#you don't need the pale extract

[meariigoround-art]

KHEZU APPRECIATION!!!

That is all c :

[semicolonsspace]

Him (your favorite) (Stiles//Dylan O'Brien)

No use of names. Just pet names and Y/n.

Word count: 2.3k

Warnings: Roleplay, unprotected sex, edging, begging, praise kink, degradation kink, Bondage (use of handcuffs), breeding kink, stretch kink(?), mommy kink, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, subspace.

"Honey, I'm home," he yells as he shuts the door. He would always do this, he would always say it's 'hilarious'. Y/n found it humorous so soon after they made it a thing she started doing it as well. But except she put her spin onto it, talking like a 1940s housewife that just got back running errands.

Y/n rounds the corner to the front door. She was wearing his favorite, his T-shirt and shorts— or at least he thought she was wearing some; She wasn't. She was doing errands around the house in his shirt—Which mostly consisted of organizing the new room they had just renovated— more like Y/n renovated because she wanted it to be perfect!

"Hello, dear," she says in her housewife's voice. He laughs at her and pulls her in by the hips to kiss her. His hands snaked under the shirt she wore and slapped her ass when he realized she was only wearing underwear and his shirt. "You tryna kill me today?" He asks in a guttural groan. Her forehead rested on his as she smiled lovingly at her boyfriend of two wonderful years. "Not currently."

He gave her a playful shrewd look. "I think I'm already dead, then," he hums suggestively as he pulls hair out of her face, then resting his hand to cup it. His soft touch sent a chill down her spine as she stared up at him with lust that was masked by playfulness. "Oh, yeah?" She starts as she bats her eyelashes. "Well, I guess I might have to resurrect you."

He looked intrigued by her choice of words, choosing a decision for himself he indulged her humorous antics. "How so?"

"By laying you on my sacrificial altar bed and extracting your life force fluids," she jokingly purrs at him. That seemed good enough for him because he slung her body over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. As he walked he shreaded his layers then threw her on their bed.

Y/n scolded him for being so careless, as she almost hit her head on the metal bed frame. She pulls him down, and pulls his shirt off effortlessly—as she had done it so many times before due to the numerous times of "catching up sex" they had due to his work. She pins his pale buffed arms to the mattress while speaking. "Now, baby. Don't you remember how I said 'I' have to extract some fluids?"

He looks up at her and smirks. He decided to indulge her roleplay and started improvising lines. "Please, don't hurt me— I'll be good— you said you needed fluids, take my spit anything but my blood!" He whined with feigning horror. But she knew he was aroused, she could feel it— feel his 7-inch cock pressing— begging to be drained by her— and if he was lucky he could have her cunt to grip her tight.

Y/n chuckles darkly, something he thought was too authentic to be in their present roleplay. "I never specified which fluid I needed, dummy."

His eyes widened when he 'realized' what she meant. "By all means, go ahead— just don't kill me— please—" he begged once more. Y/n plants a soft kiss on his pointed elf-like nose as if saying 'good.'

That led to having him cuffed to the bed for hours. Her hand wrapped around his cock— jerking it just to stop before he would release. She wanted him to explode when he did so. And she wanted it to be inside of her. She wanted to feel the familiarity of the thick warm liquid rife her up just for it to enter her cervix. She was on the pill, plus she had a few boxes of plan B she liked to keep a stack of.

"Mama! Please! Just let me cum! I'll be good!" He screams, fake tears streaming from his eyes. Some of them were genuine tears from how delicious the pleasure was.

"Will you be my little ingredient holder?" She tilted her head as she spoke, speaking in the most condescending tone she could muster. "I need lots of human sperm to make my potions, would you like that? For me to milk you dry every day?"

He lets out a guttural groan that she didn't think was part of the roleplay. This was purely him. He was enjoying every bit of this, lapping up all the attention his girlfriend gave her.

The last statement was proved by his hips thrusting into her hips in an attempt to chase his orgasm. She stops and rubs his stomach. "How many times was that? 6 times? 6 potential orgasms just for me to stop... That makes me powerful don't you think? To have the ability to stop you from doing something your body chases? It's okay though, you'll get it soon."

Then her cunt was hovering over his red cock that was tortured for the last 2 hours. He nodded eagerly as he babbled how much he needed her to finish him off— to give her the "ingredient" she needed. She sat on him, wincing at how big he was, Every time she had him in her at first she would always be shocked by how much he stretched her fluttering walls.

"Going to be the best ingredient ever— make the strongest potion," she praises, continuing their little roleplay. He didn't seem to be acting anymore due to the immense pleasure, mostly just him begging for mercy for her to finish him off finally.

"For fucks sake— please just ride me, mama— need it," he whines, actual tears falling down his face. He was ruined— disheveled. And she felt glorious; she had done that. She had made him feel so divine just for her to deny his unholy release six whole times.

Y/n clicks her tongue and slaps his chest slightly, before reaching back and squeezing his balls. By his reaction she knew it was painful from how much he groaned— a different type of groan— he needed that release and she was just toying with him— She had been toying with him this whole time. "Next time you won't finish. I may need the ingredient but I can always use other fluids," she warns darkly.

He seemed to get that she was still roleplaying and nodded, breathing a sorry that was soon sucked in as she started hopping on him, his dick curve hitting her spot every time she sheathed onto him.

Her hands rested on his pecs before finding his nipples and tugging on them harshly. "Pretty boy looks so good fucked out for me," she whispers into his ear, her one hand caressing his sweaty hair. "Only for you." His eyes flutter, his mouth staying open. She kissed him— now instead of hopping, she was rocking into him, which seemed more sensual to them as they moaned in sync, telling each other they loved each other, completely forgetting about the roleplay. Now it was just the couple of two years that have lived with each other for eleven months.

Y/n reaches for the cuffs and he shakes his head while begging a no. "Keep them on, please," he moans.

Her mouth forms a smile before opening from the pleasure. She gets an idea so they both have what they want. "Wanna feel you touch me," she says uncuffing one singular cuff. His hand immediately finds her hip while his hips thrust into her—seeming like he was trying to gain control.

"Fucking being a brat for not letting me cum, baby," he groans as he pinches her nipple. She smiles at him before kissing his neck. "Good," she whispers, before unlatching the other cuff. Then she was flipped on her stomach, her ass in the air, her face buried in the mattresses as he plunged his abused cock into her. "Oh, you feel so good—way better than your hand, that's for damn sure," he murmurs breathily. Y/n was clawing at the mattress, bratty almost pornographic moans being muffled into the light grey satin sheets.

She lifts her head finally, positioning her body to arch, her elbows propping her up as he continued to rail her pussy into oblivion. "Cum in me— wanna feel you-"

He cuts her off before she continues with a humorous moaning chuckle. "Trust me, I'm gonna fucking milk every fuckin' drop inside this pussy, gonna stuff it full so you can carry my baby," he growls, making his thrust harder to punch— not kiss— her cervix. She squeals as a sudden wave of intense pleasure knocks her out. Her vision faded black and he coaxed her, his thrust becoming sloppy before he stilled in her. He doubles over from the climax, whispering praises into her ear. "S'good, I love you so much, honey," was all she could make out.

She thought he was the one who was going to be exhausted but he kept going, his cock continuing to piston inside of her for round two. She was more than okay with it, letting him use her just how he wanted; he deserved it.

By the time he stuffs her brim full with a second orgasm, she is on her back. The cum oozed out of her cunt as he pestered wet-sloppy and open-mouth kisses all over her neck and chest. She was bound to have marks all over her in the morning. "Look at that, baby," he says as he plays with his release around the hole. He was still inside, his finger lapping up the release and stuffing it back into her.

"Fuck, don't do that, or we're doing a round three," y/n squeals. He smiles cheekily at her and stuffs his finger into her again.

His cock and his finger were both inside, stretching her to limits she never thought she would be able to with him. Then he starts thrusting slowly, his vacant hand holding her ankle in the air so he can have maximum access to his favorite toy.

"We need to get those ankle holders like hospitals have so I can fuck you better," he says between grunts. "Or a fuck machine so I can get payback."

At the mention of the machine, she screams, especially because he removes his finger and presses it onto her stomach. "Scream for me again, baby: tell the whole fuckin' neighborhood I'm breeding my little whore again."

And she did, she couldn't take his rough thrust with his hand pushing on her stomach, it made her tighter— sensitive. But she could not bring herself to stop such amazing pleasure.

His stamina never seemed to shock Y/n. It did at first, having to beg her to eat her out. She let him, barely saying no simply because it was a win-win. He would always say "I get pleasure from eating my girl out, I don't need anything else." Which she loved, it almost became a love language for him to do so. While she answer emails for her stay-at-home job—when he was home that is— he would rarely pass an opportunity to either 1: eat her out or two: fuck her while she worked— and trust the universe, he made sure she would take it while working whatever she did on her computer.

He soon got tired of the position and pulled her by her thighs, manhandling her and flipping her back on her stomach. Y/n pushed herself down the bed, her feet touching the ground in front of him. He pushed himself back in, his hands grabbing her hips so he could pull her back onto him repeatedly. His thrust was a little harder, exactly how she wanted right now, making loud pleasured moans to leave her lips— along with many praise for him for how good he made her feel.

She then pushes herself off, causing them both to stand, he gets the hint and pulls her close, grabbing by the throat to choke her. Her vision fades a bit, from the pleasure of his cock hitting her cervix and his slender hand stifling air from her throat. "I love you, honey. 'Missed you at work; 'Could only think of my beautiful girl all alone at home," he says between moans. "My good fucking girl," he growls as he moves her hair from her face just to return to her throat. His thrust never faltered either, his words, and admiration, all pushing her over the edge so hard she went limp. "Did I fuck you too dumb, baby? Awe, my poor baby." He then pushes her face back into the mattress, spreading her cheeks to gain better access to his cock moving into her pussy repeatedly. "Take me so well," he groans, massaging the fatty flesh of her rump.

Y/n was too far into subspace to talk. She could barely even comprehend his dirty words, plus the painful pleasure she had from overstimulation of her recent orgasm was going straight to her head.

He continues to fuck her, eventually picking her back up and carrying her to the bathroom—while fucking her. Her arms wrap around his shoulder lazily, his hands steadily gripping her ass to push her onto his cock repeatedly. He lays her down in the huge circle bathtub, turning the water on and continuing his work to chase his own orgasm. "Baby, fucking love you and your pussy, both of my girls make me so happy," he then doubles over, his face going for her neck, stifled whimpers escaping his mouth traveling from her neck to her ears.

Y/n holds him, her hands rubbing his back as he finishes for the third time inside of her. "I love you too, dear," she whispers. He whimpers causing her to chuckle. "Too sensitive?" She asks, feeling his dick twitch inside of her. He nods into her and she splashes water onto his body. "You wanna take a nap in the bathtub?"

He moves his face to look at her with a dumbfounded expression. "Honey, as much as I love being in your embrace, I don't want to risk you drowning."

[lazyjellyfish300]

12 𝑫𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝑺𝒎𝒖𝒕𝒎𝒂𝒔 ~ 𝑫𝒂𝒚 𝑭𝒐𝒖𝒓

Synopsis: Christmas Eve baking turns smutty with Coach!Miguel 🍪🎄Words 1.2k

CW: MINORS DNI, X FEM!READER, LIGHT ANGST, DIVORCE, FLUFF, SMUT(P IN V, BREAST/NIPPLE PLAY, FINGERING, CUM)

a/n: was supposed to be written for a dear moot 😭💕 ILY Vicky wherever you are. 😭🎄🎁

12 days of smutmas masterlist 🎁🎄

dividers by @/saradika-graphics,pics from Pinterest

"And now we need to add three cups of flour...haah, Miguel, are you paying attention...?"

You slowly breathed out as you felt a faint tickle at the nape of your neck. A fanning breath from your tall husband at your back. 

Miguel's eyes, coarse and rich like the chocolate chips he loved to steal out of the bag(and denied doing so), hang heavy with the irresistible sight in front of him, large hands gliding sensually over the soft shape of your bare body underneath your snowman apron that thinly shrouded his most favorite parts of you that would soon be unraveled at his unhurried leisure. 

Baking naked together had been your idea, but soon you discovered this little plan of yours may have entailed more than you bargained for when the added element of being snowed in and deprived of one another for weeks came with a heavy dose of raw desire fueled by the tranquil atmosphere. 

It was Christmas Eve. All light in the apartment was non-existent except for the residual glow of multi-colored lights and fireplace that carried from the adjacent living room, bathing the air in a way that was subdued and balmy.

Little Gabriella's jovial cries that once graced the halls were at her mother, Dana's, and Miguel had awaited this night with dread knowing this would be the first year he'd be forced to go without hearing them after the foundation of his home had been shaken.

Enter you, and, for the first in a long while, the feelings of loneliness were kept at bay long enough that he started to believe that Christmas could feel whole once again from having the assurance and warmth of another person by his side. 

Now, it was here, in the intimate solitude on the dawn of the holiday, that the festive backdrop of Nat King Cole on casual repeat only further endeared you to this gorgeous man that awakened the parts of you that you thought were asleep. 

"Miguel..." 

"I'm listening..." He mumbled worshipfully as his hands couldn't help but portray the opposite, skimming lowly along the raised surface of goosebumps that pebbled all over your naked back. 

He hums as a rough palm skids past the pale blue canvas that hugged your bare breasts, in search of the perky nipples that were hardening underneath his lingering touch. "Three cups of flour, and then..." 

