#does that mean *gasp* another verse

[sinofwriting]

Hello Lovely!

Let me just say that I’m obsessed with your fica and they always get me through my studying breaks! Can I request print 1. “Kiss for good luck” with my favourite American boy Logan 😩🥰 he’s been hitting a lil different lately.

P.S hoping this disaster start of a weekend is over quickly my gods!!

Not gonna lie seeing your name in my inbox made me so happy. Hope your doing well! And yeah let's hope this disaster of weekend ends quickly.

Title: Nerves Alight Words: 375 Prompt: “Kiss for good luck?” w/ Logan Sargeant Note(s)/Warning(s): Reader is American and from Nevada (the state that Las Vegas is in). Also, Logan calls her Dice because I'm a sucker for cute weird nicknames.

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She couldn’t help but feel nervous as she watched Logan get ready for qualifying. Despite being together for nearly a year and a half this was the first race she had been able to attend. She had been at Miami, Montreal, Austin, and Mexico for the races but not at the tracks themselves, too busy with school, either class or studying, or doing the tutoring sessions she had already signed up to do before Logan had convinced her to join him.

He had pouted, whined, tugged at her a bit when she told him she had to stay at the hotel or in Miami’s case his place, but she had remained unrelenting. Even when he offered to just give her the money she would have been paid for tutoring. She had a five star rating for a reason and in her three years of tutoring she had never canceled a session.

So watching him now, at his third home race in her home state, after the events of the first free practice and after overhearing that Carlos Sainz apparently had lost some feeling in his legs for a few seconds, she couldn’t help but worry. Her nerves set her a light as her hands uselessly clenched and unclenched. Her legs crossing and uncrossing.

“It’ll be okay, Dice.” He tells her, crouching in front of her and taking her hands in his. “Everything will be alright.” He soothes, when she doesn’t roll her eyes at him calling her Dice. She gives him a shaky smile. “I know. I just never watched it in person.” He knows that's not it, but he’s grateful that she doesn’t actually say why.

After the race ended, he’d happily reassure her fully and let her talk about how scary it was to see him in the car after FP1 but now, he couldn’t. Needed to focus on qualifying and he was beyond grateful she understood that.

Hearing a knock on his door, he sighs at the signal that they need to leave and he stands, offering her hand to pull her up and she takes it. Pulling her a little closer, he leans in close, noses brushing against each other.

“Kiss for good luck?” She smiles and presses their lips together.

@teti-menchon0604 @eugene-emt-roe @crystals-faith @andreea-15-25 @rewmuslupin @gemofthenight @peachiicherries @lpab @topguncultleader @copper-boom @iloveyou3000morgan @boiohboii @benstormy @bibliosaurous @skepvids @elliegrey2803

[i-loved-silly]

WOLVERINE x READER x DEADPOOL — fuckup twinsies

dp&w spoilers!!

So I had a silly idea. Sorry if it’s out of character, I haven’t written for canon characters in a fat while but these two are stuck in my head. Enjoy :3

POV: you’re a dimension hopper : sent to the Void as a punishment for doing your thing. Damnit

Dust. Sand. Desert. That was all you knew ever since you were banished here. The place you were basically forced to call home—funnily enough, (actually it’s rather sad) you had forgotten what your real home was. A large, and I mean LARGE amount of timeline touching and dimension hopping does that to you.

By spending years of visiting dimensions and maybe messing a couple things up, you damaged your own timeline. Simply because you wanted to take Mr Captain America’s shield back to your home dimension. What can you say, a little artifact doesn’t hurt, right?

Except it did.

Now you’re stuck here, and honestly? It’s fine. You had nothing to return to anyway. At least you thought. TVA explained it that way, anyways. Everything was fine. You spent your years here surviving and avoiding Cassandra Nova by making your own little underground hobbit hole. How cute.

Everything was the same everyday—you hid out, occasionally left to find food and materials, came back to safety. Until one day you heard something while out scavenging—almost like distant yells? From above you??—You looked up and was shocked to see two figures falling out of the sky and barreling straight for you.

"OOMF --" You were thrown onto the sand on your back, you swore you felt a couple bones break...or something. All your belongings in your little ripped backpack went flying around you and the others stabbed into your back. Then there was the weight on top of you. A muscular , red, and talkative weight.

"Owww, oh fuck, that hurt. I hit bones. I just hit someon--oh." Deadpool groaned, snapping his elbows back into place to get a good look at you. He blinked. "Well lookey here, who the hell are you? Wait, did i kill them?" He gasped as he saw your pained scowl.

Wade frantically shook you by the shoulders. Getting hit by something from that high should have killed you. You coughed, ugh...your whole body hurt. You don’t remember if you gave yourself overpowered abilities before hopping into this dimension…or the last one. Was it during the time you went to the Loki-verse? Season one, episode five? Nah.

"Get off of them," Logan grunted, dusting himself off from his spot a few feet away. Hey, at least you weren’t hit by both of them. "See what you did, you fucking idiot? Get away from them."

"Woah, okay! First of all, it's not like I wanted to crash into someone like a wrecking ball, got it? I am not Miley. But look, they're fine!" He shook you by the shoulder again and you spat out a bit of blood.

"Guhh..." You groaned, rolling over. Yep, your bones were definetly crushed.

"We're not here to poke around, Wade. We're on a mission." Logan glanced at your beat up form wearily--oh well, if you weren't dead by now you'll be fine.

"Fine," Wade let go of you, letting your body flop back onto the sand with another "thud" on impact. "Oops, Im sooo sorry. I-..oh come on! Don't you have at least a little bit of a curious tickle? They can help us." He whined, gesturing to you and to Logan.

"They're a stranger, bub. Just...leave em there." He hesitated, then grunted and turned the other way.

You groaned in pain again--seems like they're your only lines--and sat up on your elbows. Your head was pounding and suddenly it was too bright outside. "W-wait..I’m fine..just let me.." You pressed your palm against your forehead.

Wade leaned down in front of you, placing his hands on his knees. "Oh, you're alive. Good. Why are you here, little buddy?"

You tried laughing nervously but a cough interrupted you. Right, there was sand in your lungs. "I uh...couple years ago I touched a timeline I shouldn't have. More like, a lot of timelines. Kinda-sorta fucked up."

Wade let out a loud gasp and placed his hands on the sides of his face, then made a giddy noise. "Eek! Fuck up twinsies! You heard that, Logan? We aren't the only dimensional fuck ups!" He was oddly enthusiastic, the scruffy guy in the distance wasn't so much.

Actually now that you think about it, he seemed a bit enraged. Just a bit. “Who the hell is we?”

"Who are you again?" You muttered, grunting as you worked on standing up. Wade extended a hand and you took it, before you could thank him—he quite literally yanked you up by the arm like a fucking ragdoll. You hit his chest and your eyes widdened.

"How the heck do you not know me? I mean you probably don’t know him, that sexy beast of a man is Logan, professionally Wolverine. Not a very good one though. Anyway, I'm Wade Wilson, but you can call me Wade. Or Deadpool. Or the Merc with a Mouth. Or the Chimichanga Bandit. Or—"

"Wade, shut the fuck up."

Wait.

“Wait, you’re Deadpool and Wolverine? Like the real ones?”

PART 2

[kakisocks]

Bottom!Anakin with a pussy fics

If you've been searching for a compiled list of trans Anakin fics I've made this list! Read the tags, all will be completed fics, and none of them will feature Anakin with actual breasts.

It's Always Been You

GFFA-verse Unable to admit to their feelings, Anakin and Obi-Wan seek alternate means to relieve themselves of their sexual frustrations. or The idiots are in love and too stubborn to do anything about it. In classic Obikin bumbling style, they accidentally end up picking each other at a gloryhole.

Show Their Truth

With every action, Kenobi proved Vader's Master a liar.

Heavenly Tension

“What did you do before I got here?” Obi-Wan asks casually, and Anakin will never be over how he can talk about sex like this when Anakin still stammers over his words. “Just fingered myself,” he says with a bashful shrug, “It usually works but it wasn’t enough.” Because his fingers aren’t Obi-Wan’s, thick and determined and deft. Obi-Wan makes another of those cooing sounds that make him feel like a youngling. “Aw, and not even your vibrator was enough?” Obi-Wan asks, picking it up from where Anakin had tossed it aside. “N-no, it was too much,” Anakin explains, trembling slightly as Obi-Wan rubs soothing circles into his skin. “Sweet boy,” Obi-Wan purrs out as he puts the toy aside, “I’ll take care of you how you need, don’t worry.” (Or, in which Anakin needs his Daddy to help him come but he learns that's okay.)

Good Things Come for Boys Who Wait

“Would you like to?” “What?” Anakin asks, confused once more as Obi-Wan waits patiently and expectantly for something. His fingers on Anakin’s hip burn. He wishes he could have more. “What it’s like to be eaten out — would you like to know?” Obi-Wan’s voice has taken on a huskier quality, and Anakin could die. or, Anakin has never been eaten out. Obi-Wan shows him what it’s like.

improper methods of scientific inquiry

Anakin stumbes upon a new and interesting species while bathing. Obi-Wan is a scientist at heart. -- For day 2 of monsterfucker march: plant monsters and tentacles!

make it hurt cuz we love it when it burns

Anakin wants to be a good boy, he really does. It's just so hard. Especially when the punishment for his failure is so enticing.

In the Heat of the Hour

A small gasp captured his attention fully, Obi-wan’s head snapping towards the door to see his omega, so shy and flustered standing at the doorway. He rose to rest on his knees, tightening his hand around his cock to relieve the pressure. Not able to suppress a growl, he watched how Anakin’s eyes seemed glued to his cock. His alpha wanted the omega under him, to praise him for coming to his alpha like a good boy. Anakin watched him closely, eyes finally flickering up to meet his own before he took a slow step back. “I shouldn't be here..” he muttered, taking another slow step back. A small whine caught in the omega’s throat when Obi-wan’s eyes narrowed, the boy coming to a standstill outside of the door.

don't like the cameras but I love it when you ogle

His Master just had a different, special way of showing his appreciation, his affection, his love for Anakin.

[cucumberteapot]

Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse - Afterthoughts

On Friday evening, I bought a ticket for ATSV and it wasn't until the remaining five minutes of the film did I hear gasps and squeals among the audience. Generally, theaters in my country are quiet during screening. It's only on rare occasions did I bare witness to my theater reacting in real-time to something that encapsulates the film and what it could mean for the characters in the future.

Warning!! Please watch the film before reading. This post will go into some heavy spoilers about the finale and some predictions for BTSV!!

It's truly astonishing how talented the crew for ATSV was to convey so much subtle information about Earth-42 Aaron Davis and Prowler!Miles with only five minutes left of runtime. However this analysis is around 1000 words long and I'd like to keep it as readable as possible. From the view of Earth-42's skyscrapers, it's clear this different New York has been overrun by the Sinister Six and we can theorise they'll be the primary antagonists of the next installment. However, until we get more information on them in the lead up to March 2024, I'd like to focus on our two new antagonists and not only their dynamic with Spider!Miles but with also each other.

If Spider!Miles takes after Aaron as Jefferson implies in this film and (honestly) the entirety of ITSV reinforces, then Miles G takes after his father. Or did. Which if we take the brief two minutes we meet him, this kind of tracks. Miles seems to have ITSV's Jefferson's no-nonsense attitude that's been informed by the death of his dad and Aaron's career. It would make sense if Prowler!Miles was more similar to Miles prior to his dad dying before being corrupted by Aaron's influence and the absence of a Spider-Man, where in Aaron's case he was enabled by Jefferson's death to go full villain-mode. When watching ITSV again and comparing to ATSV, it's so wild to see how different Earth 42-Aaron is not only with Spider!Miles but with Prowler!Miles.

In Earth-1610, he wanted to separate Miles from his life as the Prowler to protect him all the while serving as his laid-back, artistic uncle, but here the front is entirely for Rio. It's why when Spider!Miles hugs him, he's not caught off-guard because it's such an intense reaction from what should just be another day coming home from "work". It's because he's not his Miles. Spider!Miles has a lot of love for the people in his life and what he enjoys, whether it's his art, music and surrounding himself with friends and family although its hard. We see Prowler!Miles' room in Spider!Miles' conversation with 42-Rio and all the posters, action figures and journals are replaced with milk crates, a few books and a speed bag. Whoever this other Miles is has fully adopted the identity of the Prowler to the point where "Miles Morales" is the alter-ego - "I'm Miles Morales. But you... You can call me The Prowler."

