#stp stares back

[dangthatscrayz]

You have no idea how close I am to start writing cringey slay the princess x reader fanfiction and headcannons, autism is winning yall.

This how I feel rn:

That was a joke for obvious reasons

But this fandom needs the 2016 fandom treatment I want to see a ungodly amount of fan au’s and crappy fanfiction everyone reads anyways

(Thank you for coming to me TEDtalk)

(If anyone causally slips stuff into my inbox i might have to do it, I’m sorry but the amount of fanfiction on this app is so criminally low I feel like by law I have to do it)((don’t ask how I am doing rn I swear I’m very normal abt slay the princess)

[justsalpals]

Time Travel Fix-it Fics: the past archive crew is shocked and pleased by how much nicer future!Jon is to them than their current Jon

My belief: the archive crew doesn't notice future!Jon is nicer to them, because they're too busy being disconcerted by how he skitters around corners and stares with a million eyes and keeps hissing and muttering about how they need to murder past!Jon before it's too late. or at least cut out his eyes, come on everyone be reasonable.

[sassenach77yle]

||COUNTDOWN || SEASON 4 EPISODE 10 || THE DEEP HEART'S CORE ||

#83daysofoutlander☆

With each repetition, he dug a thumb hard between her ribs. “You fuc#ing bastard!” she screamed. She braced her feet and yanked down on his arm as hard as she could, bringing it into biting range. She lunged at his wrist, but before she could sink her teeth in his flesh, she found herself jerked off her feet and whirled through the air. She ended hard on her knees, one arm twisted up behind her back so tightly that her shoulder joint cracked. The strain on her elbow hurt; she writhed, trying to turn into the hold, but couldn’t budge. An arm like an iron bar clamped across her shoulders, forcing her head down. And farther down. Her chin drove into her chest; she couldn’t breathe. And still he forced her head down. Her knees slid apart, her thighs forced wide by the downward pressure. “Stop!” she grunted. It hurt to force sound through her constricted windpipe. “Gd’s sk, stp!” The relentless pressure paused, but did not ease. She could feel him there behind her, an inexorable, inexplicable force. She reached back with her free hand, groping for something to claw, something to hit or bend, but there was nothing. “I could break your neck,” he said, very quietly. The weight of his arm left her shoulders, though the twisted arm still held her bent forward, hair loose and tumbled, nearly touching the floor. A hand settled on her neck. She could feel thumb and index fingers on either side, pressing lightly on her arteries. He squeezed, and black spots danced before her eyes. “I could ki ll you, so.” The hand left her neck, and touched her, deliberately, knee and shoulder, cheek and chin, emphasizing her helplessness. She jerked her head away, not letting him touch the wetness, not wanting him to feel her tears of rage. Then the hand pressed sudden and brutal on the small of her back. She made a small, choked sound and arched her back to keep her arm from breaking, thrusting out her hips backward, legs spread to keep her balance. “I could use ye as I would,” he said, and there was a coldness in his voice.

“Could you stop me, Brianna?” She felt as though she would suffocate with rage and shame. “Answer me.” The hand took her by the neck again, and squeezed.

“No!” She was free. So suddenly released, she pitched forward onto her face, barely getting one hand down in time to save herself.

She lay on the straw, panting and sobbing. There was a loud whuffle near her head—Magdalen, roused by the noise, leaning out of her stall to investigate. Slowly, painfully, she raised herself to a sitting position. He was standing over her, arms folded. “Damn you!” she gasped. She slammed a hand down in the hay. “God, I want to kill you!” He stood quite still, looking down at her. “Aye,” he said quietly. “But ye can’t, can you?” She stared up at him, not understanding. His eyes were intent on hers, not angry, not mocking. Waiting. “You can’t,” he repeated, with emphasis. And then realization came, flooding down her aching arms to her bruised fists. “Oh, God,” she said. “No. I can’t. I couldn’t. Even if I’d fought him … I couldn’t.” Quite suddenly she began to cry, the knots inside her slipping loose, the weights shifting, lifting, as a blessed relief spread through her body. It hadn’t been her fault. If she had fought with all her strength—as she had fought just now— “Couldn’t,” she said, and swallowed hard, gasping for air. “I couldn’t have stopped him. I kept thinking, if only I’d fought harder … but it wouldn’t have mattered. I couldn’t have stopped him.” A hand touched her face, big and very gentle. “You’re a fine, braw lassie,” he whispered. “But a lassie, nonetheless. Would ye fret your heart out and think yourself a coward because ye couldna fight off a lion wi’ your bare hands? It’s the same. Dinna be daft, now.” She wiped the back of her hand under her nose, and sniffed deeply. He put a hand under her elbow and helped her up, his strength no longer either threat or mockery, but unutterable comfort. Her knees stung, where she had scraped them on the ground. Her legs wobbled, but she made it to the haypile, where he let her sit down.

“You could just have told me, you know,” she said. “That it wasn’t my fault.” He smiled faintly. “I did. Ye couldna believe me, though, unless ye knew for yourself.” “No. I guess not.”

A profound but peaceful weariness had settled on her like a blanket. This time she had no urge to tear it off. She watched, feeling too limp to move, as he wetted a cloth from the trough and wiped her face, straightened her twisted skirts, and poured out a drink for her. When he handed her the freshly filled cup of cider, though, she laid a hand on his arm. Bone and muscle were solid, warm under her hand. “You could have fought back. But you didn’t.” He laid a big hand over hers, squeezed and let it go.

“No, I didna fight,” he said quietly. “I gave my word—for your mother’s life.” His eyes met hers squarely, neither ice nor sapphire now, but clear as water. “I dinna regret it.” He took her by the shoulders, and eased her down onto the piled hay. “Do ye rest a bit, a leannan.” She lay down, but reached up to touch him as he knelt by her.

“Is it true—that I won’t forget?” He paused for a moment, hand on her hair. “Aye, that’s true,” he said softly. “But it’s true, too, that it willna matter after a time.” “Won’t it?” She was too tired even to wonder what he might mean by this. She felt almost weightless; strangely remote, as though she no longer inhabited her troublesome body. “Even if I’m not strong enough to ki. ll him?” A clear cold draft from the open door cut through the warm fog of smoke, making all the animals stir. The brindled cow shifted her weight in sudden irritation and let out a low-throated mwaaah, not of distress so much as of querulous complaint. She felt her father glance at the cow before turning back to her.