He pauses as his knuckles brushed what hair concealed the smooth skin of your neck away from him, leaving a prolonged kiss in his wake.

"And then..." You let out a haggard breath as the recipe book you were holding clattered to the floor, bracing both hands in a death grip on the flour dusted countertop. "Goddamn it, Miguel..." 

You sighed and parted your thighs, making way for Miguel's thick finger that made tantalizing work of slow circles along the pearly slick that had begun to build steadily and drip ever since the winter sun  had dipped below the horizon. 

"I think it was vanilla extract..." He purred as his solid muscle bestowed you warmth more potent than the mild cackles of the fireplace that hummed against your ear. 

He squeezed your left breast in his free hand while his finger rubbed along the wet puffy lips of your cunt, just ghosting past your velvety clit that pulsed more steadily with each passing movement. "Did it come before, or after the eggs...?" 

"Miguel..." You huffed as you bit back a smile with lustful frustration when he buried his face in your neck. "Don't play with my pussy and expect me to give you coherent answers." 

"I'm not the one who insisted on baking with no clothes on." 

"Well, what about the fundraiser...?" You asked in a honey ladden tone as you turned around and coyly cocked your head to allow him more access. 

"Grocery store's open after Christmas..." He smiled against your neck before sinking to his knees and disappearing underneath your apron, feeling the brush of his wavy umber locks as those plump lips teased along your left inner thigh, followed by the right. 

"Fuck the fundraiser. Miguel, don't stop..."

You sighed as the ingredients were haphazardly pushed to the side in the heat of blinding passion, going back to those breathy pleas when your bare back met the coolness of the granite countertop, calves resting on his shoulders as Miguel began to slowly lap at the warm, glistening feast in front of him. 

Perhaps the divorce did shift things, yes, but something long lasting was being forged in flour dusted cheeks and too much tea. 

You reflected as the inner corners of your eyes began to wet with fuzzy pleasure when his slick coated jaw underneath those mesmerizing brown eyes came up to gaze at you as one long finger gently pushed past your dribbling entrance, followed by a second. 

He watched, entranced as he wetly squelched and massaged each one of his fingers in and out of you until it coated his wedding ring. 

It was cemented in the kind of laughter that aches your belly and the ember your lover ignites with a look from across the room that comes from months of inhabiting the other's space. The knowing that comes from loving. You and him. 

Now, your apron was discarded somewhere along the fervid trail that departed the kitchen, and your back was arched beautifully against the plushy cushions of the couch. You raised your chin, your pretty lips parting as the soft bottoms of your feet gently grazed the subtle pudge of fat that sat just above his grey flecked, darkened bush. Every sculpted detail about Miguel that embodied his strength was illuminated in the orangey glow of the burning fire behind him. 

You wondered if in a past life your deeds were so benevolent that they had to be rewarded in the present with the tender love of this man who found you when you were not looking. 

This same man who was now steadily fucking his thick, veiny cock into you by the expiring fire with the passion of a million unspoken words. 

A waffle making technique that became perfected because of a pair of glittering eyes with a shiver of sleep in them one autumn morning said she preferred them over pancakes. 

He leaned on his forearms as he cradled the halo along your jawline which was brought out by the shadow of his form swallowing yours, using the position to sink his cock more deeply into the wealth of silky wetness between your thighs that dripped and massaged each groove of his cock. 

Your legs squeezed him like the ice that frosted the streets and quiet rooftop that hung over you both in this heated fest of steamy lovemaking. Miguel panted as his cock strained and his balls drew impossibly tighter with each soft bounce of your breasts with every deliberate thrust of himself into you. 

Syrupy, milky white soon leaked all over your soft mound, coating both forests of your pubes in a sinful gloss. 

The fire wasn't so quickly extinguished, however, as he slowly traced the fat tip around your weeping hole, using the mixture to allow himself to quickly slip inside you deeply again with another groan, nails digging in his back as you prepared for another round of many that would surely last until the snowflakes no longer clung to the fresh blankets of  Christmas snow. 

---

[hyperfixiation-station]

Lighter

Summary: You and Ghost are on a mission and you take a bullet for him. With evac too far out and next to 0 medical supplies, the only way to keep you alive is to cauterize the wound.

TW: Blood, graphic depictions of injuries, angst

Part 2

Part 3

You had been shot, the bullet lodging itself in your hip, just barely nicking your artery. You were headed back to the extraction point, mission completed, when something rammed into your left hip, sending you stumbling back. The white-hot pain came a second later. 

Ghost dragged you to cover, cursing your stupidity the whole way. He tore your shirt off, using one hand to stem the bleeding while the other fumbled with the med kit.  Now, you were propped up against a wall, pale and shaking as Ghost labored in vain to stop the bleeding, pressing gauze into the wound, then replacing it ten seconds later in a never-ending cycle. 

"I don't think gauze is going to stop the bleeding." You wheeze, breath ragged. Your eyes flick to the growing pile of red-soaked cloth, then to your blood-slicked skin, then to Ghost’s masked face. 

"No... No, it won't. But it buys us time." Ghost murmurs as he applies more pressure. One hand comes up to his shoulder and he clicks the radio. 

"We need a medevac to our location. ASAP." You shake your head, knowing that they won’t get to you before you bleed out. Your eyes flick down to your belt, where a lighter sits, and you get a terrible, horrible, possibly-only-option idea.

"I have...a lighter..." You rasp out before you can change your mind. 

"You want to cauterize it?!" Ghost asks you incredulously. "You’re fuckin’ insane."

"It's better...than bleeding...to death" You gasp, eyes fluttering. 

Ghost hesitates, the thought of causing you such intense pain making him wince. "You're right... but, bloody hell…I can't do it. I can't hurt you."

"Do...you want...me to die?" You wheeze, smiling weakly at him. 

"No... No, I..." Ghost bites his lip and closes his eyes, visibly trying to find the strength to do this. He gently pulls your jacket off, folding and tying it around your mouth, shoving the cloth in between your teeth so you don’t bite your tongue off. 

He hesitantly pulls the lighter from your pocket, flicking it on. He straddles you, holding you in place with his thighs as he brings the flame to your wound.

“You ready?" he asks softly. You nod shakily, and Ghost hesitantly lights the flame. As he brings the lighter closer, the heat sears your skin. You scream against the gag and try to escape the source of pain, body involuntary jerking away from it. Your skin and blood bubbles, quickly sealing the wound shut. 

Your body seizes, your screams muffled by the gag. Ghost lets go of the lighter, certain that the bleeding has stopped, but he doesn’t get off of you. He holds you in place as your body jerks involuntarily, wiping tears from your cheeks. 

"I'm so sorry," he whispers, "I'm sorry...I’m so sorry." Ghost winces and places his hands over the burn, trying to apply pressure and dull the pain as much as he can. He brushes your hair from your face, frowning at how clammy and pale your skin is. He places his fingers against your neck, feeling for your pulse. Your breath comes in ragged, rapid gasps, and your pulse is quick and thready.

He finally gets off, his hands deftly tape gauze over the burn, protecting it from the elements. 

You let out a ragged sob, curling up around your injury, pain radiating through your body. A weight is placed over your body and distantly you recognize that Ghost put his jacket over you. You float away, the only tether to your body being his hand on your shoulder. I don't think seeing my own body is a good thing you think, but it's a passing thought, not concerning you. From above, you watch him tap your cheek, trying to get you to wake up. But you just stare at him with unfocused eyes, trembling. 

“C’mon Y/N.” He says, gently tapping your face. He looks at your unresponsive form worriedly.

"Fuck." He moves your body, positioning it so that your legs are slightly elevated, resting on his lap. 

“Soap,” He calls into the radio, “You’ll have to come to us. She’s gone into shock.” 

"Fuck. Alright, we’re three minutes out, Lt." His voice is distorted and staticky, “we’re going as fast as we can.” 

Ghost nods, though Soap can’t see him. He looks at your pale, ashen face and prays to a god he doesn't believe in that you’ll make it to tomorrow.

The next three minutes pass agonizingly slow. Every time your breath hitches he fears it's your last. His heart hurts at the pain etched on your unconscious face, and he rests his hand on your thigh, hoping to provide some comfort. 

The sound of an approaching helicopter grows louder, and Ghost’s could almost cry in relief. 

Dust and debris blow around as the helicopter hovers, ropes dropping down from above. A medic drops down, followed by Soap, and they help Ghost load you onto a stretcher, securing you and letting you be pulled up before following. 

“Hang in there Little Bird.” Soap says, placing an oxygen mask over your face. The medic tucks a shock blanket around you and takes your blood pressure, unable to do much else with limited supplies. 

“You alright Lt?” He asks Ghost, checking over to make sure he isn’t injured either.

“Fine.” He snaps, pausing to take a deep breath before continuing in a softer tone, “They took the bullet for me.” Soap nods in understanding, looking at your limp form before looking back to Ghost. 

“They’ll be okay.” He pauses as the helicopter hits turbulence, steadying your stretcher with his hand, “They’re one of the toughest people I know.” 

Your eyes flutter open several minutes later, vision hazy, ears ringing, and head spinning. There’s people talking to you, at least, you think there are, but the voices are quiet and distorted. The last thing you see before being pulled back under is Ghost, standing above you. 

Ghost sits in the waiting room, still dressed in his blood-soaked clothes. He sits in the hard plastic chair, not moving an inch for the entire 4 hours the doctors have you in surgery. 

Soap and Price sit with him in silence for the first couple of hours, but are called away before you get out of surgery. Ghost doesn't even acknowledge them as they leave, eyes fixated on the OR doors had been rushed through. 

The second the door to the OR swings open Ghost is up, towering over the surgeon who came out to deliver the news. 

"How are they?" He asks harshly. 

"They, um, lost 1.2 liters of, um, blood, and their, um, left hip bone was, um shattered. A bone fragment, um, broke off and ripped through some important bits, causing some, um, internal bleeding. They are, um, stable now, but they did, um, flatline 3, um, 3 times on the table." The nurse stutters out.

"Are they awake?"

"Um, no sir, um they are, um, in a coma, we're not, um, we don't know when, um, when they are, um, going to wake up, um, of they, um, wake up." The nurse, who couldn't be older than 20 says timidly, "if they can, um, make it through the, um, night then we-we believe they'll pull through." 

"Can I see them?" Ghost asks, voice marginally softer. 

He's led to a bed in the ICU, where you lay pale and lifeless. There's a tube down your throat, tubes in your arms, and wires crisscrossing everywhere. He sits down, tentatively grabbing your limp hand, careful to avoid pulling your IV out. 

His eyes unfocus as he stares at your limp form, your blood-curdling screams echoing in his ears. The guilt he feels at the fact that you got shot protecting him, that he caused you pain, makes him physically sick. He didn't deserve to be saved, and he definitely didn't deserve to be sitting in your room, holding your hand. 

The atmosphere of the ICU did not help with Ghost's silent existential crisis. The constant beeping, the lighting, the moans and groans, the ever-constant presence of the nurse were all succeeding in putting his nerves even more on edge. 

He tenses as the monitor by your bed starts beeping wildly, lights flashing. Medics rush in, shoving Ghost to this side as they check your body.

"-pressure is dropping!" 

"-oxygen to their-"

"-failing. Need to-"

"-already had one!"

A nurse grabs Ghost by the arm, marching him out of the ICU and pushing him into a chair in the hallway.

"You just wait right here, sugar. I'm gonna go get you a glass o' water while they try to save your sweetheart, okay?" She says gently.

His hands shake, barely, as he takes the cup, his eyes trained on the window of the ICU, through which he can see multiple medical professionals surrounding you. 

Please, he begs silently, I need to apologize. Please hold on for me. He knows it is selfish and he feels disgusting for even thinking it, but he doesn't know what he'd do if he never got to tell how sorry he was he hurt you. Please.

Pt.2?

[chelemlem]

For the prompts: 5 times Oscar takes care of Lando and 1 time Lando takes care of him Back!

ty anon! hope u don't mind that i combined 2 prompts + made it LOVE ISLAND AU ↓ (why is this 1k)

"Watch your step," their driver says sharply, half a second before Lando's loafers slip on a particularly wet patch of earth climbing out the car.

"Cheers, mate," Lando says, heart thundering. Jesus. Fine way to start off his reality T.V career. Week one and out of the running 'cause he split his head open on some fucking rocks. 

Lando extracts his fingers from around the guy's bicep. Huh, not bad. He wasn’t trying to cop a feel, but.

"Anytime."

And he’s back to squinting at something on his digital notebook. Pale and rumpled, he looks out of place in the Majorca sunshine. There's a subtle furrow between his brows, like he’s got a long list of tasks to get through, and Lando’s just the first.

"That was close," George fusses, strategically sliding an arm around Lando's shoulder in a way that both highlights their height difference and show off his delts. One of those posh Cotswold types; harmless enough. Lando'd picked him for his first date because at the end of the day, they wanted the same thing—to win.

"Yeah, scary," Lando blinks up at him. Giggles for the cameras.

 

Lando's going to quit. 

Or like. Sue someone. He stares down at his pre-packaged meal, stomach turning. This was the one thing, the one thing he listed as part of his dietary restrictions, and still—

A shadow falls across his lap.

"Here," the PA from before says. Brown hair, thighs. Oscar?

Lando eyes the unmarked takeaway box hovering in front of him with suspicion. It smells okay. And anything's better than fish.

"Chicken rice," Oscar clarifies, handing him a spoon to match. "Thai okay?"

Oh. Lando gives him a smile, small but genuine. So someone did read the profile they made him write. Who would've thought?

