#i also want to beat him to a bloody pulp with a hockey stick

[cringefaecompilation]

alright, alright, serious post about episode 102. i was really angry when i saw ludinus ignore every single valid argument against the gods or have an ounce of sympathy for the innocent lives lost and instead cackle like a stereotypical villain about how he was right all along. but then i was also super lost when the hells came to the conclusion ludinus only showed them the vision because he wanted the same power and lack of consequences to perform them as the gods.

and then it hit me. context is key. and what's the context of them being shown this orb?

ludinus wants to show them the darkest day of the gods abusing their power. but all they have seen of ludinus are his darkest days. this is the closest to a good day they have seen from him and i can guarantee if they'd stumbled upon this orb by accident or had been shown it by allura or anyone besides ludinus they'd be a little more understanding and less punchy. not fully change their opinions, though; i think if dorian or ashton were shown this in isolation their god-hating opinions would remain, fearne's ambivalence would remain, and the rest's shaky yet mostly positive opinions would remain. but since ludinus showed them this with the undercurrent of "you'll all trust and believe me wholly after seeing this!" he kinda shot himself in the foot. of course they assume the worst.

it doesn't make imogen a mean bitch laughing at his trauma and telling him it doesn't matter. it doesn't make orym a whiny hypocrite trying to lord his pain over ludinus'. it doesn't make chetney and laudna r/iamverysmart posters for bringing up the very real facts that he is oppressing people and harming innocent lives to "stop oppression and innocent lives being lost". it doesn't make ashton telling him he's just as bad as them a false equivalency because a bureaucrat "isn't as bad" as a deity. if ludinus is allowed to be upset for seeing the worst in someone demanding unwavering trust that has done nothing but harm them, then so are they.

this isn't me saying he's worse than the gods and they've done nothing wrong. they're equally oppressive, the hells even so much as admitted that the gods fucked up and "sinned".

and here's the kicker: i genuinely think that if they sat down and had a calm talk with ludinus, if they told him that the gods were not perfect and told him about firsthand stopping the colonization in issylra and delilah causing the apocalypse with her own god, if they gave orym 400mg of weed so he would chill for like ten seconds, if fcg was alive and told him that his pain was valid, if they were as kind and sweet and supportive as humanly possible to him... he'd still get fucking pissed at them if they didn't 100% agree with him.

he is not looking for a debate. he told them to make their own opinions on what they were shown but then got enraged when their opinions did not line up with his and then triggered delilah to rip herself out of laudna out of spite. i can sympathize with what happened to him, but i cannot sympathize with how he responds to criticism that does not immediately center and for lack of a better term, coddle him.

and i don't mean that in the sassy bnf post way like "this character is a bratty womanchild/manchild that needs to grow a pair", i mean it in the sense that this is the behavior of a person that was neglected so intensely that they take all criticism as a personal attack every time. it's a trauma response that's been getting worse and worse as the campaign goes on and his mental state has been getting worse due to outside forces triggering him. (eg: laudna and orym and imogen on the heroes' side)

ludinus is very, very hurt. fucking duh. he watched aeor fall as a kid and got told to suck it up as said kid. that'd fuck anybody up! so no matter what anybody says to him, if they do not validate his feelings immediately after he's shown them how he was hurt, he's going to hear them saying "fuck off, you're just whiny" no matter what they're actually saying. that's why he smiled at the orb because he'd finally been justified, and it's why he got so angry when the hells told him they refused to join him.

i'd also reckon this is why he's parentified liliana; the one person that did show him kindness and sympathy and he refuses to let her go just as much as she refuses to let go of him. he needs her not just as the vessel, but as his only "friend". i think that's why he wants imogen or fearne to join him. then he won't have to kill the only person who cares for him. it's a fucked up abusive relationship he's convinced himself is healthy because they understand each other like no other.

but of course, then what? what next? does he really want power? i don't think so, ludinus' ship has sailed. he just wants the gods dead and doesn't care what happens next. it's why he insists with no proof predathos won't care about anyone else asides the gods. it's why he's going to sit back and let the reilora conquer exandria. it's why if he fails, he doesn't care if everything burns down and the world is thrown into chaos.

if people refuse to see a world without gods, then only way out of this for ludinus da'leth is oblivion. and he's fine with that if they get taken out with him.

[dragons-and-skulls]

Ghiaccio Headcanons

hi all, my name is cotton! today is the day where i finally have the chance to share my headcanons for my favorite jojo characters! i'm starting off with ghiaccio's, poured my heart and soul into them! 🤞🏼

this work contains the following: mentions of verbal abuse, violence with a small mention of blood. it's ghiaccio, what do you expect lmao

- Born December 1978.

- Has one sibling, a sister who is four years older. They got along well. On occasions they would play fight over who gets more good night kisses from their parents.

- Parents were competitive athletes in their youth and met during a competition. They doted on the two when they were little.

