was harder to get and "burying the dead...well, that's just a waste of food." He’d told himself.

He began to get desperate. He wanted to stay somewhere familiar but, that brought too many bodies. Too many opportunities to eat and consume. “Can’t eat it all” he reminded himself, chanting it to himself as he gnawed on the assassin’s exposed liver. Trying to keep that last bit of himself human. ‘Leave a finger, that’ll be enough’.

Swallowing, he came to, the taste still thick in his mouth. He screamed throwing the piece of…whatever it was away and falling back scraping against the dirt. The moon was high in the sky and full lighting the body at his feet. Blood was thick on his hands, under his nails...claws and his head ached from the split skin on his forehead, the horns having receded. He didn’t remember...he didn’t remember coming out here or chasing after this…’food’. He curls in on himself, shivering in the cold night air...crying. 

But the Hunger became too much and he ran. He ran north.

He moves into a estranged deep forest...lives in a cabin alone. Near a small village, and a cemetery.

He sustains himself off of deer and wild game he kills. Whether with his gun or his claws when the hunger and hallucinations cloud his judgement.

The urge to consume human flesh is always there, and sometimes he gets so ravenous for it he digs up fresh corpses or steals body parts from the morgue.

Hanzo comes into his life after a short while.

He is simply running away as well...someone who murdered their own brother. It's why he likes the church yard so much. He lives there for the peace, and because when you are surrounded by the dead, it's easier not to feel judged for your actions.

They fit too well, every bit of banter, late night talk over coffee at the diner, the hunts. It was all too natural. Hanzo was getting too close and McCree craved him. He craved for his words, his touch, his time...and the beast craved him too.

And Hanzo was too curious for his own good. They strike up a small friendship and the closer they got. The harder McCree tried to push him away.

McCree tried to get Hanzo to leave.

“Hanzo, I just need you to understand it ain’t safe out here for you. They’ll find you too easy. I should know! You got to leave and keep moving.” McCree slumps against the wall, hands in his pockets; hiding. They’d had this talk before.

“I am fully aware of my surroundings and my clan will never find me here. You as a fellow criminal would know. You are hiding here, are you not? Why shouldn’t I? Especially, since we go so well together. We could fight them together...live here together.” the last bit of his sentence is but a mumble not quite making it to McCree’s ear.

McCree finds one night he’s too short on meat - much too short and winter is setting in. He goes out into the light snow for a final hunt, hoping for a bear or moose.

Hanzo finds him out there, cold and unlucky. Hanzo has been around way too much. It puts him on edge.

When a surprise snow storm hits McCree is forced to stay the night in Hanzo's home.

His hunger starts to gnaw at him, scratching, clawing at his insides; out of control. Even though Hanzo had just share his hardy venison stew...three servings of it.

The grotesque beast looms over Hanzo; caging him as he sits in front of the fire, reading. It salivates and begins to whisper in his ear. ‘Just one bite. The taste will be worth it. It will feel so good, so delicious gliding down.’

McCree licks his lips, fighting back the drool building in his mouth. He leans forward in the leather chair rubbing and worrying his hands; one over the other. Staring at the oblivious man across from him.

‘It would be so easy...just a bite. It wouldn’t hurt. It wouldn’t even kill him.’ the skull of the creature caress Hanzo’s shoulder. Its black abyssal eyes like fire on his soul.

McCree cringes, cradling his head and crushing his eyes closed, “SHUT UP!” His heart feels like its leaping from his chest. His breathing is ragged, drool slipping from his mouth as he cries. He tastes the salt.

It's quiet, he feels warm, happy, ‘just chew...it’ll be alright...just eat.’ Freedom is at his fingertips he thinks. Then...

Before he realizes, McCree has changed. His small horns, claws, and teeth have peeled free of his skin and his eyes are a wild black and silver. Hanzo steps back in horror.

