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wordstome · 1 year ago

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kingdom come - iii

king König x princess & assassin reader

2nd person, no y/n, she/her pronouns, afab reader, romance, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, kind of age gap because König has been king for a good chunk of time but it's not really much of a factor, fantasy/medieval setting

7.7k words

tw: explicit smut, animal death, mentions of child death, violence, mild body horror, ableist language (use of the word "cripple")

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"I'm not going to sleep with you." -quote from woman who is about to sleep with him

There’s a portrait of a woman in your room.

Of course, König offered to have it removed or replaced, but you’ve procrastinated the decision because you never thought you would be here long enough for it to matter. Yet here you are, staring up at this lovely young woman on the wall.

You tilt your head, studying her. Her expression is neutral, almost pensive, but the artist captured a playful sparkle in her eyes, as if she’s keeping some sweet secret.

It’s the first queen, of course. König’s first wife. The one who died many years ago. It’s strange that after so long, he hasn’t gotten rid of the portrait.

What happened to you? you wonder. If someone had asked what you thought when you first arrived here, you would have said, without hesitation, that König had her killed. All your life, you had been taught that he and his father were evil, unfeeling tyrants. Now, this conviction has wavered.

You keep trying to tell yourself that it’s ridiculous, to be thinking better of his character. You only ever wanted to know him better to kill him. But the more you understand about what makes him tick, the less you think that he would do such a thing. Perhaps it’s true, then, that she died in childbirth.

Your eyes travel all over the portrait, poring over every detail of her features. Did you know him? Did you understand him? Did you love him?

Did he love you?

What did that feel like?

“Good. You haven’t left yet.” Calliope comes into the room, bustling with energy even before the sun comes up. You don’t know how she does it.

“We’re about to.”

“That’s why I’m here.” You notice she’s wearing gloves, but more importantly, she’s holding a necklace: a silvery chain with a small, intricate pendant. Vine-shaped pieces of metal hold a white, almost clear jewel in place, its various facets reflecting the candlelight in vivid colors.

“Jewelry? I’m going to be living in the woods for the next few weeks,” you tease as she lowers the necklace over your head. It does look quite durable, but you’re not exactly dressing for a costume ball here.

“Consider it a reminder that I await your safe return,” Calliope responds, securing the necklace behind your neck. “Look at it and remember me. You’re not to do anything reckless out there, am I understood?”

“Understood.” You give her a soft smile as she arranges the necklace on your collarbones. You’re grateful for the gift: though she can’t come with you, a small piece of her will always remain with you.

“Good. And don’t let that handsome husband of yours distract you and get yourself killed.”

“Calliope! What happened to ‘something’s not right with him’?”

“That doesn’t mean he isn’t handsome!”

You snort and roll your eyes, but there’s a smile on your face.

You used to think that living in König’s home already exposed you to an exhausting amount of the man. As it turns out, going on a journey with him is even worse.

There’s nobody else to talk to, nowhere to run or put distance between you two when he frustrates you. It’s not so bad for the first few days: the towns surrounding the capital are still populated enough to provide some respite from him. But once the two of you have made your way outside the bounds of civilization, it doesn’t take long for things to become stilted and awkward.

“You’ve been awfully quiet since we left the last town.”

“I don’t feel talkative.”

“Really? I’m out of my mind with boredom right now. Come, you’re not in the mood to get to know each other a little?”

You give him a look. “What else is there to know? I’ve lived with you for several months.”

“But we don’t talk.” König nudges his horse to walk closer to yours. König is such a large man, his horse is massive too: comically so, next to your normal one. You let out a sigh.

“There’s nothing to know about me.”

“I doubt that. All I know about you is you’re a princess trained to be an assassin. ‘Your whole life’, according to yourself,” he says with a touch of mocking.

You purse your lips, determined not to let him get under your skin. “There’s nothing else to know.”

“Truly? Nothing about what you like?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like…your favorite food. Or hobby.”

“Hobby? …I suppose I spend a lot of time at target practice.”

“That’s not a hobby.”

“It’s relaxing to hone my skills.”

He gives you an amused look. “You remind me of myself as a young man.”

Something about that irks you. “We’re nothing alike.”

“I used to have the same mindset as you, at least. I held one objective in my mind and didn’t seek purpose outside of it.”

“I…”

As much as you loathe to admit it, he’s right. You have been focused on one objective your whole life. If you probe deeper, you can’t remember having any friends outside of Calliope, nor any interests outside of the curriculum your father set for you. “It wasn’t as bleak as you seem to think it was.”

“Oh?”

“It’s not like I never had fun. I had my own way of finding it.”

“Such as?”

“Well, when my training progress stalled, I’d be sent to bed without dinner. Naturally. I eventually learned how to climb out of my window at night and go foraging in the woods for something to eat.” A smile curls your lips as you reminisce. “Eventually I even worked my way up to hunting—little things, like squirrels. I spent many a cozy little evening cooking for myself over a fire.”

You turn to find an abject look of horror on König face. “What? What’s wrong? Is there danger?” You turn around to scan your surroundings, but nothing immediately jumps out at you.

“No. No danger. I just…he sent you to bed with an empty stomach so many times you learned how to crawl out of your room and hunt squirrels to eat?”

You blink at him. “You’ve never had squirrel before?”

He looks scandalized. “Of course I have! That is not the issue with what you just said.”

You shrug. “It was important discipline. Besides, it gave me hunting experience at a young age. Squirrels are hard to skin, but I could do it in twelve seconds flat if you gave me one now.”

König looks like he wants to say more, but instead he looks up at the sky. “We should make camp soon.”

“Is it that time already?”

“It needs to be set up before it gets dark. We should also start hunting while it’s light out—not all of us can catch things in the dark, squirrel-girl.”

“Hey!”

Later, you’re both chewing on a rabbit when he speaks.

“You know, when you said you wanted to travel with me, I was quite concerned.”

“Yes, I know. You didn’t think I was capable of handling myself.”

“Not just that. I was worried you would be…unaccustomed to living rough.”

“You thought I would be a spoiled princess.”

“I wouldn’t have put it that way, but yes.”

You snort. “Well, now you know. I can handle myself in the outdoors.” You toss the rabbit bones you’ve just picked clean into a small hole dug into the dirt. When you leave, you’ll cover it with dirt to prevent predators from smelling the remains and following you on your journey.

“You want the other leg?” you ask. König seems startled, for some reason.

“You caught this one.”

“Yes, but you’re bigger than me. You need the food.” You reach up to pluck a leaf from a nearby tree and wipe your hands. Rabbits sure are greasy…

There’s a strange look in König’s eye as he regards you. You raise an eyebrow at him in response. “What?”

“…nothing.” He reaches for the rabbit while you shrug and walk off to find some water. The back of your neck prickles as you go, as if his stare is physically touching you.

You can’t stand to be near him nowadays, and you don’t know why.

Of course, you have no choice but to. There’s a tension that feels weighty, forbidden. You know he can tell, because he’s been more cautious around you, giving you as much space as he can afford to. Somehow, that irritates you even more.

Tonight, the two of you are camping in a dense, thick part of the forest not far from a road. It’s quiet, secluded: even the usual soundscape of ambient animal noises is silent.

The fire crackles and pops as you stare into the flames, as if you’ll find any answers in it. Instead, the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end as König returns from washing himself in a nearby stream, approaching you from behind.

“This won’t work if you’re constantly upset with me for some unknown reason.”

You don’t turn to look at him, though some invisible force compels you. “Why? Because it makes you uncomfortable?”

“I’m worried about your comfort too, you know. If you just told me what I’ve done wrong, then we can resolve it before it breeds resentment.”

“I’m just stressed.” Everything he does or says seems to irritate you nowadays, but you know in your heart of hearts that it’s not his fault. It’s your own problem—you assume camping outdoors for so long has taken its toll on your psyche.

He frowns at you, but doesn’t pry any further. You can’t help but watch as he walks around to the other side of the fire, drying his hair with his shirt. God, he is a work of art: all chiseled muscles and glowing skin. Your eyes travel down his torso, drawn by the line of his abs, down to the happy trail leading to the slightly askew waist of his trousers.

“You’re drooling, princess.”

Your eyes snap back up to his face. His eyes are dancing with mirth as he realizes he’s just caught you ogling him. You make a face at him, but it only makes him laugh. “Was not.”

“Incorrect answer. You should have attempted to strike at my ego. Now I know you were looking.”

“I think I’m just being driven mad by spending so much time alone with you in the woods.”

“I know several ways to drive you mad, sweetling.”

You slouch against a tree, your face hot—and not from the fire. In a blink, he’s standing before you, with a gleeful expression on his face like he’s just discovered a cure for dropsy.

“I know what’s making you sour as vinegar. You need to be fucked.”

You bury your face in your hands, unable to look at him. “I thought we had moved past this,” you groan, trying to ignore your rapidly quickening heartbeat.

“What, your ever-growing carnal lust for me?”

“You being a pervert.”

“I’ve never made a secret of it. You, however…” You suck in a startled breath as he leans down, trapping you against the tree just like he had the day you sparred with him. “You’ve been denying yourself.”

Your breath is ragged as he looks you in the eye, the tension between the two of you as taut as a bowstring. A familiar sense of panic rises in you, the same way you feel every time he’s close to you like this. Before, you thought it was because it felt dangerous to be so close to your enemy. Now, you’re second-guessing yourself.

“So what if I have?” you mumble.

“There’s an easy way to fix that.”

“…The last time you had me in this position, you were threatening me.”

He tilts his head slightly, a wicked gleam in his eye. “You don’t feel threatened now?”

You don’t respond immediately, and heavens forbid, he takes it as hesitancy, his demeanor instantly transforming. “One word. One word, and we will never speak of this again. But if you tell me you want this, I will fuck you senseless.”

“Yes,” you whisper, and his lips on are on yours.

It’s a strange sensation, considering half of your mouth is pressed against the cold, smooth surface of his mask. You don’t even ask him about removing it—it’s become a part of him in your mind. And maybe part of you even finds the mystery of it alluring.

You all but melt into the kiss, against him. It’s different, everything is different than that first awkward kiss from when you were younger. It makes you ache, makes you long for him in a way you’ve never wanted someone before.

You have to separate to breathe, but your reluctance to break apart from him is clear by the way you chase his face with yours. He laughs at you, but it’s not condescending at all. It settles in your chest, warm like honey.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you murmur.

“Luckily for you, you’re in good hands.” It’s the cockiness in his voice that does you in, what makes you let go and give yourself over to him.

You feel flustered, awkward, and like the least desirable creature on earth, but he looks at you like he wants to devour you. Like there’s nothing else he wants more than to have you right now.

“You can trust me,” he says softly. You try to respond, but suddenly find you’ve gone mute. All you can manage is a small nod.

To your surprise, he lowers his mouth to your neck. You gasp, a full-body shiver running through you as he kisses you there, sucking and nipping at you as he goes. “W-wait, I’m—”

“Sensitive? I can tell.” You squeak as he continues to lavish you with attention, his fingers trailing down the front of your torso to undo your pants. His movements are deliberate but slow, giving you plenty of opportunity to stop him. But of course, you don’t.

You let out a quick little breath as he finds his way to your pussy, his deep chuckle reverberating against your throat. “You’re so wet…did I do that to you, liebling?”

You’re about to respond, but instead let out a sharp gasp as he dips a finger into your pussy. “How are you ever going to take me into this tight little hole of yours…” he taunts.

Oh, God, you hadn’t even thought about that. Your mind flashes back to your wedding night, and the first time you tried to kill him. You had mostly been shocked by his audacity, but only now do you recall how big he had felt between your thighs.

He’s gentle with you at first, patiently stretching you open as you whine and beg in his arms. You just about sob when he finally pays your clit attention, circling it with his thumb, and in what seems like no time at all, you’re cumming, hard.

“That didn’t take long at all,” he says with that awful smirk of his.

“Th-that’s not fair,” you stammer. “You know…”

“I’m only teasing you.” He presses a quick kiss to your forehead as you come down, shivering with pleasure.

He makes you cum twice with just his hand. Your legs are trembling by the time the two of you properly get undressed. You’re soft and pliable, helpless putty in his hands as he lines the tip of his cock at your entrance.

“Ready, liebe?” he asks.

“That is not going to fit,” you say, eyes wide and fearful. There’s absolutely no way, you think, staring down the absurdly thick and long monster between his legs.

“Trust me, remember? We’ll take it slow,” he reassures you. You bite your lip and nod, giving him the go-ahead to sink into you.

Instantly, you realize that no matter how well König could have prepared you, there was no chance that it would have been enough to ready you for the stretch of him. You feel like you can hardly breathe as he splits you in half with his cock, your mouth dropping open in a wordless cry.

“Fuck, you are tight,” he groans, but he keeps his promise to go slow, feeding himself inch by inch inside you until he’s sitting snug up against your cervix.

The two of you stay there, suspended in a moment in time, connected to each other in the most intimate way two people can be. It makes your head spin, makes you dizzy with the sensation of his body pressed against yours.

You nod, and he starts to move.

If you had thought before that his fingers felt good inside you, then his cock is something else. The delicious stretch of him is almost electrifying, and you wonder how you went all your life without it.

All you can do is let him take control—you don’t have the presence mind to do anything but hold onto him, gasping and moaning. He’s all around you, above you, inside you, and it feels like nothing else in the world matters, or that there is a world other than König, König, König.

Your third orgasm surprises you, waves of pleasure flowing through you as you cry out, your pussy sucking him in as if it wants him to stay inside forever. That’s what seemingly pushes him over the edge too, a string of expletives bursting from him as he floods you with his cum.

You’re limp and weak, all but purring as he shifts to lay next to you and pulls you into his chest.

“You are sweet when underneath me like this,” he purrs.

You swat him in the chest, but it must feel no heavier than being hit by a branch, because he just laughs.

“There’s no reason to be shy now. I’ve seen everything at this point.” You pout at him—something that only seems to bring him delight, because he pulls you in for a kiss.

“This isn’t how I wanted to take you the first time,” he says, a hint of shame in his tone.

Your heart twinges with affection. This isn’t how you imagined your first time, either, but the idea of him wanting you so badly he thought about it beforehand, fantasized about it even…“I’ve slept in trees before, this is nothing,” you reassure him.

He shoots you a concerned look. “You continue to share alarming events from your childhood.”

You sleep together that night, curled up against him with your legs tangled with his. He falls asleep first, the slight rumble of his chest as he sleeps against your cheek. You lay awake a little while longer, watching him, breathing him in. Now, you have no choice but to be confronted with the truth that you’ve been refusing to acknowledge this whole time.

You don’t hate him anymore. You don’t even dislike him now. And you certainly don’t want to kill him.

On one hand, things are easier. Crossing the line feels more like having torn down a wall, with no more need for pretense. On the other, König is somehow even more insufferable than before. Or perhaps insatiable is a better word for it. You go from having daily sexual tension with him to daily sex, period.

It’s like the floodgates have opened. He’s always loved to tease you, but it gets a hundred times worse now that he knows just how to make your cheeks feel warm.

“I was thinking…” he muses one night as you cuddle by the fire. “You may have to start riding on my horse.”

“Don’t I already do that?” you ask, sleepily playing with his hair.

He snorts. “Your susceptibility to my corrupting influence is truly something to marvel at.”

“You’ve been enacting psychological warfare on me for months.”

“Anyhow, as I was saying.”

“Your horse is quite large, but I don’t think it could handle me astride it as well.”

“Well. Certainly something else that’s large could handle that…”

You sigh. “Get to the point.”

“It’s becoming quite distracting, watching you moving up and down with the horse’s stride.”

“I cannot believe you. Innuendos twice in a row?”

“This is a legitimate grievance!”

“Riding on your horse would not fix the problem. Unless you plan for me to sit behind you in the saddle, which I refuse to do.”

“You’re no fun.”

You lean forward to kiss the corner of his mouth instead of responding.

Your newfound…activity, however pleasingly distracting, can’t eclipse what comes next.

The mood is somber as you arrive in the village: it’s a quiet, sleepy place, just a scattering of simple houses dotting rolling hills and one singular street lined with buildings in the center of it all.

In sharp contrast to his playful, almost jubilant mood on the road with you, König instantly snaps into his authoritative persona. It especially suits him when he puts on the hood: it makes him seem that much more intimidating and threatening. Almost inhuman.

The first order of business is to hold counsel with what passes for the leader in this tiny village: a local merchant patriarch. He’s a sturdy man in his older years, face lined with both wrinkles and scars. He must have been quite the warrior when he was young: you can tell by the way he carries himself.

He gives both of you the lay of the land, and it’s a grim predicament indeed. Herding the livestock is a job most often given to the children, as it’s a relatively safe job with less skill required than the tasks the adults take care of. That’s changed, of course, with the arrival of the beast a few weeks ago. He confirms the most gruesome details that have been brought before König by previous messengers, and it turns your stomach just to imagine it. Those poor children…

The two of you set off early the next morning, with directions from an experienced hunter who had been keeping track of the beast and reporting its movements. At first, it feels normal: just another walk in the woods with König. The solemn silence between the two of you serves as a stark reminder that this isn’t like normal—followed promptly by increasing signs of a presence in the woods. Snapped branches, giant pawprints, and worse, streaks of blood.

Then you break though into a clearing, and your blood runs cold.

The beast before you could only be described as a wolf for lack of a better descriptor. It’s monstrously large, being König’s height and half again, with all of its proportions just slightly wrong: its legs scrawny and just slightly too long for its body, the snout lean and far too sharp to fit the rest of its head. Dried old blood crusted into the fur of its muzzle and chest belies the savagery of the creature, even streaking onto the fur along its neck. And the most obvious tell-tale sign of an unnatural creature is that fur: a dark, rusty blue that shifts with impossible pinpricks of light, like the night sky is ensnared in this feral animal’s coat.

You heard its growl before you saw it. But now when it lays eyes on you and König, it opens its snout and…speaks.

“What do we have here?” The voice comes out as a broken, reedy croak, as if stretching vocal cords that haven’t been used in a long time.

Something about it raises your hackles, like your body’s responding to an ancient, ingrained fear. Fae.

“Don’t listen to anything it says.” König’s voice is suddenly soft, dangerous. “None of it is trustworthy.” Slowly, deliberately, his hand moves to his back and draws his sword.

“Ah, the boy king,” hisses the beast. “You simply couldn’t help yourself, could you?”

“You’re eating my subjects,” König responds. Your eyes flit to where his hand tightens its grip on his sword. “This is not personal.”

“But it always is, is it not?” The beast and König circle each other, like two combatants in an arena. “You are as ever driven by your past mistakes.”

“König, what is it talking about?” You feel like you’re witnessing a conversation you shouldn’t be, but you feel helpless to do anything about it. If you tried to make a move towards the beast now, it would have its jaws snapped around you in an instant.

“It’s lying, liebling. It’s what they do. It’s trying to throw you for a loop so it can catch you off guard.”

“Liebling now, is it?” The beast lets out an awful, barking laugh. “My, the two of you have come far. But not far enough, it seems.”

König gives you a quick, sidelong glance, then tilts his head back towards the beast. The message is clear. We need to distract it. I’ll keep it talking.

“From her response, it seems you’ve been keeping secrets from your lovely little bride.” The beast shakes itself, its fur puffing up to look larger and more intimidating.

“There’s nothing to keep. None of that is important.”

“I would beg to differ. And if your liebling knew what it was, she would disagree as well.”

“You know nothing about us,” König growls. Yes, you’re in a life-or-death situation right now, but the viciousness in his tone sends an excited shiver up your spine. You’re opposite König now, almost completely hidden behind the beast’s monstrous form.

“You know nothing about each other!” Before either of you can react, the beast whips around. Its glowing-white eyes are fixed on you. “Not that it matters any longer.”

You barely have time to scream before the beast is upon you.

“No!” König’s voice rings in your ears. You can feel the creature’s hot breath, its vile drool spilling onto your clothes, its teeth closing around your neck—

Time slows to a crawl, the events unfolding one after the other in sequence. The first thing you’re aware of is the beast’s roar of pain, booming deafeningly all around you. I’m inside its mouth, you think numbly. The second thing you notice is your necklace: it’s glowing red, as if the metal has become molten hot. But you don’t feel any burning sensation, just a faint tingle.

The third thing you see is König shoving himself between the two halves of the beast’s snout, physically holding it open with his body.

It’s truly an impressive sight, like watching Atlas hold up the sky. For a brief moment, all you can do is stare up at him in awe.

“What are you doing?! Get out!” he yells, and you snap back to your senses.

You roll aside out of the beast’s range, scrambling to get back on your feet. König dodges out of the way just as the jaws snap shut.

“Is that..?” the thing wheezes. You rush to help König up as it glares balefully at you. Its beady eyes focus on the pendant around your neck, narrowing in disgust.

“Calliope,” it spits. “I should have known. This bears marks of your meddling all over.”

Your blood runs cold. “What did you just say?” What does your lady in waiting have to do with this?

“You—” The beast doesn’t get a chance to finish its sentence, because König takes advantage of its consternation to stick his sword into its neck. The creature bellows in pain and lunges at König, who barely manages to dodge the strike but loses his grip on his sword in the process. The monstrous animal whips around and around, attempting to grab hold of the sword with its teeth.

“Strike, now!” König calls before promptly getting clocked in the head with the pommel of his own sword as the beast thrashes and screams.

You don’t hesitate to spring into action, unsheathing a wicked-sharp blade as long as your forearm and sprinting towards the creature. König’s left you a perfect opening: as long as the beast is trying to get ahold of the sword, its chest is wide open for attack.

