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coryosbaby · 6 months

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Mdni! 18+ , mentions of gore and sexual themes

Your hands skim over the keyboard in front of the security cameras in Jigsaw’s warehouse. Pulling your hair back from your face, you watch with morbid curiosity as a boy is placed inside the reverse bear trap. Pretty brown hair, strong nose. He’s gorgeous as he lays unconscious in that rigged room.

One of the apprentices straps him down to the chair, right across from another unconscious body— one that you know may or may not be cut open soon. Biting your lip, you watch the mysterious boy’s shirt ride up— it exposes a sliver of pale, soft skin.

You want to bite a chunk out of it.

Your friend and colleague, Amanda, stands behind you working on another trap— a collar that has bullets around the edges. Turning to her, you try to act casual.

“What’s the guy’s name?” You ask, motioning to the boy on the screen.

She shakes her head, her eyes not moving from the contraption in her grasp.

“I dunno. Adam, or something.”

Your eyes dazedly turn back towards the security footage and something tugs at your chest.

Adam.

It fits him well, you think.

You hum, watching as Amanda frustratedly slams down a piece of material.

“This piece of shit,” she grumbles. “I’m gonna go get some more stuff for it. I’ll be right back. Keep an eye on that guy, okay?”

That won’t be a problem, you think. You nod, saying bye to Amanda. Finally alone in the room, you bite your glossed lips and adjust your high heels on your feet. You then turn to your purse, pull out a compact mirror, and begin to touch up your eye makeup. Anything to get you to ignore that feeling tugging at you as Adam’s game begins.

—

It’s a mere forty minutes later, and Amanda still isn’t back yet. She had texted you through your burner phone a mere few minutes earlier.

“Got held up.” she said. “Wont be back for another 30 mins.”

Honestly, perfect timing. Because as you watch Adam through those cameras, you notice that he’s beginning to stir.

Of course, as you expect, he’s panicky. You can see all of his expressions: how confused he looks as his eyes first open, then the mere realization that he’s restrained. And then, the panic and fear— his eyes scrunch up and he begins to move his hips in an attempt to get out.

And you’re so thankful that the surveillance is equipped with audio. Because as he struggles, Adam lets out the most precious whine you’ve ever heard.

And against your morals (as if you have any, at this point), your panties begin to dampen. He lets out a pained sound, trying to speak through the helmet. But he can’t.

Watching him so helpless and scared— it shouldn’t turn you on. But something in you can’t help but bring your hand down to your pussy and rub your palm against your swollen clit. You let out a heavy exhale, and your eyes move down to Adam’s hips— those gorgeous, slutty little hips. He’s moving them around like he’s grinding against the fucking chair. And shit, you can’t resist letting out a moan at the sight.

Thankfully remembering to press the button that connects to the television set in the room, you watch with hooded eyes as it turns on in front of Adam. His eyes widen, looking and listening to the instructions. You move your panties to the side and slip a finger inside yourself. Two, after a mere moment; it’s always been easy for you to take your own fingers. Adam’s got his eyebrows scrunched up and you wonder what his cock looks like. Probably cute— a pretty, flushed pink tip when he’s aroused. He looks like the type to shave himself bare, and when you begin thinking about how girthy he might be your mouth begins to salivate. You haven’t even seen all of him (yet), but you know the boy has a perfect cock.

Adam begins to cry. Your pace speeds up. He sounds so pretty and you know if you saw his whole pouting face he’d be even prettier. You press the button to release his restraints. At the freedom of his wrists and legs he throws himself down to the floor— maybe he’s trying to search the unknown man laying limp on the floor to see if he has anything on him to help him escape. He pats his chest, and checks his pants pockets.

And then, he lifts up his shirt to reveal that damning question mark reserved as a cutting guide. He sobs, knowing what he has to do. His hand picks up the scalpel on the small metal table, brought to him by that puppet that you think is very fucking ugly. He looks at it, looking at the unknown man across from him.

And when he begins to complete the task assigned to save his life, your wetness gushes down your fingers in thick, creamy streams. You aren’t looking at the blood and gore littering the floor as Adam cuts into the man— no, that’s fucked up. Your eyes are only focused on the boy doing the cutting. You can feel your orgasm approaching, and you pull your fingers out of yourself to rub your clit in fast circles. Whimpering into the open air, you watch as Adam wins his game. You watch his bloody hands as he unlocks the trap. And when his face is revealed to you, all bloody and handsome and crying, you let out a loud mewl, and cum all over your own fingers.

And after this, realization sinks in that the boy has beat the trap. He will live.

And now you know what your next task will be— finding him. You intend to know this boy— Adam— and you intend to help him heal from this.

And once he’s gained your trust, maybe, just maybe, you’ll fuck his pretty brains out.

#adam stanheight #Adam stanheight x reader #Adam stanheight x fem! reader #adam faulkner stanheight #Adam stanheight smut #adam stanheight fanfic #saw #saw 2004 fanfic #saw 2004 #saw franchise #saw fanfic #saw x

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heli0s-writes · 7 months

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forget your perfect offering*

summary: Captain America hasn’t been home in years and it’s turned him into something a little lost, a little broken.

a/n: Hi hi!! Guess who's back on the Nomad Steve angst/smut train after 5 months??? 3k words. Please stop reading if you're not 18+ This is very Clumsy adjacent.

Captain America hasn’t been home in years and it’s turned him into something a little lost, a little broken. Going dark on the United States government when it’s put a price on your head will do that, he supposes. He’s even picked up a new habit of flinching at shadows despite maneuvering in them for eternity.

Not eternity, but he’s dramatic and full throttle. Never once learned that some things can be half-measures, can be compromised on. He’s got his handful of soldiers—friends— and he can’t forget that they’re friends because soldiers are pawns and friends are crucial.

Back then, he was just a newly reanimated statuette, a votive figurine to justice rendered flesh and bone and so damn brittle. And how could he believe it would last? The entire thing fell apart within a few years—a team scattered to pieces; an entire nation’s vision discarded on the side of the road.

A lot of Americans are angry with him for that, and most days he tries not to be angry at himself, which is stupid according to you and Sam and Nat. But being angry at propaganda and history and circumstances is too intangible to do much with, so at least being angry with himself means he can kneel into a fight, leave too little in the tank for the trip back, find a way to be punished for his transgressions.

He’d always been reckless, but it’s becoming a flag much to red to ignore.

You tell him he’s got a death wish. Plain and simple: keep it up and you’ll die, and nothing more, leaving the jet ride in silence, everyone averting their eyes. But he just wipes the blood out of his mouth and says, “Hasn’t seemed to work out for me yet.”

Back at the house—the house, not his house, or anybody’s house, certainly not a home in its unremarkable exterior, interior, living spaces cobbled together with rickety, mismatched furniture and chipped ceramic kitchenware—he returns to his book. Sinks himself into the reading nook and opens it up to a page he’s been pretending to pay attention to.

Natasha showers first, Sam crashes into his bed face-down, and you linger by the old T.V., poking at the adjacent radio.

“Hey, death boy.”

He looks up, startled. “Death boy?”

“Yeah,” you grin, glancing over your shoulder. “Death boy. Your new superhero name.”

You say it breezily, eyes half-mast because it’s been a real dog-shit kind of day and even Steve can hardly focus.

Sam’s dead to the world and Nat’s going on 30 minutes under water, so it’s a fair estimate to say that it’s to the point where he can feel how powered-down his brain is, and that if he tries to speak more than three phrases at a time, it’ll hardly make any damn sense. Or, inevitably, make matters worse.

He tries for controlled, comes out not so much. “It’s a little morbid, don’t you think?”

You gasp, scandalized. “Silly me, you haven’t been morbid at all recently. Gosh, it’s not like you were trying to get gutted—he was swinging so wide and slow, how could I think you’d manage dodging in time?” You clasp your hands over your mouth dramatically, “How could I suggest—”

“That’s enough.” Steve pinches his nose-bridge with one hand and closes the book with the other. He’s going to drown himself in the bathtub when Natasha’s finished—go drama—but he’s grinning a little bit, not dumb enough to hide when he’s been caught out.

You punch a button on the radio, tune it to a station that’s only slightly screeching with interference. There’s a discernible piano melody but he doesn’t know the song. You tap along, feeling out the rhythm, and then you cast your eyes to the reading nook he’s crushed into before pointing at the middle of the floor.

For all his miserable ruminating he always forgets to account for you at the end of the day, standing there and waiting for him like he’s got any choice. He declares all sorts of bullshit about how making the right decision can feel like no decision at all when it’s inherently justified; reason should feel like reflex, ethics an extension. But lately, the only reflex he’s felt is closer to vanishing.

He’s disappearing from view a little more each night, reduced to a crumbling idol of an endangered faith because humanity’s stopped believing in him and part of him is following the same course. He’s become an old relic chipped away in the flow of time, and some days he’d rather just be good and gone.

Keep it up and you’ll die.

Part of him already has. Part of him’s already in the ground.

“Come on,” you say with a surprising amount of patience, eyes soft and hand extended. “Are you gonna get up or am I gonna have to drag your ass again?”

The song is plunking away, cutting in and out intermittently, notes quivering on scratches of static. Nat’s started to dry her hair, the sound like a tornado alarm trapped in a bathroom but it’s persistent, fighting the wailing blow-dryer for an audience. She’s probably freezing cold because the house’s water heater is shoddy at best and Sam can fix that but he’s been exhausted lately and no one’s going to complain because they’ve never complained about their situation-- not once.

He bites down, frowns a little deeper, but then he’s on his feet, giving chase like you could take him somewhere whole and unbroken. Somewhere he’s been craving for. His hands around your waist are careful, resting his chin on top of your head as you nuzzle in.

He asks through gritted teeth, “Listening for a heartbeat?”

“I know where your heart is.”

He’s so goddamn maudlin, can’t stop the bitterness from lashing out. “Where’s that?”

“With us, death boy. With me.”

He makes a noncommittal sound, dismissive and very, very rude of him, but he’s on a roll and won’t be appeased. You lazily read the lines of his face with stunned eyes, then touch your nose to his bearded chin as you lean up.

You stroke his scalp, spinning the feathery ends of his long hair. “You want to be hurt so bad, don’t you?” Your nails rake down the length of his strong neck. “Is that what you’re used to? Is it more comfortable that way?”

“Enough,” he murmurs faintly, but makes no move to push you away, only stepping in time, rocking along. When your hand tightens into a fist to pull at him, he bites down, shuts his eyes. You do it again, harder, and then let go, letting your fingers spread at the base of his skull, cradling it like a child.

“You want to be beaten within an inch of your life, want to be pried open so you can check if you’re still capable of dying.” Cold words, but your breath is hot, and he’s starting to feel it—that telltale shiver at the base of his spine at the way you won’t break eye contact.

“I know, I know,” you coo, “it hasn’t happened yet.” You move away, smiling big and dark and glistening with promise. “But listen, Steve, all you have to do is ask.”

He can’t tell what expression he’s making, only that your pupils open to swallow him. You’re staring at him, not through him. Taking in his flesh and the warm blood cascading down his face.

