#prompt: pinned down

[serickswrites]

Pinned

Warnings: pursuit, kidnapping, threat of torture, physical violence

Whumpee ran as fast as they could. They had to get away. If they didn't, Whumper would do terrible things to them. They had to get away from Whumper.

"Whumpee," Whumper's singsong voice came from closer than Whumpee would have liked, "give it up. I'm going to get you."

Whumpee didn't respond. They just ran faster. They had to get away.

"We're going to have so much fun, Whumpee. I'm going to get you." Whumper's voice was even closer. Whumpee couldn't chance to look behind because they would lose what lead they had on Whumper.

But it didn't matter. "Got you!" Whumper's voice sang out as they tackled Whumpee. They rode Whumpee's body to the ground, using their knee to keep Whumpee pinned down.

"PLEASE!" Whumpee shouted as they struggled beneath Whumper. They couldn't get up. They couldn't move.

Whumper smiled down at Whumpee. "We are going to have such fun back at my house, Whumpee. I can't wait to play with you."

Tags: @mousepaw @jumpywhumpywriter @knightinbatteredarmor @hufflepuffwritingstuff2 @anightmarishwhump

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @celestialsoyeon @st0rmm @ay5ksal @pedro-pedro-pedro-pedro-pe

@pepeniascat

[macknus]

Febuwhump: Day Three

Prompt: Pinned Down

Febuwhump Masterpost

Whumpee ran. Sprinted through Whumper’s camp, feeling the cold, packed damp earth slapping beneath his feet was disgustingly wonderful. A feeling he didn’t think he’d ever miss, no… but here he was, breathless from the run, already exhausted from weeks of being captured and subdued, beaten and grounded and starved. His lungs screamed at him to stop, his muscles clenching as if he was ten sets into a workout, but Whumpee continued running.

A small crazed smile on his lips as he felt the wind on his face, rushing through his damp hair that Whumper kept tied back. The first thing Whumpee did when he got free was take that blasted bobbin from his hair and let his shoulder length raven birds nest free. He felt… oh gods, he felt alive.

He cleared the camp paths, rushing out of the alleyways packed with tents like buildings on either side and when he emerged onto the field that their camp was on he finally— after weeks that felt like years, stretched his white, feathered wings and continued to run.

Damn the ache in his back from spreading them.

Damn the stiffness of his limbs as he stretched them out to their full wingspan. He felt whole again now that they were no longer chained to his back at awkward angles.

He swallowed the cheers, the hollers, the whoops that threatened to spill out of his mouth from the relief, but he wasn’t out for the woods yet. He still had to clear Whumper’s camp before he risked making any more noise than is necessary.

He beat his wings after the stiffness faded to mere pins and needles. He was skinner than before, even if they were a little out of practice, they would hold him in the skies until he was free. They had never failed him before. And with the cool night air on his cheeks, the sable night sky calling to him, the stars winking, beckoning him to the heavens, Whumpee beat his wings, once, twice, then he was up.

He faltered a bit as he tried to steady himself in the air, a single, breath denying moment of a stumble as he fell through the air. But his wings caught and he wasn’t out for flying— he was—

He was FLYING!

He didn’t care as hot tears rolled down his cheeks, whipped away by the wind as he soared high above his prison, Whumper’s vile camp.

He was— he was actually going to be free…

And then he flew straight into a wall. Whumpee blinked, stunned as his body slammed against it— but it was just open air. Open sky.

“No,” he muttered, slamming his hand against it and a ripple whirled against the invisible barrier. The same barriers that Whumper’s sadistic Right Hand could weave. “No! No, NO!”

He pushed and clawed against the barrier and glanced up. He tried to fly above its edge, the impenetrable wall meeting a ceiling and he cursed.

“No! No! No! Come on,” he cried, pushing with all his strength against the barrier. There had to be a weak spot. There had to be.

“Do you know what the real kicker is?” A cold voice asked from below. Whumpee froze physically, while his insides raged against a storm. His heartbeat hammered against his chest, sweat forming on his brow, his chest, his back from the exertion. Whumpee trembled as he tilted his head down to see Whumper directly below him. Whumper met Whumpee’s gaze with a cruel smile as he stepped past the barrier that kept Whumpee trapped within the confines of the camp. ��It only works on you, darling. It helps to keep your pesky friends out, and your defiant, ungrateful self in. Exactly how I want you.”

Whumpee snarled. “I’m not coming down. I’m not letting you chain me up again.”