- As kids, Ghiaccio and his sister were very sporty and liked to play anything competitive. Ghiaccio had an interest in ice hockey while she took interest in ice skating. He did like ice skating as well, but more of a hobby. To this day, he still uses his ice skating skills to fight against his enemies.

- Parents supported them and brought everything they needed, the siblings even supported each other. At games or shows, they would cheer each other on.

- By the time Ghiaccio was 12, he had gold, silver, and bronze metals. More silver and bronze than gold, which was not enough for his parents. They began breathing down his neck to do better, even with his schoolwork.

- All Ghiaccio wanted to do was take a small break from ice hockey, focus on school the way he wanted to, and just be a kid. He took an interest in language and linguistics and wanted to be a teacher, opting to choose ice hockey as a hobby or even become a professional player if his teacher plan didn't work out and vice versa.

- Over the years he and his sister were pushed hard to play better and work harder, being berated and talked down to if they failed. That, along with school, was starting to push him to his breaking point.

- Hockey practice was no better as his ever growing rage and problems that were from home, were also affecting his performance. This caused some of his teammates to laugh and jeer at him.

- One day, Ghiaccio injured his leg during a game which cut his hockey career short for a while. After a bully, the ringleader himself, made fun of him after the game; Ghiaccio finally reached his breaking point and beat the bully to a bloody pulp with his own hockey stick despite being injured. That caused his immediate termination from the team.

- After a screaming match with his parents who saw/heard everything, he packed his things and left home for good (his sister left their house later on too). He later froze a homeless guy solid for bothering him. thus, "White Album" was manifested for the first time and that got Passione's attention.

- Risotto Nero was sent to investigate this new stand user, which led to hours and hours of talking and had Ghiaccio take the lighter test. Though he passed, it took even longer for the now 18 year old to be part of La Squadra Esecuzioni due to his newfound temper and of course, his injury.

- Ghiaccio barely tolerated the other members at first. but he grew to begrudgingly like them, and now it's to the point where he can't imagine life without them. Even if some of them find ways to push his buttons, which is hilariously easy.

[theamberwriter]

Just the Way We Want It [Yandere!2P!FACE]

Pairing: Yandere!2P!FACE x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 1845

Warnings: Cursing, violence, blood 

Author Note: Lmao, idk if people even write Hetalia stuff, or 2P, or yandere or anything anymore. But this is an old one. It’s not the best, and it’s a little violent. But it was one of my favourites that I’d written!

To say that [Name] was beautiful to any member of the second player FACE household was an understatement. They all thought she was gorgeous, though their pride prevented them from admitting as such. It was also an understatement to say they'd beat the tar out of anyone who said otherwise. Also seeing as how more than one person had 'gone missing', and then ended up being found in a bloody pulp of a corpse. However, [Name] never suspected a thing - even when she'd walk through and everybody would back away with a cautious smile.

        Checking her watch, [Name] walked out of the back door of the bar. It was 2 AM, and the only thing that lit the dark parking lot was a few street lamps. She sighed, knowing that she promised her friends she’d be home hours ago. Of course, it wasn’t really her fault since her boss - the pervert he was - sprung another surprise graveyard shift on her. But [Name] knew it was just so he could stare at her longer. Get more glimpses under her skirt when he purposely dropped things, or pushed things off the table and made her clean them up.

        “Tch...It’s only for another month, and then you can quit,” she reminded herself. She had gotten a position at a local music store that was opening up the following month. [Name] sighed and put her hair behind her ear, chuckling to herself. “The guys’ll be happy. No more Miss No-Fun.”

        “Hey, [Name],” grunted a voice from behind her. Upon turning, the girl found her boss standing a few feet away. She was suddenly very alert, a heavy, nauseating feeling curling through her. She raised an eyebrow and tossed a lofty wave at him.

        “Um...hey, Rhentz,” [Name] hesitantly greeted back, staying cautious of the man’s movements. “What’s up?”

       Rhentz smiled a greasey, weasley smile, responding in a slimey voice that sent chills down her spine.  “I noticed you walking to your car all alone. Thought I’d make sure that no creeps got to ya.” 

[Name] gave him a wary half smile. “Well, um, thanks. But, as you can see, the street lamps and I are fine. There’s no need to do that.” 

Her boss took a few steps towards her, causing [Name] to back away in response. “Honestly, a pretty young woman like you. You’d be an easy target.” Something smug hid in the last part of Rhentz’s statement. [Name] reached slowly into her bag, and felt around for her pepper spray. Rhentz chuckled and pulled a can out of his pocket. “Looking for this?”

        The girl’s eyes widened and she physically looked in her bag to find that the can was, indeed, gone. “H-How did you get that?”

        The man continued to advance, tossing the can of self-defence spray up and down in his hand, a wide wicked grin on his face. “It’s quite easy to get into the staff lockers, you know. Especially when you run the place.”