The night is taking its toll, it seems. Collecting on long, hard hours, making the both of you reckless.

He thinks about months ago, and the complication of ethics in the way.

Not sleeping with teammates, not losing the fucking plot no matter how much he craved losing it for a couple of hours. There were several weeks before it went sideways, before Bucharest and the Accords, where he spent doing nothing but dedicating himself to daydreaming. He sank into the quiver of his own body as he imagined you and everything he wanted to know by touch.

There were dances, like this. Swaying back and forth in Sam’s backyard and gala celebrations, onlookers getting a few ideas about what his eyes were communicating when he’d trace the curve of your shoulders or the delicate insides of your wrists. How everyone else might follow Captain America into the jaws of death but he’d follow only you, headlong, beyond, and into the goddamn afterlife if you asked him.

But there was a line he couldn’t cross. A soft, tangerine horizon much too far out of his reach when the dark was at his back, beating him to the ground. Making him flinch from warmth because entanglement was too complicated and love was too kind.

Tony asked him what it felt like to fuck up so astronomically. Nat only clucked her tongue, more disappointment in a single sound than Steve had heard from many grand lectures.

Because you would have been vibrant and glorious, damn it. You would have giggled— giggled— when you made love, crooned his name like a songbird and touched him everywhere, all at once. You would have kissed fire back into him, licked your way into the center of that votive figurine and traced his broken heart. You would have excavated him, clawed him out clean, led him into the light.

So, he knows. He knew then, knows now, knows for the rest of his days when he’s let a beautiful thing slip through his fingers.

But sometimes, this happens and his hands feel like they’ve still held on despite his attempts. Sometimes you brush his knuckles, smile at him small and sweet and come into his makeshift room, sit on the side of his bed and exist side by side. Sometimes there wouldn’t even be conversation.

But when you linger by the door, gaze slowly raking down the length of his body and his throat, his mouth, all ten of his fingertips—god, what he wouldn’t give then, to take you to the floor and declare fuck it.

Fuck ethics and fuck his entire life, if needed, because there was only you, only what he’d been needing for ages, only that brilliant and terrifying afterlife awaiting him.

The reflex, then, is not to disappear anymore, but to kneel in.

You say, both hands come to rest around his throat— because you’ve seen him now, seen him the entire time, “If you want it that much, Steve, I can give it to you. A hundred tiny deaths, so sweet and good, until it hurts so bad you really do feel like you’re dying.”

He gulps, Adam’s apple catching each of your fingers on the way up and back down. Says, “Yeah,” before he even registers it. He blurts, going cold and hot and shell-shocked, “I’d let you do anything you want.”

Just then, the bathroom door clatters open and Natasha steps out, towel wrapped around her as she pads across the living space toward her room.

She looks from you to Steve, briefly studying the single foot of distance between your faces, the forgotten music, the way he can’t seem to keep his breathing in order.

The way you’ve got his throat in your hands.

She doesn’t even stop as she passes by, carding her fingers through her hair for a final act of detangling. “Wilson sleeps heavy,” she yawns, which implies, I don’t, so keep whatever the hell it is you two are doing down.

Then she’s gone with only pressure left in her wake. Only his breath fighting with his lungs, his belly tight and hot and his flavorless mouth so fucking starved for yours.

You raise a judgmental eyebrow after he does nothing for a beat too long, too lost in potential backpedaling to advance the plot. “That’s not asking, Steve.”

He’s stupid, dizzy, like he’s been dropped on his head, but not that stupid. He can’t keep his eyes off your mouth. Doesn’t even know if he says it, but tries anyway, “Will you please,” and the rest goes out the window. You lean in. You kiss him better than he could ever have imagined.

He’s living the teenage years he never had.

You kiss him like you’ve got all the time in the world—like it isn’t past four in the morning and the both of you are one silent minute away from slipping into unconsciousness. You kiss lazy and slow and sublime. You press a thumb at the corner of his mouth, touch inside of him, and he wants to do it back. But he wants it right.

“This,” he starts, almost whimpering when you run your teeth beneath his ear, molding your body to his, the two of you staggering into the wall and the end table and poor Natasha across the house must be digging up her earplugs. “I’m not good with—casual—”

“Yeah, you don’t think I know that?” You only pause for enough air to hassle him before taking his hands, your own so small over them, so much power over him, and place them on your waist. “You don’t think I know you’re an all-in kind of guy?”

Of course, you know. Of course, anyone who’s ever heard of Steven Grant Rogers can figure it out. It’s always going to be full throttle for him. Casual isn’t a word that exists in his dictionary, and he won’t compromise on that. He couldn’t do this any other way because now he wants to do it all—to feel you, inside out, across time and the universe and infinity.

He shucks off your clothes, doesn’t mind the grit of the day on your skin, wants it even, to know what you’re like every hour of every day. He tears off his own tac gear, can’t keep his mouth off yours for even a second as he stumbles across the floor.

When he reaches the bed, you climb on top, warm between your legs and so perfect over his thigh. He’s rocking his hips against yours, mouthing at your breasts, grabbing your ass and waist and snarling into your neck like an animal. Lazy and slow twists into frantic and desperate, him throbbing and throbbing against your skin.

He leans back, takes you down with him, bra strap limp at your elbows, panties to the side and he wedges back between the space of his thigh and your sex. He wants—wants.

“You’re warm,” he breathes.

When he pulls out, there’s a sloppy noise following your moan and he rubs his fingers together, awed at the glistening web slipping down to his palm.

One finger becomes two, the coat of slick up to his knuckles and he’s using too much tongue when he kisses you but you don’t mind that at all.

He’s not any kind of virgin but he really feels like one. In the sense that he’s turned on by everything. Too much stimulation. On his skin, in his brain, he’s immersed in one second while predicting the next, seeing the possible ways it could go. Too much pent-up desire swells up the length of his cock as he palms and presses it against the underside of your thigh for contact. His chest is heaving, breath stuttery, eyes wild and unfocused.

You grab his face, pull him away from your collar. You’re only a slight mess, but Christ, what a sight. He must be about fifty times worse because you’re grinning wide, looking him up and down as he arches forward to get you back.

You tut, “If I really wanted to kill you,” you say, “I’d leave you right now.”

“Please don’t,” he manages hoarsely, the fire in his belly lashing out.

“Because I’m so nice.”

“Yes.” And suddenly, his sunny face turns overcast, all the joyful cacophony from before muting. “Yes, you are.”

“Steve,” you sigh, rubbing your forehead with your hands for something to do with them.

He hauls himself up on his elbows, starting to feel upset.

You lean back on your palms, head lolling between your shoulder blades, aggrieved.

“Sorry,” he recants.

“Steve.”

He can’t make eye contact, but you don’t ask him to again, only touching his jaw with a finger and erasing the last few minutes with a nuzzle of your nose to his, like saying don’t worry about it, it’s okay.

Then, more kissing, more of that touch he dreamed about and he wants to kick his past self for missing it, for even daring to fantasize when the real thing is so much more.

The night melts away, each hour lasting a blink or an eternity—he can’t be bothered by it now. He figures the sun’s coming up, though, because there’s that haze of early morning past the gauzy, frayed curtain.

Your palms are on his chest, pawing at him for leverage each time you grind down, each time you swallow him back inside of you. You push, like an act of resuscitation— one, two, one, two— a rhythmic, electric, life-giving staccato beat that has him gasping for air, has him keening and groaning without any thought to how loud he might be.

And, fuck it, fuck it all. He is, admittedly, loud.

Sorry, Nat, he winces mentally before his brain’s wiped clear of all thought.

There’s nothing but you, and you, and you.

And that poor, broken heart inside of him, crushed to fine powder, being reworked into brilliance.

He lies there afterwards, gazing into the ceiling as he breathes back down to calm. There’s the thrall of exhaustion behind his eyes but it’s being overridden by a terrible, traitorous voice that’s telling him how he can’t seem to stop fucking up.

He can’t breathe suddenly, the room collapsing into a pinhole, darkness threatening the edges of his sight.

And then you say, because you always know what to say, “It’s okay to be a little broken,” you stroke his chest. “Baby, that’s how the light gets in.”

And the morning is breaking through fully now, streaks of it clearing up his eyes, cutting him to pieces beneath you.

“Yes,” he agrees and meets you for another lengthy kiss, every shrapnel inch of him raw and searing hot. All his exposed parts—the grief and agony and self-hatred—turned to gold. You touch his dark edges with your fingertips. You trace a new dawn’s light in his hair.

#steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers angst #steve rogers smut

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armoralor · 4 months

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[TW: homophobia, threats of physical violence, SA, gun violence]

IMPORTANT: do not interact with the person mentioned below. please do not send hate or harass ANY of the accounts mentioned. the point of this post is to warn the community of a serious threat, not to dog pile or stir a hate mob. his accounts have been reported and local authorities have been made aware of his potential for harm. Last updated: 01/30/2024. New information begins close to the bottom, starting at the red text.

Some of you may already be familiar with the homophobic incel that was previously filling the Ahsoka & Sabine Wren tags with vile misogyny. He's gone by many names due to banning and deactivations: @sabezrastan01, @longlivetheemporer, @imperialloyalist01, @standorando, and @imperialsycophant. Here's the guy that gave us this classic:

Now, as meme worthy as that post was- it's unfortunately just the tip of the iceberg. Despite his exile from this social media site, he continues to be active on Instagram and TikTok. He also continues to get support from some of the same folks that have been painting sapphics and wolfwren shippers out as vicious bullies.

I didn't intend to find everything I did, but this man constantly comments under official Star Wars media posts calling queer women "degenerates" and "beasts," so it's been hard to miss. It honestly hurts to reread this shit again, but I want to warn anyone who 1) may interact with him without realizing he's a incel neo nazi 2) may be harmed by his continued harassment.

First thing to remember about him- he doesn't just complain about shipping, he has wished death and harm upon multiple people. On top of the two screenshots below, he also discussed wanting to put a bullet in Dave Filoni's head (the alt account was taken down before I thought to screenshot):

He wrote "these people need to be beaten" on a dozen anti-wolfwren posts before his most recent account was taken down. He has embraced the common anti-LGBTQIA+ rhetoric of queer people being pedophiles and rapists:

He repeatedly brings rape up unprompted, especially when talking to nonbinary folks and women:

Plus buys into the "woke agenda" causing queer relationships to happen in media:

You'll notice the irony of him "worrying" wolfwren shippers are going to threaten the actors, despite him previously threatening to kill Dave Filoni and beat wolfwren shippers. He seems to be projecting a lot of his own desires and wishes onto other people, which will become even more obvious further down this post.

Now, thankfully his last tumblr account was taken down for inciting violence, but as i mentioned before, it's hard to miss him on other platforms:

Out of morbid curiosity I clicked on his account, and it's unfortunately what you would expect for from an incel. His follower and following list is littered with white nationalists, militia groups, tactical gear stores, weapon vendors, alt-right religious orgs, and 4chan neo nazis.

