#i dunno. I like resisting and having that resistance broken

[tinfoil-jones]

Gravity Falls: For Your Own Good, Ch. 8

Summary: A few years after moving to Gravity Falls and having his lab built, Stanford Pines happens upon his estranged twin brother, Stanley. He mentally prepared himself to be suffocated by his brothers neediness all over again - what he wasn't prepared for was Stanley walking right past him like he didn't even notice him.

Rating: M for language, violence, and adult implications

Preface: Dialogue only, but some actions will be annotated for clarity. Cross-Posted on AO3 Here

First - Prev - Next

CH.8

“You’ve been down here forever PhD. Maybe you should… I dunno, leave your evil basement sub-lab? Maybe eat something other than an entire tube of toothpaste?”

“This isn’t toothpaste. It’s a calorie-rich blended solution formulated specifically for daily nutrition, in a convenient tube to avoid the need for cutlery.”

“Doc. Read the label.”

“...”

“You should probably sleep too if you mixed those up.”

“You’re just trying to get me to leave so you can escape.”

“I’ve broken out of county jail, the trunk of a sinking car, a shipping crate, cement shoes, and even my loan sharks book club meeting. But this? A forcefield? A real, no-shit forcefield? I don’t have anything for that… anymore.”

“What was that last part?”

“I said I can’t break out of sci-fi prison. Go to bed already, Doc - it’d be a lot easier for me to sleep too if you weren’t hovering over there, looking at me all sad like I’m some stray at the pound about to be put down.”

“Fine, but don’t go anywhere.”

“Well there goes my plans for the night.”

“...What plans?”

“For the fifth time, it’s called sarcasm.”

“Now that I think about it, I think I still have an invention I need to calibrate…”

“Specs was right; how did you survive out here by yourself?”

(...)

“Thanks for helping me clean the place up, Fiddleford. I’ll admit, I’ve been putting it off for a while now.”

“You don’t say… You know, you still haven’t told me what that extra level in your basement is for.”

“I’ve already told you, it’s a private study.”

“You’re so secretive about it.”

“Private study.”

“Alright, alright.”

“After we’re done here, I have an anomaly in the woods I need to check out; would you be willing to keep an eye on the house and the lab while I’m gone?” 

“I have no problem making sure your brother doesn’t disappear into thin air, of course I’ll stay back for your peace of mind.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“It’s what you meant - oh don’t make that face at me. I’m not trying to make fun of you, I think it’s… Endearing, that you care so much even if you have the worst ways of showing it.”

“...Just keep an eye on the house. And maybe go down there every so often to interact with him, the isolation isn’t doing him many favours.”

“How did your last talk with him go?”

“He’s still convinced that I’m grieving over my ‘real’ twin, and using him as a substitute because we look alike. He can acknowledge that the timeline and traits line up, and that he himself has a missing past, but he still thinks he’s a ‘Malone’ and not a ‘Pines’. I don’t know why he’s being so resistant to the possibility…”

"You know... 'Stan Malone' sounds mighty similar to 'Standalone'. 

*Ford facepalms*

“I thought it was clever.”

“It is, that’s why I’m mad.”

(...)

“-and it’s actually called ‘Backupsmor’? That’s its name?”

“Yes.”

“Wow. They didn’t even bother hiding what they were huh?”

“I suppose so. What about you, Stan?”

“Pft, I didn’t go to college. I’m… pretty sure? I didn’t graduate high school.”

“You’re not fully sure?”

“F, I can only remember back when I was 17, and I was already living on the streets. I don’t think I could have graduated by then. Not like it would have helped me.”

“17, you say? Interesting…”

“What about you? Your whole family full of geniuses like you?”

“Everyone’s… smart in their own way. I’m the only member of my family to attend college, however. The rest of my family works on a hog farm.”

“That’s pretty cool, striking it out on your own.”

“Mighty kind of you to-.”

“Good-looking, smart, and independent? I like that in a-.”

“I’m back!”

*Fiddleford hastily presses the mute button on the containment unit*

“Stanford, you’re back! How was it?”

“I was hoping it was something new, but it was just the gnomes trying to utilize the size changing crystals. How were things here?”

"I was just getting more information on what past he does remember- didn’t rightly get much because he is such a flirt."

"He's only doing it to a) make you uncomfortable, b) make you let your guard down, or c) charm you enough to convince you to free him."

"Well he hasn't quite succeeded on any of those. Does he flirt with you?"

"That's disgusting, Fiddleford. I don't know how you do things in Tennessee, but here it is improper for siblings to-."

“Genius, didn't you just say he doesn't believe you're related?"

“Somewhere in there he must still know I'm his brother. Which is a good thing for us because his memories can't be buried too deep."

TAPTAPTAP

*Fiddleford presses the mute button of the cell to unmute it*

“No, that's not it. That motherfucker is ugly.”

“Ugly? We have the same face!”

“Yeah, but on you it doesn't work.”

To be continued...

[lucyvaleheart]

you know, earlier someone had me describe to them what it feels like to obey.

....and as I did so, I realized I've never quite put it into words; that heat that builds in me.... That feeling in my chest-

How does it feel to obey?

It makes me jump, at first. Startled, like a prey animal hearing a rustle in the nearby bush. And then I get this.... Awful burning in my chest... Almost painful; it feels so wonderful, so thrilling....

Being afraid makes it burn so much more... So much stronger, overwhelmingly so.....

..... Sometimes it makes my breath catch in my throat.

Sometimes it'll draw tears from my eyes.

Other times it makes me moan, makes my mind feel all fuzzy....

....all of them feel so terrifying, so humiliating, so good.

...it makes me want more.

[zwhoreo]

mommy kink luffy? 👀

ok so I don’t think luffy would ever actually use the word mommy but I think the rest of the kink can apply hehehe

nurture me - luffy x f!reader

smut

summary: missing the comfort of a nurturing female figure as a child, luffy sometimes turns to you to get that feeling back. and sometimes, he wants sex

contains: mommy kink (the word mommy is never mentioned), very innocent luffy, he’s pretty sub in this one, soft dom reader

words: 2k

_______________________________

Luffy is upset today, he’s not sure why, he’s feeling this rush of some sort of unplaceable loneliness even though he isn’t alone at all, surrounded by people to love and spend time with and hug. He had fallen and broken a stack of glasses in the kitchen yesterday, and he was chastised for his clumsiness, smacked by Nami, shoved out by Sanji. He had cut his arm on the glass, nothing deep, nothing a couple bandaids from Chopper’s office couldn’t fix, but it still made him a little sad and distressed for some reason. He needed comfort but pushed it away and forgot about it.

So now he’s sitting on the bow of the ship and picking at the bandaids. He wants to go bother you, he needs some comfort, a hug from you seems to be an immediate fix for times like these. And maybe something more, he thinks, like playtime, sort of.

You’re reading a book Robin gave you, curled up on your cabin’s chair, the porthole open next to you for that crisp sea breeze. You’re delighted at those little sandal steps, your door opening, large, glittery eyes looking at you excitedly.

Luffy hops on your bed, rolling on his back and kicking his legs and reaching for you, a teasing grabbing motion with his fists. Absolutely adorable.

You lean over to take his hand, he squirms and giggles at the contact and he’s smiling so brightly.

“[naaame]…” he whines, trying to pull you to him but you pull instead, still holding his stretched arm as you sit back in the chair. He pouts and stretches his other arm out to you.

“No pulling, Luffy,” you say, gently removing one arm from your waist knowing his intention to yank you into bed.

“Please… can we please cuddle… I wanna really bad…” Luffy’s squirming again, begging, you just can’t resist him.

You set down your book, walking over to your bed and sitting by him which makes him squeal in delight and open his arms for a hug. You lay back and pull him up onto you, letting him bury his head in your chest and find a comfortable position as you pet his hair.

He likes to be nurtured. It’s a childish part of him that comes out sometimes, especially when he thinks about his old village and Ace and Sabo and Shanks, when he misses getting to play and explore all day and just be a kid. But he didn’t really have anyone back then to take care of him like this. Makino was the closest, he got a taste of the affection a mother could bring, but mostly he was just raised by himself and his brothers, and bandits, and he wasn’t really ever cuddled or held when he was young. So now you’re his person, he gets to be extra close to you and he’ll never be too much.

And usually he’s more dominant, even in his innocence and softness, he’s your captain and you’re his to take care of and keep safe, he picks you up and carries you and holds you against his chest, you’re his, he likes being in control.

But that doesn’t have to be always.

Those times like now where he paws at you and lays on you all slack like a baby, you just curl up with your arms around him and murmur comforting things in his ear. There’s those deer eyes again, searching, he’s leaning in to kiss you and you catch him halfway with his cheeks squished in your hands. Arms circle your waist needily and this poor boy has squirmed his way between your legs because he wants friction, maybe.

“Lu, hun, what do you want?” you coax gently, tracing his shoulders, you know he wants you so bad but he has to try to say what he wants if he wants something, that’s what you’re teaching him.

“Um… I dunno, I guess uh…” Luffy’s mind is cloudy, he wants your body but he doesn’t know what to ask for so when your thigh comes to naturally rest between his legs he just settles for this, at least.

You laugh lightly as he begins to grind on your leg, hips rutting, rhythmic but messy, he starts making these little whimpering noises in your ear as he rubs himself on you like a puppy in heat. You let him, hugging gently and just laying there listening.

“I… mm! I wanna suck your breasts?” He seems excited to have found words, talking casually as he continues to get himself off on your thigh, aching and growing beneath his pants. You can’t refuse him.

“Sure, hun.” This is perfect because you’re a little tired. Let your boy enjoy himself and relax with him and it’ll all be ok. And you pull off your shirt, you let him see you, and he grins before squeezing you tightly and latching on, suckling gently on your nipple while looking up at you with stars in his soft brown eyes.

“S’ good…” he growls, mouth full, nuzzling and gripping against you.

You lift him into your arms after a few minutes, when he gets teeth-y with your skin, he whines at the loss of contact with his mouth but lets you pick him up and place him in your lap, squeezing his face in your hands, giving him a caring hug.

“Luffy, baby, you want more, huh? C’mon…” You place your hand on the small of his back, rubbing his skin.

“Mmf… I wanna put my dick in you,” he says, voice in the most amount of innocence he could possibly sound with those words. You weren’t expecting this, usually he’s more innocent when you two play, when he asks for something, but you won’t complain.

You smile. You pet him lovingly, gentle praise. You kiss his cheek and then his mouth and he’s still in a teething mood so you need to pull away when he bites your lip, but you press his face into your neck because you always like biting there.

“Want some help?” you coo to him, tugging at his clothes, and he nods happily against you and makes a tiny sound.

His shirt is open, easy to slide off. Glistening warm skin meets the cool sunlight of the porthole, wave reflections, he’s so beautiful when you can see his bare shoulders. You take a moment to lean in and kiss them. And then his jeans, you have to sort of pick him up again to unbutton and remove them and his cock slaps your wrist, no underwear, you ignore your aching need to touch it and continue to take care of him, settling his twitching hips and tossing his clothes to the side.

Soft and bare, dripping with sweetness and innocence, he’s draped on you, sitting in your lap, naked and waiting to be touched in a gentle way.

Your shirt’s off. Now your jeans, your panties, Luffy starts moaning and thrusting into nothing at your scent and the feeling of your skin but you have to calm him.

“No, baby, let’s be patient ok?” You poke his cheek and he whines but just curls into you a little more, trying to wait like you’ve taught him.

You switch the positions of your legs, you’re on his lap, propped up on the bed, sort of straddling him, he’s sitting in front of you with his cock rubbing through your wetness, eyes hooded in pleasure, he’s waiting for your command because he’s yours to comfort and hold and protect right now.

“[naaame]…” he whines in such a little voice, staring up through his hair, begging.

“Move like this…” you murmur, lining up his hips so he can rub against you for a while, and get you wet. He does so in a careful way, biting his lip as he tries not to plunge within you just yet. You’re still so tired, you want lazy, careful sex. But Luffy’s the one who needs to be looked after and cared for right now. Nurture me, is what his eyes say, mind in a space so far away.

So once you’re warmed up and once Luffy’s being tortured by need and the rising and falling of his chest is pressed to you with brutal pressure, you smile and reach down to line him up yourself. He squeaks as he feels the touch of your hand down there, and the cocoon of velvet enveloping him, you can move just be gentle like I taught you, your smile says.

So he does. Instinctual thrusting fueled by pure love and appreciation, his hands reaching to grip your ass and lift you up more against him, he’s getting a little more dominant but just in an excited, playful sort of way. You hold him, you put your arms around his shoulders and breathe in his scent.

“So good, Lu, you’re doing so well…” you whisper in his ear as he works you into pulp, grabby hands, needy whines.

He likes to feel grown up but still be cared for. He doesn’t really know what he’s doing but he likes to be shown how. He likes to be cradled but to feel you so deep, his infinitely loving girlfriend who knows his needs, who would give him the world.

It comes eventually, that confusing knot in his stomach, now is the time he wants to be held the most. You squeeze him so tight and let him squirm in your arms as you carry him in coaxing gentleness through his powerful climax. He drips within you, you’ve claimed him with the comforting warmth of your body.

You make sure to pull him out and wipe him off and even in his hazy, submissive state he still makes sure to rub your hips and thighs and make sure you’re ok and nothing hurt you. “Was that good? Did I do good?” he murmurs as he squirms onto his back in your arms like a cat looking for affection.

“So good.”

Luffy’s restless now, he needs to occupy his mouth which he often does before sleep for self-soothing, and he’s going to nurse right now, curled up in your arms. So he reaches for your breasts again but that’s when you see his arm.

“Hey Lu, what’s that? Did you hurt yourself?” You lift his forearm for examination and he blushes in slight shame. Because you then say, “when did this happen? You shoulda told me!”

“Um, yesterday. I dunno… I fell and broke some glasses and I thought you’d get mad, it’s just a scratch, I’m fine.” He avoids your eyes.

“I’d never be mad at you for something like that, it’s ok, accidents happen.” You run your hand through his hair. “These bandaids aren’t fresh, we gotta get you new ones, hun…”

“N- no! Don’t leave… I don’t wanna let go!” Because he’s attached to you in a tight embrace and can’t picture a world without your arms right now.

“It’ll just be a minute-”

“Carry meee! Please, please, please-” He’s scrambling up your body as you begin to sit up so you let him. You stand up shakily because Luffy is glued to your back, arms around your shoulders and face buried in your neck.

You get bandaids from your cabinet, you have to pry Luffy off of you and let him curl up in your lap again so you can gently change clean and re-bandage his scraped arm. This protective kindness lulls Luffy, it makes him sleepy and happy and like he needs to take a long nap with you which, from the beginning, is what you were excited for. Pulling a curtain over the porthole you’re back to laying on your bed, letting Luffy drift off with his mouth on your breast, calming and grounding for both of you. His hands find yours in his dreamy state, holding on, wanting you to know how much he loves you, in a quiet and innocent way.