[Name] glared at him, “You’re twisted.” Turning on her heel, [Name] tried to sprint away but a hand caught her upper arm. “Ah!”

        “You’re not going anywhere – not ‘til we’ve had a little fun.” 

        [Name] felt her insides churn, the thought that any woman would be attracted to a greasy scum bag like him seemed blasphemous.  [Name] felt like she was going to die, dread filled her. All the things she learned in her self-defence class slipping her mind. Silently, she tried to stumble through the five weapons and the five vulnerable spots. Um … feet … fingers … legs … a-arms … voice! It was at the last one that [Name] did the only thing she could think of – scream. 

Her boss flinched, clamping a hand over her mouth. “Shut up!”

        [Name]’s breathing became heavy, airways constricting, her mind blurring with a sick feeling. She was being taken in another direction. Her feet not getting any traction on the black top. [Name] struggled, kicking, flailing, and twisting.

        “Hey, buddy!” called a voice. [Name] couldn’t turn her head to look, but she didn’t need to when she heard the next phrase. “Ya got two seconds ta let doll face there go.”

        Al! she thought in relief, the guys are here! They’ll help me.

        “I don’t think so, pal, go find your own whore.” 

[Name] grunted at this, trying to elbow her captor in the gut. But she only ended up with fingernails digging into the soft flesh of her arm.

        “[Name]? A whore? I don’t think so. You got the wrong person there if that’s your impression.” That voice she could tell was Matt’s; he never took lightly to anyone tossing the words ‘whore’ or ‘slut’ at her. Even if they were used jokingly. From behind her, [Name] heard light footsteps and a moment later was free. Turning, she found Oliver and Francois with a grip on her boss; Francois with the bowie knife he always carried to Rhentz’s throat. 

        “I don’t think you want to play this game, Môn Ami,” stated Francois in a bored tone when Rhentz tried to wriggle out of their grip. Oliver looked over at [Name], who still stood in the middle of the parking lot.

        “Why don’t you head home, Poppet?” offered the pink-haired man. He smiled at her, as warmly as he could. “We’ll be there soon.”

        [Name] glanced around. Each of her friends’ faces was written over with rage, softening only enough to give her a look that read ‘go home.’ In a way, it was kind of nice having a group of friends this close.

The girl giggled nervously and then nodded.  “A-Alright. I – I’ll see you at home.” 

[Name] then turned to head for her car. She practically sprinted across the parking lot. The group of men watched as her car left the parking lot.

        “O-Okay. She’s gone. You guys wanna let me go?” asked Rhentz, but only got Francois’ knife digging into this throat in response. Al chuckled darkly, propping the bat in his hand over his shoulder.

        “‘You’re not going anywhere,’” Al quoted, his features contorting into a sneer. “‘Not ‘til we’ve had a little fun.’”

        With that, Al swung his nail covered bat right into Rhentz’s stomach, causing him to cough out blood. The group watched, amused, as Rhentz’s legs trembled.  Next was Matt’s turn. Putting his hockey stick under Rhentz’s chin, Matt lifted up the man’s head to look at him. Giving Rhentz a demented half-smile, Matt propped his hockey stick on his shoulder.

        “Yah got a lot of nerve,” he noted, swing his hockey stick to connect with the man’s jaw. “Messing with [Name] like that.”

        Rhentz coughed again, spitting blood and teeth onto the ground while blood dripped from the long gash left from the hockey stick.

        “I – I won’t touch her again – I swear! Just let me go!” he begged, tugging weakly at Oliver and Francois. 

Francois grunted in amusement, a smirk spreading over his lips. “I – we – don’t think so – we’re to make you wish you ‘ad never been born.” 

Oliver and the others chuckled in agreement. The words hadn’t yet sunk into Rhentz’s head when Francois shoved the knife up under his ribs.

        “We don’t take lightly to others messing around with our property,” stated Oliver, glancing around to his brothers and then back at their catch. “You’ve tread where you shouldn’t have. And now you’ll pay dearly.”

      Francois and Oliver dropped the man to the ground and watched as he tried to crawl away. But Al stood in front of him,

        “Where ya goin’?” asked the American, tapping his bat against his palm. “We’re just starting to have fun; why don’t you stay a while?!”

        Al swung his bat and hit Rhentz under his chin, sending him flying back a few feet. The group of four circled that man on the ground, who was now groveling for his life.

        “That hasn’t worked before. It won’t work now,” said Matt lowly, “anybody who messes with [Name], pays with their life.”  

        And so it was that the hits started to come continuously; a bat, a hockey stick, a foot, a knife, a fist, a spritz from the can of pepper spray. That really sent the men cackling as he writhed when it got in his wounds. It wasn’t long before blood covered the pavement, and the man on the ground was almost unrecognizable. 

Raising his bloodied bat above his head, Al grinned. “Say ‘goodnight,’ you bastard.” 

And then down came the bat, causing a sickening pop! and blood spray.