But now we know who this Prowler!Miles is - What does he want?

Pull a Kingpin and find another dimension to bring back his dad.

Intercept Spider!Miles' dimension and take his place there.

Use Spider!Miles as a bargaining chip for the Sinister Six.

Or just straight up kill Miles Morales. Because why not?

Spider!Miles doesn't tell Aaron his uncle died in his dimension. He says, "I have an Uncle Aaron, too. I had one." The use of "had" is purposeful here because the writers are making a point of not revealing to Aaron (or Prowler!Miles who is listening in all this time) that his counterpart is dead because working as a villain got him killed. If Prowler!Miles doesn't respond to the knowledge of his father existing still alive and well in another dimension, then how would he reaction to knowing his mentor and uncle is dead there, too?

When Spider!Miles reveals his Aaron was the Prowler, we see 42-Aaron's eyes sink in the reflection. It's minor but it delivers so much characterisation as to what kind of person this Aaron is and his relationship to Prowler!Miles. For all of Aaron's faults in ITSV, he always assumed responsibility by concealing the truth from Miles and in his final moments, pulls Miles mask back over to conceal his truth from Kingpin. While this Aaron is far more terrifying, he's trying so hard to hide his own cowardice by letting his nephew take on the mantle of Prowler instead. It's why he smashes the punching bag near Miles' head when he says, "I know you don't want to be the Prowler."

Because, yeah. He doesn't.

And it's why he chuckles sardonically when Miles tells him he could be a "good guy"... because it's not about that.

This entire movie has never been about being a "good guy".

Miles hides the truth about being Spiderman from his parents when it's clearly harming his relationship with them. Gwen and Peter hide the truth from Miles about being an anomaly. Miguel is a hypocrite and attacks Miles out of self-projection and Jess just goes along with it. As for the other Spider-people, they also just follow Miguel's orders except for Hobie and Margo who are the only ones to help Miles escape Nueva York. Both characters take responsibility not by allowing Miles as an anomaly to cause havoc and destroy dimensions, but by identifying that Miguel has neglected his own responsibilities by acting as the aggressor in this situation and trying to control and exclude Miles' identity as a Spider-Man.

Before Gwen is forcefully returned to her own dimension, she shoots back at Miguel's principles, "We are supposed to be the good guys." and it makes him pause for a moment before repeating he and the Spider-people are just to convince himself they are doing the right thing.

By the end of ATSV, Gwen reconciles with her father about being Spider-Woman and collects allies in their search for Miles. While Miles, who has reclaimed his sense of identity and accepts both halves of who he is, unflinchingly stares down this shadow of himself that is equally self-assured in his own responsibility as Prowler but far more dangerous than any antagonist he's encountered.

It should be obvious by this point but this is why the phrase, "With great power comes great responsibility", is the thematic core of every Spider-Man film. It was throughout ITSV and ATSV and now waiting less than a year for BTSV in 2024, this theme of responsibility will resonate with every single character as they enter the third act of this trilogy. And whether it's living their authentic truth with the people they love and love them, or about owning up to their mistakes and choosing to do better...

I, for one, can't wait to watch.

[just-horrible-things]

‘Verse: Resistance AU: Chewtoy, Alt: Bad End

3 - Knife [First | Prev | Next]

He picks a knife off the wall, if only because she's used to his pocket knife and it probably doesn't elicit the same fear as one that's reserved for use on prisoners. It's behind her back and she does not have the wherewithal to figure out how to turn around, but he knows she's listening to every slight sound of movement. Every click and clink of steel.

Up close behind her back, and she's trembling so hard. How long can she hold on like this before she can't help but let more and more of her weight load onto the broken bone? Riven slides a hand up under her shirt, feeling the uneven scars over the twitching, shaking muscles bunched either side of her spine. Her breath stutters and catches with little throaty sounds of fear and disgust.

Round to the front of her, trailing his fingers round her waist. He shows her the knife, watching her eyes lock onto the serrated edge, then lowers it to her belly. She can't tip her head forwards enough to follow it, so she watches his eyes instead as the metal kisses her skin. A twitch or stumble draws blood, just a few drops welling up either side of the blade. She doesn't even hiss. 

Riven isn't worried. The chain keeps her upright enough that she can't fall far enough to do herself serious injury on it, even in a worst case scenario.

Turning the sharp edge outwards, he cuts a line down the front of her turtleneck. The stretch means the point of the knife takes a second to catch, but once it does the thin fabric parts with almost no resistance. Then he cuts upwards from the same point, up the line of her sternum to her neck.

The seam at the throat poses no obstacle to the serrations, but the loose bunched fabric round the neck needs guiding onto the blade or it’ll just lift instead of cutting. Riven knows, because it's not the first one of these he's cut off her. 

This time, unlike any other time, while the knife is at her throat she tries to throw herself forward onto it. It's a doomed effort. She doesn't have enough room to move. All she achieves is nicked skin and another wrench to her broken arm – if her strangled gasping is anything to go by.

“Ah ah,” Riven chides through laughter. “None of that. You live until I say you can die.” “Fuck off,” she spits, voice still choked with pain. “Go – die in a – fire.”

He shoves her. Just a firm push to her right shoulder. It knocks her off her balance. She screams a thin, strangled scream and twists this way and that trying to find stability again. Riven waits. By the time she's steady, she has no breath left for vitriol.

A quick slice up her sternum splits her sports bra along the same line as her shirt. The elastic fabric curls back, sticking to sweat-soaked skin. Two more cuts along her collarbones, and almost the whole front of her torso is exposed. The remnants of her shirt hang down her sides, the two halves of the turtle-neck dangle from her neck like a mockery of a scarf.

The scars that stripe her from hips to throat are all fond memories. Riven traces one across her taut, twitching belly with a fingertip, then another just beneath a collarbone. Her jaw is clenched so hard she might break teeth. 

The knife follows the second finger, parting the scar to reopen the old wound in a shallow, bleeding line of crimson. Her breath stutters, but she doesn't make a sound. 

Riven tweaks a nipple, and chuckles as her head jerks back with a hiss. Just because it got a reaction he pinches harder, rolling the skin painfully between his fingers. 

She spits at him, and he shoves her again to make her howl and dance on the end of the chain.

The very top of her reach is still comfortably within Riven's. With his hand over hers where she clings to the chain, he slices the knife down her sleeve from wrist to armpit. Down her forearm he lets the blade score a line into the skin beneath, but further down he's more cautious. It's too soon to open an artery by accident. It's too easily done.

Another quick nick separates the last bit of cloth holding the ruined garment together on that side of the body. He cuts the shoulder strap of her bra while he's at it, leaving both items to dangle off her at the remaining shoulder.

Trying to take the tension off her arms has her practically pressing herself against Riven’s body. He's not sure she even knows she's doing it. The second sleeve goes the way of the first. Her arm is already turning red and purple around the break. A quick grope of the swollen flesh gets another solid scream.

He sets her steady on her feet again before taking the knife to her pants, thinking it'll be easier if she isn't thrashing around. She has other ideas, though. She holds still enough while he uses the serrations to saw through the layers of tough fabric at the waistband. But as soon as he stoops to reach lower, she tries to knee him in the face. 

All he has to do is catch her leg and lift. Tipped backwards, she’s forced to hop comically to try and keep her remaining leg under her. She screeches and writhes, trying to twist out of Riven’s grip. Riven simply walks backwards, still holding her leg, until her remaining foot can't find the floor any more. At which point, of course, it comes up to kick at him.

Rather than tolerate being kicked weakly in the face, he drops her. A firm grip on her pants ensures that her own weight yanks them off her as she falls.

Without Riven's support, she swings like a pendulum on the end of the chain. As her feet slide across the concrete her legs kick a frantic little dance trying to find purchase – and only serving to push her further off centre.

If only he had something like hot cinders right now to scatter under her feet, then she'd really dance. But heating something up at this point would take too long. He already has a plan.

Stepping close again, he does her the favor of setting her back steady on her feet one final time. Shrieks quiet to sobs and moans, and he watches her fingers grasp and ungrasp like little starfish as she tries to readjust her grip on the chain. 

He really does love the scars he's given her. Her back’s a mess of course, but the stripes down her arms and legs are just really pleasing to look at, even setting aside the memories. Despite layering four or five separate whippings over the course of the years, he's managed to keep the spacing fairly even up and down the limbs, the angles consistent.

She hates her stripes, he knows. It's almost a shame to ruin them.

He traces another one with the knife, following the curve round her ribcage. Another, across the top of the thigh, turning pale and faded scar into a bleeding, hairline cut. Another. 

She holds still, shaking, focused for now on holding position and trying to catch her breath. She doesn't even flinch away from the knife. Which isn't all that surprising. The blade's sharp and the cuts are shallow. The tip of the knife isn't serrated. It’ll barely even sting. 

Two quick cuts make short work of her underpants – the last scrap of fabric between her and nakedness. He's gonna keep her naked for a long time, he thinks. Maybe for the rest of her life. One more reminder that she's just another body in the cells now.

She hasn't reacted, still focused on panting miserably through the strain, so to drive the point home he shoves a couple of fingers between her legs, grabbing roughly until she growls at him through gritted teeth.

An idea occurs, and she must see it in his eyes because he sees it reflected as a flash of fear in hers. No one knows him better really, not even his friends.

Grinning, face just inches from hers, he traces the stinging edge of the knife down her stomach. Her eyes widen and she jerks back, making herself whine with the extra tension as she tries to lean away from the knife. 

There's no limits to what he can do to her now, and she knows it.

The tip of the knife slides downwards, through her crotch hair, scoring an uneven line into the flesh beneath. Ari jerks a leg up, trying to balance on the other, trying to fend off the knife. Riven catches it like he did before with an arm around her knee.

Any hope of holding her like that to continue teasing with the knife, however, is quickly set straight. She's back to full body fighting, thrashing wild-eyed and screaming. 

For a fraction of a second, Riven’s ready to slash the knife across her stupid cunt regardless. If she wants to make things difficult she can suck up the consequences.

But no. It's too early to open an artery by mistake.

So he drops the knife, and settles for punching her in the crotch. Her voice cuts out like he hit her in the diaphragm, but the thrashing doesn't. She's fighting like she thinks he's killing her, like an animal in a trap, like she doesn't have a broken arm and a full body of strained, exhausted muscles.

For maybe as long as a minute, Riven just holds onto her. Keeping her leg pinned, opposing her struggles, but not trying to move her. Just letting her wear herself down a little further. Just feeling the tremor and the panic and the weakness in her as she fights full force and gets nowhere.

It's good, but it's not what he wanted to be doing. “Easy,” he scolds her. “I've dropped the knife, you can stop already. Easy.”

She doesn't stop. He drops her and lets her swing again, twisting like a fish on a line. This time he just watches as she tries and fails to steady herself, over and over and over.

[Next]

[17snifflesandsnzes]

For the bingo, could you do stubborn and no concern for covering for Wonwoo, Mingyu, and S.Coups? Thank you sm I love your fics <33

Thanks for the compliment!! 💕🫶 I'm so happy that you like my fics because I absolutely ADORE yours! 😋 And yeah, sure!! Here it is, hope you enjoy~

Jeon Wonwoo:

1. Stubborn:

The hip-hop unit stares helplessly at Wonwoo as he remains glued to his laptop despite him shivering every few minutes. "Hyung, you're sick! Just go home and rest already!" Mingyu says, his tone whiny. Wonwoo looks up from his laptop to glare at him. "I told you, I'm fineHh...hh'HktChuHh!- I'm fine! I can keep working, I promise." Mingyu looks at Seungcheol, who looks just as concerned as he does. "Wonwoo-yah, please just rest. You're not gonna get anything done while sick, anyway!" Wonwoo shakes his head, continuing to stare at his laptop. "Hyung, hh'HkTChUhHh!- I'm fine, seriously!"

