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kettlequills · 3 years

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Tough It Out - Rise of the Guardians/Guardians of Childhood - Apollo and Koz (or Pitch)

sorry for the wait, this was oddly personal to write? ah, apollo my love. all the money in the world couldnt help you. tw: suicidal ideation, references to past child abuse, homophobia, and substance abuse. this is part one!

The skyscraper that housed Lunar Industries had a hundred and eight floors. Apollo stood on the hundredth-and-ninth – that being the roof, har-har, look how clever he was – looked down at the lights of the city blazing far below his boots, and contemplated taking the quick way down to the ground.

His phone jangled in his pocket. He flicked it open without looking at the caller ID and was still unsurprised to hear Selena on the other end. Who else would be calling Apollo, except his ex-wife? He didn’t have friends. He had even fewer no-friends after this morning. Redundant.

Fired from his own company. Suspected tax fraud. Excuses, really, to cover their asses. The words floated around him like clouds.

Like the actual clouds. Red tinted smog, nice and foul on the lungs, blazed through with gassy city lights blaring on down there in the dusk. Even the cars that chugged and coughed along between the flaring traffic lights, the gum-spitting and leather-pursed pedestrians that wove their way round them to be swallowed into huffing buses and sleek trains. Apollo's people, one and stinky pollutants all. He could make a nice big mess of himself down there among them, wet splat on the ashy pavement, just more trash to sucker up the clogged drains and heaving sewers. It'd be like coming home, maybe.

“Apollo,” said Selena, like exchanging words with him was like swallowing a pill and she had to spit through each one as quickly as possible to avoid the taste lingering on her tongue, “Are you busy?”

“Not really,” said Apollo, wondering how long, mathematically speaking, it would take to walk off the edge of the building he didn’t own any more instead of taking the elevator.

He'd never really paid attention in class. There was Koz, golden and glorious, to stare at back then. The way his dark hair curled at the nape of his neck was infinitely more transfixing than applied mathematics. Before today, Apollo could always pay someone for that.

“Can you take Mim this weekend, then?” she asked. “I’ve got this – thing on Saturday-“

“Can’t he stay at home on his own?” said Apollo. “He’s old enough now.”

“He’s a baby, Apollo,” Selena snapped. Ah, two weeks divorced and he could still make her sound as pissed off as if they’d said their marriage vows yesterday. There had to be some Hallmark card for that. “Deal with your son.”

“Fine,” said Apollo, since he really didn’t have anything to do that weekend other than, possibly, googling how much drugs he could take before he obliterated his brain and whether watching one’s father do that as a baby was the sort of foundational experience that required very costly therapy later in life. “How are you, anyway?”

Selena hung up on him.

Apollo sighed and walked away from the roof’s edge. God knew Selena was a nightmare if he was ever late to pickup.

Elevator it was.

---

“… my wife’s leaving me, I’ve lost my company, and I’m pretty sure my baby hates me,” Apollo told his therapist a day later, idly spinning the cord of the telephone around his finger.

He liked the creaking of its coil, and when he’d outfitted this office in his sleek downtown flat he’d had all the money to afford to go retro. This, like everything else, needed to go soon or else Apollo would run out of money to be able to convincingly fake that his life wasn’t completely shredded to shit to his ex-wife. Buyer lined up already.

Devil worked fast but Apollo worked faster.

“That sounds difficult,” the therapist said, because he was paid to sympathise with Apollo.

“Not really,” said Apollo, because he wasn’t.

“Have you been reaching out to your extended support networks?” said the therapist, who cost more than he was possibly worth.

Apollo wanted to laugh. “Sure,” he said.

“Mr Lunanoff,” the therapist began, but Apollo had already tuned him out. Extended support network. What a joke.

There’d only be one man who could ever qualify for that role, and they’d not spoken in years. Apollo was decently certain that Koz didn’t even remember they were friends on Facebook – probably had him muted – because every so often Koz’d post shitty memes about eating the rich that Apollo would reply to with winks and flirts that he never reacted to back. He hadn’t pushed it too much, though. Koz’s posts were the best parts of his week.

Get up, annoy his wife, stare puzzlingly at his gurgling son, read the newspaper, check the feed of his best friend that liked to pretend he didn’t exist. Perfect morning routine that’d spawned a multi-million dollar company and a therapy bill to match.

Still, his life was going to shit. Why not add this to the pile? Koz’s voicemail was vaguely hot, anyway. He always sounded kind of mad that someone would dare to ring him. It was familiar. People'd been sounding disappointed that Apollo remembered their numbers since he'd got his first phone at five. Soothing, in that way.

Unceremoniously, Apollo hung up on the therapist and typed a name into his phone that sprung to the top of his paltry contacts list, starred and favourited. He swiped. The dial tone made him more nervous than last week’s fistful of stimulants. It jangled into his ears, made him doubt himself. This was a stupid idea. He was going to push Koz away – further away, how much fucking further can he get?

Well, Apollo could get blocked. Still, there was always the hundred and ninth floor and the short way down.

“Pitch speaking,” the man’s voice was gruff and deep on the other end, sent shivers down Apollo’s spine. God. He was so hot. “Who’s this?”

“Kozmotis darling,” said Apollo, trying for upbeat and ending up gaudy and gay, “It’s me.”

“Who?”

“Apollo Lunanoff of course! Don’t tell me you didn’t save my number again.”

There was a beat of silence, then Koz cleared his throat and said, “Ah, new phone. Must have forgot.”

Bless his heart for lying. Koz's lies were thorny things, but they, blind belief and wilful misuse of drugs, were the way they'd stayed friends for so long after all, years after they'd left Apollo's father's estate and Koz's family's little house on the grounds far, far behind. Koz had, anyway. Some part of Apollo was still back there, according to his therapist. Apparently, violent repression was considered not therapeutic gold standard. Apollo reckoned it was fine. It was drugs, wasn't it, not men. That was what his father and he had agreed.

“Don’t worry,” said Apollo, “You can make it up to me. Do you know anything about taking care of babies?”

#age of rust #inkwrites #apollo lunanoff #kozmotis pitchiner #rotgoc #rotg #i have all year to do rotg bingo tho

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mourntheantagonist · 4 years

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I’m sorry about your exams mine are coming up soon and I’m about to shit a brick about it ngl but at the end of the dad tests can be made up or classes retaken. grades don’t define you and tbh they’re not a measure of success either. I’m sure you’re a good student who tried.

Prompt:

Meet ugly: billy likes to jog at the park but his run is cute off went this huge ass wet dog all muddy and shit cuts him off and weaves between his legs. He trips right into a muddy puddle and twists his ankle. Steve runs up to him all apologetic and billy is yelling at him about keeping his dog on a leash, but billy has no choice but to accept the guys help cuz he can’t walk on his own.

Thank you so much for the kind words and thank you so much for the prompt. I loved this idea and got a little carried away and it’s not 100% what you asked for but I still hope you enjoy it :)

read on ao3

Billy loves the rain. Living in California meant a good rainfall was few and far between. He hated to praise Hawkins, Indiana, but he loved that it rained.

Rain in Hawkins was also very much unlike the rain in California. Down in the southwest corner of the country, rainfall was less like a shower and more like a sprinkle. The rain was only ever powerful enough to form little droplets in his hair. Never enough to cause soaking wet clothes or windshield wipers past the lowest setting. It was nothing like that in Hawkins. Instead it was heavy showers. Soaking his clothes until they were dripping. Needing to drive carefully to avoid hydroplaning. But not too carefully. He had to take advantage of those curb-side puddles that were perfect for splashing pedestrians.

If he had to say anything good about Hawkins, it would have to be the rain. But one thing that was just slightly better than when it was raining, was when it stopped. When the roads were still wet, and the sky still cloudy, but not a single drop of water falling to the earth. It was a weirdly nice feeling. The post rain smell filling his senses. It always seemed to be the perfect temperature. Not too hot. Not too cold. Refreshing was the best way to describe it.

It’s perfect jogging weather. It was always far too hot in California to actually jog the way he wanted. The heat sucking every bit of energy out of him. And trying to breathe in the California smog was just a bad idea in general. Running in the post rain bliss was something else entirely. Taking in only the freshest air. He felt rejuvenated after every run.

That’s how he turned into the guy who stared out of his window every weekend as raindrops fell upon the pane. Looking up at the grey sky waiting for the clouds to part and the rain to subside so he could go out for his run. This was another good thing about Hawkins rain. While it rained often, it didn’t rain for long. It was a perfect balance the way Billy sees it.

This was how he got to know Hawkins a little better. He ran through surrounding neighborhoods, he ran to the high school and on days he felt really good, he ran into town.

Weirdly enough running was a lot like surfing. Not so much in the activity itself, but for the purposes that it served. Because it was more than just exercise. It was a nice way of escaping everything. His dad, Susan, hell even Hawkins. Because just like surfing he was able to put himself into a different zone. Enter a separate reality from the one he was stuck in. He could put on his Walkman and run like he had no destination.

But sometimes he got into the zone a little too much. If the town hadn’t already known him as the bad boy from sunny California, they surely knew him as the punk kid with no respect that was constantly bumping into them on the street. Jaywalking in front of their cars. Splashing carelessly into puddles of fresh rain water. It’s not like he planned to stay in a small town in Indiana. Billy was not the small town type. Some nice rain wasn’t going to suddenly change him into that type of person. And it wasn’t like he couldn’t find rain elsewhere. The Pacific Northwest has both heavy rain and beaches. Maybe he’ll go there instead of going back to California. But the point is, he doesn’t care about what his reputation is. It doesn’t matter. So he pisses off the locals without hesitation and just tries to make the best of it while he’s trapped here.

But maybe Billy should have paid a little more attention. While some humans have the common sense to move out of the way, some animals are lacking in that area.

He’s running through this trail he found in the woods surrounding Loch Nora. In his defense he has no reason to be expecting any company while jogging through the middle of the woods. Perhaps he shouldn’t only be worrying about the company of people and rather whatever wildlife lurks in this part of the country.

Thank fuck his only run in was with that of a disheveled golden retriever covered in mud and not some seven foot tall bear. Billy doesn’t notice the dog until it begins weaving in and out between Billy’s legs. The dog is damn lucky Billy didn’t step on her tail. She’s got a leash hanging from her collar with no owner on the other end. But Billy only knows that part because the same leash had managed to wrap around both of his ankles, bringing him to his new position of being face down in a muddy puddle with an apparent ache forming where the leash had bound him.

So there he lies. Face down, ankles wrapped, a dog licking the mud off his face, and to top it all off, the owner has finally decided to make an appearance. Something in Billy is not even surprised to find that when he rolls over onto his ass he discovers that the owner is none other than Steve fucking Harrington. Because of course it’s Steve fucking Harrington. The universe can’t allow Billy to have even one normal day.

Billy notices Steve before Steve actually notices him. He’s about fifty feet away looking in the other direction shouting what he assumes is the mutts name. “Trixie!” Billy is trying to untangle himself from the leash, but not before Trixie makes a run for the human calling her name and yanks herself free, tugging at his right ankle before breaking loose. Billy doesn’t contain the shriek in pain as it almost dislocates the bone. Shit. Something is definitely wrong.

Steve hears him of course. Hears the girlish scream that Billy would never produce voluntarily. Billy is trying to hoist himself up to maintain some of his dignity, but to no avail. Once Steve has made the distance and is standing at his feet, and billy has succumbed to his spot in the dirt, he fires first.

“Keep your damn dog on a leash.” He spits. If he can’t be at eye level, or even stand up, he has to assert his dominance somehow.

It’s only then that it actually clicks for Steve that Billy hasn’t just parked himself there in the dirt for fun.

“Oh shit dude! Fuck I’m sorry about that. There’s not usually anyone around here so I thought I’d let her do her business y’know? Also she’s not my dog, I’m just pet-sitting for my neighbor. What am I doing? You don’t care about that. Are you okay? She didn’t bite you or anything, right?”

Billy should be mad. Like his ankle might be broken because this idiot doesn’t know how to take care of a dog. But all that rambling and profuse apologies was kind of… cute? Nope. Nope! Billy shut that thought down immediately.

Billy gestures down toward his feet. “Fuckin’ took me down by the ankles. You could learn a thing or two from the bitch. Seeing how you play basketball and all.”

Steve brushes off the comment and lends a hand to help Billy up from the ground. He winces when he applies pressure. Still through the pain he slowly tries to walk away.

“Wait! Dude don’t you live on Old Cherry? That’s like a mile from here.” Billy is just comically limping away from the scene. Logically he knows he’s not getting home on his own. But the last thing he wants is to accept charity from Steve Harrington.

“I don’t need your help Harrington. I’ll be fine. Go back to your castle.”

Steve just ignores him and throws one of Billy’s arms over his shoulder. “Look, my house is like a block away. Let me drive you home so I don’t have to hear about the news of your body being recovered from the Eno River.”

Begrudgingly, Billy accepts the support, huffing out a ‘fine’ before letting Steve guide him and the dog towards the Harrington household.

Steve was right. It was definitely closer than his house was. He could already see between the trees the nice looking two story building. Billy had passed by it before on his drives, but only ever in the dark. It looked much different in the daylight. Somehow it looked even more abandoned. Like everything was still kept up. There weren’t vines growing along the side. It looked clean, but it gave off this strange feeling of loneliness. Like few people had ever passed through it.

The only thing about the house that wasn’t up to code was the pool. The water was green and filled with dead bugs and fallen leaves. Looked like it hadn’t been cleaned out in months. He vaguely recalls hearing about the story of that Barbara Holland chick. Died in his pool. He figures there’s some correlation there.

By the time they make it to the Beemer, Steve finally gets a good look at his ankle. In only the matter of a couple minutes it’s swollen dramatically and he can see a faint purple forming underneath the skin. He also sees some blood stains forming at his knees, seeping through the grey material of his sweats. And Billy is filthy. He’s got mud on his face and all over his clothes. His hands are all scraped up, most likely from the fall.

Steve’s brain is working hard. Steve has every reason to let Billy go on his own. Not even three months ago the guy was on top of him, beating him nearly to death. Why should Steve be showing him any kindness? But then he remembers back to him and Jonathan. Sure the fight wasn’t nearly as brutal. But Steve has said some fucked up shit to him and Jonathan never held it against him. Sure, Steve actually apologized, but in his own way, he thinks Billy had too. Not so much with words but with his actions. He had left Steve alone ever since that night. He was still aggressive when they were on the court, but the trash talk had dissipated. So maybe there was some remorse there. And look, it’s Steve’s fault his ankle is fucked up so the least he can do is help him get fixed up and get home.

“Okay look. I have to get the dog settled inside before I can take you home. How about you let me take a look at your ankle and then we can both go our separate ways?”

Billy crosses his arms, balancing on one leg now that he’s no longer being supported. “That wasn’t the deal.”

“Actually the deal was I’d drive you home. That hasn’t changed. Just come inside. Your ankle looks fucked up and I know a thing or two about first aid.” Steve goes back towards Billy and puts his arm back in the same position it was before. Doesn’t give Billy time to protest before he’s made it through the front door. He guides him to the kitchen table where he instructs him to sit down. Then Steve leaves him there along with Trixie.

Billy scans the kitchen. He’s kind of surprised to see that it looks pretty typical for a kitchen. Nothing too fancy about it aside from the clearly new appliances. It’s just average. Oak cabinets. Basic granite countertops. Doesn’t match the exterior at all.

Steve comes back without the dog and with a first aid kit in hand.

“You don’t have to do this man, just take me home.”

Steve just ignores him and kneels down in front of him and works at the laces of his shoe. “It’s my fault you look like you were just mauled by a bear so let me fucking do this alright?” Steve pulls off his shoe frustratedly which probably wasn’t the best idea.

“Ow! What the fuck dude?!”

“Sorry.”

“Look, I’m not here to help you feel better about yourself.”

Steve pulls his sock off anyway. This time with slightly more care. “Just shut up and let me finish this so I can get you out of here.” Billy slumps back and Steve takes a closer look at his ankle. It looks bad. Clearly broken. “I think you need to go to a hospital. This looks like more than just a sprain.”

Billy's eyes go wide and he gets a little shaky. “No hospitals” he says bluntly.

“Billy I really think you should consider-“

“Did you not fucking hear me? I’m not going to a hospital.”

“Why not?”

Billy scoffs. “Your pretty little head couldn’t handle it.”

“Try me.”

“No. We’re not doing this Harrington. Fix me up and take me home.”

Steve rolls his eyes and gets up from where he was kneeling. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

“Not like there’s anywhere I can go.”

Steve comes back with a pair of sweats and a plain black t-shirt. He tosses them onto Billy’s lap. “Think you can put these on without my help?” Billy is puzzled. “Look I’m not going to let you get mud all over my car so put on the damn clothes.”

Billy is currently in grey joggers and a long sleeved navy hoodie. It’s honestly the most covered up he’s ever seen him. While Billy is dressing himself, Steve is preparing a wet washcloth and grabbing an old package of frozen peas from the freezer. Steve manages to catch a glimpse of Billy with his shirt off. It’s not even close to the first time he’s seen the guys shirtless. Hell he’s seen the guy fully naked. But this feels different. This time feels more vulnerable. This time it’s not a decision he’s making himself. This time Billy has several belt marks running across his back. The shirt is on just as soon as he makes the realization. Steve just tries to act natural.

“Okay. I’m going to wrap your ankle. You’re going to ice it while I clean up your knees. Then I’ll take you home and we never have to talk to each other again. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“Good,” he hands Billy the wet washcloth. “And wash the dirt off your face.”

Steve pulls up a chair so he can sit in front of him. He gently brings Billy’s right leg up to rest on his thigh and places the frozen peas so that they hug his ankle. He slowly rolls up Billy’s pant leg and inspects the damage. Luckily it’s just some minor scraping that a couple bandaids should fix. He grabs some cotton balls and antiseptic from the kit and begins dressing the wound. But he can’t stop thinking about the belt marks.

Any other kind of injury and he could brush it off as Billy going out and picking a fight with someone. But these are unmistakably not from that and Steve doesn’t like entertaining what it actually means.

Ever since basketball season had ended Neil had been less careful with leaving marks.

Because he’s in a t-shirt now, Billy can see as the belt marks wrap around his upper arm.

“That why you don’t want to go to the hospital?” Steve points to the markings.

“Leave it alone Harrington.”

Steve just keeps his eyes focused on Billy’s knee. “Who did that to you?”

“I said drop it.”

“Was it your dad?”

Billy quickly jerks his leg forward kicking Steve in the chest. Not a good idea considering that probably hurt him more than it did Steve.

“You proud of yourself Harrington? Finally cracked the code? Glad to finally have something to hold over my head so you can take back your precious crown?”

Steve is still recovering from the blow to his chest. Didn’t really hurt. Just knocked the wind out of him.

“I didn’t mean to-“

“Cut the shit alright?”

“No! You cut the shit. Fuck I don’t give a shit about some stupid fake crown.” Steve heaves a sigh. “Look I don’t understand this exactly. But I get shitty dads.”