Half manic, McCree stalks the room, trying to run or hide. But as time passes He finally pins Hanzo when the hunger clouds his mind.

And Hanzo just gives in. Accepts his fate. ‘It’s what he deserves.’

This Snaps McCree out of his haze. He pulls himself back, eyes becoming clear and he shrinks into the corner of the room just whimpering in an inhuman voice, "food"...”so hungry.”

So, Hanzo goes outside. He takes the remains of an Elk carcass from the snow and brings it in for him. Laying it at his feet. It's a sickening sight, as the horned man leans in drooling and finally shredding into the decaying remains, moaning...

McCree changes back soon, wiping his mouth of the gore and Hanzo faints, the shock too much for his body.

When he wakes, McCree explains everything and after a shared silence Hanzo nods and agrees to help him. To McCree’s great disbelief. However, He accepts the offer...just tired of being alone.

Hanzo knows a thing or two about curses after all, from his family and his past.

They travel in search of a shaman to remove the curse. McCree had never thought of it. Of asking for help of breaking the hold on him.

It takes almost a year but they find the shaman. Hidden away deep in the tropics of mexico. However, they find that it would kill McCree to revoke the curse or change him entirely.

So, with a heavy heart and tears streaming down his cheeks McCree accepts his life. They decide to just live with it and Hanzo says as he holds his lovers face in his hands, he will stay by his side.

The flaming wood cracks as it settles in the fireplace. The orange glow lighting the room. Snow drifts down softly outside the window. Each gust of wind causes the cabin to creak, the room quiet and yet not silent; the sounds of home.

The two men lay together on the sofa, swaddled close in warm wool blankets. Hanzo nuzzles into his neck humming a song neither know the words to.

“Are you hungry my love?” Hanzo asks.

Jesse swallows taking in the flames as they dance. He kisses the top of Hanzo’s head, “No, You keep me full Darlin’.”

[volaviwrites]

I Would Teach My Feet to Fly

Dick escapes Gotham for Los Angeles in December, but everything reminds him of Jason and their failed relationship. At least he can surf. Now if he just stop hearing that song everywhere he goes. 

A Christmas fic inspired by “The River” by Joni Mitchell, especially Robert Downey Jr.s version. It’s also a loose sequel to the my fic “The Candle” but can be read on its own.

Dick all but snatched the opportunity to get out of town, because, God, he thought he was over it, over Jason, but seeing him on the street the other week had ripped off the thin scab that he had been able to pretend was true healing.

And it wasn’t even officially winter yet, but November had been cold even for Gotham, and Dick tolerated the cold, had slowly grown used to it over the years, but fundamentally he was still the child who’d spent his winters in Florida off the Gulf Coast. Maybe a change of climate, a view of a different ocean, some trees that still had actual leaves on them, would be good for him. No snow, no bare branched trees, just balmy beaches and 70 degree weather.

Dick deliberately ignores the voice in his head that tells him that his quick agreement to run B’s errands in California had nothing to do with the fact it would dramatically reduce his chances of seeing Jason for the duration of the trip.

“La la la denial,” he sings quietly to himself to the tune of ‘Silent Night.’

The grand foyer of the hotel has swaths of real pine garland, a giant fake tree decked in tasteful gold and crystal, and a grand piano playing soft holiday music. While he’s standing in line to check in, the musician moves to a few bars of Jingle Bells, then starts the melody line of ‘The River.’

Dick closes his eyes.

He’s not that kind of guest, but part of him wants to find someone in charge and complain about them playing such a depressing song at this time of year. It wouldn’t even be that out of character, really, since he is checking in as Richard Grayson-Wayne, billionaire’s son. Though Dick doesn’t want to risk TMZ running an article speculating on why a song about a broken relationship and heartbreak provoked such a reaction. And if this song hits a bit close to home, well, that’s hardly the piano player’s fault.  

When had Jason bought the ring? Why did he finally decide to sell it, two years after they broke up?

Two years after Dick broke up with Jason.