Oscar clears his throat. "If you need anything else, just—I'll be over there."

He hightails it to where Luisa and the other girls are holding court around the firepit, sliding his headset back on as he goes. Nice arse too. 

Crew aren't allowed to speak to the islanders, if Max’s rudimentary Reddit trawl is to be believed, but whatever. Lando's not one for rules anyway.

He tucks into his chicken rice and tries to think of other things he needs. 

"There's a new bombshell arriving today," Oscar casually lets slip at mic-up. Quietly, under his breath.

The fuck? It's only been forty-eight hours since Nyck got here. Or maybe longer—who the fuck knows with the way time passes in the villa. There's nothing to do but tan and flirt, the sun setting on the same listless, lazy day forever. Forever. 

But more importantly—

"They hotter than me?"

Oscar's face does this put-upon little thing before sliding back to neutral. Instead of responding, he winds the mic pack around Lando's waist, bending down to secure it at his hips. 

Lando knows how to do it himself by now. Oscar knows Lando knows.

"By a fair bit, I reckon," he says finally, and escapes before Lando can call him a liar. 

"Also, you've got a terrible poker face. At least pretend to be touched when he surprises you with breakfast." 

"He made me eggs and toast, mate. Not exactly Michelin-star, is it?" Or chicken rice, for that matter.

Oscar sighs. "Next week's vote's going to the public. Just so you know."

Lando's not worried. He's survived this long—longer than Daniel, even, who won fan favourite, week two—so clearly there's something he's doing right.

He sort of wants out, anyway. He misses his phone. God, he misses sex. Everyone talks a big game, but when it actually comes down to it they're fucking, like, shy about doing it in front of the cameras. And the cameras are bleeding everywhere. Lando would know.

The only reprieve, or something like it, is—Oscar. 

He's not exactly forthcoming with chatter, but through the power of being cute and annoying, Lando learns a lot about him anyway. 

Like how he's a fan of the cricket. And he's got three sisters, none of whom give a fuck about the show. And how apparently being a former cub scout makes him some kind of authority on tying people up. 

"Just saying those knots seemed loose, is all." 

Lando feels a smirk coming on. "Watching, were you?" 

Oscar rolls his eyes. "I review the Hideaway footage to make sure it's fit for broadcast, yes."

"Kinky."

"Good job. Really defended my honour there." 

"Fuck off," Oscar says, surprisingly calm for someone with bruises trawling the side of their face.

"Dunno why you thought you could take him. He's got like two stone and six centimetres on you. And Charles heard he's done amateur boxing—"

"Got one decent one in there, at least?"

"Element of surprise, s'all it was."

Lando gives up with the bandages. He has no idea what he's doing—and his hands are shaking too much to be of any real use. Best leave it to medical.

"Oscar," he says, rubbing his eyes. His thumb comes away damp. Christ, this better not end up on telly. "The fuck were you thinking, mate." 

Oscar exhales long and hard. His voice is softer when he says: "Sorry. Wasn't really… thinking."

Lando punches his arm lightly—the good one.

"Next time, just. Ask me out normally, alright?"

"They're not firing me," Oscar's voice sounds stunned through the phone, coloured with relief. It's the most emotion Lando's ever heard out of him. Well, second most. "Did you—?"

"My agent said me and Carlos can call it quits two months after the finale," Lando interrupts. It's important, after all.

There's quiet over the line. He can hear Oscar breathing. In out, in out. 

"And what did you say?"

Lando leans forward, against the dash of his borrowed McLaren. The one he's being paid to drive around in, posting selfies with wine and roses in the passenger's. 

Runner's up is first loser and all that, but. It's still a pretty good deal.

"Told her I'll do two weeks." 

[derww]

DAY 1: HEARTS

Void hums under his foot. Quartz cage bends towards the ground. Heat of a thousand suns reflects into the indifferent cosmos. He clutches the black needle in his hand.

– I don't belong here, – Subz says. He grabs Deliverance by the blade and hands the handle to Vitalasy. – Kill me.

And Vi looks... confused. In a human way. And then throws po potion at his feet. Subz drinks milk. Vi pales. He's not trying again.

– I won't take it, – he says in a dead voice, – I won't take it.

The last time Subz saw him, Vi's hands were smeared with blood. How did they even end up here?

– Kill me, – Subz repeats. Vitalasy takes Deliverance from his hands only to throw it aside. –  It's okay. You don't need me.

He should have known the consequences, being the one Vi held by hand when they were walking on the air. He should have, because he was the only one who saw how brightly Vi's eyes shone the moment he realized that – at least for one moment – he was standing above everyone else. Subz failed – and was probably doomed to fail.

– Never, – Vitalasy whispers, – we will go through this as always. Together. And in the end, I will give you any world you want.

If they want us to be villains, then let's be the villains, Subz once said, confident that there was nothing that could terrify him. Vi took only a couple of steps to the side to fall. One desire to punish, to demonstrate superiority, to rise so high that he could no longer be touched.

A very small shift, and in response to the attempted trap, he killed everyone there. Because he was a god, and they dared to decide that they could just get rid of him. And then he put Zam in a barrier box. 

"Are you happy with how things turned out?" Zam asked him the only time they met – a disaster with blood-smeared knuckles and faded sighs in 2x1 space. "Are you happy?" he asked again. "Please say yes. Then at least something is as it should be." At that moment, Subz realized that he couldn't handle it.

He sees how Vi plunges a clawed paw into his own chest to extract nineteen stars from it – not so much an intention as a gesture.

– If you're not going to be here, then I'm not going to be here either, – he says evenly. – I will always follow you.

Subz knows: This Vi would not have done this if he had allowed even for a moment that it was a real risk. They could be best friends, but Vitalasy was a god, and Subz was a simple mortal, and Vi could only play games with him. Pretend that the steaks are real. After all, only with equals do you speak on equal terms, and Subz refused.

– You are their god, – he says indifferently, – you can't leave. Otherwise, Spoke will take over this world.

It's not what he thinks. But that's what Vitalasy thinks – that no matter how cruel he is, he will always be the better alternative to Spoke. Vi was not wrong. But somewhere along the way, he almost lost himself.

– Don't leave me, – Vitalasy begs, – Be with me. Stay for me.

He shakes his head.

– My time has come.

Even pulling away from everyone, even running away, even throwing away the communicator, sooner or later the moment comes when the dying world infects even your beautiful garden.

Before becoming a person, a warrior, or a son, Subz became a blacksmith. Before he could read and write, he learned how to forge weapons. Deliverance has never been just his sword. It was made more as a ritual than a practical tool. Needed enough to give your own heart for it.

– Don't do this to me, – Vi asks, and Subz sighs. How soon will he try to put me in a barrier prison too? He thinks. How long will he pretend that I have free will?

Godhood changes you. How can you think about worldly adversities and nuances when divine power allows you to distort the world in the way you want, no matter how stubborn it is?

– Just do it, – Subz says instead of answering. He picks up Deliverance from the floor. – do it, and it's over. I have no more phases of the moon left.

And Vi hugs him – across the body, desperately but carefully, as if he were a statue made of glass. Vi's robes surround him like a cocoon. Subz feels cold.

There was one thing that was true above all else: Subz loved Vitalasy, and Vitalasy loved Subz. They existed for each other and owed nothing to this world. This world used them, this world mutilated them, this world destroyed them. They were within their rights to repay it for this. They had the right to kill them all. And again, and again, and again...

He intuitively easily changes the grip of the deliverance and then plunges it right into the Vi's stomach. The sword pierces him like a knife into butter, denying immortality and untouchability.

Vi does not look scared or angry. He looks... surprised.

– What?... 

Subz plunges the sword even deeper, and then rips it out. Vitalasy falls like a helpless doll on the floor of this sterile, beautiful, indifferent base. 

Ash left him not-quite-right sword this winter. And Subz forged the Deliverance, a blade that does not distinguish between people and gods. It was never intended for Vi.

– I'm sorry, – he says, – I'm really sorry, Vitalasy. I love you. I am so sorry.

– Then... – Vi begins, suffocating, and Subz manages to read the "why" on his rapidly numbing lips. Subz silently shakes his head and strokes Vi's hair, giving him at least a bit of comfort.

Vitalasy freezes. The bubbling hum of the ban rolls through the dead silence of the End. And then his corpse explodes with items – bedrock and barriers, enchanted apples, a pair of speed boots, and assorted potions. There are exactly twenty stars among them. 

Even in their current state, they are drawn to each other, striving to gather in constellations. Subz burns everything except them. He carefully collects the hearts in the palm of his hand and hides them in the enderchest. They continue to beat almost imperceptibly. Subz stares at them in silence. He turns his gaze to the boundless cosmos of the End.

– I'll see you, – he promises, – and I will not fail you ever again.

[mychoombatheroomba]

. . . Don't Break

Between the Bones (Leon x GN! Reader) - Chapter 33

Anger had kept you going through the last year . . . and it would get you through this now.

(Cross-posted from Ao3)

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Chapter Index

CW once again for torture and physical injury. I don't go too into heavy detail but once again, just thought I'd give fair warning!

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Your fingers against the bars. You couldn’t keep them still, as much as you tried. Since the masked men and their pale-eyed master had dragged Leon away, you hadn’t moved from your spot at the bars. You hadn’t taken your hands off the metal, because all you could think about was what they were doing.

How they were hurting him. And you were certain that they were hurting him.

You could feel it, like something crawling just beneath your skin. Something that moved too fast to extract. To cut out. 

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

The tapping was your nerves manifesting. You knew that. You wished you could control it better, but those thoughts were getting the better of you. You’d resolved that the tapping was all you were going to give them. Others in your squad decided they would show their resistance in other ways.

“The fuck you looking at, cabrón?” Valeria hissed through the bars, a few cells down. You couldn’t quite tell if she was furious, scared, or both. 

The man on the receiving end of her ire didn’t seem bothered. The second of the two men in suits was tall. Thin. He had the same dark hair as the other pale-eyed man, but his features were different. Completely unremarkable, his face unreadable. He just watched you all as he patrolled up and down the cells, silent and unsympathetic. Unbothered. 

But each time he got to your cell, at the end . . . his gaze lingered. In a way that only made your anger grow each time he passed you. Your anger and worry. For yourself. For your squad. For Leon.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

And those feelings burrowed deeper and became a hard truth when, after what felt like an hour or so, the door at the end of the cell block opened, and you heard footsteps. You tried not to press your face against the bars to see better. Tried not to make it so obvious to these potentially hostile men that you cared for Leon. That you-

You didn’t get to finish the thought when you saw four figures approaching. One suit - the man with the pale eyes - leading the way. Behind him were two masked, armored men. A figure slouched and limp between them, his sun-bleached blond hair was dark and dripping as his head hung low-

The tapping of your fingers against the bars stopped. Your grip tightened and you had to fight back the urge to scream at the men. To rage against the metal. 

That fear and anger made you feel like you could break free of the cell’s confines then and there. You felt so much emotion that you were sure nothing could contain you.

But all the anger in the world wouldn’t give you the strength you needed to break through those bars. To help Leon as he was dragged back into his cell and unceremoniously dropped onto the cot that hung off the wall. 

So you clenched your jaw. Forced yourself to remain silent. Taking some tiny solace in the fact that he moved, however weakly, once he was let go. Once the doors were closed. 

He was alive. He was hurting, but he was alive. 

“Kennedy?” Alenko didn’t bother hiding his concern, even as the pale-eyed man walked to his cell next. “What the fuck did you do to him?” he demanded. Maybe because he knew that, whatever it was that had happened to Leon, he was going to be experiencing it now. “Get your hands off of me!” 

The masked men didn’t listen, though, and soon he was forced down the cell block where Leon had just returned from. 

You looked desperately between Alenko and Leon, trying to give the man being dragged away a reassuring look. You wanted to be concerned for him, and you were, but seeing Leon, with water dripping down his nose, his face and hair and just the collar of his shirt wet . . . you knew what they’d done to him. Test or not, there was no way to fake torture. And he’d struggled hard against them, you could see it in the angry red lines across his wrists, where it looked like restraints had dug into his flesh. 

He didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve any of this.

But you knew it didn’t matter what people did or didn’t deserve. Not in this world. 

So, as Alenko was pulled away, thrashing and struggling all the way, you could only look at Leon from across the bars. Wishing you could reach for him. Hold him. Wishing you could tear apart the people that did this to him. People like that second, unremarkable man who continued to pace up and down the cells.

“Kennedy,” Alejandro called out to him, even if he couldn’t see him. “You okay, brother?” 

There was no answer, and that leash you’d kept on your fear was tugged. Threatening to break. 

“Come on, Kennedy.” Williams this time. She was told to be quiet by the man in the suit, but you paid him little mind. 

You only focused on the man you’d come to care for so much over the last several months. The man you’d promised yourself you would burn the world for, and who you hadn’t been able to save from this. 

“Leon,” you said at last, when you couldn’t take it anymore. “Get up.” Because you had to know he was alright. That there wasn’t more damage than you already suspected. 

And it took a moment, but there was a huff. Then a voice that was raw and strained. “That an order, Sarge?” 

And then he was pushing himself up with no small amount of difficulty. Leon always got back up. You should have known better. 

“Damn right it is-”

“Quiet.” The man in the suit spoke, walking closer to you. The first word you’d heard him say, it occurred to you. Not that you were planning on listening to it.

“You broken?” you asked, as Leon stood, seeing the spent look on his face. The redness of his eyes. The slump of his shoulders. 

Still, he shook his head. “Not yet.” 