Billy is kind of just staring at him blankly. The prior rage seems to have disappeared but he can’t exactly tell for sure. It’s like for the first time in his life he’s actually carefully constructing his next words instead of spitting out whatever comes to mind first.

“Your Dad take away your allowance?” Nope same Billy as always.

“More like he’s never around. Cheats on my mom and my mom cares more about her reputation. I haven’t seen them in weeks now and if you asked me where they are right now I couldn’t tell you.”

Billy bows his head. “Shit. Sorry.” This is a different Billy than he’s used to.

“Can I get back to fixing your ankle now?”

Billy brings his leg back up and Steve carefully situates it back on his thigh. He picks up the package of peas that had fell to the floor and continues his work.

“Can I ask you one question?” Steve asks.

“One.”

“Is Max safe?”

Billy turns his head away. “Yeah.” It comes out a little raspy, like he’s choking on air. “He won’t touch her as long as I’m there.”

Steve’s starting to actually piece it all together. The little details he’s picked up on ever since he made his first appearance at Hawkins High in his loud blue Camaro. Suddenly there’s more nuance to every action he’s taken since then.

“He shouldn’t touch you either.”

There’s a pang in his chest as he says it. As he watches Billy actively avoid eye contact. He can feel that he doesn’t believe him. That he thinks he deserves it. Because Steve has allowed himself to believe that he was just never good enough for his father. Never understanding that his father was just incapable of showing love.

Billy doesn’t respond to that. Steve finishes wrapping up Billy’s ankle and patching up his knees, and now he’s helping Billy out to his car. With all this new information in his head he really doesn’t want to drive him home. But they had a deal.

As soon as Steve turns the ignition, Duran Duran starts blaring over the speakers.

“Figured you’d have shitty music taste.”

“Oh shut up. Unlike you I actually like to hear what they’re saying. Not all the noise.”

“Still. Duran Duran is a different kind of awful.”

Steve lets himself smile. Even though he’s being berated about his ‘shit taste in music’, he likes this kind of Billy. He’s not saying it to hurt him. It’s like a friendly jab. Maybe Billy Hargrove isn’t exactly who he first thought he was.

The trip is rather short. Old Cherry isn’t too far from Loch Nora when traveling by car. Hungry Like the Wolf hadn’t even ended by the time Steve pulled up to the curb.

Billy doesn’t move to get out of the car. Steve momentarily forgets about his ankle and let’s himself think he’s staying put for another reason. Maybe it has nothing to do with his ankle. He hasn’t said anything.

Billy wants Steve to say something. Because something weird happened back at the house. The moment Steve said ‘he shouldn’t touch you either’ felt off. He felt something and he needs to know that Steve felt it too.

Steve turns the car off and slumps back into his seat, both hands now tightly gripping the steering wheel. He’s staring past Billy at the house with a look of worry.

“Look. If you ever need to get away, my doors always open.”

Billy goes to look back at him. Steve is still entranced by the front door.

“We’re not friends, Harrington. You don’t have to act friendly.”

“We could be.”

“What?”

Steve is looking at Billy now.

“Wouldn’t it be easier if we didn’t spend all this time hating each other and became friends? Forget crowns and keg stand records and fucking Tommy H. and just try to get along? We got two months left until we’re out of here so why not make the best of it?”

“You want to be my friend Harrington?”

Steve puts his head in his hands and groans.

“We don’t have to be friends but we could at least be civil with each other. Just,” he takes another look at the house. “please come over when shit gets bad.”

Billy hesitates, but he nods assuringly.

“You gonna be alright in there?”

Billy scans the exterior of the house. “He’s not home yet so I should be good.”

“And your ankle?”

“I’ll be alright.” He seems unsure, but Steve chooses not to push the issue further.

“Okay.”

Steve unbuckles his seat belt and goes around the back side of the car to the passenger side and helps Billy up out of his seat. As soon as he slams the door shut, rain starts to dump all over them.

The two are facing each other and Billy has half of his weight resting on Steve’s shoulders. Billy catches a glimpse of Steve’s eyes. Droplets forming on his eyelashes. His hair is already dripping fresh rain water onto his cheeks. It’s disorienting.

Billy isn’t one for sappy shit but this is some freaky sign.

“I don’t want to be your friend Steve.”

Before Steve has a chance to respond his lips are pressed to Billy’s. It’s a quick exchange. Blink and you’ll miss it kind of thing. Billy has both his hands on Steve’s shoulders and is looking at him questioningly. Like he’s waiting for him to punch him or kiss him again. Steve chooses the latter.

Steve surges forward and crashes into Billy. It lasts longer this time. Still quick. But there’s enough time to appreciate the taste of each other’s mouths mixed with fresh rain drops. Steve pulls away first and is quick to offer a reassuring smile. They both look up at the rain coming down, and back to each other.

“Let’s get you inside.”

Billy has another reason to love the rain.

#harringrove #steve harrington #billy hargrove #fanfic #stranger things #mandi writes tresh

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vulpine-poltergeist · 3 years

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Yeah that bi rising bs seems super vague and there is literally no screenshots posted from their side about what they are claiming about you. Seems like bs to me.

I will admit they were not lying on some points (after figuring out who they were- they did give me their address once, so I could buy them a birthday gift. I have since forgotten this address. I think it was in like.. Idaho or something. Some middle state most northeastern people forget), however they are blowing stuff out of proportion and making my wife seem much more active in knowing them then she really was. I knew bi-rising for only a few months (on top of this, my wife was not aware of the panic attack until afterwards, and she became concerned for Jupiter immediately afterwards and hoped their friendship was a clean cut as she perceived it to be), and it has been nearly six months since the last time we talked; we stopped talking in March, actually. I also gave them about $100 when they asked for it because they needed to afford their license. I do have receipts of that, which I kept. If you're wondering what I got in return, it was a little doodle of a horse (at my request). She does not nor ever will owe me money, in case she tries to bring that up.

My wife is completely innocent in all of this, and I will not lie, it pisses me off that they're throwing her under the bus with me. They can come after me since I'm who they have beef with. I don't care about that. But the moment you bring my wife into something that doesn't involve her, and cause her needless anxiety? That is where I draw the line. I love her and she does not need this on her plate right now. What she needs on her plate is like.. salmon. Or a burger.

I did not call Jupiter's religion (Mormonism) a cult; however, there was a post on my dash about how to escape cults and recognize them, and I had failed to read the entire post (it did end up categorizing Mormonism as a cult) and simply reblogged it in hopes it would help people. I will admit I did not end that friendship cleanly, but by the time I got over myself, a few months had passed already and it just seemed super awkward to just pop out of the blue, so I kept her blocked and continued my business believing she'd, hopefully, get over the opinion of someone she knew for only a few months. If I had known that wasn't the best course of action, I would have actively tried to make amends instead of bettering myself for those I would meet in the future.

As for Ardelia- I have no clue if she's also done a callout post or not, but she doesn't seem like that kind of person (I would hope). I truly did consider her a friend, and literally yesterday we were talking about Italian pastries since she wanted my reactions to some of them. I tried to get out of an argument that was quickly becoming heated (on her blog, it is the body neutrality post; hopefully my replies are still there so that people can form their own opinions), and I got dragged back into it and took it to DMs, where she blatantly waved off my own experiences and tried using them as an excuse for lifting up her own side. My side.. was that my wife, who is fat (200+ pounds. She is fat. She's also a very good pillow) has literally never had any of those experiences Ardelia appeared to be touting as universal. My wife, not in the mood at the start to debate, let me ask her her takes and relay them. Things got heated, and.. well, you can see the rest. My wife did jump in now and again on her own blog, but it was mostly me typing from mine.

I'll admit it wasn't mature of me to block her immediately after what she said (and without letting her get a word in edgewise after she made that comment), but what she said was more cutting than things I've heard from anyone I've considered a friend before, and unfortunately I have not slept in the past 24 hours (poor sleep schedule + had an appointment today + now having to deal with this) so I was not in the best place to step back and return later with a grown approach. It also wasn't mature of me to vagueblog, but that's nothing in comparison to abuse allegations (especially when they both are aware I am an abuse survivor; they state it in the callout, and I only told them after asking if they would like to know about it. They were, hopefully, aware they could say "that's too heavy for me", or simply "no, wanna see a cat video". I would not have been upset by this). I will not delete the vagueblog, as I believe it's important to this if they are making people 'pick a side'. As for me, I couldn't really care less- I'm 22 and am trying to find a job. I typically don't have time for "he said she said"s. Part of why I don't have a discourse blog. This is my main blog which I use for everything. Can't be assed to organize.

If they do take screencaps for evidence I hope they will be unedited, like the ones I have supplied. I want people to form their own opinions on what they are deciding is a mess. To me, this is a messy friend breakage, not "oh these two are abusive, it's definitely not a case of 'our friendship ended in an argument', it's a case of 'they're flat-out horrible people and go from victim to victim causing emotional turmoil in their wake". In my opinion, this whole thing is childish and I hope it blows over in a day.

I will admit I am worried about alcohol intake as alcoholism runs in my family, and I'm not a fan of social drinking or drinking every few days as that can easily spiral (I've seen it happen). I've also acted as essentially a therapist at times for all my friends, them included, up to and including advice on how to ask a guy out, and to not be bummed out if he chooses someone and you never tell him your feelings.

I was definitely harsh during some of those, mainly because I got fed up listening to people pine without doing anything about it; there comes a time where it's just whining.

I will also refrain from calling both of them swears and names, as while they may be in the mood to be immature about an online friendship with someone they never actually met face to face ending after a few months on a sour note, I'm not as inclined to be sentimental about it. We had fun times, they proved to not be people compatible with me, and now they're angry about it. For one of them, nearly half a year later, which isn't healthy.

If Jupiter does read this, I am truly sorry about how our friendship ended and I do wish I was more mature then. I did not expect it to have such an immense impact on you, and if I knew that back then I would have made sure we cleared everything up beforehand. I hope you heal from what happened, and I hope you realize I never meant to insult your religion. I thought it was an informative post, and completely skipped over the hurt it would cause you.

If Ardelia reads this, I do hope, if you're still interested in that guy, that you one day do get to date him. I wish nothing but the best for you despite what you said to me. Your friends in real life do care about you and I'm sure if you talked to them about what you've told me, they'd be willing to accommodate you more into their lives.

#this is the only ask im publishing about this #bi-rising #femmebisexuelle #vulpine-poltergeist #if they do read this i would appreciate my legal name being taken off of the call out post as i do not know nor use their real names #i know they must be mad but i do not want to be doxxed for disagreeing with them #also if any anon comes with hate mail i have spaghetti memes and knowledge of the block button #the disked horse

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kbstories · 4 years

Text

impression//expression

"It’s not like Kirishima had come all this way to U.A. to immediately break the promise he made to himself upon arrival.

It’s just that Bakugou is as feral as they come, and the moment Kirishima recognizes it’s fear he felt crawling up his spine that day, he makes it his personal mission to face it head-on until it’s gone."

(Or: Being friends with Bakugou Katsuki is anything but a linear experience. Kirishima Eijirou would have it no other way.)

Tags: Kirishima POV, Developing Friendships, Protective Kiri, Soft Baku, Chatting

Chapter 1. No additional content warnings apply. Chapter 3. Chapter 4. Chapter 5. Chapter 6. Chapter 7. Chapter 8. Chapter 9.

***

The routine goes as follows:

Bakugou waits for Kirishima at the front door, arms crossed and a varying degree of pissed off depending how late he's running. Kirishima complains about the train being postponed or too full or delayed in some way – which is true, damn it, it’s like the universe has doomed his train line and none other in all of Japan to be the statistical outlier in an otherwise spotless record of punctuality – and begs for forgiveness, usually by bribing Bakugou with some post-workout coffee.

It works surprisingly well. A month into this and Kirishima is about ready to join one of those conspiracy theory servers Kaminari is so fond of because Bakugou is actually pretty lenient, death threats and crackling palms aside.

(That being said, Kirishima enjoys life and living and chasing after his dreams, so he will never breathe a word about that particular observation to anyone, least of all Bakugou himself.)

They usually got the gym to themselves, the employees on the early shift always looking vaguely relieved that at least someone is making use of their opening hours. Kirishima’s never been a regular anywhere aside from perhaps the manga store a few blocks from his home, so it feels a bit special to have this implicit claim to the training area made for heat-based quirks every Saturday morning.

Bakugou snorted when Kirishima told him that, muttering what sounded like fucking nerd under his breath.

The rest is pretty straight-forward. Kirishima’s been on a daily workout schedule for a good year by this point, and it’s clear Bakugou is used to it too. They stretch, do some warm-ups (in Bakugou’s case, quite literally) and off they go.

The thing is: It’s fun. Like, really, really fun. Really loud, too, especially when Bakugou’s got his sweat on and comes at him point-blank and flashy like fireworks personified. By the first session, Kirishima already realized it’s a lost cause trying to talk during training because all Bakugou replies with is an exasperated “Hah?!” no matter what he says.

It’s not like Kirishima could’ve heard himself speak anyways, his ears always left ringing something fierce from all the close-quarter explosions. Bakugou is a stranger to the concept of holding back or taking things by half measures, that much hasn’t changed.

Elsewhere, it might’ve taken a while for Kirishima to push his quirk to the point where his skin breaks out in cracks and ridges, his arms and shoulders and hair turning unyielding and clear-cut like miniature mountains. Not here, though: Not when the choices are to put his best foot forward with every move, or have Bakugou tear his throat out for daring to waste his time. There’s something so freeing about letting loose like that – a thrill that sends Kirishima’s heart on a war path and his pulse soaring until all that’s left are his instincts and quick reflexes.

Like this, every time he gets a hit in or a blast manages to leave a mark on his body, Bakugou grins and Kirishima grins back. Like this, the bruises and lost hours of sleep pale in comparison to just how bright Bakugou’s eyes can shine.

Kirishima brushes off the last traces of carbon dust off his arms to start massaging the sore muscles there. With U.A.’s Sports Festival a mere handful of days away, both of them kept going until their quirks started to sputter.

A strange comfort, to sit in mutual exhaustion like this. It’s not even noon but Kirishima could totally go for a nap, right there on the black, fire-proof tiles. Leaning back on his hands, he hums and asks:

“So. What’s the deal with Midoriya?”

A few feet from him, Bakugou pauses in rolling his shoulders. The black tank top he’s wearing is positively plastered to his body with sweat, his track pants saved from the same fate by how bulky they are.

“What?”

Too late, it occurs to Kirishima to feel nervous. The sensation is dim against the warmth still clinging to his skin though, that minute ache that comes with becoming stone for too long. “Being around him pisses you off. What’s up with that?”

Bakugou stares at him. His expression is hard to read, firmly within the realm of his default frown. “The fuck, Shitty Hair. What’s it to you?”

Uh oh. Kirishima sits up, mostly to raise his hands in a placating gesture, palm-up. “Just curious, bro. Honest. Been wondering for a while so I thought I’d ask, y’know?”

As bold as Kirishima aims to be, lying Bakugou in the face when his gaze is sharp enough to cut a bitch would be a monumentally stupid move. Bakugou seems to come to the same conclusion, even if his scoff is plenty aggressive.

“None of your fucking business, that’s what’s up with it. Fucking… Deku, bah.”

To say the silence that follows is loaded is the understatement of the century. Kirishima chews on his tongue, about a thousand questions balancing on its tip; it’s like the Midoriya he sees is the polar opposite of the one Bakugou blows a fuse over on a regular basis, and the why behind it is kind of starting to haunt him. (It doesn’t help that everyone in 1-A treats him as some sort of expert in all things Bakugou instead of interacting with the guy directly.)

One glance at Bakugou and he swallows it all down. Only now, with any and all traces of it gone, does Kirishima realize how calm he had looked. “…Coffee?”

Bakugou picks himself off the ground and leaves without another word.

Baku 💣💥

it’s bullshit dude (sent 18:23)

u know that right? (sent 18:23)

right? (sent 18:48)

like the whole chains + muzzle thing was ass i’m still fuming (sent 19:10)

and the press can go duck themselves lol (sent 19:12)

fuck** (sent 19:12)

it’s ur right to refuse the thing if u don’t want it (sent 19:15)

idk man it just sucks (sent 19:20)

baku? (sent 19:35)

:( (sent 19:55)

i know (received 19:56)

stop blowing up my phone (received 19:57)

baku!! ❤️ (sent 19:57)

sry haha (sent 19:57)

u ok tho? (sent 20:00)

fuck off (received 20:01)

sry sry (sent 20:01)

(my moms say hi btw 💪🏻💪🏻) (sent 20:32)

((and congrats but i told em u don’t wanna hear it lmao)) (sent 20:33)

hi back (received 20:40)

💪🏻 (sent 20:42)

Lord Explosion Murder?? (Baku 💣💥 )

so like (sent 6:20)

ur hero name (sent 6:20)

? (received 6:21)

oh! morning lol (sent 6:22)

ok so. it’s a bit of a mouthful (sent 6:24)

manly! (sent 6:24)

but y’know (sent 6:24)

k (received 6:25)

what about nitro? or smth (sent 6:30)

it’s snappy and cool! like u hehe (sent 6:33)

WAIT NO (sent 6:33)

LIKE (sent 6:33)

UM (sent 6:34)

kirishima (received 6:34)

yea? (sent 6:34)

OH SHIT DID U JUST (sent 6:36)

pls don’t kill me (sent 6:36)

bro? (sent 6:40)

bakubro? (sent 6:48)

nitro? 👀 (sent 6:53)

… (sent 6:57)

at least lemme say bye to my dog man (sent 7:00)

no (received 7:00)

RIP in pieces me (sent 7:00)

Nitro!! (Baku 💣💥 )

oi dipshit (received 8:02)

?? 👀 (sent 8:02)

you owe me coffee (received 8:03)

!!! (sent 8:03)

[train_view.jpg] (sent 8:18)

omw 💪🏻 (sent 8:19)

k (received 8:19)

>>Chapter 3

#my hero academia #boku no hero academia #bnha #mha #kiribaku #kirishima eijirou #bakugou katsuki #bnha fanfiction #kiri is braver than any marine: the fic #(let's hope tumblr doesn't kill the formatting on this one)#this fic is also on AO3!!#my stuff

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meggannn · 3 years

Note

i would also like to see post sidonis + backstory wip info

the backstory fic: this was an attempt to write my shepard's life pre-enlistment, explaining her relationship with the gang and the girl she took under her wing who was eventually killed in a gang war. but trust me that it was really bad and that's why i abandoned it a long time ago! lmfao

the post-sidonis thing: this is a rewrite of the conversation with garrus following the sidonis quest, where garrus is pissed that shepard prevented him from taking the shot. but the reason that’s sat on the backburner is because i eventually realized (as you and i have discussed lol) that i hate garrus’s loyalty quest and i’ve rewritten it in my head, so any attempt to write a post-sidonis fic will have to come after i’ve written my actual sidonis quest rewrite, and i just have too much going on to think about that at the moment lol.

it’s not very long, so here is the entirety of the document, from back when this was just about garrus being angry. be warned this is old and unedited, gdrive tells me that the last time i looked at this was in 2017:

Garrus storms into the battery, jams the lock, and activates the privacy shields. He narrowly avoids driving his fist into the wall, but -- after a split-second of consideration — doesn’t feel assured he wouldn’t break a bone against Cerberus’s bloody top-of-the-line warship. Instead, he slams his hands against the console, ignoring the flashing lights as the screen awakens from sleep, grips the edges, and sighs.

