#and then try to apologize with fucking SCRABBLE

[starlightpixels]

Frank Churchhill is an idiot and I WILL be stealing his wife

[boltwrites]

logan absolutely acting like a starved man eating your pussy PLEASE i’m taking whining groaning BEGGING for you jesus christ

A/N: hello yes. also love that out of the 6 requests i received, 2 of them are about logan giving oral. we have Expectations for this man.

anyway, i'm kind of out of practice when it comes to smut, apologies lmao

By clicking read more you verify that you are at least 18 years old

"Come on-"

You stumbled back, shins colliding with the foot of the bed as you fell flat on your ass, scrabbling against the sheets to prop yourself up on your elbows. You didn't want to miss a damn second of this. It was your fault, anyway - why Logan was acting like this, why he looked like a man starved - you'd been teasing him all night. Not even subtly, like you enjoyed at times. No, this had been filthy. Scandalized. It had left him open mouthed, practically panting. Sending you hungry, sinful looks from across the room. Shifting his weight from one hip to the other as he tried to look casual adjusting his jeans. And you just kept pushing.

Well, he'd pushed back. Pushed you right through the door of your room, until your ankles smashed into the box spring and your ass hit the bed.

You couldn't help but stare at the man. His pupils were blown wide with lust, chest heaving and hair rumbled at the front, little beads of sweat gathering at his brow. If you didn't know him better, you could have mistaken it for anger, for rage -

But you knew better. You knew that look for what it really was - pure, feral lust.

He stalked forward, with all the danger and power of a predator. The door slammed behind him - when had he grabbed it? - and he didn't even bother to lock it. Trivial things like that - he didn't have time for them. Not when his gaze was locked on you.

You pressed against the rumbled bedcovers with the flat of your palms. Even if logically you knew he just wanted to fuck you, you still responded instinctually to that primal urge inside you to put distance between yourself and danger. Your heels dug into the edge of the bed, to try and crawl further back - but Logan cocked his head to the side, eyebrow raised and gaze narrowing.

"Now... where do you think you're going?"

This was about the time of the night when all your bravado flew straight out the window. All the tools you'd used so far tonight - a tactical flutter of your lashes, the drag of your instep across the seam of his jeans under the table, a filthy, depraved scene whispered against the shell of his ear - they all shattered in an instant when he finally, finally got a chance to act on those fantasies. Because you knew it would be better.

You stilled - you likely looked every bit the deer in headlights as he closed the gap between you with two measured strides, calloused hands wrapped around your calves and tugging.

You gasped, ass dragging along the bed until you were flush with the edge, Logan looming over you like an oncoming storm.

His eyes locked with yours, fingers squeezing tighter as his jaw clenched, flexing the muscles there as his gaze flit from your lashes to your lips, then, to the anxious, excited bob of your throat.

"All night whispering filthy shit in my ear and now you're speechless. That's how it goes, isn't it?" he smirked, then. A devilish, wry thing that stirred something low in your stomach.

"I-" you started, and he shook his head, nudging your knees apart with his own.

"Oh no, you don't need to start now," he chuckled, low and conspiratorial. "You just need to do what I tell you to. Take your pants off."

Oh god. You shivered - you recognized that tone, the glint in his eye. You'd pushed him just far enough for this - for a side of him you only glimpsed on the rarest of occasions.

Usually, when you teased him, he'd rip his shirt off and toss you onto the bed, tug your hair and handle you with that sweet, rough touch. You craved from from him, when he'd been gone for too long or you'd been too caught up in your own work to care for either of your needs.

Rarely, you'd push some invisible button and he'd channel that energy into torturing you with the concept of pleasure - nudging you to the precipice of release and pulling you back over and over and over until there were tears running down your cheeks and it was all you could do to cry his name, beg for that release.

But this - this was more. You'd pressed further, led Logan through the thralls of insatiable carnal desire and set him down just beyond that. Here, the heat of his own desire had been dulled as you teased and taunted and smirked, denying him the attention he needed over and over until the craving for his own release had been pruned, supplanted with the bone-deep hunger for your pleasure, to leave you ruined, so drunk on his touch that you'd wonder why you would have ever chosen social norms over his fingers, his tongue, his cock.

Obviously, you played this game because you were a gambler. Rolling the dice hoping you'd come across the very same looking in his eye you were staring at in this exact moment.

Jackpot.

You nodded - hands shaking with anticipation as you unlatched the button of your jeans, unfurled the zipper after. You sat eye level with his belt buckle, the denim below it straining with how hard he was for you. Maybe if you just reached out and -

"Off," he hissed. He was in control here. You'd had that chance earlier tonight, and you'd squandered it on dirty talk with no destination, no point or purpose.

You obeyed his request instead - slid your hands under your clothes, wiggling your way out of everything that covered you -

And Logan fell to his knees - no grace, no poise as he gathered the fabric that had pooled around your ankles and threw it to the far side of the room, eyes dark and determined.

Oh, was he -

He clawed at your thighs, your ass - dragged you to the edge of the bed before he splayed his hands flat against your thighs, strong fingers spreading open your legs as his focus narrowed down to the slick mess you'd become.

Oh, fuck.

He breathed, ragged - shoulders shaking as took a last, gasping breath before he dove into you.

You cried out - how could you not, as his nails dug against the flesh of your ass, damn near lifting your hips off the bed. You fell back, spine arching as his sideburns scraped the sensitive skin on the inside of your thighs, at the junction of your legs and core. But that was nothing compared to his tongue - the tongue he use to carve his way inside you, lapping at you like you were all that could sustain him. It massaged you from the inside out, laving along your walls like some insane perversion of a kiss.

You keened into his touch - tried to use what little leverage you had to roll your hips against his lips - only to be stopped by his fierce hold on your ass, your thighs. It was all you could do to dig your nails into the sheets, your other hand threading through his hair and scraping along his scalp, tangling in those tresses and tugging, as if you could bury him inside you like this.

And he did his damndest. He was ravenous - you couldn't tell through your own cries of pleasure, but you could have sworn you heard him growl. He kissed and suckled against you, pressing himself ever closer -

And you keened as his nose grazed against your clit, thighs shaking with need as his eyes - that had previous been closed in reverent, absolute focus - snapped open to find your own as he leaned against that hand in his hair, and ground his nose to your throbbing clit.

You damn near screamed, bucking against his lips, his vice-like grip on your hips, his damn nose - as he all but nuzzled you to completion, drinking in your release like a fine wine even as you twitched and gasped for air in his hold.

But he wasn't anywhere near done. The noise he made as he dragged his tongue out of your folds was absolutely obscene, and you damn near sobbed at how, even though you'd just come, you still ached for him.

And he knew it. He hummed - low, pleased, as he removed a hand from your shaking thigh to trail through the wet mess he'd left, teasing them just at the edge of your entrance so you could feel every ridge of his callouses. The texture of those fingers had a soft, desperate noise leaving your lips as he finally dipped them into you - so slow that you could sob from it.

And you did sob - more like you screamed when hot breath washed over your clit, followed by the flat drag of a tongue.

"Fuck! Logan-!" You cried, thighs clenching around his jaw, heels digging into his back. You didn't know if you wanted to pull him closer or kick him square in that adamantine skull. You squeezed around his fingers, tight and needy, but that attention on your oversensitive clit sent sparks of pleasure-pain up your spine, your core flexing as you tried to take it.

But that was the thing - he knew you could take it. Knew that with his fingers inside you, with his lips wrapped around your clit, that soon that little flicker of pain would fade to crashing, blinding pleasure. He knew you loved it when he ate you out like this - lapped against your clit, sucked it until you were spiraling over again. That the first round was just a test to see how easily he could get you off. He had you now. And he wasn't letting you go.

He hummed against you, tongue narrowing to a point as he curled it around your clit, peppering you with sloppy kisses as he worked you through the sparking fire of too much, too soon. His fingers helped to calm the sting - he massaged against your walls, rocking in and out until he found that spot inside you with a slightly altered resistance, and then he set to work.

His free hand vacated your hip. Instead, he splayed it low across your stomach as he curled those fingers inside you. You cried his name - needy and desperate as he somehow managed to make two fingers feel like so much more.

All that, even while those circles he was drawing with his tongue tightened, adjusting to the way your hand pressed over his on your stomach, how the fingers curled in his hair loosened just slightly, drifted lover to scratch along the scruff of his jaw as you relaxed under him, until the little jitters of that muscle in your thigh were few and far between.

Then he wrapped his lips around you and sucked.

You screamed - actually, truly screamed his name. Your hips jolted, your nails dug into his skin as his tongue ravished you, cheeks hollowed as he worked you over like a practiced musician at his preferred instrument. His fingers curled - oh god, when had he added a third - and your back arched, tears gathering in the corners of your eyes as the pleasure overwhelmed you.

It wasn't frantic and ever present, like your first orgasm - that had been simple work after a night of teasing, of purposeful denial. That had been a foregone conclusion. But this - this was careful, calculated, expert - and the pleasure built like floodwater against a dam, as he worked you just so he knew when you did come, your vision would blur at the edges and you'd shake apart harder than anything else.

His fingers curled, his wrist snapped as he thrust them into you, as his palm flattened against your stomach, his tongue flicked over your clit, his lips so tight, so perfect -

You don't remember what you screamed. It might have been his name, it might have been a plea for mercy - or maybe it was just a scream.

No matter what it was, he worked you through it with his tongue, his fingers, his lips.

And when you blinked up at him, bleary, corner of your mouth wet with either spit or tears - you caught that look. That feral look.

He wasn't done with you. Not even close.