Of course not. He’d fight them all ‘til his last breath. 

That idea, when being held by strangers whose intentions were unclear, was what scared you. 

“What did they ask you?” Because if you knew, then it might give you some clue into who these people were and what they wanted. Comforting Leon was not something you could do well right now. Working towards getting you all out of here was. 

And by the way his eyes met yours, you knew Leon was thinking the same thing. “If I was training for STRATCOM, who I was training with, how many-” 

“I told you to be quiet.” The man watching from outside the bars approached like a thunderstorm rolling in. 

You didn’t listen.

So, maybe you shouldn’t have been surprised when, as you started to ask further questions, a blur of movement caught your eye. You didn’t have enough time to react before the baton smashed into your fingers, the same ones you’d been drumming against the bars of your cell. Not hard enough to break them, but damn well hard enough to hurt. Your fingers had been caught in sparring enough times that you were familiar with the pain, but the fact that you weren’t bracing for it, that your hand was smashed against the metal bars so abruptly tore a cry of pain from you. You recoiled from the blow, yanking your hand back into the safety of the cell.

The voice that sounded from past your attacker was familiar in sound, not in tone. The voice that you’d come to associate with comfort sounded more like a growl, then. “Don’t fucking touch-”  

Leon’s rage was matched only by your own, because you’d just been hit like a dog in a cage. Like you were a pet that was misbehaving. 

And you didn’t fucking like it. 

“I said,” the man spoke with a condescending tone, looking between you and Leon like he’d just won something, “be quiet.” 

So, you locked eyes with the man who’d hit you. The man in his perfectly pressed suit, with his slicked-back hair and plain features. Plain, but for the sharpness of his eyes. A look that almost begged you to speak up again. To give him a reason. 

“Do you need a further reminder?”

Fuck him. Fuck all of them.

You stayed silent, letting your eyes do the talking. Letting fury pour out of your stare. If looks could kill, that molten rage would melt this man and the metal bars between you and him. As it was, he didn’t look bothered by the heat of it in the slightest. 

Instead, once he was satisfied that you weren’t going to make another sound, he carried on with his patrol. 

Leon moved towards you, opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again when you shook your head. Not the kind of trouble you all needed to be making. Not yet. 

If you couldn’t talk, then you’d have to trade information another way. 

Not that you had long to think about trying to remember tap code, or hand signals you could flash to Leon and the others. About half an hour went by, it felt like - much less time than with Leon - and then Alenko was dragged back to his cell, completely passed out, by the looks of things. 

You didn’t get the opportunity to be worried for him. 

“This one was talkative while you were gone,” the man who hit you pointed a gloved finger in your direction. “I believe you have a volunteer.” 

You didn’t say anything as the guards came into your cell. You tried not to look at Leon as you were dragged away. You knew that if you did, you would only see his worry, his fear, and you couldn’t let that compromise you. Not when you needed to be steel. 

Still, you heard him rush up to the bars as you were pulled away, and your eyes found his against your will. 

Leon looked like he was somewhere else. Not here in that cell, but a hundred miles away. You didn’t know what about this situation took him there, but you knew exactly where he was. His eyes may have stared at you in desperation, but his mind was stuck in the ashen ruins of Raccoon City. 

You tried not to think of that look as you were tied to the chair in another room. 

The pale-eyed man stood over you now, his suit just as perfectly pressed as before. Like he hadn’t just tortured two men. Like he wasn’t about to torture you. 

It hit you then like a dousing of cold water - an ironic feeling, considering what was about to happen. You were about to be tortured. And you couldn’t do shit about it.

Except maybe spill whatever secrets they asked of you.

“Sergeant,” the man said, and you were grateful for him commanding your attention away from the masked men around you. They weren’t gas masks, but still, their presence stirred memories you needed to keep buried right now. 

The pale-eyed man gave you his spiel. Answer his questions honestly and this would be over quickly. You vaguely wondered if Alenko had passed out before or after he’d caved and answered said questions. If Leon had given in. Didn’t matter to you now, you supposed. All that mattered was the fact that this asshole had tortured your friends. That alone was enough for you to decide he wasn’t getting a damn thing out of you. 

So, you just stared up at him, your lips pressed in a firm line as he began asking questions. 

“Are you training to be an operative of the US Strategic Command?”

“Who is your commanding officer?” 

“Where is your base?”

“What are you training for?” 

“How many people are training alongside you?” 

All the questions Leon had started to warn you about. You just stared up at him, mouth sealed shut. You weren’t going to answer anything. Not a damn thing. You were good at being silent. At not letting people see you, hear you. You’d been better before Leon, but it was like riding a bike, building those walls back up.

But then-

“How did Captain Simon Reynolds die?” 

It took everything in you not to flinch as he spoke the name imprinted on the third dog tag you wore. Still, you were sure the man interrogating you had the satisfaction of seeing your eyes flash, of seeing that carefully constructed expression you wore falter. 

Because you dreamed every night of how Simon Reynolds died. 

You would know that face anywhere, even with the tarnish of rot on it like it was now. Eyes that had been wise and warm were now empty, his skin paled by death. His fatigues were covered in blood, and his mouth hung open in a silent scream. Part of his head was missing from where you’d shot him. Where you’d killed him. 

“Captain . . .” you breathed. 

“How did he die?” 

You clenched your jaw as an answer. Glared up at the pale-eyed man above you. Glared as you refused to answer, and you were tipped backwards, a cloth pressed over your face. 

Even as the water filled your lungs, even as you thrashed desperately, you tried to hold on to your anger. Anger had gotten you through the worst days. It had been the fuel to your fire for a year now, before Leon had given you another reason to carry on. Anger had been what kept you alive, when you lay in the snow with shattered ribs and blood pouring from poorly sealed wounds. Anger had kept you fighting when you were in the hospital, when you’d returned to training. Anger at Umbrella, at the man who hurt you, at the world for taking so much. 

And even as you choked on the water poured over you, even as it burned your nose and you felt yourself drowning, anger was what kept you from begging them for mercy when it stopped. 

Your chair was tipped back forward, and you coughed the water out of your lungs, taking heaving breaths. Your damaged ribs made the process agony, left you gritting your teeth and growling. It took everything in you not to cry out. You wondered how long that resolve would last. 

“I’ll ask you again,” the pale-eyed man said, when you were done expelling the water from your system. “And I will keep asking until I get an answer, however many hours or days it takes.” You knew he wasn’t lying. You knew what the immediate future held for you. For everyone in your squad. You knew you could spare yourself a lot of pain if you just answered. 

But test or not, it didn’t matter to you then. 

So, you just stared up in silence, your body shaking from the effort. Shaking with rage. You’d survived worse than this. 

You glared at the pale-eyed man again, memorizing his features. His cold eyes, his thin nose and lips, the lines between his brows . . . Taylor had earned your hatred, but this man . . . he was earning something darker. Something you hadn’t felt since that night you lay in the snow, watching a helicopter take off, glimpsing that gas mask one last time before its owner left you behind, shattered. 

You grabbed that unshakable fury and held on tight as your head was forced back once again. 

“Tell me . . .”

⧫⧫⧫

“. . . what was her name?” 

Leon almost didn’t hear the question. He couldn’t even hear himself think. Not after . . . however long he’d spent in that room. His eardrums hurt. He’d known that music could go that loud, in theory, but . . . 

He only knew the man was still asking about Claire, because it was what he’d asked the last time Leon had been dragged into this little room. And the time before that. This was his third visit, now. There were other questions, of course. He’d been asked more about STRATCOM, about Raccoon City. Things that could only be known from reading his report on the incident, or insider knowledge of how Umbrella worked. Leon hadn’t answered any of them. They’d moved on from trying to drown him in favor of leaving him alone with music blasting enough he thought his ears would quite literally bleed. Maybe they would, because he wasn’t going to give them the answers they were looking for. 

“Next time . . .” he said, his voice sounding so muted, so quiet, even if it felt like he was speaking at full volume, “. . . next time can you play the Spice Girls?” 

You would have laughed at the joke. 

If you were there. 

If you were back on base instead of in this hell. 

God, he wanted to see you laugh more than anything. 

As it was, he was just given a disapproving look as the man interrogating him heard his deflection. Very well, the man seemed to silently say, and then he was departing again, leaving Leon tied to the chair. Leaving him to brace for-

⧫⧫⧫

The blow. 

It cracked across your cheek, sharp and fast. Another bruise for the collection. Your whole squad was being decorated with them, and now it was your turn. Badges of honor, Valeria had called them, back at Fort Benning. 

Harder to see them that way, now. 

“How did he die?” 

The same fucking question. Over and over, occasionally interspersed with others, but it always came back to this one. 

You didn’t know why they’d want to know so bad. If this was Umbrella, they’d be focused more on STRATCOM. Your training methods. Not the death of your mentor. Not the bullets you’d been forced to put through his skull. 

The questions they asked told you they were CIA, running a test. 

The blows they landed on you, though . . . 

It didn’t matter. You’d taken hits before. So you gave the pale-eyed man the same answer you’d given him the last four times you’d been dragged in here. 

Fucking nothing.

So, you closed your eyes as the police baton on the table was taken up. Took a breath, and then, deciding you wanted to see the swing coming . . .

⧫⧫⧫

His eyes snapped open.

Leon hadn’t even realized that he’d drifted off, but as he felt hands around his leg and over his shoulder, he realized that he’d been asleep on the cot in his cell. And that whoever was holding you all wouldn’t allow that. 

He was just a bit too slow to stop them, his whole body aching from where the baton had impacted, however many hours ago that had been. It made him slower. Weaker. 

Enough that he failed to shake the guard off him as he was pulled off the cot, landing hard on the concrete floor. 

“Feeling tired?” 

Leon had hoped for a few more hours without hearing the pale-eyed man’s voice. 

“You can rest . . . if you answer my question.” 

Leon groaned as he pushed himself up from the floor. The same thing had happened the last time he’d tried to sleep. It had happened to you, and Alenko, and everyone else. They were keeping you all awake. It would be harder to resist that way. 

How long had you all been here? Two days? Three? How long could you all keep going like this? 

Leon didn’t know. So, he just glared up at the guard who’d pulled him from sleep, too exhausted to think of something witty to say. 

“Just fuck off.” 

For once, they listened, and Leon was left on the floor of his cell . . .

⧫⧫⧫

. . . and your eyes met his, across the way. 

You stared at him, slumped against the wall, trying to keep yourself awake. It was easier than you thought. All you had to do was breathe hard, then the pain in your ribs would flare, wrenching you back from the dark. 

You wished you could take that pain and turn it on the men doing this all to you. 

As it was, all you could do was look into Leon’s eyes. Seeing their brightness dimmed was perhaps worse than all the beatings, all the hours you spent in pain and discomfort. 

I’m sorry you got hurt, you’d said to him at Fort Benning, as you lay in his arms. 

You weren’t sorry now. You were full of hatred. Violence. 

⧫⧫⧫

Fury.

He was shaking with it as the piece of paper was held in front of him. 

There was writing on it. A little messy. Some words crossed out, like the person holding the glittery pen the letter was written in had made a spelling mistake, and then tried again. 

But only a few words were clear to him, in his pained, sleep-deprived state that stuck out to him. 

Hi Leon! 

The rest was jumbled, and the pale-eyed man didn’t let him look long enough to make sense of it all. What he did see, though, was a signature at the bottom, written in big letters. And it, more than anything else, pressed against his heart until it felt like it might crack beneath the weight. 

From, Sherry

She hadn’t written to him. 

He hadn’t heard a word from her since he started training. 

She hadn’t-

“That’s not fucking real.” 

That was all Leon could hiss out, because Sherry hadn’t written to him. He’d been okay with it. He’d assumed that meant that she was happy with her new family, and he’d been so wrapped up in training, so consumed in preparing for what he and Claire had saved her from, that he wasn’t even sure what he’d say to her. He couldn’t tell a child how much the military training hurt. How he barely got himself out of bed each morning. 

So he’d let it rest, convincing himself that Sherry was working towards happiness. 

“That’s not-” 

“There are others like it, Mr. Kennedy,” the pale-eyed man said simply, pulling the letter away and looking it over. “Fewer lately, but she does write them, every so often. I regret that you weren’t allowed to read them.” 

It had to be a joke. It had to be a test.

Because if it wasn’t, Leon was going to burn the fucking world down. 

“I’m assuming the ‘Claire’ she references in this is the woman who escaped with you all?” The man went on, and Leon nearly snapped out of the zip ties keeping him fastened to the chair. “Give me a last name . . . and I will see that you can read the rest of these letters.” 

And that, more than anything else, more than the pain and torture, threatened to break Leon’s resolve. 

To know that Sherry was alright, that she hadn’t forgotten him, that she wanted to know if he was alright too . . . 

But that was the point, wasn’t it? 

This whole experience was designed to break him, and since the physical pain hadn’t worked, they were switching tactics. Peeling away the layers of resistance until Leon was left with no choice but to answer that question. 

And in that moment, he almost did. 

God help him, he almost gave them what they wanted. Hell, they probably already knew Claire’s last name anyway, if they had Sherry’s letters. If they had seen Claire with Leon in the aftermath of Raccoon City. This was all likely just a test, terrible and cruel. What would be the harm in giving them information they already knew? 

His lips parted, his breath shaky as he felt the name Redfield forming in his mind . . .

And then those lips, cracked and chapped from dehydration and beatings alike, closed. He didn’t say anything this time as he refused, loyalty to a friend keeping him from answering. 