What the hell had she been thinking?

The thing that gets him — the thing that bloody gets him is that it had come down to the line, to the second he’d seen the pinpricks of his dark eyes, a single trigger keeping him from putting the ghosts of his team to rest --

No. Suddenly there was Shepard, too, and she was harder to budge than his own conscience.

Even in his own mind, he struggles to find the line between the commander, the friend he knows her to be, and the help -- the accomplice he nearly made of her. He knows that Shepard has always, always trusted the evidence and her gut in tandem. And the facts are that he asked her to take him at his word, without proof. The detective in him knows it isn’t for lack of trust that drove her to step into his shot, it was out of necessity: to question the suspect personally, to hear it straight from the source without bias or filter. Knowing that doesn’t make it any easier to swallow.

If he asked her why, Shepard would certainly explain. She would spin him some bullshit about taking the high road, or about revenge not being the answer. What he’s worried of, what he’s terrified of, is that she would explain, and he would let her, and that she would convince him it was for the best. He didn’t want to be convinced -- he wanted to be right on his own terms, he wanted her help with this one fucking thing --

A faint beep from the other side of the door snaps him back into the present.

“Override,” comes Shepard’s voice from the other side. A swish of the lock and a rush of air at his back.

Garrus clenches his teeth.

There’s a tense sort of silence for -- he counts -- about a minute and a half. She cracks first.

“It wasn’t because I didn’t trust you,” she says finally.

“Shepard -- ” He pushes off the console and turns around. He vaguely registers that the door is closed again behind her; good. No reason for any of the crew to hear this. “Don’t feed me any crap on revenge getting the better of me. You waited until the moment I had him in my scope to toss it all out the window to satisfy your conscience. I asked you for help. You agreed.”

Even as he says it, he knows it’s not entirely fair. She hadn’t kept her disapproval secret; it had weighed on him through the scuffles in the warehouse, like a weight around his neck, knowing this was his mission and Shepard had disapproved -- and he can’t rightfully claim he had given her room to argue her case.

“I didn’t wake up this morning planning on putting myself in between a sniper and his target,” Shepard snaps back. She scrubs a hand over her face; Garrus has the presence of mind enough to notice she looks exhausted, like she’s been wrestling with the decision herself. “It happened in the moment. I stood there. I listened. I’d heard the story from you, but I needed to hear it from him.”

“And what, exactly, did that piece of filth say to change your mind?” Garrus snarls. He feels full to bursting with some unnamed energy and stalks the length of the corridor in two quick strides.

Shepard is still staring at him, so infuriatingly calm. “You know exactly what he said. If you still think I blocked your shot out of kindness for him, then you haven’t been paying attention.”

“Right,” he spits, and he needs to nip this pseudo-moral bullshit at the root before the conversation gets sanctimonious again. “It was for my benefit. That explains why I feel so much better, you know, now that he’s still alive.”

“Don’t turn this into a joke. You know why I didn’t move. The galaxy wouldn’t have lost a decent man if you’d pulled the trigger.” She pauses for a moment, assess him, and something goes cold in his chest as he wonders if she finds what she sees lacking. “Then again, maybe it would have.”

He takes a step closer to her. He didn’t intend the move to be intimidating, but he realizes just how much he towers over her in this moment, with his neck bent down. Her eyes close, in a tense sort of irritation. “I’ve killed before, Commander,” he says, not aggressively. “We wiped out a few dozen mercenaries between the two of us just today. And you draw the line at a degenerate bastard that cost my men and half my face?”

“To tell you the truth,” she runs fingers through her hair and laughs in the sort of half-hearted way that says nothing about this is funny at all, “I’m still not entirely sure I do, Garrus.”

“Do not,” he says lowly, “tell me you’re regretting it.”

Shepard drops her hand and stares at him. He’s never seen her attention fixed on him with such hard, determined purpose. It’s the look she normally gives mercenaries they’re shaking for information, criminals they’re convincing. Something about it makes clench his jaw further, a pool of shame and anger mixing equally in his chest.

“Vakarian,” she says his name slowly. “I could stand here and give you a laundry list of reasons why you shouldn’t have committed cold-blooded murder in the middle of a public square.” Shepard stares at him, all five feet of her, and despite himself he feels like a fresh recruit again, fifteen years of age with markings fresh-painted across his face, staring up at a livid drill sergeant. “But you’re not interested in listening and I’m not interested in fighting with a wall. Come talk to me when you know who you’re really angry at.”

She turns and moves to open the door.

“I took him on my team,” Garrus growls. “I put my faith in that asshole. He let me down. He let his team down. It cost their lives.”

“You imagine you’re the only one who’s been betrayed in the galaxy?” Shepard looks at him over her shoulder but doesn’t turn around. “The only one who’s seen their entire team dead on a commanding officer’s mistake?”

Garrus has a flash of remembrance that Shepard has seen two of her crews slaughtered; once at Akuze, and again over the blistering snow and wind of Alchera. He grapples with another sinking feeling at the knowledge that she is heading a team through the Omega-4 relay against odds so impossible that most of the ground team had taken to jokingly calling it a “suicide mission.” Garrus has used the phrase himself more than once in conversation with the crew, in that half-serious tone he seems to have adopted after Omega when joking about the probability of his own demise.

Looking at the mission’s leading officer now, it suddenly doesn’t seem so amusing.

“You know it’s not the same,” he says around a dry mouth.

“No, it’s not,” she sighs and rests her forearm against the door, forehead leaning against her wrist. “…And if my CO on Akuze had survived, I can’t promise I wouldn’t’ve wanted to put a bullet in his head myself.”

“Then why, Shepard?” He’s tired of arguing. The burst of adrenaline from earlier is gone, anger fading into the kind of bone-weary exhaustion that he’s only known to follow a failed mission. He can't help but think that is exactly what this is, the disconcerting feeling that the justice hasn’t been seen to, that the responsible party got away, and it stings something else in him that he’s feeling it with Shepard for the first time.

Some tension in her body seems to evaporate. Shepard slowly looks up at him. “I don’t know, Garrus,” she says calmly. “You tell me.”

And that’s the part he can’t understand, and he hates himself for not understanding.

Shepard had stood aside, in that last second. It hadn’t been an accident. The gap between her skull and Sidonis’s had extended about a meter. Garrus is a good enough sniper that Lantar’s brains would have smeared the floor without Shepard feeling the whistle of the bullet pass by her forehead. She’d said her piece, woven her magic, and then stepped aside, and damn her for making him feel guilty in that moment for wanting what he’d needed. What closure could come from letting him go? What benefit could come from letting a murderer, a betrayer free to roam the galaxy? What good could it do his own conscience?

And yet --

He could’ve pulled the trigger anyway, and he didn’t.

He could’ve moved position. He didn’t.

“Go. Just -- tell him to get the hell out of here.”

Fuck it. Just -- fuck.

#writing notes #perihelions #fic snippets

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seven-oomen · 4 years

Text

Okay, I’ve managed to scrape back up some of the thoughts that were drifting in and out yesterday. I was trying to think of stuff I remembered from high school (what hasn’t been lost to an ADD haze at this point anyway) that might be interesting/cute to see crop up in the prequel. For example; we know Peter played basketball, but did he or anyone else participate in any other extracurriculars or sports? Student council? Debate team? Academic team? French club? Band/orchestra/choir? Cross country/Track? Ecology club? Gay/Straight Alliance? Martial arts? Science club? Softball? Pagan Student Union (I think that might have been a college thing, but whatever)? Art club? Cheer/gymnastics? Other things I’m forgetting right now?

Speaking of Peter and basketball- Did the gang ever go to his games? Did he have supportive sports boyfriends; did they make cute signs or run to hug him if Beacon Hills won? (Did we ever find out Peter’s jersey number? I legit can’t remember.) Did he bother to get a letterman jacket? If so, did he give it to either of the boys? (Or did he just get two? I forget how/when you got patches, I wasn’t much for that sort of thing. I think maybe I got one for softball at some point?) I love him with the leather jacket, I just thought it was a cute image. Did they get class rings (and exchange them)?

Also, yearbooks. Who all actually had their picture in the yearbook? Did Peter shake his hair over his eyes to block the weird reflective thing (and would that work)? Did they pop up in any group shots or candid pics? I had a mental image of a shot from some sort of home game, maybe for football, or girl’s basketball, or something, of the group of them clustered on the bleachers; Peter between Chris and Noah, with an arm thrown around each’s shoulders, his smiling face pressed into one of them’s hair (I can’t decide which) partially to prevent any reflection, partially just because; Chris holding the hand Peter has wrapped around him with one hand and with the other stretched across to rest on Noah’s knee, smiling in the genuine yet vaguely stilted way of someone who’s not used to being this happy yet; Noah with one arm wrapped around Peter’s waist, his other hand resting on the one Chris has on his knee, staring at the camera with an amused grin that’s flirting right on the edge of a smirk; Claudia cuddled up to Noah’s side, both hands wrapped around the top his nearest arm, head leaning against his shoulder, grin clear and bright and open; Melissa next to her, arms enveloping Claudia in a loose hug, camera catching her mid-laugh. (God, I really wish I had something approaching passable art skills at times like these.) Maybe the kids find a copy of that yearbook in the school library, and make framed copies of the picture for Melissa and their dads for a gift.

Do you have any plans to cover Prom? Or any school dance (Homecoming, maybe?), really, Prom is just the big one. Because part of me with never be over the ridiculousness of that scene with Peter and Allison at Macy’s (as cute as it is). Random middle-aged dude walks up to teenage girl and starts offering her unsolicited fashion advice (as part of an intimidation tactic against her boyfriend, no less), and she not only is not worried or weirded out in the slightest, but she actively takes his advice and buys the dress he suggests. (I legit laughed so hard I snorted when I realized it was the same dress.) (Momentary segue: Do you think she ever described the encounter to Chris? Peter just gets a random angry text one day from an unknown number that just says “Stay the hell away from my daughter!” and he just knows, so he sends back “Don’t blame me, her selections were utterly abysmal. Didn’t your wife run a boutique or something? You’d think she’d have taught her better." Chris never does answer back.) But anyway, yes, school dances with that group could be entertaining. Sneaking off (for various reasons), special song dedications, spiking the punch with assorted substances, inappropriate dancing under the cover of semi-darkness. Lots of potential shenanigans.

Also can’t wait to find out more about how everybody met. One of the things I love about long-running series is being able to go back and compare where characters began their relationships versus where they end up. We’ve seen how Chris met the boys, but not Claudia or Melissa. (Did he already know Melissa? Was she still a hunter at that point?) We know how Noah and Claudia met, but not how Peter and Noah met, or Peter and Claudia, or how any of them met Melissa. Plus all the potential bonus drama because of the supernatural issues involved. When did Claudia and Peter realize what Elias was really like? (Did Claudia ever give either of the other boys a "shovel talk”?) How did Melissa’s relationship with Rafael develop? How did the rest of the gang get along with the assorted Hales (or did they know them at all)? And re: the preview for it you posted - what kind of car does Peter have, and can you comfortably fit three growing boys in the back seat? (I do occasionally remember to ask the important questions, lol.) Is the Jeep still Claudia’s here? What kinds of vehicles, if any, do the others have? (Can you tell I’m excited about the prequel?)

Bonus thought from last night -

Me: *trying desperately to fall asleep so the day can just be over*

My brain: So what about a vaguely, very loosely Breakfast Club inspired Chris/Noah/Peter fic? Like, Chris could be Emilio Estevez’s character, and Noah could be Judd Nelson’s, because Andrew’s damage is more internally focused (I can’t live up to my father’s expectations because I’m not good enough), where as Bender’s is more externally focused (I’m pissed that my dad treats me this way because he’s an asshole, but also secretly worry I actually deserve it). Peter could be Claire; popular, charming, probably more intelligent than they let on, emotionally distant and neglected. Claudia’s probably the best fit for Allison, although you could maybe make Melissa work. Finstock is totally Brian. Could we shove Harris back in time to make him Dean Vernon? It’s fic, you can totally do that sort of thing, right? I mean, you’re already planning to completely redo the relationships, so who cares, right? Who would be Carl, though?

Me: FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, BRAIN, NOT NOW!!! PLEASE JUST SHUT UP AND GO TO SLEEP ALREADY, I’M BEGGING YOU!! NOW IS NOT THE TIME! WE CAN THINK ABOUT THIS TOMORROW!

My brain: …okay but seriously; Peter in a peach colored v-neck and overly snug khakis, Chris in that wrestling top, Noah in the trenchcoat and plaid… Do you think Peter could do that lipstick trick with a chapstick?…

Me: AAAAUUUUGGHH!!!

(Thankfully, sleep was at least eventually had.)

I’m glad you’re feeling better today, and hope that work was busy enough to pass the time quickly without being overwhelming, and blissfully free of excessive stupid people. As someone else stuck in the world of heat, storms, and humidity, you have my sympathy. Sending hugs and cooling vibes!

Alright so I finally got some time to sit down (or lie down technically) for this and go through it. I’m excited!

we know Peter played basketball, but did he or anyone else participate in any other extracurriculars or sports? Student council? Debate team? Academic team? French club? Band/orchestra/choir? Cross country/Track? Ecology club? Gay/Straight Alliance? Martial arts? Science club? Softball? Pagan Student Union (I think that might have been a college thing, but whatever)? Art club? Cheer/gymnastics? Other things I’m forgetting right now?

I think Chris was a cheerleader at some point. He wanted to join gymnastics like in his old school, but BH didn’t have a separate gymnastics team, so he joined the cheerleaders instead. His dancing skills are abysmal, but he makes up for it with gymnastic skills, strength, and agility.

Peter’s on the student council I like to think he would do well as the secretary but I also feel like he’d definitely try to run for president.

Noah’s on the Martial Arts team (couldn’t resist) and I like to think he’d participate in the ROTC, as he served in the military in canon. (Obviously due to having children at 17, he never enlisted in this Au.) But the prepping definitely happened.

Chris would also join the swim team, which is a nod to Jackson joining later in Once Upon a Time.

And oh yeah, they went to every game. Chris as a cheerleader and Noah was up in the stands with signs for every single game. Claudia and Melissa often came with. Whenever BH won, Chris would run out and ‘cheer’ the star player, which was almost always Peter, and lift him up on his shoulders.

I don’t think there’s a canon answer for Peter’s Jersey Number. I’ve seen some places sell a shirt with 01 on it, but I kinda wanna say it’s 15. Due to his birthday being May 15 in this au. (Chris’s is July 22nd, Noah’s is September 14th.)

I feel like Peter got a class ring, maybe Noah, but Chris didn’t bother. It would just be one more thing his father could potentially take from him and he wouldn’t need something like that to remember the other two by. He already has the Triskelion necklace. As for the letterman jacket, I think Peter definitely got one, as did Noah. Chris once again skipped it, probably because he still felt like they might move at a moment's notice and he didn’t want to bother with all of these things.

Omg, my heart...

yes to all of this. Seriously <3

Do you have any plans to cover Prom? Or any school dance (Homecoming, maybe?),

I do. In both stories. The canon school dance in Once Upon a Time. And the prequel will feature either a homecoming dance or prom. The potential for drama there is too good to pass up on.

Also, Peter giving fashion advice to the girls is way too funny because of course, he would. And to some of the guys as well. Seriously McCall... that’s what you’re going with?? Wear a fucking tux for Mel, jfc...

I feel really bad, but I actually never saw the Breakfast club, though it sounds like a really dope movie. And those visuals are very nice visuals ^^

I’m also writing all of these questions down for the prequel. XD This is awesome writing fuel <3

No but seriously, I don’t say this often enough, but you are awesome and I adore you <3

Thanks for sticking with me and this au for so long already, I love talking to you.

#ben says stuff #once upon a time comments #life unfolds in chapters comments #submission

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imnotcameraready · 5 years

Text

Caesura (chivalry au)

A/N: you know how people in chivalry keep referring to a public demonstration of sorts? well. :)

this has been sitting half-finished in my files for a while now, and i figured i should finish it. i was just kinda in the mood to kick roman’s ass so i finished it up!

WARNINGS: oh god. Remus Mention, Torture, Public Humiliation, Whipping/Caning, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, self-torture, drug mention, Blood, a lot of blood, Chunks of Flesh, self-deprecation, Graphic Depictions of Wounds, Insults, Delirium, Disassociation, Verbal Abuse, Self-Hatred, Temporary/Pain-induced Memory Loss, Hair Pulling, Choking, heat - Freeform, Burns, Burning, Sun Burns in particular, Passing Out, Swearing/Cursing — golly, that’s a lot! let me know if i’ve forgotten anything!!

Words: 4404

AO3 link!

MASTERPOST <-- I HEAVILY RECOMMEND READING THE REST OF CHIVALRY IS DEAD BEFORE THIS!

enjoy!!! <3 <3 <3 <3

no roman line break because if i look my son in the face as i post this i might cry

The Thief hopped onto the roof, then bent down as he slid down slow against the tiling. He stopped himself at the edge, resting a hand against the building’s spire. He was standing atop the church, the one in the town’s square. Four blocks away from the castle in the innermost walls. This was the closest he’d gotten to the castle so far; until now, he’d been opting to just hide in the tree until this whole tournament of champions passed. But the invitation to witness….

It couldn’t be real.

There was already a gathering in the square. He didn’t know where the Dragon planned to come from, where they had that other Roman — the Damsel, the Damsel in Distress? He couldn’t remember a Damsel but it wasn’t like he’d stayed to hear all their names — nor what the Dragon had in store. It was a vague invitation and he didn’t plan on staying long.

The crowd didn’t have defined faces. Some were very recognizable, though. The Thief could pick Sleep out in the crowd, near the back and leant against a wall, Starbucks in his hand. He’d probably report back to the other Shorts characters. They’d all developed a coallesed group over the years and while they weren’t always friendly to one another, they all understood that they had equal importance in the Imagination. Sleep was the most neutral of them, with a fan following that ensured he’d never die.

The Thief winced. He hoped that Prince Dude was doing alright, hopefully hidden somewhere in the town. He used to flit around the castle, no actual power but a charisma over the unnamed townspeople that ensured he was respected like royalty. It would be a little weird if he ran into Prince Dude out here during this, but like with most things, the Thief would probably just fade back into the shadows and go home. Considering the little time he spent outside either the castle or the tree, it was improbable that he’d ever run into him.