[writers-advocate]

a continuation of this

now, two sides of the same coin. somehow someway, you get your miguel back. and he simply smiles when you apologize all teary eyed for letting an imposter get his dick wet

“i know you’re sorry. te perdono, baby.” he kisses away your tears and cups your cheek, laying you back. “eres mía. ya lo sé”

he’s not quite rough, like the other miguel. no. but he is mean

your legs are over his shoulders, your hands scrabbling at his arms for purchase while he rolls his hips into you, slow, but brutally deep. you swear you’ll feel him in your throat if he keeps going this way, the head of his cock kissing your cervix every time he bottoms out. he’s just as possessive, just as growly it’s a common thing between just about every miguel out there but nowhere near as desperate. because at the end of the day, he knows you’re not going anywhere, despite the way you try squirm away from his each and every unforgiving thrust. he just needs to be doubly sure by fucking you until every thought and action is of and for him

you claw at his arms in an effort bring your head back down from the clouds while you whine and whimper “m’sorry! miggy m’so sorry- ah-!” your eyes roll and you’re barely aware of the fact that his fingertips are pressing into either side of your jaw, forcing you to face him even if your eyes are practically in the back of your skull. “i know. i know, pobrecita mi hermosa, you just missed me so much you needed something, anything. lo siento, mi vida. aquí ‘stoy. promise i’m gonna be here to fuck you every night. i know, you’re just so needy.” he practically coos at you, his tone oh so sweet and you miss the condescending smile he gives when you nod along dumbly. he knows it’s going in one ear and out the other, you just wanna be good for him

and he’ll make you cum as many times as he needs to make you prove it

[justbreakonme]

“Ouch- Fuck, Whumpee, stop- I’m trying to help you!”

Caretaker had one hand around Whumpees wrist and the other desperately fumbling for the pills the doctor had given them. They’d tried everything else.

Whumpee had dug them out of everything they’d tried to hide them in, and no amount of begging or bargaining was going to convince them to take them on their own.

But they were just going to keep getting worse without them. They were practically feral at this point, the pain and fear making them fight tooth and nail against anything and anyone that dared come near them.

Whumpee scrabbled at their trapped arm, gouging into Caretakers arm viciously with their still untrimmed nails. Blood dripped over their hands and to the floor but still, Caretaker held on, found the pill, and moved in.

“I’m so sorry sweetheart, I hope you’ll forgive me later…” they pleaded, before stuffing the pill down Whumpees throat, yanking their hand back before Whumpee could bite them.

They let go, and Whumpee scrambled back into the corner, chest heaving and wild eyes fixed on them warily.

“They’re gonna make you feel better, I swear… I promise, I wouldn’t ever do anything to hurt you…”

Their words are punctuated with the sound of blood dripping to the floor.

They took a better look at Whumpees scratches and winced.

They got me good, that’s for sure.

Long claw marks reached their inner elbow, a few had managed to catch their shoulder and jaw, but most were concentrated around their wrist, frantic and wild in their unevenness.

They sighed, looking between their arm and Whumpee, and sent up a silent prayer that those pills would do something.

Then, they grabbed a rag, mopped up the blood, and got to work with the first aid kit.

They didn’t mean to.

Something had taken over then when Caretaker had grabbed their wrist, and it wasn’t… It wasn’t Caretaker who they saw anymore.

Now, they saw them. Saw their blood under their nails and smeared across their hands and chest, dripping onto the floor.

Hot tears began to fall as Caretaker merely retreated, wrapping their arm as if it was just a paper cut.

Like the ungrateful beast in the corner hadn’t tried to rip them to shreds for trying to help.

“I-I’m sorry- I didn’t mean- I didn’t mean to, I’m so sorry…” they managed, their apology sounding whiny and flimsy even to their own ears.

“You were just defending yourself,” Caretaker said after a moment, “I just wish you could feel safe with me.”

Me too… Like nothing else I’ve ever wanted in my whole life…

(This is little and slapdash but your comment gave me an idea, so here it is and thank you!)

[mothiir]

duty performed

I wrote this in half an hour and will be taking no notes. @the-raven-lady owns most of Elias, Isaiah owns the rest. For more stories of these two - not together - see our blogs. If you haven’t seen them before Isaiah is a primaris Black Templar and Elias is an ancient former night lord who is chilling with the Templars for reasons

cw for blood, grossness, and Elias enjoying his food too much

—

—

“Brother,” Isaiah says, patiently. “Please may you remove your teeth from my pectoral? I cannot thrust to your liking while you are attached there.”

Elias’ only response is to chew, his jagged teeth scything through Isaiah’s flesh — the only sign of the considerable effort it takes to do so is the tendons twitching in the older Marine’s jaw. It hurts, but not terribly so. Besides, any wound suffered in service to your battle brothers is a badge to be worn with pride.

Isaiah sighs, and readjusts himself minutely. The fact that the bunk is still intact is testament to the architectural skills of the grandsons of Dorn, given what the two Astartes have been up to for the best part of an hour. 

Of course, the cessation of movement prompts an irritable, burbling snarl from Elias.

“I cannot do both.” Elias has buried his face into Isaiah’s chest, dropping his legs off Isaiah’s shoulders to do so, and thus Isaiah cannot penetrate him as deeply as he demands. ”Bite elsewhere.”

Elias grumbles something into Isaiah’s flesh, gnawing deeper. Isaiah’s brow furrows — not with pain, but concern.

”Brother, are you receiving proper rations? I understand that biting is often sexual in nature, but your continued attempts to consume parts of me has me worrying that your calorific needs are not being met.”

He goes to pinch at Elias’s hip, gratified to find a slight pudge of fat there, nestled over broad, sharp bones. Elias snarls protest, clawing down Isaiah’s back, opening up gouges that start to heal almost before they have a chance to bleed. With a frustrated, strangled growl, Elias claws again — deeper this time, sticking his fingers under Isaiah’s skin, as though Isaiah is a beast to be stripped of its hide. 

It feels unusual. Not terribly pleasant, but Isaiah simply turns his thoughts from the sensation, focusing on the way Elias’s breathing shifts a little as Isaiah hooks his hands under Elias’s knees, lifting them higher.

”There — is that angle to your liking?”

The only response he receives is the obscene sound of Elias chewing at his pectoral — the wet, sloppy sounds of the former Night Lord beginning to drink. 

Isaiah readjusts himself. He knows what he is aiming for — it is here somewhere —

There.

Elias burbles a strange mess of sound, part wail, part squeal — all abruptly cut off as he bites Isaiah afresh, as though by removing a chunk of Isaiah’s body he can exorcise the memory of that noise. Isaiah does not chuckle, for this is a serious matter, but he cannot help a smile.

”Yes — I knew you would like that.”

“Hmmmmggggfff,” Elias manages, his eyes black and empty as the void between stars, his pale flesh streaked with Isaiahs’ blood. His hands scrabble at Isaiah’s back, fingers trying to prise inside the wounds that he had opened up not three heartbeats ago. He utters a querulous sound of dismay when he finds smooth skin. 

“I heal swiftly brother. Apologies,” says Isaiah, his balls slapping against Elias’ buttocks as he picks up the pace. He fucks with the same single-minded intensity that he fights or worships with: there is a goal, and he will achieve it. Nothing will distract him. Each thrust spears into that tender bundle of nerves that has Elias snarling and biting at him, because Isaiah is a Templar, and they always strike their target true.

It’s delightful — Isaiah loves nothing more than being useful to his brothers, in whatever way they need. This is what Elias needs. 

(Isaiah has his own wants, of course, but those must be sublimated to the good of the Legion.)

(If he could he would have his hands around Elias’s throat until those clever dark eyes grew glazed and giddy and his mouth grew slack — or he would chew and bite and Elias heals swiftly but Isaiah is swifter and crueller— put Elias on his hands and knees and —) 

(No. His wants do not matter. One day, he will be Captain, and Marshal thereafter. It is written, and so it shall be, and the role of a leader is to sacrifice all and gain nothing but martyrdom and — )

Elias rips up, and away, tearing loose a mouthful of Isaiah’s flesh, which he promptly chews and swallows, blood between his teeth and streaming down his chin. He forces his mouth up against Isaiah’s — less a kiss, more a heated, drooling mess, as the pair lick at each other’s mouths, teeth clacking together — and when Elias cums it is with a snarl that sounds exactly like Isaiah’s chainsword cutting through bone. Isaiah, his mouth scarlet, his hair a tousled bloody mess, pauses, cock sheathed deep within Elias as cum spatters across their abdomens. 

“Shall I keep going?” he says, and Elias huffs laughter.

”Damn Primaris,” he says, then smacks Isaiah’s thigh, like he would a prize bull. “Get to it.”

He leans back into the bunk, pillowing his head on interlinked fingers. Isaiah hefts his battle brother’s legs up onto his shoulders once more, folding him almost in half as he once more begins to see to his duty. 

[friendlylocalwhumper]

The Cycle series in chronological order (pts.1-26) | Misunderstanding (pt.26)

“Wait - wait - fuck, wai-, wait…” Pitchy, violent keens. Frantic scarred hands scrabble across the master’s chest. Not clawing, not hitting. Just trying to push him away, push him back, get some space.

Simon reels back, and when his fist lands, it knocks a pained sound out of Major’s mouth. Those eyes fly back open almost instantly and Major grits his teeth more desperately.

Major doesn’t even apologize for the cursing like he always does. Like he used to. He only continues to struggle, fingers entangling with the master’s shirt and searching for any purchase at all.

“Don’t, don’-, fu-, fffh-, please…” Bruise-dark chest heaving for air in frantic twitches, Major gives up on pushing Simon away and settles on just trying to brace against him leaning any closer.

That look in his eyes is wild. Not just scared, but truly terrified. Major looks more scared than he would even be of death. He is in trouble, he is going to pay for what he’s done, but… this is wrong. Something is wrong.

“What?” Snaps Simon. It is all but hissed from between clenched teeth. “What, what are you freaking out over? You never fight back, you know better.”

The threat, the reminder of his place, chills Major to his core. Hits like ice to his teeth. His strength falters, and then he stops pushing on Simon’s chest - which allows the master to fall closer, and from mere inches away, Simon can finally see what Major was so afraid of.

Simon was trying so hard to pin him, to stifle the rebellion. To beat him back into submission and make him sorry for hesitating to obey. He was trying so hard, with so much force, that he didn’t notice. How getting closer, managing to pin him, made Major plenty scared. Just not of a beating. The last time that Simon saw him this wild and thoughtless, it was during the break-in.