“Very well,” the pale-eyed man nodded. “Then we’ll just have to try something else, won’t we?” 

⧫⧫⧫

You’d known what was happening the second they pinned you to the wall. The minute the guards marched into your cell and uncuffed you. You’d fought them, but there were three of them and one of you. Those odds would have been good, if you weren’t pained and starved and sleep-deprived. If they weren’t wearing armor and you were in your now blood-stained and dirty fatigues. If your ribs weren’t still aching from the fight at Fort Benning. 

As it was, you did well enough. Landed a few blows. Punching one in the face, giving him a nice bruise under his mask, you hoped. 

In the end, though, you lost, and then one guard pinned one of your arms to the side of you, another doing the same on the other side. 

The pale-eyed man and his plain-featured companion filed into your cell, then, but their attention was not on you. Leon looked on in horror from across the cell block, no more than fifteen feet away as he gripped the bars. 

“What was her name?” the pale-eyed man asked. You didn’t know who he was talking about, but then, he wasn’t asking you, was he? 

Leon just looked on, his knuckles turning white around the bars of his cell. This must have been the question they fixated on for him. Just as they kept asking you about your Captain’s death. Were they asking about Ada? Or someone else? You didn’t know. All you knew was that they weren’t threatening him with pain this time, if he didn’t answer. Leon knew it too. It was why you could see him at war with himself in his own cell, his eyes wide, torn between active anger and a thousand-yard stare. 

You didn’t want more pain. You weren’t that self-punishing. You wanted this all to stop, for your sake and the sake of the bruised squad mates in the cells next to you. 

You didn’t know who the woman was that they were asking about, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the fact that Leon breaking and giving them her name could spare you this pain. 

So, for the first time in days, maybe, you spoke. “Leon,” you said, looking across at him. “Don’t give them a damn thing.” 

His jaw tightened. Eyes shining. You were asking him to let you get hurt. 

He’d told you once that he couldn’t just stand by and let you suffer pain. But now, he would have to. 

It filled you with a grim sort of pride as he nodded, looking away from you in guilt. 

“There was no one else,” he said. 

And then the plain-featured man stepped up to you. Smiled like he’d been waiting for this. 

The first hit was a slap to the face. 

You could hear Alenko in the cell next to Leon yelling at them to stop. To leave you alone. They didn’t listen, and neither did you. You retreated into yourself more and more with each hit. Every blow - all designed not to do you any permanent damage, you realized. Still, it hurt. You tried not to cry as unhealed bruises were added on to. As you eventually heard Leon’s voice break as he called out to you. 

“Stop it!” he begged, but his pleas fell on deaf ears. 

You were clenching your teeth so hard you thought they might shatter, but you could endure. You could survive. You could-

You screamed as an open palm connected with your midsection. A blow that connected with impossible strength. You felt a crack. 

And then the world blurred, stripped down to the most basic sights and sounds. 

Two figures in suits, approaching you. 

“What did you do?”

The ground coming closer. 

A scream of your name. 

A distant boom.

You barely registered it all because my ribs are broken-

They’re broken-

They’re-

The knife went into you once. Twice. Three times-

You heard more than felt the bone break under the steel-

Red lenses where eyes should have been-

Someone screaming your name-

You couldn’t distinguish between memory and reality. Past and present. All you knew was that you were in a familiar kind of agony. 

That the ground was cold beneath you.

There was the sound of commotion. 

A red beret above you.

A gruff voice.

But the words were wrong. 

“Open these fucking cells. Now.” 

That . . . that wasn’t what Krauser had said when he found you lying in the snow. 

“Major,” a cool, familiar voice answered, “I don’t think you would want to deal with the repercussions of shooting a federal agent.” 

There was the cocking of a gun. 

“Try me.” 

And then there was darkness. 

Chapter Index

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

A/N: Anddd welcome back to STRATCOM training lads. Once again, this exercise was (unfortunately and loosely) based off real US Army training techniques, specifically Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape training that prepares soldiers for capture and survival in harsh conditions. And once again, oof, I know things about our military that I didn't need to know 🥲

Anyway, Leon has always been more agent than soldier, so it was past time we brought the CIA into this shitshow. Krauser is just about as pleased with it as everyone else.

[kitorin]

to you, my lover.

in which, shinonome akito surprises his favourite writer.

contents. shinonome akito x gn!reader, just fluff really, <- might've ruined it with an attempt of crack, unproofread and messy bc i can't think properly anymore a/n. this was supposed to be my birthday fic, i didn't finish it in time and was considering deleting but nah not today

You're tired. Really tired.

It's not a complaint, being permitted to stay out late to celebrate your birthday, now returning on a long yet peaceful and empty train ride. With the occasional rattling, it was silent, with the exception of your tired breathing and the rustle of your clothes every time you shuffled around a bit.

And your boyfriend.

Arms crossed and back leaned against his seat, his eyes remain shut, resting a bit after such a long day. Fatigue pays a visit to you as well, a yawn claws out of your throat, earning an immediate reaction from Akito.

Arm snaking behind your head, he pulls you in by the shoulder, making sure you rest comfortably against his. You snuggle against him, the scent of his cologne makes you crave more of him and his touch. The jacket that was once resting on his lap is thrown over you, and carefully he adjusts it, without moving his shoulder.

"Tired?"

You nod, resting your eyes a bit.

"If you're able to stay awake, I want to give you my gift."

"Excuse me?" As if you weren't ever exhausted in the first place you sit up, staring at him with confusion. "Akito, you bought me pretty much every book on my 'to be read'. Not to mention the promise rings too." Your glance at the silver wrapping around your finger, amber and saffron imbedded into it. "I told you so many times I didn't need anything, let alone something that would've costed so much."

Akito shrugs casually. "There's no such thing as 'too much' when it comes to you."

"And there's a thing called being financially irresponsible..."

"I'm managing my money carefully, I swear." He pledges with breathless laughter. "I assure you it wasn't expensive, I promise. I'm going to give you the world when I go professional, anyways." He fishes for something out of his bag, something small and wrapped with colourful paper.

"This feels like a book." You comment instantly, it's easy to identify when you've received so many for your birthday.

Akito shrugs again in response. "Check it, then."

You oblige to his words, unwrapping the package in a manner that didn't make a mess on the train. Your guess was correct, it is a book. Only this time with an unrecognisable title and author— it didn't have either. It was white, with nothing else.

"Who's the author?"

Another shrug, and you decide not to bother asking anymore questions. You turn to the first page.

Table of contents. This time you recognise the titles.

Because they belong to none other than you.

"You printed it out all of this?" You've re-read your writing constantly, whether it be proof-reading or trying to figure out how to elevate your prose. But when it's in your hands in the form of a book instead of the words you type up on your laptop, it feels surreal, maybe even a bit wrong. It's everything you've sent and shown him, whether it be fan fiction, attempts at poetry, extracts of screenplays, or snippets from future novels you plan on publishing.

"'Course I did. You love books, I love you and your writing." Akito says it all the time, always being the first person to read your works, sending a plethora of text messages about his thoughts on them.

You inspect the contents of the book, and as he said it's all your work. But, pale highlighter adorns the pages, black ink decorating in between lines, hearts and even more words committed to paper.

The imagery here is gorgeous here. I love these words especially ->

Although I can't and don't, I feel like I can relate to this character, the way you express their internal thoughts and actions makes me feel like I've become them

Why is he so adorable?? The dialogue is so sweetly comforting.

I think this one's my favourite. It was super cute. Short and simple but enough to make me smile all day.

You turn to another story, this one with a darker premise.

SHE DESERVES BETTER !!

This hurts so much ╥﹏╥ Internal monologue is a 11/10 (as always)

Uh oh...

PLEASE HAVE MERCY

SCREW YOU SHE WAS SUPPOSED TO HAVE A HAPPY ENDING

This one's my new favourite. Thanks for making me cry

(my tear stains) Small arrows point towards (formerly) wet patches on the page, the evidence left there shocks you.

"You actually cried? And annotated your tears?" Not once, but multiple times, on each work that connoted anything sad.

"Love, your writing, just like you, makes me feel a lot. It's not often I cry, you know." He leans in to kiss you on the cheek. "Hope my annotations did it some justice."

Each comment makes you smile irresistibly, whether it was a serious paragraph breaking down and analysing specific moments or 'someone cooked here.' being scrawled. No details were missed by him, ones that you assumed were too subtle and therefore unnecessary because no one in your comments noticed them.

"You noticed all of this? None of my friends or readers did."

"Of course I did. I've read everything over and over again and love you too much to miss any of those details."

"And every note at the end is synonymous for 'new favourite'." It's not a complaint, it's quite adorable really, watching him struggle to make up his mind. "You even compiled your favourite quotes at the end? You think my stuff is quoteworthy?"

"How could I not? Heck, I don't think an anthology is enough. I need it tattooed somewhere on me." A gasp severs his words. "I know exactly what I'm going to do on my eighteenth birthday."

"Don't. Think about it." But the prospect of him loving your prose enough to permanently etch it into your skin makes you smile. "But seriously. This is beautiful, thank you." You're not sure why it feels so different, despite Akito always texting you these sorts of comments. Perhaps it was it's physical manifestation that had evoked so much emotion.

"I remember, when I first opened up to you."

And so do you. It was certainly awkward, with a plentiful amount of tears and uncertainty. But in the end you found yourself comprehending Akito and his character more, which was worth any sort of unpleasantries.

"You ended up analysing every song I covered or wrote. And you still do. I kept those notebooks with me, and read them whenever I felt worried. It's you. You're the reason why I can listen to recordings of myself without wanting to hide. Took me a while, but without you I wouldn't've achieved it."

You peer up at him, as he gazes at the train's roof, reminiscing those memories. You had contemplated for so long, wondering whether that act would've truly done anything, whilst worrying about embarrassing yourself. Now, being able to admire the peaceful expression he wore, you can easily say you have no regrets.

"I wanted to do the same for you. I didn't like how you weren't able to see the perfection your writing held." Akito's hand reaches for yours. "I know what it's like. To hate your own art because of what other people say and growing fearful of another's opinion, or how subjectivity doesn't seem to be in your favor. It's suffocating, that's why you mean the whole world to me for freeing me of that insecurity." He bites his lip, a method he relies on to quell any strong emotion.

He's spot on. The words of others are equally as capable of hurting as they are uplifting. It's common advice to not heed any mind to others, but when it comes to writing it always felt necessary to you. No matter how well you wrote to satisfy yourself, it didn't mean anything if no one else liked it; it meant no sales, meaning no money, which only meant that writing was an invalid career for the future unless it pleased others.

Even if it weren't a professional pursuit, it doesn't feel like something one can establish its value, at least, not without the validation of others.

"You were the lens I needed to see the beauty in myself. And I want to be the one you need."

You smile, planting a kiss on his lips. "Think you already are."

Akito sighs with a grin, "Then, I can die happy now."

A playful, gentle, slap hits his shoulder. "Quit being so overdramatic."

"What? Would've been a waste if the best author in the entirety of human history didn't get to see how amazing them and their writing were."

"Now you're just hyperbolising everything."

He pokes you in the cheek. "I see you smiling."

"Because of how ridiculous you are." You thank the train for being empty tonight, otherwise you wouldn't have the freedom of quarreling. "You're an idiot. Sometimes."

"And I still think having one of your quotes tattooed onto me would be a good idea."

Akito's persistent, even when it came to things that appeared to be mere jokes. "That's so random—? No you're not getting any of my writing tattooed onto you."

"Fine, but left pec or right pec?"

"Oh my god." Though you scold him, the rest dissolves into breathless laughter, as he pulls you in for a hug.

He scatters kisses all over your face, as you savour the warmth of his body. "Happy birthday, love."

taglist (send ask to be added) : @yuzurins, @pokkomi, @chigirizzz

© kitorin : do not repost, plagiarize, change, or translate

[lz-didyounotice]

The girl with a thousand faces : Part 3

This gif is not mine

Hello! well, here is the final episode of this series. Hope you’ll enjoy it. Warning as always : english is not my first language, so please be indulgent. 

Froggit-

-------------------------

Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 3

-------------------------

It had been serverall months since you first started travelling with the doctor. While tracing a distress signal , the Doctor had arrived on Earth during first "human" era . Stepping out of the TARDIS, you could feel a protective feeling upon the scene before you. It felt eerily familiar, as you remembered every detail of the world around you.

In this instance, the Doctor had to follow a companion who seemed to know far more about the region than he did. Without his trusty sonic screwdriver, he would likely have been lost in the forest within the first ten minutes. For you, navigating the environment felt like second nature, effortlessly climbing trees to gain a better vantage point.

Before long, you stumbled upon a large body of water. While the Doctor attempted to analyze the source of the sonic screwdriver's erratic behavior, you witnessed something unexpected.

Near the water's edge, as white as snow, four-armed creatures could be seen attempting to retrieve something from the water. Despite the unusual sight, you remained unafraid. However, as you tapped the Doctor on the shoulder to draw his attention, it became clear that whatever was disturbing the waters lay before them.

"Doctor? You might want to see this."

"What?"

Surveying the area, the Doctor finally comprehended the reason for their arrival. An alien ship had sent out a distress signal across space, intercepted by the TARDIS. But why was your energy also being traced at the same time?

"Well, for once, finding them was easy, don't you think?"

"Should I be concerned, then?"

"Nahhhhh… They just need a hand repairing their ship."

"That's likely to take a while, isn't it?"

The only response you received was a shrug of uncertainty from the Doctor. At that moment, you realized it would likely be more than just a few days' endeavor.