[strangelittlestories]

It was in the 6th year of the Wars of the Real that the anti-magicians and their Realis project (that all should act in accordance with certain physical laws) were truly challenged. This was due in no small part due to a singular invention from a family of forest witches.

Their discovery was as ingenious as it was stupid. And it radically changed what a disparate collective was able to accomplish in the face of both overwhelming force and abstract certainty.

It also caused a truly historic amount of epic shitfuckery.

From “I Fought the Spore and the Spore Won: a history of Realis and Resistance”

- - -

“So, you’re the new recruit, huh?” The woman who spoke wore strange armour that looked like it had been grown out of wood. The helmet alone glinted with metal spikes.

“I … uh, I guess? Sorry, I’m kinda new to this whole ‘magical kingdom’ deal you’ve got going on here…” The recruit in question was wearing dull red overalls and a ‘what-the-fuck’ expression.

“No worries, kid. We put out a multiversal call for aid - so anybody with a latent magical destiny or a strong subconscious hero fantasy got pulled in. Very much a ‘To Whom It May Concern’ type of spell.” 

She patted him on the shoulder. Up close he could see that the spikes on her helmet were actually the shards of a broken crown.

“So, uh, do I get any kind of training?”

“You already did, buddy. The spell should’ve planted a ‘potential seed’ inside you. When you’re exposed to trauma, then just in the nick of time it’ll suddenly sprout into the skills you need to survive. Very dramatic.” She paused for a second. “Or you’ll die. Also very dramatic.”

“So … either I’ll be awesome or I’ll die?”

“Well, you would die … unless you have one of these.” She threw him a small vial. He fumbled the catch, but grabbed it on the second try. Inside the vial swirled a glowing grey-green mist. “You catch a mortal wound, drink it. Or smash it on the injury. The fungus inside will patch you up.”

“Fungus?” The man was a pretty even split of horrified and fascinated. He simultaneously wanted to throw the vial away like poison, or guzzle it like forbidden candy.

“Yeah, you ever hear of ‘ophiocordyceps unilateralis’?”

“The weird zombie ant mushroom? Yeah, I saw it on a documentary!”

“Well, a family of witch-mycologists - real wyrd scientist types - they brewed up this variant in their forest. They turned it from a parasite to a symbiote. If it knows who you are, it’ll heal your wounds, get your heart pumping, even move your limbs for you.”

“How do I get it to know who I am?”

“You feed it.” She grinned ghoulishly. “Chuck in some hair, some blood, whatever bits of you are going spare. Anything to sync it up to your DNA. Think of it as your very own cannibal sourdough starter.”

“And people actually use this?”

“Oh yeah. Folks swear by the stuff. They even had an argument over what nickname it should have. The winner was the truly cursed phrase ‘resurrection juice’.”

“...really?”

“Oh yeah. The juice brigade are pretty smug it caught on. Some smart alec tried to give it a mushroom name, but they got one-upped by the juice thing.”

“I’m not sure I’m a fan of sharing my body with a fungus.” He tried to find the right words to articulate the niggling philosophical nuances of the idea and failed. “It feels like, I dunno, a bad idea?”

“Oh, it’s a terrible idea. A real crock of stupid. Pure idiot-fuel. But sometimes, when the world’s against you, the truly bad idea is the only one you have.”

“But, I mean, once the fungus takes over … would I still even be me?” The urge to gobble up the taboo canape had begun to be edged out by the existential dread.

“Look at it this way: you’d be mushroom food anyways, right? Why not let it be mushrooms who think they’re you? I think it’s kinda comforting that when the time comes, I can just relax and let fungus take the wheel.”

The man paused for a second, pondering the nature of life, decay, and resurrection.

“Anyways, they’ll be summoning the portal to pipe us out on our first mission soon. So best get ready.” The princess (for that’s what she was) thought for a second, then asked: “By the way … what did you do before you got sucked up into this particular asscrack, anyhow?”

The man gulped.

“I was a plumber.” He said.

[adabear]

I wrote a supercorp ficlet about hands because I’m gay gay homo gay I’ve never written fiction that wasn’t a comic before shut UP (I’m embarrassed)

hands

“You have such pretty hands.” Kara held Lena’s hands, open, small, and pale on top of her own. Lena’s hands were elegant, long fingered, with carefully maintained nails (black today) splayed out for Kara’s careful gaze. The kryptonian closed her grasp around Lena, just a little, and ran a careful thumb down the interior of her middle finger. A callous, from holding a pen maybe. And there, on her thumb was a flat, silver scar, so small you could miss it. 

“I was nine. Playing with a soldering gun,” Lena helpfully supplied, the promise of a laugh in her voice. 

Kara closed her hands around Lena’s fully, weaving their fingers together and wiggling their joined fists playfully. A little squeeze. She’d held Lena’s hand before, plenty of times. She knew them like- well like the back of her own hand. But things had felt a little… different lately. They had lunches, and game nights, and movie sleepovers. They’d always had those. But something about them lately seemed significant. A little more important. Kara couldn’t really explain how it just. It just was. 

It was silly really, a quick movement, playful affection between friends when suddenly Kara found herself unable to resist drawing Lena’s pale knuckles to her lips and kissing them. Giggly, chaste little pecks that made Kara’s chest feel so full she had to drop Lena’s hands back in their laps, and laugh, and hide her face behind her own journalist’s palms. She heard Lena laughing too but couldn’t look. 

“Sorry! Sorry, having a silly day. I’ve been thinking about going back to Catco and I’ve been writing all these articles because when I ask for my job back I want to have something good and I’m just,” Kara paused, finally coming out from hiding. “I’m being goofy,” she laughed, cheeks rosy, finally looking Lena in the eye.

And oh… she had expected Lena to be laughing at her antics too, or maybe picking at the half finished salad left by the demolished remains of Kara’s own lunch. Instead, Lena was giving her one of those looks. Those significant looks, the kind that made their time together feel so important lately. Her gaze, so green, was open and warm and just so, so fond. It sent something crackly and electric ping ponging around in Kara’s chest. She wanted to look away, to hide again, felt her face burning so hot it ached in the tips of her ears, but Lena didn’t look away. Instead, the promise of a smile tugged at her vermillion lips. Kara’s breath caught in her chest.

And Lena looked down. The broken gaze was permission to breathe again. Kara huffed out another little giggle and looked down too, relieved and disappointed that whatever that was had ended. The tingle of adrenaline slowly dwindled down to her fingertips. 

Kara watched Lena run her own pointer down the back of tanned, strong hands. 

“You have pretty hands too,” Lena murmured. And oh no. The buzzing crackle in Kara’s chest roared back to life. She didn’t dare look up, watching Lena’s black nail trace each finger from knuckle to tip with a featherlight touch. Out and back again, a careful, tactile observation.

“You think? I dunno I guess I never thought about them you know they’re just my hands so I see them everyday and-“ Lena stopped Kara’s babbling by turning her wrist, splaying both of Kara’s hands palm up. Why was THAT so affecting?

“Th-they-“ A false start. Oh jeez. The blonde watched Lena knead the pad of her thumb into Kara’s palms, gently massaging them. “I almost wish I could get scars sometimes, you know? Your hands have a story to them but mine are just boring old h-hands!” 

Kara knew her voice was steadily rising in pitch but found herself entirely unable to control it. The brunette had moved on to squeezing each digit delicately and oh Kara would not have expected that to feel so nice. The little buzzy feeling in Kara’s chest was growing, sizzle hot and ticklish, and she felt she might burst. 

“I like them,” Lena said simply, raising Kara’s palms to her face. The Kryptonian watched the motion, utterly dumbstruck, until their eyes met over their shared grasp. Kara froze, held in place by a gaze as effective as Kryptonite. Lena’s eyes were half-lidded, laughing, her lips upturned in a fond, lazy smile. Like she knew exactly what these moments were, where they were going, like she savored lingering in them. 

Kara had a half a second’s notice to realize what was about to happen. A warm breath gusted, ticklish, across the pulse point in her wrist. Lena broke their gaze, eyelashes fluttering low over her cheeks as the brunette looked down. And pressed a single, lingering kiss to the heel of Kara’s hand. 

Something like a squeak must have come out of Kara’s mouth because suddenly Lena was laughing. She returned the superhero’s limp hands to her own lap. Kara found herself flushed and a little miffed. Utterly incapacitated by green eyes and careful fingers. Oh Rao. 

“Are you alright, darling?” Lena laughed, blessedly turning back to her salad so that the blonde could begin the process of returning to her body. 

Kara struggled for only a moment before squeaking, embarrassed and affectionate, “You’re teasing me!!” 

At that, Lena only smiled, unapologetic.

[fairyniceyeah]

🧭🐰 Day 12: “You’re not fine, you’re throwing up"

@sicktember

Summary: Han wakes up to a commotion at night. 

CW: emeto, cursing

Sickie: Lee Know/Minho

Caretaker(s): HAN/Jisung

Han woke up to the sound of loud voices talking over each other and light spilling into the dark dorm room he shared with Jeongin. He groaned, resisting the urge to place his pillow over his head to block out everything.

He could have sworn it was only an hour since he and Changbin had come back home from the studio. He wished he had slammed their broken bedroom door shut when he had gone to bed - it was the only way it shut now - and Han regretted being nice and considerate towards the other members’ sleep. The door must have opened all the way again, allowing light and sound in.

“‘m awake, ‘m awake”, Jeongin muttered, sounding anything but, “wait, I don’t even have school anymore. Shut up!”

Han giggled a bit and opened his burning eyes. While the maknae’s tiredness was cute, a glance at his phone revealed that it was indeed only shortly before 4am. Unless they had all collectively forgotten a schedule in yesterday’s meeting about today’s schedule, they needn’t be awake for at least another three hours yet. 

“Your prince in shining armor will make them shut up”, Han declared and pushed himself up to give the disturbing members a piece of his mind. 

“Wait, I wanna yell at them too”, Jeongin slurred and pushed himself up, stumbling into Han and leaning on him on their way out the door. 

They both groaned at the bright hallway light, Jeongin even covering his eyes for a moment. To their utmost surprise the other members (except for the two eldest hyungs and Hyunjin) were gathered in the hallway in front of the bathroom. Felix and Seungmin were both wide-eyed and talking quickly to each other, while Changbin was knocking on the bathroom door, yelling something that Han’s tired brain didn’t catch.

“Shut the fuck up”, Jeongin said at the same time that Han realised that something must be up and asked: “What’s going on?”

His question was answered by a disgusting sound echoing from the bathroom, sounding like somebody (or something) was turning himself inside out, followed by the sound of liquid hitting liquid. As Felix stepped aside to turn to them, Han saw the puddle. Chunky, yellow puke was covering the hallway floor and a bit of the wall, reeking all the way to the two members now that they noticed it.

“Hyung is sick”, Seungmin said, raising his eyebrows, “obviously.”

Before Han could even wonder if he meant Minho or Hyunjin, assuming that Chan was still at the company, Changbin called: “Minho-yah, I know you don’t want an audience but can you at least let one of us in? Or do you want me to call Channie-hyung?”

He didn’t receive an answer except for a loud, hacking cough. Changbin sighed.

“What happened?”, Han asked worriedly, gesturing at Felix to take Jeongin, who was falling asleep against Han’s back. With the maknae so tired and Felix a rather squeamish person, it would probably be best for them to comfort each other. Looking relieved, Felix hugged Jeongin against his chest, supporting him as he dozed. 

Seungmin explained: “I dunno, woke up to him slamming the doors and found, uh … this.” He gestured awkwardly to the puke on the floor. “Changbinnie-hyung and Lix-hyung woke up too, I guess. Hyunjinnie-hyung is still asleep, the bastard.”

“Let’s be glad at least somebody is getting any sleep.” Changbin sighed and turned to Han, pointing at the closed door with his thumb. “Now, you try.”

Han nodded. He likely had the best chance of getting through to Minho if he was feeling vulnerable. If he was embarrassed and in fight-or-flight-mode … they would cross that bridge when they came to it.

The rapper stepped towards the door, hesitating a bit. He knew that Minho would not like the audience at all and he would not open the door if he knew that there were other members outside. 

“Lixie, I.N.-ah, why don’t you go sleep in Lixie’s room?”, Han suggested, though making sure his tone left no room for arguments, “Binnie-hyung, can you call Channie-hyung? Even if Minho-yah doesn’t want his help, he will come back in an instant and we might have a double win if he falls asleep. Seungminnie, go see if we have some medicine and set up my room with a bucket and stuff. You’re on cleaning duty.”

Seungmin crossed his arms. “Why me?”

“Listen to your hyung, baby”, Han teased, ignoring the fact that the eight days didn’t really mean much. Changbin laughed and pulled the pouting maknae with him. Felix and Jeongin had already gone back to the bedroom.

🧭 

Han knocked on the bathroom door, glad that the sound of vomiting had died down.

“Hyung? It’s just me. Can you let me in?”

“Leave me alone, Han Jisung”, Minho groaned. “I’m fine.”

While Han was happy that Minho was at least acknowledging and not just straight up ignoring him, he couldn’t help the exasperated sigh leaving his lips. He was very worried about his hyung, so much was true, but he was also frustrated by his stubbornness. Of course he couldn’t blame Minho for being sick (what kind of friend would?), but it was also the middle of the night and the earlier they could get back to bed the better.

“You’re not fine, you’re throwing up, hyung”, Han stated the obvious. “I know you don’t feel well and everything, but can you please let me in? It’s just me and I’m really really worried.”

Silence followed and Han was about to speak up again, not above begging, when the lock clicked. Han opened the door and slipped inside, locking it again after himself. He knew it would bring Minho a bit of comfort.

Speaking off, the dancer had laid on his back on the cold tiles, looking nearly as white as the floor. He was shivering badly, his whole body moving with the force of his chills, and there were specks of vomit on his chin and sleep shirt. 

Han didn’t even freeze despite his worry at how sick the older looked, just knelt down by Minho’s side. Glassy red eyes looked up at him and suddenly Han had his lap full of sick human. Apparently now that Han was with him, Minho couldn’t care anymore about his image, just how badly he was feeling. Or maybe he didn’t have the strength to pretend anymore. Minho was clutching Han’s waist and his face ended up buried in Han’s stomach. Ignoring that the puke was likely on his clothes now too, the rapper rubbed his hyung’s back gently and pulled him closer, feeling the shivers wreck his body.

“Tell me how you feel”, Han encouraged.

“Awful. My stomach is cramping so badly”, Minho mumbled, voice nearly swallowed by Han’s shirt, “I’m so cold and so hot at the same time. Everything hurts from the shivering and I still feel like I’m gonna be sick any second.”