Dick steps forward when he realizes that the clerk has been calling him for at least a few seconds. He plasters on his smile, the smile that has earned him more than one headline in gossip magazines and tabloids, more than a couple of flirtatious comments from Extra hosts. The check in process goes smoothly, but he still has to endure the rest of the song, thinking of all the times he fucked up, was too needy, too demanding, expecting Jason to change. And now he’s lost the best relationship he ever had.

He’s moving to the elevator as quickly as he can, but not before the song has finished.

Before the encounter on the rainy street, Dick had barely seen Jason in civilian clothes since the break up. Nightwing and Red Hood had managed to carve out a respectable, if cooly civil, working relationship - Bruce’s training in emotional suppression for the win! But that’s it. Nothing else. Not a word.

He knew that Jason had eased away from the whole drug lord mob boss thing. Red Hood rarely even killed these days.

But scathing words can’t be unsaid.

Not for the first time, Dick wishes he could fly away.

The business that brought him here was a felicitous overlap of Wayne Enterprises and Batman interests. Dick is going to ceremonially break ground at a new wing of the Children’s Hospital, and have a few “for the sake of appearances only” meetings with some West Coast executives. Meanwhile, Nightwing needs to deliver a new form of Kryptonite to Star Labs and wait for them to stabilize it before returning it to Batman. B didn’t want to risk transporting the mercurial element through the Zeta tubes, and there were very few people he trusted enough to travel across country with it.

Richard Grayson-Wayne smiles for the cameras. He goes shopping on Rodeo Drive. He eats at a trendy vegan restaurant in West Hollywood that just happens to have some of the best cocktails and spicy margaritas on the West Coast. He perhaps drinks one too many in an attempt to suppress memories of Jason carefully learning to cook a vegetarian version of khoresh bademjan. After Damian decided to quit eating meat, but missed the Iranian eggplant stew usually cooked with lamb, Jason made it a personal mission to replicate the dish as closely as possible.

The combination of chiles and tequila burn going down, though they can’t quite disguise the tang of regret.

He spends an early morning at El Porto Beach, catching some winter waves. He’s not a great surfer, but he took a week’s worth of lessons in Hawaii as a young teenager. This had been back when Bruce and Alfred actually went on occasional family vacations, and the key skills of surfing are balance and flexibility, something that Dick has been granted from birth and worked hard his entire life to enhance.

The feel of the Pacific Ocean at his back, the thought of thousands of miles of undulating waves, the unexplored depths, the unknown cold crevices, reassures him in a bleak midwinter kind of way. He thinks of fish that are luminous in the dark, of scudding sail boats, krakens and storms, stretches of nothing but water and sky, of mermaids. Here there be monsters.

Dick has always loved too well and not wisely. He loves slowly, softly at first, and then sudden and all at once, like sand falling from an hourglass. He’s needy and emotional, yet not always conscientious of his lovers own emotional issues.

As the beach starts to fill with tourists, he heads back to his rental car. He unzips and peels off the top half of his wetsuit, so similar to his Nightwing costume. Sand sticks to his feet in the outdoor shower. He ignores the glances from the others at the beach. Whether it’s for his scars or his muscles, it doesn’t matter to him. Their speculation washes off him easier than the sand. Easier than regret.

Back in the car, Dick checks his cellphone out of habit more than expectation.

There’s a text from Jason. His pulse quickens.

“Dickie. Let’s get coffee when you’re back in Gotham. -J”

He scrubs his hands through his hair, already drying salty and wavy.  The phone sits heavy in his hand.

Thumbs slow and uncertain, Dick types back, “Sure. Sounds good.”

As an afterthought, he sends a second text. “Come to LA. I’ll teach you how to surf.”

Dick sits for he doesn’t know how long waiting for a reply before giving up and driving back to his hotel. He curses himself for being an idiot. Yet when he’s walking through the lobby again, he hears the chime of a text alert over the sounds of the piano hitting a minor chord, then a major lift.