They are nose-to-nose, now, and the master sees it. How the proximity has Major cowed into squeezing his eyes shut and taking short, rapid breaths. How those bushy brows are knitted together, pushed upward, with distress. In Major’s mind, he’s lost the struggle, and now comes the worst part.

“That’s not what this is,” Hisses the master. Spittle flecks across Major’s bottom lip, his cheek. The captive flinches and it is less than satisfying to watch. “Hey. Look at me.”

Hazel eyes flutter open and focus on the man above him. His hips shift uncomfortably up off the floor, then thud back down, shame and doubt flashing in that twisted expression.

“This is not that. I don’t do that.” The swelling in Cupcake’s face has been going down, so both of his eyes can blink. They do, the unswollen one squinting as he tries to understand. He is always so slow to understand, to think.

Simon loathes Cupcake. He is worthless, he deserves the beatings that he gets. He deserves worse. But seeing him like this - this isn’t what Simon wants. The break-in was… a time that Major genuinely surprised him. He took it - Simon’s eyes go unfocused as he remembers, as he sees it all again - Major took it, body lurching and pained grunts muffled by a hand, unable to walk the next day, having nightmares for weeks and waking up in a panic more often than not - and afterward, Major killed every last intruder. Put in the painful effort to cut Simon free.

Major doesn’t deserve to feel that again. Simon doesn’t want to see that look on his face again. Doesn’t want to be straddling him right now. It takes all his reserves of rage to stay put, to stay pinning Major on his back, to scare him so bad. Cupcake deserves it, he does. To be scared. Just - not that bad. Not about that.

“Stop fighting me. It’ll be over quicker if you just stop.”

Oh, he knows that look on Major’s face. Deepening horror. Defeat. Regret. That was the wrong thing to say. It infuriates Simon that there are still wrong things to say, that he still messes things up. Even when he’s in charge and Major’s pissed him off to deserve the roughest treatment. Still, after everything, Simon is still screwing up. He’s still performing.

Fed up with talking, the master growls out his frustration and slams his hands to Cupcake’s throat. They wrap around tight and press downward, cutting off his air. Animal panic sends those eyes flying wide open, and in an instant, everything becomes simple again. Hurting him is right, punishing him is good. It’s what he should be doing. No misunderstandings, no unfair pitiful flinching from Major. Just choking him out, beating his half-conscious body, shoving him back into the cage. Enough of this weird guilt and uncomfortable memories.

taglist: @morning-star-whump , @lthrboy, @apokolyps, @paperprinxe , @vampiresprite,

@wollemi-whump, @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees , @whumps-and-bumps , @defire, @notactuallyluska

[undertheopensky]

Heart And Soul Asunder: Whumptober 2023 Director's Cuts

A collection of fun facts, director’s comments, and deleted scenes.

Day 1

Fun fact! Most sign languages incorporate a completely separate grammar system to their ‘spoken’ forms (English to BSL, ASL and Auslan, for example). For fluency purposes, I (and most other people for that matter) write the signed text as ‘English translations’, just like you would any other foreign language.

The alternative, ‘glossing’, is writing the words as they are signed, and is generally considered a poor written representation of sign language because it ‘reads’ as very simplistic, without the associated body language, facial expression, gestures, and emotional indicators that are purely visual.

Italics is in fact not the preferred method for indicating signing in prose, as the Deaf community rightly regards it as just speaking and needs no other punctuation than “”. However I’m still trying to figure out a visual and storytelling balance when non-Deaf individuals are switching back and forth between speaking methods.

Day 2

Fun fact! Every line of Sky’s ‘dreaming’ dialogue is shit I have said in my sleep, to the general horror and consternation of my sister. She was mildly displeased to be asked for ‘the creepiest things you’ve ever heard me say while unconscious’.

Sky’s inaudible blood comment would have been either “It’s said that only those plants that are fed on blood will bloom red” or “Under the blood, what do you have left?”

Day 3

This one wanted to be much longer, but didn’t have any material to fill it, and I didn’t have time to let things grow organically. I feel like the pacing suffered for that.

Day 4

Fun fact! I had over 1000 words of ‘scrap’ material by the time I was done with this fill.

I’ve had difficult works before, but this one took it to a whole new level. It got to the point where I was writing individual sentences as their own separate entities and then frankensteining them together with joining words or sentences or pieces of another pre-written sentence. I was deeply impressed it turned out as coherent as it did.

Day 5

Due to deadlines and me attempting to keep a handle on my plot pacing, this one had several minor plot points cut from the original. I was very disappointed but also it was long enough as it was…

Here’s an excerpt from the most complete of those cuts.

Blue wakes to pain searing through his torso. He tries to jolt upright; can’t, the cord of pain through his ribs binding him in an agonised hunch. He’s winded, he recognises – Blue scrabbles away – The man lunges – Then trips and falls seemingly through the floor. Blue can’t get up immediately. Pain still lashes through him with every gasping breath. He knows straightening out will help. Can’t make himself do it, not with a red ribbon of agony tying his lungs to something in his core. Instead he curls in a little more and uses his feet to shuffle away from the spot the guy had vanished. He’d thought he’d seen – a flash, except the opposite; a sudden moment of night-sky darkness – but now the grass just looks… normal. Slowly springing up again after his weight had squished it down, a few broken blades sticking up at awkward angles. Blue’s tempted to poke it with his stick. He refrains – he doesn’t want to lose his best tool, if whatever ate the guy decided wood is tasty too – and after marking the closest tree, he limps towards the river. He’s never touching that patch of grass again.

Day 6

*buries face in hands*

Feel like I owe everyone an apology for this one – there was so much screaming in my inbox. And it’s still trying to develop itself into a long, involved torture fic. I had a whole fucking outline written before realising it was way too long and involved for a daily prompt, and mercilessly cut it back. But the outline exists… and could be used…

*head on desk*

Day 7

The reason Warriors was so grumpy was that he’d already taken a keese to the face from an earlier vire. He thought Legend had seen and was teasing him.

Wind was annoyed with Twilight for chasing Legend off. “He was going to TEACH ME SHIT, you asshole!”

An incomplete alternative scene, scrapped because the Vibes were wrong:

Legend takes time over the next few days to really watch the people around him interacting. Usually he doesn’t bother. People are baffling, and watching them is somewhere between aggravating, confusing, and anxiety-inducing. He has no idea why it’s considered an actual hobby. Everyone keeps him at arms-length. And Legend prefers it that way, he doesn’t like people in his personal space, it just makes him jumpy – but Wild is like that too. Flinchy when people get too close. And Twilight is always reaching out to him, verbally if not physically. [Example conversation.] And when he does move in physically, it’s always at Wild’s pace. Patient, gentle, even when roughhousing. The only time any one of them touches Legend is to shove him, or pinch his ears. And it’s always because Legend had gotten too close to them. The only exception is Hyrule. He comes closer than the others…

A lot of people resonated with this one. I don’t want to say I’m glad I made you all cry, but I AM glad I was able to pull such a strong emotional response from you. I love you guys. <3

Day 8

Fun fact! This was originally supposed to be a one-and-done, except I hit 3000 words and realised I wasn’t even CLOSE to finishing and couldn’t just cut plot points because this one has STRUCTURE, dammit. Fortunately, the one remaining day I had yet to generate an idea for had a perfect prompt for the second half, and all was well. (Except not really.)

This section was part of the first draft, but didn’t suit the Vibe, but I still like it:

“You should keep an eye on the veteran. He’s not dealing half as well as you think he is. And the chosen hero, for that matter. For heroes of legend and lore, you’re not a very well-adjusted bunch.” Legend makes an outraged noise. “Why don’t you do something about it, then?” “And do what?” Four’s dead brother shoots back. “I’m not real. I’m not even close to being real. I may as well have never existed, for all history remembers of me.”

Day 9

“You liar.”

Legend wasn’t talking about what Four was saying – he was calling the smile, and every one that had come before it, a lie.

Day 10

Fun fact! In medieval Europe (which LoZ is loosely set in), multiple births were considered VERY bad omens – adultery, demonic influence, witches’ spells, changelings, etc, to the point that multiples were very often killed or abandoned soon after birth, and sometimes their parents were, too. Combining this with the fact that several Links have dealt with evil clones of themselves was obviously going to be hilarious, but I didn’t get to explore it to its fullest potential. Maybe in the followup…

Day 11

Fun fact! Sometimes sprained ankles hurt worse than broken ankles. Ain’t bodies grand?

Day 12

A few snippets from a plot point that didn’t wind up eventuating:

“Things are very scary for you at the moment,” Sky murmurs, “and even though you’re being very brave, it doesn’t make them less scary. It’s okay to be afraid.”

“Because just like you come after me, there are other heroes who come after you. And they know your story. They know that you win.”

Day 13

There was originally going to be a second half of this to go in Day 30: Bridal Carry, but then I had a really good idea for an alternative. There’s more notes for this one but they’re a major spoiler for the second part, so you’ll have to wait for the followup for more info!

Day 14

This just fucking came to me when I first saw the prompt but was in no way suitable for Whumptober:

Four contemplates the lettuce Wild had handed him. It’s a little comical from the outside: the vegetable is larger than his head, as Wars all too gleefully points out. Four doesn’t respond to his teasing. Just rolls the lettuce around in his hands, considering every leafy angle. Then he takes a bite from it as if it were an apple. Wars inhales the mouthful he’d just taken from his waterskin. Wind slaps him on the back, howling with laughter, while Wars splutters and chokes and leaks water from his nose in a very undignified fashion. Hyrule and Sky both watch, fascinated, as Four makes his way through the entire lettuce. “Why,” is all Twilight says. Four can only shrug. “It looked good.”

Day 15

That Yiga member decides that the life choices that led them to stab a frightened (apparent) eight-year-old were bad ones and repents, abandoning the clan and moving to Hateno to help teach children to make up for it. Sometimes they wonder if the child managed to escape, but mostly they try not to think about it, because how could they have made it when the Plateau is laced with spies and they’d injured them so badly?

Now I want to write a followup where the Chain runs into this specific Yiga member and they have a breakdown when they see Four.