“Oh, hyungie”, Han cooed, knowing that he only got away with this tone of voice because Minho was feeling vulnerable and sick, “try to tell me if you need to puke again. If you can't, it's okay too.”

Han didn’t particularly fancy getting puked on but he knew that Minho was so sick that it was a possibility that he might not be able to prevent it. Exhibit A: the hallway. Besides, Han himself had not the best track record of making it to the toilet or even the bathroom.

Minho nodded and sucked in a deep breath, curling more into himself and clutching Han’s shirt tighter. When Han lifted his shirt and placed his hand against Minho’s bare stomach he could even feel the awful cramping that was wreaking havoc inside. No wonder Minho was so emotional. 

They stayed like that for a few minutes, just existing together and Han comforting Minho, when the latter tensed. With his hand on Minho’s abdomen, Han could feel how hard he suddenly swallowed. He managed to sit Minho up before the older could even finish his panicked whisper of “Hannie, I’m gonna throw up”.

Minho barely had his head over the toilet bowl when his body jerked forward with a retch and vomit sprayed from his lips, hitting the inside mostly but a few specks landed on the back of the seat. Han placed one comforting hand on back of the quivering dancer and used his other hand to hold back sweaty black hair. Minho whined lowly in his throat before throwing up again and again. All Han could do was rub his back and whisper sweet reassurances. 

It was a long five minutes until Minho was done and by then he was so exhausted he just slumped into himself, nearly hitting his head on the toilet before Han managed to catch him and pull him into his arms.

“It’s okay”, he whispered, “you’re okay. I got you.”

Reaching up, Han grabbed a few wipes of toilet paper and wiped Minho’s mouth. Before he could throw them into the toilet and flush, Minho stopped him with a hand on his wrist and took one of the pieces from Han. For a moment confused, Han watched as Minho blew his nose. He couldn’t be disgusted when he saw the puke that must have come up through his nose and got stuck there on the white paper. Instead he just felt bad for his violently sick hyung.

Minho barely had the strength to throw the paper into the toilet and so Han was left with placing them inside and flushing, while Minho was still shivering in his arms. Han could see the deep exhaustion in his eyes when he propped Minho against his shoulder. 

“I just want to sleep”, the dancer whispered, eyes shining from exhaustion. “But I don’t know if I can go back to bed. I still feel so sick and I’m disgusting.”

“I sent Seungminnie to set up my and I.N.-ah’s room for us with a bucket and old towels and stuff. If you want me to, I could carry you there and we can go back to sleep?”, Han suggested, placing his hand on Minho’s upset stomach again. He had noticed how much it had relaxed the older earlier and he wanted to do anything he could do to help. “Besides, you’re not disgusting. You’re just sick, you can’t help it.”

“No, I mean, I’m soaked in sweat and there is puke on me and I don’t think I could sleep like this. I just wanna be fine.” Minho sniffed and sneezed. “And I think I still have puke in my nose.”

He gagged again but luckily nothing came up. Han handed him more tissues, hoping for Minho that he could get it out. He pressed a kiss against the older’s shoulder as he forcefully blew his nose.

“Better?” He received a nod and Han took the paper from Minho to throw it into the clean bowl.

“Can I … can I take a shower?”, Minho whispered, “I wanna get clean and maybe the heat will help my stomach cramps.”

He looked so pitiful that Han couldn’t imagine saying no, especially since Minho didn’t feel warm and so a hot shower wouldn’t bring a fever up.

It soon became clear that Minho couldn’t stand on his own, too shaky and stomach in too much pain to balance. Instead Han had Minho sit on the shower floor while he cleaned the older up. He took extra care to wash Minho’s hair, knowing the older loved the feeling of somebody playing with his hair, and was cautious to not let any suds run into his eyes. Minho seemed content enough, eyes closed and letting the warm water soothe his aching stomach.

“Come on, let’s get you dry and into bed, hm?”, Han said after a few minutes. He really wanted Minho to get some sleep before he was inevitably up sick again. He didn’t know if it was a stomach flu or food poisoning or something else but with the way Minho had been puking it was clear he would suffer for longer.

He soon had Minho wrapped in a fluffy towel and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I will be back with clothes soon, okay?”

🧭

Han was glad that the puddle of vomit in the hallway was cleaned up by the time he stepped out. He had intended to just hurry to Minho’s room and get him some fresh pajamas but he was intercepted by Changbin and Chan, who seemed to have arrived just then, still in his jacket and shoes.

“How is he?”, the leader asked immediately, a worried frown on his face, “should I go check on him?”

“No need, I think. I think he needs a bit of space, no offense, hyung”, Han said, “I’m gonna get him some fresh clothes and then we’ll go to bed. I got him.”

“He isn’t well…”

“He isn’t but crowning him won’t help”, Han added, “he doesn’t need an audience watching him when he throws up again. No offense, again.”

Chan sighed. “None taken. I guess you’re right.”

“We sent Seungminnie to bed and when I checked on them Lixie and I.N.-ah were cuddling in Lixie’s bed, asleep. I am amazed and impressed that Hyunjinnie didn’t wake up at all”, Changbin added, “come on, hyung, let’s go to sleep ourselves. Hannie got Minho-yah.”

Changbin pulled Chan with him to the bedrooms, high fiving Han on the way to the confusion of their leader. “Mission success.”

Han grinned, happy that Chan was home and would get some sleep, even if the reason for him being home wasn’t ideal. He tiptoed into the room Minho shared with Seungmin and Hyunjin and quickly fetched a new set of clothes, both members deeply asleep.

🧭

Ten minutes later he had gotten Minho dressed in fresh pajamas and tucked into Han’s bed. Seungmin had indeed placed down towels and the designated puke-bucket and had even found the electric heating pillow they originally had for pulled and tense muscles but would serve the purpose of helping a cramping stomach as well. 

“Lay down with me?”, Minho mumbled sleepily.

“Wouldn’t dream of leaving you now”, Han agreed and settled behind the dancer, wrapping him in his arms and situating the heat pillow against Minho’s abused abdomen. “The bucket is right below you if you need to puke again. If you feel like drinking, there is a glass of water on the night table. Wake me if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Hannie”, Minho breathed and soon snores filled the room.

Masterlist links: Fairy's Full Masterlist Fairy's Sicktember 2024

[steddieas-shegoes]

Hi!! I love your writing! Submitting a request for fluff where famous/ rockstar Eddie is at an event where Steve is very clearly ogling him. People suggest they flirt (thinking it won't go anywhere bc Eddie is notoriously hard to get) until they end up seen together, completely smitten (they've been together for eons at this point, no one seems to add up their matching scars or rings)

I will admit some of this was written when I was on some heavy dose pain meds so if it’s completely incoherent or something doesn’t have continuity it’s because I forgot I started this and then just picked it back up without really reading most of it. I always love reading rockstar Eddie, especially when Steve has to be like his assistant or bodyguard instead of his date to things. They say write what you know so this is what I know! - Mickala ❤️

———————————————————————

Eddie Munson was nominated for a Grammy.

It almost didn’t seem possible that he was sitting in the same room as musicians he’d looked up to his whole life.

And Steve was here, too.

Technically, Steve was his plus one, but since he couldn’t exactly have a boyfriend in public, he was disguised as his assistant.

He didn’t necessarily mind as long as it meant having Steve by his side for the biggest night of his life.

But then the band’s manager told him that he couldn’t sit next to Steve, that it would look weird that he sat next to his assistant instead of the band members or a date. So Steve was across the table, looking sadly down at his plate of disgusting fancy food.

Eddie couldn’t really blame him; He felt pretty upset too.

But then he was expected to mingle for a bit, and Steve was instructed to stay at the table. It wasn’t that they expected to be able to do everything together tonight, but it was quickly turning into Eddie being unable to spend any time with him.

He mingled.

He felt Steve’s eyes on him the entire time.

But he resisted looking back.

Instead, he played with the ring Steve got him the year before on his ring finger. It was a plain silver band, the most plain thing Eddie wore.

Right before the actual awards ceremony started, Steve snuck up behind him, placed a hand on his lower back, and whispered in his ear.

“Can’t wait for my Grammy winning fiancé to fuck me on every surface of our hotel room tonight.”

And then he walked away.

He walked away like he hadn’t just broken Eddie’s brain.

Eddie called it after that, unable to focus on any conversation that didn’t involve any of Steve’s plans for the night.

By the time he got back to the table, Steve was smiling at him in a way that told him he was in trouble. He loved that smile.

Eddie felt a nudge and turned to see the guitarist for a band in a different category smirking at him from the next table over.

“Man, that guy has been staring at you all night. Isn’t he your assistant?”

Eddie did what he practiced: he lied.

“Oh, yeah! That’s Steve. He’s more security than anything, but he’s playing assistant tonight. Can’t really break him of bodyguard habits though,” Eddie shrugged as if to say ‘what are ya gonna do?’

“I dunno, dude. Seems like he might be into you.”

“Nah, I think you’re reading into it,” Eddie shook his head.

But when he turned back to his plate and glanced at Steve, Steve was practically glaring at him.

“Gareth,” Eddie whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

“What?” Gareth said at a normal volume, like the fucking oblivious idiot he was.

Eddie rolled his eyes and leaned in to try to get the point across that they needed to be quiet.

“I think I’m gonna skip the after party tonight. Steve’s not having a good time and I’m kinda not interested in another two hours of having to pretend he’s just my assistance. Think you guys can handle it without me?”

“Yeah, man. No problem.”

Gareth quickly turned back to his date, who probably had never even listened to their music before, but was hand chosen by their manager when Gareth admitted he didn’t have a date.

The rest of the guys had actual dates, girls they’d been with for months, or in Jeff’s case, years.

But none of them had what he and Steve had.

And it sucked that he was stuck having to pretend that he wasn’t completely in love with him.

So he made an executive decision that when the awards were over, he’d feign a headache and claim his assistant could ride with him back to the hotel so the rest of the guys could enjoy the night.

He gave Steve a look that begged patience, begged him to just enjoy the night as it was the best he could.

And because Steve was a good fiancé, a good person, he smiled and took a sip of his wine before involving the person next to him in a conversation.

But the awards started up shortly after, and they didn’t have to pretend to want to talk to anyone else. Eddie managed to find Steve’s foot under the table, started running his foot up Steve’s leg until it was just above his knee, until Gareth nudged him and whispered that he was sinking down in his chair and it was almost their category.

Eddie sat back up, smirking at the way Steve was trying so hard to focus on the stage, but his eyes were glassy and his cheeks were red.

When they announced “Best Rock Album”, and all the nominees, everyone at the table sat up straight, nerves thrumming through their veins.

Corroded Coffin had worked their asses off to be here. Broke bar tours in the Midwest, trying to slip in original songs when they could but still keep people entertained. Broke bar tours on the west coast when Steve bought an RV that he let them use from September to November and February to May. Then a record label signing them only to find out they expected them to change their entire sound and tour the entire east coast for four months, right when the kids were graduating high school. The band agreed they had to find a way out. Luckily, Steve’s mom was one of the best lawyers around and kind of owed him for just being a shitty mom, and she managed to find a loophole in their contract that got them out without having to pay anything except a small studio fee for when they recorded a song.

But things turned around quickly for them after that.

A record company saw them perform in Indy, said they loved that they were a “listener friendly heavy metal”, wanted them to make an album and tour all summer.

They agreed.

The first album took off in ways no one could’ve expected. They were in magazines and newspapers, on late night shows, and performing in places Eddie could’ve only dreamed of.

The second album went even better.

This third album, though. It was different.

The guys called it his love letter to Steve, so they had every right to say they didn’t want to record it or perform it, but they did. It was still their sound, still rock, but the lyrics were about yearning for the person who wanted you most, and being proud of the people you were together, and loving someone who’d never been loved right.

It was disgustingly romantic, but because there were amazing guitar solos and drums, they maintained their street cred in the rock family.

Steve cried for hours the first time he listened to it, and when it was done, he proposed to Eddie.

But Eddie’s plan all along was to propose to Steve after he listened to the album, so while Steve was down on one knee, tears still falling from his eyes, Eddie dropped to one knee too.

They’ve worn matching silver bands on their ring fingers since, but no one seems to have noticed.

In all fairness, Eddie wears a lot of rings, a lot of jewelry. It’s not immediately obvious unless you see his hands every day.

So this album meant a lot to him and to Steve. When they got news of the nomination, they cried and then Eddie fucked Steve for six hours straight, which shouldn’t have been possible, but through the adrenaline of being nominated for a Grammy, all things are possible.

Now they were here, being forced to keep some distance because they’d all agreed he couldn’t be out yet, couldn’t say who this album was about even though they get asked in every interview.

He maintains the mystery and it kills him.

He knows it kills Steve too.

“Corroded Coffin with their album, ‘Into Battle With You’!”

Everyone at their table was jumping up and yelling excitedly, and Eddie could barely breathe. He desperately wanted to kiss Steve, but he knew he had to wait.

He felt Steve’s eyes on him the entire walk to the stage with his boys, the whole speech he gave, and the whole walk backstage.

The post-interview process was annoying, especially when they all just wanted to get back to their dates, but it had to be done.

Pictures were taken, hugs were given, and they were finally given the chance to go back to their table.

“Dude, how did we beat Metallica? This feels like a dream,” Jeff asked, eyes still a bit wide in disbelief.

“Don’t question it, they might reconsider,” Gareth threw in.

Eddie was laser focused on sitting down at the table to talk to Steve, even if they had to have distance between them.

But when they got to the table, Steve was gone.

Eddie tried not to panic. Maybe he needed to use the restroom and thought Eddie would be longer.

But five minutes passed and he still wasn’t back. He turned to the guy who’d spoken to him earlier.

“Hey, have you seen my assistant?”

“Yeah, he said he had to get some air.”

“Thanks.”

Eddie wasn’t even thinking when he stood up and made his way outside, their manager whisper shouting at him to sit down.

Steve was more important.

It took too long to get outside, guests and press and guards congratulating him the whole way out. They had blocked off the side exit for everyone to leave later, made sure the side road was secure and only approved vehicles got through. Steve was probably here somewhere.

But he wasn’t. Eddie started to panic.

He walked up to the valet to ask if he’d seen him. He hadn’t.

Then he walked up to a guard by the end of the road. He hadn’t seen him either.

Maybe they missed each other somehow, maybe he’d gone back inside and there were too many people to see Eddie coming outside.

But as he looked across the road at a diner that somehow still remained on this strip of fancy dining and coffee shops, he saw him.

He was sitting at a table with a milkshake in front of him. Two straws.

Eddie bit his lip to keep from crying.

Back in Hawkins, they weren’t able to really go on dates. Robin would sometimes third wheel just so they would be less suspicious, but it was awkward. But at the diner, they could get a booth in the back, share a milkshake, and no one would see or question it if Steve’s hand slipped across the table to run his fingers across Eddie’s arm.