On another rooftop, lower and closer to the town hall, atop the library actually, was the Bard. The Thief had seen him a few times over the past two days, so much so that he might consider him a friend. Gosh, it’d already been two days? He wondered briefly how long it’d been in the real world. Would any of the other Sides notice?

Had it been long enough? Would they ever notice?

Wasn’t like they regarded Roman as more than a pawn for their own gains, despite how Roman loved them. The Thief wouldn’t fault them for that, though. And he’d never told.

He longed for any of them to just….touch him. Not even in any sexual way. He’d been having dreams of how Virgil would lean his head against his shoulder during movie nights, how soft Patton’s hands were when he ran them through Roman’s hair. Even Logan’s firm grip on his wrist as he led him around the Mind Palace, to the library, then to Logan’s room, then to the kitchen, bathroom for first aid, Roman’s room, anywhere.

Now, don’t be getting tender. This was a piss poor time for those idyllic dreams.

The Bard was sitting cross legged on the roof (he wouldn’t be able to escape as fast) and was holding a ukulele in his lap (could it serve as a weapon?) while his mouth was open. He must have been singing a song. There was a blanket or something in his lap, an amorphous black blob. How long did he think they’d be out here for?

Of all the counterparts, the Thief found the Bard most agreeable. His non-hostile characterization made it easier for him to hold conversation, because he didn’t ask too many questions and wouldn’t murder him. Or maybe it was less that he was quiet and more that the Bard just didn’t shut up about himself.

He chuckled.

The black lump moved in the Bard’s lap, and the Thief frowned.

Oh, no, no fucking way. He did not.

The Thief squinted across the square, then clicked his tongue.

Oh, god damn it, he did. The Child was sitting in the Bard’s lap, plucking at random ukulele strings.

He’d brought the Child? They didn’t know what the Dragon was going to do, but it didn’t seem like something that the Child should witness.

Though, the Thief thought while bobbing his head, it was probably safer to keep the Child at his side instead of leaving him at home. Who knows if the guards would break in. He wouldn’t it past the Dragon to send that kind of strike while at an event like this. He wasn’t sure if the Dragon was thoughtful enough to consider that sort of tactic, but, well….

“WHO WANTS TO GET THIS PARTY STARTED!” a shout from below.

The doors to the town hall opened with a bang, and the Bard immediately clamped his hands over the Child’s ears. The Thief rolled his eyes, figuring he’d have to talk about how to be an actually good parent, maybe he could get Dad Guy’s help in that, wait, wasn’t his whole character about how he was kinda an irresponsible parent? Maybe Teacher Dude?

Something was being rolled out of the town hall. A platform, with a peg in the middle and raised on some wheels, was being rolled out.

A stage. This bastard wanted a stage. The Thief hissed, running his hands through his hair and shoving them harshly into a crossed motion on his chest. Hold it together. You had to watch. Bear witness or something like that.

The guards pushing the stage stationed it out in the middle of the crowd, locking its wheels with blocks and surrounding it themselves. Did they think any of them would try and save the poor sap? The Thief knew he wasn’t, and he had a suspicion no one else would, either.

The town hall’s doors opened again, and the Thief craned to see.

Out walked who the Thief can only assume is the Dragon. He didn’t know what he expected, but whatever those expectations were are being vastly overlooked in lieu of the Dragon’s tackiness. I mean, really, a whole cape? It was floor length, billowing after him, and then there were actual literal horns coming from his head? Hang on, he just took a breath — it’s not cold enough for there to be condensation, was that smoke?

The Dragon was really taking this villainy thing to the next level. The Thief’s peasantry clothing beneath his cloak was at least white, if a little grey and dirtier than usual. The Dragon didn’t have a single spot of white on him.

Beside him, being pulled along on chains around his neck and wrists, was the Damsel in Distress. An apt shortening would probably be the Damsel, since the Thief would be damned before he spoke more than two syllables to identify a Side.

A pair of guards followed them out, making that six guards in total around the podium. As they approached, the Dragon shoved the Damsel’s head down and handed his chains off to one of the guards. He motioned toward the post, giving quiet instructions, while the Damsel starred numbly at the crowd.

Maybe he hadn’t known what would be happening. That’s what it seemed like.

The Dragon climbed onto the stage first, then the guards led the Damsel up, tugging him along like a dog on a leash.

“AS SOME OF YOU KNOW!” the Dragon stepped in a circle, around the stage’s perimeter. “THE PRINCE IS DEAD!”

As he spoke, the Damsel stood on the platform, swaying slightly. The Thief watched him, curious of his movements. He was wearing white pants and a black tank top. No shoes, though they’d probably been removed for this performance.

This was probably a performance. Nothing more. Roman wouldn’t intentionally do something this self-torturous, no part of him. The Thief squatted, then rested his head on his knuckle. He couldn’t place where he’d seen this Roman, the Damsel. He wasn’t paying attention during that initial meeting, none of them really were, what with them getting into arguments and threatening to kill each other and what have you. And if the Prince was really….dead. Then it stood to reason that the Dragon would continue killing them off. One by one.

Of course, this was a threat. Who else would be on the Dragon’s hit list?

Instinctively, the Thief’s eyes floated to the Bard and the Child.

Pacifists, he was sure. One was ten years old, and the other, well….

The Child tried to lean out of the Bard’s lap, neck craning to see what was below, and the Bard pulled him closer to his chest. Blocking his view, just as the guards kicked in the Damsel’s knees and grabbed his chains. They threw them around a peg in the post, and the Damsel was knelt on the ground, chest facing outward with his arms just barely held above his head. He didn’t make any move against the bindings, too.

“You shouldn’t have brought him,” the Thief mumbled to himself, unable to stop the judgement from flowing out. Really, though. A whole ass child.

He wasn’t sure what kept the Bard there, either; he knew him to be more of a lover than any sort of fighter, much to the Thief’s chagrin.

On top of that, he wasn’t sure where the other two were. Perhaps the Playwright was watching from a distance. He’d insinuated that he could do that. Where the Artist was, though, he didn’t know. There was no way he wasn’t present, though. How could any of them have turned this opportunity down.

“AND WITH THE PRINCE DEAD,” the Dragon was walking in circles now, slow with his cape trailing after, as though circling his prey, “WE NEED TO THIN OUT THE CROWD. DECIDE WHICH VERSION OF ROMAN IS WORTH KEEPING.”

Murmuring in the crowd. The Thief even saw Sleep shift upright, looking intrigued. They’d all known that the split happened, everyone knew about the two Creativities, but none of them had been around for it. Or, well, none of the ones who were there at the time remembered it. Everyone had undergone changes through creative development, so much so that their memories beyond backstories and plot-relevancy were muddled.

No one knew how Creativity settled unto the Prince and the Duke. The Thief guessed they were about to find out.

The Dragon must have seen everyone’s focus turned to him, because he grinned even wider, barring sharp fangs at the world. His eyes gazed across the crowd in reverence. A real drama queen.

Meanwhile, with one hand, he grabbed the Damsel’s arm and spun him around. He gave a shout, but spun nonetheless, hugging the post. He seemed disoriented, to the Thief. Had he been drugged beforehand?

Had he fought back?

The Thief slid down the building more more, resting his feet against the chimney as he watched. He wasn’t sure what kind of public humiliation the Dragon was going for, but having invited all of the others, he knew it wouldn’t be good. What did ‘Worth Keeping’ mean?

“HOW DOES ONE DECIDE?” the Dragon raised his hand.

There was a black whip glittering in his hand.

The Thief saw the Bard cover the Child’s eyes with one hand, and his mouth with the other. Even the Thief’s mouth hung open slightly.

What he was insinuating was torture.

No part of Roman was that cruel, right?

“YOU KILL IT!”

The Damsel lurched when the whip cracked against his back, but made no sound himself. The whip made a snaping sound, loud like the thunder of last night’s storm.

The Thief didn’t know what the Bard did after that. He assumed they’d stayed, because he assumed that the Bard had just as much morbid curiosity as he did. His eyes were glued to the scene but he didn’t process a single strike after the first. It all merged together into lines of blood, drops of red flicking off of the glittering whip.

The Dragon was laughing.

He heard that. He heard the laughter.

None of the other characters moved, either. Everyone stood, or looked away.

After the first few strikes, the Thief shook his head, trying to physically clear it, and averted his gaze to the crowd. Sleep had disappeared. Some of the less processed characters were still watching, but everyone who had ever interacted with Roman at all seemed to be averting their eyelines.

No one wanted to watch. This was gruesome.

A loud scream rang out, and the Thief’s attention snapped back. The Damsel finally gave in, screaming, crying out in pain as — it wasn’t a whip any longer. No, it was an obsidian cane, glittering and black but sharp as a knife. Had it changed into a cane? When? Could the Dragon do that?

The Dragon paused, stepping forward and yanking the Damsel upright by the hair. Even from this distance, he could see the Damsel trembling like a leaf. Blood was oozing from his back, coating his legs, even his face had spots of it.

He looked like he was saying something. Perhaps the Thief should get closer. If there were words being exchanged, sentiments and the like being discussed, he would want to hear. It might help him get the edge on whatever quagmire the Dragon would create after this….what would he call it? A demonstration of power, maybe? Of prowess? Of Roman’s weakness, most likely.

Jesus, this was already so tiring. The Thief couldn’t wait to go home, back to the tree. Brew some hot chocolate, curl up in his bedroom, amidst all his blankets and pillows and the soft matress. Watch the sun set.

Another shout drew the Thief’s attention once more. The Dragon had the Damsel pressed to the post, holding him up by the neck while his back bled out against the wooden pole. More words were exchanged, and the Thief looked around the rooftops. He could try and sneak into the crowd, but he looked way too identifiably Roman.

Speaking of. He looked up at the other rooftop.

Oh, dear. The Bard was crying. He seemed to have a firm grip on the Child’s head, was pressing him against his own chest in an effort to make sure the Child didn’t look. And it wasn’t like the Child was trying to look, either, as he curled into the Bard’s chest.

The Thief grunted, squatting down. He wanted to get closer. He tied his waistbelt around his cloak, so it wouldn’t flap as much, and shimmied on his feet further out one of the stone gutters. The Dragon was still looking down at the Damsel, talking about something or another.

He didn’t look up or indicate that he saw the Thief hop between one gutter to the next. The Thief grasped onto the roof, sliding himself down by holding onto the metal window bars of the building he was on and landing, as soft as he could, on the balcony below. He climbed off of the confined area and walked out closer to the edge. Then, he broke into a run.

The best seat in the house was, in fact, the town hall. The Thief jumped across the gap between the two buildings, rolling upon landing as—

“I WILL LIGHT YOU ON FIRE, YOU KNIGHT IN FOOLS’ GOLD ARMOR,” the Thief sank into a criss-cross at the roof’s edge as the Dragon shouted threats again at the trembling Damsel.

He didn’t scream when the cane whipped against his back, squelching much more than it snapped. His back was gridded with lines, unidentifiable now because of, you know, the copious amounts of blood that he imagined he was covered in. Was there even a layer of skin to be shearing?

He deserved this. Yes, he did. He was a horrible purveyor of dreams, defender of hopes. Hopes? When was the last time he’d felt those? Was it a year ago? Two?

He couldn’t remember.

His body arched without his command, away from the clip of the cane, but Roman could barely feel it anymore.

He couldn’t feel anything anymore, not really. Not the tips of his fingers, barely the whip against his back. Soon, hopefully soon, he wouldn’t even feel the cold grip of life.

Someone’s hand brushed through his hair, the tips of their fingers grazing incredibly soft against his scalp, and he whined. Please? Please, his body leaned into the touch, tugging at whatever was holding him by the wrist, by the neck, please, he wanted this so badly, he wanted to be held, he WANTED!

“You’re pathetic,” his own voice spat back at him, and a swift kick landed in his stomach.

Roman coughed, or cried out, but whatever sound was there died in his mouth. He curled around the leg, body tugging lamely against the chains. Why was he doing this?

A better question, whispered into his mind, was why hadn’t he done this before? Why was he parading around like he was some king, deserving of praise and reward?

He didn’t deserve it.

“So gullible, so weak,” he was yanked up again by the hair, tugging at his scalp in a semi-comforting way.

He could feel slips of his skin tugging off. They must be curling, like pencil shavings or a banana’s peel, curling down and springing back with every time his adversary pulled him upright.

“I hope you’ll die soon,” he clicked his tongue, disgusted by the sight that Roman had become, “You’re getting blood all over my suit.”

Roman laughed, coughing up blood. It trickled down the side of his mouth, down his jaw. He’d screamed that hard, huh?

The arrogance that he used to be filled with was coating the back of his mind, and he knew he had to snark, return the banter. Was it even banter? It had to be.

His voice was nothing but air, and it hurt. It stung so much to speak.

“It’s a red suit.”

He drew in a breath and whined, closing his eye. It hurt.

He didn’t want it to hurt anymore.

Roman had wanted this earlier, before he knew what it’d feel like, how warm a day it would be. The sun boilt down on him, sizzling his blood into permanent stains across his body, more permanent than anything Imagined should be. But he didn’t want to boil, and he didn’t want it to hurt anymore.

It hurt.

Someone would come. Someone would save him, yes.

But did he deserve that? No, god, no, of course not.

“But it’s not blood red. You’re discoloring it,” the person dropped him again, tossing his head aside and letting it snap against the metal leash, “You’re so stupid. Useless. You can’t even die in a good way.”

Roman didn’t want to be alone. He didn’t want to die.

He wanted to die, he did, but he didn’t want to hurt.

“V’h,” he choked on his own saliva and tears, whimpering again and hiding his face into the crook of his elbow.

Who would save him?

“No, no,” the person grabbed his neck, lifting him up against the pole and it stung.

His back lurched, twitching violently as the pole itself rubbed against his muscles, exposed from the lack of skin and fat covering them. Roman felt the twitching in his shoulders and hip, a pained wail turning to only a hoarse yell as his vocal chords gave out once more.

“You were saying something,” the person’s breath was hot, too hot, like the sun, scorching him, “Finish your sentences, your Majesty, its rude to not.”

No. No, no, it was foolish of him.

“You want Virgil, don’t you?”

Roman shook his head, hair thick with sweat as it bounced back and forth with him. The display certainly wasn’t convincing, though, even he knew that. He wanted to be comforted. Virgil was always there….always there to protect him, and the others. Of course he wouldn’t be here now. It was foolish to want him.

It was foolish to wish for love from any of them, at any point in time. Love. What a delusory dream.

The person laughed, and slammed his neck against the pole again. It pressed so far, grazing one of his vertebrae.

His voice was echoing around Roman, a chamber of mock pity.

It hurt, but the lashings themselves didn’t hurt. Roman’s entire spine tingled once the pole touched it. This far down, his insides weren’t supposed to see the light of day.

He could barely imagine what it would really feel like, for a person, not just an imagined feeling for an imagined being. He wasn’t real.

The reveal of his entrails was, as everything his useless mind could conjure, dramatic as all get out.

“Do you want Virgil to see this? Imagine what he’d say.”

He’d be so angry.

He wasn’t real. He wasn’t Roman.

“And what about Patton? Can you imagine how much he’d cry.”

The person dropped Roman again, then kicked him in the back.

It burned. Roman felt like he would have a foot-shaped brand, the person’s boot slammed against his back, between his spine and his shoulder blade. It slipped up in the bloody mush of his back like one would slip on mud, difficult to walk in terrain immediately after a downpour of cataclysmic condensation.

His boot was so, so firm against Roman’s back. The heel dug into his flesh very briefly, but it felt as though it would drill a hole through his person. Through his very being.

“Logan wouldn’t care, would he? Would Deceit?” the boot left his back.

Before Roman could recollect himself, though, the cane struck the back of his neck. It didn’t hurt, once again, he barely felt it.

He wasn’t Roman. His mind was murky in the thick blood, boiling.

He could only feel the sun’s heat. He should have designed the Imagination without a sun. Who needed it, anyway? What was it good for?

“Pathetic,” the shadow whispered, then shouted again, “PATHETIC!”

Perhaps it wasn’t the sun. His head was warm, hair warm, ears tingling and burning and so so warm. His back was warm, too, for a similar reason.

Roman didn’t have his eye opened, but he knew he was on fire when he felt it. He trembled, arms jerking to instinctively slap the flames off of his person, but he couldn’t move very far beyond the chains.

Laughing.

Roman deserved this.

“Burn at your pyre, your Majesty,” he spat the words. “That’s all you have left,” the Dragon laughed, a hearty chuckle, and then struck Roman once more.

Then once more.

Then once again.

And again, and again, and again, and Roman could only feel the dripping of his own blood down his back. It pooled around his knees, a thick pool that was going to dye his tanned skin with red spots. Like a strawberry nevus.

Someone told him that name once, it was a type of birthmark. He couldn’t remember who. He could barely remember anything.

Roman was lost in the pain so much as one could be lost in bliss. His body stopped responding to the lashings, no longer curving inward. He wasn’t moving. It was all moving around him.

In fact, it actually was moving. It felt as though the platform were spinning. Up was down, and down was up again, and up down down up and into the darkness. Who knew death would be so welcoming. Like a cloud. Like a soft, comforting….

Roman’s eye rolled back, and he slumped against the bindings, unable to collapse onto the ground. The chains held his defeated body up for the world to see.

The Dragon stood up straighter, then scooted forward. Had he….?

He lifted the Damsel’s face with the cane and examined his expression, so soft and placid in comparison to the drywall paint peeling that his back and arms appeared like.

“Is….WHAT?!” The Dragon roared. How dare he. How DARE he pass out, the pathetic whelp! He had the nerve!

The Dragon wanted to keep going! He was just getting warmed up! This was so much fun, so alluring! He’d never known blood splatters could be so beautiful.

Though, this was their cue to be done. Hopefully the Damsel wouldn’t wake up again, if his theory had been correct. The Dragon looked out at the crowd, curling up the whip in his hand and fastening it to the latch on his belt.

Most of the crowd — the ones with less of a conscious, the ones who were simply faces who’d been committed to memory, hadn’t been given stories yet but nonetheless existed — were still watching. He did love an audience.

Some of the true characters had stayed, but hadn’t fully watched. He could see someone in the back, turned away in a black cloak.

No patches. Not one of them. Though they’d stayed and had the gall to be disguised.

The Dragon didn’t CARE about any of the others, though. He grunted, smoke escaping from his lips as he motioned for the guards stationed around the platform to grab the Damsel. “Our pathetic excuse for a Creativity seems to have drawn his last breath,” he coo’ed, just loud enough for the sound to echo across the Imagination, “I guess this concludes today’s presentation!”

Two of them climbed onto the platform, unhooking the Damsel from the post and throwing him over their shoulder. Chunks of his flesh, or thick globs of blood (really, they were indistinguishable) fell off as he was moved.

Revolting. Hopefully he was dead, so the Dragon could just throw his body into the lake and be done with it. He’d have to have Remus check for a pulse, though. Lord knew Dragon didn’t know how to do that sorta shit.