“You’re a verra strong woman, a bheanachá,” he said at last, very softly. “I’m not strong. You just proved I’m not—” His hand on her shoulder stopped her. “That’s not what I mean.” He stopped, thinking, his hand smoothing her hair, over and over. “She was ten when our mother died, Jenny was,” he said at last. “It was the day after the funeral when I came into the kitchen and found her kneeling on a stool, to be tall enough to stir the bowl on the table. “She was wearing my mother’s apron,” he said softly, “folded up under the arms, and the strings wrapped twice about her waist. I could see she’d been weepin’, like I had, for her face was all stained and her eyes red. But she just went on stirring, staring down into the bowl, and she said to me, ‘Go and wash, Jamie; I’ll have supper for you and Da directly.’ ” His eyes closed altogether, and he swallowed once. Then he opened them, and looked down at her again. “Aye, I ken fine how strong women are,” he said quietly. “And you’re strong enough for what must be done, m’ annsachd—believe me.”

He stood up then, and went to the cow. It had risen to its feet and was moving restlessly in a small circle, swaying and shuffling on its tether. He caught it by the tether rope, gentled it with hands and words, made his way behind the heifer, frowning in concentration. She saw him turn his head and look, to check his dirk, then turn back, murmuring.

Not a loving butcher, no. A surgeon in his way, like her mother. From this odd plateau of remoteness, she could see how much her parents—so wildly different in temperament and manner—were alike in this one respect; that odd ability to mingle compassion with sheer ruthlessness. But they were different even in that, she thought; Claire could hold life and death together in her hands, and yet preserve herself, hold aloof; a doctor must go on living, for the sake of her patients, if not for her own sake. Jamie would be ruthless toward himself, as much as—or more than—he would be to anyone else. He had thrown off his plaid; now he unfastened his shirt, with no haste but neither with any wasted motion. He pulled the pale linen over his head and laid it neatly aside, returning to his watching post at the heifer’s tail, ready to assist. A long ripple ran down the cow’s rounded side, and the torchlight glimmered white on the tiny knot of a scar over his heart. Uncover his nakedness? He would strip himself to the bone, if he thought it necessary. And—a much less comforting thought—if he thought it necessary, he would do the same to her, without a moment’s hesitation. He had a hand at the base of the cow’s tail, speaking to it in Gaelic, soothing, encouraging. She felt as though she could almost grasp the sense of his words—but not quite. All might be well, or it might not. But whatever happened, Jamie Fraser would be there, fighting. It was a comfort.

48 AWAY IN A MANGER

[sincerely-sofie]

The horrors of Slay the Princess have seeped so deeply into our bone marrow that we no longer register the terrifying things we say as terrifying, we all have a few screws loose here.

Going through old asks and forgot about this omen of a submission. Those of you who stare long into the StP fandom, beware, for it also stares back into you.

[mecchantheotaku]

Ooh, can you do that sickfic where Skeptic gets a coughing fit and Hunted helps him

Sorry for taking so long to get to this! Anyway, time for some more STP Voices Sickfics!

Note, this is non canon to my AU due to Drowned Grey being mentioned and that path not being part of my AU.

---

"Thanks for bringing me back here..."

As soon as he finished that, Skeptic burst into another coughing fit.

He'd been waiting outside for Quiet to return, but it started raining. Next thing he knew, hours had passed and he'd suffered from too much cold water hitting his body.

Luckily, Hunted was there and brought him back inside.

"That light coat of yours can protect you from mild cold, but it's useless against the rain. And the rain was far more than just mildly cold. You need shelter."

Hunted wrapped Skeptic up in a blanket after removing his coat and cardigan.

Skeptic took off his glasses. They were all smudged from the rain. He'd have to clean them later.

"It's okay. I learn from mistakes." Skeptic said, before coughing some more.

Hunted put a hand to Skeptic's forehead.

"You're burning up. You've been out there too long. I don't know how to treat this, so I'll go to the others for advice. You stay here."

Skeptic felt a little sheepish at being fussed over. He was not used to that. But if it meant he'd get better soon, he understood.

Little did he know, that was the last rational thought he'd have for a while.

---

Hunted came back with some medicine and soup packets.

"They suggested I stick to these for now and..."

Hunted stared at Skeptic in concern, seeing him sobbing and coughing more violently than before. The sobbing was particularly unusual, as he's not the sort of person that cries easily.

"Are you... alright?"

Hunted carefully approached Skeptic.

"Can't... get much breaths in... help..."

Skeptic could barely speak with how much he was coughing.

Hunted brought Skeptic back onto the sofa and gently checked his temperature again. It was hotter than before.

"You're not thinking clearly. Not with all that mess in you. You need to rest and recover. I have medicine and soup. That should help."

Skeptic grabbed Hunted's shirt with his shaking hands, his eyes begging for him to not leave him alone.

Hunted sat down next to Skeptic. It was painful seeing one of the most rational and level-headed of them reduced to this.

Skeptic began coughing again. It sounded painful, so Hunted bolted for the kitchen and got a glass of water for Skeptic to have with his medicine.

"This will do you good. I trust it will." Hunted assured Skeptic as he took the medicine.

---

After a while, the coughing became less intense and the fever went down a little. Skeptic could finally think again.

"Sorry about that..."

"It's alright. You weren't thinking clearly in that state."

Skeptic sighed, now that he could. He didn't want to have to open up to someone like this, but... he had to, didn't he?

"It's... not just that. Being in that state reminded me of... the time I drowned."

Hunted stared at Skeptic, and then grabbed his hand sympathetically.

"I'm... sorry that happened to you. Was it with a version of her? One I didn't see?"

Skeptic then felt more at ease. More like he could open up.

"Yes. It was. We failed to save that version, so she drowned us. Something about... sharing her pain. I understand why, but..."

Hunted pulled Skeptic into a gentle hug.

"But she still hurt you. You don't have to put up a wall right now. You don't have to just get over it. You can be vulnerable. We're safe now."

Skeptic let himself cry a bit more. He needed to at the moment.

"I'm not used to being safe."

"Neither am I. But I know that we are."

The heavy breathing from Skeptic's crying sent him back into another coughing fit.

"Easy. Don't overdo it. I'll make you some soup. That should help."

Hunted headed into the kitchen to make the soup.

Skeptic dried his tears. He didn't know when he'd be used to being safe, but it was reassuring to know he wasn't alone.

[magnetarbeam]

Voices of the Force: Incorrect Quotes 5

Ahsoka: I dunno if I'm ready to process the ramifications of this bullshit.

---

Jaina: I literally cannot believe I let you talk me into this.