Eddie ran to the diner, he had to be with Steve right now.

When he walked up to the table, Steve smiled up at him.

“Got your favorite,” he said, gesturing for Eddie to sit across from him.

So Eddie did, because if Steve wanted him, he had him.

That’s how it’s been for years, that’s how it always would be.

Steve reached a hand over to run his fingers over his arm, smiling at him fondly.

“I’m proud of you, Eds. So proud.”

Eddie wasn’t going to cry.

But the way Steve was looking at him, he couldn’t hold back the tears.

They sat like that, enjoying their milkshake, for probably longer than they should have.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see people slowly leaving the awards, rushing into vehicles, not paying attention to the diner across the street.

But eventually, they knew they needed to go, needed to find the guys so they knew they were safe.

Eddie went up to the counter, felt Steve’s eyes on him the whole time.

“All set?” The woman behind the register asked with a smile.

“Yes ma’am.”

“That’ll be $2.50.”

Eddie handed her a $20 bill and told her to keep the change, pay for someone else’s bill if she felt like it, and she nodded.

“You know, that boy must love you a whole lot to be lookin’ at you like that.”

“Hm?” Eddie asked as he turned to see Steve watching him with a content grin. “Oh. Yeah, he’s obsessed with me.”

The woman smirked.

“And you?”

“Oh, I’m so obsessed with him, I wrote an entire album about him. Just won an award for my obsession.”

“Good. You take care of each other.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Eddie walked over to the table to help Steve up, but separated again before they walked outside to join the now heavier crowd waiting for their cars.

———

The next day, the news was focused on all the Grammy winners, Corroded Coffin among them. Steve proudly read aloud from the newspaper delivered to their hotel room, standing up completely naked and reading it theatrically.

But when he got towards the end, he froze.

His brows furrowed and the line in his forehead got bigger.

“What is it, sweetheart?”

“There’s a picture of us. At the diner.”

“Oh?”

“We look…”

Eddie walked over to see what he was talking about.

Even in the blurry black and white newspaper image, you could see the love between them. It would be impossible to deny what was going on there.

Eddie smiled and leaned in to kiss the corner of Steve’s mouth.

“Alright?”

Steve looked at him, searching his face for any sign of panic, smiling when he didn’t find any.

“Perfect. This is perfect.”

[muraseclinic]

This is the dumbest post I will ever make online. Anon on to keep my last shred of dignity. Hope the post doesn't break.

All of your pretty words have been plaguing my fucking mind recently. Been thinking a lot about the type of shit you say. I'm normally a sadist dom, but your posts slip me into a stupid fucking masochistic stupor. I've read at least every word about a dozen times over. It's pretty fucked up how desperate I am about all this. I doubt you even care, but I don't think I want you to.

I picture the scene pretty vividly, you telling me exactly what steps puppy has to follow. Maybe I fight back, helplessly trying to turn the tables, but it doesn't work. It'll never work against you. You'll only mindfuck me harder. Telling me I don't know what I want, telling me to get over it. How I don't deserve to be in control. Slipping me further and further into absolute submission, I won't be able to resist anymore.

You'll tell me to cut my veins open, let it all bleed out, and I'll obey. 'Cause it's what you want. My desires don't matter. It's all about pleasing you. The knife'll sink deep into my flesh, carving deep grooves, brilliant shades of red rising to the surface. The blood scent in the air is fucking pungent. You'll laugh, almost angelic but truthfully cruel. You'll stomp down on my wrist, the blood spurting out of the cuts onto your boot, maybe you'll even fracture the bone. You'll tell me to clean up my mess. I'll stick my tongue out like the whores in pornos do, idiot and crass, and I'll lick up my own gore off the vamp of your boot without a second thought. That copper taste so familiar, it's all I'll know beyond this point.

We'll go for hours, days even. I'll be a fuckin' drugged up cut up mess, sobbing and broken, and you'll be laughing through it all. You'll get bored eventually, I know you will, and then you'll give me one last command. You'll tell me those lovely parting words, tell me to kill myself for you, it's the final act to our fucked up scene. And I'll do it. A kicked puppy only wants to please its ruthless master. I'll make it slow, just so you can take in my gargled cries like an alluringly haunting symphony of pain. Choking on my own blood, fucking filthy.

Then what comes after? That's for you to decide. Not me, of course.

fuck anon .ᐟ ,, you’ve really outdone yourself this time haven’t you (ㅅ´ ˘ `) i gotta say, i'm flattered that my “pretty words” have been rattling around that head of yours . . .

now, for that very very nice scene you mentioned . .

i'd peel away that last shred of dignity, leaving you a broken mess at my feet. it’d take some effort, considering you have the same knack for violence and defiance as an untrained mutt, but we’d eventually get there wouldn’t we .ᐣ i'd savor every agonized gasp, every gurgled cry as you choke on your own blood. it'd be one of the most beautiful, and most disgusting things i’ve ever seen, and it’d be all for me . . .

i’d enjoy the moment, might even record you killing yourself just to add it to my personal collection. but, once the deed has been done, and you're lying there in a pool of your own blood .ᐣ well, my interest tends to wane pretty damn quick. ᓚᘏᗢ i dunno - i've got better things to do than babysit a corpse. . .

but just because you’re dead doesn’t mean you can’t be useful, now does it .ᐣ you’ve got a little more left to give until i get sick of you. . .

i’m sure i’d find something, anything, to make it so that even in death you weren’t a waste of time. cut into you with zero-surgical precision, rough and uneven, take out whatever interests me or whatever i think might taste good (๑⃙⃘´༥`๑⃙⃘) maybe i won’t be able to hold back, might not be able to wait til’ everything is clean, cut and organized. might start tearing into you right then and there, making more of a mess of things. you won’t mind, right .ᐣ for the rest of you, i’ll find ways to utilize every last scrap. maybe i’ll tan your skin, craft it into a wallet or a glove . . might take a picture of your body n’ hang it somewhere. your corpse, once i’ve gotten everything i can out of if, will probably be left behind some dingy motel or in an alleyway.

if i’m feeling nice, i might even send it home to where your family is as a surprise. they can burden themselves with it now ᥫ᭡

[fairuzfan]

Fellow disabled here (chronic joint pain making moving outside my house difficult). I've participated in two protests since october, one in my hometown, the other in our capital, and both times I was so physically broken afterwards I couldn't do much for days. I've wanted to participate in many more protests, but have had to... I dunno, accept my limits. Protests feels like way too little, and the feeling of not being able to go to even those is just devastating. I've tried to share information on the internet, here, on discord, to people I meet. I've donated, but even that I can't do much of because we don't have much money and I have two kids to take care of. The feeling of helplessness and... frustration with my own limits is horrible. I always feel a bit weird writing about these things, because my stakes in this aren't personal and I worry a lot about bringing undue focus on myself when that really doesn't matter. But it's about a sense of justice, love, caring about people I have no personal connection to, and humanity. And I hope this comes across as a sign of solidarity and as a message that people do care.

this is such a great ask to receive, honest. im so so glad you feel such a connection to palestinians — everytime i get messages or comments like this i think "the people in gaza would love to see that people care for them."

the joint pain is real, me too. but i do think, to say something (which you didn't ask for validation but) genuinely, wanting to make a better world and being open to doing things is half of the battle. so many people are resistant to even that. so realize, that even the small ways help mold our future into something new. new ways for us to make the world a better place. our words and our actions are the first step.

thanks for sending this in. i hope we get to meet in a kinder and freer world.

[sports-on-sundays]

boulevard of broken dreams / LN4 / Part 2

Summary: After meeting a savior, there's still a lot of mess to clean up.

Warnings: drunk, partying, stranger touching reader, use of the nickname 'Lan' for Lando because I think it's cute ok?!, hangover

Requested?: Yes. Thank you for the suggestion, @rorabelle15

Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who enjoyed part 1! Here's a part 2, if you're interested. And if after that you're interested, I'd be willing to write a part 3, in which things kind of get bad again, but of course with a happy ending. Here's the link to part 1:

Sometimes, the sunshine that appeared, found you, and is helping you pick up all your pieces, leaves.

Sometimes you stumble back to where you were.

And the guilt is worse, because you know your sunshine wouldn't ever want you to go back there again.

Your head is thumping in sync with the beat to the party music. There's a bit of wine dribbled down your collar, but you don't remember how it got there, and frankly, you couldn't care less. All that matters is swaying to the music, letting go of everything, and having the night of your life, that won't feel so fun when you wake up with a hangover and a guilty conscience in the morning.

There's a man with tan skin, messy slicked back brown hair, and striking eyes, and he's got his hands all over you. You feel a twinge of fear deep down, but you're sure to brush that off as quick as you can.

It's all good. We're just having fun.

His hands caress all over your body, and before you know it, his lips are leaving imprints on your neck that you'll definitely regret tomorrow when you're sober again.

But for now, you giggle and let him do what he wants with you.

And once he's finished with you, he leaves you and moves onto someone else.

And you flop on a stool at the counter. You dig into your Coach purse, fish out the final bit of your cash, and demand another drink. After receiving it, you chug it down, then stagger up to head back out on the dance floor.

But you bump into the last person you want to see here, right now.

Not because you don't like him. No. It's the exact opposite.

It's because you love him. And he loves you.

And Lando can't be seeing you here, like this.

Damn it.

You watch as Lando's eyes practically pop out of his head. He grips your arm, and pulls you away from the dance floor, against a wall. He stares at you, his mouth hanging open.

"Heeeyyyy... Lan... Lan..." you hiccup. "Why're you here?"

He shakes his head. There's that look in his eyes. He's disappointed.

In you.

His hand moves up, and brushes some strands of hair away from your face. "I was just going out for a drink with friends... How many have you had, Y/n...?"

You swallow. Everything's warped and weird. "I... I dunno. Why don't you... have a drink? Maybe we could dance together...?"

"Oh, Y/n, no. No, no. Not a chance. I'm bringing you home now."

You bite your lip, protesting, "No... Lando, I don't want to... I don't want to go home..."

But he pulls you to his side, and leads you to the door, through all the people. And there's not much you can do to resist his strong arm in your intoxicated state.

It feels like it's just you and him, and it feels terrible.

"I don't want to leave, Lando," you wail as he opens his car door.

"Well, that's a shame," Lando says through gritted teeth, "because we are going home."

And that's that. He drives you home, gripping the wheel all the way, and when you get home, he leads you to the bathroom. He wets a paper towel and begins wiping the smeared mascara and lipstick from your face. As he does this, you stare at his brown eyes. They look hard, and upset. Your eyebrows furrow, and some not-so-good emotions of concern and guilt flood you.

But then Lando sighs. His hand drags across your cheek, and he mutters, "You can shower tomorrow morning. You need to sleep. Stay here. I'll get you some clothes to sleep in, and then you should go to bed."

"Here?" you ask, looking up at Lando with googly eyes.

"Yes, here," he grunts. "You can sleep in my bed. But I don't feel like sleeping with you; I'll sleep on the couch."

Before you can respond, he walks out of the room to fetch you a change of clothes. When he comes back, he tosses the clothes to you, shuts the bathroom door behind himself, and you change into a light pink t-shirt and blue plaid pajama pants. They're a little big on you, so you tie the drawstrings tight and stumble out of the bathroom, calling, "Uh, Lan?"

Just like that, he's there. He grabs your wrist gently and brings you to his bedroom. You climb into his bed slowly, and he pulls the blanket up to your chin for you. He smooths it out, before walking across the room to the door. He flicks the light off, so you can only see his silhouette in the doorway as he murmurs with an exhausted sigh, "Good night, Y/n."

You watch as the door begins to shut.

A little fire goes up within you, and you say, "Wait, Lando."

The door stops moving. It slowly creaks open again. You stare at his dark figure, hesitate, and then stumble out, "I... Thank you, Lan. I... I love you. You're my sunshine."

Lando takes a few steps closer, so you can see him a little better. "Did you say I'm your sunshine?" he asks gently.

You nod slowly, looking up at him. You hold your hand out to him. He steps closer, and he takes it in his. Your hand is a little shaky, but Lando's grip is firm.

"I'm sorry," you whisper.

He squeezes your hand. "It's okay," he whispers. His thumb runs over the back of your hand. "I forgive you, Y/n. And I love you, too."

You nod.

He gives your hand another squeeze before letting it go, gently. He softly removes some hair on your forehead, before muttering, "Good night, Y/n." He walks to the door, watches you for a few moments, and finally the door slowly creaks closed again, with a soft click.

"Good night, Lan."

In the morning, you lay in Lando's bed for a while, awake, just staring up at the ceiling, tears slowly and silently falling from your eyes.

Finally, though, you slip out of the bed, wipe your cheeks, and pad over to the door, feeling like there's an extreme weight on your skull, causing it to pulse. You slowly pull the door open, peek into the hall, and call, "Lan- Lando?"

There's a few seconds of silence, before you hear his voice call, "Coming!" And soon enough, he's walking into the hallway, and towards you. He's wearing a hoodie, grey sweatpants, and a necklace around his neck.

It's clear he's already showered and gotten ready, which prompts you to ask nervously, "What time is it?"

Lando hesitates, before saying, "10:30 A.M." When he sees the distress in your eyes, he quickly adds, "Hey, but don't worry. You needed that sleep."

"Don't you have plans today? I'm sorry if I'm keeping you from your plans-"

"Shush. No, I don't have any plans. Don't worry. Now, would you like to take a bath?"

You hesitate, but then nod. Lando nods as well and says, "I'll fill up the bathtub for you."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," he responds in a level tone. "Go undress in my room. There's a clean towel draped over my chair you can use."

"O- Okay..." you respond, before going to do just that.

In the mirror in his room, you look at yourself. You look at the marks that stranger left on your neck last night. You sigh, dismayed, and feel anger rise up within you as you touch them gently with your fingers, despite knowing it is completely your fault for putting yourself in such situations.

So you wrap yourself in the towel and walk back to the bathroom. It smells like sweet vanilla, and the tub is full and bubbly. You wonder where the scent came from, but don't ask. Lando stands up from the side of the tub and says, quickly leaving, "I'll leave you to it. Call if you need anything."

So you step into the warm water, let yourself sink into it, and relax. The warmth and the scent seems to calm your deepening guilt and slow down your rushing thoughts.

You sigh, contented.

When you finish, you begin draining the tub, before wrapping yourself in the towel again and calling, "Lando?"

"Yeah?" you hear his voice ask back from the other room.

"Uh- What clothes can I wear...?"

"Oh, sh*t," you hear him say to himself, before saying, "Sorry, I forgot! I'll get you a change."