2. No concern for covering:

Wonwoo lifts his head from Soonyoung's shoulder as he turns to his side with a shuddering gasp. "hh'HkTCHUhhH!- Ugh..." He sneezes into the open air. From his other side, Jihoon glares at him. "Yah, at least cover your mouth, Jeon Wonwoo! You're gonna get all of us sick!" Wonwoo looks at Jihoon pitifully. "C'mon, Jihoon-ah, don't you feel any pity for me? I'm sick!" Jihoon rolls his eyes. "Well, yeah, which is why we don't all of the members to get sick too." Wonwoo doesn't reply, instead turning to his side again. "hh'HhkTChuHh!-" "Jeon Wonwoo!"

Kim Mingyu:

1. Stubborn:

"Chan-ah, just one final run-through, and I'll promise I'll rest! Please?" Chan sighs heavily as he looks at his hyung. Mingyu had wanted to practice with Chan to help perfect his moves for their recent comeback, and Chan had agreed not knowing Mingyu was sick. Now that both of them were there, though, practising was proving to be quite difficult. "Hyung, you can barely make it through the first verse without sneezing! Just go home and rest!" Mingyu gives Chan a pleading look. "That's not true! hh'IktChIhH!- hh'IktChiHh!-" Chan scoffs at that. "You were saying, hyung?" Mingyu just shoots him a glare. Chan sighs again, walking closer to Mingyu. "Hyung, just go home and rest. I promise I'll practice with you after you're better. Mingyu lets out a whine. "But, hh'IktChihH!- hih'IktShihHh!- Chan-ah!"

2. No concern for covering:

"Yah, Kim Mingyu! At least cover your mouth when you sneeze!" Jihoon says angrily as Mingyu sneezes for the third time during their monthly movie night. "Sorry, hyung. My sneezes just catch me off guard." Mingyu says sheepishly, rubbing at his nose. Hansol pats his back. "Do you want some tissues, hyung?" He asks, and Mingyu nods immediately. However, before Hansol’s return with the tissues, Mingyu felt the same burning sensation in his sinuses, and he ducked towards his chest. "hh'IktChihHh!- hih'ItShIhHh!- hh'HkTChihH!- Ugh." Mingyu groans as Jihoon rolls his eyes, and Hansol laughs, hanging his hyung the tissues.

Choi Seungcheol:

1. Stubborn:

Jeonghan sighs as Seungcheol excuses himself to respond to another call. "Cheol-ah, if you pick up your phone one more time, I'm gonna confiscate it." Jeonghan says sternly, and Seungcheol rolls his eyes. "Jeonghan-ah, I can't just ignore my responsibilities just because I'm sick." This time, it's Jeonghan's turn to roll his eyes. "You sure as hell can. At least till you get better." Seungcheol looks like he wants to argue but is cut off with a burning tickle in his sinuses. "hih'AktChUhHh!- hh'AkTShuHhHh!-" Jeonghan smirks as Seungcheol sniffles wetly. "See what I mean? Stop being so stubborn and just get some rest!"

2. No concern for covering:

Seungcheol groans after he sneezes for the millionth time that day. "Ugh, I hate being sick! This sucks!" Jeonghan coos sympathetically as he pets Seungcheol's hair. "I know, Seungcheol-ah." Seungcheol leans into Jeonghan's touch before moving away with a shaky breath. "hih'AktChUhHh!- hh'AktShUhHh!-" He sneezes into the open air wetly. Jeonghan continues to pet his hair as Seungcheol leans back onto the other. "I'm tired, Jeonghan-ah." He says, slightly teary-eyed. Jeonghan sighs as he pulls Seungcheol into a hug. "I know, Seungcheol-ah."

Here it is!! Hope you enjoyed! 🩷💕

[butchhamlet]

some reasons you should watch abigail thorn’s “the prince”

i mean, reasons beyond “it’s about trans women in a shakespeare multiverse and abigail thorn plays hotspur.” because--do you need more? but i have more to say, so i’m going to say it.

1. the exploration of the conflation of death and transition. i think trans people are in the habit of pushing back against the idea that transition is any sort of metaphorical death, because so many cis people say shit about feeling like they’ve lost a son/daughter/brother/sister/niece/nephew/gendered acquaintance/etc. but in truth, taking the plunge in deciding to transition, or deciding even to be honest with yourself about your transness, can look and feel a lot like a death, even if it’s a death that’s necessary for a rebirth (something thorn & other trans writers have touched on before). i can’t cite specific parts because spoilers but just trust me that this does a lot with that that made me want to put my head in my hands and scream

2. the interaction with manhood in the history plays. the henriad is incredibly concerned with what it means to be a man the right way--richard ii’s effeminacy assayed against bolingbroke’s stubborn strength; hotspur’s yearning for glory and love of war tied to his destructive masculinity and abhorrence of the feminine; hal’s gendernonconformity through use of language more often than weapons; henry v’s presentation of the english as a virile “band of brothers” identified in contrast to the foppish french dandies. the way this play examines gender--womanhood, manhood, masculinity, femininity, structural misogyny--is fucking delicious in that context, particularly in that the play turns hotspur’s obsession with masculine glory into something of a defense mechanism, as hotspur strives to be the person northumberland and worcester and kate percy expect. (ALSO THE COSTUMING. AND THE SWORD. AND THE DOUBLE-CASTING. AND THE SYMBOLISMS. FABULOUS.)

3. interaction with 1H4 in general. the way thorn cut up this play and rearranged it. i couldn’t go two minutes without turning to my friend and hissing, “this is a line from the real play! except in context it doesn’t go here!” and then gasping over how shifting the context, length, or speaker of speeches brought new aspects of both works to light. ALSO? SO MANY SPEECHES/SCENES IN SHAKESPEAREAN VERSE THAT WERE NOT IN THE ORIGINAL PLAY AT ALL. WHICH MEANS THIS WOMAN WAS JUST WRITING RAW IAMBIC PENTAMETER. LIKE, CONVINCING ELIZABETHAN-ERA IAMBIC PENTAMETER. WHAT. (also also! you don’t have to be a shakespeare nerd to enjoy this play, but if you like iambic pentameter jokes, boy howdy have i got good news for you!)

4. that said, it’s accessible to non-shakespeare-superfans, too! if you don’t know much about the histories, or if you struggle to comprehend shakespeare, don’t fear! the play is doing more than just riffing on shakespeare. it’s at least 50% modern speech, and the switches from one dialect to another tend to come at the most destabilizing and thus hilarious (or gutting) moments. there’s one particular modern-language-paraphrase of a specific 1H4 speech that i haven’t stopped thinking about since i saw it, because it’s the perfect balance of comedic and agonizing.

5. trans people. not just transgender shakespeare characters, but also modern-day trans women! i love that we get both original trans characters and shakespearean characters hit with the transgenderification beam, and i love how many trans people there are; it allows for a more thorough exploration of identity, and also so many good fucking jokes.

6. prince hal is gay for real. not sure i need to say much else about this

7. who doesn’t want to listen to abigail thorn recite shakespeare? not even just 1H4! but i shan’t say more, because oh, baby, that one’s gotta hit organically.

you can read more about it here if you’re not yet convinced, but come on. if you like shakespeare, or if you like art about gender and transness and narratives and confinement and freedom, or, hell, if you like seeing women with swords, i literally don’t know what to tell you i don’t know why you’re still reading this go watch the prince come on now

[spookitordukeit]

Guys I am so very very insane.

I have so many ideas for so many stories running laps in my silly little brain over and over and the moment I start writing one idea, another two pop up beside it. Oh I am so ill. So feral. I am unwell. I need to write them down. NOW.

Okay-

1) I’ll put this one up first since it’s almost mermay, but I’ve had this idea for months.

Silly little MC gets pressured to go on a fun little boating trip by friends. (Bad friends) Unfortunately, MC has ✨thalassophobia✨ stuff happens and ‘friends’ decide it would be so ha ha funny to push MC off the boat as a little prank. News flash. MC has always been scared of water. Mc never learned how to swim.

Yada yada, Mc panics, starts to drown, hears clicking or something and is suddenly back on the boat gasping for breath. Orca Sans is not happy to have humans drowning in his waters. He is also not happy to have ‘friends’ polluting his waters with their trash. He had been following them because they kept throwing their shit overboard and then they threw over a while ass human. The man’s is not happyTM.

Anyway, she ends up passed out and her friends take her home, she wakes up the nest day thinking it was all just a weird dream, especially since no one but her seems to remember it, they said she passed out from the heat. After all, Monsters had emerged from the mountain a few years ago, she probably was just having funky fever dreams.

…On a whim, she goes to the dock closest to where her friends had their boat. Even if it was just a dream, the worst that can happen is she ends up looking silly.

Nothing happens and she ends up staring up at the moon, listening to the water hitting gently under the dock. It’s dark enough where she can pretend the water isn’t water and is just the night sky under her feet. She recalls a vague song, but it’s blurry she doesn’t remember where she heard it. There’s no words to it, just musical notes. On a silly whim, she sings in the quiet darkness.

It’s only when she finishes that she opens her eyes, finding two white eyelight staring back at her.

Thinking of calling it Learning Your Song.

2) I really really love the anti-harem concept, especially like There’s Still Magic by RosesCry and I’d love to write one myself! I have the idea of a whole verse for this one- I’d call is NexusTale or NexusHub and It’d be this one huge nexus where all the aus emerge from their mountains. I’m thinking it will be the first original verse lord wise. And other verses just continuously show up, many of them leave to go create their own Home AUs once their free, but may also stay.

MC has a… troubled home life to say the least. I can’t say much about this without spoiling it, but her and her sister live together, MC owns the house but she may as well be a freeloader with the way her sister and the skeles act. Oh yeah- did I mention MC’s sister invited a whole gaggle of skeletons to come live with them without asking MC?

It’s not like she could say no— they’re all newly emerged from the underground and don’t have a place to call their own, her and her Kindness couldn’t just leave them to the wolves… I Have Many Ideas For This One— I think I’d call it Shades Of Green or something.

3) okay so hear me out- Blue joins the Bad Sanses but with horrendous ✨trauma✨ Blue is with the Stars, and he does his best! He really does! But even his best isn’t enough most times. And people need him— people will die and suffer needlessly if he rests for even just one moment— so he must keep going! Dream is always there to give him a searing hot boost of energy whenever he’s falling behind. And who is he to complain if it makes his marrow feel like it’s boiling him from the inside out? If it feels like his soul is filled with churning, molten lava? If all he can think of is fight fight fight— anything to get rid of this feeling.

Why does Killer keep asking him weird questions? What does he mean he thought Blue would be too out of commission from mourning to fight?

…When was the last time he saw his brother…?

I’m thinking of calling it, When Dreams Turn To Nightmares. I also want to up the anti by having Nightmare somehow be able to transfer a little bit of his power to the boys?? Making them like demi gods??? Idk I’ll figure it out

4) okay okay— UnderFell soulmate Au where the first words your soulmate says are somewhere on your skin. I know I know, it’s been done many time but LISTEN- Monsters emerged from the mountain like five years ago and very quickly took over, humans are lower class and the world over all is pretty sucky. MC lives in a shitty run down apartment and works a shitty job. She has two marks, one on each of her wrists like shackles.

She’s working at her job at the gas station one day, tired, hungry and ready to go home when the captain of the royal gaurd and the freaking judge walks in. She’s panicking because two of the most powerful and dangerous Monsters are within killing distance of her, as she should. She does her best not to make eye contact with either of them as they loudly walk through the aisles, but, inevitably, The Judge comes over to the checkout and she can’t ignore him— no one ignores the judge.

Red says something probably along the lines of “what? cat got yer tongue?” And MC freezes mid scan of an item, the words on her left wrist burning against her skin for a brief moment.

She looks at him with utter horror and Edge walks, excuse me— stomps over with some snappy demand like “WHAT IS TAKING SO LONG, HUMAN? WERE VERY BUSY!”

And then the words on her right wrist start burning and all she can do is mutter out “This can’t be happening.”

Both the boys freeze for a long moment and MC flees out the back door.

I’m definitely calling this one Shackled By You Words, Collared By Your Love. Because yeah it’s UnderFell, there’s collars lol. MC has one that she wears that she fills with her own Intent to keep Monsters away. Not that it works very well.