Day 16

Fun fact! Before you even begin exercising, there is what’s called an ‘anticipatory rise’ in heart rate, which preps your body to do work! In this fic there is a similar anticipatory rise in magic, which is why Legend has an easier time transforming when he’s expecting it. :)

Day 17

For some reason these guys wanted to act out a Monty Python skit where Tiny!Legend asked every one of them in turn if they were a knight, which for obvious reasons did not pass the vibe test, but some of the excerpts were hilarious:

Tiny!Legend squints at him suspiciously. “You’re not a knight?” “Nope,” says Time breezily. “The armour’s useful, is all.” “Didn’t stop that moblin from running you right through, old man,” says Four. “T’be fair, it was our first experience with black-bloods,” says Twilight, and Tiny!Legend’s eyes go wide as he considers just how much power it would have taken to drive a weapon through steel plate.

“Are you a knight?” “Only technically,” says Sky, appearing very focused on his wood carving. “Where I come from, a knight’s main duties involve catching people who fall off sky islands more than dealing with monsters or politics.”

Wars grimaces. “I couldn’t talk Artemis out of it, okay? It’s supposed to be an honour, but mostly it’s just paperwork.”

“Does it count if I don’t remember it?” asks Wild, completely guileless.

“Fuck that,” says Four, “I told Dad he could go kick rocks. I’m a blacksmith, dammit.”

“I’m a pirate!” Wind says indignantly, and Tiny!Legend relaxes the rest of the way, giggling.

Day 18

You have no idea how bad my brain wanted to make the Minish evil and leading him into a cult-related trap. I had to have a serious debate with myself over clear story beats and Minish physiology as a fae race before it could be laid to rest. Also, it would have screwed up my pacing, because this was supposed to be the last part, dammit!

On further consideration – this concept could make for an amazing angst fic, because it’s set in the Downfall Hyrule – what if the Minish became corrupted as the land did, so that evil deeds were what sustained them instead of gratitude?

The experiment with making the Minish’s communication purely described by Four was partly to show that they use a completely different language to Hylians, and partly to highlight that Four’s not in the clearest mental state right now. I definitely enjoyed everyone freaking out and creating theories around this particular design choice – I’m really happy it came out how it did and that everyone found it a) intelligible and b) distinctive.

This ruined the flow but I liked how it came out:

“You know me?” he says. All Minish know him, they say. There are stories passed down, of the Hero who was helped by the Minish – and who helped them in return, the way so few others did.

A follow-up excerpt:

Four frowns. “I don’t have a concussion.” “Four, half your face is covered in blood and I can see the knot from here. If you don’t have a concussion I will be very surprised.” Spoiler alert! Four has a massive concussion.

Fun fact! If you have a concussion, you are not going to be a reliable judge of whether or not you have a concussion. That’s also why Four can’t hear the Colours; in fact all four of them are there, just muddled together and in too much pain to realise they’re all in control, or even just how much pain they’re in. He got a hell of a whack on the head.

Day 19

This section ruined the flow but was fun to write:

The tight control he kept his temper under – always trying so hard not to respond in anger, to think through his words and actions before making them real. The only time Legend had ever seen him lose it – Wild had taken a stupid, dangerous risk in blowing up part of a mountain, burying half their enemies in a rockslide – but because he hadn’t warned them first, Sky and Wind nearly got caught up in it too. And Four had been furious on their behalf. He’d bellowed about communication and being aware of your teammates the whole time Hyrule was fixing up the bruises and Wind’s broken wrist and not repeated himself once. Wild was not the only one to look at Four with more respect after that.

Day 20

This line was needlessly dramatic so I took it out, but I still like it (plus context):

There’s a rustle of movement as several people start digging through their packs. Sky hadn’t realised – everyone’s gathered around the doorway. Unable to help, unable to look away, as Hyrule fought death itself for Four’s soul, and won.

There are followups coming for this ‘verse, focusing more on the healing. :)

Day 21

The first half of this was entirely whump-free, for reasons unknown to me. Listen man I do not have any control over these guys, I just work here.

Okay that’s slightly a lie, I did consider scrapping it or cutting it back, but it made for a nice counterpart to the actual whump, so I kept it. :)

“What do you even want with us?” he demands, all too aware of the two behind him. Just as trapped, just as helpless. He’s the oldest, here, the veteran hero; it’s up to him to find a way out.

Yeah, Legend completely forgot that Time is the oldest of all of them. Tbf he’s spent the last two-three days being a complete gremlin as well as being tiny, so I think we can forgive Legend the lapse.

Baby!Time shrugs. “We negotiated.”

I do not remember what this line referenced so I had to take it out but I remember it was hilarious.

“Thus proving that Time is in fact the Hero of Time,” says Four dryly, looking at Legend significantly. Legend casts about for something to throw at him while Wars tries to focus on whether or not Time can walk a straight line without puking.

Written by my beta while I was struggling with flow issues. It didn’t make it into the final draft but it made me laugh. Three cheers for my sister Sunshine, folks, who checks my shit for flow and consistency while knowing fuckall about Legend of Zelda and Linked Universe in particular. She never even questioned me over the weird names! I love her so much.

Day 22

This one fought me more than was entirely necessary, and has also decided to exist within a universe known as ‘your body is not a cordial bottle’.

When the Four Swords Links turned back into one Link, all their feelings and experiences went with them – but they don’t spread out as if over four people. Everything is felt exactly as intensely as if it was the original Link having that experience, because it was. So Four has just as strong a reaction to ice and cold as Blue, not one-quarter of a reaction; similarly, they all feel the same grief over Shadow’s death. It’s not diluted out just because there’s four people experiencing it.

(‘Your body is not a cordial bottle’ has medical origins – essentially, taking two drugs with opposing effects is NOT necessarily going to just cancel each other out, stop doing that shit and talk to your doctor! Also, drinking lots of water is not going to dilute the effects unless it’s alcohol, and that’s for a different reason.)

In hindsight, Wild has a very Valleygirl-esque voice in this, and I have no idea why.

An alternative scene, now with added nudity!

A gasp. “Four, your clothes!” A louder gasp. “MY clothes!” There had been no time, no thinking or deliberating. They were left with just the thing they clung to the hardest. For most of them, it seemed, that was their drawers, the last layer of clothing between them and open air. That Sky had refused to let go of the Master Sword, even as all his layers fell away - well, that’s not all that surprising. For Four to abandon his dignity -? And it wasn’t even his weapon. The only thing left on him is the worn leather cord of a necklace. Whatever it is, Four’s got it clutched in one hand like he’s scared to lose it. A pendant, of some kind? Four sees him looking, and instead of embarrassment - instead of covering himself up with a laugh or a wince - he looks afraid. Both hands go to the pendanty and he backs away, breathing hard, until he hits the wall and jolts like he’d forgotten it was there. “Four, it’s okay -” Four cringes away, curled in on himself to hide. Sky automatically reaches for his sailcloth to cover him, and annoyance flashes when he remembers.

Rough, but it amused me. (ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ)

Another alternative scene divergent from the original, cut because it was interfering with flow:

Four’s hand tightens. Hot blood starts to seep into the spaces between his fingers, something sharp like panic coiling around his heart. “Steady, Four,” says Sky. “Deep breaths. Shit, you’re bleeding again – Wild!” “I’m sorry! I was just curious!” Four wants out of this conversation, but there’s nowhere to go. The air in here is thin and stale. It’s not enough. His skin is hot, a volcano’s breath looming, and his core is so cold it hurts to breathe – “Aaand down you go,” says Sky, firm hands helping him to the sand. Four gasps for air. His ears are ringing again, a high-pitched screech that mostly drowns out the hissed argument happening over his head. He can’t make out the words but he knows what they’re saying, what’s wrong with him and don’t upset him and don’t you know he’s delicate – Four hates it with the depth of a bottomless sea. The words come out so deep a navy they’re almost black. “Just fucking get it over with!” The argument stops. “Four, you don’t have to say anything,” Sky starts. Four shakes his head, hard enough that it nearly dislodges Sky’s hands. “If you’re just going to dance around it, and – and talk behind my back, then – just get it over with!” The shadows in his mind flitter and murmur protest; he ignores them, ignores the chill panic on his skin and the ice in his gut to shove onwards. “Ask, damn you!” “Hey!” Warriors barks, softening his voice when it makes Four flinch, “we are not going to force you to talk about something you’re not comfortable with!” “Like talking about it behind my back and making up your own damn theories is any better,” Four snaps back. “You’re not going to like my answers anyway!” “Okay, okay, we’ll have the conversation, but you need to breathe!”

Four was very determined to have that panic attack…

Can you tell I really loved this fill? I need to write a followup someday.

Day 23

Jumping down an entire flight of stairs LOOKS cool, but there’s a high risk of falling on your face, not to mention the stress it puts on your joints, my knees hurt just thinking about it

Fun fact! I HAVE jumped down an entire flight of stairs before! Except it wasn’t on purpose – I slipped on a patch of ice and fell, but somehow never made contact with the stairs themselves, and landed on my feet at the bottom in a gymnastics crouch, shellshocked but apparently none the worse for wear.

(This was a lie. My left knee has NEVER forgiven me for it. It hurts in cold/wet weather and will dump me on my ass with no warning if I don’t keep up my physio.)

Another fun fact! The Yiga’s base in BotW is BULLSHIT. Who the fuck puts prisoners right at the entrance??? This pissed me off so much I did a rough redesign placing the cell closer to the heart of it. I also made other cosmetic changes in making it more assassin-y. Did you spot any?

Day 24

This one - and to a certain extent the followup - actually had a very specific inspiration! If anyone successfully guesses what it is I will be very impressed, though. It's not the most obvious connection.

Day 25

I TAKE BACK EVERY COMPLAINT I EVER HAD ABOUT MOORHAUNT, THIS FIC WAS HELL TO WRITE.

Because I can’t write in a straight line, I wound up having to scrap what was possibly my favourite exchange of the entire fic. This section is CANON to the continuity it just didn’t make it in somehow!