You wait, and soon there's a knock on the door. You open it a crack for him to hand clothes to you through the door, which consist of a loose long sleeve black shirt, fuzzy socks, and comfy sweatpants. When you exit the bathroom and enter the living room, your hair wrapped up in the towel, Lando looks up from his phone and softly smiles, "You look nice and comfy," he comments.

"Thanks," you smile weakly.

He pats the spot next to him, slipping his phone in the pocket of his black hoodie. "Come on. Why don't you sit down next to me?"

You nod and walk over, doing just that. Lando wraps his arm around you. You swallow, feeling a little awkward, and mutter, "That bath- it was really nice and relaxing. Made me feel a lot better."

"Good," he smiles, pleased with this information. There's a few seconds of silence, before he says hesitantly, gently rubbing your shoulder, "Well, what happened? Why did you do it?"

You swallow. "I don't know, Lando... I guess I just... When you're gone at races or back at your home in Monaco... I miss you... a lot..."

His hand freezes on your shoulder. "That's why? Because you missed me?"

"Yeah, well, pretty much. And when you're here, I'm happy. But when you're not, all the stress comes back... I'm sorry, Lando... I'm sorry I'm so clingy... I just... I'm sorry I annoy you... I don't know why you haven't given up on me yet, like everyone else..."

"Hey, stop that," he says firmly, grabbing your hand. "Haven't I already forgiven you? And the only time I get annoyed at you is when you hurt yourself. Because I love you. You're so important to me. I don't want to see you in pain. But I'll never, ever give up on you. It takes patience, Y/n... You just need time to heal, and that's why I'm here to help you with that."

You sigh and nod slowly.

He sighs as well and says, "I wish there was some way to always have you by my side..."

"Lando, I feel so needy..." you confess softly.

But he responds earnestly, "But that's okay. It's okay to need other people. It's been months since we met, and we're becoming better and better friends. To the point where I do love you. But Y/n, this isn't a one-way street."

"What do you mean?" you ask, looking up, meeting his eyes.

"I think sometimes I need you, too. You don't try, but you're like a refuge to me. You get my mind off all my stress, too. I like spending time with you, and you always listen to whatever I need to say."

Your eyes begin to water slightly. "Really?"

"Of course!" he nods earnestly.

You stare, and sniff. You wipe your eyes before leaning in and hugging him. He hugs you back as you say, "Thank you, Lando... That's the nicest thing anybody has said to me in years... You're so special to me."

He grins. "You're even special-er to me!"

You smile softly through your tears and whisper, "You're my sunshine."

He grins even wider, and leans away to wipe your tears. "Do you know, I love that nickname? Well maybe you're my lovely moonlight."

To you and your dark world, sunshine is all you need. You don't understand how sunshine would need moonlight. How does that even work?

But you trust your sunshine. So if he said it, it must be.

Lando gives you a few months, and you're getting better. Things are getting better. And your relationship is getting...

Very close.

One day, you're sitting together, snuggled on the coach, each respectively doing important things on your phones, when Lando suddenly sets down his and says, "I've got a few important things to talk about with you."

Your eyebrows immediately crease together, and a pit threatens to form in your stomach. "Oh no."

But Lando grins. "Jesus, don't look so worried! It's nothing bad."

"You said it like you were about to tell me you're moving across the world and I'm never going to see you again or something!" you half-heartedly complain.

But Lando smiles, amused at this, and ruffles your hair, "Do you worry I would ever do that?"

"I don't know... Maybe..."

He shakes his head. "You worry about too many silly things. No. The first thing I want to talk about with you is your job."

You blink in surprise. "Why my job?"

"Because you hate it, and it one of the things that makes you most miserable, and I hate it when you're even the slightest bit not happy." Your heart warms at this from Lando as he continues, "So, I think you ought to quit your job."

But you snort ruefully. "Oh, yeah, and then what? Go and become a race car driver? You've only taken me karting once."

"No..." he trails off, seeming to know what he wants to say, but unsure of how to say it. Finally he sighs and says, "I make a lot. If you came and lived with me..."

Your eyes pop out of your head. "You mean your smaller place here in the U.K., right?"

He hesitates, before a sheepish smile appears on his face. "No, I mean Monaco."

"How the hell am I going to repay you?!"

"That's the point. Your happiness, and getting to be with me all the time, is the payment. I get you, you get my house and food for free, without having to work."

"You're insane!" you gasp, covering your mouth at how ridiculously dead serious he really is about this.

But he grins. "I know. So, will you do it or not, missy?"

"Oh, Lando, shut up!" you laugh.

"Well?"

You smile falteringly and respond, "I'll think on that."

You stand in Lando's flat. You only had a few things to bring with you, and you're already all unpacked, and feeling a bad, unsure, nervous feeling within you. Lando's hand from behind plants itself on your shoulder, and as soon as you feel this touch from him, you turn and hug him. He seems surprised, but hugs you back. You sigh. "I just don't know about this, Lando."

"Hey, you're still worrying about it? Come on. It will be an adventure, living someplace new. And you don't have to worry about anything. Because you know I'll take care of you..."

"I still feel bad..."

"Don't. This isn't a hard thing for me. I want this. And I can take care of you. I want you to be happy. Find your thing, you know? And I know you will. I know you're not a lazy person- how hard you've worked for so long is proof of that. And I know you've felt trapped for so many years. Now I'm giving you the opportunity to branch out. See and try new things! Make the most of life! It's an adventure, after all. Maybe the opportunity of the dreams you had as a kid are past, but there's still a lot you can do. You're not even twenty-five yet. Come on. Brighten up. Just think of all the dreams you still can fulfill."

It's your first Grand Prix, in Silverstone. Lando has already shown you around, but you've been keeping close by his side the whole time, since the crowds are a little hard for you. But you love them. You love the luxurious, intense, rich atmosphere.

You even got to meet some of the other drivers on the grid.

But now you sit in the McLaren garage, by yourself, since Lando had to go off to do something. You tap your foot, nervous, feeling like you're just about going insane if you have to sit here a second longer, when suddenly you feel a presence in front of you and look up to see Oscar Piastri.

"Hey," he smiles. "So, are you Lando's girlfriend, or...?"

You immediately feel yourself heat up at this, and at first, you hesitate, not knowing the correct answer, before you blurt, "Oh, no, of course not! We're, uh, roommates."

Oscar nods at this, a smile coming on his face. "Oh, alright," is the response with slight doubt, before he adds awkwardly, "Well, enjoy the race..." and walks off.

And you do enjoy the race.

But after the race, it's all kind of a whirlwind. People are everywhere, and it's busy, and everyone is determined to do or go to one thing or place or another, and you're kind of just caught up in it.

So in the end, you're disappointed that you don't get to see Lando standing on the podium.

You sit in the garage, staring down at your feet, kind of in a daze, when suddenly the familiar sunny voice exclaims, "Y/n!"

Your head snaps up, and you stand up. Just seeing Lando's shining, bright grin is enough to melt your sadness away. He steps toward you. You open your mouth to speak, but suddenly-

You can't.

Because your sunshine's warm, soft lips are on yours. And his gentle hands wrap around your waist, hugging it. He pulls your frozen, confused, shocked self closer to himself. He leans down, and you lean up, connected.

Within seconds, he pulls away, looking down at you. Your head and heart are pounding. You're sweating. Lando's eyes are shining as a mutters, "This was the perfect race for you to come to."

"Lando..." you gasp. "What was that?"

"A kiss, darling. Because I love you," He gently touches his nose to yours. "And I think it is about time we take this to the next level."

"Oh- Oh..."

"Are you okay with that?"

You hesitate, but then nod. "Y- Yeah... You're everything I've... ever wanted... But... why me?"

"What do you mean, 'why me?' You're still thinking in those terms?" Suddenly he cups your cheeks in his hands. "I'll tell you why. You think I'm your savior, and you think you need me. You've told me you need me. You just told me I'm everything you've ever wanted. But don't you understand, that this goes both ways? I need you. You're everything I've ever wanted, and that's just you being you."

You stare up at him, awestruck, in wonder.

And he pulls you into a tight, sweet, warm embrace. He rubs your back and whispers in your ear, "Okay, cutie?"

You nod, and feel a real, lovely, warm smile creep up on you. "As long as you never stop being my sunshine."

[inkwell-and-dagger]

How To Kill An Immortal

Chapter 3 — Playing Dead

- In which Rayan learns that actions have consequences

Word count: 3,210

Contains: Stress position, captivity whump, immortal whumpee, sadistic whumper, broken bones, stabbing, threats.

previous || next || masterlist

—> —> —> —> —> —>

Madeline felt guilty for being worried so easily, but something in her gut told her she had a damned good reason this time.

Rayan had gone out to a pub with his friends, intending to reunite and catch up at their favourite spot last night. Of course, Madeline had been pleased to see him doing something for once, ushering him out the door before he'd even tied his shoes; but it was clear that something had happened during the evening to cause his sudden disappearance. He hadn't come home yet, nor done so much as texted Madeline that he needed picking up or the time he'd be returning, and the thin reassurances her dear Vivana gave her weren't helping.

At first, she had just assumed he'd spent the night at his mates house, and was just sleeping in with a hangover he'd, no doubt, gotten; a plausible explanation to why he hadn't come home. But as the day dragged along, Madeline was sure there was something else going on.

“You really need to relax, sweet’art,” Vivana sighed, walking up behind the other and placing her hands atop Madeline's shoulders. Madeline had been sitting on the porch for half an hour now, nursing a mug of tea which had likely begun to go cold, waiting for him to return. “I'm sure he's fine. He's with his friends, and I bet with the worst hangover of his life. He's okay.”

Madeline just grumbled, though the tenseness of her shoulders dwindled under her beloved’s hands.

—> —> —>

Rayan had been brought out of the basement. After his beating the previous night — his back was still aching from it — he had learned that it'd be best not to get on Foster's nerves. It was clear that, no matter how hard he tried to bite and scratch, they'd overpower him one way or another.

But fuck, was the urge hard to resist sometimes.

“Get in,” Foster sneered, pushing their limping captive through the doorway of the upstairs bathroom. Rayan stumbled at the push and straightened himself up, albeit with the support of the doorway. But then he stopped. The pocketknife Foster had used to herd him upstairs raised to the side of his neck, grazing his skin. “The bathroom window’s locked. If you even try to get out or hurt yourself, I'll cut you up and feed you to my mate's dog. Just do what you need to do. Got it?”

Rayan's mind blanked. It wasn't too surprising; it was hard for Rayan to think coherently when a knife was all but kissing his skin. “I—”

“Am I speaking French to you?”

“N-No. No. I got it.”

The knife retracted, and Rayan was shoved inside. The door shut, and he locked it.

Sliding the knife into their pocket, Foster opened their phone, steely gaze flicking through their contacts. Despite their short list of contacts, her name seemed to be lost in the numbers and names.

“Where the fuck is she…”

Their thumb stopped its mindless scrolling, cursing themself for going past her number more than once. They rang her and placed the phone to their ear. Foster knew she'd respond.

“I’ve got a problem.”

The voice on the other side crackled through, amused. “Car broke down again?”

“No, summat else. You free soon?”

“Dunno. I'll check my calendar, tell you later. Why?”

“I’ve.. got somethin’, and I need your help because havin’ this is more difficult than I thought.”

“What did you get? Is it like.. a technical thing you need help with? ‘Cause you'll have no luck with me.”

“No, ‘m not that stupid.”

“...Don't tell me you got a pet.”

“No— Can you not jump to conclusions? I'm never planning on getting a pet, this is somethin’ else. Just.. Just let me know when you're free, okay?”

“Fine. Why are you so desperate to be in my amazing company any—”

Foster ended the call out of spite. While they waited, they leaned against the bannister, looking down on the stairs sprawling out below. The carpet really needed improvement. It was an ugly colour, aged and weathered.

Soon enough, Rayan was done. Foster wasted no time in dragging him out and grasping the back of his shirt. They wielded the knife again.

“Didn't take you too long.” They remarked, but Rayan just swallowed and kept his eyes straight ahead.

“Who were you talking to?”

“Not important. Just move.” Training the tip of the knife on the back of Rayan's neck, they led him back downstairs. Silence met their footsteps; Rayan was nervous, terrified even, and Foster knew it.

They made it downstairs and, with a warning glare not to make a move, Foster crouched down in front of a black backpack. Meanwhile, Rayan glanced around.

It was jarring how normal his captor’s house seemed. Early morning sunlight filtered in through the living room window, though one curtain was drawn to. An assortment of items were sprawled across the windowsill with a radiator perched underneath. The walls were mostly bare, save a clock on one wall; a nice plush sofa atop carpeted floors faced a television on an oak cabinet; a bookcase lined one wall, stacked with knick knacks, the occasional book, and photographs in dark frames. On a small, stained side table was a potted plant, clearly fake (Rayan wasn't all that surprised to see that they couldn't even tend to a plant) although rather pretty. A small note laid beside the rich red pot, seemingly discarded and forgotten about:

‘From your bff Ivy’, it read in neat, fine script.

Rayan was surprised to see that his captor had friends, however. It sickened him how normal this place seemed; that his captor would wake up in their bed, watch TV on that sofa, read those books, with the rhythmic ticking of the clock in the background. He felt bad for this ‘Ivy’ person, unknowing of the horrors that dwelled in their friend's basement.

Foster pulled him back to his side, the backpack slung over their shoulder. They hissed, “Stop staring,” as they shoved him forward, pulling him up from his train of thought. With a begrudging grunt, he walked down the old, worn steps to the basement. The steps wailed and groaned under the weight of their footsteps.

“You're awfully quiet today,” Foster said, rummaging through their pocket for the keys to the basement. With their spare hand they retrieved the knife again from their pocket. Rayan remained quiet by their side, hardly daring to move a finger. The cold, sharp metal on the back of their neck sent goosebumps raising across his arms, a haunting reminder of what would come if he tried anything stupid.

Momentarily, they struggled to open the door, grumbling a curse under their breath as they jostled it around. But eventually, inevitably, it unlocked and was kicked open, hinges screeching in protest. And Rayan was shoved in.

“Don't get comfortable just yet,” Foster followed moments after, bringing out their phone. They closed the door, not bothering to flick on the light. Rayan was momentarily alarmed, before he squinted and shielded his eyes from the glare of their phone torch. “Oh, don't be dramatic. It's just a phone torch, not the end of the world.”

“Easy for you to say,” He grumbled, watching as Foster propped their phone up against the wall, illuminating the room in an ugly white light.

“Stand over there.” They pointed to an area near the centre of the room, a joist of sorts on the ceiling.

“Why?”

“Just fucking do it.” Foster sounded exasperated.

Rayan’s eyes narrowed in reluctance, but he complied anyhow. Moving to the centre of the room, the bulb dangled overhead like a man on a noose. After a few moments of rustling and rummaging, Foster walked up behind him, a line of rope in hand. “Arms up, Immortal.”