He scanned the crowd once more. No sign of any other Roman figment. No murmur, even. Everyone just watched in horrified silence.

No matter. The Dragon knew the others had come, they’d seen. That was all that needed to be done. This was just a message, nothing more.

The Damsel was his little test run, his beautifully caged canary, on death row. And hopefully he’d died.

Even unconscious, his lip twitched, into the barest of smiles.

Yes, hopefully he’d died.

#oof im a lil afraid to put this in the tags #roman #roman sanders #fic #my fic #ts roman #sanders sides #thomas sanders #ts fanfic #torture #blood #pain #passing out #i hope that's all that uh #i should tag tag #chivalry au #i deleted all the tags because i had to fix the chivalry tag alsdkhasdlkfj

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incarnateirony · 5 years

Text

Thoughts.

So I finally watched Good Omens. First of all I know some people were waiting for me to like, do breakdowns on the use of lore, sigils and whatnot -- I’m sure I’ll poke at it eventually, but so much of it reads of typicality, alongside strong artistic liberty, that when it comes to actual sigils there’s very few and I’ll need a good screen of them.

But that isn’t about that. This is actually about Good Omens and the audience response to queer content and queer coded content. I’m going to warn you, some of this shit is going to incense the fuck out of woke tumblr. It’s going to be a lot of hard pills to swallow, mostly in regards to parts of the LGBT community -- of which I’m a part -- moving around our own goal posts, inconsistencies in the placements of our goalposts, and the impacts of het culture. If you come into my mentions screaming away at me expect an ignore or a block.

No, this isn’t anti-Azri/Crow. It’s very pro Azri/Crow. And yes, I’m going to drag other fandoms I’m in, into it. But I’m also gonna drag general discussion into it.

First I’m going to source a link to a recent set of tweets someone made that I consider very insightful (x) and then highlight a bulk of it.

“When we call something queerbaiting, we're essentially saying: "source material X doesn't count as real or valid queer representation." Here is a thread on why we need to be cognizant about which real-life queer people & stories we're erasing when we expand our use of that term. First: actual queerbaiting, in which art-creators hint at queer representation in order to attract viewers and then insist their art was 100% hetero all along, sucks a lot. I am not advocating getting rid of the term. Nor am I saying it's not valid to feel jerked around when a show uses the promise of a specific queer relationship on their publicity circuit, and then doesn't follow through on it in the actual source. (Or follows through only to write out a character, a la #TheMagicians) However: when we narrow our definition of "real and valid queer representation" until the ONLY thing that counts as queer rep is on-screen queer *romance* or on-screen queer *sex*, we are telling a significant portion of the real-life queer community that they don't count. When we use the "queerbaiting" label to describe a millennia-long, loving asexual same-gender relationship (aka #GoodOmens) we are telling asexuals in loving life-long relationships that they don't count as queer. We are also telling sexual queers whose primary, life-organizing relationships are queerplatonic (me, this is me) that their queerness is defined only by who they fuck, not by who they choose to build a life with. I want a space where ALL kinds of queer stories get told: romances yes, but also stories of queer friendship; queer mentorship; queer animosity; queer competition and cooperation; queer found family; queer provocation and queer mistakes. None of that happens if we tell everyone whose queer content doesn't fit into the narrow box "Lead A & Lead B kiss and/or fuck onscreen" (even if A&B make a life together; even if A&B kiss & fuck other same-sex people) that their art is exploitative & doesn't count as queer rep. “

Why am I choosing to highlight this while implicatively mentioning my adjacent fandoms? Well, because blogs I follow that either haphazardly dismiss, say, Destiel as valid until (personally met goalpost, generally when arguing with the hetnorm or anti community wanting a kiss) are all on the Azriphale-Crowley bandwagon.

And let me say, I adore the Azriphale-Crowley bandwagon. I’m ON that bandwagon. Holy shit am I on that wagon, but we need to inspect our dialogue for people who are on one but not the other.

We can say, for example, “Well, Neil Gaiman and the actors have been supportive! So THAT’S why it’s fine!” I mean -- aren’t people always banging on about post-affirmation not being enough, or just vague support being enough, or this-or-that not being enough? Like people don’t flame Rowling over that? I mean, even if we handwave away that Neil Gaiman had literally uncontested authorship instead of 203492 hands in the author and ownership pot top-to-bottom which the average show doesn’t have -- which gives the liberty to say whatever the fuck he wants because it is wholly his product and under his contract and design -- do you notice that it’s actually a very, very small audience crowing about that? And rarely if ever the same ones that do about other pairings that could be considered similar? Like we haven’t gotten those moments from authors in other shows (Robbie Thompson “Destiel isn’t canon?” comes to mind) that we yell queerbait at then and decide isn’t enough. Because someone else moved a goalpost out.

Ah-- but they’re... confirmed asexual and agender and immortal! Okay... and... so is, for example, if we’re going to tilt this way, Castiel. And ace people can have queer relationships with bi or yes, even straight people. Mindblowing, I know, but that’s it, that’s reality.

So why on gods green earth am I seeing this disparity between blogs about the same content, banging on at different volumes of what we expect?

It’s something I’ve written about before, the loudest example being my Problem With DreamHunter post. Before any DreamHunter fans pick up the pitchforks, don’t worry. It, also, is in support of DreamHunter, but simply addresses the cultural problem in there not being a problem with DreamHunter. The blend of intersectional issue disparity between MLM and WLW, and also the simple fact that the fandom wasn’t positioned to have antis or rival ships screaming at it: het culture and shipping culture.

I’ve banged on about this before: in our race for representation, we often trample over content that’s perfectly good and valid and great in many ways, because we want to be able to win an argument against an asshole, we want to be able to bludgeon the gay so inarguably into somebody’s brain that they yield to the might of it, or at least, we imagine it reaches that point. Anti-shipping culture can be so loud that even slow burn het pairings that kiss will have antis explaining their way around it (eg, Mulder and Scully, off the top of my head). Anti queer culture will talk down men or women even making out on screen as experimentation. This cycle will continue.

So again, let me state: Good Omens is a masterpiece. I am utterly enthralled by it, but it does leave me sitting flummoxed about the uneven bars we put out there as marker posts based on trying to race to the finish of arguments.

I’m sure some hack job that doesn’t know how to rub brain cells together beyond “it’s straight” and, beneath the surface, “I don’t like it so I’m going to piss and moan about more expansive methods of thought than hard niching the complexity of human relations” is going to roll in here, thinking yelling “Jensen Ackles thinks it’s straight!” in supreme reductionism of things like authorship, be it intent OR death of the author, or whatever else is out there in this medium -- I’m sure they’ll show up, make the same repetitive ass of themselves as always, and roll on, completely missing the point that I’m not obligated to your arbitrary bullshit, and that nobody is.

I don’t HAVE to point out every single time a dickhat on a loop yells that, that Jensen Ackles himself spoke of the intangibility of the deepness of their connection with Castiel as an angel, and that a cishet dude from texas probably doesn’t understand the finest details of LGBT identity complexity despite being an ally while fumbling over talking about the difficulty of putting a label on it. I don’t have to explain that the actor doesn’t actually get to determine that. Viewership or author, take your pick. I don’t have to explain the “it’s never happening and wasn’t intended” never came from the authors every time some bumblefuck says it -- that it came from one account with a blurb that said he doesn’t speak for that writing room whatsoever. I don’t have to review the times that Jensen Ackles has almost verbatim mirrored the Good Omens creatives about the beauty of it being you being able to make your own interpretation even if it wasn’t his, and encouraging that. I don’t fucking have to, you entitled sniveling shits.

And no, it’s by no means about, say, Dean and Cas. It’s just about the dialogues I’m tired of seeing tilt unevenly even between typically well grounded and centered people.

So anyway Azriphale and Crowley are EternityMates and that’s the fucking tea. Call it queerplat or call it queerromantic I can see either, even if I do tilt towards the former. Destiel is queerromantic and you can fight me. Come at me. Except nobody really will over Good Omens, just Supernatural, because like magic, Good Omens isn’t geared for a fuckton of other bloated ships or antis who hate either of them by structure alone. And that, itself, is a point to be made, too.

And before some doodlefuck trolls along, no, there’s no such thing as incestromantic. Spare us the time and block me now if your knee jerk counter-troll is going to be subtextually along those lines, because I promise you’ll just get blocked when you try to roll into town with it. Since the Supernatural fandom seems to house corners of douchebags that don’t know how to control their primitive douchebag impulses and they do come into address in this post.

Moral of the story: Stop listening to homophobes, antis, or people with agendas. Listen to the content and what has actually been said. On all sides.

If you consider, for example,

the Ineffible Husbands canon with no admission of anything beyond friendship, with the hets loudly banging one scene over with “well the others are ace or whatever” as your reason (fair), a few lunches, basic dedication and a few well placed songs, and a few supportive notes from the general creatives,

But the Hunter Husbands not canon with talked-around love yous and need yous, intentional deletion of Castiel’s agender ace aspects, in spite of there being no evident banging or kissing in the show that hasn’t been a highlight of a problem since like season what six?; talk arounds of their meals together, infinite longer and classic romantic crafted dedication, innumerable well placed songs and yes, a few supportive notes from the creatives that are buried by yourself or others beneath intentionally obfuscated arguments and spun context,

You are, whether you want to gullet it or not, part of the moving goalpost problem. Whether it’s you running to meet a phobe or an anti, or just being coded into it by the screaming around you, there is no world in which one is representation and the other is not. It’s just fuckin’ not.

It’s not.

I don’t care what you yell and scream because it’s popular in your circles. It’s fuckin’ not.

It’s not.

Either both are rep or neither are rep. Personally, I adore both of them, and anyone that has a problem with that can eat me.

Good Omens is not a goddamn motherfucking breakthrough in representation. It’s the same very valid very real form of queer coding half this site screams at because someone got loud enough to scream about it early on, generally inspired by antis riding their ass, just it’s the first and second lead instead of second and third lead, and there’s no ‘rival’ in first and second leads as being intentionally dragged into vaguery. It’s. Fucking. Not. It’s literally. The same. Fucking. Level.

Now, I HAVE been banging on that it’s the level our content SHOULD be acceptable at (well, almost; frankly I’d consider Destiel better, as the show’s overall intimacy threshold is far lower while Good Omens has parallel overtness to the coupling in the actual canon, meaning Good Omens’ playing field, for fair treatment, would be indebted to matching volume -- not saying sex since ace but louder admissions and engagements that are just as clear.)

Unpopular? Good, I don’t care. I’m tired of people screaming about completely conflicting crap.

It’s where we SHOULD be taking ownership of our content. So if there’s any breakthrough, it’s the LGBT community themselves having some sort of spark of awareness that they can and should be able to own content at that volume, largely because the fandom isn’t swamped by asshats on the other side all yelling for their own crappy agendas clogging up your heads. There’s a few queerbait shouters. And you laugh them off, by and large, and accept it as canon and rep. Funny how that works without antis up your ass.

Sincerely,

A tired queer and newborn Crowley stan.

#not spn #but kinda spn #definitely good omens #but more lgbt commentary

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purplesurveys · 4 years

Text

626

HI BELATED HAPPY NEW YEAR

First things first, did you have a good year? I would say most of it was good. I did most of the stuff I said I was going to do so I’m giving myself pats on the back for that. Things just kinda took a turn for the worse by the end of the year what with an ambiguous end to my most recent semester (I don’t have two of my seven final grades yet because my prof likes seeing her students suffer, I guess) and losing Nacho, so it all balances out.

How old did you turn this year? I turned 21. Which means legality in the US, but I’ve been legal in the Philippines for three years now so it doesn’t warrant much of a celebration lol.

Do you feel your age? I guess. There are days where it’s very tempting to feel inadequate because there are many 21-year-olds in my social circle who have their own business, are grabbing opportunities here and there (they’re in a successful band, are junior radio jocks, hired as emcees, serve as UAAP courtside reporters, to name a few), already make their own money, etc., but I just have to remind myself that everybody is moving at their own pace and that in my case, at least I’m not behind and that I’m moving remarkably fairly for my age.

Did your appearance change in anyway? Nah I BARELY did anything to my look this year. I did not go for a haircut at all in 2019 and now my hair is crazy long. I’m keeping it untrimmed until my grad shoot, so the long hair will stay with me for a while.

Post your favorite selfie. I would but Tumblr doesn’t really work the same way as Twitter where I’d feel more free to share photos of myself haha.

If you traveled, where did you go? My family went to Pangasinan, Bicol, Tagaytay, and Cavite this year. I also took my friends on a day trip to Nasugbu shortly before school started in August as sort of a last hurrah for our summer vacation.

Which fashion trends did you love? Which fashion trends did you hate? I initially liked chunky sneakers until everyone bought their own pair solely so that they’d feel like they’re one of the cool kids – it quickly became uncool after that. I was a fan of mom jeans (still am), high-waisted jeans, culottes, and tops in muted colors and had cute little bows in the chest area. I hated bike shorts and scrunchies, and slowly got tired of off-shoulder tops by the end of the year. I never understood tracksuits and never bought one of my own, and was also never a fan of hype fashion like DBTK shirts.

What was your favorite article of clothing this year? Post a pic if possible? I looooooooved the floral romper and the two-piece ensemble I was both able to snag at Feliz.

What song sums up this year for you? Buwan by juan karlos, the two reasons being that the song exploded in 2019 and because it was Nacho’s favorite and he made a million jokes about it.

What album came out and has been on heavy rotation since then? This question is a little vague so I’ll answer it in two ways. In my case, I definitely played Beyonce’s Homecoming album TOO MUCH last year. But radio-wise, it looked like Ariana Grande and Camila Cabello had stellar years.

What was your favorite movie of the year? I had several favorite movies, but here they are put in order: Portrait of a Lady on Fire, Midsommar, and Toy Story 4.

Did an actor/actress catch your attention for the first time this year? Florence fucking Pugh. Also I just realized how attractive Timothee Chalamet is, although I’ve been aware of him way before 2019 and haven’t watched any of his material.

Favorite new TV show? I watched the first few episodes of Stranger Things but I found it too slow-paced so I let it go easily. Other than that I didn’t really get into any 2019 shows because I’m not a big TV person, but I did recently get into Descendants of the Sun so that’s new for me! Queer Eye will also always have a place in my heart.

Which new ship/fandom has taken over a lot of your time, attention, and tears? I’m a little too old for that now but I did heavily get into the Try Guys. I don’t ship any of them together but I just genuinely love each of them, them as a group, and all the content they put out.

What food did you try for the first time? Ooh there’s a lot. Foie gras, aligue (crab fat) ramen, Bloody Mary, pistachios, a vanilla frappe from Starbucks, Tim Hortons food, ji pai (Taiwanese fried chicken) and pad thai, to name a few. I’m so so so pumped to try out even more new food in 2020.

Did you make any big permanent changes this year? I stopped talking to my brother.

What was one nice thing you did for someone else? Being one of the only two people in my org who can drive, I’ve always offered lifts to my friends. I don’t say anything even if where I’m taking them is entirely off my normal route, which frustrates Gabie, but honestly I just like helping my friends and making their commute easier for them. I also checked up on Nacho a day before he passed. I regret being too civil, but at least I checked up on him. Not a lot of people did that in his last few days.

What was one nice thing you did for yourself? Ok so one thing my org does is hold journalism workshops to schools across the country. The org is a bit small and not all the members are reliable, so what usually happens is that the same group of people attend the workshops and teach and facilitate – me being a part of that same group of people. Given that we have class during weekdays and these workshops happen on weekends, the schedule can be very demanding, especially if these schools request a shit-ton of topics for us to teach them. I sort of looked out for myself more this year by declining to go to a couple of the workshops, so that I can experience actually having a full weekend to myself.

Did you develop a new obsession? I discovered a YouTuber who is insanely good at Mario Kart 8 and I watched a ton of his playthroughs in 2019. Oh, and MUKBANG ASMRs. It’s an insanely unpopular opinion but I love chewing noises, dude.

Did you vote? It was the senatorial elections this year and yes, I did vote. None of my votes got in, of course, because unfortunately the rest of the Filipino electorate don’t know any better. I was part of a real-time fact-checking group that day for extra class credit, and I will never forget the collective groan and moan that came out of that room when the first batch of results came out on the news and we saw the same corrupt, power-hungry, money-hungry, anti-poor politicians top the polls.

Did you move? No. I’ve lived in the same house since 2008.

Did you get a job? I did not, BUT I did get an internship which I was pretty stoked about.

Did you get a pet? I did not. I don’t want anyone else but my dog, who I’ve had also since 2008.

Do you regret not doing anything? Sure. I have never taken Gab’s mom out on a girls’ night kind of date, and I always told myself that I was going to finally do that in 2019 – which I didn’t. I’m so going to make sure we do it this year. I’m also sad that I didn’t get to see Angela more times last year. And that I didn’t do more for Nacho, so now I have to live with the loss of him forever.

Do you regret doing something? Nothing is coming to mind so I guess nothing major. <-- Pretty much, thankfully.

Have you done anything that scared you? Tried vaping, did shisha for the first time, walk alone in Katipunan, be stuck at a restaurant table with Gab’s (very stoic) dad while she went to the washroom, to name a few lol. On a deeper note, I was a bad girlfriend several times over 2019 and it rocked the relationship quite a bit.

Did anyone/thing make you so mad it stayed with you for days? Yeah absolutely. I hated the people who went too far when it came to Nach, especially his ‘friends’ who didn’t hesitate to turn his back on him. And when things finally crashed and burned, I was too fucking pissed at everybody to even say something about it.

Did you lose anyone close to you? Yes.

Did you fall in love? For most of 2019 as with 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017, and 2018, yes.

Did you fall out of love? Nope.

Did you start a new relationship? I did not.

Did you go through a break up? I almost had to, but we sat each other down several times in the year to fix what had to be fixed, and it’s been very smooth sailing since.

Did you have to cut ties to someone? They weren’t people I was close to in any extent, but I’ve blocked several people from a certain elite school because I hate that school.

Who was important to you this year but wasn’t important last year? No one strongly comes to mind since I basically just retained my circle, but I did meet Gab’s closest cousin this year for the first time, and anyone who’s family to her is automatically important to me, so I’d go with him.

Who wasn’t as important to you this year as they were last year? This is going to sound completely awful, but I guess my college blockmates. I was always sort of the ~black sheep in our small batch of 7 while all of them are incredibly close with one another. 2019 was the year that I stopped trying to hang out with them, because I realized that no matter how hard I try, we’re really just on different wavelengths and I can’t keep faking my expressions and mannerisms just so I feel accepted or so that I can survive a day with them.

If you could have a do over on one thing you did, would you take it? Yeah, I definitely wish I cut some of my classes much less.