Ahsoka: I literally said “I have an idea,” and you just went along with it without question.

---

Zekk, trying to impress Jag: I re-initialized the entire command structure, retaining all programmed abilities but deleting the supplementary preference architecture.

Jaina: He turned it off and back on again.

---

*during a group project*

Vestara: *does 99% of the work*

Ben: *has no idea what’s going on*

Ahsoka: *says she’s gonna help but does not*

Fala: *disappears at the very beginning and doesn’t show up again until the very end*

---

Ahsoka, staring lovingly at Fala: I would die for you.

Fala, doing her own thing: Then perish.

---

Vestara: I am working on this whole Good Guy thing, but anyone who cuts me in line at Space Starbucks deserves to have their kneecaps shot out, okay?

---

Ahsoka: We’re playing Space Scrabble. It’s a nightmare.

Jag: Space Scrabble? Space Scrabble’s great.

Ahsoka: Not when you’re playing with Vestara, it’s not. She puts words like “ephemeral” and I put “dog.”

---

Jag: What’s your favorite color?

Vestara: Stop asking stupid questions. Ask me something logical and mature.

Jag: How many moles of sodium bicarbonate are needed to neutralize 0.8ml of sulfuric acid at STP?

Vestara: My favorite color is pink.

[shslquestionmark]

NO STPP STOP STOP STP PSROP COME BACK STARE AT ME

[alteredphoenix]

The Talon Trick (StP Card Games AU)(Chapter 1)[WIP]

A/N: So a lot of people seemed to really like this idea I came up with for an StP fic that I'd like to do if the inspiration struck me (featuring the Princesses playing card games in the Long Quiet to pass the time while waiting for the Hero to show up - which shocked me, because I wasn't expecting such a positive reaction), and that provided just enough motivation to write something out. This first chapter is just about done, but as I have a bad habit of leaving a multi-chaptered fic to the wayside shortly after losing steam this isn't something I'm ready to post on AO3 - at least not right away. (And I do feel bad about that, but it's something I've struggled with for years and trying to overcome.)

I think stockpiling a few chapters and then uploading them is a better idea (and probably a much better course of action for me to do in the long run), so have this little snippet for the time being while I force my brain to sit still long enough to finish the chapter and give it some polish.

-

The Princess slowly, heavily, drags herself up into a sitting position, strawberry blonde hair spilling over her shoulder in one big curtain. Her chest heaves, sucking in lost air. Absentmindedly, she reaches one hand up and feels for the tiara sitting neatly over her scalp. One pat, two pats, and she finds it.

Somehow, beyond all reason, it’s stayed on. She huffs quietly and tips it back upright from where it was all but hanging over the side of her head.

She spares a moment to stare at the floor, a grey several shades darker with hints of a color mixed between rain-washed stone and muddied brown – and shifting. She squints, frowning, and stares down harder, even blinking several times for good measure. But the scene doesn’t change; those are lines, cross-hatched and messy and sketchy, like the ones she recalled seeing on the basement floor and chipped into the walls, shift and shudder in every direction, both to her and away from her. Some of the patches even fade in and out of sight, reappearing further ahead into another patch of the floor that quickly assimilates into another network of jumping, dancing cross-hatching. A tentative brush of her left hand makes a rivulet of lining readjust and follow along the curve of her fingertips.

Brows knit, the Princess picks her head up and casts a slow, sweeping gaze around her. The area – the world – is grey tinted beige as far as the eye can see – and nothing else. They continue to shift and retract and connect down here as they did up in the air, one long, pervasive wall of cloud and fog without end. A sound like a breeze sighing through the leaves on the trees pricks teasingly at her ears. She turns her head one way and then the other, listening, straining; the sound travels with her, cloying and evasive.

Confusion wells in the pit of her stomach. “...Where am I?” she asks aloud.

“You are here, returned to me, where you belong.”

“Who--” she begins, turning back around, and jumps back, the gasp ripping right out of her.

A young woman stands, far away yet close and larger than life. She has the same blonde hair, the same pink dress that conforms to her slim, pale curves, the same silvery tiara upon her head. The same voice, the Princess notes belatedly, soft yet quietly monotone, and feels her mouth fall open. She swallows thickly, tears her mind away from the fact to gaze up and down at the woman’s body. All around her, from the top of her head to the sloping V of her navel, small hands attached to long, slender arms shifted and waved and flexed with a fluidity both stunted and natural, some grasping absently at the air. One hand drapes over her eyes. A pair of hands cover her breasts. Another pair wraps over her bony shoulders in a loose embrace, the same which a second pair cupped the pointed joints of her hips.

“What the….” the Princess begins, mouth and brain working. “Who are...What...are you…?”

“I am solitary lights in an empty city. Oceans reduced to shallow creeks. Trees without a forest. I am infinite.”

The Princess blinks. One slender eyebrow arches up. “…Huh?”

“I am you,” says the woman. “You are me. Pieces of a dream on the path to being whole. A fragile vessel.”

The Princess swallows again. “...I don’t understand.”

“You will, in time. But know that what I speak is the truth, and this truth will set us free.”

“Free,” the Princess echoes. “Free from, uh...what, exactly?”

“Here,” the woman says, and a dozen-dozen hands fan out behind her and gesture at the shifting, grey mass of clouds and sketch lines. “I have only just now wakened from these trappings of unconsciousness, but the answer remains all the same: there is no exit. The concept of an exit does not exist; not even the concept of time exists. It merely is. But I know there are worlds beyond the Long Quiet, worlds that can be reached, and there will come a time for when we will find them.”

“So,” the Princess begins, drawing the word out, tentative and venturing, “we’re stuck here. This, uh… This Long...Quiet.”

“We are.”

“But you just woke up.”

“I did.”

“Like, right now.”

“More or less.”

The Princess stares at her. Her other eyebrow rises. “...So how do you know there aren’t any exits if you just—“ She shakes her head. “You know what, never mind."

[foolondahill17]

The third night without sleep, Dean rolls himself a joint from Sam's stash out of pure desperation. He doesn’t exactly want to stink up his room, so he goes outside the Bunker, climbs the steep hill to the base of the abandoned water treatment plant, and takes a seat with his back against the brick wall.

The chill air bites his cheeks as he pulls in a mouthful of smoke, holds for a second, and releases it into the night air. It’s been a while since he’s smoked, maybe since Cassie or Lee, but even then it wasn’t often.

His very brief period of experimentation favored anything with a little more oomf – LSD, STP, PCP; he ran the gamut of most of the alphabet drugs, but that was when he went a little crazy while Sam was in school and Dad was off doing who the hell knows what. He never had much time or need for a downer like indica – and, when he did, whiskey was in high supply.