Rhentz was dead. Bloody and unrecognizable with a smashed skull. The guys smirked down at their work, and then at each other. [Name] was safe once more.

Nudging the body with his hockey stick, Matt said, “[Name] can – will – never know. Nobody will.”

“Yes,” said Oliver darkly, “and no one will ever take our Poppet away.”

 The next morning, the news covered the murder case of Rhentz...

        “Earlier this morning, the beaten, disfigured body of Killigan Rhentz was found here behind his bar,” said the reporter, “upon further investigation, the police report that the activity is gang-related. And that a large stash of drugs was confiscated from the compound just a few hours ago, this said to be the reason Mr. Rhentz has been murdered.”

        [Name] sat watching the news, munching away at her favourite cereal.

        “I knew he was a slim ball,” she stated, swallowing her mouthful of cereal. “At least, since they’re shutting down the bar, this means that I don’t have to go back to work there anymore.”

        Matt plopped on the couch beside her, slinging an arm over the back behind her.

        “Yeah, and to think - we even let him live after you left,” he chuckled; [Name] turned her wide eyes to him.

        “Mattie!” she yelled, “you wouldn’t have actually killed him – would you?” 

Matt laughed at her, ruffling her bed head. “Are you kidding? No. Scare him a little maybe. But not kill him. What do you take us for? Lunatics?” 

[Name] laughed and shook her head.

        “What are you assholes laughing about this early in the morning?” yawned Al coming downstairs in his boxers, joining [Name] and Matt on the couch. He sat closely on her other side.

        “Nothing. Mattie’s just being dumb,” [Name] stated, lightly elbowing the Canadian in the ribs.

        “Am not,” he groaned lightly, swiping the remote and changing the channel.

        “Oh! Do I hear cartoons?!” cheered Oliver, running down the stairs in pale blue pyjama shorts and a pink nightshirt. Setting her bowl on the coffee table, [Name] turned to nod at him.

        “Just in time!” she cheered, and a moment later had Oliver sat sideways in her lap while Al and Matt complained loudly. It was shortly after that Francois joined them, settling on the far end of the sectional.

This was how the guys wanted it.

Just the five of them.

France.

America.         

Canada.                      

England.                                 

And the single human girl that could get them to behave.

[almarchive]

     hello, its nora bringing yet another problematic character. this is a spoiled daddy’s bitch, raised in a farmhouse in vermont, who’s never really had to work for anything in her life and doesn’t want to. studying class civ cos she thinks it makes her sound smart, but actually hates fuckin latin and just loves learning about feckless hedonism and the festivals of bacchus. was expelled from princeton in her first year so her parents basically paid her way into lockwood. loves the smell of libraries and listening to french music from a tinny record player in knee socks. has a twin brother called otto who is basically guy bellingfield from the riot club and tbh knowing my lack of self control i‘ll probs end up bringing him here too.

bio is below the cut, like this post to be bombarded with plotting messages x

it might be HER SOPHOMORE year but I still think ALMA OLIVE PUTNAM looks exactly like ALICE PAGANI and sometimes I think the FEMALE is actually them. Of course I’m wrong, as they’re 20 and studying CLASSICAL CIVILISATION while living in AUDAX here at Lockwood. The TAURUS can be rather TENACIOUS and MAGNETIC, but also kind of FANCIFUL and DOUBLE-CROSSING. Their most played song on Spotify was LAISSE TOMBER LES FILLES by FRANCE GALL, so I think that says a lot.

THE SHORT FORM.

—  born in vermont in a big old farmhouse. her great-great-grandfather moved to america as an immagrant and worked on a plantation, made his wa up cos he could speak a lot of languages and therefore win more people over. for the last two generations, putnam men have owned the farm and do little of the dirty work. big in the meat industry.