You don’t waste the opportunity. With the running start, you leap forward, sinking the blade into the wolf’s chest, right where its heart lies. The long, keening wail that the beast lets out is confirmation that your blade has struck true.

You have to throw yourself into a roll to get out of the way before the massive body crashes down on top of you. It lies on the ground, its heaving breaths growing shallower by the moment, its wounds staining the ground with a faintly shimmering golden ichor. So the fae do have golden blood, just like the old legends said, you think, watching the macabre scene with stunned terror.

“Brought low by two fae-touched mortals with barely a fight…” the beast huffs. It sounds weary and resigned to its fate, strange for a creature that had seemed so deadly and menacing just moments before. “Fate is cruel.”

“Fae-touched…what do you mean?” you ask, eyes widening. “Wait! What do you mean by that?!”

The beast doesn’t respond, its chest now hardly moving with its breaths. It’s not long for the world, now.

Behind the hulking, dying animal, you spot König staggering into a standing position. “König!” You gather yourself and rush towards him.

He’s visibly unstable on his feet, swaying slightly and looking dazed. The sword must have hit him hard, because his hood has been partially torn away. Despite everything, though, you can’t see any visible blood or injuries from this angle. Until he turns.

A bloodcurdling scream tears its way out of your throat. König cringes slightly at the sound, but you can’t help yourself. The sight is terrifying.

The skin above one half of his mouth is simply gone. He has no lip, not even any flesh up to his nose. His upper teeth and gums on one half of his mouth are just exposed, giving him a grim, unnatural appearance. He looks like Death itself, resembling the skeletal depictions in the manuscripts.

You should be afraid—scratch that, you are afraid. But you realize quickly your fear is not of him, but for him.

“Did it do this to you?!” you say, panicking. You dash forward and grab ahold of his face, turning it so you can examine the injury more closely. The act seems to startle König, who simply looks down at you in confusion.

“What are we going to do? There’s no way this village has a healer who could dress this wound…” you fret. An injury on this level is almost certainly a death sentence if he doesn’t receive adequate attention immediately, and he certainly won’t last the night if you’re forced to travel by horseback again—

“Schatzi…” König grabs your hands with his and removes them from his face. “I’m fine.”

You stare at him in shock for a moment. “You—how can—you—”

He heaves a heavy sigh, as if a massive burden has been placed on his shoulders. “I’m alright. The wound is…not new.”

“How can it not be new.”

König screws his eyes shut for a moment as if trying to gather his composure. “It’s been this way since I was young. Look,” he says, touching the area with a finger. “There’s no blood.”

On closer inspection, you realize he’s right: not only is there no blood, but the skin around his mouth and nose appear to be completely healed. And not even as if it were a true wound: there’s no scarring, no uneven flesh. The skin and muscle are simply…missing.

“What…how…” You’re at a total loss for words. Since he was young? What happened? How had he survived such an injury as a child? You have a million questions, but you find yourself unable to ask any of them.

You watch him, stunned, as he walks past you towards the beast’s body. It lays completely still now, all semblance of life having fled from the corpse. With one hand on the grip and one foot braced against the beast’s body, he wrenches his sword free, then bends to pull your knife out.

“I know you must have questions,” he says, wiping the blood off of both weapons onto the wolf’s fur with a grimace, “but I can’t answer them here. Please, if I promise to explain, will you…will you wait until we’ve left the village?” He turns to look at you beseechingly.

“I…” Now that the adrenaline and initial panic is beginning to fade, your whole body feels heavy and exhausted. You don’t have the energy to be angry, or afraid, or demand an explanation now. You have no choice but to agree, nodding quietly. König seems relieved at your calm response.

“So that’s why you always wear a mask or a hood,” you say numbly as you watch him take the ruined hood off, shaking his head to get the hair out of his face. He gives you a sad, regretful look.

“I didn’t mean for you to find out this way.”

“Did you mean for me to find out at all?”

“I never meant for anyone to find out.”

The villagers throw a celebration. A modest one, to be sure, but the relief on the peoples’ faces is enough of a reward for you. You can tell König is glad to see it as well—though every time you look at his face, hidden once more behind his mask, you feel a twinge in your heart as you remember what lies underneath it.

You can’t find it in yourself to enjoy the celebrations, even as excited children and grateful parents swarm you to give their thanks. You give them all a smile and a kind word, but that’s all you can manage. Dread and curiosity mix to form a terrible feeling in your gut.

The days between your defeat of the beast and your departure go by in a blur. You’re grateful for the rest, but you can’t stop thinking, worrying, about König’s condition. You manage to stop being petrified that he’s going to drop dead of infection at any moment, but you can’t look at him anymore without thinking about it. About the secret that he’s kept from you, from everyone who’s ever met him. You can’t even wrap your mind around what it all means. You have no point of reference for what could have happened to your husband’s face.

Husband. What a strange thing, to be wed to someone whose full face you had only seen a few days ago, months into your marriage. You haven’t thought of him like that at all. He’s always been König: the king, the enemy, the annoyance. And your lover, you suppose. For the first time, you start to wonder exactly what kind of man you’ve bound yourself to.

Because it’s exceedingly clear to you now. You can’t kill this man. Not just because you don’t want to anymore, but because he might be unkillable.

The village hasn’t yet vanished in the distance behind the two of you when you speak. “What the hell?”

König’s eyes slide to you, then back to the road ahead. “Language.”

You sputter in indignation. “Lang—that’s not what I want to hear!”

“Forgive me. I couldn’t resist.”

“König, this is serious! You promised an explanation.”

“I know what I promised,” he says, a slight edge creeping into his voice.

“Well?”

König takes as deep breath. Inhale, exhale.

Then he begins.

“Well. What do we have here? You’re awfully young for this, little prince.”

He’s fourteen. He’s about to make a decision that will shape the rest of his life.

He had done as the crone’s old tome instructed. Bone from an animal slain in its youth. Flowers bloomed under the cover of pitch black night. A blade whet on the summoner’s own flesh. He’s knelt under the light of the full moon, round and blindingly white.

The ethereal creature standing before him is easily twice his height, with an unearthly glow to their skin and hair and a smile that could almost be mistaken for kind and benevolent on their unnaturally beautiful face.

He’s done it. He’s summoned a fae.

With no small amount of difficulty, he rises to his feet, leaning heavily on the cane that helps him walk. The fae lets out a noise of amusement as they watch the young boy struggle.

“Usually, mortals don’t gamble away their lives until they’re older, and greed begins to dictate their actions.”

He glares at the fae but doesn’t respond.

“Come, now. Do not look at me so. Give me your name, little prince.”

“…you may call me König.”

The fae’s expression sharpens, ever so slightly. “Clever boy. ‘König’…don’t you think you’re getting a bit ahead of yourself?”

“I want to make a deal.”

The fae sighs. “Straight to the point, I see. Well, I can’t fault your efficiency. Or is it desperation?” They smirk at him, their eyes taking the rest of him in. He knows he must make for a pathetic sight: a cripple with a harelip, spine curled and legs thin and spindly.

He doesn’t care. This is the last day he will ever be this pathetic.

“Let me guess. You wish to no longer be a cripple.”

“I want to be able bodied. I want to be strong enough to defeat my enemies. I want to be rid of my harelip.” Clear, concise language. He’s spoken these words to himself in the mirror countless times.

“You’ve certainly done your research. Then you know what price I will ask for such things.”

He swallows nervously. “Yes.”

“Very well then. Let us begin.”

It starts in his toes, the strange sensation that flows up through him that he will know all his days. He can feel the strength rushing into his limbs, feel his spine straightening, withered muscles coming to life.

Then comes the pain.

It’s white-hot torment, as if his body has become a living coal. He falls to the ground again, screaming and writhing as his bones crack and realign themselves. Somewhere, in the distance, he can hear the fae’s cruel laughter as they watch him suffer. For a brief moment, some primal, animal part of his brain thinks he’s going to die.

“Fret not, boy king. You won’t perish—I won’t let you until you give me what you’ve promised me,” the fae says, as if they can hear his thoughts.

He’s not sure how long he lays there on the ground, body wracked with agony. It feels like hours pass before he regains use of his limbs. But the pain does eventually fade away, leaving him dazed but still alive. Slowly, he manages to stand up again.

He stares at himself in wonder, legs and arms stretching. For the first time ever, he’s able to stand tall and straight on his own, his cane discarded to the side. And he feels strong. At last, he doesn’t feel weak for once.

“There. That wasn’t so bad, was it?” The fae’s face has changed: they still look the same, but there’s a beastly, ugly quality to their lovely features that chills him to the bone.

His hands fly instantly to his face. The harelip is still there, he notes with displeasure.

“You forgot something,” he says, frowning in his lopsided way.

“Oh, I didn’t.” Before König can react, the fae’s eyes hollow and grow dark, becoming two pools of endless void. Their teeth sharpen, their face grows gaunt.

“Remember what you owe, boy king,” they remind him. “On the day and the hour your first child is born, I will come to collect.”

He doesn’t even have time to scream before the fae reaches forward with black talons and tears off his mouth.

You’re rendered speechless by his story. Where do you even start?

Your first thoughts are of the way he described himself as a child. König, weak and crippled? König? You look at him now, eighteen hands high astride his horse, the picture of raw strength and dominance. You can’t imagine it at all.

Your second thought is— “You made a deal with the fae? Do you know how foolish that is? Fae never give you what you want, and the cost is always far too high!”

“Don’t lecture me,” he says tightly. “I know what I was getting myself into. I had no other choice.”

“What do you mean, no other choice? You were the king’s son—you are the king! You could have had servants carry you everywhere if need be!”

“You don’t understand what it was like,” König snarls, turning to you with fire in his eyes. “Nobody would have accepted a cripple as their king. My life would constantly have been in danger, having to rely upon others. Unable to even defend myself if an assassin set upon me in my bed.” He’s getting angrier, more worked up as he goes.

“I told you that I was once poisoned as a child with nightshade berries. Did you wonder why there was such a plant in my mother’s garden? Why the royal heir was unsupervised for so long in the first place?” König’s expression is twisted, his voice turned bitter with betrayal. “It was a plot against me by some of my father’s advisors. They conspired with my nursemaid to make it seem like an accident…they expected me to die.”

“I…I’m sorry, König. I didn’t think.”

He glances at you and takes a moment to collect himself before speaking. “I was lucky. My father sent for the best healers he could find. My mother cried at my bedside for weeks.” His brow furrows. “My lot in life could have been worse: my parents loved me, at the very least. But it made me hate myself even more—that I was such a profound disappointment.

“My mother had a difficult birth. Some whispered that it was penance for what my father did: that the spirits of those slain during his campaigns had cursed my mother’s womb. She never was able to conceive again…so all their hopes rested upon my shoulders. My crippled, useless shoulders.”

The venom in his voice when he talks about himself makes your heart ache with sympathy. You move your horse closer to his and put a hand on his arm, squeezing him in what you hope is a comforting manner. His expression softens as he looks down at you.

“It would have been easy for you to kill me if I were still like that, liebe.” You feel your face grow warm again at the term of endearment.

“It makes sense, your strength being fae-given…Calliope said there was something not right about you.”

“Calliope is a perceptive woman.”

You study his face, eyes regarding his mask in a new light. “It really doesn’t look so bad. I only reacted that way because I thought you were injured.”

He shrugs. “Never was that good-looking anyway.”

You make a face. “Are you suggesting I sleep with ugly men?”

“You’ve only slept with me.”

“I’m trying to compliment you.”

“You think I’m handsome?”

“When you’re not annoying me.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Well, now you know.”

You study him. He seems relieved to have finally gotten this off his shoulders. “Do you regret it?”

He gets a faraway look in his eyes. “…No.”

The village’s leader had advised an alternate path back home: it might take you a day or two longer, but it was less remote and lined with other villages. You arrive at the first inn just as the sun is about to duck beneath the horizon, the sky streaked with orange.

It’s a serene part of the wood, and the inn is quite quaint as well. Whoever runs it has done well for themselves, you think absentmindedly as you and König dismount and prepare to unload.

A side door swings open, and a quite frankly huge man walks out, facing away from the two of you. Your sense of scale is attuned to König now, so he’s of course not the biggest man you’ve ever seen, but he’s broad-shouldered and thick with muscle. You can’t see his face from this angle, but you can just about spot his blond hair—

“Shit. Shit.” König instantly spins around so his horse is between him and the man who’s just walked out of the building. You squint. Is he…hiding?

“What’s going on? Should I be worried?”

“No. Yes. Maybe.” Is he cringing? “Do you think it’s too late to set up camp?”

“Set up camp? When there’s a perfectly good inn right there?”

“Yes!”

“What has gotten into you? That man is quite big, but he’s not that sc—”

“I’m not scared of him, I just recognize him. And I don’t particularly feel like seeing him.”

You’re agog at the scene before you. “You’re the king.”

“Even kings have their hangups, alright?”

“I am not sleeping in the woods.”

“As your husband and supreme ruler, I demand it.”

“Come now. I know you’re tired of fucking me outside.”

That gives him serious pause, which almost makes you giggle. Ridiculous man. You could probably lead him onto an executioner’s block if you held him by the cock.

“Please,” you beg, stepping forward to hold his hand and giving him the biggest, most wide eyes you can muster. “I’m not ready to go back to sleeping on the ground yet.”

His face scrunches up in a hopelessly endearing, almost childlike way. “Fine. But you have to go in and talk to the innkeep. I’m going to stay out here.”

“I don’t know what all the fuss is, but fine. You big baby.” You hand him your horse’s reins and make your way to the front door of the inn.

You’ve barely pushed the door very far at all before you hear a friendly voice from inside. “Welcome, traveler! Come on in.”

“It’s wonderful to make your—” You stop in the doorway, frozen with shock.

“It’s wonderful to make your acquaintance, your highness.” A pair of familiar sparkling eyes look back at you. “And you can tell his majesty that he can come inside, I’ve already seen him.”

König’s first wife stands before you, watching your reaction with clear amusement.

Forgive me for that smut. It's been years since I've written anything nsfw, and I wrote this at like. 5AM after a very long day because when I'm not exhausted, writing smut becomes impossible. It's quite the pickle.

Well...I did say that part 3 was going to be a doozy! I'm looking forward to all the reactions...🤭

Comments and feedback are of course always appreciated <3

@kneelingshadowsalome @crowbird @poohkie90 @cumikering @iytatsworld @papaver-decervicatus @anxietyrain @riotakire @ax0lotly @cookiepie111 @kacchasu @no1runawaymilkdad @chthonian-spectre @backwards-readings @yxllowtxpe @garbau @hexqueensupreme @queenthorin1 @violetstyless @her-majesty-theking @vegan-peppermint @peonytarian @ghostslittlegf @euuuuuuun @e1x03 @kokonoiwife @deaddainish @dragonfang @teehee-47 @keiva1000 @catluvwr @waves-against-a-cliff @channelsoph @cutiecusp @channelsoph @itsagrimm @dins-riduur-anthe @lexuria @complexivelovely

#I hope I managed to tag everyone!!!#könig #konig #könig cod #konig cod #konig x reader #König x reader #konig x you #König x you #cod #cod mw2 #call of duty #mw2 #fic: kingdom come

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wangxianficfinder · 3 months ago

Text

I'm in the mood for...

Aug 13th

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1. Any wangxian fanfics with straight wei wuxian having a sexuality crisis over lan wangji?

ao3 has been erroring out for me when I try to get to my bookmarks , maybe because I have so many? but for #1 , there is a tag "straight boy wei ying" /"Wei wuxian in denial about sexuality" that will give great fics. when I can get to my bookmarks I'll add my faves

show me how you do that trick by ilip13 (E, 70k, WangXian, Modern Setting Porn with Feelings, The Porn Is the Plot, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, straight boy wwx, with an aspec twist, Sexuality Crisis, Voyeurism, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Masturbation, Anal Sex, Switching, Top/Bottom Versatile | Switch WangXian, Slow Burn, Except for the sex that part is on fire soooo fast, sexuality realization, Feelings Realization, Happy Ending)

The Cause Of This Fair Gift In Me Is Wanting by Alliandra (E, 47k, WangXian, LQY/QS, Modern AU, High School, College/University, Time Skips, Slow Burn, Pining, LWJ POV, LWJ Fucks, WWX dates, "Straight Boy" WWX, Homophobia, Non-Graphic Violence, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Reference, d Suicide, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Overstimulation, Light Bondage, Blow Jobs, Masturbation, Getting Together, Ableist Language, WWX Has ADHD, Autistic LWJ, Queer Themes)

I search myself (I want you to find me) by ilip13 (E, 22k, WangXian, Modern AU, Fluff and Smut, The Porn Is the Plot, Compulsory Heterosexuality, Self-Discovery, Adolescent Sexuality, Slight Gender Feels, Masturbation, Fantasizing, Voyeurism, (sort of), Exhibitionism, (also sort of), Lingerie, Explicit Het Content)

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2. Hi! Do you have any fic recs for fic where wwx come back as someone else other than mxy? I remember seeing one where he ends up as Qin Su @fysmiin

You still sound like a song by Moominmammashandbag (M, 64k, WIP, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Ghost!WWX, Mystery, LWJ plays inquiry, AU from after the Wens came to Lotus Pier, Most people lived, not everybody died, Angst with a Happy Ending, river spirit!WWX, Angst and Feels, description of murder, imminent smut, Execution, Dogs, Poisons, Discussion of Attempted Murder, BAMF WWX, Family Feels)

To Deserve So Much More by renysen (T, 19k, wangxian, getting together, one big happy family, no angst, getting engaged, family feels, female bodied WWX) ofc summons wwx to defend her family's besieged manor.

🔒Femme Fatale by coffeepie (E, 76k, WIP, WWX/WC, WWX/WRH, WWX/WZL, WWX/JGS, Porn, Smut, Possession, Crack Treated Seriously, Humor, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Penis In Vagina Sex, Anal Sex, Masturbation, Aphrodisiacs, Rough Sex, Minor WangXian, Canon Divergence, Oral Sex, Pre-Sunshot Campaign, Strangulation, Object Insertion, Exhibitionism, Voyeurism, Blood and Injury, Somnophilia, Belly Bulge) WIP. wwx wakes up in wlj's body before the sunshot campaign. cw lots of sex with wc.

the problem with authority by isabilightwood (M, 139k, wangxian, qingli, Canon Divergence, Sacrifice Summon, slightly dark!JYL, wq lives because i said so, Angst with a Happy Ending, Chronic Pain, Mild Sexual Content, Top/Bottom Versatile | Switch WangXian, manipulative relationship (background xiyao)) qs summoning jyl-centric but includes someone else summoning wwx as well

patching the road with vague intentions by loosingletters (T, 39k, WIP, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Humor, Developing Friendships, WWX Resurrected By Others, Trans WWX, Case Fic, POV WWX, POV LQR, Family, Good Uncle LQR, Hurt/Comfort, Golden Core Reveal, Slow Burn, Canon-Typical Violence, MXY Lives) WIP. ofc lwj was arranged to marry after wwx's death summons wwx. lwj hasn't appeared yet.

The Housewife's Guide to Causing Chaos by dvasva (M, 127k, WIP, WangXian, Canon-Typical Violence, Functionally Trans Character, Mild Sexual Content, Domestic Fluff, Love Confessions, Transphobia, Good Parents LWJ and WWX, Pining, WWX is a Tease, Grief/Mourning, Body Dysphoria, Fake Marriage, Canonical Character Death, Misunderstandings, Doting LWJ, Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, WWX is not in MXY's body, Misgendering, Mild Angst, Assumptions, Comedic Elements, non-sexual nudity, Blood, Discussion of Various Bodily Functions, Cloud Recesses Shenanigans, 4 years of mourning instead of 13, Méishān Yú Sect, POV Multiple, Corporal Punishment, Trans WWX, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, pregnancy mention, Timeline What Timeline, Sexual Harassment Threats) WIP. ofc lwj was arranged to marry after wwx's death summons wwx. wangxian starts early.

Friends, Sabers, and Other Essentials for Solving a Conspiracy by MeridianGrimm (T, 50k, NHS & WWX, LWJ & NHS, WangXian, Humor, Friendship, Love, Mystery, Canon Divergence, Smart NHS, WWX doesn't stay dead, LWJ gets a new friend, Happy Ending, Fix-It, To be clear the WangXian is mostly background, This fic is about friendship) NHS does a modified summoning

Karma's a Bitch (It's Me, I'm The Bitch) by loosingletters (T, 8k, SS & OC, WWX & OC, Minor Character Death, Canon Divergence, Suicidal Thoughts, Resurrection, Moling Su Sect, Cultivation Sect Politics, Body Dysphoria, WWX is NOT in MXY's Body, Unreliable Narrator, Assassination) Su sect oc summons wwx.

❤️ Beauty and the Boot by PTchan (T, 44k, wangxian, summoned by f!oc, Canon Divergence, Romantic Comedy, Genderbending, Denial, Fem!WWX, WangXian kids, Crack-ish, WIP) seemingly-abandoned WIP. OFC summons wwx.

So You Want to Start a War by JaenysBloodcourt (T, 41k, WIP, MY/QS, MY/WWX, WangXian, Reincarnation, Half-Sibling Incest Mention!, QS does the ritual instead of MXY, WWX as a woman, MY Is His Own Warning, Canon Divergence, Impersonation, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Please check the notes before reading a chapter, Timeline What Timeline, WWX Has PTSD) WIP. qs summons wwx.

sweet hay and the flowers rising by Shializaro (T, 4k, WangXian, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mentions of Violence, Alcohol, Humor) qs summons wwx.