Instagram Followers:

Instagram Following:

It's clean he's unhinged and a danger to those who don't share similar interests. He seems to make allowances for anyone who ships sabezra, but otherwise is a diehard supporter of alt-right Christian nationalist beliefs.

One of his previous account names on Instagram was @cajunminuteman, with a confederate flag as his pfp. In current alt right groups, a minuteman is a person who is ready to pick up a gun and fight on a minutes' notice, typically in a militia against the government. His previous account also followed a number of Christian Southern Nationalist accounts:

There are a number of shippers that continue to interact with this man. Most sabezra shippers I've chatted with are very sweet, some of you even share discord servers with me and have so much love for this fandom. I'm only asking those of you who choose to ignore this man's threats of violence to revaluate how far you are willing to go to support a fictional ship.

Wolfwren shippers have bore the brunt of fandom hate and harassment since Ahsoka started airing. We continue to get called degenerates, rapists, pedophiles, and threatened with physical violence. This is not the same, or in any way equivalent, to silly jokes made about fictional ships being made canon. It's exhausting to get constant harassment in real life AND online.

Are there mean wolfwren shippers? Absolutely. I'm sorry queer people sometimes cheer on cishet ships not becoming canon, I know it sucks when it's over something you like. No, enjoying cishet ships doesn't make you any less queer, and I'm sorry there was an asshole out there that said that shit. But can we PLEASE stop acting like sapphics and wolfwren enjoyers are ALWAYS bullies? That we're somehow always the ones threatening people? It plays into the alt-right rhetoric of the LGBTQIA+ community being predators and I'm so sick of it, especially when there is so much outright vile hate for queers.

If there are any wolfwrens sending hate and/or threats, I am begging for an example or name so they can be reported properly. None of us condone any of the nasty shit that's been sent, we deal with enough hate irl. This man's closest friends aren't much better, joking about wanting to hurt wolfwren shippers and how the LGBTQIA+ community is a bad thing:

The most recent return to tumblr was under account @imperialsycophant where he tried to pretend he wasn't the same incel loser:

He eventually went mask off, realizing that most people weren't foolded:

On January 24 2024, his most recent Instagram account (@imperialloyalist01) was taken down. Less than 24 hours later, a sabezra shipper DM'd me asking me to delete this post. I explained to the shipper that the point of this post was to warn the fandom as a whole of this guy's behaviour, and at multiple points I make it clear everyone should stay away + not engage any of the accounts involved.

Everything included in this thread is public information taken from public posts or public accounts. The shipper who DM'd me still demanded I remove this post, as it could "hurt their friends."

The context of who the incel associates himself with is helpful when conveying the severity & underlying motives of his actions. There are approximately two non alt-right/neo-nazi accounts in the following/follower lists I shared. Those who were following @imperialloyalist01 up until January 24th were both privately and publicly made aware they were following a person threatening harm against others, but they continued to like, comment, and follow the account. This does not mean any of them should be harassed or bothered. It simply provides additional context to the situation and will hopefully aid others in forming their own opinions on who they wish to befriend.

When I reminded the shipper who DM'd me that their friends were continuing to make jokes about hitting/hurting wolfwren shippers, AND tagging wolfwren in those edits, I did not get a response. However, what I did get was mass spam reported.

Shortly after I sent the above message and the sabezra shipper realized I would not be taking this post down, my account was hate reported and temporarily terminated. Tumblr has an automated feature that bans accounts immediately (out of safety) if they are reported by a large group of people at the same time (which is fair, say someone posts torture or something terrible). Thankfully, after I emailed the abuse support team and explained the situation, they reinstated my account:

I will not be sharing the name of the sabezra shippers who tried to take down my account. I already get harassed enough, and I don't want anyone to go through the same shit. Please remember that a small group of bad people do NOT represent an entire community. There are plenty of sweet sabezra shippers that do not support this kind of disgusting and hateful behaviour.

Key takeaways: don't send hate or threats. Let people have their fun online while they attempt to avoid the Horrors of real life. Please don't support people spewing vile hate JUST because they like the same fictional ships as you.

Other posts related to him: (x) (x) (x) (x) (x) (x) (x) (x)

#updated Friday Jan 30 2024 #sabezra #wolfwren #ezrabine #sabine wren #ezra bridger #bluebean #swr #rebels #shin hati #ahsoka #tw homophobia #tw sa #tw violence #text #mine #i reported him but who knows what will come of it- i just want everyone to stay safe. do not engage for your own safety please.

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afictionaladventure16 · 1 year

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hi!! maybe a fic where pedro has been away from his daughter for a while due to filming and just before a few days before he’s supposed to come home, he calls her saying he has to stay for a couple more weeks. she gets upset and maybe rebels and acts out in some way. the eventual reunion could either be a angsty or fluff depending on what ur goin for!! love ur writing btw!!

Broken Promises (Pedro Pascal x Daughter!Reader)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist

Word Count: 4,516

A/N: First of all, thank you for your kind words! It means a lot! <3 I live for angsty requests! This one was fun to write! I kind of took what you asked and did some twists... I hope you like it, though!! Requests are open to anyone who wants to send something in! Also, I don't know if Pedro's older sister has a husband so, i made it up. ALSO, 4.5 k words! This might be my longest one yet. I stayed up till 4:30 am writing this one....

You anxiously looked over at the clock that was mounted on the wall, “The more you look at it, the slower it’ll move,” your tia commented as she noticed you looking at the clock for the seventh time in the past five minutes. “He said he’ll call before he got on his flight, his flight isn’t until Seven. Hours away, so would you please finish your homework before your father kills me because your grades slipped while he was away.”

You groaned, “It’s killing me that he hasn’t called to let me know he made it to the airport, not even a text!”

“He’s a busy man, Y/N. Plus you know how he is, he forgets where he places his phone like ever single minute, that’s why he’s so attached to that damn iPad,” Your tia commented as she continued to chop up vegetables for dinner. But she had a point, he could have let his phone in his carry on, or some obvious place that was in plain sight.

You knew your dad too well, sometimes you thought you knew him better than he knew himself. Sometimes it was true and it scared you. Why? Maybe it was because he was everything to you and you were everything to him. It had just been the two of you since your mother passed and it was as if her passing brought the two of you closer. You bonded over her death in a morbid way.

His mother passed when he was young, so he knew how to be a shoulder to cry on.

He knew the right things to say and the wrong things to say.

He knew the things you would want to avoid, the people you wouldn’t want to see. Overall, he just knew the pain you would go through. Ever since you were just this dynamic duo.

When he was away filming, you missed him dearly, but it gave you time to spend with your cousins and family you don’t get to see as often.

“Any plans for his return home?” your tia asked, interrupting your thoughts.

“Well, I do have my tournament coming up, which is out of state and papi said we can go on a road trip. Take the scenic route and do all the stops.”

“He did mention that, he sounded pretty excited.”

“Yeah, plus this tournament is a pretty big deal, the top four teams will be competing to go to championship,” you explained. You wouldn’t say that soccer was your life, but you did love playing soccer. There was something about being on the field and just leaving everything on the sidelines, leaving all your trauma and past for a few hours and just being free.

You had gotten into soccer when you were fairly young. You remembered your parents always cheering for you in the sidelines and then it was just your dad, then sometimes it would only be your tia who always had her phone up with most likely, your dad on the other side of the phone. Slowly the emptier the sidelines got, the reason for you to play grew, the more you wanted to just be free from your mind.

The sound of your phone ringing interrupted your thoughts, you jumped up and ran towards your phone that sat at the kitchen counter. “Papi?” You said as you answered the call.

“Y//N,” he began to say.

“About time you called, I was beginning to worry you had missed your flight or something. Are you at the airport already?”

“No,” He sighed.

“You’re kind of cutting it close, you know that right?” you glanced at the clock, six thirty, it had read.

“Cariño, I need you to listen to me,” he sighed.

You sat back down at the kitchen table, “What’s wrong?” you asked. Your mind was quick to race to certain thoughts, someone could be dead, you thought. Who could it be? You had been with your tia Javiera for the past month and she was the oldest. Usually she was the first to know everything.

“I’m sorry, Cariño,” he began. Your heart began to race, an uneasy feeling crept over you like storm clouds. “I’m gonna have to stay here for a few more weeks.”

“A few more weeks? B-But you’ll be here for our road trip right?” You were met with silence, a sinking feeling took hold in your stomach, “Right?” you asked again.

“Mija,” he muttered. Pedro spent the whole day putting off this phone call for this reason. He had gotten your hopes up and he knew you weren’t going to take it easy.

“Did you tell them no?”

“I can’t tell the directors no,” he answered.

“Did you even try?” Your voice choked with disappointment, he couldn’t be doing this. He promised he wouldn’t become that parent.

“Mija, I can’t say no, I have to stay here and do reshoots.”

“But our road trip!” You exclaimed.

“I know and I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

“Just like you promised to take me on this road trip?”

“Mija, por favor, Don’t do this to me,” he said, Pedro felt his heart heavy, he knew he was disappointing you and as much as he wanted to tell the directors to shove it and say no, he knew he couldn’t.

“Or like how you promised you’d never do this? How you promised you wouldn’t become that person.”

“Y/N,” When the first name came out, you knew he was beginning to get upset.

“Mija, give me the phone,” your Tia stepped in. She knew someone might say something they might regret and she didn’t want to see either of your hurt. But she forgot to realize you were her brothers daughter and just like him, you were stubborn too.

You held onto the phone, “You promised,” disappointment written over your voice, tears began to well up in your eyes.

“I know,” he whispered. If you had only seen how torn your father was at the moment, maybe you would have been okay with situation. Or maybe things would have turned differently, but you could only hear his voice and although, you heard the disappointment in his voice, you couldnt be bothered to care about it. All that mattered to you was that he had broken his first promise and you didn’t know if this was going to be the first of many and if so, what was next?

Would you be one of those kids that grew up only seeing their parents on the holidays and eventually writing a book titled, “My Parent, the Mandalorian, and the neglect I endured.” You never wanted to be one of those kids and when your dad first began to get bigger roles, he had promised you that you wouldn’t. That he wouldn’t become one of those famous parents.

You remained silent, hoping it was some kind of sick joke and maybe he’d say something along the lines of ‘Gotcha!’ or maybe he’d say ‘I’ll be there tomorrow, don’t worry!’ But seconds pass and he didn’t say any of it. “Okay,” you finally said.

“Mija,” Pedro began to say but you handed the phone to your tia.

“Pedro, it’s Javiera,” your tia said, a somber look fell on her face when she had heard him apologizing when she first took the phone. She felt bad for her little brother, but she also felt bad for you.

“Is she still there?” Pedro asks

Javiera looked at you, you wiped away tears that were managing to escape. You groaned to yourself, irritated with everything around you, you left the room. “She just left,” she replied.

“I fucked up, didn’t I?”

“Yeah,” she sighed.

“How do I fix this?” Pedro pleaded. Ever since your mother passed away, Pedro called his big sister for any little thing on parenting, he felt like every choice he made was the wrong one. Most of the time, it wasn’t, he was just overthinking it.