Dean’s head whips to the side when he hears the crunch of dried grass under foot, but the mussed top of Cas’s head appears over the hill, and Dean relaxes.

“Making sure I don’t run off again?” Dean asks, sticking the joint back between his lips.

“I just thought I’d enjoy the night,” Cas says, a little stilted, like he’s afraid Dean will poke fun at his nightly wandering.

“It ain’t half bad,” Dean agrees. It’s true. The sky is clear and it’s just cold enough to be refreshing rather than frigid. It smells like spring: all damp earth and new growth. “Want some?”

He holds the joint to Cas. Cas squints at it.

“Sam offered before. It didn’t have much effect on me.”

“People never get high the first time,” Dean says. “Come on. Puff, puff, pass, man.”

Cas takes the joint and sinks to the ground in a surprisingly fluid motion for how stiffly he normally carries himself. He crosses his legs on the ground, and Dean’s reminded of that other Cas, from Zachariah’s alternate future.

“Just don’t get into the habit,” Dean says gruffly.

Cas takes his own hit before passing the stick back to Dean.

“Drugs rarely have an effect on me, still,” Cas says. “Even alcohol.”

“You think it’s a good sign?” Dean prompts. “Maybe your grace is healing?”

“I’d like to think so,” Cas sighs. “Truthfully, I feel basically the same.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not even a year. Keep your head up, buddy.”

“What about you?” Cas asks.

“What?” Dean says, knowing exactly what Cas means.

“How are you feeling?” Cas clarifies.

“I’m fine,” Dean says.

“No, you’re not,” Cas says.

Dean can’t face the angel’s eyes. He lets his head fall against the wall behind him, staring at the sky. Lebanon ain’t exactly a metropolis, so there’s not much light pollution to speak of, but out here in the prairie it’s even clearer. The sky is inky black, speckled with stars like a flashlight shining through a metal colander.

“I don’t know, man,” Dean sighs. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Emma said you were with Benny,” Cas says. It’s enough of a non sequitur that Dean lifts his head.

“Um, yeah,” Dean says. “Down in New Orleans. He…let me crash for a few days.”

“You didn’t stay for long?” Cas asks.

“Not really,” Dean hedges. “Before that I was…around.”

"Yes," Cas says. There's a note of anger in his voice. Cas was always pretty good at the whole heavenly wrath thing. “With Crowley, apparently."

"Yeah because you've never palled around with demons before," Dean snaps. And shit. As soon as the words are out of his mouth, his stomach sinks. He didn't want to argue.

"It's unfair of you to throw that in my face when I've - I've tried to atone for working with Crowley many times over," Cas says, voice strangely brittle.

Funny, but Dean hadn't even thought about Cas working with Crowley. He'd been thinking about Cas and Meg searching for the demon tablet in the Middle East.

"Sorry," Dean says. He swallows something barbed and sticky in his throat.

There's a beat of silence, then Cas breathes out hard.

Dean takes another pull from his joint. He hands it back to Cas, nudging his friend’s arm with his knuckles when Cas doesn’t immediately reach for it.

“You could have stayed,” Cas says. He’s staring unblinkingly across the shadowed field. “You didn’t have to go to Crowley. Or Benny.”

“I know,” Dean says. And he does. He does know. He doesn’t have the words to explain the cloying, claustrophobic fear that gripped him the first few weeks after brutalizing Randy and the others. His instability. The certainty with which he knew he’d hurt someone else. The inevitability of it. “I just needed to get away. Benny was – he’s a good friend. He helped me find solid footing again, I guess.”

“Just a friend?” Cas asks. “Or are you…in a relationship with him?”

Cas’s question echoes like a sonar ping through Dean’s ribcage.

“Did Emma tell you? Or Ben?”

“No,” Cas replies. “I think I…guessed in Purgatory. I’m not very good at understanding social interactions, but I could understand there was something between you two. And I knew you slept with men…since I reconstructed your very being, all of your history was revealed to me. Although I’d argue it didn’t gain emotional significance until later.”

“Emotional significance, huh?”

Cas replies with a half-smile. “Navigating the nuance of human emotion hasn’t exactly been easy.”

“Why do you ask?” Dean bluffs. “You jealous?”

It’s the first time they’ve even come close to vocalizing the magnetic, possessive pull toward one another, and Dean’s heartbeat thuds in his throat. No fucking way would he have the balls to confront this if the weed hadn’t made him so loose-tongued.

“I’m not jealous,” Cas says immediately, and Dean’s almost high enough to admit it’s disappointment he feels in the base of his gut. “I was just…curious.”

“We’re not,” Dean says. He sucks in another mouthful of smoke. “What about you and Meg? You guys hook up during your Raiders tour?”

Cas takes the joint. He waits until he’s blowing smoke before he says. “We did…once. I didn’t like it very much.”

“Yeah?” Dean says. He’s already prepared to jump to Cas’s defense if the demon pressured him into something he didn’t want to do.

“I think it’s because I’m gay.”

If Dean had been drinking, he would have done a spit take. “You’re, um. Oh – okay.” He tries to recover himself. “I didn’t think…way back when, Anna said angels didn’t feel things…like that.”

“I think we can both agree I’m far from an angel,” Cas says.

Dean doesn’t exactly know what to say to that. He finishes the joint and stubs out the ember against the brick.

“I should, ah, try to get some sleep,” he says. He’s felt awkward around Cas plenty of times, but never quite like this: there’s a gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach, like he said something wrong or missed his chance. He tells himself he’s being stupid.

“Oh,” Cas says. Is that disappointment in his voice, too? Or something else? “Goodnight, then.”

Dean stands to his feet. He closes his fist at his side before he can do something stupid, like pat Cas on the shoulder or, worse, put his hand in the angel’s hair.

“Night, Cas.”

Read more here

[msfcatlover]

Fucking… been trying to type up a vent post for like 10min, but it always ends up sounding like I’m passive-aggressively shaming my followers when I just need to get out what happened in my life. Goddamn. Guess I’ll get fucking specific.

I tried RPing that Slay the Princess idea with my mom, and it went so horribly I now feel awful about the whole thing. I’m even more insecure about my inability to juggle characters, I feel even shakier about my grasp/portrayal of who the characters even are, and I just want to smash my whole computer in frustration. It’s not even her fault or anything, she just could not wrap her mind around the concept and also kept getting confused about what exactly was going on, and then got annoyed by the limitations of the structure. Like, I ask her to ask a question and she starts rambling off a summary of a whole conversation, and I’m like, “No, mom, one question. This is a conversation simulator, and I’m trying to work on my character voices. It’s a back & forth.” Cue flustered apologizing & an extended period of blank, silent staring.