He says nothing more as they walk away. As soon as they’re out of earshot, Legend says, “Okay, I get why he won’t touch the Master Sword now.” “I’m surprised he can even touch his own sword,” says Wind. “Fuck, the thing killed his brothers, how can he stand it –” “And he would have been right there when it happened,” Warriors murmurs. “You don’t think… it hurt?” Sky thinks of Four – quiet, steady, helpful Four – having his last memory of his siblings being them screaming in pain, and nearly throws up on the spot.

Seriously. This fic was such a pain in my ass. TWICE I wrote myself into a time loop, no one wanted to say the hard stuff, and Vio kept being cryptic and offputting and scaring everyone off.

(Again. Ocarina was supposed to be about 3k max and a single instalment. Instead it’s 14k over two chapters, with at least one followup in the works because Sky felt guilty.)

Day 26

An alternative scene, inspired by this art: https://www.tumblr.com/undertheopensky/731132480379338752

For a minute Time thinks Four has fallen asleep at the table. It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s fallen asleep in a position they regretted the next morning, and he’s considering whether to wake him or let him experience the consequences of his actions when a muffled whimper makes him pause. Nightmares. That decides it, then. He lays a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Four?” Four doesn’t jerk with consciousness, just curls in tighter, and Time realises he wasn’t asleep. Just – weeping into his kitchen table at two in the morning. Now he feels awkward. It’s one thing to stir a friend from nightmares; entirely another to offer comfort where it may not be wanted. Four shakes with a muffled sob - but doesn’t shake him off.

Day 27

Unfortunately this exchange didn’t suit the Vibe:

“Do people really fall off Skyloft that much?” “Often enough,” says Sky, too honestly if the way Wind pales is any guide.

This one was originally intended to just be the first half, but then Something got hold of my brain and I remembered how much I love With His Own Wings, and it kind of grew legs from there and I was no longer in control. It was fun, though, and I love the way it turned out!

Day 28

Fun fact! Though this is the followup to Day 24, it was in fact conceptualised and half-written first!

It was a lot of fun describing Shadow’s form here - because he’s not Hylian, he just chooses to sometimes look like one, and he’s actually shadow - which gave me a lot of leeway in what he COULD look like, what forms he could take, and how those forms would actually appear. Conservation of mass says there’s a limits to how large he could make himself; exceeding that would result in a less solid form, and how to describe that? The fluidity of having no internal structure that you had to adhere to; how do you describe such a being when you're used to things having a concrete foundation to work from?

Day 29

Fun fact! This is the only fill with no dialogue!

It’s one of the shortest fills but I really love the concept. I’ve seen a few fics where Four taught Legend some blacksmithing tricks, but I don’t know of any where he took him on as a full apprentice. (IF ANYONE ELSE DOES PLEASE TELL ME, I WOULD READ THE SHIT OUT OF THAT.)

There’s no followup planned for this one, but a summary of the events that follow:

The book becomes one of Legend’s most prized possessions

Ravio eventually talks him into getting it restored by a professional to better protect it

The bookbinder teaches him about how to handle the book so as to preserve it as long as possible

It’s by no means a complete fix, but Legend stops focusing on his depression and turns some of his energy to hunting down other mentions of the previous heroes. Maybe most of them were in other timelines, but - Four. Sky. Time. He knows they lived through his timeline, and maybe there are still traces of them left.

When he explores the Lost Woods with this goal in mind (remembering that Time had said he grew up there), he always winds up at the same old tree stump; gnarled and moss-eaten and rotting. The clearing it sits in is nothing special, not really, but after the fourth time he winds up there without trying, Legend just - sits. Listens to the forest, and feels a strange kind of peace steal over him.

He visits often, after that. Just for the quiet, the feeling of being close to something he doesn’t quite understand. Sometimes the woods gift him things: small flowers or pretty seeds that appear in the belly of the rotted-out trunk, placed by unseen hands. It feels wrong to take without giving back, so Legend starts to leave feathers and coloured stones in return.

Flowers die. Seeds rot. And the single metal scale he finds is rusted almost black.

They’re precious all the same.

Sky is harder, so far back in history even the stories of him have been lost. Almost everything related to him had to have disintegrated by now, lost to the ravages of time. Legend can’t keep himself from looking, though. From exploring old ruins, and investigating their origins; connecting them to old tales and using those threads to find new places to search. There are monsters, there are always monsters, but somehow it doesn’t feel as hopeless as trying to keep the road between Kakariko and Castle Town clear when he knows it’ll be overrun again in a week.

He has a goal.

(And it will be years later that he’s finally rewarded for his diligence. That in checking the newly formed sinkhole he discovers a crack in the cliff rock through which he can see a faint and tarnished gleam.

It’s simple work to chip a hole large enough to fit a hand; a little more to widen it enough to pull out the plain silver box, small enough to fit in his palm.

There’s no story or legend that led him here; there’s no inscription on the box or identifying markings in the cavern he pulled it from.

But he opens the lid to find ruby-red hoops of stone fairly radiating blessed magic, and he knows.)

…this basically turned into a mini-followup didn’t it XD

Day 30

THE ALTERNATIVE THAT OVERTOOK DAY 13’S SECOND HALF.

Fun fact! I am also allergic to feathers! And cats, and horses, and lanolin (and therefore sheep).

I work with all of these animals.

(Look, no one ever said I was smart.)

I had a lot of fun with this one.

Aren is the name of the on-site healer in the on-site academy infirmary, because you can’t have an entire building of hormonal teenagers whacking each other with sticks and NOT have somewhere to fix broken bones in close proximity. I spent twenty minutes on the SkSw wiki to determine that this person didn’t exist in-universe, and two minutes making them up.

The title is an unapologetic multi-level pun. First there’s the obvious - struggling to catch your breath in the middle of an allergic asthma attack. Then there’s Sky catching Legend as he falls. And finally, it evokes the phrase ‘catch your death’, meaning to become suddenly ill from an environmental change. :) I love puns. This made me so happy.

I was originally considering Trust Fall, but it’s so overdone, and didn’t really suit the plot or the vibe, so I was super happy to come up with this as an alternative!

Day 31

Fun fact! This fill was the first one I completed, and the ONLY one I 100% finished before October started. (I wrote it in four hours while supervising undergrads.)

Sometimes, friends can say really mean things to each other, and it’s all in good fun – unless someone’s not speaking the same language as you, and no one even realises.

The Chain isn’t being deliberately mean. They’re just too rough with Legend, thinking he understands they’re playing, while Legend thinks they’re pushing him away. Lots of people picked up in the first instalment that Legend is very autistic-coded; I hope that the continuation felt true to this fact, and was also cathartic!

[an0nfr0mth3d3n]

QSMP Zombie AU: Indoor Recess

(For as much work as I put in to make dialogue sound accurate to streamers, it’s gonna be hard for me to do that for everyone, especially some of the eggs. Chayanne here is technically ooc because he wouldn’t be as scared but more protective, but for the sake of this AU I’m gonna make the kids act more like kids in a real zombie apocalypse. So my apologies if some of them seem a little less irony poisoned or brave. Later on I’ll try to make the personalities shine.)

Phil scrolled mindlessly down the page of his unread emails. Bratty parents, board meetings, apologies for burning dinner from his husband, the occasional spam, none of it motivated him enough to actually get any work done.

His eyes drifted lazily to the digital clock mounted on the wall. 3:35 PM. Around 25 minutes more and he could pack up early, maybe go home to some nice warm hard-to-mess-up dinner and some sweet family time. Thank fuck it was Friday, he wasn’t sure if he could stare at one more random complaint without going batshit crazy.

The pounding of running feet in the hallway broke through the silence of the room. Phil groaned and stood up from his chair, getting ready to berate some trouble making kid.

He never got the chance as his door crashed open wide, a breathless Chayanne on the other side.

“Dad. There’s. There’s someone.” Chayanne gasped out in between puffs for air.

Phil walked forward, squatting down to the boy’s height. “Easy mate, take some breaths for fucks sake, you’re gonna fuckin’ pass out in here if you don’t breathe!” Phil laughed at the situation, secretly relieved at the break from his monotonous work.

Chayanne didn’t seem to find it funny, and actually seemed to be…

…genuinely scared?

His laugh petered out as his expression grew more worried. “Chayanne. Is everything okay?”

“Dad there’s a sick man stuck on the playground on the climbing bars and he looks hurt but also really scary and dangerous and I don’t know what to do can you please help please there’s blood and and-“

Firm hands settled on Chayanne’s shoulders, and steely blue eyes filled with seriousness met the teary gaze of the terrified child.

“Show me.”

A shaking hand pointed out the window, and Philza followed it, grabbing the rod that controlled the blinds as well.

Phil scanned the playground, searching for the man that Chayanne had described. The colorful structures were completely absent of movement, and even the climbing bars that Chayanne had mentioned were completely vacant.

No, not completely.

A single, muddied shoe lay sideways on the ground. It was large, too large to have belonged to one of the students, and was covered in mud and….hopefully not blood.

His heart began to beat faster, and he could feel his pulse hammer in his ears. Looking closer at the climbing bars, it was clear that something had happened there. The woodchips were scattered around and upturned, even dirt was shown in some places where the scuff marks got too deep. That also could not have been one of the students, because it was a school rule that kids were not allowed to drag their feet through the woodchips for whatever reason.

Other than that however, the coast seemed to be rather clear-

A bloodied hand slapped against the window.

Phil reared back, clutching his mouth to silence the scream that threatened to tear through his chest. Chayanne wasn’t as cautious though, and a startled yelp came from the child.

The hand twisted around on the smooth glass, dirty fingernails scrabbling on the smooth surface, clambering for purchase on the glass, slowly the ready of the body raised up, the…man must have fallen near the window just out of sight.

Phil lunged for the window, snapping the plastic lock into place and twisting the blinds, immediately darkening the room. He could hear Chayanne whimpering from behind him as he stumbled back.

“Fuck. Shit. What the fuck. Okay. Chayanne run back to Fit and tell him to get you guys into the gymnasium right the fuck now. I’ll get the rest of the teachers here and call the police. It’s gonna be okay, it’s just some…drunk, okay? Okay go go go.”