What was the best moment of the year for you? What was the worst? There were a lot of high moments from 2019 if we’re being honest. I liked taking Gab and her dad out for a ONE Championship pay-per-view back in January, I liked being invited to her dad’s birthday dinner, my road trip to Nasugbu, every day that my dad was here, going to the beach, partying for Halloween with friends, seeing old friends again in our org Christmas party, that one night Gab and I went to BGC just to bar-hop, our fancypants date that was also in BGC, and I’m sure there’s a bunch more that I’ve forgotten to mention. The absolute worst moment came at the very minute I pieced it together and found out *surprise surprise* Nacho was gone forever. I don’t think I was able to speak for two hours. When I did, I ended up crying the rest of the night until I passed out.

Did anything happen that you were sure would change you as a person but it really didn’t? Not-so-serious answer, but I thought I was gonna live my entire life without needing injections to my mouth, but lo and behold I went to the dentist in December and got THREE. I thought I was going to pass out, I thought it was going to hurt, I thought I was going to thrash around my seat in terror... I ended up not even feeling anything. I dunno if it’s because I got a lower dose of whatever, or if my dentist is just better than others, but the whole experience went much better than I expected. This may sound shallow but I have the biggest needle-and-any-sharp-object phobia, so this is a lot coming from me hahaha.

Did anything happen to you that you were sure wouldn’t change you as a person but it did? Watching Portrait of a Lady on Fire. Gab just needed a companion to the cinema that night; I had no idea what the movie was going to be about and even read the entire plot while trailers were showing – in the end, it’s been me who’s been talking about the movie way way more than she.

What are you most proud of accomplishing? Not killing myself. The 2010s was just me internally betting on when I’d finally pull the plug, but I had what it took to get me to 2020, apparently.

What have you learned about yourself this year that you didn’t know in the years prior? That everything you do and say on the internet is permanent, and you’ll forever have to live with the the consequences that come from them.

Did your opinion of anyone change for the better? Andrew. Before 2019, I found him so horrifyingly clingy, so chatty, and he was always trying to be close to everyone (he still does). It drove the introvert side of my ambivert-ness absolutely NUTS. At one point I realized he wasn’t going to change, so I just gave him a chance and turns out, he’s a great friend and an even better co-worker hahaha.

Did your opinion of anyone change for worse? Everybody who claimed to be Nach’s friend but didn’t find it hard to say vile stuff about him.

If you make resolutions, did you complete them this year? I told myself I was going to make a one-photo-a-day private Instagram dump for 2019, but I stopped as early as January 27 LMAOOOOO. I’m doing it again this year and I’m much more determined to keep it going.

If you make resolutions, what will your resolutions be for the coming year? Keep my 2020 Instagram active, be able to travel... and be happier, basically.

If you could go on an adventure during the remaining days of the year, where would you go and what would you do? Who would you go this? A little too late my dude. I’m typing this out in 2020.

What do you wish for others for the coming year? What do you wish for yourself? I just hope everybody on here feels a little bit more warmth and happiness, dude. We all deserve it.

#survey #surveys

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fucking-hydra · 5 years

Text

Obedience Trials

This is really got away from me. Fuck. I inspired myself with my own post, then decided to really go for it. Ta-daaaa.

Warnings/Tags: Emetophobia, Unsanitary, Torture, Electrocution, Rape, Dehumanization, Starvation/Dehydration, Gore, Forced to Choose Between Different Types of Torture, probably a lot more I cannot think of how to tag, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

For reference, the crate they use looks like this:

(Edit: Did I just realize that I didn’t put an image description on this? Yes. Yes I did.)

[Image Description: Image of a heavy-duty metal dog crate. The entire crate is made of grey metal, with solid metal sides that have holes for air flow. The corners of the crate are reinforced with black metal corners, and there screws all along the edges of the crate. On the top are metal handles inlayed at the front and back of the crate.

The front door of the crate has four latches, one above and one below the door frame close on the far right of the door, and two more on the right side of the door, one above and one below the actual latch of the door. Above and below the latch, spanning across most of the door from left to right, are open panels looking into the crate with vertical metal bars blocking the openings off. End Image Description.]

They decide to test the Soldier’s obedience and endurance.

With the serum, the Soldier is capable of taking a lot; most wounds, including bullet wounds, heal up nicely, with barely a scar left behind, and the topic of the Soldier’s healing rate is brought up a lot, with many of Hydra’s people curious as to just how much the Soldier can take.

The doctors in particular are also curious as to how well the Soldier’s mind can heal from brain damage, what would happen if the Soldier were taken out of cryo and left out without being wiped again for a while, while they do some testing.

Pierce gives the go ahead, and the doctors get a month of complete access to the Soldier, no interference unless the doctors’ safety is in immediate danger.

They decide to keep the Soldier naked in a dog crate when they’re not working with it, locking it in with a puppy pee pad and a bowl of water.

For the two weeks, they try testing every limit the Soldier might have, from physical endurance to sexual endurance to psychological endurance, running the Soldier on a treadmill for hours on end, hooking it up to a machine to pull as many orgasms from it as possible, waterboarding it, testing various diseases on it.

They ask it about its memories, and it tells them everything it remembers.

In the first week, most of it is vague memories that the Soldier can’t describe in detail: a man’s face, the sound of music the Soldier can’t identify, the feeling of punching someone, the clang of a fist hitting metal.

By the second week, the memories are starting to become a little more detailed: blond hair and blue eyes staring back at him, riding a roller coaster, the sound of someone coughing followed by a gentle shushing sound.

They put the Soldier back in its crate, and the Soldier pees on the pad as instructed, then curls up on the cold metal, its ass still laying on the pee-soaked pad since it has no space to avoid it.

In the third week, they start to test how far the Soldier will go to comply with an order. They have the Soldier stand in the middle of the room and give the Soldier a metal shock collar, informing it that speaking will cause it to be electrocuted; every time the Soldier speaks, the intensity will be increased. Then they start ordering the Soldier to respond to questions.

The first shock makes the Soldier flinch in surprise, but it quickly regains its composure, staying still for the next four shocks.

On the fifth shock, the Soldier shudders slightly. On the seventh, the Soldier shakes itself like a dog trying to dry itself off. On the ninth, the Soldier squeezes its eyes shut. On the tenth, the Soldier actually whimpers.

By the fifteenth, the Soldier’s knees have started to buckle, and by the twentieth, the Soldier is on its knees, eyes closed as it cries. By the twenty fifth, the Soldier is screaming for mercy, and by the thirtieth, the Soldier is curled in on itself, hands clawing uselessly at the collar, the fingers of its flesh hand bleeding as it rips its own nails apart in its desperation.

At forty, the Soldier passes out, but it never once refused to answer a question. The Soldier is dragged back to its crate and shoved inside, collar still firmly around its neck. In the morning, they find the Soldier laying in puddles of its own urine, feces, and vomit.

They hose down the Soldier and the crate at the same time, and the Soldier shivers as the cold water hits it, helpfully scoops water out of the bottom of the crate to try and empty the nastier parts out. When they’ve cleaned the crate, they fill the bottom with a thin layer of water, then lock the Soldier in again, no water bowl or pee pad.

The Soldier drinks the water around it and tries to hold its bladder, doesn’t want to pee in its own water, doesn’t want to lay in its own piss. No one comes in to feed the Soldier or do testing on the Soldier, so it’s hard to gauge time, but the Soldier thinks it must be night by now. The Soldier drinks some more water, then lays down to sleep for the night, ignoring its insistent bladder.

The Soldier wakes up to someone banging on the top of the crate, and it sits up, looks through the bars of the door and waits for orders.

“Do you have to piss?” The doctor asks, and the Soldier nods, trying not to seem desperate.

“Piss then,” the doctor says, and when the Soldier hesitates, “Now.”

The Soldier pisses, and the doctor nods, satisfied, and leaves. The Soldier is confused, because it thought it would be brought out now? But it curls up again anyway, waits for further commands, still unsure about whether it’s expected to drink its own piss or not.

Its question is answered the next day, when a doctor bangs on the crate again. “Are you thirsty?”

The Soldier, having avoided drinking anything the day before, nods.

“Then drink.”

The Soldier, now well aware of its expectations, leans down without hesitating to drink, even as it wrinkles its nose at the fact that it’s drinking its own piss. It only drinks a little, however, which seems to displease the doctor.

“Drink all of it.”

The Soldier drinks, licks it off the bottom of the cage, and the doctor hums noncommittally, giving the Soldier no indication whether or not it complied well enough, then opens the door to the crate. “Let’s go.”

The Soldier is brought into a room filled with doctors and scientists, a small table with a contraption the Soldier doesn’t recognize placed on it. The Soldier is placed on its knees in the center of the room, arms cuffed behind its back with vibranium cuffs, its shock collar removed and replaced with a vibranium collar with an O-ring attached to the front, connected to a chain bolted to the floor.

As the shock collar is removed, the Soldier can feel its burnt flesh being ripped from its neck, and it whimpers, but otherwise remains silent and passive, listening to a few different people’s pens and pencils scribble on clipboards. The vibranium irritates the Soldier’s already injured neck, but it doesn’t protest.

The contraption on the table is brought over by two of the doctors. “Open your mouth,” one of them orders, and the Soldier complies, closes its mouth around the bit that presses its tongue down and allows them to lock the contraption around its face and head.

“You will answer all questions verbally, understood?” one of the doctors asks.

“Yes,” the Soldier says, or tries to say, the jagged metal of the bit slicing its tongue open, and the Soldier whimpers.

“Do you work for Hydra?”

“Yes sir, hail Hydra,” the Soldier says, and tears well up in its eyes as the movement of speaking cause the metal to cut apart the Soldier’s tongue.

“Where does order come from?”

“Order comes only through pain,” the Soldier says, and now it understands, it’s supposed to accept this pain. This is its current mission.

“Do we mourn when someone in Hydra dies?”

“No sir. Cut off one head, two more shall take its place.” The Soldier’s words have become more and more garbled as blood fills its mouth, mixing with its spit and frothing from its mouth.

The doctor gives the Soldier a look of disgust. “What are you, a rabid dog? Swallow.”

The Soldier tries to swallow, but the motion only cuts the Soldier’s tongue up more, producing more blood, and the Soldier, whimpers, tries desperately to swallow but can’t, not with the bit pushing down on its tongue.

The Soldier keeps trying to swallow, only to produce more and more blood as it rips its own tongue to shreds, sobbing and screaming in its frustration and fear, trying to comply with its orders.

The doctors and scientists scribble for a few minutes while the Soldier tries in vain to obey, and finally one of the doctors speaks to it. “Stop moving.”

The Soldier stops, dropping its head in shame at having failed to complete its task, and the same two doctors that had locked the Soldier’s head into the device step forward, unlocking it and removing it from the Soldier’s head, placing it on the floor in front of it.

They unclip the Soldier’s collar from the chain on the floor, clipping a leash to its collar instead, and one of the doctors takes the leash, pulling the Soldier towards the door. “Let’s go, crawl.”

It’s awkward and slow, with the Soldier’s arms still cuffed behind its back, but the Soldier follows the doctor back to its crate, crawling on its knees as fast as possible, the doctor just dragging the Soldier forward when it falls or doesn’t move fast enough. The doctor shoves the Soldier back into the crate, and the Soldier whimpers, turns around to face the door as it locks.

Another doctor comes by with a bowl of dry dog kibble later that night, and the Soldier eats, stomach growling after days without food. The Soldier eats everything, ignores the way it can taste the blood still dripping from some of the deeper cuts on its tongue, how the dry kibble only rips some of the cuts open again. The doctor takes the bowl away when the Soldier is done.

There’s no pee pad in the crate, and no water bowl, so the Soldier just pees on the bottom of the crate then licks it up again, curling up on the floor with a broken sob.

The next day, they bring the Soldier back out of its crate, take off the cuffs on its wrists, and ask it to recall as many memories as it can. The Soldier describes what it can remember: a scrawny blond boy holding a trash can lid, a form with “1A” stamped on it, a stack of files with various names on it all stamped with “4F,” the smell and taste of chocolate milkshakes.

The Soldier is uncomfortable, because it feels like it should remember more about that, like he had a life in those memories.

The Soldier is left alone for the fourth week. It is given no food, no water, no questions, no one even enters the room, and the Soldier wonders if it has been left here for good. Around the third day of being left by itself, the Soldier starts to remember his life before he was the Soldier. He was a soldier, but the kind that can make their own decisions. That have lives. That are people.

He remembers his name is Sergeant Barnes. He remembers being called Bucky, and he remembers that little blond twerp. Steve. And Steve… Where is Steve now?

On the fourth day, Bucky remembers the Cyclone, the train, falling. He remembers the pain, of wishing that the fall had killed him, of hoping that Stevie is looking for him, of knowing that Steve won’t leave him here to die.

Bucky starts clawing at the walls and door of his crate, screaming and begging to be let out, for help, for mercy, for something, anything, just please, please, don’t leave me here.

On the fifth day, Bucky remembers Steve fighting in back alleys, the “I can do this all day,” the way his favorite punk had kept trying to enlist because he just couldn’t keep himself out of trouble.

On the sixth day, Bucky starts crying. Because Steve isn’t here, he’s probably dead, Bucky doesn’t even know what year it is, or how old he is, or what he would do even if he could escape. And even if he did escape, who knows what horrific things he’s done so far, does he even deserve to live after all of that?

On the seventh day, the doctors come in, and Bucky sobs, flinches away from the hands that reach into his crate, dragging him out as he thrashes weakly, begs for mercy, begs to be let go. They put the device back on his head, force the bit into his mouth and he cries when it cuts his lip, digs into the already painful flesh of his tongue, forces him into silence.