Crowded by nirejseki (G, 1k, NHS & WWX, wangxian, LWJ/NHS/WWX, canon divergence, different body offering ritual, atypical relationship dynamics, sentient sabers) NHS does a modified summoning (short fic)

❤️ The Book’s Cover by Eudoxia (E, 50k, wangxian, canon divergence, WWX not in MXY’s body, canon retelling, humor, demisexual LWJ, genderqueer WWX, smut) OFC summons WWX. this is probably my favorite one of all these.

Everyanything by deliciousblizzardshark, lingeringdust (E, 46k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Franken-canon, Gender Identity, Gender Dysphoria, Trans WWX, Protective LWJ, Accidental Baby Acquisition, Canon-Typical Misogyny, Fluff and Angst, Vaginal Sex, Canon-Typical Major Character Death) Qin Su summons WWX.

Chapter 1-23 of The Tales of Despereaux by stiltonbasket (T, 36k, WIP, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, (when applicable)) Chapters 1-23 are "What if Qin Su summoned Wei Wuxian?" A prologue is linked in the author's note.

Wei Wuxian keeps / gets his OG body / Resurrected by someone other than MXY Comp

Five People Who Never Summoned Wei Wuxian by EHyde (G, 3k, wangxian, Canon Divergence, 5+1 Things, Angst, [Podfic] Five People Who Never Summoned Wei Wuxian by sisi_rambles)

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3. Hey! I have only once asked for a fic before but this is for a Itmf , can you recommend any dark lwj fic? Not just after wwx’s death but lwj protecting wwx or joining him in demonic cultivation, even better if wwx runs yiling wei sect^-^

A Matter of Time series by mrcformoso (E, 84k, wangxian, time travel fix-it, graphic depictions of violence, underage, LWJ pov, JC pov, dark LWJ, manipulation, grooming, teen body adult mind for LWJ, happy ending for wangxian, problematic consensual underage sex, blood & violence, insane LWJ, manic LWJ)

🔒 Flawed and Free by Vrishchika (E, 18k, wangxian, major character death, time travel fix-it, dark LWJ, dark LXC, dark gusu lan, temporary character death, not JC friendly, angst, hurt/comfort, WIP)

🔒 At heart by apathyinreverie (M, 36k, WangXian, WIP, Dark LWJ(Ish), Amnesia, WWX gets to be Not Okay after the BM, Hurt WWX, Recovery, Caring, Protective LWJ, Possessive LWJ, some definite manipulation, but not everything is as it seems, not nearly as dark as the tags make it sound, Canon Divergence, Golden Core Revea, Golden Core Transfer Fix-It, kind of, Domestic WangXian, Fluff, WWX Goes to Gusu, Possessive WWX, WWX happily atticwifing away, Sunshot Campaign, BAMF WWX, BAMF LWJ)

Until The World Embraces Me Home by azri (T, 5k, WIP, WangXian, Canon Divergence, YLLZ LWJ, LWJ Has No Golden Core, Role Reversal, Not LXC Friendly, Not JC Friendly, Not cultivation world friendly overall tbh, Sunshot Campaign, Friends to Lovers, Temporary Character Death, WangXian Get a Happy Ending)

Corrupted Core by The_Gourmet_Gamer (M, 16k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, Golden Core Reveal, Grief/Mourning, Blood and Injury, Character Death, Sad with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Post-First Siege of the Burial Mounds)

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4. Hello 👋

I'm in the mood for Twitter wangxian fic threads,i don't mind it if it's modern or not, but I don't like bottomji or switch wangxian

You might enjoy our Twitter comp

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5. Hello! Thanks for your work. Are there any Wangxian fics set at the Olympics? @chalionkat (previous ask moved to FF - mod C)

Our Sports AU Compilation has a Olympics au section you can check out 😊

and so my heart beats wildly by lily_winterwood (E, 106k, WangXian, JYL/JZX, Modern Cultivation, Rivalry, Competition, Competition-Set Fic, Athletes, Multimedia, Miscommunication, frenemies to lovers, Rivals to Lovers, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Seemingly One-sided But Actually Mutual Pining, Oblivious WWX, Competitive Cultivation, Anal Sex, First Time, Angst with a Happy Ending, Olympics, Inappropriate use of an Olympic gold medal, Breathplay, Rough Sex, Food Porn, Tanabata, Lily’s back on her Qixi bullshit, Switching, Bottom LWJ) this has cultivation Olympics

🔒 Dance Me to the End by venagrey (E, 35k, WangXian, Modern, Skating, 2021-2022 Figure Skating Season, No Pandemic, teammates to friends to lovers, Eventual Smut, mixed signals: on ice, Oblivious WWX, Bisexual WWX, mortifying ordeal of being known, slightly nonlinear timeline, Unreliable Narrator, gratuitous descriptions of skating, first time nudes, Accidental Phone Sex, WWX is Very Flexible, YOI homage, not actually a crossover, IRL skating homage, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, a little gnc for added zest, inappropriate use of medals, Rimming, Winter Olympics)

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6. Hi! This is for ITMF where WWX is a king maker/advisor/spy master or something like Foot on the brakes, screaming there's a red light by Lookingkindofdumb or Copying Scriptures by chiyukimei

Thank you! @idontknowwhattowriteforusername

🔒 Half Agony, Half Hope by queenklu (T, 105k, WangXian, LXC/JGY, JC/WQ, JYL/JZX, LXC/NMJ, Jane Austen Fusion, persuasion au, Pining, Broken Engagement, Secrets, Espionage, Child Injury, Terrible Parents (YZY & JFM), Past Child Neglect) maybe? Wei Ying was a spy during the war.

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7. Hello!!. i need need need to know if theres any more fics like A Street Kid Named Wuxian where wwx isnt adopted by any sect and just grows up on the strrets/ poor or an orphan @yesibest

A Thousand Things by tickertape (M, 108k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, WWX Isn’t Adopted by the Jiāngs, Developing Friendships, lots of OCs, miscommunication and misunderstandings (they’re idiots your honor), Nightmares, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Cloud Recesses Shenanigans, Slow Burn) fits but Wei Ying lived in Yiling until he's around 17 and then gets invited to train with the Lans for a year. It doesn't go into a lot detail about his life on the streets but he is poor throughout his childhood and into his teens.

Ad Oblivione by Baph, HikariNoHimeWriter (M, 70k, WangXian, Time Travel Fix-It, Temporary Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, POV Multiple, Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Identity Reveal, Golden Core Reveal, Cultivation World Critical, Not JC Friendly, Abusive YZY, Angst with a Happy Ending) link in #14 Not sure if this fits as while WWX does grow up on the streets without being adopted into a sect, it's down to time travel, with his soul being sent back to his child body, so he has knowledge of the future & cultivation, so he gets to cheat a little & be more than a normal street kid

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8. Hello, I was wondering if you and the lovely community could help me find selkie-style creature fics? In myth, a selkie is a seal creature who can shed its fur and walk on land as a human. Whoever holds the fur has control over the selkie because they cannot transform back without it. So I am looking for similar themes in WangXian fics! I just read Burn It All Down by nekojita which suggested this would happen with Jiang Cheng holding one of Wei Wuxian’s dragon scales, but the wip hasn’t been updated to finish that portion of the story! So I come to you, looking for more “I control you as long as I hold this part of you captive” stories. Thank you for any recs you can suggest! <3

never love an anchor by tardigradeschool (T, 31k, WangXian, Selkies, No Powers, Historical, Hurt/Comfort, Depression, Pining, Angst, Happy Ending, The Inherent Eroticism of the Sea, PTSD, Presumed Dead, Drowning)

💙 this river runs to you by sundiscus (T, 53k, WangXian, Modern with Magic, Mutual Pining, Dragons, Literal Sleeping Together, Tender wound tending) this might work? It has Dragon!LWJ whose dragon is missing. While no one actually uses it to control him in the story, the possibility that someone could is a major driver of the plot.

Lanterns To Guide You Home by cuttlefeeeeeeeeesh (T, 7k, WangXian, Mutual Pining, Mythology, Selkie AU, Fisherman LWJ, Selkie WWX, Sorta Established Relationship, Fluff, Soft (tm)) might like Lanterns to Guide You Home? It's a bit of a twist on the selkie trope, being less about captivity and more about wangxian reuniting/mutually pining years after being married, but I think it would still appeal to a reader who likes selkie stories. And it's a lovely fic!

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9. Hi! For the ITMF, I was wondering if there are any fics where WWX knows a bit more about MXY when he wakes up in his body? By viewing MXYs memories maybe, or something like that? Just, I want him to be able to act like MXY better and understand his situation better. Is there anything like that? Thanks in advance! @hikato-chan

~*~

10. Hi! This is for ITMF. Is there a fic where WWX tells JYL (or someone else really) that he trust LWJ but not his clan/sect? Thank you! @idontknowwhattowriteforusername

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11. ITMF a fic that takes place during the Cloud Recesses study arc, in the scene where WWX gets LWJ drunk. Something goes different: a kiss? A love confession? A fist fight? @luliaka

Cartwheels In Cloud Recesses Series by ShanaStoryteller (Not Rated, 23k, WangXian, CSSR/WCZ, CSSR and WCZ Live, Cloud Recesses Study Arc, Cloud Recesses Shenanigans)

You Are My Euphoria by orphan_account (M, 17k, wangxian, canon divergence, fluff, making out, 5+1, pining)

it’s just (aah) a little crush (crush!) by sweetlolixo (T, 9k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Romance, Fluff, Pining LWJ, Humor, Courting Rituals, Teen Wangxian)

~*~

12. itmf some concubine wwx, following canon as mich as possible? something along the lines of the concubine mo series by enigmatree

~*~

13. Itmf:

A) some wwx realizing that he's been abused as a child (for example: Madame Yu) and having to accept that actually the adults in his life kind of suck (no Jiang Yanli bashing pls ♡)

B) wwx being raped and his recovery

Thank you 💕

13A)

🔒💙 Holding shreds by barisan (T, 5k, WangXian, Cloud Recesses Study Arc, No Sunshot Campaign, Body Swap, Not for sexy shenanigans, Chronic Pain, Hurt WWX, Hurt LWJ, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Abusive YZY, Bad Parent YZY, Bad Parent JFM, Good Uncle LQR, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Inaccuracies, POV WWX, Angst with a Happy Ending, Jiāng Family Bashing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Getting Together, Smart WWX)

🔒 in the shadow of moonlit flowers by Reverie (cl410) (T, 56k, wangxian, LXC/NMJ, Cloud Recesses, LWJ & NHS Friendship, Developing Relationship, POV LWJ, Minor Injuries, Autistic LWJ, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, aka the Madam Yu warning, Genius WWX, Light Angst And Hurt/Comfort, WWX Protection Squad, Gusu Lan Sect, Slow Burn, Protective LWJ, LWJ-centric)

🔒 Warming up (to him) by barisan (T, 9k, LQR & WWX, WangXian, Hypothermia, Cloud Recesses Study Arc, Temporary Character Death, Medical Inaccuracies, YZY Abuses WWX, JFM Bashing, pre-wangxian, Good Uncle LQR, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort)

so i cut the shackles and changed my name by MichelleFeather (T, 9k, WangXian, LQR & LWJ, LQR & CSSR, LQR & WWX, CSSR/WCZ, WWX & The Lan Clan, WIP, WWX Leaves the Yunmeng Jiang Sect, WWX is a Lan, Good Uncle LQR, Supportive LQR, Protective LQR, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, JFM & YZY Bashing, Jiang Family Bashing, Abusive Jiang Family, Running Away, WangXian Get a Happy Ending, Hurt WWX, Genius WWX, No Sunshot Campaign, Gusu Lan Sect Rules, Cloud Recesses Study Arc, Cultivation Sect Politics, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Canon Divergence, Protective Gusu Lan Sect, WRH isn't a power hungry tyrant, mostly)

Just go forward like you mean it by tawaen (M, 101k, WangXian, WWX & WN &WQ, WWX & JYL, NHS & WWX, Canon Divergence, WWx does not attend the Wen indoctrination, WWX saves Lotus Pier, Inventor WWX, No Golden Core Transfer, Sect Leader JYL, JC Has No Golden Core, Bad Parents JFM & YZY, Not JC Friendly, but he gets a happier ending than canon so don't look here for bashing) WWX gets frustrated with how unconcerned JFM is regarding the Wens & ends up leaving. Features sect leader JYL

Dispersing Clouds by dreamingofcake (E, 283k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Genius WWX, Inventor WWX, Not Jiang Family Friendly, Abusive YZY, Canonical Child Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Eventual Sex, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm (Background Character), Background Character Deaths, child deaths, Canon JC, Good Uncle LQR, Accidental Baby Acquisition, Cultivation Sect Politics, Homophobia, Heteronormativity, Feelings Realization, WWX is Not Oblivious) WWX realises he's been poorly treated by the Jiangs & defects. However it could be seen as JYL bashing depending on how you define bashing. She does ignore her family's treatment of WWX & later tries to stop his wedding to LWJ, but she's portrayed as meaning well & just wanting to avoid conflict, & believing she is saving him from a forced marriage. Up to you whether that counts as bashing

13B)

🧡 Heaven Has No Rage by flipfloppandas (M, 51k, WWX & YZY, JFM/YZY, implied wangxian, WWX/WC, WWX/others, rape/non-con, modern, hurt/comfort, protective YZY, good parent YZY, hospitals, medical procedures, vomiting, trauma) focuses more on the immediate aftermath Wei Ying being raped but does touch on the beginnings of his recovery.

feast and famine by luckymarrow (E, 49k, wangxian, rape/non-con, aftermath of gang rape, modern au, trauma, PTSD, medical procedures, rape recovery, non-consensual drug use, hurt/comfort, angst w/ happy ending, mind all the tags) Rape/recovery and the ripples across the friend group. JYL is the glue that holds everyone together. It's a gut-wrenching, amazeballs fic.

~*~

14. Hii, I'm itmf some good coming of age fanfics!

🔒 Flowers Blooming by Ilona22 (M, 35k, WangXian, Adoption, Prostitution, Family Fluff, Family Drama, Growing Up)

A Life Without Regrets by naqaashi (M, 128k, WIP, WangXian, Time Travel Fix-It, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Crack Treated Seriously, musical cultivation, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Rogue Cultivator WWX, Murder Husbands, Happy Ending, PTSD, BAMF WWX, Cultivation Sect Politics, Worldbuilding, Módào Zǔshī & The Untamed Combination, No Yīn Iron, Genius WWX, Inventor WWX, Artist WWX, Musician WWX, Bad Parent JFM, Bad Parent YZY, Cultivation Theory, Sentient Burial Mounds, Dysfunctional Family, Grief/Mourning, Parent-Child Relationship, Angry WWX, Angst, No Golden Core Transfer, BAMF LWJ, Idiots in Love)

🔒 Life is Like a Stranger by through_shadows_falling (T, 69k, wangxian, Kid Fic, Child LWJ, Child WWX, First Meetings, Canon Divergence, Cute Kids, Orphan WWX, Autism Spectrum, Fix-It, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Alternate Canon, POV LWJ, Growing Up Together, WWX raised at Cloud Recesses, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Puberty, Growing Up, Coming Out, teenage angst, Wet Dream, Pining, This fic gets a little raunchier as the kids become teens, But it won’t get too explicit, Slow Burn, Friends to Lovers, Spanish Translation, Brief mentions/moments of WWX kissing others in chapter 22 but only on the cheek, also characters kiss WWX on the cheek in chapter 23, but his real first kiss is with LWJ, Перевод на русский | Translation in Russian)

~*~

15. Hey!!

So i was wondering if there are any fics where wangxian have a cute little couple’s argument..they make up in the end obv, i don’t really prefer heavy angst. Just a normal couple’s argument. @honestlyewww

tipping point by cherrywhiskey (M, 13k, WangXian, Established Relationship, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Married Couple, Married Life, Bickering, Idiots in Love, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Fights, Arguing, Making Up, Angry Kissing, Making Out, Modern AU, POV Alternating, Fighting)

you became my husband when i first laid my eyes on you by bunnylan (weiyingpretty) (G, 2k, WangXian, Modern AU, Modern Era, Fluff, Boyfriends, Cute, Tik Tok Challenge, Husbands, Established Relationship)

~*~

16. IMTF wangxian or any one of the two as (a) lawyers (b) teachers trying to hide their relationship from students (c) scientists (biologist, physicist, etc.) any kind

Thank you <3

16A)

🔒 a thousand fragile and unprovable things by theLoyalRoyalGuard (G, 5k, WangXian, Modern AU, Trans Male Character, Trans MXY, MXY Deserves Happiness, Best Dads Wangxian, Handwaving The Legal System With The Power of LWJ, A little bit of angst, mostly soft, Happy Ending, Gender Happiness, Let LWJ Wear Skirts Agenda, Additional Warnings In Author’s Note) Lan Wangji is a lawyer

Close to the Truth by Winglesss (M, 14k, WangXian, Modern AU, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Ugly Holiday Sweaters, Romantic Comedy, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Homophobia, Tooth-Rotting Fluff) Lan Wangji is a lawyer

Scapegoat by Anonymous (E, 216k, WIP, WangXian, Modern AU, Trials, Lawyer LWJ, Defendant WWX, Courtroom Drama, False Accusations, Criminal Investigation, Threats of Violence, Hurt WWX, Protective LWJ, Childhood Trauma, Murder Mystery, Pining, Soft WangXian, Slow Burn, Domestic Bliss, Happy Ending, Found Family, Bad Parent YZY, neutral jc, Good Sibling JYL, neutral lxc, Bad Uncle LQR, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, POV Alternating, Top LWJ/Bottom WWX, Pining while fucking, Belly Bulge, Gentle Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Neck Kissing, Eventual Smut, porn in chapter 15, Praise Kink, Homophobia, chapter specific TWs will be in top notes, Power Play, Power Imbalance, Wet Dream)

16C)

🔒 at first sight of the sun by sunflowersfield (T, 3k, WangXian, Modern, Coworkers, Fluff, Neurodiversity, Falling In Love, Getting Together, Happy Ending, First Dates, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort) Lan Wangji is a researcher at a forest preserve in at first sight of the sun

A Cyborg’s Three Laws by @joshua-beeking, FairyGardenCorgis (M, 194k, WangXian, Future, Cyborgs, Science Fiction, Science Boyfriends, Romance, Slow Burn, Medical Procedures, Surgery, Angst, Fluff, Humor, Eventual Smut, Hurt/Comfort, LWJ has RA, Idiot Friends to Idiot Lovers, Medical Assault, Dehumanization, obscene amounts of cuddling, Versatile wangxian)

~*~

17. Hi! I meant to ask this, but I think I haven't yet (it would already be posted otherwise). For the ITMF, are there any fics where WWX, post canon, gets transported timewise into the 13/16 years he was dead? Preferably only for a bit until he figures out how to get back, and while hiding his identity. Thanks for the help! @hikato-chan

Less Than Two Years by wenqing (maniafic) (T, 5k, WangXian, Time Travel, Post-Canon, but also canon divergent, in an alternate universe though, Minor Angst, mostly wwx confusing the kids)

~*~

If you didn’t get an answer to your ask here, don’t forget to make use of @mdzs-kinkmeme and MDZS KINK MEME on Dreamwidth. Authors actually do use them for ideas. You may get what you order!***Your prompt doesn’t have to be kink! Fluff, crack, whatever - it’s all good!***

#wangxian #mdzs #wangxian fic recs #i'm in the mood for a fic #the untamed #wangxian fic search #wangxianficfinder #long post

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ao3cassandraic · 1 year ago

Text

What does Aziraphale know, and when does he know it? Part 1

Prologue, for those who haven't seen it.

Zira's first encounter with the Metatron in the Final Fifteen Minutes is when the Metatron walks into the bookshop disguised as mild-mannered Derek Jacobi human and interrupts Michael, who is threatening Aziraphale with total obliteration. He insults the archangels, then calls on them to say who he is. Aziraphale at this point -- we get one reaction shot of him -- appears to be in wary wait-and-see (heh) mode.

(Not wholly relevant here, but -- the first to show recognition of the Metatron isn't Crowley or Aziraphale, it's Saraqael, and isn't that interesting. I definitely have a meta in pickle about Saraqael, Heaven's Only Competent Angel.)

The Metatron then asks whether Crowley knows him. Aziraphale finds this intriguing, turning to Crowley with interest. Crowley does the-thing-that's-all-over-the-show-where-he-and-Aziraphale-drop-one-another-clues; rather than say the Metatron's name, he mentions his appearance as "big floating giant head." That's enough for Aziraphale to clue in and spill the beans, with genuine shock that the other angels (except Saraqael, again) echo.

What Aziraphale now knows that he hadn't known:

The Metatron has a human corporation. (Yes, he may have been Enoch-human in the past, but that's not entirely show canon yet; before now, Watsonianly, we've only seen the Big Giant Disembodied Head.)

The Metatron insults archangels. Labor angle here, incidentally: this is a manager insulting his employees in front of their supervisees (Aziraphale, Muriel) and even outsiders (Crowley). Management 101: DO NOT DO THIS, IT IS BAD. Praise in public, critique in private and without insults.

The Metatron and Crowley know one another. (Zero details on when, how, or why.)