Chayanne bolted out the door, and Phil reached for the intercom.

//ATTENTION EVERYONE IN THE BUILDING, PLEASE HEAD TO THE GYMNASIUM RIGHT NOW, THIS IS AN EMERGENCY. MR. HALO PLEASE COME TO MY OFFICE, AND BRING YOUR FIREARM, I KNOW YOU FUCKING HAVE ONE. THANK YOU.\\

The scrabbling at the window stopped.

Phil cursed under his breath, lifting the intercom one more time.

//MS. MOUSE AND MR. UNDERSCORE PLEASE LOCK UP THE BUILDING AS FAST AS YOU CAN AND PUT THE BOOTS IN.\\

Phil clicked off the intercom, and reached for the landline, eyes glued to the blinded window. There was a dark silhouette blocking out the little light from the cloud obscured sun, but it was moving away from the window, and he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

The landline rang in his hand. Once. Twice. Thrice. Four times. Five-

“Heyyy you’ve reached the Quesadilla Island Police Department, this is Sheriff Foolish speakin’, guess we’re busy so too bad for you I guess. Better luck next time bucko!”

Phil cursed again, running a hand through his hair, sweat starting to form under his striped hat. This didn’t leave them with much options but to wait it out and hope the man sobered up….if that was really all there was to it. He had no idea what drugs or substances that man was on, but it was best to be safe than sorry, and something…didn’t feel right here.

He could hear the heavy footsteps of Mr. Halo approaching as he snuck a look at the blinds again, the dim light now unmarred by any mysterious figure behind them.

Call it intuition, instinct, or just a hunch, but Philza Minecraft had a sneaking suspicion that this strange man wouldn’t be the end of his troubles today…

[hourcat]

alonso+stroll. no.9. YOU GOTTA 😹 ( i mean you dont but i saw you saying sth so if u wanna practice i gotcha babe) 🩷

9: one night stand but the next morning you learn it's your CEO's kid

In hindsight, Fernando realizes it probably wasn't the best decision to take the kid home from the bar. Nothing good happens in Manhattan on a Thursday after 11pm, and especially not when the next day involves a quarterly presentation that his team has been scrambling to put together for months, now. If he were smarter, maybe he'd have called it a night after the last toast with his analysts. Hell, maybe he wouldn't have shown up at all.

The thing is, right after their row of chairs at the bar had cleared, Fernando had turned to look for one of the senior leadership teams and ended up with a face full of unidentifiable blazer--which had, of course, ended up being Lance. Lance, who'd apologized and introduced himself blandly but with a glint in his eye. Lance, who'd offered to buy Fernando a drink with a dark, raised brow that'd been urging him on.

Lance, who's now dragging him to the too-small bathroom at the back of the bar like his life depends on it. Fernando is far too many drinks in to protest such a blessing, this stranger and his big hands pawing at his belt like a desperate puppy: he'll just have to roll with it instead. "Easy," he chuckles, voice sounding distant to his own ears, "easy, princesa, this is my nicest suit." It's not, really, but Lance doesn't need to know that. They have to slow it down or he's going to make a mess of--well, of himself. It's been a long time since he hooked up with someone like this in a bathroom of all places. He's not 27 anymore.

"Really?" His companion's voice is breathy but clearly disbelieving, both brows now arched at his words. "It's not that nice." Fernando is too drunk to be immediately irritated, which works in his favor, because in a beat Lance's face breaks into a shit-eating grin, head thunking back against the stall carelessly, like he knows what he's doing. "I've wiped my ass with nicer."

Such an asshole. Fernando huffs a half-formed laugh, then thwacks his arm heavily into Lance's chest, knocking a little uff from him. "You talk too much," he counters, forcing his weight into Lance a little more. The low groan of approval he gets in return just makes him put a little more effort into it. "What, is playing with daddy's money not enough for you?" The younger man's eyes seem to glaze over at his tone. "You want to see what it is like to do real work, hm, is that it." Fernando's not going to bother trying to make this work here and now--he's going to drag this rich pretty boy back to his apartment on 57th Street, and he's going to fuck all this haughty, smug energy right out of him.

Lance goes easily, and the night passes all too quickly. The mess left behind when he scrabbles for his now-filthy blazer and all but disappears from Fernando's place before dawn is the only proof he'd ever been there in the first place. It's probably for the better, anyway: he's now working against the clock to put himself together and keep all of his Q4 talking points in relative order instead of think about the noises he'd ripped from that stranger sharing his bed all night.

He's going to secure that end-of-year bonus for his team the moment he walks through the conference room doors--

of course, that's before he sees Lance sitting in that same now-clean blazer at the end of the table, seated next to Fernando's CEO and picking at his nails uninterestedly.

Side by side, the resemblance is uncanny.

"Oh, fuck."

[marlowethelibrarian]

Most Likely OC Tag!!

Tagged by @the-golden-comet over here

1. Most likely to faint Honestly, I do have a set of sturdy souls, but I might just say Rakani, bc of their tendency to 1) not eat as much as they should and 2) not sleep as much as they should. Also they have panic attacks every so often and that's not good for breathing. Even so, Rakani isn't very fragile and they're not likely to faint through the course of the story. Yknow. Unless they got stabbed. 2. Most likely to enjoy art From most to least, I think the biggest art enjoyers are Wakma, Rakani, Dunelae, Sumira and then Mala. Mala is the only one who just doesn't give a shit about art. Duneale and Sumira grew up in the Daseri temple which is swimming with art, so they're sort of inured to the beauty around them. Their lives have been focused on honing their blessings and the politics so art is more an offshoot of the politics than art for art's sake. And then Dunelae prizes beauty more than Sumira does. Sumira has mixed feelings about beauty considering how she's been treated because of her facial difference, but she still has an appreciation for the art. Rakani is very practical in terms of their appearance and beauty but they canonically get floored when they go into the Daseri temple for the first time. Wakma is an artist! He's an amateur runesmith, and copper smith, and embroiderer. He fucking loves art. 3. Most likely to hate sports Sports as modern entertainment? Rakani and Mala are united in the uselessness and the extravagant waste of sporting events, and also they're just fucking boring. Sport as in like. I have to move my body to do something? Mala. She's disabled, shes using her body exactly how she wants and it's not to do that.

And then all of these questions from @fortunatetragedy, because I refuse to prune anything.

Most likely to lose their phone/wallet/other very important and period appropriate item. Rakani, for the sheer number of things they have to keep track of. Sometimes stuff goes missing, but they are pretty on top of finding it again. Dunelae's too anxious to misplace stuff like that. Most likely to hold a grudge over something minor. Mala. She's a grudge holder to the end of her fucking days. She's petty and she'll hold that grudge to the grave. Most likely to try an unfamiliar food. Mala's in first place because she's the most well traveled out of everyone. She has eaten a lot of stuff. Rakani in second place because of their willingness to eat shit off the floor. Most likely to arrive ridiculously early. Wakma! It's polite to show up and help out with stuff. :) Most likely to be in a relationship for less than a week Dunelae. She's a heart breaker because she really likes to fuck and really hates to get vulnerable. Most likely to secretly be really good at music, but just not tell anyone. Dunelae and Sumira are both good at music but not secretly. Mala doesn't care. Wakma sings with abandon, and Rakani.... doesn't do music in public, but might! So it's Rakani. Apologize first. Wakma, absolutely. He's a diplomat, and sometimes apologizing first is the foundation to bridging a gap. He is, in fact, the first one to apologize when he and Rakani have their first fight. Survive on a desert island. Definitely Rakani. They're scrappy and used to doing hard labor. They know a lot about botany and what plants can be eaten or used in different ways, and they're a very good alchemist. Wakma, Dunelae and Sumira are all upper class folks who aren't used to scrabbling for survival the same way. Mala in her younger years would have definitely given Rakani a run for their money, but old age will fuck with you like that. Break up a fight Sumira. She's the second heir and she feels a certain sense of responsibility for people. Most likely to burn something while cooking What can she say, Dunelae is easily distracted and she was never all that interested in the hearth. Especially when her blessing was discovered. Most likely to stop a robbery if they see it taking place. Dunelae, if someone is watching. She'd love a chance to be a hero. Most likely to not tell people they’re sick until they really need the help. Rakani and Mala. They get mad at each other about it. Most likely to use magic tricks. Probably Wakma? As an entertainment and an ice breaker, a magic trick is great. Most likely to start with just one drink and get blasted. Also Wakma. It's easier to pull him into another drink once he's got one in his system, and he likes to have fun and indulge. :) Most likely to fall asleep wherever the place. Rakani probably cat naps in random ass places, but never stays asleep for long. Most likely to own a cat. Rakani would love a cat..... a friend who watches them work and purrs and won't betray them. :') Most likely to swim across a large river/channel without getting fatigued. Mala's the only one who knows how to swim and she absolutely cannot get over a large channel like that at her age and level of ability. Everyone else absolutely just drowns. Most likely to not be a morning person and hates getting woken up too early. Dunelae. She's a dramatic ass bitch about it, but she'll do it for ambition.

Tagging @saturnine-saturneight, @marquis-of-writeblr, @the-golden-comet, @illarian-rambling, and @fortunatetragedy right back at you!

My questions are!

Most likely to play a prank on someone

Most likely to adopt a random child

Most likely to regret killing someone

[sidhewrites]

Seventeen! I've got all these notes about how I want Mr. Ngo to be more involved, and that he deserves to also be a Graveyard Lesbian but I can't figure out exactly where he'd fit in so for now, he's a supporting character instead.

Fun fact number 2 this is going very different than intended, where MagnusRenfield was going to get major spooky powers that would allow him to open up a portal to the spirit world and suck the town into it.

I uh...don't think that's gonna happen anymore but we'll see how it goes.

Project Info

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

There's no such luck waiting for me. A light's on in the front office, with Mr. Ngo waiting for me.  Mr Ngo is waiting for me. I'm exhausted as it is, and I brace myself for a proper chewing out. "Good morning."

"Hiya boss. You're here early."

"Everything okay at home?"