“There really is no way out of the reshoots? No way to reschedule?”

“Directors call,” he sighed. “I really fucked up, Javiera. No me va a perdonar” (She’s not gonna forgive me).

“No mas nicesieta tiempo. Let me talk to her, but for now… give her some space.”

“Are you saying not to call her?” Pedro questioned.

“Or text… just for a couple of days. If anything send her a goodnight text, but let’s not anger her more.” He let out a small sigh, Pedro always texted you. Even if he went the whole day without responding, he made sure to send a goodnight text every night.

“Alright,” he muttered. “I’m gonna need you to get in contact with the school, she’ll have to go with her team to the tournament.”

“I’ll contact them, and Pedro?”

“Mande?”

She let out a deep breathe, “It’s gonna be fine.”

Pedro tried his hardest to give himself a smile, to reassure himself that it would be fine and eventually it’ll pass, but he couldn’t. At the moment his heart was utterly broken, he had broken a promise, what felt like a sacred vow and now he had disappointed you. It probably wouldn’t be the first, but he sure as hell, hopes it wouldn’t become a habit.

Over the past week, you only left your room to go to school and shower. Your cousins dropped off your food in your room every day, you felt like they were somehow on your side. Your friends eventually began to blow up your phone, not only had you been distant with your family, but you’ve also been distant with them.

You felt your phone vibrate beside you, you groaned at the thought of getting a phone call from anyone. Picking up the phone you realized it was one of your teammates, Cassandra, “Yeah?”

“Finally you pick up,” Cassandra muttered. “Look, a bunch of us are going to go on a drive later tonight with Justin’s brother, he just got his license and we wanted to know if you want to join.”

“Can’t.”

“Oh come on, Y/N! You’ve been so distant and what will it hurt? You’re dad isn’t home anyway so he can’t say anything!”

You let out a sigh, she had a point, “I still have curfew.”

“So? Sneak out.”

You had to admit that Cassandra was a bad influence. She wasn’t your best friend, she was one of the girls in your soccer team. She was part of the older group in the varsity team, but she always invited you out. Part of you felt like she only did it because of your dads social status which is why you always declined her offer. That and because your dad didn’t really approve of you hanging out with her, he could always tell when someone was a bad influence. But Cassandra was right, he wasn’t here.

“Fine.”

“Really?” Cassandra asked taken back by your response.

“Like you said, my dad isn’t here, so it shouldn’t matter right?”

“Trouble in paradise?” She chuckled.

You rolled your eyes, “What time should I be ready?”

“We’ll pick you up at midnight, we’ll shoot you a text when we’re down the block,” Cassandra said before she hung up the phone. You felt your nerves beginning to get worked up, you had no idea what you just got yourself into, yet something inside you felt carefree.

If your dad were home, you knew he wouldn’t approve of you going out so late. He definitely wouldn’t have approved of you going on a joy ride with someone you didn’t even know and had just gotten their license. He wasn’t here though.

You remained in your room while you waited, your Tia Javiera came to check on you before she went to bed. Soon after you heard your phone vibrate on your desk, for a moment you thought it was Cassandra but it was still an hour away from midnight. You glanced at your phone,

Goodnight, Mija ♥️

It was a message from your dad. You rolled your eyes and put your phone away. You spent the rest of your time getting ready, you wore something simple, but made sure to cover up from the cold. A few minutes past midnight you received a text from Cassandra saying that they were waiting down the block. You began to quietly make your way out of the house.

“Where you going?” you heard someone whisper.

You turned around to see your cousin Pedro in the middle of the kitchen, “Pedro, what are you doing up?”

He held up a sandwich, “where you going?”

You looked at him with pleading eyes, “I’m only going to be gone for an hour, it’s just a drive around the block with some friends.”

He chuckled, “I don’t care what you do, Y/N. I’ve been there before. Have fun and if you go to McDonalds bring me some fries, kay?”

You rolled your eyes, “whatever.” You playfully flipped him off before walking out of the house. You made sure to close the door softly behind you. Once you were in the clear you booked it down the street. You spotted Cassandra waving you down from a dark green Tahoe.

“This car is a piece of junk,” you commented as you got into the Tahoe.

“Hey, no disrespecting Hilda!” The driver who you assumed to be Jasons brother, exclaimed.

“She’s a piece of junk but she’s Marty’s piece of junk,” Jason commented.

“Correct!” Marty said. “Now let’s get this party started!”

Pedro woke up in a startle to the sound of his phone ringing, at first he had thought it was just his dream, but the sound slowly began to get louder and louder until finally he woke up. He groaned, “who the fuck is calling so early?” he muttered to himself.

“Hello?” he answered in an annoyed tone.

“Pedro?” he heard his sister on the other line, her voice sounded strain.

“Javiera?” Pedro quickly sat up.

“Pedro,” Javiera’s voice trembled, there was some ruffling sounds on the other line.

“Javiera?” No answer. “Javier, que te pasa?”

“Pedro?” Javiera’s husband had taken over the phone.

“Augustine? Que esta pasando?” (What’s happening) Pedro was no sitting on the side of his bed, he no longer felt drowsy.

Augustine sighed, “Pedro, no se como dicier te. Y/N snuck out a few hours ago,”

“Shit,” Pedro let out a deep breath he didn’t know he was holding in. His mind had been racing to a million scenarios. “Well that’s a first,” he chuckled.

“Pedro,” Augustine said softly.

Pedro closed his eyes, the way Augustine said his name, he knew what it meant. “Is she okay?” Pedro asked as his voice trembled.

“She was in a car with a bunch of her friends and some drunk driver, he was driving over a hundred miles, the kid didn’t have a chance to react.”

“Augustine, is my baby okay?” Pedro was beginning to get ansty.

“She’s in the ICU,” Pedro could hear his sister crying in the background.

“Is she okay?” Pedro asked again.

“You need to get here as fast as possible, Pedro. She’s at Saint Mary’s Memorial Hospital, you know where that is?”

“Saint Mary’s, yeah,” Of course he knew where it was. He could never forget, it was the same hospital you were born at and now you were there again, but in different circumstances. Pedro was quick to hang up, calling his Director in the middle of night was something he would never do, unless it was something like this. Something like his daughter was hanging on by a thread and he didn’t care about anyones sleep, he just needed to get on the first plane back to New York.

The directors were understanding of the situation, they even helped Pedro get back to New York within the hour. He had never received treatment like that, but he was thankful for it.

Pedro had just a carry on, leaving most of his luggage back at the hotel with his assistant. He didn’t need much anyway, just the essentials.

Once he got out of the airport, he flagged down a taxi. The ride to the hospital seemed to be the longest ride ever. Pedro was anxious to get there, anxious to see you and to make sure you were okay. She’s in the ICU, Augustine’s voice kept repeating those words in his head like a broken record player. The sound of his sisters cries over the phone brought back memories he had thought he buried.

His thoughts were quickly interrupted by the brief halt of the car, Pedro looked out of the car window to see that he had arrived to his destination. “Thanks,” he said to the cab driver as he handed him some cash before bolting out of the car and into the hospital.

The sun was beginning to rise when Pedro finally arrived, he rushed over to the front desk. “May I help you, sir?”

“Uh- my, my daughter,” Pedro let out a shaky breath.

The receptionist knew that look too well, she had seen it so many times. “What’s the name?” she asked softly.

“Y/N Pascal.”

SHe was quick to type the name in, knowing that the last thing he wanted to do was wait any longer. “Take the elevator to floor three.”

“Thank you!” Pedro ran over to the elevator, punch the button for floor three.

He ran out of the elevator once they opened.

“Pedro!” He heard his sister exclaim.

Pedro let out a sigh of relief, he ran over to her and gave her a hug.

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed.

“It’s alright,” he looked over at his nephews, they both were distraught of the situation. “You boys okay?”

Young Pedro looked over at his uncle, tears in his eyes, “I should’ve stopped her, Tio. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he pulled his nephew into the hug. Pedro didn’t know why he was trying to comfort everyone at the moment, maybe a part of him felt like it was his responsibility because he felt so much guilt. “Where is she?”

“The doctors have her in surgery right now, she had some internal injuries they hoped to repair.” Pedro choked back the tears, he sat down on one of the chairs nearby. “They said by the looks of the crash site, she got the worse of it. She was sitting in the spot the car impacted with.”

Pedro pinched the bridge of his nose, “How bad is it?”

“The doctors said something about possible physical therapy,” Javiera added. “It’s still all unknown at the moment.”

“This is all my fault.”

“Don’t say that, Pedro.”

“She isn’t that kind of kid, Javiera! She would’ve never done this unless she was really mad at me,” Pedro let out a shaky breath. Javiera placed a comforting hand on her brothers shoulder. “I can’t lose her, Javiera,” Pedro sobbed.

“I know,” she whispered. She let Pedro cry into her shoulder and he cried for a while. After about an hour, he began to calm down, everyone sat in silence as they waited for the doctors to come out. Hours passed by when finally a doctor walked out of the doubled doors and to the Pascal family.

“Family of Y/N Pascal?” the doctor nervously figeted with his hands.

Pedro stood up quickly, “How is she?”

The doctor cleared his throat, he never like this part of the job, speaking to the family. “There was a lot of damage and we did the best we could,” Pedro felt a sob make its way into his throat, he tried his best to hold it back, it wasn’t bad news yet. “But she’s steady now.” Pedro let out a deep breathe. “This isn’t the end of her journey yet, she has a long road of recovery. She’s lucky to be alive.”

Pedro had tears falling from his eyes, his baby girl was okay. “Thank you,” he said to the doctor, “Can I see her?”

“Of course, I’ll take you to her.” The doctor led Pedro through the doubled doors, “She’s in the post Surgery, we’ll be moving her back to the ICU later today.” The doctor stood beside one of the doors, “She’ll have a lot of wires surrounding her, it may look scary but it’s what’s keeping her alive. She might not wake up right away, if anything we don’t expect her to wake up for a few days. It’s common in severe crash victims,” the doctor explained. “The tube in her throat will be taken out once she can breathe on her own.”

“Can I touch her at least?”

The doctor nodded, “It’s like handling a newborn, you have to be a bit careful.” The doctor tried to give Pedro a reassuring smile.

“Thank you,” he said softly before opening the door. The doctor was right, the way the wires surrounded you scared Pedro. “Oh baby girl,” he said softly as he walked up to the bed. “I’m sorry,” he let out a sob. He sat on the chair beside your bed, taking your hand into his, he placed a kiss on the top of your hand. “I’m sorry I broke our promise, but you need to wake up for me okay?” He slowly moved a strand of hair out of your face, careful to not touch the tubing and wires. “Te quiero mucho, Y/N. No puedo vivir sin ti.” (I love you so much, Y/N. I can’t live without you).

As the days passed, Pedro stayed beside your bedside during the day and during the night. He never left your bedside, not even to shower although he was beginning to get remarks about how he smelled. He didn’t care, he wanted to make sure he was there when you woke up.