The story could have concluded there, with you and the Doctor assisting the aliens in departing Earth aboard their newly repaired spaceship, embarking on a journey to find their home while it still existed. Instead, you were deemed untrustworthy and confined to a small hut, your hands bound against the wall in a makeshift set of cuffs. The Doctor stood before you, sheepishly grinning.

"It could have been worse—"

You looked at him, unsure whether to tell him to be quiet or simply brush off his remark. In that moment, you hoped one of your past lives might prove useful. Extracting a pin from your hair, you endeavored to free yourself from the restraints. The Doctor couldn't reach his sonic screwdriver, and neither could you, as you were too far apart for your toes to reach.

Finally liberated from your cuffs, you grinned triumphantly. However, as you turned to proudly face the Doctor, your expression turned to horror upon realizing that the alien chef stood just outside the door, catching you in the act of escape.

You were escorted to a larger hut, evidently for interrogation. This was not what you had anticipated.

Multiple pale-skinned creatures surrounded you, with one of  a larger stature standing right before you, its six arms outstretched as if intercepting an energy. Its four eyes widened as a sort of call reached it, a deep rumbling hum echoing from the earth. You felt it traverse your heart, a strange sensation of acknowledgment and exchange washing over you. For a moment, you thought you saw through its eyes, and another cry followed soon after.

-------------------------

Subsequently, you were transported to yet another hut, this time to be adorned in attire unlike anything you had ever worn before. You wondered if you were being prepared for marriage given the abundance of jewelry being placed upon you. To your surprise, the Doctor bursted in, seemingly in search of something. Upon laying eyes on you, he rushed over and enveloped you in his arms, causing the women beside you to step back.

"How did you escape…?"

"The guards released me."

"Why would they?"

"I suppose I'm no longer deemed a threat."

Stepping back, he looked at you to ensure you were uninjured, though he blushed slightly at the sight. You were draped in a seemingly traditional saari, albeit their version of it, with red threads and small golden motifs adorning the fabric. Jokingly, you teased him, making him turn a darker shade of red.

"Hey, eyes up here…"

"Oh… yes, right, um… I might need your help in speaking with their chef, though… so if you could, indulge…"

The Doctor hastily made his exit, clearly embarrassed to linger any longer. A small smile crept onto your lips as the two women in the room exchanged knowing glances before turning to you for answers.

"What?"

"This… man."

"You love him, don’t you?" asked the beautiful creatures beside you, finishing each other's sentences. And in that moment, nothing could have rung truer. The way he looked at you with concern, even after countless reassurances; the slight blush that colored his cheeks upon seeing you in unfamiliar attire; the fleeting gaze he quickly dismissed to avoid being caught; it was telling too much. Your smile grew at the memory, and you couldn't deny it.

"I suppose I do…"

-------------------------

With the clothing finally in place, you joined the Doctor to confer with the chief. Along the way, you learned about the species known across the universe as Saliriens, and how they communicated.

Saliriens were eternal beings capable of transferring their minds into other bodies, similar to you, though they did not require the new body to do so. This allowed them to share memories, feelings, and emotions, creating a collective unity. The "ritual" they performed was meant to ensure compatibility, leaving them puzzled as to how a creature so different could be part of them.

Shortly thereafter, you offered your assistance in repairing their ship, which they gratefully accepted. Even if your utility was limited, you decided to help the Doctor with the console, fastening the process. Without your insistence, the ship might not have departed for another week.

As the sunlight greeted you once more, your back aches from sleeping on the ground beside the machinery. You still wore the Doctor's vest around your shoulders, offering some protection against the now-warmed air.

The small "village" decided on one final celebration before departure, expressing their gratitude for your assistance. While the Doctor conducted one last verification of the console, you remained outside the spaceship, observing Saliriens going about their lives. 

Suddenly, something out of the ordinary caught your eye: one of them ventured into the forest, only to return with what appeared to be a young human female. Upon closer inspection, a flash of recognition surged through you.

-------------------------

Your small, trembling hands reached out to touch the unfamiliar sensation of skin beneath your fingers. Finally free from the suffocating confines, you slowly became aware of the changes, the familiar face above you, urging you to cling to her bosom.

It was her, wasn't it?

-------------------------

When you snapped back to reality, the woman was no longer there. In her place stood the Doctor, awaiting your response, having seemingly said something you didn’t hear.

"W-What?"

"I was saying we probably should be going; our friends seem to have started the festivities without us."

Nodding slightly, you rose to your feet, following the Doctor closely, still reeling from what you had just witnessed. As you approached the small village, music filled the air, accompanied by laughter. Within minutes, you were swept into the festivities, dancing with the locals. As the music continued, you joined in the traditional dances you knew, eliciting applause from the crowd. Soon, a man approached, guiding you in the steps of another traditional dance, which you picked up quickly, joining in with a broad smile.

The Doctor seemed to be enjoying himself, a rarity in such situations, but seeing you happy compelled him to join in the merriment. Everything felt perfect until that man decided to take liberties, placing a hand on the small of your back as he attempted to teach you the dance. The Doctor, seeing red, intervened, swiftly leading you away from the man's grasp.

For the rest of the night, you and the Doctor couldn't keep your hands off each other. Though the touches were subtle, they ignited every part of your being. You didn't want the night to end, but as the final song played, you found yourselves inches apart, breathing in each other's air, smiles lighting up your faces. With a mutual understanding, your lips met in a tender yet passionate kiss, cheered on by the surrounding witnesses. No words were necessary; the moment was perfect.

Gazing into each other's eyes, debating whether to continue, you abandoned all restraint, capturing his lips in a fervent kiss once more. you went to capture air  once more, letting loose of your feelings for him.

"Doctor… I—"

"I love you too…"

When you came back to the Tardis, this night didn’t end there, making it one of the most memorable in your life, and it was far from over. With the entirety of eternity ahead of you, the adventures were just beginning.

—------------------------------------

Bonus :

"By the way, did you find your answers ?"

"I suppose my mom was like me…"

"How so ?"

"Attracted to aliens."

A small laugh escaped your lips as you kissed him once more, burying your head in the crook of his neck, holding him close.

[allmightskitten]

Ao3 is down??!!! Well, sounds as good a time as any to post another instalment from the abandoned WIP graveyard!

🦩🐊❤️‍🔥

Abandoned WIP Graveyard:

do you think you'd like to buy me diamonds?

- a modern doflamingo/crocodile/corazon fic

- abandoned possibly temporarily, something to return to in the future if there's time

- was going to be E rated and nasty, but the preview I have for you today hasn't gotten there yet lol

- dofcora, dofuwani, both those things together AND corawani 🫣 also the crocodad theory is a thing here because of course it is ☝️

Extract below the cut:

It meant one of two things if he wasn't responding to their shared code of knocking thrice slowly, and thrice more in quick succession: one, he was neck deep in work, hunched over pages and pages of scattered drawings that had built up over the course of half a day, and hundreds of scrunched-up sheets in the bin, on the bed and floor, everywhere– or, two: he was pouring over images and information that he really shouldn't have.

Doflamingo was holed up in his room again, and Rosinante knew from prior experience that that was never a good sign.

Images and information that, Rosinante was quite sure, would be classified by most as 'creepy' to own or at the very least 'illegal'.

He tried the knock again. There wasn't anything terribly important to bother his brother about, but he needed to know as early as possible if Doffy would be free to drive him to Law's school play later this evening. He had got his own license suspended a few days back for reckless driving, which in his defense was more so bad driving than recklessness as his general clumsiness unfortunately translated to that aspect of his life as well.

"Come in," Doffy's voice came muffled through the door, unexpressive and distracted. Rosinante braced himself and let himself inside.

Yeah...

This was what he was afraid of.

The bedroom he set foot into was like a folder of evidence needed for a restraining order. Blown-up photos of him– 'Crocodile', the 40-something-year-old casino owner Doflamingo had become fixated on– lined the walls, stuck to them carelessly with kraft tape. Splayed out on the bed in front of Doffy were printed news articles and magazine clippings, every one about the same subject. Piled on the foot of the bed were an assortment of various items including brand new cigars, ties, bottles of wine and flowers.

Rosinante cleared his throat pointedly, drawing a pair of pale crimson eyes in his direction.

"I thought we agreed that stalking that man is dangerous." Crocodile had ties to the underworld too, ties that were very much not in line with their own. "It would be a lot less dangerous if you just visited his casino and started speaking to him organically."

Doffy slowly set down the magazine clippings he was stuffing into a transparent folder. He observed Rosinante for a moment, like he was reading his body language and all his tells he wasn't aware of himself, before a sudden snort-laugh escaped him loudly.

"Aw, don't tell me you're jealous, baby brother!"

Rosinante's cheeks felt hot.

"I'm not jealous," he sputtered, like the very notion was ridiculous. 

"It's okay," Doflamingo said placatingly, knowingly, sugary-sweet. He made space on the bed beside him and patted the sheets. "I've been neglecting you lately, haven't I? Let me make things right."

Rosi bit his lip. There was nothing remotely right about what Doffy was offering to do, and all the other things they had started to get up to in recent times– things one certainly shouldn't be doing with one's own family member, nevermind one as close as a sibling– but he knew Doflamingo felt no guilt and remained completely unapologetic for it.

Why the hell not? he'd whispered in Rosinante's ear a fortnight ago, when he had grown stiff in Doffy's arms, chilling realization hitting him like a freight train after evading him the entire time Doffy had been kissing him, jerking him off until he came. We're closer to each other than anyone. What does a little more closeness matter?

Oh, but Doflamingo's touch was addictive. His attention doubly so.

His body moved on its own to take the space Doffy had cleared for him. Short, cropped blonde hair was immediately in his lap as Doflamingo stretched his long legs out on the other side of the bed, grinning devilishly up at him as he slid his fingers into his big brother's hair.

It probably had something to do with their messy upbringing. Their years of separation before they found their way back to each other. The way Doflamingo spoiled him rotten with all the wealth he'd built up in the time he'd been gone, in stark contrast to the impoverished lifestyle Rosinante led until then.

Doflamingo really had no qualms about anything, and nothing was a step too far in his book, but Rosinante wasn't like that. He had principles and morals and knew right from wrong, usually.

Doflamingo brought out the worst in him.

Rosi cleared his throat, not wanting to go down that avenue right now. For his own sanity he'd have to avoid Doffy for another fortnight if today's interaction ended like last time.

"I need you to drive me somewhere tonight. Law has a role in the school play."

Doffy snorted, his expression immediately souring.

"What, is he a tree? Or perhaps the backstage help who moves the set pieces?"

Rosinante swatted him on the head for that, indignant at the implication.

"He has a speaking role, asshole!"

"Oh, does he now? So they managed to pull him away from his books enough to get him to audition?"

Rosi dug his massaging fingers into Doffy's scalp a little aggressively. "Stop being such an ass. He's eight, you can't keep having beef with an eight year old."

"He always starts it!" Doffy protested childishly. "I have never, ever started the fight."

"Right, like I'm gonna believe that."

"I swear!"

"Because your word is so honest." Rosinante rolled his eyes, but he relaxed his fingers, and Doffy immediately melted into his touch. "So? Can you drive me there tonight? You don't have to stick around and watch it."

"Mm, I was thinking about your advice, actually." Doffy reached up to touch his cheek. "About interacting normally with Crocodile, at his casino. I was thinking of doing that tonight."

Rosi squeezed his hand. "Dof, I'm glad to hear that. I really am, but I don't want to miss Law's play." Law hated Doflamingo. And the kid was very perceptive, scarily so– the last time Rosinante had missed the chance to be there for him because of Doflamingo, he'd automatically known who to blame. Rosinante wasn't keen on disappointing his kid either. Law had no one but him. 

Doffy narrowed his eyes at him, studying the expression on his face, the quiet plea to allow him this. It was unhealthy, it was wrong, just how much control Doflamingo had over his life, but he could be reasoned with if it was coming from Rosinante...

"Fine," Doflamingo said finally. "I'll drive you to the play. But I'm only dropping you off. I can't leave the casino early to pick you up after."

That was fine. He could take a taxi. The Donquixotes weren't supposed to be taking civilian taxis, that was dangerous and Doflamingo didn't allow him especially, but he didn't have to know that. "I can get a lift from one of the parents."

"And have you vetted these people?"

Rosi sighed. There was that paranoia again– though more than being paranoid it was probably being controlling.

"Yes, Doffy, I have. Having a kid in Law's class whom he recognizes is quite a difficult cover for one of your enemies to fake, you know."

"You never know," Doffy said darkly, seriously, but he seemed placated with the answer. "You don't have to go that far, anyway. I'll send one of my men to pick you up. Bellamy's schedule should be free today."

Rosi nodded, grateful and disappointed at the same time. He wasn't a huge fan of the life his brother lived and actively benefiting from it didn't always sit right with him. It wasn't like Doflamingo's underworld business that made him filthy rich was without victims.

Doflamingo patted his cheek, bringing him out of his thoughts.

"Not even a thank you, Rosi? Come here and show me."

Rosinante tried to pretend he was only placating Doflamingo when he leaned down to kiss him on the lips.

[much-ado-about-whomst]

Jealously

The sound of laughter echos over the diner. Mike's fist tighten. Normally, Ness's laugh is cause for him to smile, but not when it's aimed at the guy at the bar who's been openly flirtling with his boyfriend all night.

There's an ugly feeling well up in his stomach. It makes him want to punch the guy senseless. The thing that frustrates Mike the most is that Ness doesn't even notice, he's just nice to everyine and assumes that they're being nice back.