"It, uh..." I rub my arms, feeling the gauze under my sweater's sleeves, and shrug. "It's been a time."

"It seems like it. Maybe you should take another day off. Come back when you're ready."

Something in his tone sets me on edge, heart leaping to my throat. "No -- no, it's fine. I'm fine, I can--"

"Kaz," he says. "I had a weird message on the answering machine yesterday. I'm very worried about you."

Oh no, I think, and try to smile. “What’s up?”

"Those nice people who filmed here the other day, they say you’re calling them and want them to come back."

"I..."

"Kaz, that's very unlike you. What's going on? Do you know how unprofessional that is? "

I know. I know it is. But I don’t know how to sit down and explain to him that not only are ghosts apparently real, but that Mick and Lourdes accidentally summoned an evil one and it’s now possessing my ex girlfriends cat except they thought they were talking to my new kind of girlfriend, who, it turns out, is also a ghost and I’m somehow a medium caught up in the middle of this. “I can explain,” I lie. I have no idea how to explain any of it.

"Kaz."

"Mr. Ngo, listen... things -- it's..." I falter.

He sighs, and puts a hand on my shoulder. "Go get some rest, Kaz. You look like you haven't slept in days. I can handle the graveyard until you're feeling better."

"No -- no, Mr. Ngo, please. I'm fine, really -- I...It won't happen again, I promise. It--"

"Kaz." He looks almost sad. "Get some rest. You've been working very hard lately. I think it would be good to spend less time among the dead, and a bit more among the living for a few days."

I want to argue. I want to beg forgiveness. I want to fall to the ground and tell him everything, if only so he'd stop looking at me like that. But I don't.  I do as I'm told. I apologize one more time, and then I go home, dragging my sorry ass back to the apartment, and fall right back into bed to sleep as long as I possibly could. Somehow, I sleep through the day again -- the week of all-nighters finally catching up to me, and only stir hours later, when the familiar sound of kitty feet patter across the floor.

Renfield doesn't get the zoomies often anymore, but it happens occasionally. I'll wake up in the middle of the night, waddling around like a wild animal, traveling at the speed of slow. He takes his little ramp up to the bed, pounces on my foot, and meeps for attention. Just like always, I roll over and mumble out a little, "Go to sleep, little boy."

Renfield pads across the bed again, leaps down to the ground, and waddles out, then back in and up onto the bed once more to tap my face.

"C'mon, baby," I mumble, still half asleep as he trots around the apartment. "I'll get you breakfast in an hour."

"It's not breakfast I'm looking for."

Suddenly I'm wide awake. Renfield sits there, fur almost glowing in the light that shines in from the street outside, eyes glowing yellow. "Good morning, dear Kaz. It's been far too long."

"Jesus fuck!" I bolt up, nearly falling off the bed. He doesn't move, just watching me scrabble uselessly for a second before I find purchase and leap to my feet.

"Are you done?"

"What the fuck!" I shout.

Magnus sighs. "Let me know when you're done with the hysterics. I have a proposal."

"Leave my cat alone."

"That's part of the plan."

"What? Wait -- but--"

"How am I here? Please." He makes a show of licking his paw, letting me get a good look at the dried blood around his mouth.

"Did you...You didn't..."

"I'm an expedient man, Kaz. I had to get out the door somehow."

[Something.]

"Here's the deal, dearest Kaz. There's something interesting going on lately. The moon's getting full, and I'm pleased to find out what day it is. In a few days, it'll be Hallow's eve, and I have a few suspicions. I don't need much from you, of course. Just get me outside, into the crowds. I'll take care of the rest."

But before he can say more, his strength wanes. Renfield's pupils dilate once more, and he returns to himself. He's confused again, not sure how he got there.

I pick up my phone right away and call Josie. "I think we're running out of time."

Tag List

@adaughterofathena

@ambreeskyewriting

@carnelianflames

@feather-dancer

@halfbloodlycan

@nadunacreates

@serenanymph

@vigilantdesert

[adickaboutspoons]

overboard au for the wip game?

AU based on the movie Overboard (1987) (if you've never heard of it, don't worry about it - it will NOT have aged well, and you don't really need to know it to get the AU). Basically, a slightly younger Stede (just recently married) meets a slightly younger Ed who is occasionally moonlighting as a ship's carpenter to stave off the boredom of his now-too-easy pirating life, and because he enjoys making things with his hands. Stede's father sets Stede to oversee the work, and Ed and Stede become friendly - so much so that Ed draws out the job longer than necessary, and Father Bonnet decides to stiff him on the bill because of it, but makes Stede deliver the bad news. Ed is hurt by Stede's high-handed attitude and tries to storm off - Stede tries to stop him and apologize, but gets knocked overboard by accident and gets amnesia when the waves slam his head into the hull of the boat. Ed rescues him and decides to take him back to his ship and tell him he's a pirate serving under Blackbeard as payback for how the Bonnets have treated him, and tells the crew to not to rough Stede up too much, but to otherwise do their worst and play along with The Bit. Eventually, this results in Izzy having Stede lashed for insubordination, which Ed stops, and then has a pallet set up in his cabin so he can personally oversee Stede's recuperation. The following snippet is from several weeks after the incident:

Stede’s mouth slants in a complicated little smile. “I know what you’re doing.” A sharp spike of wariness plummets through Ed’s chest and lodges in his stomach. “What’s that?” he asks with an air of complete and utter nonchalance. He hopes.

“You’re trying to distract me so I don’t think about how I’m not pulling my own weight.” Stede hauls himself to his feet. At this point, Stede is recovered enough from the lashes that Ed allows him to move about the cabin a little, as long as he doesn't overtax himself. There is hardly any hesitation or stiffness to the way he moves anymore. “If I’m going to be in here, I can tidy up a little, at the very least.” He shuffles toward the desk with its burden of scattered papers and books and skulls and other miscellany.

Ed has been terrible about putting the books away after he’s had Stede review them - instead letting them pile up in precariously stacked towers around the perimeter of his desk. He jumps up now and sweeps up one such pile, and takes it to the bookshelf he built into the wall next to the door of his cabin, shoving them untidily on the topmost shelf. “No! That is, I have a very specific system.” Ed doesn’t have a system. He just doesn’t want Stede stretching his back by reaching to put the books away and possibly hurting himself.

When he turns around, Stede is regarding him very peculiarly. His head is tilted at a quizical angle and his eyes dart under pinched brows back and forth between Ed’s face and the shelves behind him. He gives his head a little shake. “I just had the most peculiar sensation. Looking at you and those shelves… it’s almost like I was remembering something. From before.”

Shit. Shitshitshit. Ed standing near the shelves probably sparked some part of Stede’s memory of the cabinets that Ed built on his father’s ship. Who knows what might unravel if he keeps pulling on that thread? His heart pounds in his chest as he frantically scrabbles for a way to stop this train of thought before it has a chance to pick up speed. Fuck. Fuck! Ok. What if he makes it awkward? Makes it so Stede will want to avoid thinking about this at all costs and just leave off. Yeah. Ok. Yeah. That could work. “Oh. Yeah. ‘Course you remember,” he says, just as cool as he can manage, “This is where I kissed you for the first time.”

Stede may not remember he has a new wife (no doubt anxiously awaiting his return) back home in Barbados, but it’s been Ed’s experience that the kind of fellows who exclusively fancy the ladies get a lot less friendly when they find out Ed kisses other men. Doubly so if they think Ed might have any interest in kissing <i>them</i>. Even without his memory, Ed expects Stede will feel weird enough about even the idea of kissing a man that he will want to get out of there as soon as possible. He doesn’t suspect it will turn violent - Stede doesn’t strike him as that kind of fellow - but a certain amount of discomfort and panic is to be expected. So he’s not surprised when he sees Stede’s eyes go wide and how he freezes up.

“You mean…? You and I…?” He can’t even bring himself to say the words. Any minute now he’s going to find a reason to be elsewhere.

“Oh, yeah, man, we were lovers,” Ed confirms.

Stede’s eyes are no longer wide. Stede’s eyes are canny and speculative. Stede isn’t finding an elsewhere to be. Stede steps closer. “Were?”

[writersmorgue]

Febuwhump Day 28 - "No... not like this"

TWs in tags || read on Ao3 || wc: 751

◈━◈━◈━◈━◈

The halls are empty as Katsuki sprints through them, almost eating shit around the last corner trying to shortcut it. 

The classroom door is shut, which means Aizawa is already inside and probably already lecturing. 

He pauses in front of the door, taking a breath. 

He’s in the final month of his final year at UA and he slept through his alarm. He didn’t even know he could do that. 

Only a handful of days has he not made it to class, and for most of them, he was either kidnapped or in the hospital. Plus the few months when there was no school during the war, but that doesn’t matter. 

Steeling himself, he slides the door open, lowering his head in apology. 

The room is silent, which is unacceptable, so he starts rambling like a loser. 

“Sorry, won’t happen again.”

“Get out.” A loud, stern voice booms at him. 

His head shoots up, nostrils flaring in anger and surprise, “What-!”

Voice catching in his throat, he stops cold. His classmates were nowhere to be found, only a handful of police officers and several of the pro-hero teachers. 

Aizawa seems to be the one who spoke, quirk activated and hair levitating partially off his shoulder. His capture weapon is drawn in one hand as he stomps forward aggressively, crowding Katsuki back against the door. ”How did you-?“ He growls, shaking his head, “You need to leave.”

“Eh?!” Katsuki pushes forward, skirting around his teacher, “We’re supposed to have class. What the hell is going on?”

The police officers are all looking at him, some with their hands resting on their weapons. 

“Young Bakugo-“ All Might calls, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. His sunken eyes are noticeably red and puffy, and he has a crumpled tissue clutched at his chest. 

“That’s Bakugo?” One of the officers mutters, stepping forward. 

Midnight glares at the man, “You know there’s nothing you can do. Do not engage.” She spits. 

“But-“ Another one pipes up, quickly shut down like the other. 

”Bakugo, you need to leave. Your classmates are at Ground Beta.” Aizawa repeats, pressing a solid hand on his shoulder. Not asking, but commanding. 