It had been a full week and you still hadn’t woken up. The doctors were beginning to worry, they started to do more tests to make sure they didn’t miss anything before or to see if anything new showed up.

“Pedro, you need to go home and at least shower,” Augustine said as he placed a plate of food on a small table nearby.

“I’m fine,” Pedro said as he kept his eyes on you. Augustine sighed, it was no use, there was really nothing that was going to convince Pedro to leave the room.

“Come on, Cariño,” Pedro said softly. “You need to wake up.” he squeezed your hand gently. Pedro was about to let go when he felt you squeeze his hand, his eyes widen and he squeezed your hand again. Few seconds later your squeezed his hand, “Yes!” he exclaimed. He got up from his chair, “She squeezed my hand!” he yelled out to the nurses that were outside the door. They came rushing in, beginning to check your pupils and your vitals.

“Get the doctor,” one of them commanded the other.

The doctor was ecstatic to see the vitals go up, “Y/N, if you can hear me, squeeze your dads hand.” You squeezed your dads hand again. Seconds later your eyes fluttered opened, you winced at the brightness of the room. You felt something lodge in your throat, you lifted your arm to touch it, “no, no we’ll take it out for you, dear.”

“She’s awake,” Pedro said in disbelief.

“We’ll need to get the tubing out,” the doctor said. Pedro got up from his spot on the bedside, let the doctor take the tubing out from your mouth. “Your mouth is gonna feel dry for a couple of days, it’s common,” he began to say as he checked your pupils again. “Do you know where you are?”

“The-” you coughed, a nurse handed your cup of water. “The hospital?”

“Good, what year is it?”

“Twenty Twenty Three.”

“What’s your name?”

“Y/N.”

“And who’s that?” The doctor pointed over at your dad.

“My dad,” you said softly.

The doctor smiled, “We’ll run some more tests later,” he said to your dad, “I’ll leave you two alone for a now.”

Your dad thanked the doctor, he waited until they all left to go back to his spot by the bedside. You bothe remained quiet for a few minutes, one waiting for the other to speak. The other trying to get the courage to speak.

You let out a shaky breath, “I’m sorry,” you whisepred. “It was really stupid.”

Pedro shook his head, pulling you into a warm embrace, “It doesn’t matter,” he said softly. “All that matter is that you’re here and you’re alive.” He let go of the embrace, holding your head in his hands, “that’s all that matters to me right now, okay?” You gave him a nod, “I thought I was gonna lose you,” he choked out.

“I’m sorry,” you trembled.

“Que paso, Amor? How did it happen?”

You shrugged, “One second we were heading back and the next thing I know, I heard screaming and it was dark,” you sniffled. “Is everyone else okay?”

Your dad nods, “You got the worse of it. Cassandra was pretty shooken up, but they all got minor scratches and concussions.”

“Lucky me,” you said sarcastically. Your dad kissed the top of your head, “I really am sorry about everything.”

“No, I’m sorry, I broke a promise.”

“I overreacted,” you confessed.

“I don’t think you did,” he said softly. “I mean, I get it, we had a promise I wouldn’t break promises or cancel on you for work, especially with thing like your tournament. I wouldn’t let you become one of those kids with a book on how their parent was the worst parent ever.” you chuckled, causing your dad to smile, “I broke that promise and it scared you, and I’m sorry.”

“Thank you and I’m sorry I overreacted and landed myself in the most expensive place on earth that isn’t Disneyland.”

Your dad let out a laugh, “Forgiven.”

“Forgiven,” you repeated. “Now, how bad is this?” you gestured to your broken leg, “Is my soccer career totaled?”

“Soccer career? I thought you wanted to become an actor like your old man?”

“Well, acting wasn’t my first choice, but depending on this, it might just become my first choice.”

Pedro rolled his eyes, “Well, you’ll have physical therapy for sure, but let’s talk about it when we get there.”

“Alright, but can we talk about something else?”

“Dime (tell me).”

“Can you go shower?” you scrunched up your nose, “I’m pretty sure your B.O. is what woke me up!”

Pedro rolled his eyes, “Alright, alright, I’ll call your tia over to be with you while I go shower.” Pedro watched as you covered your nose in exaggeration, usually he would say something petty, but right now he just wanted to admire you and the fact that you were still alive. “Te amo, mija.”

“Y yo a ti, papi,” you gave him a smile, knowing that everything was going to be okay and that if you did write a book in the future, it’d probably be about how you grew up blessed to be Pedro Pascal’s daughter.

Pedro Pascal Taglist: @Sophieelizabeth01 @tracysnookok @cilliansangel @change-the-world-someday @graciegoeskrazy

To be added CLICK HERE

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x daughter!reader #pedro pascal x daughter #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x y/n #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal platonic #pedro pascal x daughter reader #pedro pascal x teen #pedro pascal x teen reader #pedro pascal x teen!reader #pedro pascal x teen platonic #pedro pascal angst #pedro pascal fluff #pedro pascal x teen!reader platonic #pedro pascal x daughter angst #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal dad #pedro pascal imagine

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swearingcactus · 5 months

Text

borrowing showers past bedtimes

remember the little thing i wrote the other day about v borrowing kerry's shower? yeah i finished it, somewhat, decided it was still relatively short (2k) and too plotless for an ao3 post. so woe, fic be upon ye. (under the cut)

It seemed like it took forever until V’s incessant knocking on Villa Eurodyne’s front door got it to swing open.

Speaking of the door, when the fuck did Kerry even get his front door fixed anyway? They had tried to fix it on a random weekend when V came over, but it kept opening stubbornly no matter what they did. And then Kerry had gotten so mad and tried to rip the door of its hinges, so they dropped the effort altogether. And–

“Oh, shit.” Kerry’s voice brought him back to the present and V blinks to realize Kerry’s looking at him with wide eyes. He pulls down his headphones he had on to his neck. His previous annoyance at being bothered in his house at this hour slipping rapidly into shocked worry at the sight of a merc covered in blood and mud and who knows what else, standing with his arms and feet a shoulder apart.

“Hey Ker, wha‘sup, sorry for bargin’ in so late at night,” V says, words stumbling over the other like a trainwreck, then he gets to the point, “Can I please borrow your shower?”

“Jesus, of course,” Kerry says, and then jerkily opens the door wider like he just remembered he could do that.

“‘m not Jesus, I’m V.” V mumbled out absent-mindedly. He whacks his arm before he gets in, some blood and bits of flesh fell off the sleeves of his jacket, squelching to the floor.

“Do you need a ripper?” Kerry asked. V drags his feet onto the concrete in hopes it’ll lessen the blood stains when he walks in the house.

“Oh, nah, I’m fine. This isn’t mine.” V says, just realizing how this must’ve looked. “I’ve been out the whole day in the rain, went from the badlands then back, got a gig near here.” V walked further into the house, avoiding the items still strewn about the floor. “Got messy. Normal shootout stuff, grenades, the like, then just–” he makes a psh-SHOOO noise with his mouth as he creates an over-exaggerated motion of an explosion with his hands.

“Gonk had a grenade on him and pulled the wrong pin.”

Kerry lets out an amused, morbid chuckle. V thinks that’s nice; he’d probably laugh about it too. If he hadn’t spent the entire day being scorched and sweating under the Badlands sun, hit by dust and dirt. Then got whacked with a storm that came out of nowhere. Then trekked his way up here just to get blasted in the face with someone’s guts. He smelled like garbage and felt so grossed out, but he was still ready to spend the entire ride back to Watson feeling like complete shit… only to find that the earlier shootout had blown off his Yaiba’s fuel tank.

But yeah, he’s fine! He’s totally not gonna lose it if he can’t claw his way out of his clothes within the next 5 minutes. But just in case, he excuses himself to the shower and practically ran in.

–

V's buck-ass naked in Kerry's shower. It's a huge shower, taking up 30% of the entire bathroom and the bathroom itself is bigger than his apartment. And now the large space and the great ventilation is getting him cold. He rubs a foot on top of the other, trying to warm the palms of his feet. He goes to pick up another soap from the rows and rows of product that Kerry had, all lined up.

It took less time to decide on a shampoo to use earlier because there were only two options, and even though he should probably peruse the purple shampoo dedicated to keep hair dye to shine and all that... he had decided to use the one Kerry probably forgot at the back. It had dust on its lid but smelled powdery.

Johnny crackles, all blue pixels and blurs of light, leaning on the glass window next to him. "Occupied, asshole." V says, gesturing to himself. "Also, ever heard of privacy?"

"You lost your privacy rights the second you took longer than 10 minutes to decide on a soap to use. At least start the water. This isn't your megabuilding, Kerry can pay the hot water bills."

Johnny made a good point, but V opted to ignore Johnny for now, as he often does. Instead, he opens another soap bottle and sniffs it experimentally. He could tell this was Kerry's go-to soap. Smelled like mint and perfumed musk. He reads the name of the scent. Gold Desire.

"Oh fucking... his pretentious ass needs a beating." Johnny grumbles. V snorts and closes the bottle. It's a scent reminiscent of Kerry, which V doesn't hate, of course. But the idea of smelling like Kerry didn't sit right with him.

A little too domestic. A little like he's playing pretend as someone's cute little input who's enjoying the high life for years by now. A little too much like wearing a costume. He's already had enough of the idea of turning into someone he's not without a stupid soap doing it for him.

He goes to sniff the next soap and dry-heaves. It smelled overwhelmingly like burning plastic that's vaguely presented with artificial strawberry and vanilla. He coughs and puts it away.

“At this point your clothes are gonna finish being washed before you do.” Johnny complains, glitching away and popping up, squatting on top of the washing machine dramatically.

V picks up another soap, “Oh Johnny, gross, you cummed in this one.”

“I what.”

“Look, ‘Rockerboy’s Wet Dream.’” V says, grinning and showing off a green bottle. Johnny rolls his eyes and pretend-flicked his cigarette’s ash onto the floor.

V continues to read the bottle, “’Citrus and Red Chili.’ Wonder how that smells combined.” V sniffs it, “Spicy!” he announced to Johnny who has now resorted to softly banging his head on the wall behind him. V decided he could just use this one and goes to turn the water on.

He enjoys how it immediately produced the perfect temperature without him even needing to fiddle with the settings or wait. Some fancy tech that detects his temperature and automatically sets the most suitable one for him once his feet hit the shower tiles.

He pours a hefty amount, wincing at how the bottle wheezed and dropped a slimy gel-like substance with beads of scrubs– which hurt when he started to slather it up. Before the contact with skin promptly starts to burn. Granted he has never used a high-end soap with an exfoliator and whatnot, but V doubts it’s supposed to hurt this much.

V picks the bottle up again to inspect it, hoping to see if maybe he’s just using it wrong or something… when he noticed a manufacture date at the top of the cap. He froze in fear. “Holy shit. This was produced before I was even born. Why the hell do Kerry even keep this around.”

He chucks the bottle to the trash bin to the far end of the room. It missed and hit the wall, bouncing onto the floor. V scrubs the rest of the offending soap on him, almost panickedly.