5) I reeeeeaaaallly want to do a dark fic 😔 I think writing a Yandere Edge would be really interesting. Not in a ‘I’ll kill anyone who looks at you’ but more in a ‘I’ll steal you from the forest and take you home where you will never leave because I only I can keep you safe and you will never want to leave.’ Kinda way.

So MC is a skeleton creature of some sort, not sure which yet. She lives in the forest alone, without a pack. Her pack was… lost. They had been taken from their homes once, and she got free. But now she is alone, and has been for many years.

She had her den and she protects the forests creatures from hunters, many of which do not leave alive. One day she catches a familiar scent, and with her soul racing and the inside of her skull screaming that she’s found them! They came back! They escaped! Family! Pack! Pack! Pack! She races through the trees and follows the scent, skidding into a clearing with an elated yell of welcome, only to stop short and have the words die in her throat.

The monster that stands shocked in the clawing is not her pack.

Fear, grief and rage well up in her soul and instead of running the monster out or killing him for trespassing in her forest, she runs. She runs all the way back to her den and burrows herself into the deepest parts of her nest while her soul tries it’s best to tear itself apart. The brief hope that had surged in her soul leaves her more broken then she was before, her kind is not meant for isolation. She so horribly, painfully alone…

She doesn’t leave her den for days, creatures of the forest bring her food and water, and stare worriedly at her until she accepts them, wolves bring her fresh kills and rabbits snuggle into her sides. The forest is worried, and yet she can not bring herself to move. She is alone.

Prey animals scatter and Predators growl in warning when a figure emerges from the trees. MC looks up in shock and fear as the monster from before pauses in the little clearing of her home. Anger quickly stomps out her fear as the monster is surrounded, she pulls herself from her den and growls at the intruder who dares to invade her home.

The Skelton monster does not look worried for his well being despite the wolves, bears and even a great moose surround him. The forest hisses with anger.

Somehow it deescalates and Edge ends up coming to the forest quite frequently. He is observant and quiet but he’s kind and sh is so very alone. She attaches to him quickly, missing him when he’s gone and chattering endlessly the moment he’s there. She shows him her den, shows him her nest, shows him the wonders of her forest and tells him of her darkest memories.

Memories of white labs and cold voices and the whines of her pack from behind separated walls. Memories of escaping along with another, but losing sight of him along the way. (Sometimes she thinks she can smell him on Edge… but that’s just her head playing tricks on her.)

…When she wakes up from a nap that leaves her groggier then normal, she’s a little disoriented. But not for long. The place she finds herself is unfamiliar, but Edge is not.

She can’t do anything but stare at the monster in front of her in silent horror, a cold pit in her stomach as her shaking hands grip onto the collar around her neck.

Idk what if call this tbh.

Sigghhhhhhhhh. So yeah, that’s all my ideas so far. Any of them strike your fancy?? Lemme know! I’ve already got five fics going, what’s five more?!

*sobbing*

[quitealotofsodapop]

Double anon answer cus similar ideas.

I can imagine that the immediate reaction from the Red Sons, is to cast fireball at the "imposter" DBK just in case its SWK playing a really complicated prank (he did turn himself into DBK in Jttw).

After a lightning round Q&A - including the infamous "When was the exact hour Red Son was born?", both families determine that they are in fact alternate versions of one another.

Princess Iron Fan is the first to notice something very off about her Au self.

Canon!PIF: "You look... exhausted." Au!PIF, smiling excitedly: "I am!" Canon! Ironbull, like a psychic lightbulb moment: *simultaneous gasp!!!* Canon!DBK, uber hyped-up: "LET US SEE THE CHILD!" *cue both pairs of the Ironbull parents charging off towards the Demon Bull palace's nursery*

The Second Son/"Black Boy"/Huoshan is about to have a bunch of confusing wake-up kisses.

The spicynoodles reaction to one another depends on whether or not spicynoodles has already occurred in the canon verse. Otherwise, if we're strictly canon; then this the first time Canon Red and MK have considered eachother anything but shaky powerful allies.

Canon!Red, at seeing their parents run off: "What was that about?" Au!Red: "Probably about my little brother Huoshan. He was a long time coming." Canon!Red, trying to hide his own excitement: "A baby brother!? How dare you not be overjoyed on our parents behalf!" Au!Red: "Normally I'd be running off with them too, but I too am exhausted. The twins have been running me ragged." Canon!Red, blue-screen-error: "wut?" (°∀°) Au!Red, too tired to wonder what the issue is: "Yeah the girls have been keeping Me and MK up at all hours. Monkey plus bull genes equals loud chirping calves." Canon!Red, blush covering face: "..." Au!Red: "Of course there was the whole debacle with Uncle True Compliant sabotaging mother and father's plans for more children, and trying to kill MK. That really stressed the situation." Canon!Red, hair starts steaming: "....!?!" Au!Red: "And thank buddha that jiā gōng [father-in-law] gave mother that vase from Guanyin. Would have never gotten rid of that curse from grandmother otherwise." Canon!Red, mouth agape: "!!!!!!" *making sound of a boiling kettle* Au!Red: "Thankfully me and my sunflower get a lot of help from-" *notices the look on Canon!Red's face* "Are you ok? You look like you've seen a ghost." Canon!Red: *hair flooms up like a pink wildfire* Au!Red, realizing: "AH. You uh... haven't gotten to those parts yet I bet?" Canon!Red: *nods head slowly* *the two MKs walk into the room* Canon!MK: "Hey Red Sons! Other me was just showing me the baby bull photos! The twin girls are super cute! Are they this Red's sisters or-" Canon!Red, flames growing higher: "AAAAaaaaaa...!" Au!MK, looking disappointed at his Red: "You told him the twins were ours, didn't you?" Canon!MK, interrupting before Au!Red can reply: "THEY ARE!?! OH MY BUDDHA! No wonder they have little monkey face patterns!" *starts squeeing loudly* *Canon spicynoodles are both screaming, and theres now a large fire in the Demon Bull palace entrance hall* Au! Spicynoodles: "Could have gone worse, right?" "I mean, the Nezhas had a little more flames."

The Canon MK & Red are in near shock for the rest of the visit, and refusing to meet eachothers gaze. Mostly cus they keep getting reminded by the Au!DBK about his "PERFECT GRANDDAUGHTERS!" (currently being babysat by their other grandparents), and by the baby photos plastered almost everywhere. A small fight does break out between the Bull Families at supertime though.

Canon!DBK: "So did your son release you from under the mountain as well?" Au!DBK, spoon-feeding little Huoshan: "Yes, in a sense. My body was trapped under the mountain for sometime until my Red and the little thief lifted the staff. Canon!DBK: "Ah. Much the same." Au!DBK: "Ingenious how he was able to contact me in the astral plane in the meantime though. Brother Pigsy and Sandy really helped Red bring out the best in himself." Canon!DBK: "...excuse me? The swine and the boatman!?" Au!PIF: "You seem shocked. We've known Chef Zhu and Sandy almost ever since I brought Red home from the Southern Ocean. Save for the whole, underworld and the staff fiasco, we've been nothing but amicable." Canon!PIF: "The Southern Ocean? But I brought Red Son home with me over... how long has your Bull been out of the mountain?" Au!PIF: "Physically? Only a few years. It's a bit of a long story. His physical body couldn't be released with the staff still in the mountain, but my genius little boy honed his mediatation skill enough so we could at least have some family time in the astral plane." Canon Ironbull: "...what." "WHY DIDN'T YOU DO THAT!?" Canon!Red: "Hey! I don't know if I can do that! This is an entirely different universe father!" Canon!MK: "Yeah! And at least thank him for making the gauntlet in the first place. If he never made that, you would probably still be a bull skull underground." Canon!DBK: "Not another word little thief. I am still wondering why you and your simian counterpart are even here." Au!MK, already peeved at Canon!Ironbull: "Cus me and my Red are married!" *Table is quiet, esp on the Canon end* Canon!Ironbull: "What." Au!MK, realises that he shouldn't have said that: "Hehehe, yeah... married. Where do you think the twins came from? Hehe" *nervous laughter* Canon!Ironbull: "..." Canon!DBK, turns seriously to his Red: "Son... WHY HAVEN'T YOU MARRIED THE LITTLE THIEF AND GIVEN US PERFECT GRANDCALVES?!" Canon!Red, hair flooming up blush-pink: "Father! You just don't say that!!!"

So yeah, most of the Canon and Au crossover is Canon Ironbull getting dunked on + Canon Red Son dying of embarassment at learning that the Noodle Boy becomes his Noddle Boy in marriage in the alternate timeline. Canon PIF & DBK might have reservations on Red being with MK, but the thought of beautiful grandkids (and Red's confirmations that there's hope for more Ironbull children) really makes a compelling argument.

[aquaquadrant]

Okay so I just wanted to say what an absolutely wild ride this story has been. You and lunar have made such an amazing universe. Your writing skills and general talent regularly broke me over this last year or so. I am so unbelievably happy about having found you guys just as you started to write the actual story. I can't wait to see what you work on next (after a very well deserved break lol) whether it be more in the hels verse or whatever else. I have made so many random stories in my heads with these characters and concepts for ages now. Now please enjoy my random thoughts I've had over the last few days....

False girl what you doing. Tango I feel will not react well to Symmetry being like that.

If hels is unlocked now, are portals able to work there or is it still its own weird thing? Can people in Hels make their own worlds now? If they can do they spawn like a normal world or is it like a private hels style world? Does it depend where they are when they make the world?

I was regularly one of the people asking about BX and AI as well as PAtho and Dbubs so I have to say thank you soooo much for their pieces (I think you may have used my asks about them a few times as an easy reply to post side stories about them and I literally gasped out loud when you did). BX causally letting Altas see who/what he is was chef kisses. Papa AI wanting to hear about it all the time. Love it

Zed automatically feeling so guilty and apologizing for the lab stuff in season 8 was so sweet and sad. Man just wanted to have fun not cause trauma.

Doc and Stress dealing with their creation in such different ways. Stress not fully understanding Doc's concern. Also thinking that now those 2 will be more similar to all the new players after Alex. Also you wrote Stress so so so well.

Herobrine being Hels admin was peak!!!! The fact he went by Adam made me just think about the meme of reversing the homophobic saying by saying its not Adam and Eve but Adam and Steve. Which now makes me giggle about Herobrine wanting to fight steve. Complicated love lol.

God I keep thinking about all the potential interactions of hermits with their hels counterparts.

Also Instinct has already a spot of interest in my mind and now seeing Lunars art for him he is always on the mind lol.

HHHHHH thank u so much i was very pleased w how the conclusion came out.

as for the current state of hels: at the end of the story, the universe decided to drop the firewall around hels. this means that anyone attempting to make a hacked nether portal out of hels will no longer have to provide continuous updates to bypass the firewall (ie. they don’t have to power the portals anymore). this will speed up the process, as we saw w the double lifers making their portal.

howEVER, the reason hels players can’t make comm portals is bc their comms are hardwired to have the option disabled, and that is still applicable. any communicator that generates in hels will be unable to create portals by default, just based on how the world was designed. but once they travel to another world, that world’s admin can make them a new one (like xisuma did for tango) so they’ll be able to do that. and if they do, it’ll just be like a normal solo world! tango’s discovered this himself since being on hermitcraft.

hopefully that all makes sense 🧍‍♂️

[krikeymate]

Follow up to the fuck around and find out verse where it’s the next morning after Tara’s dissociative episode.

Tara’s flooded with humiliation at the realization of what happened and how she shut down because of the idea of Sam leaving (doubly interesting if there’s that “I’ve been pushing her away but as soon as she goes, I break down? Pathetic” kind of mentality) and Sam is quick to apologize and reassure her and make it clear that she’s never going anywhere and that last night she just needed some air. AND MAYBE after this incident, maybe Tara…docile and obedient because she’s so scared that next time Sam “needs air” that Sam won’t come back.

While Sam is relieved that Tara is not putting herself in danger, she’s still heartbroken because Tara has traded one set of unhealthy coping mechanisms (drinking, fucking strangers) with another (hiding in, never wanting to go out, never wanting Sam to leave her and getting worked up when she does and then the subsequent spiral of shame that Sam has to help her work through)

Part 1. I cannot possibly think of a more perfect direction for this to go in. I mean, I don't even know what I can add lol.