“I already know how to surf, Goldie. Used to live on a tropical island with Kori and Roy.”

Dick bites his lip. He wishes he could skate away from here on a river of ice. Or at least go back to the beach and let the ocean pull him away with the rock of the waves and the inexorable pull of the tides.

Then his phone lights up with another text. “I’ll be there tomorrow.

AO3 link

[halfdoomedandbittersweet]

Welcome back! Sorry I vanished for a while, it has been crazy up in here. So. I did a thing. Today's tasty treat is a toffee banana cream tart. A sweet tart dough, lightened pastry cream, sliced bananas and bashed to bits cinder toffee are all buried under a cloud of whipped cream. Or, you know, they will be. I GOT IMPATIENT, OKAY? OKAY. Now. Let me tell you a secret. Come close. Closer. CLOSER. I smell like vanilla and sugar, don't even. So. This secret is just between us, okay? I don't really like ripe bananas. There. I SAID IT AND I MEANT IT. Now. Give me a banana more green than yellow? As long as that phallic fruit peels, I am here for it. I love that slight astringent flavour of an underripe banana. Now. That poses a problem when I BUY bananas because really, there can only be so many eaten in one go before they get too old. So that lead to some problem solving. I have dinner made for tonight, frito pie, y'all! Homemade chili and aged sharp cheddar because if you use good ingredients, you can eat a little trashy. But i needed dessert. Now. Banana pudding was an option but... meh. I didn't want to use boxed pudding mix. (Although I have some and Elsa is on the package. LET IT GO ). So... because I have been researching for my own fic I thought... A TART. OF COURSE. And then the idea was born. Lots of steps, of course. Make the pastry cream, chill. Make the dough. Chill. Eat lunch. Press out the dough. Freeze. Eat part of the dough raw because it is that good. Finish the tart. You get it. I have also had some cinder toffee loitering about that I made on a whim earlier in the week, so I used some if that instead of the caramel sauce I was going to make. Let me tell you, beating the fuck out of food with something heavy is AWESOME. So. I made a tart. My first one ever. The individual components are tasty, so I think the whole thing will be pretty good. Stay tuned. Now. You didn't come here to hear me babble on about baking. Or maybe you did, I don't know your life. You are really here for the fic. Well... so am I. You get a few this round to make up for vanishing, one of which is shameless self promotion. Edgar Allen Potato by @valleygirlsameer is just... a delight. Bakery AU. Soulmate AU. Angst. Laughter. ALL OF BANDOM. And, one of my personal favorites, Baker Patrick. Seriously, this is a gorgeous story the prose is beautiful and the balance of angst and sweetness is PERFECT. Also? There are SO MANY SWEET TREATS. I never read it on an empty stomach. Do Not Open Before Christmas is my pet project. Baker Patrick. English teacher Pete. The greatest cat in all of fandom (keep in mind, I am uber biased). Oh and loads of pies, cookies and fluff. The actual inspiration for this recipe. Tell That Mick by the amazing and unfairly super talented duo of @a-smile-like-that and @sn1tchesandtalkers . This. Story. There are baked goods (TOAST COUNTS) and food. And mentions of cinder toffee. Plus, it is by two of my favorite authors. Also? Irish. Patrick. You shouldn't need anymore convincing, but if you did, that should seal the deal. Seriously, this story is like the best of desserts; sweet, a little bit salty and TOTALLY unecpected. Which is why I put it here. And also because this is my blog and I do what I want. So. Now that I have bored you to tears, get yourself something sweet, settle in with your reading device of choice and get reading. Don't forget the kudos and comments, y'all, you can make such a difference in an author's day. Happy reading and happy eating, ~ H

[artificialqueens]

Love me tender - Part Two (Shalaska/Pearlet), by Lavish

A/N: The long overdue second chapter. I am extremely sorry this took so long. Thank you to everyone who filled my askbox with questions about this fic even after so long. I love each and every one of you. Xo, Lavish.