They lead him down the hall to a chair, forcing him into it and locking the restraints around his arms and legs. Then the machine starts up, and Bucky screams as it electrocutes him, as his head becomes nothing but blinding pain and suffering.

~~~~~

The Soldier comes back to itself, finds its handler staring at it. “Soldier?” The handler asks.

“Ready to comply.”

#my posts #hydra #hydra trash party #long post #my writing #phoenix's writing

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thesquiddlesquad · 5 years

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OC-tober day 1: Beginnings

Admittedly, I forgot about OCtober until it was too late to make something new, so I’m cheating and posting the beginning (wink) of last year’s (unfinished) NaNoWriMo. @oc-growth-and-development

Monday started off just like every other day. I was woken up before my alarm even went off by Mom and Dad arguing over whose turn it was to take me and Julian to school. Dad was trying to pull the promotion card again.

“Karen, I've told you before, if I'm late to work there's no way I'll even be considered for the supervisor position that's just opened up.”

“You don't even care about that job!” I heard the clash echo off the tiled kitchen walls as Mom tossed her plate into the sink. “What's the point of getting promoted if you're just gonna leave the first chance you get to go and chop up dead bodies?” Even up here in my room where I couldn't see her, I could picture Mom wrinkling her nose in disgust. Dad's been a white collar office worker in the sales department of the same company for the past ten years, but he's always really wanted to work in a morgue. It's something he talks about whenever he gets the chance, which drives Mom crazy because she's really squeamish.

“I know I don't care about the job, Karen, but we need the money.” Dad didn't shout – instead he slowed right down as if he was talking to a little kid, or an old person who was losing their memory. “If I'm ever going to get the job I really want, I have to finish the college course, and it's not cheap.”

“I know, I know, you've told me! I'm not stupid.” I pulled on my clothes deliberately slowly, hoping they'd have stopped fighting by the time I was done and I could have breakfast without getting caught in the middle of it – or worse, dragged into it and bullied into taking a side. Unfortunately, angry voices were still drifting out of the kitchen when I got downstairs. I hesitated outside the door and considered turning back; I'd already packed my school things last night, but I could always double-check them to make absolutely sure nothing had been forgotten.

“Are you gonna stand there all day?” I jumped out of the doorway, nearly smacking my head into the stairs.

“Julian!” I turned around to glare at my older brother, who really needed to walk around less quietly. “What the hell? You scared me!” Julian just rolled his eyes.

“You're so jumpy.” Now I was no longer in his way, Julian had no reason to bother talking to me; with one last sideways glance, he sloped into the kitchen. Partly to prove that I wasn't a complete coward, I followed him.

“But what about my job, Roger?” Mom had her back to me, her hands on her hips. “Is that not important at all?” I sneaked a glance at Dad, leaning against the counter, a half-drunk cup of black coffee in his hand. Even I knew what he wanted to say. Mom's job has never paid as well as his, she has virtually no prospects for a promotion or a pay rise, and she's never really cared about it. Truthfully, she isn't even that good at it. But if Dad dared to mention any of those things, she'd have an excuse to accuse him of thinking he's better than her. Would he risk that, when it could mean Mom refused to do the school run on principle?

“Of course your job's important. Why else would you even be working at all?” Dad paused to drink down the rest of his coffee in one long swig. Not a good sign. “But when it comes down to it, it's me who's up for a promotion. Not you.” Clunk. Dad's mug joined Mom's plate in the sink, and he swept out of the room without another word. It wasn't over though – it was far from over – because then Mom turned to us.

“Uuugh.” Mom let out a dramatic, conspicuous half-sigh, half-groan. When neither I nor Julian responded to that, she said: “No respect. I get no respect in this house.” She looked right at me, and without thinking, I lowered my gaze to my cereal. “Fine then, ignore me.” I could feel that weird, sharp sound in her voice that people sometimes get when they're angry but not actually shouting – the one that sort of jabs into you, trying to make you feel guilty. I forced myself to ignore it. “But I bet I'm the one who has to take you two to school. Again.”

“If you'd let me get my license, I could drive myself to school.” Julian pointed out. “And Ray too, if they're not being annoying and they're actually ready on time.” I opened my mouth to point out how completely unfair that was, but Mom got there first.

“Oh yeah? And where are we gonna get the money for another car from?” Julian shrugged.

“I bet Meredith could get me a car. She could probably make me a car.”

“Would you want to drive a car Meredith had made, though?” I said.

“It doesn't matter if he wants to because I'm not letting him,” said Mom, “It's bad enough having all that crap your grandma makes in the house.”

“Okay, then you and Dad can keep slugging it out over who has to take us to school.” Julian stood up, pulling his school backpack onto his shoulder. “But don't act like I never offered to do anything about it.” And then he left without another word, exactly like Dad did. Mom might have noticed the similarity too, because she looked after him with the nose-wrinkled face she usually saves for when Dad talks about the morgue, or when Meredith says, well, anything. Trying to be as subtle about it as I could, I started eating my cereal faster. Part of me wanted to prove to Julian that I'm not always late getting ready, but most of me just wanted to get out of the kitchen before Mom could start complaining to me about the rest of my family. But this time I was lucky, because something else caught Mom's attention first.

It started with the cutlery. The dirty spoons and butter knives strewn across the counter top and piled up in the sink began to shake and rattle, until they were pulled up to hang suspended in mid-air. Mom shrieked and ducked under the table as the saucepans, the toaster, the cheese grater all rose into the air to join the floating cutlery. I stood frozen in place, afraid to move in case I jabbed myself on one of the knives.

“Oh my God,” I heard Mom groan from beneath the table, “This is how we're gonna die.” I would have agreed with her if this sort of stuff wasn't a pretty regular occurrence in our house. Even so, I couldn't hold back a small scream when the refrigerator started lifting off the ground and floating gently towards me as if it weighed no more than a soap bubble. I decided I'd better call on the one person who would know exactly what was going on.

“Meredith!” I yelled, no longer bothering to pretend I wasn't panicking. “Meredith, something weird is happening!” I heard a voice from the hallway, accompanied by footsteps coming up the basement stairs.

“The weird thing that's happening, is that weird thing all the metal things floating around? Is that the thing?””

“Yeah, that's it.” I leaned back nervously as a fork drifted past right under my nose. Meredith appeared in the doorway, looking completely unperturbed by anything that was going on. If anything, she looked like she was enjoying it.

“Good. That's exactly what was meant to happen.” She reached out and poked at one of the forks with a single bony finger, sending it spinning away in the vague direction of the window.

“W-why?” I watched Meredith tread slowly across the kitchen, touching a few more things as she moved. When she reached the refrigerator, she pulled open the door and started rummaging around inside. “Why?” I repeated.

“Why what?” Meredith called, still facing away from me.

“Why is everything floating?”

“Magnetic levitation.” Meredith pulled a can of beer out of the fridge and left it floating next to her. “I've been working on a thing down in the basement, and it worked in there, it worked on all of my stuff, but I needed to test the range.” She turned and looked at me, suddenly grinning. “Come on Ray, let's check – let's go look in your room.”

“Uh...” I edged away from the wall I'd backed into, brushing a few spoons out of my path with my arm, then stopping dead when I almost walked right into the sharp end of a vegetable knife.

“Fine, don't come, but I'm checking in your room whether you come with me or not.”

“Okay, okay!” I ducked under the knife and stumbled towards the door. There was no way I wanted anyone else in my room alone – I didn't know exactly what I had to hide but I was sure there was something.

“Hey, wait a minute!” Mom called from under the table – I'd completely forgotten she was there.

“Oh hey Karen,” Meredith said, only sparing a glance at the table before she turned her attention back to the floating can of beer. “You – you having fun under there getting crumbs on your ass?”

“You know I'm not having fun!” Mom scrambled out from under the table with as much dignity as she could manage, which wasn't very much. “All the metal things are floating round the kitchen! That's not supposed to be happening!”

“Actually, Karen, if you were listening when I told Ray about my magnetic levitation device you'd know that actually that's exactly what's supposed to be happening.” Meredith couldn't see the dirty look Mom was giving her because her eyes were still on the beer can, which she'd been lazily spinning with one finger as she spoke.

“Well make it stop happening! Just put everything back where it's supposed to be! Normally!”

“It'll go back when I turn it off. More or less. Basically just down, it'll go down. But not just fall down, it'll do it slow because I'll turn it down gradually, so don't – don't have a piss fit about it. But first we're gonna check upstairs – come on, Ray.” I moved towards the door, hoping to get out of the kitchen before Mom had time to stop me, but Dad appeared in the doorway, blocking my way out. He was fully dressed now in his work clothes and long brown coat, car keys in hand, and he looked right past me, glaring at Meredith.

“I've got work in twenty minutes.” Meredith looked him up and down.

“...Congratulations? Have a fun day slaving for the man?” She shrugged. “I don't know what you expect me to say, Roger.”

“You don't have to say anything. Just put my damn car back down so I can actually drive it.” Meredith's face lit up. She turned to look out of the window and I copied, both eager and anxious to see what was happening outside. Sure enough, Dad's red BMW was floating two feet off the ground, slowly revolving like a lazy Susan. A quick glance to the left showed Mom's silver Honda in the same state.

“Oh now we're talking, Ray.” Meredith snapped her fingers, bouncing slightly on her toes. I looked back at Dad.

“I didn't help. I didn't know anything about this.”

“I don't care who was involved in this.” Dad held up his hands, the dark circles under his eyes suddenly very apparent. “I just want it fixed so I can go to work.”

“Hey, no, what makes you think you're just going to work?” Mom protested, “It's your turn to take the kids!”

“Well you know what, Karen?” Dad snapped, “Sometimes life just isn’t fair.”

“Oh I know damn well it’s not fair!” Not to be outmatched, Mom turned up the volume on her own voice. “It’s not fair that other people get to have normal lives with normal families, while I have to put up with all of this…” She gestured to the floating knives and forks. “Happening in my house.”

“Move out then,” said Meredith, unconcerned. Mom shot an outraged look in her direction before turning back to Dad.

“You’re gonna let her talk to me like this?”

“I think we all know I don’t let her do anything.”

“You let her live here,” Mom pointed out, “And you don’t make her pay for it. Or even do anything.” She paused, looking as though something had just occurred to her. “You know what, Meredith? Why don’t you take the kids to school?”

“She doesn’t have a car,” I started to explain, but I was interrupted by something I definitely hadn’t expected to hear.

“Yeah, sure, Karen. I’ll take the kids to school.” I stared at her. We all stared. Maybe it was sarcasm? Meredith did use sarcasm a lot and I wasn’t the best at spotting it. I looked from Mom to Dad and back to Meredith, trying to guess what they were all thinking. Mom mostly just looked shocked. Dad was frowning, but it wasn’t an angry frown – it looked more like he was struggling to make up his mind. Meredith’s expression was hardest to work out – it looked a little bit like a smile, but there was something ominous about it that didn’t exactly fill me with confidence about getting to school in one piece.

In the end, it was Dad who broke the stalemate.

“You know what?” He held up his hands, the car keys jangling. “If that’s what it’ll take to let me get to work on time, then you take the kids to school, Meredith.”

“Roger…” Mom gave him a look that was clearly meant to communicate something. I got the impression she hadn’t expected anyone to take her suggestion seriously, least of all Meredith.

“If you have a problem with Meredith taking the kids to school, you can do it instead.” Dad dropped the car keys into his pocket and turned to leave. “I’m going to work.” He only got a few steps down the hallway before he turned back, pointing an accusing finger at Meredith. “Car. Put it down.”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard you the first time.” Meredith sauntered past him, her hands in her pockets. “Come on, Ray.”

“What?” With all the rowing going on around me, I’d forgotten what Meredith had said just a few minutes ago. She wasn’t in the mood to remind me verbally – instead she just grabbed me by the arm and pulled me through the doorway after her. Once we reached the bottom of the stairs, I remembered. I crossed my fingers behind my back, hoping my room hadn’t been transformed into a complete den of floating chaos.

“Meredith!” Dad’s exasperated voice followed us up the stairs. “Oh for crying out loud. She just has to take her own damn time with everything.”

“Oh I do,” I heard Meredith mutter, more to herself than to me or Dad, a slight grin pulling at the corner of her mouth. “I really, really do.”

#oc-tober #original characters #oc writing #oc tober #oc tober promps #oc tober day 1 #oc ray #oc meredith #oc roger #oc karen #oc julian #time traveller family #this isn't quite all of the first chapter - it was looking a bit long #i figured it's enough to introduce the characters #and the type of shit that's about to go down #i won't cheat tomorrow i promise

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niennavalier · 6 years

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So I found some old Yu-Gi-Oh fic I wrote for the ‘verse that was originally started...probably 4 years ago? This is a document that’s probably about a year old, written for my OC who’s paired with Valon (because I’m trash for season 4 of DM). Figured I’d just post it because why not? Also on fanfic.net. And (mostly) under the cut because this isn’t the usual for my blog.

Winter Break, Mini Marshmallows, and Chocolate Flavored Kisses

“’ow d’you do it? I swear, you’re like Wonder Woman, or somethin’.”

“Do what, exactly, Valon?” Taylor asked, not bothering to peer over the top of her book. Winter Break had just started, and she was taking time to relax her brain. Finals had been a pain in the ass, and there was a mighty need for some couch potato time, curled up with a good book, even if the testy Australian hadn’t been a big fan of that. Or, he hadn’t at first.

“Sit there like it’s not zero degrees outside!”

She couldn’t help but roll her eyes. “Celsius, Fahrenheit, or Kelvin?”

“Does it matter? It’s freezin’!”

“Technically, it does, but,” she finally glanced up, setting down the book, only to burst out laughing. She’d vaguely seen Valon carrying a large bundle of something to the couch when he’d come to join her. What she hadn’t known was that bundle was a literal mountain of blankets.

Which were now cocooning her boyfriend, covering every inch of him from chin down to toes.

“’ey, what’re you laughin’ at?!”

“You look ridiculous, that’s what!”

“Like I said, it’s cold!”

“Oh come on. It’s France in the winter. What else did you expect?”

“You ta go ta school…I dunno, anywhere else?”

“Because I hear Siberia sounds real nice this time of year,” she replied, deadpan.

“Haha, very funny.”

“I know. I try.” She smiled at him, apparently kindly, though there was no mistaking the mischievous light in her eye. “What, want someone to cuddle with you?”

“Not you. ‘s ‘cause o’ you I’m cold.”

“Oh come on, you big crybaby. You’ll get used to it.”

“’ey! ‘m not a baby!”

“Need I remind you I spent half of my life, like, a couple blocks away from the Church where you grew up? And look, I lived.”

“…’m not talkin’ ta you.” At that, the brown mess of hair disappeared beneath the crumple of blankets, and she snickered, retrieving her book again, resuming her reading. Valon had never really been the solitary type (save if he was really pissed, but this was hardly the case), always preferring the company of other people to the silence (although Alister might argue he just liked annoying everyone around him).

Taylor just smiled to herself as she flipped a page. She wondered just how long this silent treatment would last

“’ey, Taylor?”

“Valon?”

“’m sorry. I didn’ mean ta blow up at ya like that. ‘m just bored. ‘n’ cold.”

“Yeah, I can see as much.” She threw the book onto the coffee table, laying out on her stomach so her face was right up near his. “You know there’s instant hot chocolate right there in the kitchen right?”

“’ey, Taylor…?”

“Fine, I’ll get you some. If you pull yourself out of your blanket fort enough to feed yourself. I’m not feeding you.”

“C’mon love…”

“Or I can just get one for myself.”

“…Fine.”

“Good.” And she bounded off, sliding in her socks across the linoleum. A couple minutes later, and she luxuriously topped both cups off with whipped cream, glad she’d had the forethought to buy it during her last trip for groceries, poor college student or not.

It was whipped cream. It was worth it.

Lowering back down onto the couch, she handed one of the cups off to Valon, entertained as he grabbed at it greedily, gulping it down, gasping at how it burned.

She laughed, sipping at her own drink and licking at the whipped cream as Valon attempted to fan at his tongue with his hand. “You know, it’s called hot chocolate for a reason.”

“…Shut up, you.”

“Not likely.”

“Get me some o’ them mini marshmallows and I’ll forgive ya. Cocoa ain’t cocoa without ‘em.”

“We’re out, and I checked.”

“Why didn’t you get ‘em?”

“Why don’t you ask our grocery bill?” So what the whipped cream had been an indulgence? What was the saying? All things in moderation? So even indulgence in moderation. They weren’t exactly wealthy, after all, so certain non-essentials had to go.

In her defense, she had been the one shopping that time; therefore, it was her right to choose. Whipped cream over marshmallows. Easy.

“Yeah, but… they’re jus’ marshmallows, love. Can’ be tha’ expensive.”

“And this is why I don’t let you do the shopping alone. But,” she grinned, taking a cautious sip of her drink, “next time. I promise.”

“Knew you weren’ tha’ much of a buzzkill.”

“Hey!”

“Wha? ‘s the truth. Was more fun when I jus’ got ta spray soda all over and make Gurimo clean it up.”

Taylor did laugh at that – wasn’t hard to admit that that had been pretty fun. “Problem is Gurimo doesn’t live with us anymore. And thank god for that.” She sighed melodramatically. Although, truth be told, there was nothing overdramatic about how glad she was that their situation was as it was – no Gurimo in sight.

Valon just laughed at her bravado. “Yeah. The ol’ geezer’d hate th’ both o’ us.”

“He already hated you.” She gave pause. “Y’know, nevermind, he probably hated me, too, just on principle. That’s buzzkill for you. So don’t go accusing me.”

“Wouldn’ want you turnin’ into ‘im, huh?” He flashed an accusatory look at her which…oh, no, he wouldn’t dare ever compare her to Gurimo.

“Hey! Not my fault adult-ing’s no fun!” Because, for real, jobs and paying for actual stuff to live on was not very exciting. She was really just glad that the safehouse and all its utilities had been taken care of in their entirety prior to them claiming it as theirs. Still didn’t really know how Dartz had managed that, but she wasn’t complaining. “You know what? Fine.” She glanced over at Valon, smug. “You want marshmallows, we can go right now.” It was Winter Break. Finances could be damned (if only for the time being).

She swore, Valon’s eyes actually bugged out of his head. “You tryin’ ta kill me, mate? I don’ wanna freeze!”

To that, she just shrugged, finished off more of her hot chocolate. “Just making a suggestion. ‘Cause, y’know, probably won’t be a lot of people around the supermarket right now. Holiday times and whatever.” Here, she raised an eyebrow, mischievous. “Could totally go cartsurfing down the empty aisles.”

Valon actually cackled at that. “Knew I loved ya for a reason,” he affirmed, climbing out of his blanket fort to seal their lips in a quick, chocolate flavored kiss.

Growing older, having responsibilities – they couldn’t really avoid that. Growing up, though? Well, nothing mandatory about that.

#yugioh #ygo #yu-gi-oh #valon #my writing #my fanfic #tbh i miss the biker boys #i have many thoughts on this verse because the irl stuff surrounding it is a thing #many thoughts

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kuriquinn · 7 years

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Fic Prompt/Request: SSS Family Time

Anonymous asked:

Okay, so this last semester sucked. University has definitely taken a toll on me. Thankfully it's almost over. Still, I still have to go trough my exams to call it off completely. Please tell me you have something cute of Sarada ou SasuSaku romantic/funny moment planned out for this week.

AN: Here you go, Anon. I hope this qualifies as cute, Sarada and some SasuSaku. Someone else asked me for a first steps or first words moment, but I wanted to do both, so I’ll give you the first steps and I’ll give that anon the first words (at a later date :P). I feel your pain on the whole end of semester woes. Hang in there, you’ll make it through!

Sasuke maneuvers the hoover around the living room, thinking vaguely about whether it’s possible to get an apparatus that handles better around the corners.

It’s not a topic he ever would have considered worth contemplation, but these days his problems are more of a domestic nature than vengeance fueled ambition.

He’s okay with that.

Especially given the fact his nine-month-old daughter is sitting on a blanket nearby, propped in a bean chair and playing with several wooden shuriken (dulled and rounded until they pass childproof muster, of course). She chats to herself in the usual smattering of actual words and toddler pidgin, all of which is neigh incomprehensible around the dummy in her mouth.

As he ambles past the low cabinet in the hall, absently picking up a few of Sarada’s toys – blocks, a squishy book and a well-loved green dinosaur – he notices a piece of paper on top of the mail pile. It is covered with Sakura’s neat writing and Naruto’s almost illegible scrawl (honestly, he almost needs to use the Sharingan to decipher it).

Upon further inspection Sasuke sees it’s the minutes of the last meeting of the clan elders, which Sakura attended for the Uchiha while he was out of town. There is a post-it attached, with a request from Kakashi to add anything he believes needs to be brought up.

With a sigh, Sasuke turns off the hoover and sits down heavily on the couch, frowning at the information. He is vaguely aware of Sarada moving about in his peripheral vision, but she’s quiet and the room is babyproofed, so he focusses most of his attention on the current conundrum.

Naruto keeps inviting him to attend these conferences, even though it’s clear no one in the village really wants to hear from him. And when they do, it’s usually to prompt an answer about the ruins of the Uchiha district, which Sasuke honestly has no idea what to do about yet.

Naruto and Kakashi understand this, of course, as does Sakura. But not everyone in the village is quite so forgiving.

He hates the attention of the other clan leaders, and can’t decide which is worse – the expectant looks on the faces of the younger ones, like Shikamaru or Ino, or the pitying gazes of those older leaders who actually knew members of his family.

It could be worse. The Elders could still be a factor…

He has Sakura to thank for that, at least.

Still, he lets his head fall back on the couch for a second, contemplating just how important it is for him to sit through another one of those stupid meetings –

When he realises that Sarada’s mumbling is coming from the complete opposite direction from where she is sitting.

Peeking one eye open, he experiences a tiny heart-attack at the sight of her blanket utterly empty of the tiny pink body that should be sitting on it. Head whipping to where he heard her voice, he freezes when he sees her sitting in the entrance of the living-room, happily clutching at the dinosaur plushie.