He raised his arms. “You know my name.”

“That doesn't mean I have to call you by your name.” They retorted, tying each of his wrists together and to the joist, making the knots tight, unnecessarily so.

Eventually, they left the remaining line of rope to hang behind him, standing back to admire their handiwork. Rayan, however, raised an eyebrow.

“Am I supposed to be scared?”

“Maybe.”

“Oh,” He scoffed. “How frightening. My hands are tied, whatever will I do? Y'know, I'm shitting myself over here—”

His mocking fell short as Rayan turned his head, seeing his captor pick up his bat. His eyes widened. “Wait- no, wait wait wait wait, hold on—”

The spiked bat smashed into the back of his knees with a crack and a thud, knocking him off balance. His knees buckled and yet the wire held him up, shoulders straining. He yelped in pain, gritting his teeth.

“Ooh, I heard somethin’ break! Now,” they hissed, “say you're sorry, and mean it this time.” And they hit his legs again. Another yell, and Rayan rocked forward as if he were no more than a punching bag.

Another swing. Another yell, another choked up attempt at an apology. A mocking complaint of how ‘they couldn't hear him’, and they'd swing again. They seemed adamant on targeting his legs, but occasionally hit his torso and ribs.

Another swing. Another yell. Another swing. Another yell.

Another swing. Another yell.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

At some point, Rayan couldn't even talk through the pain, unable to string a series of words together and keep it coherent. With every swing of the bat that hit his legs, his apologies turned into nothing more than pained grunts.

“I'm— I'm sorry!” Rayan hissed out, his pleas drifting into a strained, inhuman noise when the bat slammed into his ankle. Head bowed, he watched through eyes glistening with tears as his captors trainers came into view.

“What for?”

A finger and thumb gripped his chin, tilting it up so they could meet eye-to-eye. Foster was no longer smiling. “What are you sorry for, Rayan?”

Rayan's mind blanked again; perhaps it was the pain clouding his thoughts this time, the blood trickling down his legs. He'd focused so much energy in apologising, and yet had never wondered what for.

Perhaps he should apologise for teasing them? For… For…

Oh, crap. The picture.

That was a shitty idea, wasn't it.

A sharp backhand interrupted his train of thought. His head whipped to the side, and Rayan gritted his teeth as his cheek burned in pain.

“It isn't that hard, Immortal,” Foster said, a faint sneer in their tone. “Or do you want a little reminder?”

Rayan didn't want to admit it, but it seemed the choice had been made for him. Foster walked away, to the dreaded cabinet and opened one of the drawers. They picked out one of many, holding it between their index and middle and waving it in front of Rayan's face.

This one was different. Two figures; one, a girl with fluorescent blue hair tied up in two space buns, curls framing a smiling face. The other, a boy with black hair that draped over shoulders, hunched over with his knees to his chest, a lit cigarette in hand. They wore matching bracelets. The boy looked roughed up; bruised knuckles, remnants of bloodstains on his shirt and nose, and a nasty scratch splitting the corner of his lip. His eyes, mismatched blue and grey, stared right back at Rayan.

“That's me,” Foster said. “That picture from yesterday was also me.”

“Look, I'm- I'm sorry—”

“Good. You should be, Rayan,” Foster flashed a smile. “I'm glad your kind knows what remorse is.”

Rayan stared at them, incredulously. His kind? Surely there wasn't much difference between mortals and Immortals; besides uncanny healing abilities and the wretched markings on their bodies, what other differences were there? “I'm as human as you are.”

“Hmm, whatever makes you feel better,” Foster placed the picture aside. Rayan noticed how their eyes lingered on the picture, before ripping away to glare at him. “I'm done for today.”

They clutched the bat in both hands, knuckles whitening.

He watched, helpless, as the bat lifted, its rusted nails splitting the bark, dripping with crimson.

“Sleep tight now.”

Thud.

—> —> —>

Rayan awoke to a splitting headache. Scrunching his face at the ache, he felt dried blood cracking on his face. His legs seemed healed for the most part; only a dull throb remained, his blood already dry on his jeans. It was dark without their phone’s torch blinding him, and for once Rayan was thankful for that. He didn't want to see himself, didn't want to see his own battered body.

He hung from the rope, wrists straining against it. There was a tingling sensation in his hands, no doubt from a loss of circulation. Rayan knew Foster wouldn't have considered his comfort. Why would they? After all, this is a captive situation; he wasn't just staying over for a couple days.

It was cold. Goosebumps prickled on his arms as he hung, swallowing down a lump in his throat. He wanted to go home. To see Madeline, his friends — anyone. Anyone except that smirking, scarred face who had mocked and, for lack of a better word as much Rayan detested the thought, tortured him for…

For…

How long has it been? There wasn't a clock in here. Rayan always told the time by his phone; which was useless now, a consequence from his thoughtless, stupid actions. Perhaps it hadn't even been that long; maybe a day or two, and the hours were just dragging along. Maybe.

Hopefully.

Creaking footsteps interrupted his thoughts. Fuck. He didn't want to be hurt again, but fighting back was futile. Pleading wouldn't work; he'd tried that already, and all he gained from that were a few mocking sneers and continued abuse. So… what could he do, to at least delay the inevitable for just a minute longer?

The footfalls grew louder, and then stopped.

Rayan heard a jangling of keys.

The lock in the door turned.

The door was opening, creaking in protest of the hand moving it.

Perhaps on instinct, or because there was no option left that he could think of, Rayan went limp like a ragdoll and closed his eyes, praying that his captor was thick enough to believe he was still unconscious.

—> —> —>

Foster entered the basement and flicked the light on. They gave Rayan a questioning glance, smirked in amusement, and shook their head.

The poor man was panting like a dog, but they'd humour him for now.

Foster strode past the sagging figure of their captive, opening the drawer and picking up the pile of pictures. They meticulously checked each and every one for any sign of damage, lest the Immortal had gotten his grubby little hands on any of the others prior to yesterday. All seemed perfectly fine, but they shoved them into their pockets just in case. For safekeeping. In hindsight, it was a bad idea to keep sacred items in the same vicinity as their teeth-bearing prisoner.

They spared another glance over their shoulder at Rayan. Unmoving, swaying lightly, his hands a faint, purple colour. But Foster couldn't miss the tremble in his body, the frantic breathing of their dear captive.

Foster's hand absently found the adjacent drawer. They slid it open and brandished a small knife. One of many they'd collected over the years, a coat of aged blood upon its blade. Won't make much of a difference either way.

Foster's footsteps were quiet. Masking their intentions by making it as if they were simply strolling about, though it was horribly executed. Excitement was at fault, but was Foster to blame? Absolutely not.

A hand coiled round to clamp over Rayan's mouth as the knife was stabbed into his side. Rayan “awoke” with a jolt, and his scream was muffled by their hand.

“Ah, there you are,” Foster tutted into his ear. “Thought I'd lost you there. Nevermind.” Their grasp on his jaw tightened when Rayan thrashed about, throwing his head back and grunting out a muffled curse. Foster removed the knife, and a circle of crimson grew steadily around the man’s wound.

Foster sighed, thoughtfully. “I'm really gonna have to do somethin’ about that mouth of yours. Can't have the neighbours know my little secret, eh?” Smirking as Rayan shook his head in protest, they simply patted his cheek. “Too bad. My house, my rules, Rayan.”

Foster's hand slipped away, and Rayan hung his head again. There was no point in arguing back. Whatever snappy remark he had bubbling in his chest diminished when Foster held the knife up; a silent warning, perhaps a challenge. As if they're saying, don't you even think about it.

Rayan watched onwards as Foster wiped the knife clean on their jeans, returning it to its original place in the drawer. “You're a good actor, y'know. I almost believed you.”

“Fuck you,” Rayan hissed.

A scoff. “You were panting like a dog. I'm not braindead, if you're wondering.” They reached forwards and Rayan instinctively flinched; he heard Foster chuckle, as they undid the rope. Once it was fully undone, Rayan crumpled to the floor like nothing more than a piece of paper.

Foster nudged him onto his back, eliciting a grunt from the man. He clutched the wound in his side, wrists rubbed raw. “You've got quite the foul mouth,” They mused in a sickly sweet voice. “I wonder how quickly that'll change.”

Rayan squinted up at them, his head pounding. He'd been hit pretty hard, huh. “You're sick,” He grunted. Foster just smirked in reply, and walked away.

Rayan watched them leave. Keeping a trained, glaring eye on their back, as they looked over their shoulder to meet his gaze. They gave him a once-over, flicked off the light, and shut the door.

“Pussy,” He hissed, as the sound of the door locking reached his ringing ears.

—> —> —>

“I'm free,” The voice on the other end declared in a sing-song voice. Foster had returned to their phone buzzing madly, and multiple missed calls from the same contact. Annoying little shit.

Foster hummed, sitting down on the sofa. “Now?”

“Yep!”

“Alright then,” They sighed out, sounding more than a little exasperated. “Just- don't stall on your way ‘ere. I know what you're like.”

“I never do that.”

“Sure you don't.”

After an exchanged goodbye that dragged on for far longer than it should've, Foster glanced out the window. It was early afternoon, sunlight filtering in through the blinds. The house was quiet, quaint; only the ticking of the clock interrupted the empty silence. At a glance, nobody would think there was a man, bleeding and possessing abilities of which almost everyone would dream of having, right underneath the floorboards.

Foster was grateful for that. That, in the public’s eye, he was a normal person. Sure, one who was given curious stares and scrutinising glances when they went out, but they couldn't help that. Their scars hadn't come from anything that wasn't absolutely necessary.

Their gaze turned to the potted plant on the side table, vibrant but fake. And then to the note. It was one of the few gifts Foster had actually kept, hadn't been pushed into the attic to collect dust and be forgotten about. At this point, Foster was glad they'd kept her around for so long.

—> —> —>

WE ARE SO FUCKING BAAAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK. AAUATGGJRJRHRHRHRJCIM IM SO HAPPY AND EXCITED IM SO GLAD IVE FINALLY PULLED THIS OUTTA MY ASS NOW. AAAHWHWSJ!!!!!!!!?! LETS GO. LETS FUCKING GO.

I have a lot planned for the next chapter :33333 a new character as well!!!!! let's just hope it doesn't take like. eight months to post it though

HTKAI Taglist: @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @whumpy-wyrms @creppersfunpalooza @toyybox @vidawhump

[rulanarinrush]

very disjointed thoughts on ch2

Please note that this isn't a theory. While I talk about the likely culprits of this case, I'm not making any definitive statements about who the killer is. I state who I think the killer is, but like. It's probably wrong, anyway. We don't have that much information yet.

Please note that some stuff might be wrong because I haven't gone back and rewatched the entirety of drdt ch2. If there's something wrong in here you can let me know.

Let's start with the gym tape. While I've seen many people point that only Eden, Teruko(did not do it, assuming we have a reliable narrator) or Ace could have grabbed the gym tape, but I also think it's possible that Levi could have taken it. This is due to our limited view from Teruko's POV. When Ace is having his home invasion Open Up! breakdown in front of Nico's door, after Levi offers to help him with his neck, Ace has his little we no besties spiel and then goes to his room. I think this because we hear a door slam immediately afterwards. Is it possible he just ran to the infirmary? Yes, but we know the infirmary has a sliding door. If he closed the door that hard we hear a slam, considering how far apart the living quarters are from the infirmary, I'm quite impressed by how stable that sliding door is. He really has no other reason to go to any other room while his neck is bleeding. But notably, we hear Levi walk off before Teruko decides that it's time to let the plot pass. Where did he go? It's possible he just went to the infirmary, but we also don't know where Eden went. Maybe Eden followed him to the gym? Maybe she gave him the sticky tape because he wanted it for some reason?

I can't refute the idea that maybe someone was in their room and overheard everything, we know from the cactus scene that the rooms aren't soundproof, and then decided to pick up the gym tape later. I also can't refute the idea that Ace could still be Arei's killer due to again, the gym tape and the resistance band from like. I want to say episode 2 or 3? Sorry I'm too lazy to rewatch things I immediately can't remember. I also... don't remember if it actually is a resistance band, as I'm not well-versed in gym equipment(Teruko moment), but I want to say so. I think it's fairly obvious some sort of contraption, probably a pulley lever of some kind, was used to kill Arei due to the scuff marks on the playground equipment that are fairly straight that indicate that there was a rope tied to there, and the friction from the rope took the paint/created the scuff marks off as the water filled jugs with the fish in it had enough combined mass to create enough force to snap Arei's neck when she dropped(hence why the handles on the jug are broken), all this to say that the resistance band could have been used to bind everything together, as the synthetic rubber would be unlikely to break even when stretched a lot. In a show with a limited runtime, they're not gonna just drop a detail like "Ace has the resistance band" and not use it somehow now, or in a later chapter. chekhov's gun or smth like that i dunno

*

Let's talk the infirmary scene. I regret to tell you that my brain is made of sponge and I don't remember what day of ch2 Arturo decides to bend a full 60 degrees downward and threaten a girl only 13 inches taller than Levi's boobs, but I do remember that the conversation about Arturo's secret only happens before Arei intervenes. She does hear the tail end of it, which maybe means the killer decided to run a lap around the place and come back later once they saw Arei, but that... just does not make any sense to me. (So like, how would Arei have not caught someone else just eavesdropping in front of the infirmary? It's a sliding door without anything like a potted plant to hide behind). Basically, how does the killer know both that Eden has Arturo's secret and that Arei promised to do anything for Eden? I'll get to that later but I don't think that's a plot hole. I think this detail is actually extremely relevant and something Charles catches on to in his refutation of the crime.

It's also entirely possible that Eden's the killer and this is an irrelevant thing to bring up, but. We'll get to that later too. I wish I put in more than two seconds of thought before writing this.

*

Here I'd like to discuss the cliffhanger we were left on, aka Charles' refutation of the time. (Honestly, I don't even remember what time David was in the relaxation room, possibly rendering this entire write up moot but whatever...) Charles is an interesting character in a class trial because his perspective on the crime is going to be different from everyone else. Since he can't be looking at our strung up victim, he basically has to visualize the crime soon based on details orally told to him. In other words, he's less likely to make assumptions than even us as viewers. This is kind of awkward considering I just said he doesn't make assumptions but like. Consider, for a moment, what we've been assuming about this crime. So much of the 10th??? episode is based on the contents of the note. Now, I'm not going to say the note is completely irrelevant to the case. But why are we taking all the evidence left behind that the killer, who likely has no witnesses or at least has an accomplice that's helping them, at face value?

Why are we assuming that note isn't a fake piece of evidence, basically. Not in the sense that it's completely irrelevant, as I believe that note is going to be the killer's downfall ironically enough, but why are we assuming that Arei ever got that note at all? Who's to say that the killer didn't just write that note up after killing Arei, then tore it up and put in the trash so they'd have fewer people actually investigating the crime scene? It's an incredibly smart piece of misdirection actually, considering how good it was at breaking David's mind over the guilt he feels in "convincing" Arei to try to be a better person.