Coming home was always a drag for Alaska. She never really left her office downtown before 7 pm, and still had a long drive back to the suburbs. Tom had talked her into living in Manhattan Beach, explicitly because it would be best to raise their kids in a safe, children-appropriate area. Young and in love, Alaska had accepted without even thinking twice. Now, stuck in traffic on a Friday night, with no kids, and wondering what take out service to call, it didn’t feel so great to have splurged in such a big house far away from her job. Nevertheless, she never really made the effort to escape Manhattan Beach. Alaska knew to select which battles to fight. Lately, she had been choosing much more than she’d like. She looked out of the window, analyzing the people on the sidewalks to pass the time. Since it was just the beginning of the weekend, the streets were packed. A roaring sound of chatter and laughter made its way inside the car from the people sat outside bars, already too drunk to care for politeness or tone. Alaska couldn’t help but smile. Not long ago, she was one of them. At this moment, she couldn’t really put a finger on the last time she went out. The red light turned green, and gripping the wheel with both of her hands, Alaska followed ahead, tired of feeling shitty about herself. She was a grown woman, who was able to not only fix her life but others as well. That was the main reason she’d gone to Law School in the first place. She was a helper, a giver, never a taker. Alaska always took better care of others than of herself. She allowed her mind run back to the meeting earlier, marveling in the story of the three individuals. She thought of Violet, still a young girl, having to make the tough choice of raising her baby or giving up a life she created. She thought of Matt, poor Matt, who seemed so scared to let their kid go to other hands, but also very afraid of losing Violet to his selfishness. Lastly, Alaska thought of Sharon, the beautiful nurse. Her belly fluttered with familiar butterflies while she reminisced in the memory of her voice and the warm touch of her hands. It was hard to concentrate on traffic. Alaska decided to call the one person she knew who was an all time fool and yet lovable. She selected the phone icon on her car screen and pressed the first contact. “Go for Cory.” His voice resonated through the speaker. The sound of it made her body relax, and Alaska felt the muscles of her shoulders start to detangle. “Hey, dork.” “Oh, my! Is this… is this Alaska? I once heard a tale about this mystical creature but I never knew one could get in touch with aliens so easily! How’s planet Glamtron?” Her brother joked in false awe, and she sensed no traces of resent in his speech. True, it’d been a while since they talked, but Cory made her feel closer to him everytime they spoke. A smile spread across her face and Alaska heard herself cackling, the sound resonating in the car. “How have you been, sis?” “Same old. I’m doing ok, I actually picked up a great case today.” She stopped at another red light and took her time watching the passers by. “There’s this teen couple, the girl is 6 months pregnant… She wants to give the baby up but the father is just not taking it. He won’t tell her tho, the poor thing is scared. And guess who’s adopting? Oh yes, the most beautiful nurse who ever lived.” “Ooooh, somebody’s got the hots for the nurse! Guess she’ll be….. licking your wounds very soon, what up?” Alaska scoffed and tried to contain a fit of laughter. She heard Cory’s snorting through the line. “You are so gross, oh my God. But no, she will not be licking anything, as I am a married lady and she’s a mom to be, so suck it.” “I know who you want to su…” “THAT’S ENOUGH FOR THIS CONVERSATION. I hope you don’t kiss our mom with that mouth, ugh.” She pressed on the accelerator, watching the parade of cars ahead finally start to move. Thankfully, she was halfway through the journey already. “Yeah, right. But really, Lask, stay cool. Also, send me a picture of her next time you see her. I would like to know what this lady looks like if she’s messing with your head like that.” “Maybe in the next life.” She took a left, breathing in deeply before talking again. “Hey, we should get lunch sometime. Wanna join me tomorrow?” “Hamburger Mary’s?” “Deal. You’re paying. Byeee!” She hung up before he could protest, a smile still accompanying her on the travel home. ———————————————————————————– Alaska arrived to an empty, dark house. There