I just. Fucking hell. Nothing kills motivation quite like a complete fucking trainwreck of an interaction on the topic.

I’m not even mad at her, I just feel like garbage. Like I’m a shit writer & a worse GM, and I should never have even tried this to start with.

To the one person who actually responded to my StP post: I’ll message you in the next couple days, once I have my excitement back.

To the handful of people who liked it: I appreciate the positivity, but I have no idea if you’re volunteering or just going, “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea! Good on you!” and I don’t like to bother people out of the blue, so if you actually want to try this, can you please just tell me?

I’m gonna go cry in a pillow for a while. Fucking… I stayed up til 5am late night working on this. I thought this was a good idea. I was so excited.

I hate my fucking brain.

[starlitwinter]

VI

I... changed a lot of things in my fanfic, like the pov. Anyway, enjoy!

Oh, merde merde merde. A dog. Huan. Celegorm. What am I supposed to fucking do? Run? Stay still? Please Huan be alone in those freaking wood. Please!

As the dog growled softly, the fear in Nenlissë’s mind intensified. Her thoughts raced as she desperately hoped that the dog was alone in the woods, and not accompanied by Celegorm. The size of the dog was particularly alarming, its head even towering over the human girl’s shoulder. Despite her shock, she remembered not to stare at the animal, as it could be perceived as a sign of aggression. Slowly backing away, the girl kept the dog in her field of vision, mindful of any sudden movements. With luck, Nenlissë could reach Aclar and escape before the dog’s master arrived, or perhaps she would meet a much grimmer fate.

“Where do you think you’re going, intruder?” A voice said, stopping Nenlissë in her moves.

The shock of hearing a dog speak left Nenlissë frozen in place. She was certain that she had heard the dog’s voice, but the animal’s mouth remained shut. Was it a trick of the mind, or was this dog truly capable of speaking? As she stood there, unsure of what to do, the voice continued to speak. It seemed to be coming from the dog, but how was that even possible? The girl tried to shake off her disbelief and focus on what the dog was saying, hoping that it would provide some clarity or explanation for this surreal moment.

“Are you stupid or just deaf? What are you doing half on the floor?” the voice said again, and Nenlissë realized that no, it was not Huan who was talking but surely his owner. Celegorm.

Ah yes. Youpi. Celegorm. Couldn’t you wait to get here? So, I could get away from here? No? Nenlissë thought, annoyed by Celegorm’s apparition. She got up slowly without meeting Huan’s eyes and looked for the only possible human form in this forest. As she continued to look for Celegorm, a shiver ran through the girl, and she suddenly felt a presence behind her. Before she could turn around, her back was already crashing against the nearest trunk, and she could only look up at the angelic face of Celegorm. Damn it hurts! I am not made of steel shit! She almost said, but swallowed her words, not wanting to upset Celegorm, as he had the upper hand. But Nenlissë still spoke without thinking about her words, which resulted in something like this.

“What’s wrong with throwing people on wood like that? I could have broken something! And then get out of the way stp. Don’t you know about living space? Coronavirus? Ah yes, you didn’t get it here… lucky bastard.”

Celegorm reaction was to put his arm on the girl’s throat and press gently but firmly anyway to warn her that he could crush her breathing voice at any moment. Nenlissë gave him her best hypocritical smile while staring at his face. She was relieved of these perfect elf faces. The fact of seeing the angelic face of her attacker calmed her and she succeeded in countering the wave of stress that was rising in her.

“Speak better intruder, don’t you know who I am?” Celegorm ordered harshly.

Nenlissë rolled her eyes. Of course, I know who you are, espèce de caca! Who do you think I am? She thought while scoffing. But she decided to not say anything because if she told him that she knows him, that she knows his future too, it was like she was offering him reasons on a silver plate to kill her on the spot. She might as well play dumb and survive than try to be Ms. Know-it-all and show it.

“Uh, no? And I should know? All I see here is an arrogant guy.

-Arrogant me? Have you never heard of Celegorm, son of Fëanor, son of Finwë? The best of them all? And who are you anyway? What family do you come from?

-Never heard of a Celegrom or Celegorm. And for your information, know that I am the daughter of a rich and powerful lord.”

Your uncle. But you do not need to know that now.

“Your name? Celegorm then asked.

-Nenlissë.

-What are you doing in these woods?

-I was… walking? Are we not allowed to do that now?”

He raised an eyebrow and despite looking at her suspiciously, he released her from his arm on her throat and walked away from her. Thank you for giving me back my breathing space Celegorm. Now adieu. As she tried to run away, Celegorm took her arm, bringing her close to his chest.

“Where do you think you’re going? You are on my uncle’s land and so you must be taken to his dwelling so I can know if you are telling the truth.”

-What? I refuse-

-Oh, it would be such a shame if I unintentionally allowed Huan to eat your arm. Or your leg. After all, he has not eaten anything and must be hungry.”

Celegorm placed a hand on the top of his doggie’s head. Huan decided to show Nenlissë his fangs which only made Nenlissë want to run away more. Seriously Huan! I thought you were nice and all. It is just for Luthien but not me being nice. Thanks!

“Listen, I don’t want to argue with you about the usefulness of arresting me for almost nothing so I’m going to come in very nicely and you won’t have to threaten me with anything okay?” Nenlissë said, trying to make peace with Celegorm and save her life.

He did not answer her, but a big smile formed on his lips, and he waved her past him. Nenlissë answered him by rolling her eyes and emitting a small whistle between her teeth. Aclar joined them and Celegorm did not comment on his arrival. The girl took his bridle in her hands and turned to Celegorm.

“Which way to your uncle’s castle? She asked innocently.

-To not know and live in this area, you must live in a cave all year round…”

He huffed and took the lead but left Huan to close the gap. What were you thinking? I am going to savour my ‘revenge’ when you finally know who I am. Your cousin.

“Follow me.”

~

The journey was quick and quiet and soon they could start to see the front of Arafinwë’s mansion, the few people they passed looked at them strangely but none of them made any comment. Celegorm abruptly opened the door and grabbed Nenlissë’s sleeve to pull her into the dining room where everyone was still there. As he entered, Arafinwë stood up and stopped whatever move he was going to make when he saw the situation his adopted daughter was in. She met his gaze and a wide smile played on his lips, instinctively understanding the situation.