"When do you get off work?" The bastard asks Ness.

"I'm leaving now. I just need to close out your tab and then I'm clocking out." Ness grabs the guys credit card and makes to leave. Bar guy puts a hand in Ness's arm, stopping him. Mike gets up and starts making his way over

"Do you want to come over, sweet thing? I could show you a good time." Mike sees the exact moment it clicks for his boyfriend because Ness stiffens and extracts his arm away from the other guy.

Mike comes up behind the taller man and wraps his arms around him as he asks, "Ready to go Darlin?" He looks the guy at the bar dead in the face before going on tiptoe to kiss Ness's cheek. The stranger glares right back at Mike.

"Almost Sugar. I just got one more thing to do then I'm all yours for the rest of the night." Ness smiles at him before rushing off to the back.

"Touch him again and I'll make sure you never see the light of day again. Clear?" The man pales and slowly nods his head. Ness stops by just long enough to hand him his change and receipt before disappearing into the back to grab his things.

It's not until later that night, after they put Abby to bed, and they're relaxing on the couch that Ness asks, "What did you say to Brad?"

"Who?"

"The guy at the bar. When I came back he looked like he'd seen a ghost."

"Just made sure he knew not to touch someone who didn't want to be touch." There was a few moments of silence.

"Thank you."

"Did you not realise that he was flirting with you the whole time?" Ness started to splutter and blush.

"Wha- no! He wasn't- flirting?!? With me??..... What the whole time? Were you watching us?" It was Mike's turn to blush.

"Were you jealous?"

"N-no, I wasn't. I was just looking out for you."

"Aww thats so cute." Ness cooed. "You know you don't have anything to worry about, right?" Ness adds a little more seriously. Mike huffs.

"I know. I just. You're such an amazing guy. Anyone would be lucky to be with you. But me? Sometimes I feel like I'm not even worthy of being in your presence, let alone dating you." Mike looks down at his feet, unable to look at Ness's face. It's something Mike's been feeling ever since they started dating. A worry that Ness will realize that he's much better off without Mike and his airplane load of baggage.

Suddenly, Mike finds himself wrapped up in Ness's arms.

"Oh, Sugar. I had no idea you felt this way." The taller man puts Mike's chin between his finger and thumb and raises it until their eyes meet.

"You are the one I want to be with. I choose you, and I will continue to choose you, choose us, choose this little family we've built. Every. Single. Day." Ness vows before lowering his head to meet Mike's lips. It's a passionate kiss, only because it's two people who are conveying to each other just how much they are loved. Ness can feel Mike's tears, sees them as he pulls back. He wipes them away.

"Sugar, I love you."

"I love you too Darling."

[tonythr]

Sometimes you are so sad you turn into a game construct, and that's ok

Part of the reason I love Hollow Knight is that you never know when a certain phenomenon is a part of the game's actual lore or simply a gameplay convenience, but most of the time it's up to you to decide anyway. Like, yeah, I know that looking too much into what should be just a game mechanic and/or a simple animation effect makes you more of a clown than a lore master, but, honestly, at this point the entire fandom wears rainbow wigs and squeaky red noses in order to forget about the pain of no Silksong, so no one has the right to stop me from having fun with some observations I made and how they might be intentional lore pieces. So yeah, what I'm trying to say is that this theory might be a bit of a stretch, but I think it's neat, so I'm gonna post it anyway.

Now, here's the question: what do you think these two have in common?

Both are very sad because they lost someone who was close to them.

2. Both give the Knight a Mask Shard when they die.

My theory here is that these two things are connected.

Now, Mask Shards are weird, lore-wise. The locations where they are found don't always... make much sense. Like ok, aside from the two that I mentioned above, we have ones that are found on top of ancient black statues — this implies that those shards are connected to (and probably were made by) the Ancient Civilisation.

We also have some shards that we get from various NPCs (Sly, Bretta, Seer) — those also make sense, since there's nothing wrong with those weird bugs possessing some ancient artifacts. But then we have Mask Shards that just kinda... float there.

No ancient pedestals. No reason to suggest someone actually owned them. No reason for them to be there aside from the game wanting to reward the player for something.

This is also true for some of the Vessel Fragments.

Although the fountain one is exceptional. The fragment is actually a part of the Pale King's statue, but it detaches once the needed amount of geo is reached. It looks like this statue actually 'gives' it to the Knight once it puts enough geo in the fountain. It could be something that has to do with PK's magic, or with the whole 'sacrifice' theme that's going on with him. Anyway, it's not hard to come up with an explanation for how that one works. What is more interesting is how these shards and fragments are created.

Because apparently this mf can just materialize them out of thin air.

Now, I KNOW this is probably just a nice animation to emphasize how cool of an award a mask shard is, but it also wouldn't be much of a stretch to say that what happens here is Grubfather actually manipulating Soul to create this shard for the Knight. I mean, Grubs do possess some sort of 'holy strength' that was never properly explained to us (that's why I'm hoping to see some grubs in Silksong), and one of the two charms created from their power is something that straight-up gives the Knight extra Soul. If we don't count the Shaman charms, which were used only to extract and use Soul more efficiently, the only other charm that does that is Kingsoul, the embodiment of the union between two Pale Beings. So yeah, the Grubs are totally OP, and Grubfather probably does create a Mask Shard out of Soul here.

Which only proves the fact that both Mask Shards and Vessel Fragments are made out of Soul. I mean, come on, the Knight literally consumes them just like it consumes each of the spells and the Soul of its enemies, AND it takes Soul to restore broken masks. I think it's safe to assume that those ancient masks that the Knight is using to strengthen its shell are made out of Soul, or at least some material that is heavily tied to Soul in some way.

Another fact is that those masks and vessels have big connections to the Ancient Civilisation. Aside from the obvious things like the fragment/shard statues that I mentioned earlier having clear similarities to the Soul totems, there's this whole thing with the engravings on those masks and vessels having a bunch of connections with magical secrets of the Ancient Civilisation...

What I'm getting at here is that the bugs of the Ancient Civilisation probably knew the secrets of manipulating Soul and used those secrets to create masks (for protection) and Soul Vessels (for containing Soul), as well as Soul Totems. It means there is a way a Mask can be created out of Soul, aside from what we see the Knight do when it heals (which is an interesting process, btw - when a mask breaks, the Knight can restore it using Soul, but it can't create new masks to have infinite HP, so the masks it collects must have unique properties that prevent them from being completely destroyed and instead allow them to be recovered after breaking). And maybe that process was already shown to us.

Ok, now I'm actually talking about my theory again. See, the reason I think there's more to these two moments than just a simple reward being given to us by the game is because there's some overlapping philosophical (symbolical?) motifs that connect Brooding Mawlek and Grey Mourner AND possibly give us a glimpse into the secrets of Soul discovered by the Ancient Civilisation. I'm talking about what Soul itself might represent as a sorta metaphysical concept (I don't know how to say that properly... Just bear with me pls).

In the world of Hollow Knight, there are many philosophical concepts that give depth to the nature of various in-world phenomenons. For example, the Void is heavily tied to regrets, perhaps dark memories that keep us from moving forward. That's why it makes sense that, ultimately, Pale King faced his demise at the hands of the Void - he sacrificed thousands of his own children in order to save Hallownest and failed anyway, so there is no way he could avoid (pun intended) being overwhelmed by his regrets about this whole thing.

The Soul is the power that contrasts the Void.

It's implied by Jiji that, when the Knight leaves behind its Shade, it starts to drain *hope* from it.

This line was probably left there to explain this game mechanic:

When the Knight dies, it can no longer fill its Soul meter to the full, until it finds and defeats its Shade. This implies that Soul represents *hope* in contrast to the Void representing regrets.

If we accept this assumption, we can see that it makes sense how:

The White Palace is shown as a beautiful, calm, hopeful place despite it being filled with thorns and sawblades (that might or might not be a metaphor for the PK's pain of trying to hide his mistakes and regrets).

The shamans' dying thoughts are often their last hopes of being free, being heard etc.

The Soul is literally what gives the bugs' bodies the energy to move.

I feel soulless when I wake up at 7 a.m.

All things considered, it's easy to see how Soul is something that might represent such things as hope, motivation, faith - all those feelings that make a person feel whole.

And when the fate forces someone into situations where those things are lost, their inner self breaks. When something separates us from our loved ones for a whole eternity, leaving us as lonely, empty shells of our former selves, our soul hardens.

We already know that masks in this game directly correspond to the person's self, their ability to define themselves as who they are. A mask is literally the core of the person's mind.

And when a person breaks, when their hope becomes eternal sadness, when the essence that animates their body becomes a solid rock, their mind shatters, leaving only a single shard of what should have been a whole mask.

Perhaps, something like that also happened to the bugs of the Ancient Civilisation? Or maybe they found a way to control that sadness, just like they found a way to manipulate the power of regrets? They look like a bunch of cool goth bugs, so I wouldn't be surprised if that was their thing.

TL;DR: ancient masks that the Knight uses are made out of Soul, and Soul is a power that represents hope. When a person experiences a feeling of strong loneliness and hopelessness, their mind literally breaks, and their Soul literally hardens, resulting in the creation of Mask Shards. The bugs of the Ancient Civilisation might have known this.

Kinda edgy.

I like it.

[lumienyx]

Why did your Tav fall?

@spacebarbarianweird thank you for the tag💙 the words just seem to never end when I write about my Tav's Feelings™️ so here goes

~

Tav has never quite fallen that far in love with anyone before. His one true love has always been sorcery. Adventures. Freedom. His friends. And so, the experiences with the few lovers he's had over his life seemed like nothing compared to what he feels for Astarion.

It starts as idle curiosity. The pale, sharp-tongued elf who calls himself Astarion is the first of Tav's companions to hint at possibly controlling their tadpoles instead of extracting and destroying them on the spot. Tav is ever one to experiment—and so the way Astarion's mind works is what he immediately loves about him.

Always the one with a creative witty comeback, always coming up with cunning ways to solve a problem, disarm a trap, break into the most guarded of places. Half the group is mortified at the idea of grabbing the Necromancy of Thay, yet Astarion encourages Tav to take it. And then gets so engrossed and excited by its possibilities once Tav decides to give it to him instead of keeping it; he was never one for death spells anyway.

The both of them make quite the team.

Yet for all of Astarion's boldness and confidence, Tav senses the fear. Not just through their Illithid connection, but in the little things Astarion lets slip. When Astarion's hands shake barely perceptibly and his eyes stare at places planes away. When he clenches his fists so hard the nails break skin which mends itself lightning-fast with vampiric regeneration... but Tav notices.

Astarion tells him more too, eventually. But their connection is what gives the most insight. The vision he gets when they first meet, the glimpse that night Astarion tries to drink his blood, the accidental connections since—and those on purpose, as they learn and trust each other enough to use their mind-link for tactical communications on the battlefield. Every time Tav touches upon Astarion's mind there's fear, raw and ugly and ever-present, scratching away at his chest and making it so hard to breathe even as he reminds himself that I don't need to breathe I don't need to I don't need—

Tav wants to protect him.

Even as he sees though Astarion's pretty words and the poetics he uses to manipulate Tav into trusting him, he goes along with it headfirst, unsure of what he's hoping for but hoping for something. Even if it's just to be with Astarion for the time-being. Just to help, in what little way Tav can, just with his company, with his words, with his care.

Tav promises to help him defeat Cazador. Whatever it takes. He will bask in the moment he can Disintegrate that crooked smirk from Cazador's face that keeps haunting Astarion's meditations. He will relish how Astarion kills him, makes him hurt for all the pain of two centuries twofold.

Tav needs to protect him, at some point, it simply crosses the bounds of a simple desire to protect anyone he calls friend.

Tav wants him safe, wants him happy. Wants to find more and more reasons to keep Astarion smiling with that beautiful, sun-bright smile that lights up his eyes. Eyes that stare past Tav less and less as time goes on—and begin to look more directly at him, seeing him.

And Tav sees Astarion in turn.

Sees that brilliant mind, the mischief, the love he has for pure, unadulterated fun. The lust for freedom, power, adventure. The quiet longing for companionship and the silent need to uncover his full potential.

It's at the point when Tav figures out he can use the tadpole to project the image of Astarion's face to him that their minds connect stronger, deeper than they've ever had before.

Such deafening emotion flows from Astarion then, overwhelming Tav, drowning him. Confusion, shock, relief, joy, elation, hope—it all crashes down on both of them and ends up in a passionate kiss that leaves Astarion giddy and Tav weak in the knees.

Tav thinks then, how much he loves this, this kiss, this closeness. Loves being with Astarion and maybe loves—

Tav razes the thought right there on the spot. Too soon, too foolish, not true—how could he ever even tell if he's never even felt that before?

But that's when Tav falls and keeps falling inevitably deeper into that blissful abyss of a novel emotion. He doesn't dare hope Astarion ends there in love with him—but, miraculously, he does.

~

No pressure tags if you want to write about why your Tav fell for Astarion (or any other companion/character!):

@ellekhen @tallymonster @satanicspinosaurus @astariondisapproves @astarions-fangs @thedreamlessnights @justporo @tigers-pat and anyone else who sees this and wants to join in💙

[whumplump]

Day 31 of @augusnippets - Bonus day

Experiment, part 2

Part 1

CW: lab whump, mentioned vivisection, surgeon whumper, blood, testing, gaslighting, non con treatment

Here it is, for the total of 0 people who were waiting for a part 2.