were traces of her husband’s entrance. His suit jacket was carefully folded on their L shaped couch, a cup of scotch half full sat on the coffee table, and his briefcase stood at a perfect 90º angle by the wall. It was all too meticulous like it was all a video game scenario. Nothing smelled like him, nothing seemed like he had got in with the intents to stay. By the door frame, a note. “Went to tennis practice with the guys. Don’t wait up. Love, T.” Alaska took a deep breath, expecting anger or sadness to wash over her. That something would cross her mind and ignite a more natural feeling than the utter relief she felt to know he wasn’t home. She sat down, defeated, kicking off her high heels. What was happening? Not too long ago she knew she would’ve been pissed. She would’ve called, asked him why he wasn’t home, she’d chase him down, even offer to tag along and play a match. But when you chase after someone for too long, the enchantment just fades away. You get worn out, you look for ways not to step on their toes because you simply don’t bother. Instead, all the anger flutters when you’re together, when you have to stand someone’s presence and the quirks you thought you’d learned to love. She motioned towards the kitchen and checked the clock for the first time since she’d entered. 9:23. She figured it was ok to have dinner, since Tom wouldn’t be back so soon. The club he played only closed at 11, and he was never one to leave early or leave a game unfinished. She picked out carrots, peas, cheese and two eggs, opting for an omelet. She found some left overs from the night before, and decided to leave them for when he arrived. Alaska went back to her pondering while the skillet heated, the only thing hot enough in the sterile, cold house she never called home anymore. Alaska found herself escaping any contact to avoid conflict. She didn’t even manage guilt to surface. She felt nothing about her relationship, save for some neediness here and there. Hot tears spiked her eyes, frustration the only thing to actually take over. Her marriage fell apart and she didn’t bother. Salty tears insisted on jumping off her eyes, making her dinner even more depressing. Her food was tasteless, despite her best efforts to season it. She felt pathetic, eating alone with most of the lights out. Still with a heavy stream cascading down her cheeks, she collected her belongings and headed upstairs to her bedroom. Not even her bed, decorated with cream and white pillows and bedding, looked that inviting. She opted to fill her tub with warm water and rose-smelling bubbles. Watching the steam rising from the water finally made soothed her, and the warmth of the room decorated her cheeks with a pink flush. She cut the stream of tears, wiping the rest of them before letting down her hair from the low bun she’d made. The strands brushed her shoulders, tickling the soft skin of her neck. It had always been her favorite thing to pamper herself. Shimmying out of her trousers and finally getting rid of her collared shirt, Alaska felt as if she was peeling off worries of her body. She could launder them later - both worries and clothes. For now, she just wanted to enjoy a calm bubble bath. After stripping off her underwear, she climbed into the hot water. The knots of her muscles untangled instantly, and her heartbeat finally slowed down. She didn’t know how long it’d been since it’d been racing. She reached a long arm out, extending it towards her phone. There was one call from Tom and 3 messages from an unknown number. She decided to call her husband first. She was sent to voicemail. “Hey, it’s me. I’m home, just taking a bath. There’s dinner in the fridge. I’ll see you tomorrow, ok?” She softened her voice, remembering the end of his note. “Love you too.” She hung up fast, as if she was afraid of her own words. Again, pathetic. Cursing under her breath, she unlocked her device and read the messages. [20:58] Hi, Alaska, this is Sharon! We met earlier today. Listen, I was wondering if we could set up a meeting before Friday, there are some things I would like to discuss with you on the side. Beer’s on me! Xx [21:02] Also I may or may not have willingly downloaded ‘Love Me Tender’ and a bunch of other Elvis tunes and put them in a pen drive for you, so when you come around at the hospital they’ll be our jams. [21:02] Ok, now I’m done. Let me know when our little meeting will go down! Alaska nearly dropped her phone. Her eyes were wider than an apple pie, and a surprised