— both her parents had Large Personalities, so alma’s never really been shy around adults, even as a kid she’d speak to them in a forthright, confident manner, and because she was always surrounded by adults, she’s always seemed a bit Wise Beyond Her Years. — very much a consolidation of every character in the secret history. has a morbid longing for the picturesque at all costs. obsessed with w.h. auden and the beat poets. — ”aestheticism is the only thing worth pursuing and even that is pointless” — is majoring in classical civilisation. can read ancient greek and latin. also speaks french. — studies hard and plays hard. she gets top marks but it’s because academia is literally her life, she loves the smell of libraries, the ancient smoke of learning, of feeling like old wine in a new bottle reincarnated from the bones of some old, dead witchy woman who invented a cure for cowpox or somethin. — isn’t a foward-planner, however. frida prefers to leave her options open, play the field, live in a spontaneous manner so her study style is mostly cramming a few days before a test, or staying up all night writing an essay on a massive adrenaline boost powered by red bull or probably adderall, scribbling (or typing) furiously into the night. — pretentious motherfucker. LOVES poetry, especially the romantics, loves morbid ones too, edgar allen poe, sylvia plath, allen ginsberg, she just loves them all. can’t get enough. her favourite films are like…. wanky artfilm independent european cinema. especially french new wave. “what do you think of goddard’s work??” while snorting a line off someone’s sink at 5am on a school night, but you can bet she’ll make it to that 9am class. — very Intelligent and Beautiful and knows both of those facts. vocal feminist. soapbox sadie. Very Passionate about Issues. plays devil’s advocate. humanitarian, vegan. — judgemental but takes great care not to appear so. — just wants to be Loved By All. a party girl ; doesn’t rlly enjoy it, jst feels she Should enjoy it. — tries to be an Enigma. wants to be mysterious and unreadable because that’s what books have taught her makes women Desirable and Interesting and Cool. — obsessively devours mystery and thriller novels. she herself is a gillian flynn book waiting to happen. — act like the flower but be the serpent under it. is a user. manipulative. leads people on. will throw another student under the bus to demonstrate her own intelligence and integrity — heavily involved in the theatre society. loves attention. — has an addictive personality. seems unable to do anything in a small dose, she has to let it utterly consume her. with sports, she’s fiercely competitive, runs track, played lacrosse at school, now is a cheerleader probably. with alcohol, it’s never a shot, it’s a whole bottle – wine or whiskey – she’ll be table dancing before the night’s up and making out with someone she’ll regret in the morning. — her clothing style is like…. vintage thrift store but make it preppy. berets and cute hats, neck scarves, large fluffy cardigans or like those leathery jackets with big suede fringes on them, mini skirts (very 70s), and knee high socks or boots. quite often she’ll be in sports kit, maybe a cute tennis skirt, n when she’s feeling casual she’ll wear like, a talking heads tshirt with a pair of mom jeans and converse, but otherwise, the library is her catwalk. — relates to ophelia from hamlet and sibyl vane in dorian gray. weirdly obsessed with women who commit suicide. loves jackson pollock paintings and abstract art. – likes old things. old books, old music, old houses, it reminds her of happier times like when she wasn’t alive. buys all her music on vinyl and has a gramphone because “The Sound quality is Better” kfdsjj.

PLOTS.

here are some generic wanted plots but by all means message me so we can flesh them out more if any strike ur interest:

study buddies !! someone who is equally unprepared and so spends all night in the library with alma before a big deadline, maybe they even met in the library

if they’re from new england or vermont, then cousins . second cousins / extended family / family friends –  probably spat volavons on your character once as children, omg childhood friends !

people who live on the same floor and only know each other from brief interactions in the lift or the canteen

frinds !! unlikely friends !! toxic friends !! former best friends separated by sporting or academic rivalries !

hockey / cheer friends who are on other teams but who she absolutely loves playin against!!!

fellow academics who like meeting up to discuss latin and greek ! gimme a secret society bonding by their love of ancient learning

i reckon she’s in a lot of societies, definitely the film club, maybe works as a projectionist at the uni cinema if they have one so give me ppl affiliated with that, give me fellow wanky pretentious art-lovers and poets and historians who will go to museums and galleries with her and listen to the velvet underground on vinyl

people she gets mortally fucked off her tits with at parties

people who think she is throwing her academic potential away by caving to hedonistic impulse

people she has drunkenly made out with, hooked up with, or regularly sleeps with casually, maybe even a friend w benefits she is repressing feelings for, i love angst,

people she used to date or unrequitedly likes, but to them it’s just a physical thing, give me all the thirsty angst plots, and maybe some softness too, i need some religion in this girls life, she is a roman catholic after all

FULL BIOGRAPHY.

alma olive putnam.

intro.

            The girl is a knife. Razor-sharp, double-edged, the bright shine of a two-faced, lovely thing. Silver like the secrets you magpie thief from other heads. You’re a scavenger of knowledge, of tidbits, of gossip to lock away for later use and late-night re-inspection. A mind is like a clock if you get to learn the pieces. Bit by bit, you dismantle the inner workings of the brains that tick around you – how easy it is to change it’s path, how words and their meanings can make a person laugh or cry in an instant. To have the power to control that is to be a God. It’s the power trip you crave wielding pom-poms in your hands; a possessive need for control that a younger you, small and weak, never had as a child. Small lips, smaller smile, a doll clutched in your too-hungry fingers, hard enough to shatter the bones of a real infant. You cut your hair with your mother’s kitchen scissors before the autumn falls, rendering you out of season, unfit for the cold weather that beats against the nape of your neck, where a stick-and-poke marks the star you were born under ; the bull. “Mama, when will I be a Queen?” As soon as they find a crown small enough not to slip from your head.

biography.

            If you get hungry enough, they say, you start eating your own heart. Hands red, stained by pomegranate seeds, the empty pulp of its shell splattered on your thighs you find yourself wondering – what would it be like to want? In the beginning, you never knew hunger. Twins, born under the same star, you first, him second -- a nuclear family. Never a sister to compete with, you were always the cherry pie of your parents’ hearts. Raven-haired, blue-eyed, beautiful baby of mine. The townhouse in Vermont and the summer house in Lyon, you wanted for nought, showered with attention, saddled with gifts - hardly a wonder you came to rely on such affection as a confirmation of your own worth.