The devil learns quickly. When night falls, he comes out from under the ground and comes to torment the weakest minds. This is how Whumper thinks and acts. He turned on the light in a room the same color as the rest of the building: white. It was a simple little room, less equipped than the rest of the other rooms. It was the auxiliary laboratory, where samples of all types of content were stored. He went to a refrigerator in the center of the room and from one of its shelves took out a tray with a dozen small transparent tubes. Blood samples. He placed the object on a table to evaluate it further. He lifted tube by tube, reading the names written on paper glued to the small glasses. Caretaker, no... Team Leader, no... Teammate, no... Whumpee. Yes.

He put the tray back in the fridge and left the room, taking the tube labeled Whumpee with him. He walked through the dull, white hallways. In the end, he entered a slightly calmer room, without tables full of surgical tools, with four hospital beds. Three were empty. Only one of them had someone lying down. A pale, malnourished youngling with a seriously unwell appearance. They had an IV connected to their arm, receiving saline solution, and some other electrodes stuck to their body. They were semi conscious. Whumper approached them with the tube in hand. He wasn't wearing his surgical mask, but the poor thing on the bed couldn't see his face because of the dizziness. Whumper gently tapped them on the shoulder to get their attention.

Whumpee looked up at the figure. They couldn't discern the shapes very well, but they could guess that the stranger was wearing a surgeon's outfit.

“How are you feeling, subject 32?"

Whumpee couldn't speak. They were dizzy and in a lot of pain, especially in the abdominal region. Whumper watched them for a moment before speaking again. He didn't really care if Whumpee was actually listening or not.

"Pay attention. I'm afraid you have a serious illness. I haven't finished all the tests yet, but watch," he brought the sample tube closer to Whumpee's face so they could see it. "See how dark your blood is.”

Whumpee couldn't make out the words very well, and didn't even know what it was in front of them. Whumper moved the tube out of their view.

"My first extraction attempt didn't work on you. You're very weak, 32. You passed out before I could complete the second incision. See."

He took a small photo from his pocket and held it in front of the patient's face. Whumpee's eyes widened at the image. It was their body, stretched out on a bed, with two incisions in their abdomen. They were still weak and medicated, but they gathered the strength to speak.

"What... What is this…?”

“My test.”

“Where am… Where am I?...”

“You are currently in the recovery ward. Since last week. I need you to be healthy to complete section 32 properly.”

“No..." Whumpee tried to move, but they were stopped by a sharp pain in their abdomen, thanks to the incisions that were being healed.

"You're sick, 32, that's for sure. Until I find out what you have, you'll be under observation in the recovery ward."

Whumpee looked at the surgeon with fearful eyes.

“What are you going to do to me...?"

Whumper reached out a hand and ran it through the patient's hair.

"Nothing for now. I just need to monitor you."

“No... I'm not sick..."

"Yes you are."

"Who are you?..."

Whumper didn't respond. He fixed the IV solution. From a drawer in the dresser next to the bed, he picked a small scalpel.

"If you don't believe me, see for yourself."

Whumpee looked at the knife in terror. They gathered all their strength to struggle on the bed.

"No! No!"

Whumper held them with one hand, careful for the incisions healing. With the other, he brought the scalpel closer to Whumpee's face…

The patient must see a practical demonstration.

[fallenwhumpee]

Heyyy so I've got 2 prompts in my head, neither is really whump but like hey.

1. Two friends on opposite sides of a fight. Like born to be friemds forced to be enemies. So like the 'good' friend manages to capture the 'bad' friend and has orders from his higher ups to torture him and he really doesn't want to so like they talk, the captured guy does still get pretty beat up cuz like he gets it, until his team comes in to save him. And they're lile lets catch up soon, k? Like i wanna explore the emotional side of this cuz like forced by duty.

2. Second in command plays into bait willingly but the team doesn't know that and thinks they were being reckless but it was all planned. His leader was down, along with his sister like figure, and their second main fighter was busy protecting them so he buys time by letting the enemy capture him and have their way with him. Anything can work, drugging, sedation, restraints (pretty please), injuries, whatever you heart pleases.

Ps. How have you been? Enjoy your time off <3

~🐈‍⬛💜

Im well, just looking for ways to be productive here too while slowly getting my works done.

Both are amazing prompts anon! Please have my try for the first one <3

Loyalty

• Masterlist •

Warnings: Mentioned torture, nosebleed, self-sacrifice.

Right Hand was shaking as they walked down the narrow stairs, their boss following right after them. They knew in that they were starting to seem off. They had to prove that they were loyal again. It was also the truth and what they wanted. They needed their team, and they needed to be in this side of the conflict.

But more than that, they loved their former captain, and now it was threatening their loyalty to their team.

What hurt them the most was that Whumpee didn't need to be their enemy. They were playing the necessary evil, and it was the agency's doing. Whumpee was once again paying the price for the flow of things.

Right Hand stumbled, their boss catching them from their collar to prevent them from falling.

"Your mind is somewhere else," Boss commented. "It's not like you. But you should get yourself together before we get to the cell. We wouldn't want a bad impression."

"Yessir," Right Hand answered automatically.

"I can trust you down here, can't I?"

"You can, and you should, sir. I don't think I've ever betrayed to your trust," Right Hand pulled themselves together.

"You did not. But I knew you had an unfortunate history."

Unfortunate, they held back a bitter chuckle. Unfortunate for Whumpee. They were stripped of their rank and team and pit into a position they didn't wish for. Just like Right Hand, only remained one from the former team, thrown into the opposite position. Right Hand could be considered even lucky. At least they weren't shouldering more than they could.

They walked in silence, their steps synchronised as if they had been at each other's side for years. It was wrong because Right Hand's place was Whumpee's side. Being like this was foreign and just... wrong.

Right Hand stopped when Boss put a hand to their shoulder. They slowly raised their gaze and met with Whumpee. They had to hold their breath, not to gasp at the sight of Whumpee's still form hanging from the ceiling by arms, hair damp and sticking to their sweaty pale skin as blood slowly dripped down from their nose.

"Extract as much information as you can before their minions find this place," Boss said to their ear. Right Hand nodded, again a fixed response to orders.

"I will come back to see your progress, but I should report something first. Have fun," Boss chirped before leaving. The tone froze Right Hand, causing their stomach to flip.

"Finally a familiar face," Whumpee whispered. The voice Right Hand once received orders that could make one tremble was now reduced to a weak croak. "The agency must've made a good cleanup."

"How can you be so calm?!" Right Hand snapped. They got into the cell quickly, releasing Whumpee's arms. They had to catch Whumpee from falling like a rag doll, the weight their arms support a lot less than they expected.

"It's good to see you too. But I wish it had been in better circumstances," Whumpee smiled as they held their nose, moving a little to lean back to the wall of the cell. They looked Right Hand with so much affection that Right Hand had to suppress their anger.

"I really don't know how anyone didn't notice yet," Right Hand kneeled next to them, their eyes asking for permission to check Whumpee. "You're not really subtle with your stubbornness to do the bare minimum to look bad or make your minions mess up the plans purposefully."

Whumpee shrugged. "I'm too busy to run a monopoly over the resources to be evil," they said with a fake offended voice. Then they chuckled slightly, trying their best to give an assuring smile.

Right Hand searched for any injuries, but it seemed that no one took a risk by leaving Whumpee to bleed. Right Hand was grateful for it, but the bruises and scars were worrying, along with the thought of what could be under the heavy bandages on Whumpee's torso and legs.

"I can't do what they wish from me," Right Hand confessed without dragging it any further. "I can't... I can't do what they did."

"But you'll have to, sooner or later. Don't feel bad about it. I know you don't... mean it," Whumpee answered, reaching to Right Hand's hand. Both of their hands were hard and calloused, causing the other's to itch a little, but it didn't matter. What mattered was Right Hand had to torture Whumpee.

"Leader," they whispered, their mouth having a bitter taste as they voice the name now buried into classified filed. Right Hand didn't have the strength to ask for forgiveness, and Whumpee's real name between their lips was the only way they could beg for it.

"Don't," Whumpee almsot choked out. "Don't do this to both of us. Don't think me as... as what I am."

As what I am.

Whumpee was still the same person under this disguise, and it was making Right Hand's work impossible. Because Right Hand's loyalty first belonged to Whumpee, and Whumpee truly did nothing to betray that trust.

"One would think we are the bad guys here," they chuckled bitterly, the hypocrisy of the whole situation catching up on them.

"Nothing is inheritly good or inheritly bad. At least what you do has more benefits," Whumpee reminded. Right Hand's shoulders tensed, slowly accepting the inevitable outcome.

"When will you stop sacrificing yourself?" Right Hand asked instead. They heard the distant sound of door opening. Whumpee must have heard, too, because they got to a kneeling position, head down as they pushed their nose harshly, making it bleed again.

It took Right Hand's all will not to react to that.

"I see talking didn't went well," Boss opened the cell door, leaning on the frame. "Please continue with what you were doing."

"Please obey your master little puppet," Whumpee mocked. Right Hand sighed, the tired sound easily could be mistaken as frustration. They caught Whumpee from their collar, slamming them to the wall. Whumpee went limb for a second but collected themselves a little as Right Hand let them stand on their feet, their eyes finding Boss.

Right Hand had never seen Whumpee look this arrogant before.

And Whumpee laughed. Boss pushed Right Hand aside and took Whumpee themselves, throwing the unmoving body to the opposite wall. Right Hand had to hold back a yelp as Whumpee cried with the impact.

"I would make you regret your every action, your betrayal, if so many villains weren't trying to save you or kill you themselves as we speak," Boss snarled. "But I guess I should now settle for your former underling torturing you after you already gone a round by professionals."

"You will be my neighbour in hell," Whumpee smirked.

Right Hand's mind immediately translated, I will see you later.

Boss motioned them to leave, so obeyed. By the time Rught Hand's team got out, a small group of villains were coming towards the hideout.

[comingfromastatechampionasshole]

Doc's Best In Goddamn Show Montana State Fair Coconut Cream Pie

As promised, the baked good that did the best, I'll release the recipe. This is one of my favorite pies of all time, hewed into a perfect custard-based pie that won me my first Best in Show rosette in nine years. And pies is even a tough category!

The other shocking thing: This is one of the easiest pies I make. It's very much "don't worry about it." It even tastes better if you make everything but the topping the day before serving.

“Doc, why don’t you use cream of coconut for the custard?” Friend, I tried for years to get that to work, only to find out that cream of coconut just does not bake up as nice as milk and cream, so I use a nice extract and toast the coconut to get the flavors. 

YOU WILL NEED:

A crust (I presume you can either make or buy a crust. I might even have a recipe here on the blog, I can’t remember) 

Pie: 

5 eggs

¾ cup caster/baker’s sugar 

2 cups of whole milk

½ cup half and half (I believe this is called half cream in the UK)

1 tsp vanilla bean paste

1 tsp coconut extract (I like Olivenation or watkins. Also, bear in mind you may need to use more. I do this to taste and the tsp is a guess on my part. Don’t worry, I’ll tell you where to taste in the recipe) 

Pinch salt

1 cup sweetened flaked coconut

Topping:

2 cups heavy cream VERY COLD (can use whipping or double also, but I prefer heavy) 

2 tablespoons jello or jello style pudding mix, coconut 

Powdered/icing sugar (this will be to taste) 

Decoration: Most definitely toasted coconut. I really like Nuts.com’s organic dried coconut chips, but it depends on how flush I’m feeling--I did not use it in this competition. Macadamia nuts are great, dried pineapple, for this competition I used coconut rolls from costco. This is mostly for visual appeal, so be creative. 

Toast your coconut: Put the oven at 350F. Put some parchment down on a baking sheet, and then put your sweetened flaked coconut on the sheet. Don’t forget to put in a bit extra for your topping decoration. Toast for about five minutes, it will probably need a stir and watch it closesy--coconut burns easy. When it’s a nice pale golden, pull it and up the temperature of the oven to 375F. 

Blind bake your crust. If you haven’t done this before, I think it’s easy but admit maybe not everyone will. Roll your crust out into a pie plate, just like you always would, and then cover the bottom with tin foil, and fill with pie weights or beans, or rice--I’m a big fan of using sugar. Whatever you use. Bake it about 15-17 minutes, it should be lightly brown at the edges. Take out the pie weight you used. Bake it about 5 minutes more, just so the bottom gets very lightly toasted. 

Make the filling! Beat your eggs in in a large bowl until they are very well combined but not whipped. Beat in everything but the coconut itself. NOW TASTE IT. Does it taste coconutty enough, or do you want to add a little more extract? Have an easy hand with the stuff, it’s powerful. Mix in the toasted coconut. 

Yeah, I’m serious, that was the whole of the filling instructions. I told you this was ridiculously easy. 

Bake: Pour your filling (carefully) into the pie crust, and cover the edges of your pie crust so it doesn’t burn (I use tin foil, but they do make fancy pie shields). I like to put it on a jelly roll pan so it’s easier for me to take in and out of the oven. You’re going to bake it at 375F for about 30-40 minutes, but the real test is: if you shake it a little, is it set at the sides but with a little wiggle in the center? That’s when it’s done. 

Let it cool totally. 

Topping! Beat your cold cream and pudding mix together, adding the powdered sugar slowly. I start with a quarter cup and work my way up until it’s as sweet as I like. I prefer a harder peak for this, but soft peaks are acceptable if you enjoy that more. Decorat with your topping choices! 

GO WIN A FUCKIN ROSETTE

Please tell me if you made this! If you found this really helpful and would like to leave me a tip, my ko-fi is here!