“You can shower with my actual cum, ‘ll hurt less.” Johnny offers mockingly, getting in the stall with him. V elbows him hard, even if he glitches away before it made any believable contact.

“Give it a couple second and you’ll feel the burn too, see if you can joke then.” V grumbles. He takes a long deep breath and spends the next few breaths just watching as the bubbles get washed along with the grime and mud that starts to melt onto the floor along with the hot water. Shoulders slowly slumping as the events of the day start to catch up and some new bruises and cuts make their presence known. He cards his fingers onto his hair and plop goes the pieces of brain matter and what could’ve been an eighth of an eye. He kicks it down the drain, and blindly takes a random bottle.

This one’s still filled to the brim. He opened it to find it still sealed, even. He struggles to open it with his nails and managed to do so... sacrificing some nail paint in the process. He sniffed it almost dejectedly. Before perking up, pleasantly surprised with its unfamiliar but sweet scent.

"Huh.." he says, taking it away to properly read what it was. "Coconut and basil."

"Do you even know what a coconut looks like?" Johnny accused, out of nowhere.

"Sure I do. It's brown, kinda round looking. Floats. Not sure what a basil actually is though." V answers easily, and finally sets the soap next to the shampoo he had picked, and gets to showering in peace.

V stepped out of the bathroom feeling like an actual human again for once, shaking his hair onto the towel roughly to dry it.

"Ker?" he calls out. He hears a faint tune being repeatedly played and walks to the far end of the first floor. Kerry sat with his back to V, with his headphones in, frowning at a computer. He had a guitar in one hand while his other hand was covering his mouth, a finger tapping onto his lips.

Kerry glanced over when he noticed V in his peripheral vision and says, "Hey," but his focus quickly turns back to the computer.

V steps next to him to plant a kiss on the top of his head. "Thanks for the shower." (He could feel Johnny rolling his eyes, making pretend-barfing motions. V made a huge point to tell him to fuck off.)

"No problem," Kerry says, obviously still distracted.

"Busy?" V asks, knowing the answer but thinking he should probably still ask it.

Kerry doesn't really answer, just hums vaguely, somewhat affirmatively.

V spreads his toes out on the floor, feels that it’s dusty, still haven’t been properly vacuumed since god knows when. He shifts his weight. "... Anything I can help with?" He offers. It's a long shot but sometimes Kerry asks his opinion on song lyrics, even though V kinda guessed it's less of asking an opinion and more of showing off an unfinished piece he’s still proud of.

As he expected, the shot fell short of its mark when Kerry replies with a clear, resounding, "No." and by then V knows he's maxed out trying to get a conversation out of Kerry.

He goes to leave Kerry alone.

–

V checks his clothes to see it had finished its spin cycle and is now being dried. Still a couple hours to go. He goes back out and climbs to the second floor, trying to find something to wear in the meantime. Kerry’s a little shorter than him, (“Not by much.” Johnny annoyingly pointed out.) Fine, Kerry’s only a little shorter than him, but his clothes mostly consisted of leather or something so cropped, might as well just go nude.

There were some hoodies, though, large unassuming jackets Kerry bought in bulk to hide from media vultures. Big enough it makes his boxers look shorter than it actually is. V decides to borrow one, goes to bite and suck one of the hood’s strings immediately once he slipped it on.

He leans over the second floor to check up on Kerry from above. Kerry tapped the space bar so hard V swears it’ll crack. He starts grumbling unhappily, then goes to fiddle another tune on the guitar. Yikes. Better leave him alone for now.

“Derivative!” Johnny yells about the tune, over the railing.

If Kerry could actually hear him there would be a bloodbath.

V passed Kerry’s bed and goes back down to the first floor, sitting on the sofa. Kerry stops playing the guitar with an uncomfortable screech and whines loudly.

“Tell him try changing it to a minor tune.” Johnny says. V frowns at him, not sure if he’s actually offering genuine musical help or if he’s just fucking around to try and rile Kerry up. Either way, V knows Kerry wouldn’t appreciate any unwarranted advice at this stage. Johnny clicks his tongue, because he knows it too, he just doesn’t like not letting everyone know what he thinks.

V goes to lean back, only to sit up straight again, looking back and noticing there’s a bong stuck behind him. He pulled it out, then sighs at the mess. Before standing up and picking up empty and half-filled glasses to the kitchen to stick them in the dish washer. He continued to throw out two thongs wedged in the sofa. Wipe the counter from the sticky, spilled alcoholic drinks and their mixers.

It took a while until the sofa and the coffee table in front of it looked nice enough, and V sits and slumps himself onto it in satisfaction, letting the sofa’s crevice swallow him as much as it could.

–

"Hey, what're you doing here?" Kerry asks, gently shaking him to wake him up.

V blinks blearily awake, takes a second to realize where he's at. Then at the question. Wanted to wait up for you sounds too cheesy suddenly and V decides to just shrug.

"You cleaned my place up." Kerry says appreciatively.

"Nnno, just the sofa area." V points out, then yawns, putting his hand into a fist and using his knuckles to cover it. Kerry lets out an 'Awww' kind of sound and V stopped yawning immediately, frowning up at him. Kerry stopped cooing, and grinned, "Come on, let's get you to an actual bed, huh?"

He pulls V up and leads him to the second floor onto the bed. V falls into it immediately, rolling so he can plant his face down onto the biggest pillow Kerry had, while Kerry went off to turn off most of the lights on the switch on the wall.

V doesn't need to see to know when Kerry shuffled into bed when the bed dips next to him. He puts a hand out to feel for Kerry and when his fingers found contact on skin, he scoots closer.

"D'aww," Kerry says again cut off harshly when V pokes his ribs, hard. "Hey you don't want me to think you're cute? Stop being cute."

"Thought you said I was a brat?" V coyly asked.

Kerry lets out a huff, "Alright, down, boy. Way past your bedtime for that."

"Sounds like I need some punishi--" V couldn't help a yawn before he could finish that sentence, "Yeah, point taken." He shuffles again, a leg lands on top of Kerry's before settling. “Sorry I bothered you while you were doing your song.” He says to Kerry’s arm.

Kerry lets out a soft laugh again, rubs the point of contact between his fingers and V's upper arm, “Yeah if you were anyone else, I would’ve told you to fuck off. Consider it a privilege that you got me away from my set and I’m still letting you on my bed.”

“Yay, privilege!” V whoops softly. “Always wanted to know what that feels like.”

Kerry snorted again. They went quiet and V thought that was the end of it. Until Kerry adds, “You know you don’t have to…” he stops like he thought better than to say it. V opens his eyes to look up at Kerry, telling him to go on.

Put on the spot, Kerry begrudgingly continues, “I dunno, just… you know I’m here for you, right? So.. I dunno, V, maybe next time, you could just think of coming over in the first place instead of it being an alternative plan? And, ugh, I know how this might sound to– Look, I’m not saying this ‘cus I’m jealous or, or clingy, okay, I know you got your own thing. Look, you don’t have to act all awkward and proper ‘round me, ‘s all. I mean, come on, V, it’s just me.”

“Uh-huh.” V says, though he doesn’t really get what that’s all about. He shuffles and drops his head back to its original position, closing his eyes. He’s falling asleep again, and he fights to hear what Kerry’s saying next, it gets jumbled into one hazy tune. Something about time, and them being friends, sometimes a little more, something about worrying about not hearing something…

He snuggled to Kerry’s arm again, concludes Kerry’s probably just stressed about the piece. So, he sleepily asks, “Didja finish it though? The song.”

“Huh?” Took a few seconds for Kerry to realize what he’s asking, “Oh… Nope. Gave up on it for tonight.”

“Should try changing it to minor key.” V hears himself say without him actually thinking it, then he groans quietly. He kicks the engram mentally, mumbles out, “Oh, shut up, Johnny…”

“Yeah, shut up, Johnny.” Kerry echoes immediately. But there’s a slight moment where V thinks Kerry’s arm had tensed a tiny bit, before relaxing, as he leaned into V’s hair. Then, "You smell nice."

Thanks, it's coconut and basil. V thinks he says, but he's not sure because he conked out within milliseconds. He thinks that for tomorrow, in-between getting home, and doing gigs, and finding leads about the relic, he’ll try to figure out what a basil actually is.

Author's Note: yeah so coconut and basil huh. The coconut that goes around getting bobbed by the sea but floats with the flow. The basil that could mean anything from a token to ward off the devil to a symbol of love. Also smells great together as a body wash. Fun! Maybe Kerry'll think there's poetry in it if V shared it the next day.

#cyberpunk 2077 #kerry eurodyne #johnny silverhand #lil guy v #writingcactus #gonna have to go and find my other ficlets to tag with that augh #i drew this tag

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lordfreg · 8 months

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IM SHAKESPEAR

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚𝐃𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨 𝐱 𝐘/𝐍˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

To My Love,

to describe you is like trying to describe the morbid beauty of a wilted flower.

you are the definition of beautiful.

so many times, i have imagined myself taking your hand into mine, holding it to my chest as we share a delightful day of simply each other.

oh, but to graze your hand would be to graze beauty itself, and i would be surprised if God himself did not strike me dead for touching such a perfect creature.

your skin is not pure, but instead decorated with the battles you've won, the result of pain and love, the sweat of your brow and the injuries you've sustained being quick-witted and clever.

God took his time making the patterns of you skin, every inch of flesh unique to anything i've ever seen.

your mind is more bright then the stars in the sky, and your eyes shine brighter then any ball of plasma the universe can make.

i lust for your soul, your whole being.

i want nothing more then to simply exist by you, in your life.

to only hold you in my arms, and kiss you breathless, and show you truly how much you mean to me.

no matter how much i try, i'll never be able to replace the way you stick in my mind, like our are souls intertwined as our hands should be.

how could i have fallen for such a beautiful mind? it makes me infuriated how we could never be together.

i am forever dammed to longing for more, for the love you've always given others, for the hope that one day we could be more.

more then friends, more then lovers, simply above a level of describable love.

the universe molded us together, to simply be each others everything.

destined to meet, destined to fall in love.

how could we never not be each others everything?

how could we go so long, in complete unison, not knowing the fate that is destined for us?

we were made from the same star dust that formed our beings, and the universe knew, the moment we were born, we were made for each other.

i could go on forever, my dearest, about how the milky way itself cannot contain my love for you, but, i must cut it short.

so many things about you fascinate me, so much so that i must have you by my side forever...

so, my love...

will you marry me?