Tara falls asleep, eventually, against Sam's chest. Body and mind exhausted. Her sleep is restless, and she clings to Sam tightly. Sam doesn't get much sleep either, constantly waking to check on her sister.

In the morning, Sam awakes to Tara curled into herself away from Sam and blinking back tears. Flooded with humiliation is right. Humiliation and shame and disgust at herself. What right does she have to be upset with Sam, to be upset at all? This is all her fault anyway, and then she goes and hurts Sam and loses it when Sam gets mad? It's pathetic, it's disgusting. She feels like just another monster manipulating Sam, trying to control her. It's like she expects Sam to say "how high" when Tara says "jump."

Sam's arms wrapping around her waist distract her from her thoughts. "Hey, you ok?" Sam's voice is so soft and gentle, and she doesn't deserve it. She doesn't deserve any of it. All she does is cause problems. Problem after problem.

"I'm so sorry about last night," Sam speaks, cheek nuzzling into the top of Tara's head. "I didn't mean to scare you, I just needed some air and I wasn't thinking. It won't happen again, ok?"

She can't believe Sam is apologising, she has nothing to apologise for. This was all Tara, it was all on her. But words are hard right now, her brain is still foggy. All she can manage is gasping out it's fine.

"It's not fine, Tara. None of this is fine." Sam's arms retreat and Tara squeezes her eyes shut, there's a roaring in her ears. not again not again not againnotagainnot-

Sam's hand is on her cheek and something is being pressed to her mouth. "Open up, babygirl." It's automatic at this point, mouth opening and closing around the inhaler. "Good girl," Sam coos, hand moving to stroke through her hair.

She feels Sam climb back into the bed, in front of her this time. She wraps her arms around her and pulls her on top of her.

"I'm never going to leave you, you know that, right? There is nothing you can do to push me away. I get mad sometimes, but it's just because I care, and because I'm scared for you. I love you, so so much. You're my whole world Tara, and the thought of you getting hurt, of someone hurting you... I can't bear it."

Tara begins to sob into Sam's neck.

~

Tara gets quiet in the aftermath, stuck in her own head. She only leaves the apartment for class, brushes off Chad and Mindy and Anika when they try to talk to her. She doesn't have the headspace to talk to them, to explain.

She finds she can't watch Sam walk out the door anymore. It sets her heart racing and the fog machine in her head goes off, even though she knows Sam's only going to work, despite the "I'll see you later," and the kiss to her forehead. So Tara hides in her room with the door closed to avoid having to face it.

There's a part of Sam that's so relieved, to be so sure that she can come home and find her sister there, safe. There's another part banging on the walls in her brain screaming problem. She's horrified to realise which part of her is bigger. Tara's become clingy, like she's 4 years old again and doesn't know how to survive without her sister's hand in hers. Sam hates the part of her that enjoys it. She shoves it down with the part of her that enjoyed butchering Ritchie, that enjoyed her mother's face when Tara told her to go fuck herself.

For the first time in months, Sam feels needed and secure. She was drifting, aimless, trying to grasp back control of the situation, watching her sister float further and further away. But now she's tethered to her wrist. Tara's been feeling lost lately too, but Sam's found her, and she's not going to let go.

[oboetemasuka]

From one hell to another

A little free verse thing I did because I was inspired. I'd thank @purgemarchlockdown, but it's more like they were just there when I got the light bulb.

Okay, it's more than a "little" free verse. (Is this free verse?)

Summary: This world is hell, and Amane Momose can never escape, no matter what she does.

(cw child abuse, cults - And I do really dig into them.)

——

Amane is a good girl. Because if she isn’t, they’re going to make that face at her again. But she can’t help it sometimes. She likes nice things. She gets punished for trying to spoil herself with nice things. She’s left shivering, too cold to move, gasping for air But it isn’t scary at all. Because it’s love. 

She doesn’t think to run away. Because it’s a sin to run from pain. Because this is her home and family. Where else would she go anyway? She doesn’t think to call for help. Because strangers can’t be trusted. They would call her crazy. Say she’s being deceived. Try to lead her astray. Take her away from her family. Now that’s a scary thought.

Amane likes animals. There’s nothing wrong with sneaking off to play with a cat for a bit, right? The poor thing is injured. There’s nothing wrong with giving it a handkerchief to stop the bleeding, right? … Of course she would be found out. God has eyes everywhere.

She can’t move. Her arms won’t listen to her. Everything hurts and She can’t move.

Amane lies on the ground, still reeling from the shocks and the strikes and the noise and the breathlessness. This isn’t scary at all. Surprising, but not scary. This isn’t scary because this is lo- Because this is lo- This is lo- This is hell.

A hell where adults can play fast and loose with the rules while she can’t so much as breathe funny. Where she can’t stop to help a poor injured cat without being branded as a heretic. Where her mom can kill that same cat without even a slap on the wrist. Wait… this just might be her way out. Running away is not an option. Calling for help is not an option. But righteously punishing a faith breaker… That is something she can do. Something she shall plan to do. Something she has been waiting to do.

Amane doesn’t even remember what she is being punished for. All that matters is that it’s her mother’s turn now. It’s Amane’s turn to give back the judgement. Once she catches her breath, She gets ahold of the tools her mother used. She catches her from behind, unaware. She pays no mind to those useless pleas for mercy. She learned this from her mother. Apologizing means nothing.

It’s over. It feels so good to be on the other side. She is free from this hell. The door opens. She turns to look. “I did good! Are you proud of me?” … No, that can’t be right. She only did what she was shown to do. Amane is a good girl, right? …Right? … “I’m sorry for breaking the rules!”

——

Amane wakes up in an unfamiliar place, surrounded by strange people. Is this some sort of purgatory? Over her school uniform is some sort of straitjacket. At least that’s what she’s told. It isn’t very restrictive. The “warden” is a kid not much older than her. They say they will judge everyone’s sins. Amane has nothing to worry about. She is a good girl. All she did was act in accordance with her faith. The warden will see that.

The other prisoners look at her strangely. They think she’s crazy. They think she’s being deceived. They wonder why a child is here in this prison. They don’t think she could kill of her own accord. This is hell. A different kind, but still hell nonetheless. But it’s not scary at all. God is on her side.

The warden, too, looks down on her. Do they not see it? Just because she’s a child, she couldn’t have done this of her own accord? They relent. This isn’t so bad after all. They call her a murderer. Hang on, she hasn’t done anything wrong. All she did was act in accordance with her faith. She will show them that. Once they understand, they could make the world she was meant to live in. A world where judgment is not born out of the corruption of humankind. If they see it, this could be a just world.

They are making that face at her. She does not mind that they think she is annoying, but They are making that face at her. And now she can’t move. Resorting to violence? This isn’t scary at all. That’s what the adults always do. She isn’t scared of that. No matter how much she gasps and struggles, don’t be deceived. She isn’t scared at all. This is just another trial.

——

The sleeves on her straitjacket have lengthened significantly. Once stopping at her elbows, now level with the hemline. The straps drag on the floor. It’s so hard to move.

What you did was wrong. Your faith is wrong. You’re crazy. You’re being deceived. You can’t be forgiven unless you recognize your sins. Absolutely unforgivable.

Shut up, stupid voices. This is hell. She ignores the voices. She rolls up the sleeves and picks the straps up off the floor. She thought MILGRAM could be a better world. But this is hell.

——

The warden tells her straight that her murder was unforgivable. Murder based on religion and faith is unforgivable. They are wrong. She was only acting in accordance with her faith. They insult her faith. They insult God. This is worse than hell. This is a place that denies her beliefs, her feelings, her right to exist. The only way out is to punish this persecutor. This is something she can do. Something she has been planning to do.

…

She can’t move her hand. The only option is to let go of the scissors, but she can’t. Or else the warden will confiscate them. She has to carry out her punishment. She tries again. It doesn’t work. A place where she’s denied the right to carry out judgment. This is worse than hell!

The warden continues to treat her like a kid. To mock her. To stomp all over her faith. And there is nothing she can do about it. She has nothing to hold on.

…

“We? Who’s we?” She has found her way in. There is yet hope. They can deny her doctrine all they want, but at the end of the day, they are just the same. She has the upper hand. She watches them fall to the floor. This is how she can exact punishment. This is how she can teach them the great principles of her faith. This is how she can show them what trials are. She can warn them of the evil prisoner who is stealing others’ trials away. Finally, she can do-

…

She lifts her sleeve to her face, trying to ease the sting. The warden has no rules to play by. They can strike her for speaking out against the evils in this prison, and she can’t fight back. Why did she think for a moment that she was on the same level as them? They are a persecutor. There is no justice in this world.

Running away was not an option. Calling for help was not an option. Righteously punishing a faith breaker was not an option. For it only landed her in a place that seeks to restrict and crush her in every way possible. Punishing a persecutor is not an option.

This is hell. There is no leaving hell. The only movement is from one hell to another.

[mira--mira]

I put all of my current WIPs for @hashimada-week​ below the cut, instead of making separate posts. A quick summary of everything below.

Day 1: Childhood Crush (Marriage proposals, Hashirama raised by the Uchiha!AU)

Day 2: Yokai (Jubokko[blood drinking tree]!Hashirama)

Day 3: Healing (Fem!HashiMada, Banshee!Madara, Fantasy!AU)

Day 4: Love (Accidental Jutsu, Canon-verse, Cat!Madara)

Day 5: Sharingan (Genjutsu, Madara and Hashirama in genjutsu)

Day 6: Flowers (Sex Pollen!AU, Canon-verse, SFW excerpt)

4.2K words in total.

Day 1: Childhood Crush

“We should get married,” Madara says as confidently as he can, praying to Amaterasu that his voice doesn’t crack. The goddess listens and the sentence comes out almost flippant despite the ways Madara’s body wants to shake and how sweaty his palms are. 

“What?” Hashirama blinks at him and then leans closer until their noses almost bump. Madara does not gasp at the sudden intrusion of his space, he absolutely does not. “Are you serious?” Hashirama whispers even though it’s just the two of them in their room, hidden away behind the tansu chests like they used to do when they were little. 

“Y-yes!” Dammit, there’s the crack. Madara clears his throat and does his best to straighten up, shoulders back, and chin raised. “If the Senju are going to try and argue their blood claim is strongest—which is utterly ridiculous, what do you have in common with such [savages] after being raised an Uchiha, obviously you’re one of us—but if they insist, a marriage tie would be another point in our favor. Think about it, Hashirama.” With only the slightest bit of hesitation, Madara reaches out, making sure to wrap his hand around the sleeve of Hashirama’s mantle so he can’t feel Madara’s sweat practically dripping off his hands. Why didn’t he think to put his gloves on before this? “I’m not…no one is going to let them take you away. We’ll do whatever it takes.” Madara squeezes his wrist, hoping Hashirama understands all that he’s trying to say but not the secrets underneath Madara would prefer to keep hidden.

Day 2: Yokai

In the heart of Shikkotsu Forest there is a tree that feeds on blood. It is an inconspicuous oak, no different from the rest except how inhumanely tall it towers in the forest where other ancient trees tower no larger than saplings next to it. There is a [rope] around it that marks it as sacred, a flat stone shrine at its base, and an entire compound that curls built in and on top of its massive roots. 

The Uchiha have served as diligent guardians for as long as anyone can remember. When the lands are ravaged by war, countless shinobi clans and daimyo determined to destroy others along with themselves, their small settlement nestled into the vast roots remains untouched. Invaders and killers brush by them, but all unfortunate enough, those ignorant of the legends of Shikkotsu Forest and foolish enough to seek violence in its depths, find their last moments in those same protective roots, their throats open and lifeblood gushing out. 

Madara is born into this clan, heir of the 44th generation, but he is markedly different from the rest. Like all the heirs, when the cord that connects him to his mother is first cut, his small bloody body is laid on the stone altar at the base of the tree. It is a tradition as old as the second generation, according to the stone tablets. He was to lay there, untouched, for seven minutes before he was blessed by the forest. When his father went to lift him from the altar, he discovered a halo of leaves around his body, despite none falling from the great tree above, and a single leaf with a perfectly shaped hole through the middle gently alight on his forehead. All the leaves but the last fell harmlessly away. The one on his forehead eventually drifted to the ground, but a perfect imprint was left on his forehead, one that would mark him for the rest of his life. 