The Metatron then dismisses Michael, Uriel, and Saraqael back to Heaven, talking down to them like Mary Poppins to the von Trapp children (seriously, "spit spot"? also, nice s1 callback). He even covertly threatens them! Uriel asks whether they have done anything wrong -- getting caught doing something wrong is fatal to an angel's identity as angel, as Aziraphale's concerned face in a brief reaction shot shows he knows -- and the Metatron only says ominously that that "remains to be seen."

After ordering the archangels off again, he openly hurls an ableist slur at Muriel rather than use their name, while demanding that they stay because "I may need you." This is a hardcore, shocking Villain Moment, y'all. The Metatron is Having A Moment. Pulling back to a Doylist perspective -- Neil freakin' Gaiman isn't going to drop a slur lightly. He's just not. He did it with full intent, and that intent is "the fucking Metatron is ableist trash." Returning to the Watsonian viewpoint, however...

What Aziraphale now knows that he hadn't known:

The Metatron wears scorn like royal vestments. It's pretty basic to how he treats others. (Doylistly: this tracks with both s1 and what we see of him in the recorded meetings that Crowley, Muriel, and Saraqael view. "Oh, don't be so wet!" he snarls at Saraqael, just for starters.)

The Metatron can order archangels around like children, even threaten them with judgment and punishment, and get away with it.

The Metatron doesn't just punch sideways-ish at the archangels, which might be justifiable; the Metatron absolutely punches down with his scorn. And wow, does he ever not pull his punches.

The Metatron thinks he's entitled to use others to serve his own needs.

If Aziraphale hasn't figured out by now that the Metatron abuses his quite substantial and dangerous power, he's not the angel I think he is. (As for Crowley, he's been absolutely leveled -- look at him sprawled out all but flat on Aziraphale's desk chair! He's not really paying attention. Also, per e3 he kind of agrees with the Metatron about Muriel, though he never himself uses ableist language about them.)

The Metatron says "Right," and we see Aziraphale again. Is he happy? He is not. Body held tense and straight, arms at his sides (though he looks about to clasp his hands together in front, a worry sign), face even warier. Seems a reasonable reaction to what he's just seen!

"It's just you and me, Aziraphale, eh?" It's damned blessed bloody well not. Crowley's right there, Muriel's right there, and the Metatron just erased both from consideration. RUDE! "I think we need to have a bit of a chinwag, don't you?" Aziraphale in both words and body would very much rather not, and I can't blame him one bit.

The Metatron then forces a bribe on Aziraphale, in the form of The Coffee That Launched A Thousand Metas. Aziraphale isn't clear on what the Metatron wants of him at this point -- "shall I drink it?" There's a striking parallel here to Crowleian temptations via novel experiences that other meta-ists have pointed out; like those, Aziraphale's reaction is positive ("it's very nice") but unlike them, it's decidedly subdued, scaled way down -- Zira certainly doesn't guzzle the coffee the way he inhaled the ox-rib. The Metatron indicates that getting a positive reaction from Aziraphale is the point ("well, I should jolly well hope so!") and verbally forces Aziraphale out the door for a Crowley-less, Muriel-less discussion.

Aziraphale is... less than enthusiastic, turning toward Crowley -- possibly to accompany him, possibly for a lead on how to handle this. Crowley, still in a state of exhaustion and bogglement, misses the cue. Oh, Crowley. Gargantuan, awful mistake! Totally understandable, of course, but Aziraphale needs a rescue here badly and (for the first time ever?) Crowley doesn't provide one!

Aziraphale's walk toward the bookshop door is diffident, halting. He glances back at the Metatron and Crowley as he goes.

What Aziraphale knows at this point:

The Metatron wants something from him. Just him, not Crowley or Muriel.

Rather than straight-up asking, rather than ordering (as he could perfectly well do), the Metatron is loading the dice with a Crowleyesque bribe/temptation. This is a slight hint (which the Metatron will shortly confirm) that the Metatron knows some things about the Crowley-Aziraphale dynamic.

What Aziraphale likely wants to know at this point:

What the hell the heaven on earth does the Metatron want from him?

And why might he need Muriel?

And we are all Aziraphale -- we all want to know too!

This is more than long enough for a post, so let's post it. Next up: The Chinwag.

#gos2spoilers #gos2 spoilers #good omens season 2 spoilers #the fucking metatron #michael #uriel #saraqael #angel muriel #crowley #aziraphale #the coffee that launched a thousand metas #tw ableism #cw ableism #it's only mentioned but it's real #the final fifteen minutes #good omens meta #good omens

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rurustims · 4 months ago

Text

hii there ! you can call me ruru or toffuu, i am plural however generally no other will post on here apart from me, ruru. please read this through for more information about me 🤍

🎐 . about disabilities & disorders of mine

im a high-complex support needs autistic / level 3 autistic with an intelectual disability (low iq). this means i heavily struggle with expressing what i mean correctly and process language differently. also have continued late regression of skills.

i have many disabilities and disorders. please be mindful, respectful and patient with me. Moderate ADHD Combined type, Mild visual impairment, learning disabilities, on the shizophrenic spectrum and mentally ill.

hypermobile enhlers danlers syndrome, chronic fatigue syndrome, chronic joint pain, unexplained momentary paralysis of the legs, medically suspected arthritis.

semiverbal with speech impairment, late met speech milestone. generally part time aac device user.

mildly hard of hearing and future wheelchair user.

🎐 . about my identity & who i am

im an intersex nonbinary transgirl, im also transfemneu and transxenofem and cistrans. i use a lot of xenogenders and am a pansexual lesbian.

i use shi/hir, kid/kidself, pie/pieself, mew/mewself pronouns for the most part, if you struggle with abstract pronouns, you may just use my name or it/itself.

🎐 . what will be on this account?

me rambling and silly posting, talking about my interests as well as my disabilities and my day.

continue below for further information on my beliefs and interests as well as tags.

🎐 . what are my stances / beliefs on things?

i support all types of queer folk and their identities and what they are, no matter if contradictory or not.

i support all plural folk no matter of origin or what labels they use, i wont exclude anyone or try to go at them because of how they believe their brain is wired.

i support educated and informed self diagnosis, however, intelectual disability is not self diagnosable.

lastly dont involve me in any discourse, may that be queer discourse, system discourse or ship discourse, i dont care and it's odd.

the misinformation and ignorance a lot of folk put onto the topic of the puzzle piece symbolism on autism is often ableist and should be worked on in the lower needs autism community.

🎐 . what i like, interests and so on!

special interests of mine

my little pony, specifically generation four or generation three merchandise. its been my special interest for about ten years now.

i have also had a special interest in autism for about seven years now.

and a game called adopt me on roblox has been a special interest of mine for five years now!

hyperfixations of mine which i have or which come back

breaking bad, shameless us, the amazing world of gumball, tokio hotel, cookie run kingdom, heartbreak high, isopods, snails, future man, avatar the last airbender and way more.

hobbies which i have right now

watching cartoons or east asian dramas

collecting toys, rocks, notebooks, stickers, manga, sensory items, stuffed animals and more

🎐 . the tags i might use in my posts

#rurusharing : just a general type of tag of mine, might use this when im just sharing about my day or something which happened.

#rururant : not particularly venting, but could be, it'll be sharing of some sort related to negativity.

#ruruspinterest : this is me talking about my special interests in any way!

rurufixates : mentioning of hyperfixations

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charleslee-valentine · 4 months ago

Text

Headcheese

For the Texas Chainsaw Massacre Disability Pride Month Event: Day Two- Weird Lookin’

Word Count: ~9,700

Warnings: Ableism, especially internalized, and use of ableist slurs. Implied domestic abuse. Delusions- Nubbins Sawyer canonically has schizophrenia and this fic explores that. This includes mild religious delusions, fantasies about violence, slight medical delusions, and applying thoughts and motivations to others. Brief descriptions of harmful stimming. Canonical self harm. Misogyny. Inaccurate diagnoses and language. Period typical everything. Several instances of animal cruelty. Blood and violence.

Disclaimer: The dialogue is not original. All dialogue is pulled from the screenplay script which was still called ‘Leatherface’ or ‘Headcheese.’ This fic serves as an internal reflection/stream of consciousness during a canonical scene; interpretations, headcanons, etc are mine.

__________

His hair is sweaty, dropping little beads down his back in addition to an already soaked shirt. Nubbins scrunches his neck back to squish out the wetness, the inside of this van no better than out in the heat or at home. At least the windows is open at home, unless Bubba got scared of bein’ alone again and shut ‘em all up.

The van he’s in makes all kinds of noises, sputtering and coughing fuel behind it like roadkill entrails. The stink of gasoline always made Nubbins’ head dizzy, when it’d waft off the generators. Makes him wiggle a little every time the van struggles to get to speed on the long stretch ‘ road.

Better than walkin’ still. Nubbins been cooped up inside, couldn’t stand one more second at home waitin’ for Cook to do all the fun work bringin’ home food. Can’t get in trouble anyhow if he feeds the family by takin’ this trip. But he got tired of all the wanderin’ a good while ago without any excitement. Closest he got was the harsh ping of a crushed up Coke can smacking against the back of his head when it was thrown from a Cadillac. ‘Bout knocked him stupid.

The heat always makes him itch. Big brother would always tell folks, when he was just a tiny thing growin’ up, that the marks didn’t mean much, ‘cept it ain’t true. Where it’s red it burns like fire under his skin when he’s out in the sun so much. His arms too, where he’s got sores poppin’ up like prairie dogs been tunneling in his flesh. All the running made him tired of it even more now. Breathless from his run.

Franklin, the wheelchair man from the van group, don’t give him much a chance to recover.

“You getting off on the smell of all that blood, man?”

Nubbins feels a pull on the left of his face that’s got nothing to do with unpleasant feelings. He’d like to think he manages a smile, intrigued by the attitude on that man. There’s sweat in his eyes he got to blink away, turning the attempt at pleasantries into more like a grimace.

“I-It's a good smell.” He comments vaguely.

A girl from the front seat shares a look with meaning with Franklin, though Nubbins is left out of understanding it. His interest turns sour as the slaughterhouse floors when she says, even not directly to him, “Oh.. I don't like it.”

“I think we just picked up Dracula.” Franklin murmurs back.

Nubbins knows that isn’t nice. Don’t know what it means, but the way it’s said isn’t nice. He digs the ends up his fingers into the tender flesh around his scabs, tearing one open. Gotta make it to hurt when snide remarks just become backround noise. Heard ‘em so often the sting’s gone dull.

The other man here in the back talks and it takes Nubbins a moment to soak in his words, “Where you headed, man?”

“South.” Nubbins answers quickly. Ain’t safe to give more detail, just gotta get home.

Though Nubbins does crack a knowing smile when he realizes he’s thinkin’ ‘bout safety warnings, when he’s the one who is danger. Makes him seem pleasant.

Franklin makes a funny expression back with his eyebrows, squishing them all up, “You could have fooled me. I thought we were headed due north.”

Nubbins turns his stare on Franklin, but the words to respond doesn’t come right away. Mostly cause he ain’t sure which is being truthful, him or the wheelchair man. Been a long time out on them roads. Might’ve lost track of his direction.

Wouldn’t he get the whoopin’ of a lifetime if he went and got himself lost up.

But the other guy seems to think Franklin tells lies more, jutting towards him with his thumb, “He had a little accident- still doesn't know where he is..”

Until then, Nubbins hadn’t taken note of all the bruises and bloody lines on the man, sitting up straighter as his eyes trace over every last scrape and bump. Looks like big brother got a hold of Franklin too. If that was possible, maybe then Nubbins would’ve got somethin’ smart to say, but as is, he just stares and wonders.

While he’s lookin’ Franklin starts talkin’, askin’ up, “You work at that place?”

“N-No.” Nubbins answers simply, choking on a stutter while the rest of his brain catches up.

Don’t got a chance before the blonde girl gives him a new question, interrupting him so he’s got to think of a new answer all over and force himself to speak it, “How did you get stuck way out here?”

“I w-was at the slaughter h-house.” Nubbins’ voice feels like cotton in his throat. His little brother was right that he shouldn’t have broken the rules and gone out, the outside world already much too overwhelmin’ to his senses. Might help if all the folks in this van wasn’t starin’ at him so hard. Could tell them the truth, ‘at he was tradin’ with the old slaughterhouse, givin’ some of big brother’s vouchers to the men there who used to boss them around in trade for supplies and things.

Meat hooks, cattle irons, recipes, the like. Couldn’t get ‘em no place else to handle their own special kind of beeves. They’s lucky the old man of the slaughterhouse was Grandpa’s bestest friend in the world. ‘Ccepts them free gas and barbecue tickets like that’s any good enough, then pat Nubbins on his bony back and send ‘im back home on his way.

Stings his pride some, the pretendin’ to be civil after they sended him off with a pink card in his blood-stained hands. Him and little Bubba both. They was gonna let Grandpa and big brother stay, but they walked. And now Nubbins does all his walkin’, all over the roads, ‘cause the Sawyers gotta play niceys or they’ll get sniffed out.

His vagueness, the van folk don’t seem to like it much. Funny thing is those sour faces kill off any more words that might’ve been comin’.

The wheelchair man, Franklin, he ain’t in work either, understands the vengeful sorta shame Nubbins’ got boilin’ under his scratchy flesh.

“I have an uncle that works at a slaughterhouse.”

He’s good at that, at makin’ Nubbins feel like he already knows the inside of his head, so he makes sure to manage an answer, tell him a little on his family too, “M-My brother worked there, my g-grandfather… My family's a-always been in meat.”

It comes out punctuated by the tiniest laugh, satisfied with himself for being smart, knowing more than folks who thinks it’s the other way ‘round. Nubbins leans back some and wiggles his shoulders, working his pride into his physical self too, to burn off the happies before that becomes too much too and suffocated him whole.

Nubbins misses a second interaction between the Hardesty siblings in hushed tones, as much as they seem different from Nubbins hisself, they ain’t quite on the same page with one another either.

“Don't start talking about that place again..”

“A whole family of draculas..”

But Franklin can’t help himself. He liked the way the hitchhiker expressed things, the strange sort of lilt in his voice like he ain’t talked much to other people to know how inflection works. His batty eyes and flailing limbs, he might as well be some part cattle himself, escaped from the slaughterhouse and seekin’ refuge here. Hate to have to tell him the others wouldn’t be so keen on that. Might be best if that particular idea got lined up in the shoot.

“Hey man, did you go into the slaughter room or whatever they call it.. The place where they shoot the cattle with the air gun.” Franklin motions vaguely himself, wrists forming the air gauge and the bolt.

It wounds him some. Always said that automation was the thing put the Sawyers outta the business, but it ain’t true. Nubbins was a real good listener, better at that than talkin’ most times, hearing from around hushed whispers and corners in the house that it was him got them all the boot. His fit.

Had ‘em all his life, but actin’ that way was strictly against the rules at work. Drayton wouldn’t ‘llow it for a second. Always done his best, Bubba too, goin’ on pretend smoke breaks to just spin around in the fresh air and play together if the workin’ grew too much pressure.

‘Til a beeve kicked him in the chest. Made Nubbins get the jitters real bad, worked up over the pain and adrenaline and everyone ‘round him coming to stare. They was scared too, for the state of his ribs, ‘n all that was too much to handle. He’d just bounced a little at first, waving his arms around, sniveling some. Would’ve worked it all out on his own if it weren’t for a big noise. Metal hitting metal and then yelling for clearance and the beeves making their chuffing noises. Goin’ down the chute.

Nubbins only crouched down and covered his ears, but then he was yelled at for stopping work, and there’s blood in his hair cause his hands was still soaked from slittin’ a throat, so he lashed out. Cryin’ his eyes out, he swung for the boss’ face, slashed the big bowie knife they give him, and now there’s more screamin’ and he’s curled up in a ball, knees to his chest, again.

Big brother explained it away by sayin’ it was part of his condition in his brain, the same one Bubba’s got, so that was it. ‘Stead of things changin’ ‘round the slaughterhouse, Nubbins and Bubba had to go away. And the whole fam’ly followed.

“Yeh, it's nice, b-but the..the gun is-” He starts, face fallen serious and dull upon reflecting those memories.

At the same time, Franklin had started speaking. “I was there once with my uncle.”

“-is no good. The old way, w-with the sledge is better, they die b-better.” Nubbins finishes, looking up at Franklin when he realizes, slowly, that he talked over him. He flinches, just so, hopin’ to not gettin’ in trouble for that.

In a way he does, when the puffy haired girl on the floor gives her disgruntled opinion, “You like talking about morbid things.”

Big brother taught him to behave ‘round strangers, so as much as he’d like to, Nubbins don’t stick his tongue out at the girl or spit in her hair. He imagines it though, among worse things. Throwing her face down into the moving tires of this here van for example.

“How come? I thought the gun was better.” Franklin asks, bringing Nubbins back to the front of his head.

Which he shakes, messy hair slicked back with grease it don’t hardly move.

“No.. I li-like the old way better. A lot of p-people don’t got work now w-wit’ the new way.”

“You used to do that?” The dry haired man asks, but Nubbins doesn’t like the way he says it, somethin’ about the judgement from his lady pal seeping into his demeanor too.

Looking between them, Franklin notices and takes over, asking too, “You do that, man?”

“Yeh.. I-I was the killer. I don't d-do it no more.” Nubbins explains carefully.

“How come, man?” Franklin asks, but Nubbins doesn’t really wanna talk about that, so he doesn’t. Makin’ him would just lead to another fit.

When he come in the van, he’d really thought Franklin was gonna be the mean one, with his confusing comments right in Nubbins’ face, but now he thinks he’d be upset about sharin’ the unpleasant details. Doesn’t want a nice man to think of him that way.

Not while knowin’ he’s being talked about behind his back. The puffy haired lady leans to the other man, telling whispers that Nubbins can’t hear but they’s both looking right at him, thinkin’ he must be too dumb to know it.

“I can't believe he did that..”

“Now I'm an artist.. With the- the gun and knocking board they don't n-need me no more.” Nubbins turns away from the whisperers and tells it just to Franklin.

“You're an artist? Pam's an artist too. She’s really good.” The pretty blonde girl hums her words. Her voice is too sharp, all of it’s startin’ to make him fuzzy.

Nubbins slips his head to the side to look between her and that other pinched face lady. Makes him angry. Blondie’s under the mental tire too now, teeth knocked out of her tiny skull and scattered all over the road. Unknowingly to hisself, Nubbins’ eyes’ve gone unfocused, distant and empty while he’s in the torture chamber up in his skull.

“Hey..” Franklin says a bit too softly, understandin’ more than maybe anybody why bein’ compared to Pam could sting. If they all want so badly to group him in with the roadkill scented stranger, then he’ll take a little pride in that over bein’ another one of the non-political hippies. The type who think the world gets to be sunshine and rainbows so long as the whiny cripples like him stay hidden along with the other undesirables. Peace and love and only the good stuff.

The gentle voice sort of breaks Nubbins’ mind in two. Nobody talked to him that way in a long while, since throwin’ fits and scraped knees and tangled hair was still cute as a kid. It’s easiest to repeat himself, “Yeh.. I-I don't like it now. With the gun it’s no..”

They isn’t listening. Maybe Franklin is, since he’s still lookin’ that way, but the front seat blonde isn’t. She flicks her hair away from her shoulders and grills him, “Are you a painter or what? I know this crazy artist. He never knows what he's doing.”

“I work with uh.. l-leather. I'm a sculptor t-too.” The words just kinda tumble past his teeth without much awareness. Lucky he didn’t spit out the truth about workin’ in bones.

Sometimes his lonely just outweighs his angry. Makes him go actin’ foolish.

Franklin brings him back to him, with his fun voice, like a stinger’s buzz in his ears ‘stead of industrial grindin’, “Hey, man. I was in there. They had blood about up to...”

Delighted by somethin’, only ‘cause she’s obvious she’s already among the dead in Nubbins’ mind, the blonde laughs at more slaughterhouse talkin’, “Oh. I need one of those hammers for Jerry. He’s so hardheaded.”

They doesn’t wanna talk about Mr Jerry at the wheel, so they don’t. Jus’ like before. Nubbins starts to sees it that Franklin’s the way he is when he Franklin keeps on instead, “-your ankles covering this giant room. There were these big cow heads they had cut off sticking up out of the blood.”

Brings back Nubbins’ smile, “I-It's that way now.. Y-You liked it?”

“Sure. Lots of blood and guts. They dump all the entrails and heads and…” Franklin shrugs while he talks, bouncing about. The life he talks with keeps him firmly in the non-meat category in Nubbins’ mind. His energy’s as familiar as the subject.

Nobody ever liked those same things before. Franklin’s just special like that. For his troubles, the troubles of kindness towards someone awful through and through the way Nubbins is, he gets the reward of seein’ his pictures.

The critter pouch on his necklace fell inside his shirt while he was runnin’, gotta reach in to free it so he can show off his pictures. Older now and startin’ to wither some, he don’t let just anybody get they’s paws on these. But he hands them right over, proudly even, to Franklin.

Franklin who keeps on talking while Nubbins’ shakin’ the photos in his face. “..and stuff they don't use in one place and sell it to the glue factory or someplace like that.”

“Here.” He gives the permission, and Franklin finally goes and takes the pictures, the three yellowed ones that’s up for grabs.

One’s of the slaughter room, ankles deep in the blood just like he said. It’s from Nubbins lookin’ straight down, at the way it’s all pooled around him. Would be nice if they had a room like that at the house, but they isn’t allowed, gots to scrub the kitchen walls when they gets too splattery from the butcherin’. The picture though shows the heads of cattle cutted clean off their big ol’ bodies ‘n scattered about the room, just floatin’ along. That part Nubbins didn’t like so much, when they’d get left about like that. ‘Course that was the only pieces they was willin’ to send the Sawyers’ way for dirt cheap.