This is why I believe that there isn't a plot hole when it comes to the killer knowing both Arei's promise to Eden and that Eden has Arturo's secret. I believe that the crime never occurred at 7:30, sometimes either before or after that time, at the crime was a spontaneous one after a confrontation with Arei. If Arei divulged this information, it would explain a lot of things.

I acknowledge this is also a giant assumption that's probably wrong. Essentially, I'm imagining that Charles did what is kind of like a proof by contradiction(think the most common way of showing √2 is irrational) and he's putting all the evidence he knows together and thinking "if I assume this is wrong, do other things begin to make sense?" and if you think that the time is wrong, many other things about the case begin to fall into place.

I think a lot of the reason we take the note at face value is because of how straightforward the first trial was, and Min was under a lot of duress. Much of the evidence was extremely helpful at nailing her as the killer(the water especially) and I don't really consider the out of order sign to be fake evidence, since it made the light switch even more conspicuous. I was waiting for the reveal that Min gave the water to somebody only to find out that Min was the killer. Anyway, this is also why I don't think Eden or Arturo is the killer. Not in the sense that they have no motive, but like. If they were the killer, why on earth would you leave that note behind? Why wouldn't you eat the note cookie monster style or just flush it down the toilet? It's just paper. One of the key components of dr trials is trying to frame another person for your crime(like Min) because a "perfect crime" is essentially impossible in such a tight, cramped setting. Eden really has no reason to leave that behind, especially for a crime this good. It's just weird to me that you would set up this whole contraption(which i believe was done to give Arei the least amount of pain as possible because like. Why wouldn't you just bind her wrists and drown her in the relaxation room pond then? It saves you way more trouble than going fish scooping with the water. Death from spinal cord injuries generally??? cause near instant death) and then just assume "they're never gonna look through the trash" cuz like... okay... why even bother ripping it up then... why leave that there if you didn't want it to be found? It places too much suspicion on Eden.

That was a lot of yapping for what is essentially Charles' quote during the trial, "Are you simply saying you took the killer's Arei's words at face value?"

*

motives!! my favorite. (please pretend this is a good transition) i love thinking about how weirdly worded these are, and why is the mastermind so weirdly sympathetic to Xander? "Your family is dead and you deserve to feel bad about it you were a selfish little boy" essentially conveys the exact same thing and all the "boohoo, but it's not your fault" at the end (Xander is one of my favorite characters I'm just mean) is completely unnecessary in a motive. If you compare the wording of the motives, Xander's secret compared to Arturo's is like day and night. One absolves him of guilt, and the other places the blame on him. Sure, maybe the mm already knows Xander is dead so he's not gonna be tempted or whatever but there's still no reason for it to be so cozy.

Speaking of Xander's motive! I am someone that believes David is lying about receiving Xander's secret and that's Teruko's secret. A very unoriginal thought, considering Teruko straight up says Xander's secret is also missing, implicitly implying she doesn't believe David at all, but I'll explain why. I'm going to assume(lol) that all the names under the motives that have been revealed besides Xander's are correct. Too much mental gymnastics otherwise. So we have Teruko, Hu, Veronika, Levi, and Min. Despite what I said earlier, all the secrets are very carefully worded. Particularly, the secret talks about parents and siblings. Parents, as in two or more parents. Siblings, as in two or more. Let's knock off each candidate. Teruko only mentions knowing of an (older??? maybe i hallucinated this detail) brother. Why would she feel any guilt over any other siblings she maybe has? Next, Levi. I think in like episode 1, Levi mentions only his mother and brothers. So he's got the siblings part, but no two more parents. Min's parents I think??? Were probably implicitly implied to be alive in her bonus episode, at least before entering Hope's Peak. Hu and Veronika... ok I've got nothing other than "I think they have each other's secret."(Veronika's secret is very well foreshadowed I think and so is Hu's) That's not an argument at all but just roll with it.

So now. Whose motive did Arei get?

Ok this is not an original thought at all either. I think it's Levi's. There are plenty of other posts floating around this website and Twitter about Levi's suspicious behavior during the trial, the whole scene with him and Eden during episode 1, his weirdly violent tendencies, Arei glaring at him in initial motive giveaway, go look for those instead. They're much better written and much more concise and they deserve your support. If he didn't want Arei to suffer, if this murder was something triggered(I've noticed there are some parallels to the structure of the first dr game), this whole neck breaking thing makes way more sense.

He's also probably the only one that could knock Arei out quickly before she screamed without the use of turpentineagain^tm. If the killer used turpentine again I've got nothing against that either, it just makes Ace more suspicious.

I didn't know where to place this, and I know this thing is getting too long, but Hu is also very suspicious due to the wire used by Nico on Ace probably being hers. I've also got nothing for that other than "I think her arc has too much setup to blow up this early." Same with Ace.

*

anyway here's who i think is the most likely culprit

1 Levi

2 J/Ace

3 Hu/Whit

4 Eden/David

5 everyone else

when chapter 2 is over if i've left the fandom for some reason and even if i'm still here(probably) you are all allowed to send me pictures of clowns when I'm inevitably proven wrong. permission granted to be a little mean

[arctic-shard]

scp-012 causes whoever saw it to continue the notes using their own blood and if that person were to finish a section of the sheet, the person will kill themself declaring the piece is impossible to finish, I just thought it would be interesting gift for the Yellow Lord.

Bumping this up the queue because the furnace is broken and my office is too cold to work in, so drawing is out for now ( I can set my laptop up anywhere, but hauling out the peripheries like the scanner is Too Much Effort and I have no space for it in my temporary workspace. ) But I can write, and while I could just do a little illustration for this, the idea intrigues me too much to leave it at that anyway.

Dunno how old you are @randomlbirdo, so here's the warnings: No sex happens but there's a couple mentions of Odious as a sexually-active being. Self-harm, sort of, does it count when you're not doing it to hurt yourself, you just need to feed blood to a cursed artefact?

----------

The Unending Crescendo

The Yellow Lord Odious has an anomalous object stolen from the Foundation. It can resist the curse, but it can't resist a challenge …

---

The Lords of Alagadda, much as they considered Earth a backwater world, still kept an eye on it with their agents and cults. It was a wild place, full of emotion and stories and creativity and Alagaddans craved those things.

The Earth also contained the SCP Foundation - not a threat, but something to keep tabs on. The Foundation meddled with Alagadda occasionally, which was what initially drew the attention of the lords, but what kept their attention were the artefacts the Foundation had hidden away in storage. In their attempt to keep anomalies out of the hands of their fellow humans, the Foundation had gathered them up into convenient boxes that a determined Alagaddan Lord could borrow whenever it pleased.

There were ways to smuggle things in and out of Alagadda unchanged. They involved complicated alchemical wards and rituals, but it was doable.

This was not what the Yellow Lord, Wearer of the Odious Mask, was thinking about at the moment. It had put such plans into action weeks ago. It was busy in its study, sketching out musical notes as it played them - primary hands on the violin, secondary to write. The wastebasket nearby was overflowing with torn and crumpled sheets. Aside from the desk, the room contained dozens of musical instruments, including the organ it used for practice. The grand pipe organ of il Palazzo dell'Ira was in the audience hall.

Odious snarled as a knock on the door distracted it. Not that it was making any more progress than usual, but what if this time the notes were correct? It set down the violin with uncharacteristic gentleness, crumpled the sheet and threw it in the general vicinity of the wastebasket, then stalked to the door and flung it open.

A servant stood there, struggling with the weight of a gold case covered in alchemical symbols and the Yellow Lord's brand. The servant tried to lift the case to present it, but the gold was too heavy. "My Lord, I have the artefact. But do be careful with it."

The servant flinched under Odious' glare, the Yellow Lord not deigning to answer vocally. How dare this lesser being be concerned for it and not hateful? Odious was no apprentice alchemist who needed warnings, Odious was one of the great powers of Alagadda. But it did note how reluctantly the servant parted with the case, not because it wanted to protect Odious but because the artefact inside pulled at it. Odious had prepared for that - once the case was locked, only Odious could open it again, protecting its lessers from the artefact's curse. Odious needed the servant alive to deliver it, after all.

Odious chased the servant away, locked the door, and set the gold case on its desk.

It was one of the contradictions of Alagadda that Alagaddans were not themselves creative. The Humours were muses, sparking creativity in lesser beings but incapable of true creation themselves. Mirth was too stupid to care about this and Diligence even seemed to prefer copying, but Odious was different. Its role to be discontented, and one of those sources of discontent was that it was unable to compose its own music. Every time it tried, it only heard other composers - not mere influences but the core of the work. Nothing in its own compositions was Odious.

Deep in its twisted heart, Odious longed to be heard. Perhaps the only one who truly knew Odious was the Hanged King itself as it plundered Odious' mind for new sensations. But did the King really know it? Was it only interested in the hate Odious was created for and ignored its soul?

Odious could scream and use telepathy and fuck and torture, but these were all crude methods of communication compared to music. Music was pure. If Odious could just compose something of its very own, if it could write its Self in musical notation, maybe it would finally reach someone. Maybe someone would finally understand.

Maybe the King would be proud.

Millennia of failure had left it desperate enough to dabble in unknown magic. It drew a key from one of its pockets, licked the teeth to coat them in its bile, and opened the gold case.

Inside was a single sheet of music, penned in blood.

Perhaps it would accept Alagaddan ichor as a suitable ink.

Odious could feel the pull of the artefact. The page wanted blood. Odious denied it for now - no mere artefact could usurp the will of a Humour. Instead it set it on the desk. It hummed the melody as it read the score.

An interesting piece. Bold and jarring, but Odious quickly determined that this artefact wouldn't solve its problem. The score didn't change with each new blood donor, the music was using the blood to complete itself. Odious could add nothing to it but ink.

Odious lifted a hand to rip the paper to shreds in frustration, but changed its aim at the last instant to tear scratches in the table. It had put in an effort to claim this artefact. It would be more of a waste to destroy it immediately. Perhaps Odious could figure out the mechanism of it, to craft a page that it could wring out its heart over and write its own soul.

The melody had intrigued it. How would it sound with more parts played? Music was the purest language, playing the score would help Odious understand the artefact. It set the page on a music stand, settled itself beside the organ, and picked up the violin again.

Odious played perfectly. It always did. It had a passion for instrumental music from its awakening and had practiced for millennia. Two hands for the violin. Six on the organ - it didn't need to look at it to hit every note and pull every stop correctly.

The music was a discordant cacophony, mere noise to someone without Odious' experience. There was something in it, a pattern just at the edge of understanding. And the music just kept building. It shouldn't have been possible - a crescendo can't build forever, there needs to be a release or at least lessening of tension, but it never came. The single page somehow held thousands of lines of music, and the music swelled and built up and up for hours, frustrating and leaving Odious desperate for a conclusion, like an orgasm that just wouldn't come off …

The score ended so abruptly that for an instant Odious thought it had died. But it couldn't be dead, it had been dead before and its dead husk's hearts didn't hammer like this, its lungs didn't heave like this when it was dead. With shaking hands, it lowered its violin.

The violin had a chin rest made of Alagaddan porcelain-chitin, one of the few substances that Odious' bile couldn't destroy. It hadn't helped - Odious had leaked so much from its eyes and mouth that the bile had overflowed and scorched the instrument. Odious threw it aside and glared down at the music sheet.

"Where are you going with this? How do you end?" it hissed, taking the glove off one of its secondary hands and slicing the soft palm open with a talon. Thick, black ichor dripped onto the page and formed more notes.

Odious read the new lines. No conclusion, just more build-up. But it had to be near a resolution. It had to end. Odious ruptured some inner chambers in its body to send more ichor out of the wound.

The notes continued to form.

Odious wasn't going to let a piece of paper defeat it.

It picked up a new violin and readied itself beside the organ. There was no place to start from but the beginning - to begin in the middle would be an insult to the piece.

Odious could focus on regenerating its ichor to drip on the page and play the violin and play the organ. And, just to show the page who held the power, it sang the melody as well, a sharp, wordless soprano. It was the greatest musician in Alagadda, in all the lands of the Nevermeant, possibly even the multiverse. It was going to play the piece perfectly and to the end.

Hours later it reached the part written in its own ichor and kept playing. Odious was going to make it to the end. It was going to find the conclusion.

---

Odious woke up stiff and aching, staring up at the ceiling of its study. It tried to strech but couldn't move.

Finally awake, my lord?

The Ambassador. Odious managed to turn its head to find the hateful creature delicately unfolding the crumpled balls of paper from the wastebasket. It had no face, but Odious knew it was sneering at its attempts at writing music. Odious flexed its arms, recognising the feel of rope around them. "What are you doing here?"

Amusing myself by reading your pitiful efforts to create, my lord.

"Fuck you. You interrupted my practice."

The Ambassador huffed. Practice? You allowed yourself to be possessed by a mere artefact. I had to bind you to pry you away from it, all while you screamed that you had to finish the song.

While the Ambassador prattled, Odious managed to curl around to drip bile on some of the ropes to burn them away. With a few arms free, it began untying itself. "Where is the cursed music sheet?"

Back where your stooge took it from.

Perhaps the artefact was more dangerous than Odious had given it credit for, if the Ambassador itself had deigned to remove it from Alagadda. It was the humans' problem again. "What do you care what I do?"

I do not.

Which meant that it had been ordered. Which meant that the Hanged King had sensed something wrong with Odious and sent its servant to sort things out -

Odious' thoughts were interrupted by the Ambassador's laughter. Is that sentiment I sense in you, my lord? Does the Seething Prince long for daddy's approval? For shame. Our King will be most disappointed.

Finally free of the ropes, Odious lunged for the Ambassador. It stepped out of the way and Odious ended up tackling its own desk.

When Odious untangled itself from the furniture, the Ambassador was gone. Odious howled in rage, at the loss of its prey, at the Ambassador's taunts. You twist my thoughts! I don't want love and approval! I don't want softness! I am everything I am meant to be - I am hate and anger and passion and violence - and I am the best at it! I play my role perfectly! I want -

Odious needed to be perfect. Nothing less was enough. It had to be so perfect that no one could ever find flaw, not even itself. It was a hard way to live, a crescendo without end. If it was perfect, then people would finally notice all it did for Alagadda and appreciate it, instead of taking the rituals and concerts and efforts for granted. It did what it was meant to do but nobody cared that it did it well, they only noticed when Odious made a mistake, so Odious had to be perfect, perfect, perfect …

I want …

The ending Odious craved was to become so hateful, so despised that the Hanged King itself grew angry enough to blast it out of existence. To be seared into oblivion by the hate of a god … glorious. Perfection.