Katsuki flinches back, so thrown off and confused beyond belief. 

Why do they have the fucking cops here? It’s a school full of pros…

His eyes dart around and catch on a strange sheet-covered lump in one of the chairs. 

“What’s that?” He asks aloud, stepping unconsciously toward it. 

It looks like a person is sitting under it, head slumped to the side. 

He counts the chairs. 

Third from the back, right behind his own chair. 

That’s… 

“Is that-?” He jerks his shoulder out of Aizawa’s grip, ignoring the capture weapon that wraps around his waist and tugs. 

He shoots his quirk at it, ignoring the burning feeling on his own torso, and stumbles forward. 

Pushing the last desk in his way, he grabs the edge of the strange plastic material and pulls. 

The figure in the desk slumps over as well, Katsuki catching it at the last second and pushing it back upright. 

Green curls spring into their normal form when the fabric is removed. 

Deku’s dumbass tie is sticking to the side at a weird angle. His white shirt is stained red with blood. 

Katsuki physically recoils, acid gathering in his throat as he makes a horrible gasping noise and wretches to his side. 

“Fuck- get him out of here,” Aizawa calls, letting Mic grab him bodily and drag him to the other side of the room away from his friend. 

“Come on, Listener.” He says softly, voice thick. 

“No- NO!” Katsuki shouts, scrabbling against the hero. He manages to knee the guy in the gut hard enough to escape. 

Izuku’s glassy eyes are staring blankly towards the desk. A dull glint of silver metal tells Katsuki all he needs to know. 

“He- he fuckin… No, he wouldn’t!” He cries, reaching out for Izuku’s face. 

In his peripheral, he sees a purple mist seep into the air. 

“Not like this, Izuku, not like this!” He lets the exhaustion take control of his body and falls forward, burying his face into Deku’s chest. 

There’s a distressed noise from the other side of the room, which is quickly shushed. 

As he drifts off, he hears Aizawa speak. 

“He won’t have another opportunity. Leave him.”

Katsuki sobs into Izuku’s shirt, mumbling whispered pleas and apologies as he lets sleep take him over. 

And when he wakes up, Izuku will be gone forever.

[sodascribbles]

two weeks of whump: day one

(read on ao3 here!) For @promptsforyourwhumpfic's Two Weeks of Whump! Thank you :] Poker | Shock Collar | Ashes Characters: Sly Cooper, The Contessa, misc. wolf guards Content: the titular shock collar, mentioned conditioning/'training', very minorly implied whipping, swearing. Note: i assure you, it only goes downhill from here >:3c

Maybe if she didn't want to get shocked, she should have paid better attention.

He’s still learning how to properly utilize the Voltage Strike that he’d tomfuckered his way into while scuffling in Rajan’s temple. He’d panicked and had just sparked up, lightning arcing from his cane as he’d swung.

He didn’t currently have his cane, unfortunately. Hopefully he could still do it.

. . .

He’s dead. He can’t quite find it in himself to be guilty, but he’s definitely about to be dead.

Sly had meant to use the Voltage Strike alongside some kind of escape plan. Knock out some guards, turn off the power, something.

She’d startled him. He’d shocked the Contessa. He’s about to die.

An icy fury burns in her eyes as she glowers at him. Like a deer caught in headlights, he freezes, ears pinned to his skull. He has half a mind to apologize— but he doesn’t get the chance. (And he really doesn’t feel bad. For a split second, before the oh shit had settled in, he had thought it was funny.)

The Contessa smiles. Her expression remains dangerously dark, mandibles clicking as she fucking grins at him. If he hadn’t already been convinced of his imminent demise, that would have done it.

“Hold him here for a moment,” she hisses between her teeth, still smiling.

When she returns, the guards practically scatter away from him, desperate to avoid her wrath. Suddenly unhindered, Sly scrambles backward. He pins himself to the wall, claws scrabbling against the stone.

She has something, held behind her back like one might hold a surprise present, still beaming. He growls, only for it to pitch up into a frightened hiss as she continues to approach.

Unfazed by his (frankly pathetic) attempt at a warning, she gives a quick gesture. Two of the wolves lurch into action, taking him by the shoulders and wrenching his head upward.

“Get off of me—!” He thrashes, of course he does, but the struggling doesn’t do much.

She clicks something into place around his throat. It digs, turning his breaths quick and shallow. It’s not enough to choke him— that is, until she hooks a claw into it and yanks, and he’s cut off with a sharp strangled sound.

“That’s a fascinating ability you have, Cooper,” she coos, waving a ‘hand’ once more and allowing the wolves to release him, “Unfortunately for you, I’ve come prepared.” He flattens backward again, hand coming up to press at the strange—

—collar? She’d collared him?

“Go on!” The Contessa claps her hands together like an excited child. “Try your cute little party trick now.”

…Sly really, really doesn’t want to do that. But he knows better than to disobey an order like that. (The gashes still crisscrossing his back ache pointedly.) So, reluctantly, he reaches into that feeling, letting—

—White hot agony arcs through him. He lets out a choked cry, now-twitching hands coming up to desperately scrabble at the collar— at the shock collar. He’s sent spasming, writhing away from the pain— get it off, get it off, get it—!

All at once, the worst of it is over. It’s like a switch is flipped (belatedly, Sly realizes that’s probably exactly what happened), and the pain sizzles off into an ache. He slumps, eyes glassy, panting.

The Contessa stands over him, looking positively thrilled. “Well, that was a wonderous show,” she coos, crouching down enough to cup his chin and tilt his gaze to hers. He whines, ears pressing down as he tries to pull away. Her grip turns bruising, and he stills. “I think I’ll keep that on you for a while. Teach you some lessons, yes?”

Sly hisses, and almost immediately regrets it as she draws back to turn the collar on again.

“Now your training can truly start,” she smiles, though she knows he can’t hear him. “I can’t wait.”

[jjungkooksthighs]

Step inside?

His irises sear into hers with the intensity of a thousand suns.

Oh, you’ll go inside, omega.

He lifts his paw off her only to shove his head into her side. She’s sent rolling toward their den, her hands scrambling to catch at anything to stop her momentum. When she skids to a stop, his piercing, now fiery eyes burn when they catch her.

You'll fucking do what you best right into our fucking den. You’ll run. And when I catch you, you’re going to wish I hadn’t.

"N-no! I can't run! Alpha-"

A loud cry leaves her when he takes a step firward. She tries standing up, but, she falls back and onto her knees, and a cry leaves her.

"No! I won't run- i can't!" She shrieks as she glances back only to see him moving towards her already.

She scrambles to moves forward, but, all she can do is fucking crawl.

Her heart races in her efforts to crawl back to the door, frantic whimpers leaving her with a string of apologies and curses.

Her body, unsurprisingly, betrays her. She can’t even stand after being edged some time ago, and the power of that has his ego rearing its chest in satisfaction.

She scrabbles back toward the door, her knees scraping against the ground as she drags them laboriously under her.

You better fucking try, you disobedient brat.

No sooner do the words reach her mind than his fur begins to fall from his face. Piece after piece of it is released from his flesh as it makes its way downward, the telltale cracking and popping of bones alerting her to his oncoming shift back to his human form.

If you can find it in yourself to lie to my face over and over again, you can open a damned door.

[somethingwittyandsarcastic]

Thinking about the Lord of the Rings after seeing it in theaters recently. Thinking about how it tells much not just about Tolkein and the hard times he went through but about us and the hard times we're going through now. How the Fellowship were just people who were doing their best and how none of them could have done it on their own. Thinking about the Big Folk doing things on a Big Scale, battling Balrogs and killing Witch Kings and raising an army of the undead--throwing smoke bombs back at cops and blockading arms shipments and climbing fences to impeach a corrupt prime minister. Thinking about the little folk doing little things, carrying their friends when they can't go any farther and holding each other in grief and getting into drinking contests that end with someone under the table--lighting candles at vigils and donating $5 because it's all they have and wearing rainbow bracelets so that kid knows they're safe. Thinking about people losing themselves in despair in the face of overwhelming odds, living with Mordor on their front step, and becoming bitter and destroying themselves before anyone else can--doomscrolling and placing blame and deciding there's no winning, so why try? Thinking about elders with minds warped by whispers of Wormtongues and wizards who would see them broken and biddable--news outlets spreading misinformation and panic and social media pushing conspiracy theories and pastors thumping on podiums with hateful rhetoric clenched tight in their fists. Thinking about people who just want to do their best for their people, but it isn't enough and they fuck up and they die fixing it, but almost no one remembers them as good--crowds turning on each other and cannibalizing their own for mistakes and cancel culture and apologies and real attempts to change going ignored. Thinking about those who rip up the trees and destroy the earth for power and take axes and flame to that which is beautiful and good and not care what it means for themselves and others--polluting water and air and earth and suppressing energy alternatives and habitat destruction and climate disasters. Thinking about where was Gondor when the Westfold fell and we will not aid them for they never aided us but when the beacons are lit, aid is sent--how easy it is to turn angry and resentful and how hard it is to soften and help others when you didn't get the help you needed. Thinking about looking to the East as the sun rises and watching angels (family and friends and neighbors and--) backlit by the sun coming to turn the tides--texting at 2am asking if they're awake and if they can talk and sending memes because if you don't laugh you'll cry and getting sent enough money for groceries and gas and emergency pickups when your car dies and all the big and small mercies and--Thinking about the people who are reluctant to lead because they don't think they're good enough and the ones who scrabble for power because they think they're entitled to it and those who run away from Farmer Maggot but run toward Sauron's army for Frodo and those who just want to make their father proud and those who don't live to see the darkness lift and those who survive and replant the trees of the Shire and those who lose themselves and are brought back and those who topple over the edge into fire and are lost forever and those who fight and cry and laugh and dance and sing and grieve and give up and keep going. Thinking about how this has all happened already and is happening now and will keep happening and it can be exhausting and disheartening but we can't stop because if we stop it won't ever get better. Thinking about how it took everyone doing Big and little things and it's going to take all of us too. And thinking about how beautiful that is.