Madara has heard the whispers about him, about the mark, for as long as he can remember. It means something the elders say, surely it is a blessing. But the specifics of said blessing, what it means, what the god tree wants…none of them know. 

It’s tiring to be the subject of such expectations and gazes. As soon as he’s able, Madara picks his way from the manicured houses and paths among the aerial roots, choosing to lose himself in the less explored and maintained ones instead. The god tree is big enough, wild enough, that he could be lost in its embrace for years. Madara is nine summers old as he walks across the tallest moss-covered aerial roots he can, bare feet slipping and sliding along their slick curves. He is ten summers when he drops to the middle layer, surrounded in constant twilight between the roots and the great canopy above and with no torches like the Uchiha compound to light the way. Eleven summers when he plunges to the lower depths, seeking to find dirt and mud to squish between his toes in this wild place. 

Twelve summers when he finds a pseudo cave at the base of the tree and Hashirama waiting for him inside. 

“It took you long enough,” are his first words to Madara, delivered with a haughty pout. 

“Who do you think you are? What are you doing here?” Madara splutters back, confused and disoriented to see another child so far away from the compound, and a non-Uchiha one at that. Madara knows the face and name of every member of the clan. Hashirama, naked as the day he was born, with skin the color of the god tree’s trunk, unnaturally straight hair, and glowing yellow eyes ringed in red is certainly not one of them.

“I’m Hashirama and I’ve been waiting for you. Now let’s go find the rinnegan!” Hashirama moves, quicker than Madara expected him to, and grabs Madara’s hands. 

“You have one chance to explain yourself or I’m gutting you and feeding you to the roots.” Madara yanks himself away before drawing his kunai and holding it up in front of him. Hashirama merely cocks his head to the side. 

“I already told you—”

“No you didn’t! Not enough!” Madara interrupts, peeved as Hashirama puts his hands on his hips, lower lip jutting out. “How did you get here? Why were you waiting for me? And what happened to your clothes?” 

“Ok, maybe I got a bit overexcited.” Hashirama starts to pace around the small cave but the way he walks is…weird. It’s dark and gloomy here, but every time his heels leave the packed earth, there’s a flash of white and he doesn’t take steps so much as raises his feet and shuffles forward. “I’m Hashirama, a jubokko, though you’d probably call me the god tree—”

“You’re claiming to be the god tree?” Madara can’t help but scoff. So Hashirama is clearly delusional. 

“Why do you keep interrupting me?” Hashirama crosses his arms with a huff. “And no I’m not ‘claiming’ to be anything, I am the god tree in my…temporary human form.” He gestures to himself, chin raised high. “If you’d like to take a moment to bask in my presence, I’ll allow it.”

Day 3: Healing

Once she passes through the village, the edge of the world greets her. There is a sharp difference from their trees to the otherplane, no blurring of boundaries as they seep into one another. There can be no lies, not even to herself, as Hashirama crosses the line. The inhuman willows greet her, their strands brushing along her dress in welcome. 

There is no difference in temperature, snow covers both their lands, the wind an [not picky] traveling blowing through both, but everything is sharper. The chill, the crunch of ice, it all prickles over Hashirama’s skin, countless little reminders that she has crossed over. 

As if she could forget. 

There is no path through the willows, but Hashirama makes her own. Her steps are sure and unhurried. She has traveled this way over a hundred times before, she could do it as a specter walking in her sleep. 

The tree she comes to is no obviously different from the willows around it. If one peers closely it may be a little bigger, perhaps with a few more roots bursting to the surface, and deeper colors in its fronds, but none so great for a simple curious passerby to notice. 

What sets this tree apart from all others is the banshee haunting its branches. 

Hashirama has long heard the villagers whisper and mutter about the banshees’ [complexions]. Her father raves that their appearance is proof of their wickedness, that any poor soul unlucky enough to lay eyes on their visages shall know it as immutable truth. 

“Hashirama.” Madara smiles, twisting toward her. “You came.” 

She is divine. Hashirama’s heart swells and she blinks back tears that well in her eyes as she looks upon her betrothed. 

Here in the weak day, Madara is not as solid as she is under the watchful moon. Her skin is translucent, the image of the willow shining faintly behind her. Yet still, Hashirama can pick out the details that she so loves. Madara’s fathomless pure black eyes, the snaking blue and purple veins beneath them, her wild spiky hair, and the almost delicate pink curl of her lips. She’s dressed in her typical daygown, a high-collared white dress with long sleeves that nearly brush her knuckles, and a hem that completely swallows her feet. Madara does not feel cold the same way Hashirama does and certainly not during the day, but she always worries about the thin material, questioning her endlessly on comfort.  

“Of course, I came.” Hashirama steps up to the willow, reaching for the lowest branch to pull herself up into its safe cradle. Her muddy boots threaten to slip as she climbs, but this—as finding the path through the woods—is something she has endless practice at. Hashirama pulls herself up to the higher branches, fitting herself between the trunk and limb. Madara floats after her, alighting by her side in a mimicry of sitting together. 

Hashirama longs for the moon’s gaze, for Madara to be flesh and blood next to her. How she wishes to wrap her up in her arms and kiss her pale cheeks. 

“Pardon me, but you’re the one who said it’d be a miracle if your father let you out of his sight so close to the Blood Moon.” Madara rolls her eyes, it’s rather difficult to tell but the faint reflection, her tone, and years of experience guide Hashirama to the simple conclusion. 

“Yes, well…I am surprised.” Truthfully it was a little unnerving Father had said so little and left her without a guard. She had been careful to express only her commitment as the Senju heir to the banshees, not her personal relationship with Madara. “Father wants to end our [contract], but I don’t know how much is bluster and how much is truth.”

Day 4: Love

Kagami is a good student, a gifted one, but choosing Madara to practice this specific lesson with shows his lack of experience. Perhaps if it were another jutsu the results may have been different but…

Madara feels the spike of his chakra every time he attempts a henge and he easily flicks the brat between the eyes to dispel it before he can attempt to reach out to Madara’s. He’s a genin and Madara is a god. 

They do this useless dance over a dozen times, each to the same disastrous result for Kagami. 

“That’s enough,” Madara says, swirling the last of his tea in its cut. “You made a valiant effort, but you need more practice before—”

“One more time, Madara-sama, please!” Kagami’s pale face is red with how hard he’s concentrating, hands pressed together in a [seal]. Determination shines a black fire in his eyes. 

Madara sighs. “Once more and then we’re done.” If he’s late to work Hashirama will start whining and Tobirama will never let him hear the end of it. 

“Thank you, Madara-sama! I won’t disappoint you or the Uchiha!” Kagami says and slams his hands together again. 

The words—I’m sure the pride of the Uchiha will [survive] one genin’s assignment—never leave his mouth. Something other than a henge sparks in the air. It’s similar to it, but Kagami’s papers have all mixed together and the wet ink mixes together and redirects inward. It’s going to [hit] him, not Madara. 

Madara reaches forward and grabs his hands but he’s too late. The jutsu doesn’t [hit] Kagami…it [hits] him. 

There’s a flash of light and a blinding shock of pain. It stabs at his lungs, through his skull, shooting down into his legs. It’s not the worst pain Madara’s ever felt, physically that’d been an infected [cut] that left him feverish and the handful of medics worrying about amputating his arm, emotionally that’d been watching Tobirama cut down Izuna and then sitting next to his side waiting him to die before Hashirama came, but it’s the suddenness of this pain, unexpected and out of place here in the peaceful village that takes his breath away. 

Then, between one blink and the next, it’s gone and Madara’s entire body has gone numb. He can’t move his limbs, blinking takes nearly too great an effort. 

What happened? The words float in and out of his mind, but when he opens his mouth to ask, nothing comes out. 

No, that’s not true. He meows. 

Kagami recovers first, before Madara can get his wits about him and then leans over him, eyes wide with horror. Had he fallen to the engawa? How disgraceful. 

“M-madara-sama, you’re…you’re…” Kagami’s face has gone sheet white and finally Madara manages to get some coordination in his arms to push himself up. Or he tries. His muscles flex, but the world swims and he stumbles half up into a very distorted scene. Kagami towers above him, the table he was sitting at tripled in size and the long familiar purple fabric of his mantle swallows him, the fabric a faint weight on his back.

Madara tilts his pounding head down and sees…paws. A cat’s paws. His paws, he realizes with a lurch. 

He’s a…a…cat. 

“I’m so sorry, Madara-sama! I don’t know what happened! I’ll get Tobirama-sensei to fix it, I promise!” Kagami cries and lunges to pick him up. His words, the fully realization of what happened, and some instinct of fear of a larger creature looming over him has Madara darting from the engawa, claws digging into wood as he runs as fast as he can. 

He darts into the [bushes] around the house, hunkering between the leaves. His mind is scattered and he has half a mind to stay here until the thoughts unravel in his mind, but he hears Kagami calling and running toward his hiding place and dozens of other Uchiha turning toward him. Madara’s ears flatten against his head and he bolts from the bush, rushing out in the Uchiha district. 

He runs and he doesn’t stop. Logic is far away, only adrenaline and fear pumps through his veins. The familiar Uchiha buildings fall away into Konoha proper. It’s a mistake. There’s so much noise, people walking past with thundering steps, their voices ringing around in his skull. The children are screeching banshees trying to burst his poor eardrums and make them bleed. Worst though is the smell. Madara gags and it’s only his overwhelming panic that prevents him from throwing up. The normally pleasant smell of the buildings—fresh wood and new paint, all of the promise of his and Hashirama’s dream—is overwhelming. The street food stalls are a mix of appetizing and [nauseating], the oil and meat makes his stomach rumble but each is so intense it sends tremors through his body, pain spreading in fiery waves across his face. 

“Madara-sama!” Kagami is at the gates, head frantically swiveling around to find him. Madara is already gone. 

He doesn’t know where he’s going or how far he runs. The world is reduced to overwhelming stimuli around him that blots out everything but his fear until—

There’s grass underneath his paws, its texture strange and foreign compared to touching it with his human hands. A lure in the distance draws him near promising sanctuary and—

“Oof!” Madara trips over the lump on the ground and instinctively digs his claws in. “Ow, ow, ow!” The lump grabs him and moves upright. 

Person. Madara thinks foggily. 

“Are you okay, kitty?” A broad hand strokes his back. 

Hashirama. If he were human, Madara would be in hysterics.

It’s the last thought he has before he passes out. 

Day 5: Sharingan

“How long do we have?” Hashirama asks as he reluctantly tears his eyes away from Madara to trace familiar patterns in the stars. He finds the Great Tree, the Endless Fields and wonders if Madara knows the same stories. Probably not. 

“Half an hour? It’s been a rough couple days…” Madara doesn’t apologize directly, but Hashirama can hear it in his words. 

“It’s alright,” he whispers, despite the disappointment he feels. “Any time is better than none.” One of the best things about Madara’s genjutsus is how easily he could manipulate time and stretch it out. On the good days when he had the energy, an hour of time in the real world could become a week here. On the bad days, it’ll last only half a day. Hashirama has to work with Madara to stretch out the time though, if he gets impatient or makes his chakra surge in a way Madara doesn’t expect, the whole thing will shatter like ceramic. He has to be careful, exceedingly so, but it’s worth it to spend all the extra time with Madara. 

Here, they can almost pretend there is no war, that they’re two normal kids living what they think should be normal lives. Everything is an illusion—and Madara is always quick to remind him of that—but they can treat it like reality, give it the same meaning and weight. They can sleep next to each other in matching futons, eat meals together around the same hearth, play and train together on the cliffs and in the forest. In the real world, they can only do the last one and not nearly enough to Hashirama’s liking. They can’t meet up every day and whenever they’re apart, he feels Madara’s absence like a deep, painful bruise he can’t heal. It won’t kill him—eventually he’ll see Madara again—but he’s always aware of it. He can’t stop poking it, wishing Madara were by his side, thinking of whatever menial chore he has to do in the Senju compound, all of Butsuma’s pointed words and lectures he has to endure, the isolation and knowledge that, as much as he tries, because he’s the clan heir, because of the mokuton, because he likes boys too that he’ll always be different from everyone else…all of that would be easier to endure if Madara were with him. 