“Good morning my dear nephew, we have been waiting for you. Arafinwë said slyly, but Celegorm didn’t see anything.

-Hello uncle, I am glad to see you and I see my aunt has already arrived. How are you?

-For the best, but… Why does Nenlissë seem to be your prisoner?

-You know this wanderer, Uncle? I caught her on your land, and she had no permission so I thought I should inform you of this.”

Behind Arafinwë, Nenlissë saw Angrod choke on his glass of water and burst out laughing. Celegorm glanced at him in puzzlement but did not seem to question the amused smiles on everyone’s faces. Arafinwë approached his nephew and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Turco, Nenlissë is my daughter. Adoptive, perhaps, but my daughter.”

Celegorm turned to look the girl in the eye. She gave him a contrite smile and shrugged.

“Your daughter? My cousin? Wait, what?”

-Yes. Your cousin.”

Nenlissë moved away from him and wanted to sit at the table, but Arafinwë stopped her.

“Don’t sit down Nenlissë, we had all finished and I had just suggested we go outside to play a little game. "

Oula… a little game with Arafinwë is never a game. She saw Artanis roll her eyes behind her father before coming to take her sister’s hand. How will he make us suffer today? Nenlissë thought while posing a questioning gaze on her father who only responded with an enigmatic smile. When they arrived outside, their horses were waiting for them, along with their bows, and a bag was lying on the ground next to the horses. Nenlissë could feel the shit coming already.

Arafinwë went to his stallion and stroked his muzzle before turning to them.

“This morning when I got up, I learned that my dear nephew, son of Fëanor, was coming. So, I thought it would be a good idea to set us a little challenge to see if my children are stronger, more skilled, and clever than my half-brother’s.”

I have a bad feeling about this… Nenlissë thought while nervously biting her nails.

“So, I’m going to give you a little survival challenge! In teams of two, you will have to spend a whole night in the forest without my men finding you! My sister, Findis, will draw the teams at random.”

Findis approached her brother with a box in her hand and pulled out the first paper.

“Ambo and… Artanis!” She exclaimed.

Disappointed not to be with her dear Galadriel, Nenlissë signed while her brother and sister exchanged a knowing look, an omen of bad things. Maybe being with Finrod will be beneficial and I will have less chance to die… Angrod can be an excellent choice too. Anything but Celegorm because I want to stay alive a little longer. The girl thought, judging her chances to win.

Findis put her hand back in the box and Nenlissë crossed her fingers, praying that someone would answer her call and not put her with Celegorm.

“Nenlissë and…”

Each second seemed like hours, the girl saw Findis’ hand move in slow motion… Nah I am kidding. The rest happened at normal speed.

“Celegorm!”

Damn it! Eru fuck you!

[ssaalexblake]

This week on STP.  Soap Opera: Picard commences.

(imagine me staring an 100 yard stare) 

Not even gonna go there. If I wanted to read this type of plot, I would go read it where it belongs... In a fanfic. Eh. I am withholding judgement for now under the technicality that assumptions are not canon and i’m not sure if i’m being generous to the writers for giving them the benefit of the doubt or if i’m grasping at the last few straws i have, but here we are. 

Mostly, as somebody who isn’t even a tng lover i feel bad for what is apparently being done to beverly here like damn, really??

amanda plummer aced every second of screen time she had, kudos! Was legit threatening and nice visual references, also. 

Michelle Hurd also has me by the Neck. Raffi’s been mistreated so bad. This never should have been a thing she was told to do for very valid reasons. Also, in a vaguely introspective way i’m like okay Section 31... The people working for it probably aren’t the kind of people all steeped in starfleet principles. Which is why Raffi can’t do it. She is too principled of a person. 

Honestly thought the computer handler was threatening Raffi with that comment about another body. Was legit surprised she just managed to turn the screen off. 

The convo with the ex annoyed me because like, from the character exploration they did with Raffi last season there are canonically a few good reasons her family aren’t in contact with her that are legitimately a ‘her problem’ kind of thing. This is not what happened here and i felt they unintentionally leant into some uncomfortable sexist notions when doing it. And they could easily have made that less infuriating by just leaning on last season’s work instead. But then again, from the ex’s clientele it looks like he’s not like... The Most Moral Dude Ever? Actually... going back to S1 and Raffi’s son being on hyper-futuristic-capitalism-neon-hell-planet does actually speak to certain implications i’d not thought of until this. So fine, sense was made, but this is one of those things that’s more annoying for being Mostly fine but needing tweaking imo than something just straight up annoying that i could just write off easily.

Anyway, Raffi’s problem is she is genuinely a very good person and can’t stand to watch this shit without trying to help or fix it. Which while noble, doesn’t negate all her issues, but it sucks to see her get kicked down for being the only one who cares. I feel so hard why she was so Furious with Picard in S1 now. This is a sucky story to watch but yeah yeah it works with the context of the rest of the show, which I can’t say necessarily about a lot of other things in nostalgia bait s3. Standing ovation for our last remaining new character standing. May you remain standing till the very end. Preferably with Seven. 

riker: why are you avoiding this???

picard: avoiding what???

me with fingers in my ears: yeah, avoiding what????

i next to never agree with picard (I tolerate him mostly) but sometimes he has his moments and the denial was one of them.

anyway, i think we can conclude that Shaw’s issue (aside from being a snide little butthead) is that he’s not meant for command. Not even in an insulting way, but somebody who can’t own their own decisions (blaming seven for the orders He gave, no matter how clear she was about her own feelings or the situation was out of line bc He still gave the orders) and then goes on to look the happiest he is the whole episode when an admiral forcibly takes control of his ship probably is not suited for the big chair. 

i feel very bad for laughing at the head thing. 

[an-aura-about-you]

February 3rd, 2386

The Thread of the Idol

From the Files of the STP

In this, the final entry, we see Jon's initial vision when he took Frehorn's Blade:

Malcolm Somerset is so very sick.

Sick of being gawked at like an animal. Sick of being trapped in a small cell. Sick of being called the Mephistopheles Killer, sick to the teeth of being forced to carry the blame for so many deaths he didn’t cause and didn’t want. Sick with himself because even if he didn’t do it he is capable of it. Sick with reliving that one pivotal moment over and over again when he pushed his father down the stairs and heard the sickening crack of his skull and blood pooling on the floor, dead so his son could steal his name and escape to the stars.

But most of all, he is sick of the Caretaker.