            At eight years old you first met death, blood on a gingham-print dress, a smear of it over your cheekbone and the pulp of a mangled animal at your feet murdered by the hands of a stable boy. “Alma, my precious baby, you get away from that filth,” your Mama would cry from the upstairs balcony – cigar in one hand and a bloody Mary in the other – though whether the filth she referred to was the dead pig or the boy with a kernel of corn in his mouth, you never did find out.

            Your family earned their keeps in farming, great-grandfather Wolfgang Hildegarde a German immigrant, great-grandmother Maura Lisbon a prairie girl. They fell hopelessly in love between troughs and pig-shit, working for three dollars a day at a farm their descendants would later own, trade deals with the Indians, vacations to Calcutta, your father Todd Putnam in the kind of sheepskin coat his father’s father could only dream of owning. He worked hard so that you’d never have to. Your mama once asked – you heard it through the window, rounding cartwheels across the picket-fenced lawn – could he not find a respectable career rather than selling shrink-wrapped pork for a dime a dozen? That blood money had no business raising a child. You look far back enough, Edie, your father had said in his low, strong voice that could bring a Civil War to silence, and I think you’ll find that all money is blood money.

            Language was never fickle on your tongue, French dinner time talk by the time you were out of your Hush Puppy shoes, your mama fixing the au pair a smile as she fixed herself another martini. You learned the clarinet at four and how to dance with the grace of a swansong at six, ethereal under a spotlight, an audience captive in the palm of your hand. By eight you knew that you’d always been destined to be loved. Loved so hard they would want to taste you, bite into the soft plump of your cheek and eat you alive. That was how magnetic you wanted to feel. But mother hamsters eat their own young when penned in together too long, and soon you became too wild, too restless, another package on your father’s delivery invoice, box-shipped out to English boarding school.

            Fitting in had never been something you had to concern yourself with. You were always the shiny new toy the other girls wanted to play with, bright like a dropped coin from a magpie’s beak. Wherever you went, you seemed to leave a trail of awe, pig-tailed Harriet’s adoring you, imitating you, teachers forgiving your class-time chatter for the sake of your wild heart and the restless spirit you possessed. Tell us what it’s like in the States, Alma. They’d coo, enamoured by your Hollywood drawl. Does your father own a gun? You hardly knew. Barely even knew the colour of his hair, for the scarce amount of times he’d stoop to kiss your cheek, though you’d tell silver-tongued tales if it’d guaranteed you an audience. When you learned how to smile at the right times, and that flattery would get you everywhere, it soon became apparent that charm would pave the yellow brick road to success even when your lack of drive couldn’t.

            The road you followed – gum-snapping, roller-blading, friendship bands all up your arm – eventually led you to small-town fame. Bright-eyed and gingham skirted, you’d always known you were more. There was a hunger in you to be something extraordinary, a want so adamant to be imagined and desired that it was almost savage. In leather-bound volumes and a circle of stones, you were Helen of Troy, the girl for whom they’d launch a thousand ships. But there’s so much rage within you, collecting like sawdust in cavernous parts. Hockey helped. There was something grounding about the feeling of a stick clasped in your hands. Sweat. Stiff knuckles. Feet pounding the earth. The smash of wood against flesh in the scram of a game, passed off as mere enthusiasm. “Slipped, sorry.” Hockey is the one thing you had that was yours alone – a feral instinct that motivates you to play; something primitive within you that sparks an energy like no other. On the pitch, you feel alive.

[hetaliawhatifs]

okay hi, i liked the 2p allies kidnapping one and i was hoping you could do a continuation of that... how would they react if when they found their s/o, the s/o was chained up and bloody... would they go to their s/o first or go to the sprain who kidnapped them first ? thank youu

Alright, sorry this one has been left waiting for a while. So Warning: Dark Themes: Blood, Gore, and Lots of Unhappy 2ps. -Admin Jay

2p France: “Who did this to you?…”Francois would see this as a reason to avoid falling in love…but it was too late, he was in love and look where it got him. He would rush to his s/o and make sure they were still alive before figuring out how to get them out of the chains. What the hell kind of kidnappers did this? This was sick…He would look around to see if any one of the kidnappers was near by. If not, he would free his s/o and try to find a way to burn the place to the ground with everyone else hopefully inside. If they were, he would take them out with ruthless precision before carrying his s/o home…and possibly moving. 

2p Canada: “Oh this is twisted…Matt would already be armed and pissed, seeing his s/o in chains and bloodied would send him further into the red zone. He would look around for anyone to hold responsible before beating them into a bloody pulp with his hockey stick and his fists before releasing his s/o and carrying them home. He would take an item from one of the kidnappers, just so Kuma has their scent…in case any of them are suicidal and want to try again. 