Sometimes Hashirama wishes more than anything the genjutsu could be the real world, but if he doesn’t phrase it right Madara gets all skittish and starts worrying that he’ll get reality-sick or whatever the Uchiha call it. He’ll refuse to take them into the genjutsu and then Hashirama has to mourn all the time he’s not getting to spend with Madara. He’s become very good at his phrasing. Hashirama sorta understands Madara’s worry, the Senju don’t use genjutsu but he gets the concept of being reality-sick, but he doesn’t actually think the genjutsu is the real world. He would never mistake the two and he doesn’t so much as want to leave the world behind and live in a genjutsu, but take this image of paradise to the real world. He has a special fondness for it because it’s the most access he’s ever had to Madara, the most time he’s ever gotten to spend with his friend but…there is something more to it. 

In the process of making this genjutsu, breathing life into the village at the mountain’s base so they could walk around the buildings, interact with it like a real compound, and see it from every angle without the whole thing falling apart…it became ironically more real to both of them, Madara especially. Hashirama had always been the one to envision a village, see it in his mind’s eye, the peace that could be if they changed the world. Madara by contrast, was the spark, the one to ignite the dream, the one to want to change their reality so badly so no other kids would suffer as they had. He had trouble envisioning the end though, the village that could be. Here, in a genjutsu he was forced to create step by step, well both of them built the village far earlier than they ever imagined. 

The real thing will be different, Hashirama knows. Their houses probably won’t be side by side, the Senju and Uchiha architecture faithfully interwoven and mixed until they look almost like one cohesive clan rather than two separate ones. The gardens won’t be in the places Hashirama chose, nor the spaces for all the contracted animals and non-contracted ones that Madara [chose/did]. The food stalls, some familiar and others whacky as they pushed what they think people would sell as food, definitely won’t. But it’s these small things, the things that’ll never be, nonetheless make the idea real. 

They can see a version of their village. An illusion, a genjutsu, but a happy one to take refuge in as they start to plan the details, start to look forward to what could be if they manage the impossible. 

Day 6: Flowers

“Do you know how long it took for him to eat the damned food? Hours, Hashirama, hours! It would have been so much easier to slit his throat but nooo the daimyo wanted to use poison so I had to skulk about this idiot’s house for weeks waiting to infiltrate it unseen and then when I finally poisoned his dish and only his dish he didn’t want to eat it and—”

Madara is still ranting, his cheeks flushed bright red in anger as he gestures sharply with his hands, emphasizing every point. Hashirama is still listening to him, but his voice becomes a comforting background noise as he gets to stare openly at Madara’s face. Silhouetted by the setting sun and the dark copse of trees further back on the cliff, he’s perfect. 

Hashirama had been warned about the mission in advance, an easy but long and dull one to complete properly and that he might not see Madara for a few weeks, maybe even months, until it was finished. There was nothing he could say, they’re shinobi after all it’s what they do, but he can’t deny that he’s missed Madara, felt his absence like an unhealable gaping wound and only now with his surly, prickly self returned to Hashirama’s side does it finally stitch itself up. 

Hashirama is overcome and he finds himself tilting forward before he knows it, leaning into Madara’s space and pressing a kiss to the side of his mouth. He’d kiss him in full, but Madara is still complaining and Hashirama would prefer not to have his lips bitten off. 

“Are you even listening to what I’ve been saying?” Is the first thing Madara asks when he pulls back. Hashirama tries to take it as a good sign, Madara definitely has never protested against his kisses, when Hashirama first pecked him on the lips when they were fifteen he even seemed to enjoy it, but he says absolutely nothing about the kiss this time, only his listening demands. 

“Of course I have, the noble and his refusal to eat poisoned food, thwarting all your well made plans,” Hashirama teases, forcing himself to be light about it. Madara calms and looks pleased for the first half of the sentence and then prickles angrily by the end. Before he can wind himself up to start yelling at Hashirama, about how his plans were not thwarted, only delayed by human idiocy and refusal to be poisoned and die, Hashirama continues. “You know…I could try and make you an airborne poison. Disguised as a flower? Fast acting so you’d only have to slip it into his room at night and then…” Hashirama sticks his tongue out, head hanging limply as he croaks. 

To his delight, Madara doesn’t immediately reject the idea. Instead, he purses his lips and looks past the cliff’s edge and their dangling feet below. “That’s…not a bad idea. I wouldn’t use it every time, obviously,” he waves his hand before Hashirama can get too excited, “I won’t depend on you alone to complete all my missions Senju, but gods I hate the poisoning ones. If there were a way to get them over with quicker…fine. Try and make the air-borne poison. We’ll see how it works out and I may just give you a reward if you’re successful.” Madara smirks and Hashirama knows he’s talking about bragging rights or bringing him one of the disgustingly hot Uchiha candies he claims even babies like to suck on and surely Hashirama doesn’t have a weaker constitution than a baby…but all Hashirama can think about at eighteen after three and a half long weeks away from Madara, his lips still burning from his short little kiss is something decidedly more erotic. 

Madara kissing him for a change, Madara trailing his hands over Hashirama’s chest, down his sides, Madara sinking to his knees with a smirk before he wraps his mouth around—

“Sure! I’ll make the best air-borne poison ever, just you watch!” Hashirama laughs and he hopes Madara thinks his blush is the bleeding red light from the sinking sun.

[jabbers-wild-world]

— Notes Regarding the Little Overlord Verse —

In this verse, Alastor died when he was six, so he is eternally a six-year-old child

He is very mature for his ‘age’, but he is a bit more prone to losing his temper as well

He ended up in Hell because even at six years old, he was still showing socio/psychopathic tendencies (e.g. tormenting small animals for amusement)

He was killed by his abusive father, though it was technically by accident while his father was yelling at him for one reason or another and happened to have a loaded gun in his hand

Alastor has still done exactly the same as in canon and risen to power in Hell very quickly, becoming a powerful Overlord by means of manipulation and murder (just because he’s six doesn’t mean he can’t kill someone)

He is at the Hotel because Charlie wants to save his soul, particularly because he is a child

He doesn’t particularly care about getting redeemed and going to Heaven, even if it means being reunited with his mother

He still helps around the Hotel, even if Charlie tries to tell him he doesn’t have to

Because he is a little kid, he can get spooked more easily, try as he might not to let things bother him like that (he’s a big tough Overlord, he can’t get scared like that, no one would take him seriously!)

He still has his constant grin, and his radio-filtered voice

Alastor usually does his best not to act like a little kid, unless it’s to his advantage to do so, or plays into being genuinely entertaining with the results (‘I know, I was gone for seven years, you probably wondered’ ‘not really’ ‘-gasp- I am a child! I could have been kidnapped! Shame on you!’)

He is a lot more expressive with his ears, try as he might not to show his emotions so openly

He still goes to Overlord meetings, and he wanders off by himself all the time without telling anyone where he’s going (it makes Charlie worry about him because ‘he’s just a little guy!’)

He still owns Husk’s soul, and Niffty’s, as well as countless others as an Overlord

Because he is a child, he can easily be picked up by just about anyone, but if anyone tries, he will throw a fit and lash out violently, so it’s not usually a good idea unless it’s absolutely necessary

[just-horrible-things]

‘Verse: Resistance Story: Chewtoy AU, co-author @whump-sprite Timeline: The Resistance have rescued Connor from the feds -- skipping ahead slightly over a couple of things like meeting Alex, may or may not come back and fill in the gaps

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There's a bed for Ari in Connor's room, but she uses it as little as she can. Mostly she gets her sleep in snatches, sitting on the bed beside Connor with his head against her leg, or sitting on the floor leaning back against the side of his bed.

It’s easier to sleep when she doesn’t mean to, when she lets it creep up on her instead of lying down and trying to force it. It’s also easier to make sure she doesn’t fall too deeply into sleep.

If she sleeps too deeply she might miss the alarm for Connor's meds. 

If she sleeps too deeply, she might dream too deeply, and the last thing Connor needs is to hear her screaming. He already thinks she’s in 17 with him half the time.

If she only lets herself doze, she jolts herself awake almost as soon as the nightmares start, or else they stay shallow and formless enough that she knows she’s dreaming.

She’s down to the last of the pills and she’s spacing them out to make them last, and that means brief highs of twitchy nervous energy interspersed with long, painful stretches of exhaustion where she can barely keep her eyes open.

When she does give in, in the small hours of the night, and lay down on the bed, she stays on top of the covers and she tucks the alarm clock right into the crook between her neck and her shoulder so it can’t fail to wake her.

The sharp sound wakes her with a jolt what feels like only seconds after she’s closed her eyes.

She fumbles it trying to turn it off as fast as possible, drops it into her lap and has to grab it again. She knows it will have woken Connor too. She knows she should get up and comfort him. She knows he’s hurting, more than she has ever hurt even when he almost killed her, and she has the drugs that will make it bearable.

It’s still hard to prise her weight from the bed and force herself to get moving. It’s like she didn’t get any sleep at all, even though it was more than two hours.

“A-Ari,” Connor chokes out, laying eyes on her. “I’m safe,” she promises, hoping to head off the flood of protests that follow recognition. “I’m not hurt, no one’s hurting me. And you’re safe too, I’m here for you.”

She can’t find it in herself to put the warmth into her words that he deserves. He stares up at her with broken, pleading eyes, and she turns away to get his drugs.

Her hands are shaking so much that it’s hard to use the little dropper that measures the morphine from the bottle.

He’s breathing like it’s bad again, shallow desperate little breaths that he takes and holds and only releases with a rattle when he has to gasp for another.

“Better soon,” she promises, “I’m giving you morphine now. Gonna make it better, okay Connor?”

The few remaining pills in her backpack drag at her attention like a siren lure. She’d stop feeling sick from the sleeplessness if she took one, even just a half. She doesn’t need it, she tells herself, not now. It’s still nighttime, she’ll get Connor settled and then she’ll go back to sleep. She’ll save the precious boost for morning.

She sits by his head and strokes his hair. No one’s tried to brush it, but Morgen cleaned it with magic and the mats are slowly teasing apart through the steady work of Ariadne’s fingers. It needs cutting, but it seems weird to do that without him understanding. And Ari would only make a mess of it.

As the morphine starts to do its work, Connor’s breathing evens out and the desperation fades from his stare. He starts to look around a little, and Ari is able to relax as he does. Sleep claws at the back of her eyes, dragging her down, and it’s an effort just to keep her hand moving across Connor’s head.

She’s almost under by the time he speaks again. “... Ari?” “M’yeah? I’m here.” “Wh- ere…?”

Ari opens her eyes, blinking repeatedly to try and clear the sand from them. Anything even close to lucidity is worth being awake for.

“Safe,” she answers. “You’re out, we’re in… our room, in a place where they’re taking care of us.” Not the first time she’s given the non-answer, and probably won’t be the last. One of these times it might go in. “... how?” “I found some people who could help us. I’m sorry it took so long.” “You’re not – hurt?” “No, I’m not hurt, I’m just fine.” She forces a smile. It’s not fake, she really is more than glad that he’s looking around and not seeing a cell, not seeing her bleed and cry, or seeing Riven in her place. Just it’s hard, to make herself make any expression at all. “Everything’s… calm.” Not okay. Everything is far from okay. “No one’s gonna hurt either of us.”

He screws his face up, trying to think straight.

“I saw… I, I thought I saw…. Taryn Morgen?” Internally, Ari winces. “Yeah,” she agrees, trying to sound as chill as she possibly can. “But it’s okay. She’s… helping us.” “... Morgen helping us.”

His disbelief ought to worry Ari but all she can feel is the breathless high of relief that he’s finally understanding enough to have this conversation.

“Jesus, Ari, what did you do?” His head is tipped back to look up at her, and it’s finally Connor looking up at her, and this time she has to fight not to smile. “I made a deal,” she confesses. “I… what… what did they do to you?” He’s so lost, and so hurt, and still worried for her and her heart breaks for him. “Nothing. Nothing, they haven’t hurt me, I’m okay, I promise.”

A silence stretches between them. Ari wants so badly just to gather him into her arms and hug tight and never let go – but she can still barely touch him without hurting him.

“What was the deal,” he asks. “What… do you have to do?”