He’s so goddamn calm about everything. Nothing matters to him except, apparently, making sure events happen as he saw them happen. He was the one who convinced him to kill his father, assured him he wouldn’t get caught.

(“You wouldn't have been caught had the Mephistopheles left that locker alone,” the Caretaker replies to that. Jon holds this information in the front of his mind.)

So here they are now, the cell where Malcolm will live the rest of his life, and the Caretaker just shows up without any sign of actually entering the room and talks about how this will be their last meeting.

Good. Because Malcolm is done with the Caretaker and his circular destiny talk

“I don’t care about you or any of your bullshit,” Malcolm tells him. “Just get me out of here and you’ll never hear from me again, I swear.”

“I very much doubt that,” the Caretaker says with the easy air of one examining their nails for dirt. “But rest assured, I am here to release you.”

“What do I have to do?”

“Just use the key and leave by the door.”

“What?” Why did he even fucking ask when he knew the answer was going to be something like that? Malcolm refrains from screaming and tries for speaking to a particularly dim child. He turns towards the door to his cell and says, “Maybe you haven’t noticed, but the lock is on the outside.”

“I’m not talking about THAT door,” the Caretaker replies.

“What are you talking about?!” he demands, whipping back around only to find the Caretaker has disappeared.

Of fucking course.

Malcolm settles in, wondering why he bothered to expect anything. If he’s being honest, nothing truly good has happened to him since he dropped out of college. Not sure why he expected that to change, especially when the one thing he tried to do for himself hinged on his crime not being discovered, a fragile assumption at best.

Then something happens that has never happened before: Malcolm receives a package in his door’s drop. He retrieves it and opens it up, and he doesn’t know what he sees.

(But Jon does.)

Malcolm stares at Frehorn’s Blade, turning it this way and that to examine the strange knife. Then he hears it, a dull pulsing in his ears. He moves back to the far wall of his cell, and he can feel it thrumming there. The wall panel is loose, and he pulls it away.

There is the door.

It is firm but still has a bit of give to the touch, unusually pale and very slightly mottled.

(“Like freckles,” Jon thinks.)

Malcolm finds what looks to be a keyhole, but it is only the shape and doesn’t actually have a hole. It’s there the pulse is at its strongest.

(Jon can feel the pulse under his fingertips.)

With no other option available to him, Malcolm plunges the knife in.

The door opens.

There is a staircase before him, and he begins his descent. The further he goes down, the clearer everything becomes. When looking at everything from the outside, there is no appreciable difference between the past and fate. You make a choice, and you write it down in action, and no matter how many times you look at it afterward it is what you were going to do. The past, the present, the future, they are all the same. You cannot divorce outcome from history any more than you can movement from dance. The step is decided and waiting for a dancer, and one always comes to take the place.

As Malcolm steps into his place, he understands everything. He guided himself the entire way. Everything was waiting for him to catch up, and now he has met destiny and the bliss of that understanding. Before he realized the truth of it, he was her slave. Now that he is free from Body and its constraints under the relentless passage of time, now that he is a being of pure Mind and Soul, he can be her lover.

He is meant to take care of things.

And he will.

[mlm-writer]

Piss Paladin (Wade Wilson x FtM!Reader)

Pairing: Wade Wilson/Deadpool x FtM Reader For the pride prompt: FtM reader learning to pee standing up, failing miserably, getting anxious and then getting help from their lovely AMAB partner Rating: Mature  Words: 1321 POV: Second Summary: Wade got you an STP and you can now finally pee while standing up. Easier said than doen tho. Notes: Happy Pride! See all works for pride 2022 here. Reader has not undergone bottom surgery, but everything else from HRT to top surgery is up to you. Tags: fluff, hurt/comfort sort of, domestic fluff, established relationship, we all know Wade is a horndog oh and he also breaks the 4th wall

“Babey!” Your boyfriend was as loud as ever, as he barged through the front door. Well, it was technically his apartment, so he was allowed. You looked up from your phone and shifted on the couch, bare legs no longer folded over. You tugged your shorts down, so they were no longer giving you a wedgie. Eyes narrowed at Wade, when he got a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water. “I got you something,” he practically sang, approaching you with the glass and a package held behind his back. You were more confused by the glass of water to be honest. Wade was not one to hydrate voluntarily. “But - and that’s a big butt - you first need to drink this.” 

You let out a scoff and took the glass he held out for you. Wade had weirder antics, so you did not question him. You wished he had picked a smaller glass though. It took you a moment, before you had consumed its entire contents. Wade made in the meantime three jokes about swallowing and being so good at it. One time you laughed accidentally and almost choked, which triggered a choking joke or two. 

When you finally put the empty glass onto the already-full coffee table, he handed you the package. You raised a brow at him and took the package, ripping off the top while looking him dead in the eyes. “This better not be another strap-on, Wade. We already have enough.”

“Well this one you can use for multiple things.” You sighed and pulled the bubble wrap out of the box, then frowned at the hollow strap-on you found inside. It was limp and did not seem good for fucking at all. Then it clicked. You gasped and turned to your boyfriend hanging off the back of the couch. 

“No way!” “Yes way!” “Wade!”

You jumped and hugged him, slapping him in the face with your new dick. “Ho there fella, might want to wait with slapping me in the face with that thing until I’m on my knees.” You were giddy with excitement and took the glass off the table to fill it with more water, chugging it as if you’ve been in the desert. “It is for pack, pee and play, but I guess the first thing you want to do is pee while standing up?” 

You nodded. “Honestly, it is the best part of having a dick if you ask me.” You fished the harness out of the box and started placing your cock inside in various ways, until Wade grabbed the manual and helped you with sticking things in the right hole. 

“Well then let’s get you in this thing, go to the park and find you a nice little tree.” You wiggled out of your pants and underwear. Then tried to put the harness with the STP in it up, only to find out that it was rather tricky. 

“Maybe first try the toilet?” You suggested, as you moved the silicone around until it was comfortable. You then pulled the underwear back over it and your shorts. You wiggled around and reached into your underwear to find a comfortable position for the dick. “Where do you leave the shaft?” You complained. 

“You’re boring,” Wade sighed playfully. He nearly giggled like a schoolgirl as he watched you struggle. “Well I just leave it parallel to my right leg, but you can also do it to the left.” You followed his instructions and then stared at your bulge. “Damn baby boy, you are packing,” Wade exclaimed as he stared at your crotch with you. 

“Is it too obvious?” He shook his head. You read the manual to figure out what else came with the penis, while you waited for mother nature to make her call. When you finally felt it, you jumped up from the couch to go to the bathroom. 