smile occupied the place her frown had been moments ago. She typed in an answer, scared her runny, wet fingers may let her phone slip. [21:49] I can’t believe you! Going as far as actually occupying disk memory in your computer with these songs can only mean one thing… [21:49] You either really really like ancient songs OR (which is highly more likely) you are determined to kiss my ass continuously until you get guard on this child lol kudos on the effort tho!! And yes, we shall meet again. I’ll be downtown again tomorrow to have lunch w my brother, would you like to meet me after? Alaska hit send before she could regret it. She knew it’d be odd in the least to meet a client during the weekend, but then again, it was Sharon who proposed it in the first place. Granted, they did have to discuss matters on the child and make sure she was ready to welcome a baby into her home and her life, so there had a lot of explaining and planning to do. Alaska clung to that idea, repeating to herself she was not taking her newest client on a date. Her ethic manners screamed at her heart, condemning how fast it beat waiting for an answer. She decided to focus on her bath and relax, putting away her phone to clear off her head. Sometimes, she felt it necessary to just be out of thoughts, feelings and memory. She appreciated the numbness and oblivion of moments like these. Alaska sunk deeper inside her tub, allowing the water to cover her pale body from head to toe. She stayed down, in her nest of warmth, until her lungs begged for breath. She lost track of time, distracting herself with the bubbles dancing around her toes. Only when the water turned cold and her fingers looked like raisings she stepped off. Alaska took her time drying off her skin, covering every inch she could reach with lotion, and blow-drying her blonde locks. Finally, she took her phone and wrapped herself in a robe, tucking herself into her bed. There were 6 texts and 1 missed call from Sharon. Alaska smiled before she even opened them up. [21:50] Why I do like them very much alaska! I’ll tell you all abt my fascinating taste in music tomorrow then, text me where we’ll meet [21:50] Also yes there will be a lot of kissing alright if its up to me [21:55] fuck why did I say that I don’t know where it came from [21:55] I thought you’d find it funny oh my god IM SORRY [21:55] can you believe I’m a nurse being this dumb [21:55] UGHHHHHHHHHHHH IM SORRY Alaska was a little ball of laughter, shaking with the motion of her wheezing. Sharon’s slight panic reminded her of an excited puppy who got so happy and agitated they end up tripping on their own paws. It was adorable and just made Alaska want to see her more. She entered her response quickly, feeling her body warm inside and out, and her lids heavy. [22:17] chill girl! I was just taking a bath, but its totally okay She thought about what to say next. Alaska felt confused, like she was betraying her own sense of dignity by feeling this attracted and lured by another woman while she was still married. But what was her marriage anyways, besides a contract bonding two people who were nothing alike? She felt like she’d just had a taste of what fun felt like, and she wanted more. She wanted the opportunity to know different people and try new things. Alaska wanted to chase this new feeling and courage, even if it led nowhere, or if it wouldn’t be with Sharon. She just needed the opportunity and she’d been granted with one, it was only up to her what to do next. [22:18] I’ll hold you to those promises!! See you tmrrw xo The feeling of accomplishment that overcame her just from those daring words was enough to bring a calm, well slept night, one she hadn’t had in forever. Just before she was taken by Orpheus and went into the peacefulness of slumber, she saw very clearly the colorful imagery her subconscious had fabricated. She distinguished two frames, both tall and slender, with soft curves on their hips and torso. Two women. One of them had hair of gold, a reflective shine only blondes exhibit. The other one had rosy lips and hair of ebony. They were happy, she could tell. There was something else, a third form she couldn’t identify at first. It was small and heavy – it had to be held with both arms. Upon further looking, shapes formed. A pair of shining, chocolate brown eyes. Very little hair framing rosy cheeks, and a tiny, round mouth. It seemed fragile and small, and now it was easy to decipher. The blonde lady held a perfect baby in her arms.