She closes her eyes, feeling her stomach drop through the mattress below her. She knew he’d ask, she had to know it, but she didn’t want to.

She wants to lie. She wants to tell him not to worry about it, the same way she’s deflected all his previous questions about where and why and who is helping him. But he was delirious then, and he wouldn’t have understood if she had told him.

“Ari… What did you promise them?”

He’s really here now, and she can’t justify lying. He has to know, sooner or later.

“I… promised them what you know.” “What I know,” he echoes, baffled. “About the department.”

His horror cuts deeper than the whip ever did. She knew they’d have to have this conversation, she just didn’t know it would be so soon.

“I’m sorry,” she says helplessly. Tears, an unwelcome surprise, itch behind her eyes. “I didn’t have anything they wanted, I’d have given them anything I could but all they wanted –” “I won’t,” he says over her. “I - I won’t do it, no.” “Connor –” “No. N-no, I won’t tell, tell them a-anything, I won’t do it.” He’s starting to panic. “Connor –” “No.”

He tries to push himself up on his elbows, and makes himself cry out with the pain of moving. Ari reaches for his head and he jerks it away from her. Wild eyes flick from her – off to the side – back to her.

“Hey, woah, it’s okay–” “No,” he repeats, and shakes his head, and even that hurts him enough to draw another choked groan from his throat. Ari’s heart is pounding. Her mind is blank. “Don’t,” she tries, “it’s, don’t, you don’t have to do anything now, it’s, we’ll talk about it –” “No,” Connor gasps. His gaze flicks back and forth again. She thought he wasn’t seeing things anymore, but maybe – “Okay,” she surrenders, “okay, I won’t make you, it’s okay…” “Please,” he whimpers, tears forming in his eyes. “It’s okay, no one’s gonna hurt you, it’s okay, just – just settle down…”

She really, really hopes it isn’t a lie. She’ll say it anyway, if it will make him calm down. If it might help him get through this enough to see reason.

He flinches from her hand again, hyperventilating painful shallow breaths. Whatever that sick, awful feeling welling up in Ariadne is, she pushes it down. She can’t afford it. She has to be calm, for Connor.

“It’s me,” she promises, “it’s just me, I won’t hurt you, it’s me, Ari…” He lets her touch his forehead, and exhales a low, wounded whine as her thumb brushes across the creased skin. He’s still far too warm, but not burning up like yesterday… “I’m here,” she says, “I’m here, I’ve got you. Lie still, okay? Don’t hurt yourself. Try to breathe slow…”

“Ari –” he croaks – “I – can’t –” “I know, I know. We’ll – we’ll take it as it comes, you don’t have to do anything right now. It’s nighttime. Just rest. I’m sorry. Just rest.”

It’s a long time before he settles. Exhaustion clogs Ari’s chest and weighs down her limbs. She’s desperate to sleep, but even when Connor finally falls asleep and she’s able to put her head back and close her eyes, somehow it doesn’t happen.

She can still feel her heart racing, drumming in her temples as another headache starts to set in. 

—

Morgen checks the IV, checks Ariadne’s notes on the doses she’s been giving, and nods approval. Ari swallows back a pathetic thank you.

She wants to ask her when her brother’s coming next, but she holds her tongue. They’re already getting so much more than the warlocks have to give them. She doesn’t want to seem ungrateful.

She checks all of Connor’s wounds, and changes the dressings and Connor cries and moans and whenever Ari isn’t needed as a second pair of hands, she holds his face so that he looks at her not at Morgen, and promises him that he’s being helped and that the touching will be over soon.

The fever’s still better, but he’s less lucid than he was overnight.

When they’re done, the witch motions Ariadne to join her outside.

Sweat creeps coldly down Ari’s spine. Her feet throb, and her fingers itch with nervous energy.

“I happened to overhear,” Morgen says, “that your friend doesn’t want to talk to us.” “He’ll come around.” Ariadne’s voice is steadier than her heartbeat. Full of conviction that she wishes she felt. “He’s not thinking straight, I don’t think he really understood what I was saying. Or what he was. He’ll want to help once he understands what happened, what you did for him. He’s just – scared.”

“I’m not the monster that he thinks I am,” Taryn says. “But if I were routinely this generous for free, we would cease to exist.” The threat is more than clear. They’ll get what they want – what they’re owed – even if they have to take it by force. “He’ll talk to you,” Ariadne promises. “He just needs time.” The please is on the tip of her tongue. “He can have time.” “Thank you.” “Unlike the feds,” a pointed look at Ariadne, “I take no pleasure in asking questions while someone is half delirious and I control their pain meds.” “Thank you,” Ari repeats, desperate. She didn’t need the reminder, she’s well aware of the power Taryn has over Connor, over both of them.

But she’s giving them time. Ari could fall to her knees just from the relief. She would fall to her knees if she thought Morgen wanted it, if she thought it would help. She doesn’t care about dignity. But Morgen expects her to have a conversation like a normal person, so Ari won’t beg at her feet. She can be normal. She can try.

“Once he’s a bit better, do you think he’d be more likely to talk to Alex?” Taryn asks. “He’s my better half.” Ari bites her lip, considering it seriously. She’s not fully sure what exactly made Connor panic, but Alex is much less frightening than his sister… “Maybe,” she hedges. “I’m, I’ll keep talking to him, I’ll figure out what got him scared… Once he understands, he’ll say yes, I know he will. I just need to make him understand.” “You let me know.” “I will.”

It feels like dismissal, and Ari starts to turn back to the door, back to Connor.

“Oh, and Ariadne?” “Yes?” She stops in her tracks, looks back to Taryn like a good little dog called to heel. “Do you need a break? There’s another bed you can use, in a different room.” “Oh, um,” she flounders. “I’m, I’m okay.” “I know it’s a lot, taking care of him.” Reluctantly Ari nods, but “I don’t mind,” she says. “I’m okay.” “You should take a break. I can watch Connor for you, or when I’m busy someone else can. I never meant you had to keep vigil 24/7.” “I’m getting enough sleep.” The hollows under her eyes give the lie to her words, but it is enough. She’s still functioning. “It’s okay, I – I prefer to be with him, he still doesn’t know where he is, so – when he wakes up I can be there…” “Alright,” Taryn allows. “Let me know whenever you do want to rest. I’ll make sure someone’s there. You won’t be leaving him alone.” “Thank you,” Ari repeats, just relieved not to be separated from him. “I, I will.”

She won’t.

[Next]

[luzofmivida]

Whumptober 2023 - Day 1

Prompts: "But now the room is spinning while I'm just trying to fill in the gaps." / Swooning. / "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Pairing: Bean and Mora (S4 finale)

-

Unlike Bean, who wished that she was not walking through her dreams whenever she saw her mermaid, Mora ached to be spellbound in a dream, fearfully rapt at the sight of Bean. How spiritless her body appeared, suspended far too low beneath the surface for even a mermaid’s liking. Blue gloom clung to Bean’s aura, drenching Mora in the color used to describe what she was feeling.

Bubbles burst from her lips as she cried out Bean’s name. The water swallowed Mora’s voice and rendered her silent even as her tail beat against the sea, launching her into Bean with a force that should have made them both startle. Even with the water supporting her, Bean felt heavier than dead weight.

Mora wound her arms around Bean, fidgeting with the star-shaped necklace beneath her shirt before swimming them up, up, up until they burst into the air.

“Bean?” Mora gasped. “Bean, please. Come on, come on.”

No stirring from the Queen of Dreamland. Not so much as a twitch or a sigh. Mora heaved Bean back onto her chest and dug a fist into the softness of her stomach, tucking her chin onto a limp shoulder. She leaned her chin against Bean’s neck and rubbed her nose against the pulse point beneath her jaw where steady silence abided.

“Wake up, Bean. You always wake up for neck nuzzles.”

Trembling slightly, Mora covered her fist with her other hand and strained the muscles in both of her arms, squeezing Bean against herself. Mermaids were not well versed in CPR. Mora reminded Bean of this while jerking her fist into the human’s abdomen over and over again, aiming for the spot that was up between her ribs.

Water sprayed at their shoulders. The moon illuminated the dreadful wine-like color of Bean’s lips, cold as the sea she had relinquished consciousness in. Mora’s panting and pleading dampened the sound of Bean sputtering and spewing. Soon a wet string of coughs rocked her body, and feeling Bean’s chest swell against her fists roused Mora from her panicked state. She shouted her name and spilled tears into the sea.

“That’s it, Bean, use those lungs.”

Somehow Bean smiled at the relief in Mora’s voice. Her teeth chattered and her nostrils flared, trying to suck in air without water. Bean twisted in the mermaid’s grasp, spinning around to face her. The spittle from her choking could have been drool dripping down her chin. Bean stared at Mora like she was the light at the end of the tunnel.

“Mora? Baby, what are you doing here?”

“Nuh-uh. You, Bean, need to tell me what you’re doing here.” Mora’s voice hitched and Bean’s smile grew hazier as the mermaid pulled her body closer. “Why were you… This water is deep and dangerous and you didn’t even call for me!”

“But you came,” Bean lulled. “I don’t even know what happened, but it doesn’t matter because now you’re here with me again.”

At the same moment that Bean leaned in for a kiss, Mora shook her head hard. They smacked their foreheads together and groaned. Bean’s eyes remained pinched shut long after Mora had recovered from the pulsing pain. She reached out and threaded her fingers through Bean’s hair, cradling her head against her palm. To Mora’s dismay, Bean winced even harder.

“Ow.”

“Ow? That’s not even where we collided,” Mora said, tapping an experimental finger against the back of Bean’s cranium.

“Ow!”

Frowning, Mora adjusted her grip until Bean grew calm in her arms again. When she opened her eyes and saw the concern in Mora’s expression, Bean attempted another kiss. She seemed oblivious to Mora’s scoff.

“I think you hit the back of your head and then fell into the water.”

Bean tangled her arms around Mora, slurring, “Does that mean I’m dreaming?”

“No, but you might have a head injury. Being unconscious and unable to breathe for the time you spent underwater can’t be good.”

“I’m good, Mora. I promise.”

A gentle hand lifted from the water, cupping Bean’s cheek. Mora shook her head and chuckled, “You’re not very convincing, love.”

She offered a reassuring smile before parting slightly from Bean, then pointed three fingers up to the sky. Bean’s eyes never left Mora’s.

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

Now Bean’s gaze flickered down to the fingers that were raised tall.

“Mora, seriously?”

The reassuring smile evaporated. “Seriously.”

All Bean did was roll her eyes, seeming to sink deeper into the water. Mora grunted with the effort to keep her afloat.

“Bean.”

Flashing a (perhaps concerning) lopsided grin, Bean took Mora’s hand in her own and kissed the pad of every finger that was exposed.

“One.” Kiss. “Two.” Kiss. “Three.” Kiss.

The Queen of Dreamland’s grin grew even more cocky.

“There. Three fingers is my final answer.”

Mora did not appreciate Bean’s pompous kisses or smug answer.

“We’re going to try that again. This time, you’re only allowed to use your eyes.”

As if jinxing the said body part by simply saying it aloud, Mora watched Bean’s eyes grow cloudy and blurred, the color fading at a rapid pace as her pupils billowed. Mora snapped her fingers in front of a gaze that failed to focus. Before Mora could tell Bean to concentrate, her hazy eyes rolled back and bared a stark whiteness to her horrified lover.

Had she known that Dagmar might hear her, Mora would have quieted her cries. But when Bean began sinking quickly into the water with her head lolling back, the mermaid’s lungs swelled with the air that Bean was no longer breathing.

“No, no, no. Come back to me, Bean. You were right here!”

Mora grasped Bean’s shoulders, unsure of what to do. She had just slipped into darkness. She wasn’t drowning, but she wasn’t breathing either. Remembering the stories from the past, Mora pressed her lips to Bean’s and kissed hard, trying to breathe air into her lungs. But Bean’s lips were cold and purple and unresponsive. Just like the rest of her body, limp and weighing in Mora’s arms.

“Bean? Bean!”

The mermaid wasn’t aware of eyes on her, leering from the balcony of the castle where her lover had been tossed from. She wasn’t aware of the woman who was muttering curses beneath her breath, curses that would soon put a permanent end to the heart still faintly beating against Mora’s.