That first one’s his favorite, the other two more recently shot, noticeable right away ‘cause it shows the industrial equipments all around. The bolt and the gun and all that, the slicing up of the beeves. Ain’t his work so it ain’t his pride the same way. Just close documentation of what they says is more important. A gun over a retard.

But he’s smart! Knows more’n this lot, “They don't send the heads away.”

“Damn!” Franklin holds the photos away and down, like when big brother can’t see without his glasses, before bringing them right back up real close.

“Let me see.” The same irritating woman demands, but Franklin is inspecting them down to the gory details. Let fin’ himself be learned.

“Th-They make-” Nubbins tries to keep his attention held right there, casting the moment in gooey amber so it never goes nowhere.

“You took these, huh?” Franklin interrupts.

His enthusiasm and the pointy smile he gives is real enough Nubbins forgives him.

“Yes. Y-You like ‘em?”

“Franklin....” Blonde lady whines to see the photos, big bug eyes pleading with nobody who’s lookin’.

If Nubbins were more a little more observant, he’d note the jealousy from the girl, the way she sees him as some kind of strange adventure and not just a stranger. There’s danger in the way he smells and the crimson color hidden deep behind pale brown irises and the way his limbs clamber and pull. To her, a monster she can tempt into chasing her for the sheer thrill of it, in the safety of a group of people who know nothing of the way her morbid mind works.

Except maybe Franklin, and his fascination for those damned photographs he won’t let go.

The hitchhiker, as she knows him, inches forward, heels putting so much pressure on the ground his boots creak and flake off old material, so he can prop slightly up to gesture at the photographs.

Like he never left off, he continues his story, about the processes of the big house, violence radiating easily off of him, “They make head cheese.. E-Except for the tongue they b-boil the head, and scrape the b-bone clean of flesh. All the parts is used, n-nothin’ is wasted. The- The jowls, ‘n the eyes, even the m-muscles-“

“Ugh.” There's a groan from miss pretty, as she must realize, this kind of horror is all too real for her. He really had killed ‘em, over and over he had, and that’s too much for a little sheltered lady. Not for his friend though, nice Franklin.

Nubbins gets so worked up thinkin’ it, he’s talkin’ with his hands and rocking slightly, “and ligaments and the fleshy parts from the n-nose and gums- They put everythin’ into a jelly of f-fats!”

“Look at this.” Franklin urges, waving the blood picture in the face of the girl on the floor while Nubbins is still talking, keepin’ his eyes on the man now even with the photograph is moved away.

“..the f-fleshy parts from the nose and…”

This lady ain’t amused even in the slightest, slapping them away so much a new crease forms in the corner of Nubbins’ picture.

“Ugh.. You’re making me sick. Why do you like killing so much?”

Nubbins knows why.

Killin’ is a business, but they says if you get a job you like you don’t work a day in your life. Bringin’ blades across weak throats and feelin’ familiar warmth all up and down his body, smellin’ familiar smells and findin’ home in that. Home bein’ the little squirrely he found torn to bits by a coyote in the fields. Home bein’ the slaughterhouse once upon a time. Home bein’ with his brothers. Changes, but the reason don’t.

You do it to survive. And life is a gift. Mama and Gramma and Pa prob’ly too by now, they’s all gone. Big brother tells about how every one of them was sick as babies cause Mama didn’t stop her habits for a little bump on her tummy, comin’ out all kinds of messed up. They was never meant to live, skin kissed by the devil’s false affection on his right cheek to show it.

If he can’t be normal, can’t be loved, can’t be a ‘functioning member of society,’ -whatever that means- then he oughta either just be dead, or shake up the devil’s wishes. Nubbins chooses the second. Can’t be killed cause he fights to live and exchanges plenty of souls for his own. Gotta eat the meat and he gets another point from the heavens above to not end up in his early grave.

Likes doin’ it cause it’s a blessing so it makes him feel nice. Franklin, he must be smart enough to see that, gifted in his own way. The denim man said Franklin had an accident, and Nubbins sees those wheelies clear as day. That’s two mess ups. Figures whatever he’s been through, he can see death the same. Makes him truly special, not just on account of his niceness.

“-gums.. Th-They put e-everything into a jelly of fats!”

Nubbins shifts a hopeful gaze into Franklin’s, locking eyes while he scans for a sign that the other is being truthful when he says,

“Wow.. I didn't know that's what's in that stuff.”

“I-It's real good.. You like it?” His heart beats like some kind of a winged creature got swallowed up and lives in his chest. Important to him Franklin doesn’t reject the work, the gift.

First come the blondie girl, handing back the photos she’d taken straight from the hand that extended them into her friend’s face before. Along with it, more attitude, “Ugh..I don't see how anybody could eat that junk.”

Nubbins falters, shoulders slowly sinking down, bloat-air let out of him and stinkin’ up the already acrid van with disappointment.

Immediately Franklin sees that and gives his input a little bit louder, “Oh. I like it. It's good..”

Nodding, Nubbins lets him see more smiles instead of hiding it, a little wispy laugh following along. The creature in his chest turns into a whole colony of ‘em when Franklin hands his snapshots back with a returned nod. Even dumb old Nubbins knows that means he’s talkin’ to him, and not those others. He knows Nubbins knows he’s meant for slaughtering meat too.

Then he realizes the others must see it too. Prob’ly why they keep him from his legs workin’. Nubbins seen it before, what happens when the hacksaw breaks apart the rope down your spine. He’d bet anything they done that to Franklin, and he prolly don’t even know it. Grief joins the overwhelming joy in his body. It’s not just that they’re ignorant, airheaded little things just floatin’ on through their part of Texas and paying the angel’s price.

Their mean words and their dumb hearts, it’s all on purpose, weapons to keep them apart.

And they’s sharpenin’ their blades.

Pinchface girl covers her mouth with the back of her hand, but her eyes tell it all, the coldness there like lookin’ into two empty sockets.

“It sounds horrible.. Talk about something else.”

Sweet, unaware Franklin tries to light a match can burn away the tension, “Aw, you would prob’ly like it if you didn't know what was in it.”

Nubbins just knows if his brothers saw how really really smart Franklin could be, they’d let him keep him.

It’s a shame they’s outnumbered so bad, woulda been easier work if only one of the beeves was so mean and not all of ‘em. The same girl raises her hackles and her voice at the same time, actin’ like hunted prey just on account of bein’ around different folk. Weak.

“No I wouldn't and I wish you would quit.”

“Aw..” It hurts Franklin. Gotta toughen him up some, teach him the way to wrap himself in a shell of calcified rot and pure leather. Even if it had to be literal the way it did for little Leatherface, they could make Franklin masks too.

“Come on, Franklin, you're making everybody sick..” The floor man says scornfully.

Poor Franklin bows his precious curly head some, muttering, “Ok.. Ok…”

But his nature, that Nubbins knows is under there, comes out to play. Franklin, in his disappointment, sits glumly for a while. While the others stay quiet, Franklin brings out a little blade and starts toyin’ with it. Flicking it around like a butterfly blade, only it isn’t one. Nubbins can’t help but stare.

Franklin stops for a moment to dig under his nails with the knife, bringing Nubbins to imagine him popping each one off. Pop. Clatter. Screams. No need to waste that on Franklin when he ain’t the one that oughta be hurting. They’ll rip ‘em off of anyone else that gets in they’s way.

Noticing his affection and lettin’ it egg him on, or really just in his own fit, Franklin starts to work himself into a frenzy. Nubbins starts rockin’ a little harder in his mutual excitement over what they’s gonna be able do together. The thoughts in his head get so splatter sticky and cruel he starts to grind his teeth out loud. Puffy haired lady notices and openly points, no shame in her cruelty. Her beau just kind of shrugs, but he’s got disgust in his features just as clearly.

Nubbins can’t help using his rocking to urge himself forward, straining upwards against their judgemental glares towards Franklin. What he wants is to reach for that beautiful knife and show him just how to use it, but the plan is t’ get ‘em all home, feast on them together with Franklin ‘stead of scaring him off now. More giggles tear at his throat and bubble up without his permission.

The clueless driver interrupts and just ruins everything, “We're going to have to stop for gas fairly soon.”

“Th-There’s a place not far.” Nubbins remembers to answer. A big van-ful right into big brother’s lap, oh he’ll be so proud! Maybe he’d even spare Nubbins the beating for leavin’ the house with little brother all on his own again.

“Good enough.” Hums mister driver, no idea he’s fallin’ right into the trap.

See, Nubbins can be smart!

Only thing, he’s got to make sure Franklin ain’t wheeled right into the cattle pens too. He stares at Franklin intently, hoping naively if he looks long enough, he won’t ever have to go away.

Conversation or not, the stare is what brings Franklin out of the tiny fit he sunk into when he was toying with that blade of his. Now Nubbins gets a real good idea. Family is made from blood. Sharin’ his blood with another man would make him family too, share the mark right along with the name, a virgin’s sacrifice of sorts.

Nubbins finally snatches up the old blade.

The floor couple stares and gasps and shifts around warily, but they don’t mean nothin’ to no one. This is Franklin’s knife. And Franklin, though a little startled from the way his mouth falls a little bit open, watches with intense curiosity. Won’t tear those eyes away for nothin’. Nubbins closes the blade in his hand, gettin’ a good look at the whole thing, bubbly laughter piercing his own ears in a detached kinda way as he presses the silver spring button and the blade springs open again.

Slowly and on purpose-like, he puts the blade against the fleshy part of his hand, below the thumb and over his thick palm. Nubbins looks up to make absolutely sure Franklin is watchin’ what he’s doin’ for him. Blood is a real valuable resource afterall.

The blade sinks nice into his flesh. Kinda dull, the fibers pulling apart one at a time instead of all at once. His blood comes out real slow and dark, his new wound aching in a way that makes touching the cool blade feel nice ‘n soothing. Franklin is awed, eyes wide and alive instead of turned away.

Nubbins thinks sometimes that he ain’t a creature of the flesh, but the dealer. The trader. He’s the killer. Doesn’t wanna hear the various calls of distress, when even the front seat couple take notice. Keeps his smile good and fixed on his face so they don’t know it pinches at his chest some to be screamed at and not act out back.

“What are you doing!?”

“Put that knife away.”

“What did you do to yourself?”

Flexing his palm, Nubbins finds Franklin’s gaze again, to reassure him in one way that a reaction ain’t necessary. Remembers this was all for him, the exchanging of the blood, so he extends the knife back up to him, tilting the blade upwards some so he don’t have to grab it. Not yet.

And Franklin takes it.

The blood, the wound, it’s starting to dry up and panic nips at the edges of relief. Like if he lets it go away then Franklin will change his mind. He puts his hand into his mouth and bites down hard on the cut, making it gush again.

Blonde lady grimaces at him somethin’ fierce, “Ugh. How can you do that!?”

It’s real easy. He could show her. Franklin’s still lookin’ real hard at his knife, so Nubbins brings out his own. That trusty straight razor from inside his boot. Wants to carve a more pleasant expression onto Blondie’s face an’ show her exactly how simple it is.

“This is making me sick. Can't we let him off somewhere?” The puffy haired one asks quietly. Silly her not knowing this blood means that ain’t never gonna happen.

Not caring that it’s gonna scare her, he waves the razor some, “I-I have this k-knife.”

“You can put that one away too.” The beau that matches scared girl chides.

“It’s a good knife.” Nubbins promises, but returns it quietly to his boot when he sees they ain’t willing to reach out and lose a few fingers. Oh well, since it ain’t supper time yet, he can be patient.

His mind drifts off from himself in the wait, his stare fixing straight forward and landing on the girl up there. He can feel eyes on him, and cold blood on his skin, but he can’t quite snap out of it. Best to let it ride over. Fighting it just makes him go into a bigger upset.

Franklin, in turn, is staring right at Nubbins, that same morbid fascination written all over his expression. Can’t understand why he’s not afraid like the others. All his life he’s known little kids to point and ask why he’s using a chair for old folks, had peers gawk at him when he gets one of his spells and panics. Somethin’ about his trouble bein’ both physical and mental that turned him jaded in a lot of way.

Gullible, sure, in that he believed his sister when she said he’d have fun today, but never fully trusting. Like he’s always waiting for betrayal. Maybe that’s just it, that he ain’t all that surprised his hitchhiker friend turned out to be a little off his rocker. Better than secretly resenting Franklin, or spitting in his supper ‘fore handing it to him, or playin’ tricks on him.

It’s only after a little while of that reflection, that he notices the hitchhiker don’t got eyes on him, or care he was accidentally staring. He’s likewise staring at Sally, who herself notices both of them looking and turns. Her face is suddenly marred by discomfort, a smile that doesn’t even look quite like a good pretend one.

That shouldn’t make Franklin more uneasy than a stranger’s blood all over the knife in his pocket. But fake Sally means: “Of course you can come, Franklin, you’re my brother.” which means “Oh is he finished whining yet?” and “Again? Really?” and “It's been a bad day for you, hasn't it? Poor Franklin.” All which leads to him tumbling ass over end off a hill, and of course he’s gonna take more issue with that.

Instead of getting his knife out again to fidget with, figuring that’s just a recipe for disaster all over the place, he taps his hands on the arm rests of his wheelchair. The movement, and the dull plasticky sound of it, seems to reverberate into Nubbins’ head and pull him out of his little daze.

His eyes blink and drag ‘round slowly around, between Jerry and Sally now. Just from the clues he’s gotten so far he’s starting to make connections about the group, trying to piece together what the mess they’s gonna deal with later on will be like.

“This girl is your wife.” He questions eventually, making vague little motions with his hands.

The girl on the floor taps mister driver to get his attention, “Jerry..”

“Oh. Uh..no. My friend...my girlfriend.” Jerry sputters out stupidly. Nubbins would like to poke him with needles and rip out his hairs and see if he sounds goofy like that when he screams and begs.

His eyes light up but drift away again, knowing he has to wait for that fun. A pink freckled face greets him. Miss blondie don’t like bein’ talked about. Startin’ to understand why she’s always whining to get her hands on things, cause she’s spoilt for attention. The favorite like baby brother, without the special reason of her messed up face or lack of speakin’.

Keeps her clueless and plump, like big brother would say, but this one is curious and too skinny. Might be better just to do away with her, not take away one scrap off, ‘cept maybe her face. Wouldn’t that be a nice surprise for the youngest, showin’ off this new face he can takes and turn into a mask. He’d just love that.

“Th-That's good.. She's a good girl.”

“Thank you?” She says like she doesn’t get it, shiverin’ like there’s worms goin’ down in her shirt and she’s squirming away from ‘em.

Maybe the hair is too long for little brother’s taste. No use in peelin’ the skull jus’ to throw it all out. Could sell her down at the station instead, replace some of that awful meats they won’t eat and the customers don’t enjoy much neither with sweet and tender flesh. Could get rich off it and go back to slaughtering any real piggies that comes their way with a nice side of luxury.

Just the thought makes him ball his fists and shake them, too full of all these ideas it’s starting to seep out and take up all the space in the van.

The piggyest of the bunch, he don’t wanna eat. Franklin needs to be alive to listen, and share knives with, and talk to Nubbins real nice like he does. They can fatten him up on that headcheese he likes all they wants, but ain’t nobody gonna do the killing of his Franklin ‘less he says.

The Cook can sell blondie, but then Bubba needs somethin’ to sweeten the deal too.

He shifts to the other little lady all balled up on the van floor, takes note she’s got brown eyes like his bubba’s, and a tinker-bell bracelet he’d just love on her wrist. Comes free with clippies in her hair and pretty pale skin, and he knows she’s the one he oughta keep in one piece.

“You're a nice girl too..”

“Thanks.. You're a nice guy..” This girl responds robotically to him, without lookin’ in his face. Nubbins might be retarded but he ain’t stupid. ‘Course that means she don’t like him. Scared of catchin’ what he’s got.

What he wants is to stick his tongue out at her, slash his knife across her stupid face and chest ‘til she’s got blood in her eyes and she’s thrashin’ like a dyin’ cattle. His bubba would be so upset if he brought him a lady like that and wasted the face, and then he’d kill Franklin right back, and they’d got nothin’ but skinny girl meat goin’ to waste and everyone would be upset. Let little lady be mad, but he ain’t gonna let this plan go to waste.

Not even if he’s got to bite on the insides of his cheeks to make it happen, the focus.

Franklin leans back into his line of vision, looking so concerned and eager he might get sick everywhere.

“We're all nice..”

“Yeh.. Y-You're all nice.” Nubbins repeats with a smile, scooting on his haunches to get closer to Franklin again, so close his outstretched limbs is able to brush against his. All the while he’s pretty sure now Franklin can tell what he’s thinkin’, what with the way he’s so good at keepin’ Nubbins on track and calm. Throws him a bone so he knows he’s not the one chosen to become meat. “B-B-But you got them w-wheels.”

“What difference does that make?” Franklin barks, absolutely horrified. He looks down at his own paralyzed legs and back up at Nubbins over and over, mouth open and silly lookin’. Only a real expert like Nubbins might’ve heard the high crackle in his voice when emotion almost slipped past, but even he missed it.

Got distracted by the resurgence of the blade Franklin pulls from his pocket again to toy with until his upset passes. His mouth goes all dumb and quiet again instead of promisin’ he won’t kill Franklin. That’s gotta be why he’s got messed up legs too, so’s he can’t run and he can’t go and mess things up. They’s the perfect pair. Half can’t make his mouth form words, the other can’t move. They’ll fill it in and be one whole person together.

All his life Nubbins just knowed he couldn’t be cut out for love like Gramma and Grandpa got. They was lucky they both was hunters already, neither one turned out by the other covered in gore and shooting a person straight in the back of the skull. Could take up the killing business together.

Hasn’t been one like that since. Mama never had no men and her boys never had no daddy in the picture. They was on their own so long, on their stuffy old farm with stuffy old brothers and nothin’ to do all the day away but work, and workin’ is killin’. But not if he got wheels.

Franklin ain’t edible, can’t be with all that metal, and that means maybe he ain’t a killer too, ‘specially not yet no how. So he’s a third thing, just like Grandpa was when he stumbled onto Gramma’s piece of land with every intention to kill her and ended up tied down in her storage barn and married within months instead.

If he gets his Frankie on that path, he’s takin’ what God gived it to him. He just really, really hopes he’s given the permissions to keep Franklin. God ain’t nothin’ compared to an angry brother and his good leather belt.

Franklin is currently taking down one more button on his shirt to reveal more untouchable, ‘probably too tough to eat flesh, and fannin’ himself off, “It's hot in here..”

That’s silly to Nubbins cause it’s hot everywhere in Texas. “Where do you come f-from?” He asks with a small snort of laughter.

“We been to Colorado, New Mexico. Kind of a vacation, looking for land too.” Franklin tells him, waving his hand here and there. Doesn’t seem to like it much.

“Doing a little skiing.” Floor man adds on, explaining the big sword looking things leaning against the back wall in this little van. All the junk ain’t good junk, the nasty, clunky, plastic store bought garbage is all they gots. It’s startin’ to close in on Nubbins and suffocate him with a life he doesn’t live.

Feels harder to make sense.

“I mean w-where do you l-live?”

“Oh.. Houston. We’re all from Houston.” Franklin gives him a smile and it ain't like the girl’s, it’s gentle and bright and silly.

While he talks, Nubbins starts rocking forwards and back, and shaking about his wrists some more, flapping like the excited bird he is and feels on the inside. Franklin is just so so smart tellin’ him what he needs to know and that’s all. So he keeps asking questions. “Your p-parents live there too?”

“What? Oh, yeah..” Franklin gives a dismissive shrug, prob’ly don’t want to talk about it.

Maybe they’re like Nubbins’ parents and disappeared away, and he’s all alone. Or maybe they’re like big brother and get mean easy, beatin’ on the poor guy even though his legs doesn’t work. That’s prob’ly worse than anythin’ he been through. At the end of the night, Franklin ain’t running away to go burn off his frustration by kickin’ some roadkill around.

Just a shame that Nubbins don’t realize the only reason he’s still in the van allowed near Franklin is on account of he’s viewed the same way. The difference is a lot to someone who’s willing to consider it, but to the others, they’re both just crazy and annoying and easy to laugh at. Clowns for just existing.

Nubbins nods his head towards blondie, “A-And this girl.”

“What about Sally?” Franklin asks, miffed that they’re changing the subject again. He’d like to just grab this hitchhiker and scream in his face that the others don’t care about him. They never will, don’t waste your time on it.

Maybe he’d do the same for him and keep him from goin’ on another one of these stupid road-trips where he just sits around and watches. Kirk had been bragging with the skiing, showing off the poles so he could feel tougher than the guy with no qualms on using a knife. But no mention of leaving Franklin on his own while they done it. The “Sorry, Franklin. We planned this a long time ago, we never thought you’d come along at the last minute.” Like that’s even what happened.

Apparently paralyzed is s’posed to mean deaf too, ‘cause he heard very well what Kirk said when they was walking away to climb that stupid hill. “Someone oughta take one of these and shove it somewhere that it’ll put him out of our misery.”

Franklin was so mad he vomited in the snow they were skiing on. Thought about wheeling off somewhere and forcing them to come and find him and then they’d feel real sorry. ‘Til he realized they probably wouldn’t even notice he was gone. Sally, if she wasn’t distracted would, but they’d do just about anything to keep Sally from sticking up for her brother, and eventually it worked and she didn’t even try no more.