2p America: “Someone is gonna pay for this…”Allen would be looking for someone to murder. He would check his s/o and make sure they are breathing before unchaining them and having them wait while he…handles business. He would go through and systemically decimate every single one involved in the kidnapping and subsequent torture of his s/o. Once everyone else in the building has been reduced to nothing but bloody pulp, he would scoop his s/o up and bring them home. Let someone try again. Allen dares them. 

2p England: “Oh poppet, let me take you home.”Oliver wouldn’t care about anything other than his s/o in the moment. He would want them to only look at him as he unchains them and keeps an eye out for the kidnappers. Though if one of the kidnappers dared to show their face, Oliver wouldn’t be able to hold himself back. He would go into an episode as he tore the kidnappers to pieces with his knife and laughed while doing so. Though if he does go into an episode, it would take him a moment or his s/o screaming for him before he comes back to reality and focuses on getting them home and cleaning them up.

2p China: “Now I get to show them who they messed with!”Zhao would go through the entire place top to bottom to find everyone responsible. He wouldn’t leave single soul alive…or in one piece. That way no one can try to kidnap his s/o again and also it sends a message that he is not one to be crossed. Zhao would bring his s/o home as fast as he could before cleaning them up and promising that it would never happen again. He would spend every moment from that day on making sure they forget their time away from him. 

2p Russia: “Now let’s be getting you home.”Viktor would already have handled every kidnapper, swiftly yet oh so violently. The last part would be getting his s/o home and making sure this never happens again. He would also send a message by burning the entire building to the ground where they were holding his s/o…oh and did he forget to mention that he left some of the kidnappers trapped inside? Oops.

[lhugbereth]

Skater AU. In some game, Gladio looses his cool, starts a fight on ice and gets sent away for the rest of the game. Kings lose this important match and almost everyone blames Gladio, including himself. Prompto is the only one who can cheer him up.

Thanks for the awesome prompt!!! I think I might have taken this a little darker than maybe you were expecting, but I hope you still like it anyway ^^;;; 

This scene is from the same game as the last part (Insomnia Kings versus the Gralea Demons) only this time we get to see Gladio’s side of the story. And just what that asshole on the other team said to piss him off so bad... 

Warnings for violence, language, and not nice threats

(Also, sorry for an error in the last chapter! Ice hockey isn’t played in quarters but in frames. I’ll edit later to reflect that :D )

Story under the cut v v v 

- Gladio skates out onto the ice feeling like nothing could possibly ruin his mood. Even knowing their game that night is against the Gralea Demons, the nastiest team in the division, he's all smiles. The seats in the arena are packed, creating a sea of his own team’s black and crimson. There are colorful signs and cheering fans, his teammates are pumped on the atmosphere. And somewhere in the front row, Prompto is there to watch him. It feels like the start of the best game of his career.

- The Demons send out their starting lineup - six gorilla-sized skaters in deep purple and grey, their smiles decidedly unfriendly beneath the visors of their helmets. But what they gain in size, they’re going to lose in speed and technique. All around them, the crowd is cheering, stomping, sending a fierce energy through the air, and it’s reflected in the Kings’ cocky grins. This ought to be an easy game.

- Gladio lines himself up against one the biggest of the brutes as the ref skates out to place the puck. The buzzer sounds out the start of the match.

- Everyone springs into motion at once. Out of the corner of his eye Gladio sees Biggs snag the puck, and narrowly dodge his opponent to pass to Nyx. Then Ulric’s flying down the rink while the crowd cheers him on. He’s got three guys on him but they can’t match his speed, and soon he’s in range of the goal. He aims up, slams the puck hard, and the goalie only manages to block it by throwing himself to the ice at the last second. No goal, but Nyx is grinning at the near-miss anyway. The Demons exchange looks, then glare at him as one.

- Ten minutes into the first frame and the Kings have already scored two goals. The Gralean players are pissed. As soon as the puck is put back into play, they’re suddenly changing their tactics. All five of the skaters are ignoring the puck and going straight for Nyx, and in an instant he’s down. The refs can’t tell whose stick tripped him or who tackled him first, but the damage is done - Nyx is helped off the ice with his left arm clutched to his chest, while the Demons lose two players to penalties. Two more identical brutes are ready to replace them. The Kings, however, are crippled.

- Now Gladio’s mad. He throws himself into defensive mode, using his shield tactics to help the others avoid Nyx’s fate. But the longer the game goes on, the fiercer (and dirtier) the other team gets, until they’ve taken out half the Kings’ players and caught up to their score. The game is tied at the end of the second frame. So much for this being easy.  

- That’s when the Demons bring out their secret weapon to obliterate Insomnia’s last defense.