But Odious also wanted to lay its head in the Hanged King's lap, feel the desiccated fingers stroke its hair, and know its efforts and work were seen and appreciated. To know that it had succeeded at being the Yellow Lord, at being Odious. To know that the King was proud of it. To be able to rest, just for a little while.

Triumphant fine or quiet diminuendo, there could be no applause, no rest, until the play was over.

I want to know how it ends.

[wildishmazz]

i’ve been dying to hear your thoughts on the starlight express revival have you been is it worth it what do you think about the changes they made

Well... they did exactly the one thing I said would make the least sense(made Greaseball female despite the fact that Greaseball, of all characters, depends on being incapable of understanding what it's like on the wrong side of any flavour of systemic oppression), removed pretty much any sense of character(which at least means female Greseball doesn't stick out too much as a baffling decision among all the others), and telling the story seems to have been shunted to the very bottom of the pile of priorities, several places below "cover everything with holographic glitter" and pretty much on par with "adjust the keys of the songs to accommodate the fact that there are now altos and sopranos playing roles originally written for tenors and basses".

Introducing the concept of hydrogen power is a great idea(stars are made of hydrogen! Being powered by hydrogen is harnessing the power of the stars! What could be more appropriate for the Starlight Express??), but it's pretty much been plonked down with a shrug and an "I dunno, someone else figure out how to incorporate it into the text, I'm off for lunch.". There's a truck carrying around apparently unwanted hydrogen cells for... some reason? who is largely derided by all and sundry for... some reason? but is then able to couple up with Rusty to give him a power boost... somehow?

Many of the secondary and tertiary characters have been rejigged and renamed(the other competitors are no longer National Engines, which I can get behind, the stereotypes were always risky), including amalgamating Flat Top and CB into a new hybrid Slick Oil who is just vaguely antagonistic and rude until "Wide Smile". This falls narratively flat, because we already disliked Slick - there's no sense of betrayal or horror at the revelation that such a Nice Guy(tm) has revealed himself to be a gleeful mass murderer, just a confirmation that an unpleasant individual is, indeed, nasty. The other Freight(Porter and Lumber - Porter after Cole, Stilgoe is still at hand) join in with Slick in sabotaging Rusty, then sing "Right Place, Right Time" at him, claiming that they've been cheated too. Which um. My dudes. That was you.

An effort is clearly being made to be progressive with gender, but it doesn't look like it's coming from a place of any deep understanding. Casting an enby as Electra - great! But all their understudies are cis men. Removing early noughties Pussycat Dolls-inspired slut-drop anthem "Whole Lotta Locomotion" - great! But replacing it with an obvious rewrite of "Rolling Stock: reprise" rather than simply revert to the unobjectionable "A Lotta Locomotion"? Why would you do that?Give the coaches a badass new "We've had it up to here with this bullshit, and we're not taking it any more!" song - great! But rather than that replacing the "you're worth so much more than you think you are, now play mind games until you get your toxic ex back" song that gave Buffy and Ashley a chance to shine in the old show, where it would be appropriate in the plot, it's used as an introduction and there is no song for Belle and Tassita(as they now are) to show off in. It also randomly includes a snippet of "Tyre Tracks and Broken Hearts" which I assume is meant as a loving tribute to Jim Steinman, but unfortunately is such a distinctive and compelling melody that it sticks out like a sore thumb that it's never heard again. Mixing up the genders of the coaches by adding a boy - great! But now you can't use "coach" interchangeably with "woman" to make any sort of wider point, and that hasn't been carried through the rest of the show.

The cast are uniformly brilliant. I don't like the fact that Greaseball is being played by a woman, but by god, when Al Knott is on that stage it belongs to her and she has the range to flip around the octaves of material that resists being sung by her like a goddamn vocal acrobat. I don't like Control being in among the toy train characters(purely personal preference, I accept it as making a precedented amount of sense - they're now emphasising the fact that it all takes place in a child's dream, and if Clara can dance with the Nutcracker and Alice can talk to the Queen of Hearts, it's consistent for Control to be able to hand Dinah a box of tissues), but the girl I saw was an exceptionally good young performer, and legit looked like she was Momma's daughter. Rusty is 17. Seven-bloody-teen. And he's rivaling the first Rusty I fell in love with, who was 19(I was 13 I swear it's not weird). The way he holds a note while gliding down what looks like a 30 degree ramp alone distinguishes him. I have never seen a Dinah with better comedic chops. "UNCOUPLED" had me in stitches.

The costumes are disappointing. Like I said, they're very shiny. Everything is holographic, Greaseball is even lenticular. But there is little to no characterisation in the costumes - there are precious few details that tell you anything about who they are, they're just shiny blocky shapes. If you look really hard, maybe you can say that Dinah still has some tablecloth, and Wrench has spanner sets sticking out of her arms and legs as wings, and Electra has lightning strike balloons stored in a backpack. They look absolutely ridiculous, but they do imply electricity. Coming from the same designer as the costumes in Six, this is not only disappointing but surprising - I would have sworn that the Six queens were directly inspired by Starlight Express, they look like Tudor-inspired OC coach fan creations, but apparently Gabriella Slade had never even seen John Napier's designs before being asked to come up with something different. I assume she was under some severe limitations wrt not replicating anything that was his copyright, beyond basic features like safety pads and the skates themselves. I don't think the concept of using the costumes to convey the characters was copyrighted, though.

The beginning includes the "When the night is darkest" lullaby and I swear I nearly cried.

The "Starlight Sequence" is gorgeous. I don't know if it's been transposed into a different key to sit where both Momma and Rusty can sing it comfortably or if one of them just has that wide a range, but the horrific clunking great key changes mid-phrase that made the song physically painful to listen to in 2018 are not there. And the starfield that lights up for "I am the Starlight" is a kaleidoscope of pastel multicolour points sitting just above your head and all around the auditorium - that moment is properly magical.

Bloody, bloody "I Do" is still fucking there. It has still not undergone a second draft since it debuted in 2012.

There's a lot of dialogue/recit that's been inserted between songs, and it all kinda sounds like devised theatre that was initially improvised by people who were running out of ideas. Somehow it gives it the impression of being an amdram show with an inexplicably huge budget at some moments.

It is excellently performed, the music is still good, it is visually exciting. If you want to see some very talented young people performing familiar songs in a visual spectacle and you don't care about whether or not it makes any sense, it's very enjoyable.

[thewebcomicsreview]

https://pandorastale.com/

Okay, this one got submitted to me, so lets take a look.

Okay, first things first. This is a pretty solid first page. It immediately establishes our protagonist, an external conflict (”broken rules”) and an internal conflict (”What am I if I’m not obedient”) in three panels and fifteen words. This is a page that makes me want to read more. Good job!

This leads into a scene that we later realize is a few minutes ago, and I like that the first page was “smoky” like that, which made it feel more like an “intro page” than the actual page 1 of the story. If there had been a detailed background this transition would’ve been more jarring but as is it works.

Your getting a lot of mileage out of this art. I like that our unnamed trans catgirl is sitting with her legs crossed in a feminine way, and the way the director is covering the P in the sign in the background. HERE TO HELL!

Anyway, our catgirl escapes in a smokey pod while she has a think, letting us know we’ve “caught up” to the intro. Cool.

She’s found by a group of normal people who awkwardly explain to the black person that slavery is bad, which is an unfortunate blocking decision. Also, I feel like the preceding 16 pages did such a good job explaining the helpers that this exposition is redundant, and it makes Isabelle (who we soon learn is in “the resistance”) look a little dumb, like she joined an anti-slavery network but is only learning about slavery just now. This is kind of nitpicking, I know, but the comic’s been really smooth up until here and this has been the first speed bump I’ve noticed.

Okay, so, our protagonist is technomagically compelled to fall in love with Isabelle, who is also the most anti-slavery member of the group. There’s a lot to unpack there, and me saying that isn’t a criticism. 

Isabelle reveals this is a t4t romance and I’m not sure how I feel about the trans flag being in grayscale there. Like, the whole comic’s in greyscale, so it fits, but also the only way to tell it’s a trans flag is from context because otherwise it’s just kind of stripes.

On the other hand, even ignoring my shit ten-seconds-in-MS-Paint recoloring skillz, busting out the Sin City splash colors makes it really fourth wall breaking, but it’s literally a giant trans flag magically appearing so that ship’s sailed....but also if you ever want to print this book it’d be pain....but also also you could keep the spot colors in the book maybe....I dunno. I’m bouncing back and forth on it.

Anyway, Isabelle names her pet slave Pandora.They go to a doctor and are all “Can catgirls get HRT” and the Doctor’s all “Fuck if I know, let’s ball” and I’m not sure if that’s handwaving away a detail in the service of the main story or setting up Pandora having an allergic reaction that causes anime shenanigans to happen. Either/or in this comic

Pandora offers to be a sex slave and Isabella is like :| and they sleep next to each other in an awkward but happy embrace that feels like this comic could end there and be a complete short story, one that I’d say is pretty good.

There’s another six chapters, and I kind of skimmed them and I’m still a little iffy on the resistance side of the story, but at the least this is a pretty solid opening.

I got to admit, though,...I’m not super fond of the handling of the cops. Not that it’s Objectively Wrong, but I feel like they’re not quite bumbling enough to be comedy foils but they’re too bumbling to be dramatic threats so they’re just kind of there.

My subjective suggestion is think about making the cops even dumber. Having them come in guns ablazing as a serious threat like in the Matrix or whatever doesn’t seem like it’s the tone you’re going for, and you can always have the rich people have Elite Private Security if you need a scary competent villain later.

All-in-all, though, I think this is comic is well-done!

[livewireprojects]

Finn and Zero Ref(Lost Prince AU)

AND THEN THERE'S THIS ASSHOLE! He's not that bad to draw if I remove the shoes & mask but jfc his shoes are harder than Shadow's. This fucker's shoes look like he stole an Inkling/Octoling's shoes if you look at 3D models.

I guess it's finally time to explain the ghost & some comments I made in the Pride Month post.

So yeah I gave Infinite a dad, for some reason I got inspired by a fic on A03(I still have a link but the fic has been deleted) were Sonic apparently knew Infinite in the past back when he was Finn & despite Infinite being a war criminal Sonic wanted to help him thanks to past memories/promise. Yeah I've turned this into that thing I did with Sally.

Asides from the fact I named Infinite's dad Finn due to the fic that I got inspiration for him from I also gave Infinite the name Zero because that & sometimes Finn were popular names to give him when he wasn't being Infinite.

I kinda find it interesting to see Infinite redeemed, I wasn't sure at first but some stuff involving Infinite was interesting & I've kinda made Mephile redeemed in the past.(Grant it it's him in a reboot of the world & actually feels guilt for his past actions now that he's lived in a time were he got to have a life)

I dunno why but I gave Infinite movie Robotnik's outfit, I guess it looks fitting.

Everything else is under a keep reading due to all the text.

Link to master post

Finn:

Finn was one of Sonic's friends growing up, Finn use to live down the road from Sonic's adopted parents before Robotnik attacked & burnt Sonic's house down. They eventually met again when Finn started living with the part of the resistance Chuck lived with. By the time they meet again when Sonic is traveling with his siblings Finn was an active member of the resistance, traveling around to help while also hoping to run into Sonic.

Finn was an energetic guy, while he can't keep up with Sonic's speed he loves the thrill of running with him & is fairly fast. After losing his home & moving into a community the resistance was in Finn realized he wanted to help & started doing what he was able to since he was to young to go on missions. Helping out with the younger kids & making sure everyone was ok lead to helping him become a leader figure, when he met Sonic again he stayed by his side & helped him get along with everyone. As he got older Finn helped on missions, traveling to other areas to help the resistances in those areas & tell them what news he could.

He was devastated when Sonic went missing but eventually tried to move on for his & Sonic's sake keeping Sonic's memory alive. He eventually moved to the main land with his son & retired to a life of peace(along with maybe secretly doing some writing) eventually taking up painting. While a strong & smart man he sadly was growing weak in his old age thanks to becoming ill, despite moving on Sonic was always on his mind at times leading to telling his family about Sonic to keep his memory alive. In his dying days he hoped for the best for Zero, hiding some important things for him which was common for people back during the war.

Infinite/Zero:

Zero's life had a lot of ups & downs, mostly downs from losing his mom at a young age to constantly getting in trouble as a kid. The only things that kept him going were his father Finn & his ragtag group of friends that eventually became the Jackal Squad.

Zero lost his father a few days after the ill man fell down the stairs during their final argument about Zero being brought home by the police. Zero was heart broken but Finn never blamed him & was more worried about Zero being on his own. Zero & his friends eventually disappeared only to show up as the Jackal Squad only to later lose them when Shadow fought them after Zero chose to work for Eggman. He eventually went mad from not being strong enough & past mistakes leading to allowing Eggman to use him for the Phantom Ruby.

After the events of Sonic Forces at some point he was found while everyone was rebuilding, he was wondering alone & without the Phantom Ruby. It seems the unknown time he was gone & also getting the Phantom Ruby removed he'd come out of his insanity enough to regret a lot of life choices. Surprisingly Sonic is the one to allow him to redeem himself despite some of his friends(Shadow, Rouge & Knuckles, Vanillia if she was there) knowing fully well Sonic was terrified & traumatized.

Sonic wanted to try & give him a second chance since he could see Zero regretted his actions with a clearer head & something seemed to make Sonic talk the others into letting him redeem himself. Zero is currently being kept an eye on by some of the ex-resistance(from Sonic Forces not Underground) & staying Gadget, who has finally returned from traveling & helping out.

It's a long journey & frustrating on both sides but Zero is still going, trying to prove he's not going to become Infinite again & growing close to Gadget & Sonic. Now if only he could figure out why Sonic thought he was Finn, he can't help but faintly remember his dad telling him about a blue hedgehog. After losing Finn Zero has kept his favorite bandana safe & now wears it over where the Phantom Ruby was.

Weirdly enough originally a couple weeks back(when I posted this originally on DA) I wasn't sure how I wanted to go with Zero, at some point at the time I wanted to make it seem like there was doubt Zero was Infinite but imply he was either a clone or some how part of Infinite was in a clone body.

Zero's memories would allow him to answer some questions but also make him at times question if he's the real Infinite, either way he's willing to be punished for Infinite's crimes as he feels guilt for his other self's actions. In the end I wasn't sure if I wanted nothing to happen so Infinite is gone & Zero is doing better or Infinite shows up, tries to attack but is either defeated by Gadget & Zero or Zero defeats him, they become whole again with Zero in control & continuing his community service while everyone is more positive about him now that he's shown he's not evil.

Yeah everything but Finn is a mess. Funny enough for a little I wasn't sure if I wanted Zero to be Finn's son or grandson before settling on being Finn's son.