She now laughs at the hitchhiker asking them questions, “What? What about me?”

“Where are y-your parents?” Nubbins asks, sounding very polite, in contrast to his wolfish smile.

“Where are my parents?” She repeats, looking like she wants to laugh in his face some more, cruelty leaving its ashen tint on her questioning tone.

“Yeh.” Nubbins confirms, maybe naively. Maybe knowing she’s not interested in talkin’ niceties with a man she thinks is just some pawn in her adventure game.

This time she does bark a harsh laugh at him. Franklin knows his own face gets a little hot and red from the embarrassment of remembering folks laughing at him that way, treating him like an attraction. Part of him hopes the hitchhiker just won’t notice, maybe he’s been so sheltered up all his life he doesn’t realize the bully Sally and her friends can be when they wanna. Unlikely.

“What kind of question is that? Where are my parents. How should I know? My mother's probably about half drunk on martinis and my father’s probably playing golf. Where are yours?” Her hair swishes around and her head bobbles while she speaks, defensive in a way that just screams ‘who is letting this freak talk to me?’

“I-I mean where do they l-live?” The hitchhiker has to clarify again. He’s licking his lips and rolling up his shoulders in a way that it’s obvious he’s bothered, frustrated maybe. Holding down some kind of reaction.

“What does he want to know all that stuff for? We don't even know him.” Franklin hears Pam whisper to the side.

And Kirk’s louder, uninhibited response. “How should I know?”

Couple of gossips, really a whole group of them. The flush of embarrassment turns to anger for the poor hitchhiker. Franklin prays to the Lord above that if his mind ever leads him to wander and hurt himself that way, cutting into his own flesh andcsmiling about it, that a kinder group would happen to stumble upon him than this. Sorta puts into perspective how shitty they can be, makes him feel stupid for coming along at all.

Sally doubles back and answers his question anyhow, despite clearly hearing her friends discussing whether it’s a good idea or not. “Oh, where do they live? In Houston. They live in Houston.. Why?”

“Do- Do they know you’ coming t-to Houston?” Nubbins is busy assessing the situation on his own to notice what they think of him. Five is a lot to handle, never done a group that big all at once before without his brothers right on hand beside him. Important to know if somebody gonna come looking in their freezers in a day or two ‘fore they can hunt and slaughter and break down all that meat.

“Who told you we were going to Houston?” The driver guy asks skeptically. Whether it’s the failing engine or his suspicious driving, the van lurches around some.

When Nubbins motioned to who exactly did told him, that skip in the forward trojectory knocked him forward. He ends up with his hand resting fully on Franklin's pinstriped knee, and he don’t make an action to move it, “This man..”

“Let's tell him we can't take him any further when we stop for gas..” Miss puffy hair rambles quickly, not remembering to control her volume from her fear over Franklin being touched.

So Nubbins hears her loud and clear and counters, “M-My home is- is close to this road. Y-You could take me there.”

After getting a harsh nudge, the floor man speaks up, “Well, man.. I don't know. We're In pretty much of a hurry.. How far is it from the highway?”

“Oh, it’s r-real close.” And it’s true this time! They’s only another ten or so minutes out from the station at this speed if they keep it up, and that’s only another five from the house.

Back in the day, before he knew the routes by heart, Nubbins would walk the paths and count the seconds, the minutes, the footsteps it took until it was all in his bones. Drivin’ it by car is even quicker, though he usually ain’t so lucky to get carried there. Most ‘ the time they don’t pick up hitchhikers no more. Or it’s just him.

Does they all think he’s a Dracula?

“Couldn't you just walk? I mean.. if it’s so close.” Blondie talks like she regrets opening her mouth the second she done it. As she should with them awful manners.

“Y-You.. You could have supper with us!” Nubbins offers, increasingly desperate the more it seems like they ain’t gonna take him up on it, ruining just everything. It’s all gonna domino down and crush him flat like a box truck come at him full speed. His only friend in this, he singles out Franklin, “You like h-head cheese, m-my brother m-makes it good.. he always got some.”

Franklin doesn’t get the chance to speak before he’s being talked over by Blondie and her fake gagging, “Not that stuff you were talking about a while ago.. Ugh..”

“I think we better-push on, man. Sorry.” The shaggy looking guy mutters but it’s directed at Nubbins. They knows well they been mean, ashamed to look him in the face, and Nubbins don’t like it not one bit.

He shrugs it off, but his posture is so sunk in and he’s so silent, ain’t no way you couldn’t tell he’s upset. A bump in the road makes his camera clang against his ribs, givin’ him a real good idea. Nubbins raises it up and teases, laughing as he pretends to zero in on a target though he already got the perfect one in mind, aiming right at Franklin who is still just kinda absent. There’s a flash of light as the old, burnt-up flashbulb pops. Franklin looks up at it startled, but smiles, maybe automatically, a little vague, when he sees the camera.

“You took my picture.” Franklin sounds all outta breath just like Nubbins was when he runned to the van. The picture gonna help to connect them.

Under the sun, under the flash bulb, s’about the same thing. ‘Cause Nubbins don’t normally takes pictures of the living. Likes ‘em better as butchered pieces-parts for a bigger collage. Now Franklin he gotta stay this good way, startled and flushed and smilin’ just a little.

“Yeah.”

Nubbins pulls the photograph from the camera and peels apart the sheet. His film, it’d gone rotten a long time ago, the print comin’ out old and dark and discolored lookin’. Still he extends it to Franklin, only Franklin got the right to see it after all. Wants him to be proud of it. Needs it maybe.

“It didn't turn out so good.” Franklin remarks, squinting to see his own face.

“No. I-It’s nice, see -” Nubbins snatches at the photo but let’s Franklin keep looking, pointing to every detail that is his favorite to prove it’s alright. Namely the bruises and bloody scrapes, “It t-tells about your a-accident.”

A few comments float around the van:

“You look worse for wear.”

“I think you look nice.”

But blonde girl starts complaining again and makin’ it all ‘bout her, when Nubbins don’t care none about that.

“Let me see.”

Franklin extends it back towards her and gives a little warning that quicks up Nubbins’ heart, ‘cause his mind got changed about it turning out bad, “It’s kind of dark, but you can see my face.”

With girl gone, Nubbins leans forward.

What he wants, is Franklin’s word that he gonna behave and ain’t get himself killed durin’ dinner when they come. He’ll settle for a different way of tellin’ it.

“Y-You can p-pay me now.”

Franklin blinks away a mental fog but still can’t make no sense of this, “Huh?”

“Two dollars.. I-It's a good picture.”

Nubbins is nodding and giggling, can’t help himself ’cause he thinks this is it, that Franklin’s gonna understand fine what he’s got to do. His joy is met with blank faced confusion, but that’s better than discontent.

Or anger, like that he gets from the denim man.

“You want him to pay you for that picture?”

Blondie joins in the convincing, trying to ruin everything, selfish selfish girl trying to make Franklin mad at him, “It's not really a very good picture of you.”

“Not for two dollars anyway.” The floor man agrees.

“Two dollars?” Blondie asks, like she’s clueless.

Nubbins knows they’re tryin’ to corner him and narrows his eyes, holds out an expectant hand, trying to call her bluff, “Yehh. Y-You can buy it for him.”

“Hey, man, that’s enough.” The other guy barks, ordering Franklin around instead of letting him have a say, “Give him back the damn picture.”

Immediately Franklin returns the photo, and Nubbins can tell his hands have started shaking. Poor, weak Frankie let them boss him ‘round like that. Now he’s startin’ to fidget nervously again. Comparing that to his smile in the photo, which Nubbins stares at for a long moment, makes him a little sad ‘at his joy had to go.

Ain’t much room for it in this stuffy, closed-windowed world.

They keep talking about him, up in the front seat.

“That guy wanted Franklin to pay him 2 dollars for that picture.”

“You're kidding.”

“No. He was serious.”

Nobody ever asked a peep about what Franklin thought, or what he wanted. Now he’s got this little frown on and Nubbins knows it’s cause he’s scared to show the big feelings that get caught in there.

Havin’ a little brother meaned Nubbins seen all this play out before. Livin’ it was one thing, ‘n hearin’ big brother complain about the old times added to it sure, but nothin’ compared to watchin’ a miserable creature. Pinned down by its little deformed wings and screamin’ and cryin’ over invisible pain. They heads is sick, even Franklin, and the others ain’t kind to that.

Nubbins got a real good way to burn it off.

Some kind of a trash can or somethin’ is flipped over on its top like a pedestal, where he places the photo. His pouch gots a small bundle of ‘luminum foil, and a tube of gun power. He lays it out so the picture’s layin’ on its back in the foil, a little cone of the powder on top with a dip in the middle. Makin’ sure they’re watchin’, Nubbins gives a smile and a small giggly laugh, then strikes a match off his boot.

They know what he’s gonna do ‘fore he does it, but they still start screamin’ anyhow when it bangs and makes a big flash of light, burning up in fire. Smoke wafts off it while he crumbles it up inside the foil, crushing the air out of the fire so it goes out, and shovin’ it back into the pouch.

The driver man brakes hard and veers the van to the side of the road, sending all the riders forward violently except Franklin, who cracked his head off the seat behind him.

All of them start hollering over each other while Nubbins giggles at himself delightedly. Big brother woulda said he oughta be more careful, and maybe he’d ‘a been right in the case of gettin’ Franklin on his side. It’s just he can’t help havin’ fun!

“What? What?”

“What happened?”

“Hey! Damn.”

“HEY, man!”

“Roll down the window!”

Nubbins doesn’t flinch when a ski pole is shoved right in his face like a weapon. His knife is still sharper than some plastic lookin’ stick, and no fella afraid of a little fire gonna do the deed of shovin’ that thing past flesh and muscle into his vulnerable guts. Ain’t man enough.

“I've had enough, man. Time for you to go.” The guy with the ski pole warns, before turnin’ to call over his shoulder, “Jerry, stop this thing..”

It ain’t nice, but he’s losin’ control which means he’s losin’ Franklin too and that ain’t good. Can’t happen. They’s s’posed to be in this together, and more, part ‘a the same family. Betrotheds. Not the ones wanderin’ with no connection, not the mean folks. So long as he can find him again, they’ll fix it to be just right as rain. Even let Franklin carve into the one tryin’ to quiet him up if it come to that.

One half of the blood exchange been done already, with his on Franklin’s knife. Before he stands to haul ass out of the slowing down van, he snatches up his razor and flips it open, grabbing Franklin by his wrist and dragging the blade across. His blood bubbles when it comes out from all the pulling back and forth they’re doin’, and he squeals and sobs as the knife tears into him jaggedly.

Nubbins licks a crack in his lip instead of the blood from Franklin’s wound, though he’d like to see what he tastes like. Figures somethin’ like wood smoke and bitter forest berries. Somethin’ real special like a homemade pie, hold the mincemeat.

They’ll have time for that later; the ski pole guy goes for him, but tumbles back when the van lurches again and slows down to a real stop this time. Nubbins drags the door open and hops out while it’s still coasting, keeping his eyes locked with Franklin through the windows. He’s bleeding from his arm all over the place, his sister kneeling to bandage him and his friends shouting behind the closed door. But he won’t tear his eyes away from Nubbins. Can’t.

They’s covered already, relationship locked in by their tethers between their worlds, but to make sure the van don’t get lost, Nubbins rips open his palm again with his teeth and marks the side of it with his blood, pickin’ a good familiar shape so even big brother might notice it when they stops for gas up the road. Flashes one last grin Franklin’s way.

Kicking the tires, scrawling the family crest right onto the green paint, it’s perfect. Nubbins would be excited if he wasn’t realizing his own hurt by the way they throwed him out.

Speeding away means he can’t see his captive Franklin anymore, ‘n for a minute he tries to keep up. Running after and blowin’ raspberries to not lose his mind with this upset.

Until he’s sure they can’t see him no more. Then Nubbins just falls where he stands, curling his knees into his chest and hiding his face in them. His sad is anger. Teeth grit together and fists balled up, and he’s hitting the back of his head, over and over, ‘til sweat runs past his hair and he has to stop ‘n check to make sure it ain’t blood.

It’s salty tears in some places too. Feels stupid for cryin’ ‘em. Nubbins had somethin’ real special goin’ with Franklin, but them others was just mean. A thousand bodies ain’t make up for the hurt in his heart every ought time another person goes by and they’s mean to him.

But they’s all gonna get their due. Marked ‘em good, so they ain’t ever gon’ make it to Houston. Only one survivor, on Nubbins’ terms, ‘cause he’s certain now he ain’t nothin’ typical. He’s the killer.

#tcmfanevent #tcmdisabilityweek #tcm 1974 #nubbins sawyer #franklin hardesty #franknub #my writing #my fic #tcm fanfic #basically a whole almost 10k fic of nubbins rambling what more could y’all ask for

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thewarmestplacetohide · 16 days ago

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Dread by the Decade: The Monster Maker

👻 You can support me on Ko-fi! ❤️

0 Stars

Plot: Desperate to blackmail a woman into marrying him, a man gives her father a rare condition.

Review: With an incoherent plot, undeveloped characters, and rampant ableism, this film commits the ultimate B movie sin: it isn't even fun to mock.

Year: 1944 Genre: Sci-Fi Horror, Bio Horror Country: United States Language: English Runtime: 1 hour 2 minutes

Director: Sam Newfield Writers: Lawrence Williams, Pierre Gendron, Martin Mooney Cinematographer: Same Newfield Editor: Robert E. Cline Composer: Albert Glasser Cast: J. Carrol Naish, Ralph Morgan, Tala Birell, Wanda McKay, Terry Frost

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Story: 0/5 - Appalling. A jumbled mess of empty characters and cliche concepts, most of which appear to be forgotten as soon as they're introduced.

Performances: 2/5 - Not awful, though Naish is a knock-off Lugosi.

Cinematography: 2.5/5 - The strongest element, with some decent lighting and shadow use.

Editing: 1.5/5 - Certainly doesn't help the story's poor pacing.

Music: 2/5

Effects & Props: 2/5 - The gorilla suit is fairly well articulated considering the year and budget.

Sets: 1.5/5 - Limited. Set pieces are obviously reused.

Costumes, Hair, & Make-Up: 2/5 - Morgan's makeup is passable (though ableist and inaccurate), working best when obscured by shadows.

youtube

Trigger Warnings:

Very mild violence

Sexual harassment (mild; criticized by film)

Ableism (uncritical)

Xenophobia (uncritical)

Medical abuse

Mild animal abuse

#The Monster Maker (1944)#The Monster Maker #Sam Newfield #American #sci-fi horror #Dread by the Decade #review #horror review #1940s #0 stars

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bodrewritten · 9 months ago

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THIS is an @atbussysparks side blog. I will be attempting to re-write bride of discord (⁠◍⁠•⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍⁠)⁠✧⁠*⁠。

Rights to the original property belongs to DisneyFanatic2364, the author of bride of discord, daughter of discord, and any other spin-off. This blog was not made to try and one-up the original, but to show love and appreciation for the original fanfiction that touched the hearts of people around the world. (⁠*⁠˘⁠︶⁠˘⁠*⁠)⁠.⁠｡⁠*🩷

The original blog @brideofdiscord-rewritten an entirely separate acc bc I didn't know how to make a side blog back then 😅 but that's also me!!! I can't log into that acc now

Let's lay down some ground rules!

꒰⁠⑅⁠ᵕ⁠༚⁠ᵕ⁠꒱⁠˖⁠♡❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜🤎🖤🩶🤍🩷

If you're a younger child (younger than 14) please blacklist the announcement/update tags! I use foul language, and though you might use it yourself or hear it every day, I ain't tryin to get sued

The story itself is SFW and will not contain any more than subtle pg-13 jokes and light drinking (imo daiquiris don't count lol)

All celebrities, movies, songs, books, and other real life media names will be changed into bad horse puns.

I will omit some ridiculous examples of discord being emotionally or mentally abusive past the point in which he has fully developed as a good character. Instead he will face consequences.

Some characters will be queer or LGBTQ+ but no references will be made to their sexuality. Only romance.

The last bullet point goes for the straight relationships as well!!

I have a playlist for the story on Spotify named "Bride of Discord rewritten (fluttercord)

Voodoo and hoodoo will be shown in a respectful and realistic manner, and I will attempt to show Zecora in a non-stereotypical manner.

Spike will still have a crush on rarity, but spike being a romantic interest for adult ponies, or having his feelings reciprocated in any way will be removed from the story.

I will attempt to keep an early 2010s feel and humor, but there're also so many american exclusive jokes and media references from past that time to make

If this were turned into an audio drama (nudge nudge wink wink) I would love to voice characters or draw for the video

Topics such as death should be handled with care and emotions. It is okay to say stuff related to dying.

Only mild cursing is allowed (darn, dang, shoot, heck, hell, butt, ass, ((but only thrice,)) etc.)

Obviously this isn't being policed but

DNI ಠಿ⁠_⁠ಠಿ ಠ⁠,⁠_⁠｣⁠ಠ

"Proshippers" (degenerates who get off to illegal and morally corrupt relationships)/zoophiles/bigots of any sort (homophobic, transphobic, xenophobic, racist, ableist, ect.)/ Radfems/anti-punks/people who don't like hopecore (I'm not joking)

Ask me questions! (⁠◕⁠ᴗ⁠◕⁠✿⁠)(⁠ﾉ⁠◕⁠ヮ⁠◕⁠)⁠ﾉ⁠*⁠.⁠✧

I will happily answer almost any questions, and I love getting them! To keep anonymity I won't answer personal questions but I'll answer anything (⁠.⁠ ⁠❛⁠ ⁠ᴗ⁠ ⁠❛⁠.⁠)

Masterlist

Bride Of Discord Chapters 1-19

Daughter of discord chapters 1-22

Spotify Playlist

#mlp fim #fluttercord #bride of discord #bride of discord rewritten #discord #my little pony #friendship is magic #pinned post #applejack #rainbow dash #rarity #twilight sparkle #pinkie pie #fluttershy #fanfiction #romance

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yiga-hellhole · 1 year ago

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Twilight Forest, Twilight King

or better known in my files as, "we are so back dot docx"

i wanted to write ghirahim and zant bonding a bit but i think i went a little overboard. this is full of headcanons and a bit of silliness but i tried to do their characters as much justice as i could!

(mild warning for some language that could come across as ableist, but let it be known that this isn't how *i* think, but what i think would go through ghirahim's head. and he's a jerk so i don't think he'd care about being considerate)

anyway, ghirazant nation, it's been like a full year since the last fic was posted, so allow me to reanimate the tag. 4500 word ish fic under the cut! note that this is the first fanfic i have ever posted publicly so be nice ;; (ao3 mirror HERE!)

The stronghold, captured. A moment of respite befell Ganondorf’s forces, and Ghirahim soon found himself resting in the shade of the Rockface Keep. He sat tucked away in the corner of one of the storage rooms, sanding his sword back to its usual sheen. It was no place for a lieutenant, much less a Lord, but it was a quiet one. None knew their blades as intimately as he, much less considering they were an extension of his own body. Any nick, any speck, any hint of dullness sent nagging, cringing tingles down his spine, urging him to pick and polish in a metallic dermatillomania. Tender fiber cloths, scrutinously chosen to shimmer his blade to perfection, rubbed expensive oils into the meticulously sharpened edges. He stood up, holding his blade up to the light. A small window high up the wall of the storage basted his masterpiece in the last rays of the setting sun. The sharp hilt scattered glittering specks throughout the room, as if cutting through the very light itself. His handiwork was complete, and he was ready to do it all over again the next day.

So caught up in his work, he almost hadn’t noticed the menacing presence in the doorway behind him. “Demon Lord,” said the figure behind him, spoken with a voice like wind soaring through a gaol door. “I was hoping to speak with you.”

Behind him stood his fellow lieutenant. Zant, the Usurper Twilight King, heralded from a time millennia after his own. An outrageously overpowered figure, but as Ghirahim had noted during their strife to claim the Gerudo Desert, moreso an absolutely raving lunatic. All bulk and aggression, with not a shred of elegance. He didn’t count on the two of them getting along.

He hardly looked over his shoulder to meet his gaze. “Is it urgent?” Ghirahim continued to observe his blade, carefully turning it in his hands. A small peep behind him suggested perhaps he had tilted the reflection of the light directly into Zant’s eyes, and blinded him. Certainly not intentional, but terribly amusing.

“Not quite, though I suspect you may find it a welcome distraction.” Ghirahim’s interest was piqued, and he turned slightly to face him. There he stood, in the same stiff, unreadable pose he was always in when idle. There was no inbetween with this alien figure; either he was perfectly still and impenetrable, or he wore his heart on his sleeve, weeping, screaming, or giggling like a child at the mildest provocation. Ghirahim had to admit - when Zant’s pathetic countenance was capable of holding its composure for once, he was a remarkably intimidating man. Not enough to intimidate him, though.

Ghirahim slightly pursed his lips, having waited for him to continue long enough. “Well? Out with it, then.”

Zant’s life-long role as a servant truly wasn’t doing him any favors. Such a ‘do not speak unless spoken to’ attitude was unbecoming of a King, Ghirahim noted to himself, as he watched the man dawdle before him.

Unmovingly, Zant continued to speak. “You are familiar with these lands, yes? You have been here since the dawn of time.”

Ghirahim frowned, uncertain of what he was getting at. “I have, but the landscape has undoubtedly changed greatly since then. I must remind you, our Master retrieved me from thousands of years past.”