Sasuke blinks, confused, wondering if he fell asleep at some point, because the distance from her blanket to the hall cabinet should have taken her longer to crawl toward, not to mention the dinosaur was higher up than she should be able to reach. Then again, Sarada has been pulling herself up on all the furniture lately…

He revisits the last few minutes, deciding he must be tired, because he can’t remember the specifics of it. He can sort of recall the familiar sight of her dark head bobbing past his line of vision.

Which shouldn’t be possible, because I wasn’t looking down at the floor, which means she was just below eye-level.

She could only have done that if she walked across the room. Sasuke immediately dismisses that because she’s barely ten months old, it’s too early.

Itachi walked at nine months, he reminds himself with only a slight wince. He dimly remembers his mother telling him that once. And didn’t Sakura’s mother say she walked early as well?

Sasuke shakes his head. He is likely just jumping to conclusions.

Still, there’s nothing stopping him from testing out the theory to be sure.

Quietly, he stands and goes to scoop Sarada into his arms. She giggles around the dummy, dropping the plush toy to pat at his face with pudgy hands (he narrowly misses taking a tiny nail to the Rinnegan and a thumb up his nose) as he brings her back to her spot on the blanket. After setting her down and handing her one of the toy shuriken to keep busy, he goes to pick up the fallen dinosaur, places it back on the cabinet, and then returns to the couch to sit.

But this time he intends to observe.

Not directly, of course, because there’s truth in that old adage about watched pots. But he pretends to reread the memo again, only occasionally glancing at Sarada from the corner of his eyes.

At first, it seems as if she is perfectly content to just sit their banging her baby shuriken against the floor.

A few minutes later, however, her eyes flit across the room to the green dinosaur. A tiny wrinkle appears in her nose – a trait from Sakura – and she drops the shuriken. Then, to Sasuke’s utter amazement, she rolls to one side and grabs at the nearby ottoman, using it to pull herself to her feet.

Still completely focused on the plush toy, she makes a beeline for the cabinet, absently grabbing on to the coffee table and easy chair as she goes. The last couple of steps from the couch to the entranceway, there is nothing to hold her up, and he watches with baited breath as she wobbles exactly three paces until reaching the cabinet. Now supported once more, she stretches up on tiptoes, worrying at the toy until her fingers close around one of its paws.

Then she falls backward with a satisfied grunt, the toy clutched in her fist.

Sasuke’s brain is still trying to register what he just saw.

Because his daughter really did just take her first steps.

No. Her second steps.

He missed the first because he was reading a damned memo.

But he can’t find the energy to chastise himself for this, because he is too buoyed up by the overwhelming feeling of pride.

Sarada just walked.

His daughter, the child he never thought he would deserve, is growing up so fast. Every time he turns around, she is doing something new and amazing and he sort of wants her to slow down –

But she just walked!

She’s only nine months old, and clearly a genius. Like her mother, like him, like Itachi –

Boruto didn’t start walking until he was a year old. Naruto is going to be pissed when he finds out.

He snorts in smug amusement at this, wandering back over to pick up his daughter once more, nudging her nose with his own and pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“That’s my girl,” he tells her proudly, while she squeals in pleasure.

Although…

Naruto can’t know about this until Sakura does. And when she finds out she missed Sarada’s first steps, she’ll be upset.

He wonders for a moment if he should pretend like nothing happened. It would be a simple thing, to say nothing and just wait for Sarada to decide to start toddling around while both he and Sakura are in the room. Then she wouldn’t feel like she missed this milestone.

He frowns and shakes his head.

No, he doesn’t like the idea of hiding the truth from his wife, even for something like this.

Especially for something like this.

Before he can think too much about a possible solution, fate decides to intervene.

He senses Sakura’s chakra approaching their front door and imagines the clack of her heels on the walkway as she rummages in her bag for the housekeys.

Quick as he can, he puts Sarada back on her blanket and leaves the room, placing the dinosaur back on the cabinet for a third time. Glancing back into the room to ensure his daughter hasn’t moved – and she hasn’t yet, instead sitting on the blanket with a frown on her face like she can’t figure out how or why she is back where she started – Sasuke lingers in the entranceway to greet his wife.

The front door opens and there’s Sakura – all smiles and tired yet sparkling eyes – about to open her mouth in greeting.

Sasuke raises a finger to his lips and motions her forward, knowing if Sarada hears her mother she’ll probably get distracted.

Puzzled, and perhaps a little wary, Sakura toes off her shoes and slips into the house to stand beside Sasuke. Gently, he manoeuvres her to stand so that while she can see around the doorway, Sarada remains blind to her.

Their daughter, in the meantime, lets out a frustrated sound that’s halfway between a mewl and a scoff, and glares at the plushie.

Sakura makes a strangled noise in her throat that Sasuke thinks might be a hastily suppressed squeal of appreciation. He can’t even fault her for it because his own mouth is drawn into a smile at the way Sarada puffs out her cheeks and draws her eyebrows together.

That smile widens a little as before their eyes, Sarada clambers up on chubby, wobbly legs and crosses the room. This time she barely uses the furniture as she stalks forward with purpose, before once again reaching the cabinet, grabbing her plush toy, and clutching at it defiantly.

There’s a beat of silence, and then to Sasuke’s great shock, Sakura bursts into tears.

As soon as they register, he knows they are tears of joy, but he always finds himself at a loss when he sees Sakura cry.

“Oh, sweetheart, look at you!” Sakura cries, bounding across the room to scoop up their daughter and cover her with kisses. Sarada is so surprised and bemused to see her mother, that she instantly forgets about her long-sought-after toy and shrieks with joy. “You’re such a good girl! You walked, baby, look at that! You figured it out by yourself, right? Or did Papa help you?”

She turns a questioning, still-tearstained look on Sasuke, who shakes his head. “She did it herself. I missed it the first time.”

He gives her a brief explanation of how events transpired.

“Well that won’t do, we can’t both have missed it,” Sakura declares, lowering the toddler to the floor. She doesn’t let her sit, however, instead holding her by both hands in a way that forces Sarada to stand. “Come here, take her hand.”

Sasuke does so, leaning over to take Sarada’s tiny left hand in his right. She beams up at him in response, tugging at him impatiently.

“Let’s walk with her,” Sakura continues. “Maybe we can get her to do it without furniture if we help.”

Which is how the two of them end up spending the next hour crouched over, guiding their child throughout the house and in the garden. Occasionally Sarada’s enthusiasm will lead her to trip over her feet, but Sakura and Sasuke easily catch her at these times, swinging her between them until she is shrieking with giggles.

終わり

Thank you for reading! Reviews and concrit are much appreciated - and if you’re feeling generous, I also accept tips (just scroll to the top and click the button!)

クリ

#friday fic requests #uchiha family #Sasuke Uchiha #sarada uchiha #sakura uchiha #fluff #family #feels #legacy of fire #kuriquinn

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theunemployedrogue · 7 years

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Jealous [Anders/Fenris]

Insp. by this post: ‘we’ve been fucking with no strings attached but i just saw you go upstairs with another guy and im drunk and following you both upstairs to punch the shit out of him’.

Wrote this a while back and finally decided to post it, since I don’t think I will ever write a second part as I originally intended. I do feel I got it to a good enough stopping point that it stands on its own though, so enjoy!

Fandom: Dragon Age II Pairing: Anders/Fenris Rating: PG (no actual sex, but sexual references) Words: 1892 Content warnings: Alcohol use, jealousy/possessiveness

Fenris growled and downed another gulp of the swill Varric had placed before him earlier that eve. The dwarf had given it high praise as “the only thing actually worth paying for at The Hanged Man” (though he’d later revised his claim after Isabela reminded him that she had a room there). Perhaps Aggregio Pavali had simply ruined him for all other spirits, but Fenris honestly couldn’t tell it apart from the usual piss water they drank on card nights.

He was now three pints in and nearing physical illness, and the shit still wasn’t doing its job. Oh, he was drunk. Perhaps drunker than he’d ever been, but damned if that meant anything. He still hadn’t managed to tear his attention away from the mage. His mage. His mage leaned heavily against an attractive blond human by the hearth fire, face pink from laughter, his amber eyes wide with unmistakable desire for the man at his side.

The drink had all but reduced Fenris’ world to a dizzy swirl of colors and light, but Anders alone remained bright and in focus, like some mortal lighthouse mocking him across a rageful sea.

The mage had quietly slipped into The Hanged Man alone several hours ago. Per usual, he arrived well after their larger party had already split itself across several smaller groups, and he’d drifted to the table with Hawke, Merrill, and Aveline without a glance Fenris’ way.

Fenris had not expected Anders to acknowledge his presence. They rarely greeted one another in public, and did not converse outside of necessary discussions related to battle strategy or healing when they were among friends. Well...there was also the odd argument here and there, but never did they exchange a single word in public that might suggest an intimacy existed between them.

No one had any idea they shared one another’s bed, and had for some time. It was never a spoken rule that the affair had to remain secret, but neither of them seemed to think it was something their friends needed to know. They went about it discreetly, finding time during the lulls between assignments to wander unnoticed between their individual abodes. Their nights together were spent playing the part of lovers who touched and spoke softly, all the animosity between them suspended for a few hours as they took comfort in one another’s embrace.

When it was over, they left their tender words and gentle kisses in the cooling wetness on the sheets, throwing a quilt over everything until their next rendezvous. Things did not change when they met in Hawke’s company the following day, and things did not change on the nights they joined their friends for cards and drinks at The Hanged Man. Nothing had changed at all… at least, that’s what Fenris had believed until that night.

“Maker. You’re shit-faced, aren’t you, elf?”

Fenris reluctantly pulled his gaze from Anders to look at Varric, who was watching him with a smug expression on his face.

“Not quite,” he lied, the obvious slur in his voice earning a chuckle from both his table companions.

“You’re terribly drunk, sweetheart,” Isabela, who was hardly a shining example of sobriety herself at that point, clucked. “So very drunk. Not a wonder, seeing as you elves have hardly a pinch of fat on you.”

The word ‘pinch’ was followed by the feel of Isabela’s fingers squeezing the little fold of plushness just above his hip. She giggled and let her hand slip down to rest against his thigh when Fenris didn’t admonish her.

Her advances were not always unwelcome, especially when he was well into his cups, but her touches that night were not accompanied by the usual spike of lust.

The sight of Anders had stirred a heat within him when the mage first arrived, but that heat was all but extinguished now. All he could focus on was the throbbing of his skull as his drunken mind tried to beat down his rage at seeing another so close to claiming what was rightfully his. His mage. Anders belonged to him.

“I really think it’s time to throw in the towel tonight, Broody,” Varric said, his smooth tone indicating he was the one among them that wasn’t completely sloshed. “Trust me, you’ve had more than enough if you’re making goo-goo eyes at the mage and I’m worried you’re seriously considering it.”

“What?” Isabela scoffed, turning to look at Anders over her shoulder before whipping her head back around. “When was that? Did I miss that?”

“You’ve missed a lot tonight, Rivaini. The toilet for one, I hear…”

“Oh, bah! Aveline’s just got her smalls in a twist because she wished she’d thought of squatting in the washbin!”

Isabela seemed to forget Varric’s remark about Anders, promptly segueing into a tale of her bathroom venture with Aveline and Merrill earlier that night. Fenris was glad when her hand left his thigh to gesture dramatically above her head instead. Free to escape the conversation while his friends were distracted, he rose from the table and prepared to weave his way through the crowd to the exit.

Fenris took less than a dozen stumbling steps toward the door before he was forced to brace himself against the wall. To say he was ‘shit-faced’ was an understatement. The room was turning somersaults in his vision, and he was pretty sure the only reason he hadn’t already puked all over himself was because his stomach couldn’t decide which way was up or down.

He knew he would immediately regret it, but he looked behind him toward the blaze of the fire in the hearth, seeking the calm of Anders’ presence to ground him.

His body lurched forward suddenly, and Fenris swallowed the bile in his throat.

Anders was gone from his place by the fire -- though not far, he quickly realized. He caught sight of the mage’s shabby coat just as Anders disappeared up the stairs to the second floor with the handsome blond human.

Something crashed loud and wet against the tavern floor. Fenris heard angry curses at his back and felt the sting of where he’d slammed his hipbone against the table, but his body kept moving forward of its own accord. He was only vaguely aware of Hawke’s teasing call to him as he stormed up the stairs behind Anders. Everything was bloody loud and twisted and wrong side up, but somehow he knew the room Anders would choose and was there to block the door when the mage and his would-be lover arrived.

“Fenris?” Anders said, his voice puzzled.

“You mind, elf?” the other human barked. “You’re in the way.”

Fenris snarled and moved forward, hands balled into fists, but Anders pushed him back before he could strike the man. He relaxed briefly feeling Anders press against him, then wrapped a possessive arm around the mage’s middle.

“Hey, get off him you--!”

“Relax Will, he’s a friend… well, a friend of a friend. A...known acquaintance?”

“I am his lover,” Fenris growled, tightening his grip.

Will regarded Anders with a scandalized expression.

“Is he mad or just drunk out of his mind?”

“Clearly drunk by the smell of him,” Anders said with a forced chuckle. “Look...I think he may need a healer’s attention. I really hate to…”

“Anders, I’m not going to leave you alone with this delusional elf! Give him here, I’m tossing him out!”

“Just try, human.”

“Will, just go, please,” Anders pleaded weakly. “I know him, he isn’t going to hurt me. He’s sick, I need to help him. Please. I...I’m sorry.”

Will lingered for a few moments, glaring daggers at Fenris, before finally stalking off in the direction of the stairs. The moment he was out of sight, Fenris yanked open the door to the room behind them and pulled Anders inside. The room was meagerly furnished, containing only a small bed and bedside table where several candles burned.

Anders moved away from Fenris as the elf slammed and locked the door behind him. The mage’s calm demeanor vanished when Fenris tried to approach him.

“I can’t believe you!” Anders hissed. “You’d better thank the Maker you’re drunk, otherwise I’d have let him have at you like you damned deserve for a stunt like that!”

“I would have killed him.”

“Huh...yes, probably,” Anders muttered. “Dammit all, Fenris, you really know how to ruin a man’s night, you know that?”

“You are mine.”

“I’m what?” Anders spat, his lips curving upward in a sneer. “I don’t belong to you or anyone else, Fenris! I’m a person, not a piece of property. I can’t believe you of all people--”

Anders sighed in exasperation.

“Maker, and you’re being a bloody hypocrite on top of everything! I mean, it’s perfectly all right for you to fool around with Isabela, but I’m not allowed to sleep with other people? Is that how it is?”

“I’ve not slept with Isabela since the first time you and I--” The words ‘made love’ burned in the back of Fenris’ throat, but he swallowed them down at the last instant. “--went to bed together.”

“Oh, please. I see the way she’s always all over you! You’re not exactly pushing her off when she’s crawling half-naked into your lap.”

“That is as far as I’ve allowed her to go for the past several months,” Fenris said. “Yes, she still invites me to her bed, but I...I just can’t anymore.”

Anders narrowed his eyes and tilted his head, looking confused.

“You...really haven’t slept with her since you and I…?”

“No. I’ve not slept with anyone.”

“I...I actually haven’t been with anyone else either. This thing with Will… I honestly had no idea he was even interested in me until tonight. It’s just...when he started flirting with me I realized it’d been nearly three weeks since we last…”

“I wanted to see you,” Fenris said. “I just...assumed I visited far too often.”

“Fenris...seriously?” Anders smiled, some of his anger seeming to ebb. “You thought I had a problem with a gorgeous elf fucking me into oblivion every day of the week?”

“I...I don’t know…It’s just that I was...unnerved by the sort of feelings I was starting to develop for you, so I tried to stay away...”

“Maker,” Anders sighed, running a hand through his hair. “This probably isn’t a conversation we need to have while you’re drunk. Why don’t you sleep it off here and we’ll talk in the morning?”

Fenris let Anders to lead him to the bed and lay him down, but when he grabbed the front of Anders’ robes and attempted to tug him on top of him, he was quickly rejected.

“Want you,” Fenris said, his attempt at a seductive tone completely ruined by way his voice slurred.

“Fenris, you couldn’t get it up right now if you tried. Even if you could, the answer is no. We’re not doing anything while you’re like this.”

“Please. Anders, I--”

Fenris attempted to grab hold of Anders’ robes once more. He caught Anders’ muttered ‘sorry’ just as the mage pressed his fingers to his temple, sending a sleeping spell coursing through his body.

“In the morning, Fenris,” Anders said softly, gazing down at the snoozing elf.

Fenris wasn’t the only one who needed some time to think.

#fenders #fenris #anders #da2 #roguefic

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14hnds-blog · 6 years

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me,laughing in the bg. in reality i’m swinging a baseball bat on my own skull because this always happens. Drama under the cut, because I’ve pissed someone off again and their pretty cruel and cold vent post that was drawn 90%+ at best from so many of our conversations hit me the wrong way. Self righteous, entitled, just ugh.

I have never said anyone was a terrible person nor implied it!!!!! My whole post I made earlier was about wanting communication and clarification. Unlike someone who decided to make an ENTIRE POST vaguing me specifically with an added ‘this is not about anyone specific’ line as if the word for word documentation of some of our friendships going ons wasn’t specific. ( “ Do you honestly think I will waste my precious time on someone that doesn’t care enough to be a decent human being?” Nice line, thank you, I know I’m trash.) I worded it poorly because of my yanno, 24 hours no sleep routines and because it was the thousandth time and i was panicking and depressed but hey. I’ll give you that. Coulda done it better, but I wanted to know what I did wrong and venting outwardly helps me sometimes.

I have never acted like the world???? Revolves around my problems???? That sounds like self projection for your multitudes of unfollows and threatening to close down your blog??? Oops I vent to my dash occasionally yes but that’s all I have, yet I don’t expect anyone to respond and I don’t expect the kindness I get but hey, I get it. i never hold other people down in regards to my mental illlness tho, i never shut them down???

“ Honey, in all due respect, you're not the only one with crippling anxiety, depression, and mental issues. Sorry I can't tell people when I unfollow them. “ Honey, first of all, I sat there and said I wanted clarification that was all. We had planned to do things, but I’ve been slow with almost everyone save for a few things here and there. My boyfriends can’t even get me to play video games with them. You had unfollowed me multiple times, at the very least all I did was expect you to maybe touch base with me on what we’d talked about, orbeen like ‘hey i had to unfollow because you’re cluttering my dash’ or smth because we haven’t been interacting It’s one thing if we never talkedbut we’d spoken a lot and I was hurt that it kept happening and just assumed it would be commonplace to talk with someone you’ve had enough interraction with personally.

I’m sorry the holidays got busy and i never finished the reply to your starter?????

“When someone sits there and acts like the world should revolve around their issues or that no one else has these problems but them, I draw the line.“ How fucking outrageous that I asked for fucking clarification if people I know personally want to unfollow me. I didn’t say YOU NEED TO TALK TO ME, I just said that it’s happened before and I’d love to know esp if I can resolve smth. communication is nice. And I know not everyone can do it!!! I never said everyone needed to either!!!!!!!

This post in response to this post? I’m sorry I’m a panicky fuckwit, and me trying to assure if I did something wrong or trying to understand things messes with you? But oh sorrry for also making the world revolve around my mental illness. O_O All the shit you said just feels cruel as hell and idk. did you actually ever care as a friend? did you ever actually have interest in me as a person or was it just rp with a side of pretending that you wanted? I’m sure their post is about multiple people but a majority if not 98% is reflective fo the fact that I didn’t have the energy to do the things they constantly invited me to do. I just. How do you look at someone and even say that over a damn reply. I owed you a reply. Even on my dash I’ll usually make a post to vent and then I fuck off and do something till I feel better? But I don’t know why you want to use this against me like? I do sincerely apologize for not being at the top of my game with replies but it’s been the holidays? And I’ve been selective with muse during them? but idk. IDK!!! but to say stuff like “ Honestly, and I'm not saying this passive aggressively, I'm not that fun to rp with. There's many out there better and more exciting that fill the rolls people want. ” when I’ve expressed being interested and stuff just sucks? I really am sorry I’ve been poor at getting out interaction rolling but it just felt so damn guilt worthy because you said this stuff constantly. This just goes to show just how easy it is for people to hate me and how often it happens and idk. Im frustrated and confused and annoyed, because having nice things shoved at me only to be unfollowed constantly in a way that felt guilting just messed me up bad. I could’ve worded it better but I”m sorry I couldn’t help the fact that your behavior on that front had literally triggered me because my abusive boyfriend would shower me in gifts only to take it all away because I didn’t do what they wanted. I hope you can find it in yourself to get your blog to prosper, I’m sorry I didn’t get to reply to your starter because I’ve been shite with replies recently, and I’m sorry for your struggles. In the end it just adds to the fact that no one likes me 90% of the time and chances are if you do now it’ll probably fade. I don’t know. I’m tired. This person 90% has me blockd I’m sure because they blocked me on Discord while I was asleep.

idk anymore but if i ever make you feel bad or anything of the sort talk to me and we can smooth things out because I’m always happy to help accommodate my friends and mutuals. im so tired god fucking damnit.

#discourse /#drama /#sorry i just have to get this out im so??#[5p34k1n6 1n 70n6u35] // [ OOC ]

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