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

@hypocriticaltypwriter CHERRRYYYYYYYYYYYYYY, SOBBING BECAUSE THIS IS HOW DONNIE PROPOSED tO Y/N GRGGDUGAWUYGOWEGUWEGAUOEWF

i just thought of it randomly and i fell in love (obvi) but i had a whole like 30 minute poem to write and FORGOT most of it so wAAHGG!!!!

no idea when this takes place, like maybe in the 13th century??? maybe donnie is like a inventor/black smith but secretly a poet??? idk im so tired sdugdsbevh

thank you @yourlocalartsonist for the 'poetic rizz' idea :smirk_cat:

#rottmnt x reader #rottmnt donnie #rottmnt x y/n #rottmnt x you #rottmnt donnie proposes to you (with poetic rizz)

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lovelettersforthedamned · 6 months

Note

im currently going to school to be a mortician/funeral director and could you write a lil thing where P^2 is flirting with reader and he asks what her major is- and she’s all jaded from people going 😨 whenever she’s tells him but since its Peter he’s sorta excited about it bc he’s never met anyone with that major

idk if you couldn’t tell that this was self-indulgent but congrats for making 100 followers. You deserve it! <3

Dead Serious

--genre + trope: FLUFF, college!au, sfw.

--pairing: college!tasm!peter parker x college!gn!reader

--word count: 0.3k

--warnings: so sweet that your teeth are aching.

--gif credits: @sincericida

“So what’s your major?”

God, this was the question you’ve been hoping to avoid your entire time at this crowded party. The boy in front of you, Peter Parker, carried a conversation so well. There wasn’t a time during your entire 30 minutes of knowing him where there was an awkward pause or gross feeling of uninterest between the two. The only time you felt a sudden shift in conversation was right now.

Studying to be a mortician isn’t the brightest topic of conversation, especially with a cute boy. A lot of people are shocked when they first hear your response, followed by a question that carries a connotation of morbid curiosity. You were tired of the repetitive and constant reactions of people you will probably never meet again.

“Umm,” you hesitate, “I’m a mortuary science major.” You fully expect Peter to recoil in confusion, or at the very worst, disgust.

“Wait, that’s awesome! How do you like it so far?”

His response comes as a surprise, looking up at him, he has the same giddy look, a slight smile painted on his lips. “I really enjoy it…” you drift off, debating whether or not to ask him about his response, “you don’t think that’s weird?”

This time, it’s Peter’s turn to look taken back, “No, not at all. I’ve never met anyone with that major before, it’s cool, you’re cool.”

A blush paints your face, “Thank you, Peter.”

“Of course, (Y/N),” he looks in your eyes a little moment longer before taking a deep breath in, “so, what made you get into mortuary science? You don’t have to tell me if you’re not comfortable.”

You guys talk all night, mostly about your major surprisingly. His questions about your major were extremely thoughtful, he was actually curious. Bantering back and forth, you both decide it’s getting late. He walks you to your apartment and bids you a good night, not before getting your phone number and texting you before heading to bed himself, smiling to himself like an idiot until the moment his eyes shut.

--author's note: HEYY! this is the first blurb for my 100 follower bash, and this makes me so excited to write for this. KEEP SENDING IN REQUESTS!!! support your writers by liking, commenting, and reblogging!! ok, bye ily<3

#andrew garfield peter parker #peter parker #peter parker x reader #fluff #marvel #spiderman #tasm!peter x reader #college au #tasm!peter parker #LLFTD 100 FOLLOWER BASH

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doyouknowthischaracter · 3 months

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RANDOM ASKS GRAB BAG

Putting a bunch of answered asks in one post so I don't spam your dashes too much. Under the cut because it's a very long post. If your ask isn't here, don't worry! The ask box is far from empty, and I'm sorta trying to group them by topic. Enjoy?

Anonymous asked: you mentioned in another ask that there were a few things you were probably going to check out from doing these polls and I was just curious which ones those are, if you don't mind sharing fjdjsj

I don't mind sharing! I had to go through the archive to remember which ones I wanted to check out, but a few of them would be The Walten Files, Red vs. Blue, The Murderbot Diaries, I Am In Eskew, and The Mistholme Museum of Mystery, Morbidity, and Mortality. Many of the characters posted here look interesting, but I'm such a slow watcher/player/reader/etc. that it'd take me decades to go through everything lol

Anonymous asked: Have you considered doing like uhhh idk how to explain properly, but statistics/data from loads of polls in a summary every so often? I've seen some poll blogs do a most known/least known type bar graph every so often. And I would be super interested in seeing this sort of thing for this blog!! It's fair enough if not though, obviously this would create a lot of extra work for you. Anyway, thanks for running this blog :-) Anonymous asked: I just asked a question about seeing the data statistics/ bar graphs - please ignore it! Just reread your pinned and realised I'd missed that bit :'). BUT, last point remains, thank you for running this blog and putting up with repetitive anons I bet aksjskdjsk

I haven't put the data in a graph yet, but if I figure out how to organize that in a way that's both comprehensible and actually tells us something new, I'll give it a try for sure. Until then, we do have the spreadsheet. And no worries, I'm glad you're enjoying the blog! :)

Anonymous asked: *sees a poll blog* "I must answer each and every poll I can"

Godspeed on your journey and remember to stay hydrated! 🫡

Anonymous asked: this is my favorite blog! Every morning I wake up and check the polls like they're the paper, just to say "I don't know them" Truely a humbling experience!

Happy to be your neighborhood paperboy!

@iceice-baeby asked: Are olyou fearing the day someone submits Solid Snake from MGS and you will choose the wrong picture Because everyone always seems to choose the wrong picture

The only difficulty will be in not using this one:

Anonymous asked: Just scrolled back through your blog up to posts from Dec 3rd and I know why those polls are closed now but I cannot describe the genuine anguish I felt seeing Mr Orange and going NO I KNOW HIM - I KNOW HIM!!!! Anyway I found this blog like ten minutes ago and I love it

Don't worry, he's A-OK! 👍

(Also, thanks! I appreciate your dedication.)

Anonymous asked: scrolling through to catch up on the characters and knowing a whole three of them was so bizarre. im not supposed to press the yes i know them button, im supposed to do my sworn duty and vote no with unending confusion. the world has been flipped on its head 😵‍💫

I bet the next 30 were characters you've never heard of, just for balance to be restored.

Anonymous asked: Whenever i misclick I feel sooooo bad like im sorry my dear friend for not recognizing you I apologize for my rudeness

No polls so far ended with only one vote difference between answers, so you don't have to feel too bad. For now. 👀

Anonymous asked: this is fun cause i’ve definitely submitted some characters but i’ve immediately forgotten who. so i’ll also be pleasantly surprised to see my beloveds on the blog.

A gift from you to you, courtesy of unreliable memory! Sweet!

Anonymous asked: Devastating. I keep missing the voting for the only characters I know.

You'll do it one day, I believe in you!!

@iceice-baeby asked: Would you consider writing in the tags if YOU know a character or not You have done it sometimes before, but I'd be curious if you do recognise some of those random niche as all hell blorbos Also I can't wait for my Blorbos turn. Because either He-and-she is gonna take most obscure place, OR I will actually find maybe more than two people, myself included, who know him-and-her and who I can ramble at for hours until they block me

Oh yeah, for sure. I didn't think anyone would be interested to know, but I can do that when I remember to!

Did your blorbo show up already?

Anonymous asked: I have been having the opposite problem of everyone else, apparently. I'll see a name and be like, "I don't know who that is". But then I see the picture and realize… Yes I do!

That's why I take the time to include fitting pictures, helps jog the memory!

Anonymous asked: I feel very superior every time I know a character most people don't

Hey, nobody likes a show-off. (<- Joking)

Anonymous asked: Wait, has Beetlejuice not been submitted?? I could've sworn I submitted the musical version! Anonymous asked: Oh wait no I didn't submit musical Beetlejuice to you, got you mixed up with @/every-character-ever-poll lol my bad

Indeed he hasn't been submitted yet, maybe next time!

@thetisming asked: sorry for saying something negative in the replies to a post someone was being a dick about jukebox musicals

No worries, but don't let it get to you. People are allowed to dislike your favorite things even without any good reason. It's a matter of taste, which is highly subjective. It's more constructive to focus your attention on people who do enjoy the same things as you!

@autism-criminal asked: What is your favorite color of the rainbow (red orange yellow green blue indigo purple) ?

Orange! 🍊 What's yours? :)

Anonymous asked: "data is not accurate" bro if ur going to a tumblr poll blog for accurate data you NEED to reassess some things asdfghjkl; anyway this blog is great thank you for running it it's a lot of fun and has resulted in some very funny interactions between me and my fiance. notably "what the fuck do you MEAN 6% of the sans undertale website doesn't know who sans undertale is" and "i'm sorry i simply don't believe that ANYONE doesn't know who DRACULA is"

Different people come here with different expectations, I suppose. Which is fine, I don't mind, but they're bound to be disappointed if they expect 100% accuracy all the time. But anyway! I'm happy to hear I can provide a new form of enrichment for you and your fiancé!

@sweetpollyolliver asked: So many manga and anime characters and I know like 1% of them 😭

I'm ngl, I'm not a big manga/anime connoisseur either, so I'm just as lost as you most of the time lol 🤝 (<- shaking hands in solidarity)

@cringelordofchaos asked: If I go insane one day I am going to try to make an English translation for Mesec Boje Purpura so everyone can know who veštica Noks is

I'm fully behind you! Keep us updated if you do.

Anonymous asked: I scroll through your blog. I don’t recognise any of these characters. ‘No,’ I click, ‘no,’ ‘no,’ ‘no.’ I am content in the darkness of the rock I live under. But, alas, all things must end. I continue my scroll, the glee of the irrelevant rampant in my veins. But what’s this? It can’t be… My shelter is cruelly ripped away and the brutal light of knowledge seeks me out like a bloodhound, it gives me no place to hide. ‘Yes,’ I sob, defeated, ‘Yes, I do know the jjba character.’

A modern-day Greek tragedy, truly 💔

Anonymous asked: was really surprised to vote and see that a character was 100% know them. then I noticed I got there early enough to be the only vote

For one shining, brilliant moment they were 100% known and surely that counts for something.

Anonymous asked: You should make up a character and make a poll for them and see how many people lie or misclick

Well....... I'm not going to comment on that. 🐰

Anonymous asked: I follow this blog and another blog that does smash or pass and occassionally I will come to one of your posts and examine the images to decide and then remember this blog's gimmick before trying to hit smash

Imagine voting smash there and then coming here to vote "I don't know them at all" on the same character. Brutal.

@ink7blot asked: *sees big naturals* I hate that. *reblogs*

A job well done, then 😌

#dyktc chatter #asks #not a poll #anonymous #iceice-baeby #thetisming #autism-criminal #sweetpollyolliver #cringelordofchaos #ink7blot #phew that was a lot

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ninemelodies · 4 months

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two worlds apart

written for doctordonna week 23 day one: fire/glow also on ao3

“Couldn’t you have picked a cooler time to visit?” Donna complains. “Even my eyelids are sweating, Doctor.”

Behind her, the Doctor scoffs. “You’re the one who asked to see fireflies!” He steps out of the TARDIS, still clothed in his suit jacket and coat. He pulls the door closed behind him and turns to face Donna. With his hands on his hips, he begins a rather impressive imitation of Donna's voice. “Doctor, that last three planets you picked have been rubbish, it’s my turn to pick! I want to go see fireflies, a lot of fireflies, like that song.” He drops the accent and gestures to the landscape around them. “So here we are, in the middle of a field in the middle of summer because fireflies are most active during the summer. Which also reminds me - you really need to stop consuming media from your future.”