- The Gralean team, coached by an old but ruthless man named Aldercapt, has always relied on rough, brutal tactics to quite literally crush their opponents. Usually, this means exploiting their own players like pawns in order to weaken the other team little by little. Penalties mean nothing to them in the face of victory. But overpowering their opponents sometimes means studying them, knowing how and where to strike without needing to land a blow. It’s dirty, it’s savage, but it almost always works.

- And Amicitia is an easy target that day.

- Both teams line up at the starting line, pairing off to wait for the buzzer signaling the start of the final frame. Gladio skates into position only to hear a mocking voice call out to him. “That pretty boy of yours here tonight?” the man across from him grins, showing off a mouth significantly less full of teeth than it should be. Gladio glares at him but refuses to acknowledge that. “I hope he is. Me and the team wanted to meet him.”

- The buzzer hasn’t sounded yet. Gladio feels his fingers twitch. “Focus on the game, asshole.”

- “Oh, I am, don’t worry. But as soon as we win, we’re planning to take that boy of yours as our prize. Spoils of war, y’know.”

- “Shut your fucking mouth.”

- “Sweet smile he’s got. Bet it’d feel real good wrapped around my dick.“

- “I said shut your mouth or I’ll fucking shut it for you.”

- The man’s grin darkens. As the ref skates up to the center line, puck in hand, the Graelan player leans forward, lowers his voice just for Gladio. “How many of us d’you think he can take before he’s beggin’ us to stop?”

- He tries not to picture it, tries to keep the image of Prompto bruised and crying at the Demons’ mercy out of his head. Gladio’s jaw clenches and his fingers tighten around his stick hard enough to hurt. He imagines the heavy wood is the man’s neck, and he wants to snap it in half. It’s really all he can do to resist. The buzzer is all that saves him in that moment, but even when the frame starts he can’t shake the man.

- “We’ve broken toys before,” he continues, dogging Gladio even as he races for the puck. “Made ‘em beg for mercy before the end. Is he pretty when he begs? When he cries?”

- Gladio’s seeing red. The game is fading from his vision, the cheers of the crowd drowned out by the man’s hateful words. “You better believe when we’re done fuckin’ him, your pretty little whore’ll never skate again.”

- That’s it. He’s done. Game and rules forgotten, Gladio whirls around and slams his fist into the man’s jaw. The crunch of knuckle against bone is deeply satisfying, but it isn’t enough. He follows him when he goes down, arms swinging as he attacks again and again, breaking bone and skin alike while the man beneath him howls with laughter. Hands are grabbing him, he doesn’t know whose. All he cares about is that the other man is still breathing and so he isn’t done. There’s blood everywhere. The crowd is silent. The only sounds in the rink are the ref’s shouts and the sickly wet thuds of fists against an already broken face.

- Gladio can’t think, can’t see straight. Several men eventually pull him up, shout at him to get out of the rink. Fuck them. Fuck all of them. Gladio throws his stick and fumes off the ice, slamming and shoving his way back to the locker rooms. There, he strips off his uniform, growls and dents up a few lockers in his rage. And then finally, when the adrenaline suddenly dries up and he’s left empty, shaking, he collapses on the bench with the full realization of what he’s done.

- It’s some time later that a soft knock on the door catches his attention. The game is probably over by now, he’s certain one of his teammates has come to tell him he fucked up, maybe even that he’s killed someone. But when he finally looks up, raising his head from his arms with a groan, he’s shocked to see Prompto.

- His Prompto.

- Gladio hasn’t cried in front of anyone in years. Not since he was a kid and broke his nose for the first time during winter tryouts. But he can’t hold back now. Prompto’s sitting down next to him, throws his arms around broad, trembling shoulders, and strokes his sweat-matted hair through it all. Gladio’s sorry, he’s so sorry, mostly because he’s certain he cost his team the game (Prompto confirms it a moment later) over what he knew was just a trick. He’s sorry, too, for showing Prompto this terrible side of him. He’s not sorry, of course, for beating the other guy to an actual bloody pulp.

- “We all saw it,” Prompto says, his voice careful. “He was trying to get you to hit first. What did he say to you?”

- Gladio swallows. He looks up into his boyfriend’s eyes, those sweet, summer blues full of concern. He can’t tell him. He can’t repeat those awful words when he knows how much they’ll hurt him. So he settles for shaking his head and hugging Prompto closer. “It doesn’t matter. They’re all talk.” (Although he’s pretty sure that one fucker won’t be saying much with his jaw wired shut).

- The team is understandably pissed. Their coach, Weskham, has more than a few choice words for Gladio about conduct on the ice and the legal battles Regis is going to have to deal with because of him. The team will lose money. Gladio has to make a choice - suspension for the rest of the season, or accept the assault charges. He chooses to sit out the winter. It’s as much a blow to his ego as it is to his team.

- But when he’s holding Prompto close that night, feeling his soft smile against his neck and his fingers in his hair, he knows it was all worth it. The next fool who makes the mistake of threatening him will end up with far more than just a broken face.