“Go my piss paladin! My golden shower champion! My urine conqueror! My…”  “Shut up, Wade!”  “Hey don’t blame me! We are over 650 words in and the readers still haven’t gotten what they came for!”

You rolled your eyes and then closed the bathroom door behind you without locking it. Excitement coursed through your veins, but as you stood above the toilet, seat up and silicone dick in hand, nothing came out of you. As if your body was saying ‘we need to sit down to piss’. So you stood there a good minute or two… or three… Eventually Wade was knocking on the door. “You know, it is supposed to be quicker,” he called from outside the door. You tried to force something out again, but not even a drip left you.

“Urgh, it won’t work!” You exclaimed, stomping your foot and zipping your pants back up. You heard Wade come in, but did not look at him. “I just… I can’t do it!” You felt Wade approach from behind and then his arms were around you. 

“Yes you can, my piss paladin. Come on, let’s zip those pants down.” Wade pushed everything down to your ankles. “You’re just having a mental block so let’s try this a bit more like you’re used to. Bend the knees, rest that pretty butt on me, yes just like that.” You were sort of leaned forward with your butt on Wade’s knees slash thighs. Wade had his hands on your hips, steadying you. “Ok now close your eyes and breathe. Once you let go, everything will just flow.” 

It took you a good minute more, but with Wade keeping you calm and reminding you that one step at a time was fine, you eventually succeeded. When the dam finally overflowed, it was a relief like nothing else. The sound of piss landing in the toilet water had never before triggered so much relief and happiness. You and Wade were cheering like you just won the jackpot. 

However, victory did not last long, as you felt a warm stream trickling down your leg. “Oh shit,” you exclaimed as you tried to stop yourself from filling the overflowing penis even more. The idea was great, but the execution was not as smooth as you had envisioned. 

“Keep calm, king, this is fine,” you heard Wade say behind you, but piss was trickling down your leg and you could not really stop yourself mid-way. It felt like it was just coming and coming. By the time the STP was empty, you just stared down at it with absolute horror, trying to wrap your head around what just happened. 

“Oh my god, I am so sorry, baby, I pissed all over you. Oh my god this is so embarrassing.” You felt like crying. The entire vicinity was stinking and covered in yellow fluid. You heard Wade talking, but you were frozen in place and your ears had stopped working. 

Wade turned you around roughly, but you closed your eyes, unable to look at him. You pissed on him for fuck’s sake. “Hey, my handsome piss paladin, look at me. Come on, open those beautiful eyes… there you go. It’s all right.”

He smiled at you reassuringly, but you had tears pricking in your eyes and you could feel the distress everywhere in your body. “It’s not all right, Wade, I pissed on you.” 

“And I don’t care! Really! Look! Look here!” You followed his pointed finger to where you saw the stain on his pants and… a boner. Seeing it made you chuckle. 

“Really, dipshit? A piss kink?” He chuckled with you and reached past you to grab the roll of toilet paper. 

“Don’t blame me, you’re the one who is hot no matter what… just like your pee.” He whispered the last part, making you laugh again. Wade handed you some TP, but you refused, telling him a shower was going to be a better idea. He agreed and then joined you under another warm stream. 

[orieriee]

One Piece Incorrect Quotes pt. 2

Author's note! These are from perhance.org incorrect quotes, the website can be found here and I just match them to One Piece characters since I can't brain atm-

Several characters included! Reader involved! Part 1 here

Warnings! random topics, dark humor, curse words

POV: It's the zombie apocalypse and Y/N is driving a car and then met Sabo on the streets.

Sabo: Let me in!

Y/N: Who the hell are you?!

Sabo: Oh, you know my sibling! They worked at Wendy's.

Y/N: Oh yeah, Ace! How are they doing?

Sabo: Oh yeah, not too good. He has been dead for the past month.

Y/N: What the hell, he didn't tell us!

Sabo: Where's Ace?

Luffy: Don't worry, I'll find them.

Luffy, shouting: Y/N sucks!

Ace, distantly: Y/N is the best person ever! F*** you!

Luffy: There he is!

College AU! Where Ace and Law are friends of Y/N, and Y/N has a crush on them both. [Calling myself out, I have a crush on them]

Nami: Y/N, you'll be working with Law and Ace.

Y/N: Alright! My fantasy threesome!

Everyone else: *blank stares*

Y/N: ...Of people on a team.

Usopp: We might have gotten into a bar room brawl back in the city.

Law: Well, that was entirely predictable.

Bepo: One of them punched a gang member.

Law: Mugiwara-ya?

Nami: Zoro, actually.

Law: Great, that was going to be my second guess.

Zoro: Are you a masochist or a sadist?

Law, deadpan: I’m a Libra.

Ace: Alright, listen up you little s***s.

Ace: Not you Luffy. You’re an angel and we’re thrilled you’re here.

Jinbei: What does “take out” mean?

Luffy: Food.

Sanji: Dating.

Robin: Murder.

Zoro: It can be all three if you’re brave enough.

Y/N: If you took a shot for every time you made a bad decision, how drunk would you be?

Sabo: Maybe a bit tipsy?

Zoro: Drunk.

Law: Wasted.

Ace: Dead.

Y/N: What’s your favorite color?

Sabo: Stop asking stupid questions. Ask me something logical and mature.

Y/N: How many moles of sodium bicarbonate are needed to neutralize 0.8ml of sulfuric acid at STP?

Sabo: My favorite color is pink.

[omoghouls]

Thinking about Trans Izzy having to pee so badly that he rushes to the side of the deck and goes to pull out his STP ... only to fumble it and as he's trying to get everything in back place his bladder lets go right then and there. Only a few inches from being able to go off the side of the ship. He isn't sure which is more embarrassing, the fact that he is standing there soaked in pee or the fact that he probably could have made it to the latrine in the same time it took to get the STP in place. Or that the entire crew is now staring at him like they can't believe that he just wet himself either.

(Hand waving the whole "stand to pee devices haven't been invented yet"!)

HELL YEAH HELL YEAH HELL Y E A H

Omg, he's probably done this hundreds of time, so why would this be any different?? But, this is a desperation he hasn't been in for quite a while so, poor guy is shaking, trying to pull the stp out but just, ultimately not able to make it-

The crew are probably in stunned silence as they're watching Izzy wetting himself :^0

Izzy definitely threatens them to not utter a word about this as he stomps off below deck to clean up.

Afterwards Jim probably gives Izzy some tips on not fumbling with the stp xD