They were silent for but a moment. “Then I will assist where your knowledge fails you. Lord Ghirahim, I wish for you to take me somewhere.”

Ghirahim was getting a little tired of these empty statements. “Whatever do you mean? Where do you need me to take you? Surely you can walk yourself.”

“You have an eye for beauty, Ghirahim.” Oh, were they on a first-name basis now? “I wish to see the Hyrule that was stolen from me.”

Ghirahim scoffed incredulously, turning his blade to a flurry of diamonds with the snap of his fingers. “You want to go sight-seeing after your first mission? You’re ridiculous. You think me some sort of tour guide?”

Zant responded with almost shocking quickness. “Do not pretend you are content with your current whereabouts, Demon Sword. Your metal skin absorbs the heat, and risks scorching your prized garments. You would be as happy to leave this desert as I.”

The corner of Ghirahim’s lips spasmed involuntarily. It seemed this buffoon had some wit in him after all. “I highly doubt we’d get the clearance for this little trip either way.”

“It is the end of the day, and both of us are capable of magical transportation. We would be back before anyone knew it,” Zant bit back, as if he had thought out every possible reply beforehand.

Ghirahim was a little taken aback by this boldness. He did not expect the enigmatic man to be one for such adventurous ideas, but given his erratic behavior on the battlefield… Perhaps he should have anticipated it. The thin line of his mouth crooked into a smirk, but before he could speak, Zant stepped forward and interrupted him.

“Do not get me wrong. I am not so reckless as to abandon my post without a thought. After our victory yesterday, I highly doubt the enemy forces will have the strength to ambush us. Tonight is the most opportune time for such a… Trip, as you called it.”

There was a tone to Zant’s voice he could just not place. It tread a fine line between childish stubbornness, and desperation. Ghirahim knew an opportunity for leverage when he saw one, and he had yet to find his footing in his dynamic with Zant. Perhaps putting him in his debt was a clever next step. He shifted his weight onto his left foot, tilting his hip and idly playing with a strand of his silvery hair. “I suppose we’ve had a long enough day of dilly-dallying. Very well. What did you have in mind?”

Zant’s stance slightly shifted, his helmet tipping upright. He pondered for a moment. “I noticed on the map that the Faron Woods were also in this world. Perhaps that’s an idea?”

“Faron? I suppose that’s a fair choice. Advantage or not, we shouldn’t be wandering into active Hylian territory. I don’t reckon they’re guarding some little villages all too tightly, at this point.” He reasoned. Hot commodity as he might be, he wasn’t enthused to be delivering the two of them on a silver platter. While he wasn’t exactly worried about the laughably weak soldiers that had scattered across the landscape, he certainly feared the wrath of their Master if he were to find out his top lieutenants were acting carelessly out of his watch. He had to make sure that whatever upper hand he was getting over Zant wasn’t going to risk the favor of their King.

Zant nodded. “I recall Faron posing minimal trouble when I had first conquered it.” Quieter, with the slightest hint of giddiness in his voice, he mumbled to himself. Again an inelegant trait. “I do so wonder what it looks like now…”

Ghirahim donned his classic red cape once more, and dusted the remaining metal shavings off his pristine gloves. “I do hope your little acquisition tour won’t waste our time too terribly, Twilight King.”

A gangly hand placed itself upon his shoulder. “It will, if you insist on bickering like this.”

Oh, what an attitude. He had half a mind to zip the both of them to the bottom of Lake Hylia, and see if the moron could swim. Zant either took too long to get to the point, or instantly smacked down any attempt at conversation. He didn’t know what he wanted, and Ghirahim couldn’t stand it. Zant was right, they ought to get this over with. He gathered his focus, and with a fluid, shadow-trailing motion of his hand, the two were absorbed in a mist of diamonds, and sent to the inner groves of Faron Woods.

Strategically, he had placed their pair atop the pillars of an old ruin, himself spot in the middle, and Zant with his heels just on the edge. He grinned unseen as a little shriek rang behind him, the hand on his shoulder tightening as Zant lost his balance. With a grunt and a shrill groan of exertion, he shifted his balance and instead tossed himself to another pillar. Zant whipped around indignantly from atop his new perch, scoffing as he met nothing but his co-lieutenant snickering at him with his hands in his sides. “Ghirahim! What foolishness is this!?”

Ghirahim turned his head, peeking at him from behind his bangs. “Oh, please. A little joke won’t kill you. I see you merrily hopping up and down from such heights all the time!”

Zant’s fists balled under their baggy sleeves, his shoulders tightened in what Ghirahim could only assume was an upcoming tantrum. Instead, Zant found himself trailing off before he could give the Demon Lord an earful, turning his head to the environment around them.

“This is… Near the Sacred Grove?” It was off putting to hear the pitch of his voice drop from that ear-grating squawk to the depth it carried when he was calmer.

Ghirahim cocked his head. He had no idea what the man was talking about, but the overall calmth washing over the place led him to think Zant may be right. “I’m certain this place has carried many names over the years. There was a temple here in my time, but I see it’s been long lost to history.” He turned to where the building once stood. Now, it was nothing but piles of colossal, carved stones, yellowed and overgrown from their years of disuse. Where there had once been an impressive sanctuary, housing secrets and creatures thirsting for the blood of heroes, was now a long, collapsed corridor of soil and roots, stretching out into a maze of trees and bushes. The light of dusk hardly reached here, the canopies of the colossal trees above them bathing the forest into a turquoise haze. He had picked a good place, indeed. Even the Hylian forces that must have been stationed near the villages had long forgotten the temple grounds existed. They would never think to find them here… Well, so long as they didn’t see any scaffolding or talking trees, they ought to be fine.

When he looked to the side, he found that the lower hatch of Zant’s helmet had retracted, exposing the bottom half of his face. His lips were parted in a silent awe, his head curiously turning to take in the area. Though he couldn’t see his eyes, he assumed their gaze met briefly, and the two faced each other from across the heights of their respective platforms. “I thought you said you had been here before. What’s so special about it now?”

Zant gazed at him, but did not respond. Ghirahim folded his arms and peeked over the edge of his pillar as the Twili hopped down to ground level, a dust cloud gathering around his golden slippers. He began to wander, head craned to the canopy. “This place is much bigger than the one I know.” Another complete and total non-answer that was impossible to respond to. He sighed, and opted to sit on the edge of his pillar, lounging with his head rested on his palm. To his amusement, he noticed that Zant was getting a little distracted by the local wildlife, perking up at the sound of birdsong as a small flock of starlings fluttered by overhead. Zant stood at the opening of the great corridor, as if pondering whether to step through. Still, Ghirahim felt the mild buzz of mischievous arcane energy coming down from it, and, gifted as he was, he presumed from Zant’s hesitance that he felt it too. A silent agreement seemed to befall the two that fairy hijinks suited well in neither men’s schedules. Zant turned back to him for a moment. “Do you hear that?”

Hear what? The forest was brimming with life, there were a great deal of noises to notice. “You’re going to have to specify.”

Zant turned his head back to the corridor. “Some kind of… Instrument, perhaps? A hollow rattling.”

Ghirahim strained his ears for the sound, but he heard nothing. He made a mental note of ‘auditory illusions’ being one of Zant’s many afflictions. “I can’t say I do.”

“How strange…” Zant stood there staring for a moment again, before turning to observe the other end of the clearing. Ghirahim did not much feel like playing babysitter for much longer, and his gaze trailed off. In the distance, something piqued his interest. He had heard a long rushing sound before, but had thought it to be the roaring of the wind above them. Instead, he found the source of the mysterious noise to be something a touch more interesting. He swung his leg idly over the edge of the pillar, turning to see where his companion (he hesitated at the term) had wandered off to. While he wasn’t looking, it seemed he had started taking botanic samples of some kind, stuffing sprigs of herbs into bottles that he pulled from… He couldn’t tell. His sleeves? What a curious man. Still, he was getting bored just sitting there, and hailed him over.

“I don’t mean to disturb your academic intrigue, Usurper… But if it’s a good view that you’re after, I may have an idea.” he called him with an idle wave.

Zant appeared plenty intrigued, and legged his way on over, with a gait far too light and floaty for a man wearing solid metal shoes. “I’m listening.”

Ghirahim, in an instant, once again disappeared into a glittering cloud, and appeared beside him. He laid a hand idly on his elbow, anticipating another startled yelp, but it appeared Zant had caught onto his tricks now, as he didn’t so much as flinch. Mildly disappointed, he showered the both of them in the magic of his teleportation once more, and took them straight to the source of his intrigue.

When the flurry of diamonds dissipated, they stood atop a mighty waterfall, sending the flow of a river behind them cascading into a lake below. Though the cliff they had scaled held them several stories above the lake’s surface, the tall trees of Faron Woods still towered far above them. The forest he had known in his days, since the first descent of the Sky People, was like a meadow of sprouts in comparison. He looked to the side to smugly gauge Zant’s reaction at his marvelous ideas, but found he couldn’t meet his eyes. The Twilight King was not even acknowledging him, gaze transfixed on the view before them. A sea of green expanded below them, interrupted only by the snaking of little blue streams that branched out from the lake below. As dusk fell, the first lightning bugs began to take off from their hiding among the leaves, freckling the landscape with glowing, yellow stars. Where the canopy had blocked out the heavens above them, the forest was compensating with a sky on its own, spread across the lush soil. A mechanical whirring sounded from Zant’s shoulders, as his helmet folded in on itself and retracted into his pauldrons, revealing the rest of his face. Wide, blinking, amber eyes stared out in front of them, his pale pupils just barely discernible among his orange sclera. He truly was deeply alien to look at.

Ghirahim sighed, crossing his arms. Now was as good of a time as any to pick at the odd man’s brain a bit. He was a little surprised Zant was even capable of calm conversation. “Is it really such a novelty, to be in a forest?”

“My home had no such ecological zones, and when I had conquered Hyrule, I hardly had the time to see Faron outside of its Twilight state. I was much too busy keeping that accursed princess contained.”

Ghirahim shrugged. It was a fair answer. If anyone could relate to the troubles of keeping that girl where they needed her to be, it would be him. He dread the possibility of having to capture her all over again, but with the Princess’ surprising military involvement this time around, perhaps they would be lucky this time around. Maybe they could simply kill her in the heat of battle and get it over with. Lost in thought, he looked to the side, to find Zant fascinated with a lightning bug that had perched upon one of his spindly, long fingers. Ghirahim hadn’t noticed before the sickly grey tint of those hands, far from the rich black of that impish girl.

Captivated by the creature, Zant turned his hand as the little thing crawled across his skin.

“I see now it would not have survived in its alive state for long, had I succeeded. It would have withered and died like the rest.” He squinted at it one last time, before dismissing it harshly with a sudden flick of his wrist, sending it plummeting to the dirt. They wordlessly looked out over the landscape beneath their feet before Zant spoke again, but did not turn to look at him.

“… Have you been to the Twilight Realm, Ghirahim?” he asked him, a melancholic tinge in his tone.

“I hadn’t heard of it until our Master summoned me here. I doubt it existed when I last roamed the Surface.”

“Perhaps our travels will take us there.”

He was silent for a moment, then continued. “It is a wretched place, Ghirahim. I only care for it through my vague sense of nostalgia, of belonging. I sought to escape it in favor of Hyrule for a reason.”

Ghirahim didn’t find any inquiry was necessary, as Zant continued speaking on his own. “In perpetual Twilight, few is blessed with the opportunity to live, and nothing gets to bloom. My realm is a wasteland, worsened only by the poison and despair the Hylians cast into our lands. They thought it was Hell, and perhaps they had even succeeded in making it so.”

For a moment, Zant looked up to the canopy to observe the last rays of light peeking through the leaves, shielding his eyes with his hand. A twitch of his eyelid betrayed a slight sting. “It is a shame I can only truly survive in it. Even with my God’s power, I can only stand to bask in this light for mere minutes without wearing this helmet. Don’t you think it funny? I spent so long attempting to flee the expansive gloom of my Realm, yet I only ended up plunging the next world I inhabited in the very same curse. Perhaps I need a new plan.” His arm dropped to dangle by his side again, stood staring in deep thought.

Ghirahim scoffed. He thought of many words when meaning to describe Zant, but ’starry-eyed’ was certainly not one he anticipated to add to the list. "I wouldn't get too attached to the view. Once Master Ganondorf conquers the throne, we would have little qualms smoking out whatever resistance still crawls around between the treetops."

Zant whipped his face towards him with a slight frown. "You misunderstand me. I am no fool. I know my Master will do as he will with the provinces of Hyrule. Perhaps… I'm simply wistful for a world where light and dark exist in such harmony."

"If you truly detest the Twilight so much, then why did you invade the world of light with it in the first place?"

Zant sighed. "A basic necessity for the sake of my troops, I suppose. A convenient way to do away with those Hylian pests. The will of my God. I could not conceive of a way to break out of the Twilight Realm without dragging its darkness with me, and so that's what I had to do." A small giggle escaped him. "But now… Now this is no longer necessary! An entirely new chance at conquering Hyrule! Taking control of an entirely new world, without reducing it into a husk of my old home… It is a truly unprecedented concept. Aren't you looking forward to it?"

He stood a bit perplexed as Zant spoke. Until then, it hadn’t occurred to him that Zant had ambitions of his own. He was a fine strategist, a less fine warrior, but had thusfar appeared to be perfectly content doing what he is told. Ghirahim knew that he himself had few plans other than to see the manifestation of his King rise to victory. Was he the odd one out, without his own visions?

His eyebrow twitched behind his bangs. Was he going to let naive aspirations like that get him in a tizzy? There wasn’t a way in Hell. “To think that a man like you had such simple desires. Are you truly content with something like this?” he asked, gesturing below them.

For the first time in a while, Zant turned to face him, eyes narrowed and lips stretched to a narrow line. “Do not think me naive, Sword. Our forces will not lose my loyalty to mere scenery. I simply long to see a different world than the one I know, even if for a short while. You must feel much the same, with the lengths you go to.”

Ghirahim looked at him a moment, suddenly trapped in an oppressive eye contact the Twili normally was eager to avoid. “… My,” he sighed, turning back to the view in front of them. Zant’s stare did not cease. “This got awfully personal.”

“Only because you made it so.” Finally, his cold gaze released him, as Zant turned away to head to the river beside them, crouching over to look into the stream. Ghirahim shook his head, pondering the bizarre turn his evening had taken.

“You know, Zant, you never would have struck me as the sentimental type.” he had to poke at him, a hand rested on his hip. When he turned to look at him, he found Zant on the edge of the river, stood with one foot on a protruding rock, the other swaying in the air before him to balance himself.

“And you,” he started, grunting squeakily as he hopped over to the next stone in the river trail, “never struck me as the type to enjoy talking about anything but himself, yet here we are.” With a few wobbly jumps, he had stopped to a halt in the middle of the crashing river, and looked back to him with a smug little grin. Ghirahim scoffed, eyes widening in mild chagrin, before his expression softened. What a nerve! Not even that green-clad menace dared to speak to him in such a way before. It was so thoroughly unexpected, he couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him. Zant joined him soon enough with that ear-piercing chortle of his, the slits in the corner of his lips splitting open as he did. Suddenly, the man disappeared with the sound of a rustle. It appeared he had reached the end of his stone trail, and he promptly reappeared on the other side of the river.

“Tell me of Faron in your own time, Ghirahim.” he shouted over the thundering of the water between them.

Ghirahim smiled incredulously. “It would be easier to tell you, if you hadn’t run to the other side of the river!”

Though he couldn’t see his expression from such a distance, he could still sense the mischief in his gaze as Zant tipped his head to the side, staring at him expectantly. “Then follow me!”

And so, Ghirahim found himself a little surprised. Was he, the Demon Lord, going to be capering around in the woods with his co-lieutenant? Well, it wasn’t like he had anything better to do. Other than his Master, he had found he was completely starved of a conversational partner. If Zant was inviting him to ramble, he found himself hesitant to deny the opportunity. He took one step forward, before disappearing into shards again, and reappeared at the edge of the river, craning his head to look up at the towering man before him. Zant stood unmoving, but his eyes met his, unblinkingly as he waited for him to speak. This was when the nature of their dynamic became abundantly clear to Ghirahim. All had fallen into place; Ghirahim adored an audience, and Zant was fascinated to hear him speak. At least, unless the right bump or prod coaxed him into a strange monologue of his own… Well, by all accounts, it could have been worse. Ghirahim hummed and tipped his chin with a barely contained swagger as he strutted past him and toward the edge of the cliff. “Right, then. Let me take a look around and jog my memory…”

They spent roughly an hour wading through the shrubbery, each vaguely noting the ruins of landmarks long past. An abandoned clearing, lost sanctuaries, and decayed strongholds peppered the landscape, their traces clearly present though thousands of years apart. Both had been ripped to this Hyrule rather abruptly, and neither had yet considered the actual nature of this world. Where had they been brought, and how long had it been since they left their own legacies? Though they exchanged stories, neither disclosed the ponderings that haunted their minds. Such thoughts were no longer of any importance — they had each been given their second chance at their original goal, and faced their most favorable positions yet. Complaining would be an insult to their Master, which they were both reluctant to do.

Still, time crawled on, even as the two found surprisingly more fond company in one another than they each had expected. Sunlight hardly crept between the leaves above anymore. Twilight had finally fallen, casting the forest floor in a violet hue. They arrived at a clearing, and the man came to a halt. His shoulders rose and dropped again with a deep sigh. Ghirahim assumed he must feel in his element as the Twilight King, standing under the night sky at the crown of dusk. When Zant looked back to him, the complex markings on his face glowed far brighter than ever before. A smile crept onto the strange man’s face, and he turned to him with his hand extended.

"... I thank you for escorting me. Night is falling. I do believe I am capable of taking us back now, before they suspect us."

Ghirahim stepped back, away from the hand that was about to lay on his shoulder. "I say, Zant, I don't think there'd be any harm in strolling around a little longer… How about we drop by elsewhere before heading back to the keep?"

Ghirahim hardly believed his own words, but against all odds, he found he was enjoying Zant’s company. He was annoying, impulsive, and perhaps a touch immature, certainly, but he appeared to be a good listener. And, well, if he could admit, the man’s antics were just the slightest bit interesting to watch. If they were to return now, he would only spend the rest of the night bored out of his mind, waiting sleeplessly until the first light of morning. He was going to stretch this out as long as he could.

An uncharacteristic glimmer appeared in Zant's eyes. The slits on the corners of his mouth made it nearly impossible to tell whether he was truly smiling, though the squinting of his eyes gave him away. "Ah, well… If you have anything in mind?"

"We could go see Lake Hylia. I reckon it looks stunning in the moonlight."

"That would be intriguing, indeed! I have only ever seen it frozen."

Ghirahim raised the ridge of his brow. "Frozen?"

"Yes! I froze the entire lake during my attempt to conquer. It nearly wiped out half of the Zora's forces,” Zant gleefully proclaimed, spoken with the same cadence one would when describing a pleasant outing.

Ghirahim stared at him. After spending a shred of an evening in relatively lighthearted conversation with him, he had almost forgotten Zant’s cruelty quite matched his own. Perhaps he was worse. "... Now there's an idea. You ought to bring that one to the plotting table next time we plan our next assault." Conveniently for both of them, he didn’t mind in the slightest.

Zant simply giggled in return, and held out his hand. A request and invitation, all at once, as though asking him for a dance.

Well, perhaps he could hold off on trying to drown him in the lake until some other day…

#madman's rambling #beararts #ghirahim #tp zant #zant #ghirazant #bearwrites #NEW TAG!? maybe i'll write more...#hyrule warriors #tftk

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acertainmoshke · 4 months ago

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Snippet (Part 1): Reputation

Ok so it didn't end up really gory in any sense of the word. But I like it anyway. And there will be a little blood in the next part, at least. No real content warnings except mildly ableist language and nongraphic mentions of injuries.

Fuck. Fuck it all. None of my usual ways of subtly getting out of this were about to work. I’d knelt to check on Lynn’s arm—definitely broken, and she was shaking, her crossbow forgotten on the floor—and so the wildlings hadn’t seen me. If they did, at first glance I would pass for a young human of uncertain gender (that had taken a lot of practice). But they were still busy looking at the children. Why was it always children?

Well. I say children. None of them were young like Cassie. Some of them might have even been 20, which for some of them meant they were 40. When I was their age, I was braving beyond the veil and adopting a kid.

But I hadn’t been ready for any of that. And they looked so young. Most of them had lost their weapons and had mild cuts and bruises. They stared at our captors. Our captors stared back, everyone floating in the momentarily calm eye of the storm.

One of the children nearest me—a changeling with tentacles circling her waist like a skirt—sniffed, a tear sliding down her cheek.

Lynn stopped shaking, took a breath, and tried to reach for her crossbow. She barely got halfway there before falling back with a half-stifled groan. She was trembling again, and when I reached out an arm to steady her, her skin felt hot.

The children weren’t up to fighting five grown wildlings. I needed to get Lynn back, now.

Oh, damn it all.

I tried to remember how it had felt, back then. The power rushing just under my skin. The confidence in knowing I was the scariest thing here. The looks on their faces when they realized I wasn’t going to let them run away.

I stood up, flipped my hair back and let it fall messily around my ears. Let my glamour slide away. I felt naked now without it, just as if I had torn off my skirt and sweater, but it had the desired effect. Their eyes flicked to me. I had to step around the children, shorter than almost everyone there, but the swagger it was much too easy to fall back into made me feel taller.