“Those planets were rubbish! We nearly got arrested! Three times!” Donna defends, and then, in a flash of childish annoyance, she sticks her tongue out at him. The Doctor returns the gesture.

When she had first told the Doctor what she wanted to do, he had spent 30 minutes trying to convince Donna to go to some planet where there were literal fire flies. As in, flies that set themselves on fire when they died. Donna had found it a bit morbid and knew, with their luck, that a trip to that planet was likely to end with one or both of them missing their eyebrows. And now he wanted to try and warn her about spoilers? Traveling with him was one big spoiler!

“Like I'm going to go home and copy down the entirety of a song to claim as my own before the original artist can make it.” Donna rolls her eyes. “I can promise you I'm not that talented. And besides, it’s not like I'd be getting rid of The Beatles or anything.”

“That did happen once…” the Doctor mutters, but before Donna can ask him to explain, he’s already moving on. “Come on,” he says and begins trudging through the ankle high grass. “I know a good spot.”

“It better be worth it,” Donna threatens, but there’s no real heat behind her words. She follows behind him. Despite her complaints about the heat, the Doctor has taken her to a rather beautiful field. There are wildflowers blooming everywhere and the air is alive with the sounds of nature. Every step they take sends grasshoppers and other tiny green bugs scattering. If it wasn’t so bloody hot, Donna could imagine herself spending a lot of time here.

They haven’t traveled far before the Doctor stops. There is a clearing in the field where the grass has been mostly flattened and nothing too prickly grows. The Doctor pauses and digs around in his coat pocket for a moment before he produces a blue and white checkered picnic blanket. He lays it out on the ground and then steps back. “Ladies first,” he says as he bows low and gestures to the blanket.

“So you're finally recognizing my lady-like qualities, hm?” Donna asks. She settles cross-legged on the blanket and fans herself with her hand.

“Oh,” the Doctor says, like he’s been reminded of something. He reaches a hand in his coat pocket and then continues reaching, until his arm up to his elbow is hidden from view. He digs around for a minute before he frowns and pulls back a bit. “Hang on.” Using his other hand, he reaches over and pulls the pocket open further. He digs for just a moment longer before he pulls his hand out with a triumphant noise. In his hand is a small bottle of sunscreen and a bottle of water.

He tosses the sunscreen to Donna before settling onto the blanket. “The sun should be going down soon, but..” the Doctor trails off with a shrug that Donna takes to mean ‘better safe than sorry.’ He's not wrong, Donna burns very easily.

She catches the sunscreen and begins smearing a thin layer over all her exposed skin. When she’s done, she hands the sunscreen back to the Doctor and takes the bottle of water. It feels like ice in her hand. “How is this still cold?” Donna hasn’t seen the Doctor near any kind of fridge or cooling station in several days.

“What,” the Doctor says, “are your pockets not thermoregulated?”

“No!”

“Would you like them to be?” he asks, like it’s a casual thing to have pockets that are climate controlled. Donna gives him a look and he raises his hands in surrender. “It's just an option! I can update them on the TARDIS, if you want.”

Donna is positive she doesn’t want the Doctor doing anything to her pockets. “I think I’ll keep them as they are, spaceman.” The Doctor’s experiments tended to always have some kind of unintended effect, like boiling an egg from several paces away. Knowing him, he’d accidentally make a black hole in her trousers or something equally ridiculous.

The Doctor shrugs. “Suit yourself.” In the calm that follows, the Doctor goes digging through his pockets again and produces two sandwiches, one cucumber and cream cheese (Donna's favorite) and the other peanut butter and banana (the Doctor’s favorite), a whole banana, a variety pack of crisps, and another bottle of water. “Asked the TARDIS to make some snacks,” he explains as he arranges the food on the blanket.

She snags a packet of spicy crisps and the cucumber sandwich. The sandwich, much like the water bottle, is still at the perfect temperature despite being in the Doctor’s pockets for who knows how long. Donna decides she’s probably better off not thinking too hard about it being a pocket sandwich and takes a bite.

Across from her, the Doctor starts with the banana and quickly demolishes it before moving onto his sandwich. He's got a large mouthful of peanut butter and bread when Donna speaks.

“So where are we?”

The Doctor smacks loudly and swallows the bite of sandwich in his mouth before speaking, “We’re in Re:America, sometime around the oh…” he sticks a finger in his mouth and then pulls it out to hold up like he’s testing the wind. “23rd century? Ooooh,” he sounds excited now. “It's Independence Day! We’re in for a treat!”

Donna frowns at him. “You brought me here and you didn’t even know what day it was?”

“That's what you’re questioning?” the Doctor asks with a raised eyebrow. “You said you wanted to see fireflies, Re:America has the largest population of native fireflies in all of history,” he explains. “I set the time coordinates to bring us here in the summer, but I didn’t specify a day.” He takes another large bite of his sandwich.

In all honesty, Donna isn’t sure if the Doctor is just incredibly bad at navigating or if the TARDIS just decides to drop them off wherever she thinks they’re needed. Given the way the Doctor likes to smack the console with that rubber mallet, Donna has a feeling the TARDIS is a little more obstinate than she will ever know.

The sun is just starting to set when Donna finishes her sandwich and crisps. She puts the trash in her normal, not dimensionally altered pockets, and lays on her back on the blanket. The sky above her is painted in shades of orange and purple. They still have a few minutes before dark, so Donna asks, “Re:America?”

She hears the Doctor huff out a laugh before he shifts and lays down next to her. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him settle with his arms crossed behind his head.

“Re:America was created in response to rising capitalistic ideas in America that were oppressing the working class,” he explains. “The common people didn’t like the way they were being treated so they carved out a section of central America, around Kansas,” he wiggles his hand in a so-so gesture, “Nebraska area and created their own government and economic system.”

“So…Re:America like re: in an email?”

The Doctor turns his head to grin at her. “Donna Noble, you are amazing. That’s exactly it. Re:America was named because it was literally a response to the increasingly harsh atmosphere in America.” He turns back to look up at the sky. “Unfortunately, Re:America will only last for another 50 years or so before it gets dissolved back into the rest of the United States. The impact is astounding, though. New laws for protection of workers, a revised economic system that lifts millions out of poverty and the nations of the world begin to come together and space travel becomes a priority. This is where the First Great and Bountiful Human Empire starts before it spreads out amongst the stars. Isn’t it brilliant?”

Donna hums in agreement, but quickly gets distracted by the first flicker of light above them. For a minute there is nothing, and then suddenly there are hundreds of fireflies all around them. They twinkle like stars and Donna can’t help but laugh. She turns to look over at the Doctor and finds him staring at her with a soft smile on his face.

“Well?” he asks. “Worth it?”

“It's beautiful,” Donna says. “I've seen them before, in the country when I was young, but it was never like this. This is amazing.”

The Doctor shifts and pulls a hand out from behind his head. He sticks it up in the air and the fireflies dance around it. A few land, blink for a moment, and then take off again. Eventually, as the fireflies scatter off to places outside of their clearing, the Doctor begins to point out constellations and stars in the sky. There are a couple stars that Donna’s never heard of, and the Doctor explains that their light only began to reach the Earth long after the 21st century.

Now that the sun has gone down, the night is beginning to cool off, and, with the soothing sound of the Doctor speaking lowly beside her, Donna begins to doze off. She’s comfortable and she’s safe and she’s almost asleep when a bright light and a loud boom shatters the night.

Beside her, the Doctor jerks and his description of the far-off Treyas Galaxy cuts off. Before Donna can truly process what happened, the Doctor is hovering over her, ready to shield her from any other explosion or debris.

Another bang sounds and the sky lights up again in a shower of blue sparks. It’s fireworks, Donna realizes. Someone is setting off fireworks, very close by, judging by how loud they are. She can hear the tell-tale whistle as another is launched.

Above her, the Doctor is wide eyed and pale in the brief flashes of light. She can’t say for sure what the explosions are reminding him of, but she can take a guess. Gramps had that same look whenever fireworks went off. It was the look of a man haunted by war.

Without hesitation, Donna rests her hands gently on the Doctor’s cheeks. She keeps her touch light, so he can pull away if he wants. “Hey,” she says, softly, in the silence between fireworks. “It's Independence Day. You said so earlier. They’re fireworks. We’re okay.”

The Doctor blinks once, twice, and Donna watches as the panic fades from his eyes. He draws in a ragged breath, and Donna suddenly realizes that in his alarm, the Doctor had stopped breathing. She shifts her fingers down, just slightly, and can feel his pulse racing under her fingertips.

“You alright?” she asks.

Instead of answering her, he rolls away and settles back into his original position, like nothing had happened. Before he can tuck his hand back under his head, Donna grabs it and shifts closer to him so their sides are pressed together. She squeezes it gently.

“Doctor?” she calls, and this time he turns to look at her. “Do you want to go back to the TARDIS?”

He shakes his head. “No, it’s alright.” He squeezes her hand in return and turns back to the sky as another firework explodes into a shower of brightly colored purple sparks above them.

She continues watching him for another few moments. With each deep breath he takes, more of the tension leaks from his shoulders and his face smoothes out. His pulse still seems high, but he’s calmer now, more aware of himself and the situation. He flinches slightly with each mortar that explodes above them. She suspects that he had known about the firework show, given his mention of a treat earlier, but had been startled when the first one lit up the sky unexpectedly.

Satisfied that the Doctor isn’t going to vibrate out of his skin with anxiety, Donna turns back to the sky. “It's okay, you know.” She's not looking at the Doctor now, but she can tell he’s listening by the way he stills in his fidgeting. “It happens to Gramps too, when the council starts up a firework show he isn’t prepared for.”

The Doctor doesn’t answer her, but he shifts impossibly closer and begins explaining the mechanics behind these fireworks and how, in the early 22nd century, scientists discovered they could engineer the gunpowder to burn in impossible colors and form extremely intricate patterns.

She listens closely, oohing and aahing like a child when a particularly complex pattern or pretty color lights up the sky. She remembers the Doctor finishing his explanation and going quiet beside her. She remembers the Doctor’s hand in hers and then, the next thing she knows, she’s being carried, gently.

Donna stirs, confused at the situation, but the Doctor shushes her. “You fell asleep,” he whispers. “We’re going back to the TARDIS now. Go back to sleep.” And his voice is so soft, Donna can’t help but do just that.

The next morning, she wakes in her bed in the TARDIS. She’s still in her clothes from the night before and she’s sticky with sunscreen and sweat. Donna showers and then finds the Doctor in the console room, fiddling with a button that has been sticking on their last couple trips and is making landings rougher than usual.

He looks up as she enters and grins at her. “So!” he says as he abandons the button to circle the console and stand in front of her. “Where to today?”

“Surprise me,” Donna says.

The Doctor laughs with glee, flips a lever and with a familiar wheezing noise, they’re off.

#doctor who #donna noble #10th doctor #my fics #doctordonna week 23

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