Even when I walked right up to the nearest wildling, who was tall like a tall human with floppy ears and mean-looking claws. Even when I looked straight up, right into his eyes, letting the pain of our gazes fuel the scorn in my voice.

“So you all are still picking on kids, then?”

More than one child bristled behind me, but none of them said anything.

“You have a problem with that, changeling?”

If I miscalculated, if none of them knew who I was, we were in trouble. I didn’t have an ice explosion in me tonight, after everything else I’d done. But surely, surely someone remembered. I couldn’t look that different, only with a few more wrinkles and somewhat fatter. The teeth and eyes were the important parts, and those remained the same.

“I do, yeah,” I hadn’t even planned to change my voice, which was already hard enough, but the old roughness slipped back into it, a hint of an accent I’d long since lost.

I grabbed his faded sweatshirt for good measure and pushed him, letting go and stepping back too fast for him to retaliate. His eyes widened for a split second, then narrowed and he started for me. Fine, then. Not ideal, but I could fight.

“Wait!” It was one of the other wildlings. He was thinner, with half-wing arms and a beak. “Just leave it. Let’s go, this isn’t worth it.”

The first wildling snorted in disbelief. “As if we don’t take on changelings all the time—”

“No. Not that one.” I chanced a glance and was relieved to see his eyes wide with real fear. “That one’s crazy.”

I let myself revel in the memories for a moment, the strength in pouncing off a roof and feeling the crack of ribs under my knees, of getting close enough for them to smell me and realize what I would do to win. My smile was slow and sharp.

“I don’t feel like fighting. You get one chance to leave.”

And they did. Even the skeptical one. Without so much as drawing the switchblade in my back pocket.

Lynn didn’t seem to fully understand what was going on, hunched over her injured arm, but the children backed away as I passed. Yeah, I remembered that feeling, too. But I ignored them; I had gotten them out of a much worse fate, what they thought of me didn’t really matter. So I picked up Lynn’s crossbow with one hand and convinced her to lean on my good shoulder and we headed back down the tunnel towards camp.

Tag list: @stesierra @amielbjacobs @ettawritesnstudies

#moshke writes #writeblr #cold iron #snippet

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five-thousand-loaves-of-bread · 4 months ago

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uh hi. got some few followers because that LSN post. some points of housekeeping:

this blog rare contained little space where actually safe when wider autism & disability community very hostile to people like me. n whenever people follow me because of posts not about severe disability / level 2&3 HrSN nonverbal autism, some new people don’t know what going on & sometimes do stuff that make this space feel unsafe. you’re more than welcome to stay as long as you follow housekeeping & have general respect

1. not written by me but read this

& do search in blog for intellectual disability too

2. use stuff like autism levels & nonverbal & impairment & deficit language & severe autism & severe disability & visible autism here to describe self & have friends who also use them. while not use for self, also have friend who been called low functioning & also call themself that. you not have to like all that for yourself but don’t police what we call self don’t tell me “um actually this is ableist… but of course you call yourself whatever!” uh. we know. basically if you uncomfortable to even see these language my blog not for you.

eventually will have actual post about this instead of respond to someone rude who blocked me after this n so blocked back… but for now this will do (probably used to have one but too tired find right now)

3. 99% time post about above topic. n blog center people with those experiences & decenter LSN level 1 mild whatever language use. reflect on your experience n who you are n your privileges n your advantages bc we all have some yea even me

4. because do experience stuff post about they not just words… no empathy, can’t mask, have very bad theory of mind, often don’t understand other people exist not to mention have different thoughts feelings knowledge experience than me. am bitter a lot, mad a lot, angry a lot. think in extremes, n immediate write what think, immediate post what write. can be angry aggressive without realize n even if do realize, can’t really do anything about it. basically have level 2/3 autism have big communication struggle have big cognitive struggle & act like it

5. don’t tell me you relate to what am saying unless am know you. keep have problem of people think they experience same thing am talking about but actually turn out very different whole other world n am wish can be like them. sorry to people am not familiar with who genuinely understand n relate but please understand need this

6. am just one random nonverbal person with level 2/3 autism & higher support needs & severe disability online. human. so make mistakes. n have bad takes like anyone. don’t treat me as write universal truth never wrong

7. oh something important. no “going nonverbal” “nonverbal episode” “sometimes nonverbal” etc

should update all this on pinned

tone sound annoyed pissed off because kind of am… but not because of this so not at any of you all not personal

#🍞.txt #long post

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dangans-ur-ronpas · 11 months ago

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Chapter 2

Give it up for part twoooo

SEE HERE FOR GENERAL WARNINGS AND FIC SUMMARY

Some pre-chapter notes:

From what I know, very few blind people actually perceive their surroundings as complete darkness, and it's more common for people to still perceive changes in light.

For Byakuya, he has low vision, so he can see color and vague outlines, but finer details are more or less impossible. Get Gaussian blurred, idiot.

I'll include content warning tags before each chapter but if I miss anything please let me know.

Content warning tags: mild ableist language (from Byakuya towards himself). Let me know if I need more

< previous - from start - next >

'A killing game!'

The irritating voice of that teddy bear principal is still ringing in Byakuya's head, in time to a sickening, dizzying migraine as he navigates the hall, looking for his room. He grits his teeth with it, feeling fury, disgust, and unease prickling along his skin.

It hadn't even been that long since he was subjected to his family's own inheritance battle, and here he was again in another high-stakes game. With a disability, no less, though Monokuma hadn't mentioned anything about it during his whole spiel about 'graduating' and such. It was entirely possible that Monokuma hadn't planned for it, or else, wasn't responsible for it happening - the bear's personality didn't strike him as someone to be polite enough about someone else's misfortune to not make a show out of it, and Byakuya was sure that if this was part of the game, than everyone else would have some kind of impairment as well, though no one had mentioned such a thing at all.

It was fine. Or, it should be fine; after all, he was Byakuya Togami, the sole heir and savior of the Togami name. He’s survived worse situations. He was the only one out of his father's 16 children to prove themselves worthy, and it was by virtue of his own superior blood and talent, and there was a time where there was nothing in this world that he couldn't conquer.

But now...

He makes it to the end of the hallway and stops, exhaling slowly to calm himself. It was no good. Walking at a normal distance away from the signs made it hard for him to make out who the little pixel icons were supposed to be, much less read the names written on each of the plaques, and the fuzz of pain in his head was blurring his vision even more. He bites his tongue and turns around again. At this point, it was supposed to be nearing the ten PM mandate, so hopefully everyone should be in their rooms, and wouldn't bear witness to his pathetic wandering.

As he turns the corner, he nearly collides with a small shape. As it is, his clumsy attempt to sidestep the incoming figure leads to him stumbling slightly against the wall, and a hand reaches out to catch him by the elbow.

"Hey, are you okay?!" Makoto Naegi. Byakuya bites his tongue on a curse; this was the last person he wanted to run into. "I'm sorry, I was just trying to figure out where everything was, I didn't get a chance to earlier, because, of, you know..."

Byakuya did know, in fact. Earlier, when tensions had been at their peak in the gymnasium, it would have been wiser to stand back and listen as they tried to decide what to do next, but he had been uneasy. He tried to rationalize with himself that the snide comments and casual insults he threw were simply a means to establish himself as what he was in the eyes of others; capable and above all their concerns, and certainly not worried in any way himself.

As a result, he'd provoked Owada, with some snub that he didn’t even remember - something about plankton? Arguably not the best he could have come up with in the heat of the moment. - and Naegi, trying to diffuse the situation, had gotten smacked, and knocked out cold. As Owada took responsibility for his mindless violence and took Naegi to his room, it was decided that everyone should be accompanied by at least one person, at least, with the reasoning that no one would be stupid enough to try and go killing at this point anyways. Byakuya reluctantly agreed, and followed Asahina and Ogami.

Ordinarily, he might have insisted on moving alone, to try and discover anything regarding the mastermind responsible for their situation. But he felt too vulnerable as it was, and paranoid about what might happen if he was on his own again. It made most sense to try and stay by the side of the strongest person here, after all, and Ogami seemed too honor-bound to be intent on killing anyone and Asahina seemed too kind-hearted to begin with. Owada joined their group shortly after, though he had calmed down at this point, and both he and Byakuya pointedly ignored each other throughout the exploration.

Their search was rather fruitless, however. There was no way out, and no way in; windows were sealed by metal plates, doors and exits sealed by steel, and Byakuya suspected that even punching through a wall would be a pointless endeavor, given how the Academy was built to withstand even a bomb.

And this place was Hope's Peak Academy, or at least, a very faithful rendition of it. Kirigiri had gone off on her own and returned with a map, somehow, of the first floor, and it supposedly matched the layout of the original Hope's Peak Academy to a T, aside from the metal barriers. In any case, that meant that the mastermind had the wealth and resources to imprison them in a very secure place, with no hope of escape.

It was another bombshell on top of all the shocking news they had already received, but Byakuya found he could hardly be surprised about it. At this point, he was tired, and more frazzled than he ever had been in recent memory, and wanted nothing more to sleep. He glares at Naegi. "Let go of me."

Naegi does, dropping his arm like a hot pan and stepping backwards. "Um...what are you doing here?"

"None of your business." He snaps. He needed to avoid observant types, like Celeste and Kirigiri, and most importantly, like Naegi. The two girls seemed too smart and calculating, but that meant they weren't likely to reveal his secret yet if they already knew, not unless they had something to gain from him; he had no doubt that the Ultimate Gambler, at the very least, would try and blackmail him somehow before blabbing. Naegi, on the other hand, was also observant, but also stupid and hopelessly honest, and if Byakuya wasn't careful, the idiotic Ultimate Luckster would tell everyone about his affliction before he could do anything about it.

He straightens up, and starts walking again, trying to ignore the sound of Naegi's footsteps pattering after him. He needs to find his room, and quickly, and preferably without drawing the other boy's suspicion - but it was no good. The nameplates were still little more than black-and-white blurs, and he wasn't about to do something as demeaning as reaching out to feel the letters...

"Oh, hey! Your room is next to Mondo's!" Naegi chirps up, and Byakuya freezes. "You're the third door on this side. I'm diagonal from yours, but I'm only second from the hall entrance, so that's not as good..."

"What are you talking about?" In any other circumstance, it might have just been a meaningless comment from a meaningless person. But because it came from Naegi, it only served to set him further on edge. "And why are you following me?"

"I'm just...trying to get back to my room?" Naegi hurriedly explains. "I...my mom always said three was a lucky number, and your room is third from the entrance, so..."

But Byakuya doesn't relax. He thought Naegi stupid earlier, and he still clearly was, but apparently he was slyer than originally thought. This blunt and clumsy kindness was either a ploy to get his guard down, or else, a poorly-concealed attempt at misplaced pity. Either way was repulsive to him, and he cringed at the thought of needing to take handouts from a commoner brat.

"Go away. I'm sick of looking at you." He snarls, and in better circumstances, he would have a better comeback. But Naegi takes the hint and scurries off, bee-lining for his door; which, sure enough, was second from the hallway's entrance on the opposite side. Byakuya waits until his door is entirely closed, before turning to the room that the other boy had pointed out, tracing fingers over the nameplate.

Sure enough, there were the characters of his name, stamped neatly in the wood. He tries the handle and finds it unlocked, and as he enters, he sees the layout of a room - nothing extravagant, but everything seems clean and orderly. He runs his hands over the white sheets of the bed, and finds them soft and of decent quality.

His key is located on the small table in his room with his name engraved on the keychain. His bathroom door doesn't lock, but the amenities are all there. There's an unopened toolkit in the nightstand. His clothes were clean and folded away neatly in the drawers. Everything was as the others had said.

He settles onto the bed with a sigh, falling backwards. It'd been a long time since he felt so exhausted. That throbbing pain was still pounding at his temples, and he wonders if there were painkillers in the school somewhere. He'd have to go looking for them later, somehow...

But he doesn't spend long pondering that, before the room flickers to darkness, and he falls asleep.

Once he managed to get a sense of where everything was, it became much easier to conceal his impairment from the others.

It all came down to a matter of confidence, purposeful movements and good timing, things that already came naturally to him. The good etiquette practices of his upbringing helped too, as during the mealtimes he was always careful where he set down his utensils or his cup, so he was never fumbling around for them. After a few laps around the school in the solitude of the early morning, he became familiar with the locations of the first floor facilities and could locate them by memory. When it came to finer details, like laundry, he carefully made sure so as to be in the room at the same time as Ishimaru, whose moral code would keep him from being a real danger, and whose habit of moving like a exaggerated robot made it easy for Byakuya to figure out how to do the laundry himself, though he ended up ruining a few of his shirts until he got it right. Even Monokuma proved to be a help, making timely announcements in the morning and the evening, which saved Byakuya from needing to rely on reading a clock.

There were some things he couldn't overcome, however. For one, pretending to be normal was exhausting, and keeping his eyes open for long periods of time, trying to focus on all these vague, wiggly outlines without obviously squinting often led to pulsing, insistent headaches that made him feel lightheaded and ill, and he would often collapse into bed as soon as he reached his room, exhausted. Furthermore, his E-handbook proved to be a nightmare to try and navigate. The words and icons were indiscernible to him, and he couldn't even begin to try and find the settings to increase the display size. If he held it close to his face and squinted, he might make out some vague shapes that could be puzzled into the letters of his name, but all-in-all it was impossible. He spent a good portion of his second night struggling over it before he finally gave up and tossed the thing onto his nightstand, frustrated with it and himself.

But it was fine even with these hindrances. Ishimaru's insistence on morning meetings included a thorough read-through of any new changes made through the handbook, which saved Byakuya from having to puzzle over it himself, and most new events were also announced by Monokuma, who was quite thorough in ensuring that no one could make a claim to ignorance when it came to new developments.

It was through one of these announcements, that they learned of the first motive.

Byakuya does not approach the box of discs in the A/V room.

Everyone else had already grabbed theirs and was watching their assigned videos. And already, their previous optimism was falling apart, and giving away to despair. He could hear cries of disbelief and outrage, amidst the quiet murmur of the videos' narration, and could make out the way their forms hunched over in grief, or jerked stiff in shock. At this point, his would be the last one in the box, so he wouldn't need to sort through it - but he had a feeling he knew what he might see.

He couldn't imagine it'd be anyone in his family. His mother was long gone, and his father was as distant to him as a statue; something to be respected, certainly, but not to be loved. That had always been their relationship, and even if he saw that man dead, he doubted he'd feel much more than a brief blip of surprise, and a passing acknowledgement of the transference of his titles.

But he doubted Monokuma didn't know that, and probably chose video subjects with the intention to shock and dismay. If Byakuya had to guess, the subject of his video would be his butler, Pennyworth, and probably the only person he had ever really cared about for a long time; but even if he watched the video, it wouldn't do much for him. Togami servants were expendable, and no matter how much affection he had for the old man, he knew that Pennyworth could never be an exception to the rule.

He only half-listens to Enoshima's attempts at getting everyone to calm down and talk, before a blur of dark blue and white clips him on the shoulder, speeding past him for the door. Sayaka Maizono, the pop star, had just about bowled him over in an attempt to escape the room, and he catches himself with a grunt, bracing an arm against the wall.

"Whoa, are you okay?" Asks someone, Hagakure, and Byakuya scowls and smacks away the hand that goes to help him up.

“I’m fine.” He spits. Of course, lesser people would be affected by such pathetic attempts at riling them up, and it wasn't surprising that Maizono was one of them, considering her position. People that deep in the entertainment industry always had something big to lose.

"Byakuya, what was your video about?" Asks someone else, and he clenches his teeth. He wants to get out of here, and from what he could tell, a good few others have already left. But he needs to get rid of his own DVD first - even if he had no plans on watching the thing, he had no intentions of letting anyone else do so, and possibly gaining any kind of leverage over him, no matter how small.

"Who knows." He replies curtly. He heads for the box, and sure enough, there's only one video remaining. He picks it up and turns on his heel.

"Where are you going?"

"Where else?" He pauses at the door, one hand on the handle as he glances over his shoulder. "To burn it."

He doesn't burn it, in the end. He considers it, but then realizes he actually wasn't sure how to work the incinerator, and wouldn't be able to read the instructions anyways. Instead, he tosses it at the trash can in his room, and he sits down heavily on his bed, fatigue lapping at his limbs.

It was too good to hope that everyone would be able to keep it together after this. Despite the optimism, tensions had been running high, and now there was no way someone wasn't going to snap. Byakuya could only hope he wouldn't be in the vicinity when it happened.

Who could he stick next to now? Previously, he had opted to spend his time either in his room, or when the boredom had become too overwhelming, in the company of at least one of the others. His list of 'safe' individuals included Asahina, Ogami, Fujisaki, Ishimaru, Hakagure, and Yamada, and as annoying and frivolous as they were, they were at least either too principled or too stupid to be threatening, and could make for some decently amusing entertainment. He usually spent his time sitting silently in the same room as them, with a book or a magazine open in his hands as they talked and blathered on about whatever concerned them.

Now, however, his safety with them was compromised. As usual, the only one he could rely on was himself.

Except he wasn't reliable anymore either. Without his eyes, he could no longer be certain of anything. He couldn't even read, and that fact frustrated him to no end. He presses the balls of his palms to his closed eyelids, feeling the warmth of the pressure bloom in his skull.

What am I going to do?

He couldn't remember the last time he felt so unsure about anything.

These thoughts turn over and over in his head, as he considers every possible course of action, mostly finding only dead-ends. If only he could lock himself in his room forever - but that was a coward’s choice, and a shameful one to take. If only he could know what everyone else's motive was, it would help him gauge their threat level - but no, that would mean having to get close enough to them in the first place to get an honest answer, and that might end up revealing his sorry state. If only he could see - but of course, that was impossible, and just wishful thinking rather than anything helpful.

It was circles within circles, and his head was beginning to throb again…

He must have fallen asleep, because when he wakes up, it's to a tinny ding-dong ringing from the speakers in his room.

Disoriented, he half-thinks it's Monokuma's nighttime announcement. But no, it didn't sound quite right, surely he hadn't been asleep for that long? And then it happens again, and it finally clicks together. The doorbell.

He's on his feet in an instant, pulse rocketing. Has it already started? Was someone here for his life?

No...it's too soon, he reasons with himself. No matter how desperate someone might be, it had been clearly stated that the killing needed to happen discreetly, so that a class trial could occur. To try and attempt a murder so soon after the revealing of the motive was too careless, too obvious; and there was no way he could have been targeted as that easy a victim already. Not when he'd been so careful.

But even so...

He opens his nightstand drawer and fumbles for the toolkit, ripping it open with clumsy fingers and retrieving a thin screwdriver that he grips tightly in his right hand. It probably wouldn't do much good against an athletic person like Ogami or Owada, but it was a reassuring thing to have, and he feels the ridges of the handle digging into his palm as he reaches for the doorknob.

The doorbell is chiming again just as he rips the door open, screwdriver half-raised in warning, and the figure who had been standing there yelps and falls backwards. It doesn't take long for Byakuya to recognize that annoying voice, or the ugly green-brown mush of his clothing.

"You." He says stiffly, and the cowering shape of Makoto Naegi flinches on the floor in front of him. He lets the hand holding the screwdriver drop to his side, though his grip remains firm. "What do you want?"

It's a redundant question. He suspects that he knows what Naegi plans to ask, being the nosy, deceitful peasant that he was. Naegi was the type to go around, check on how everyone was doing, ask politely what their videos were about, with seemingly nothing but good intentions and complete honesty. He would try to offer support and encouragement, all while trying to know more, weaseling them for information for the sake of his own curiosity and use; Byakuya hated people like him the most.

"I...I just wanted to check in on you?" His voice is nervous, a little squeaky, and he clears his throat. "You didn't come for dinner."

Was that right? He lifts his wrist on habit, about to check his watch, before remembering he wasn't even wearing it. There wasn't any point when he couldn't even use it anymore. "Don't tell me you're all still having dinner together after all that," He laughs back, voice cold and unamused. "Are you really that stupid?"

There's no response for a moment. "N-no, we didn't. Just about everyone ate back in their own rooms. But I didn't see you go to get food, and neither did anyone else."

"So? What does that matter to you?"

"I'm just worried," There's a stern sort of gentleness in his voice now, and one that throws Byakuya off much more than it should. "Ishimaru said that even if we were shaken up now, we should eat something tonight so we can be strong for tomorrow morning...and, um, we should do our best to get through this together."

"'Together?'" Byakuya repeats, disbelievingly. "Are you even hearing yourself? We're supposed to kill each other." He huffs another mirthless laugh. "I can't tell if you're actually that stupid or just insane."

"I know, I know, but still. That's no excuse to not eat." Naegi shuffles to his feet. He stands nearly half-a-head below Byakuya's eye level, but his back is straight and resolute. It strikes Byakuya then, that he must be determined, because there was no way he missed the screwdriver in Byakuya's hand, or the threatening undertone of his voice, and yet. Here he was, still with the gall to stand in front of him. "Hifumi and Enoshima made ramen soup, but if you don't want it, there's also a lot of packaged foods if you want to prepare something yourself. At the very least, you should get something and bring it back to your room."

"I don't need-" He starts to say, but at that moment his stomach takes the opportunity to gurgle audibly. He feels his face heating, and he scowls. He hadn't eaten since breakfast, given Monokuma’s decision to reveal the motives just before lunch. "Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?" Naegi's face might just be a hazy blot hovering in front of him, but he catches on the slight tinge of amusement in his voice. "Come on. I'll walk with you to the cafeteria."

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