Whumper stepped back into the barrier, all humour gone from his sharp, angular face, but his eyes glinted with a dark promise. “Good thing I don’t need your permission then, isn’t it?”

With a click of his fingers a spear appeared in his hand and Whumpee paled. Whumper tossed the spear in his hand, getting the weight of it in his fingers as he assessed Whumpee above.

“You can either come down here, now, or I’ll bring you down, boy.”

Whumpee glanced around the camp, but there was nobody else out of bed. Only Whumper. He could fly to the opposite end, avoid his attacks and then what? He couldn’t leave! Spelled to remain—

Before Whumpee could finish the thought he felt the whistle of the spear through the air and he rolled, barely dodging the blow in time. The spear ran straight through the barrier like a mocking taunt, but Whumpee couldn’t focus on that as Whumper summoned another spear into his hand.

“This one won’t miss. One last chance, Whumpee,” Whumper sang. His voice like gravel, echoing shards of ice through Whumpee’s ears and sending shivers down his spine. Whumpee knew how good Whumper’s aim was, and he didn’t want his wings to be speared which is exactly what Whumper would do.

Whumpee hung his head, wings beating against the air to keep him up. “Okay,” he said, hands balling into fists at his sides. “Okay,” he said again and let the air catch his wings as he descended.

It was pathetic really. Whumpee had a chance at freedom, at escape, and all it took for his defiance to smoulder was Whumper. Not an army. Not an onslaught of Whumper’s bloodthirsty soldiers, just… just him. With a spear.

Whumpee’s feet had barely touched the ground before Whumper tackled him to the ground. Whumpee’s head hit off the barrier with an oomph as his shoulders took the brunt of the blow to the cold, hard earth below.

Whumper straddled Whumpee’s waist, a cold smile on his thin lips. “You know how much I love your wings, Whumpee,” Whumper cooed, running his fingers over the feathers that made Whumpee squirm. He didn’t want the sensitive spots to be touched, especially by Whumper. That was something that he and his mate would share if he— if he ever got out of here.

But Whumper knew that. Knew how intimate a gesture touching Whumpee’s wings was and did it anyway.

“Which is why I’m so proud you didn’t make me put a hole through them,” he continued, touching an especially sensitive spot that made Whumpee whimper under Whumper. “But you still need to be punished. Right Hand suggested I clip your wings.”

Whumpee’s eyes went wide through his terror, shaking his head as Whumper smiled down his horrible smile at Whumpee. “Don’t worry, darling, I told her I won’t do that. I want you to still be able to fly… but your punishment remains.”

Whumper grabbed Whumpee’s wrist and yanked his hand down until it was parallel to the ground. Whumpee struggled, trying to pull against Whumper’s strength, but his grip was strong, sure. Fed. Whumper wasn’t starved like Whumpee. Whumpee’s resistance was futile and they both knew it.

“Now, since your hands are the actual offenders, getting you out of your chains, I think this will be a fitting punishment.”

Whumper didn’t wait a beat before slamming the spear through Whumpee’s palm and burying it into the ground below. Whumpee screamed and thrashed under Whumper, begging, pleading for him to take it out, take it out, I’m sorry.

Whumper clicked his fingers and another spear appeared. Whumpee kicked and tried to worm his way out from under Whumper but every small movement aggravated his impaled hand and he cried out.

“You got cooped up, little bird, it’s okay,” Whumper cooed. “You wanted to be outside, you should’ve just asked, boy.”

Whumper grabbed Whumpee’s free hand. “No! No! Please, Whumper! Please!”

“See? With those manners, I’d give you anything, darling.”

Then he impaled Whumpee’s other palm into the ground, effectively pinning him to ground, arms stretched out wide to his sides. Whumpee screamed as fire raced through his blood, no longer struggling but every breath, every tremor threatened to move his limbs and he wanted to be sick. The stench of dirt and cold and metal from his blood filled his senses which roared like a beast inside him.

Whumper’s smile dropped from his face as he stared down at Whumpee. He stroked a hand down Whumpee’s wing and Whumpee couldn’t stop the knee jerk reaction that tore against his hand and he screamed again.

“Now boy, you’re outside. Just as you wanted. A nice night below the stars might do you some good.”

Whumpee trembled as Whumper’s heat pulled away from him as the bastard stood. His mind only processing Whumper’s words after he walked towards the streets line with tents.

“Wait! You- you can’t leave me here!” Whumpee yelled after him, panic seizing his throat. “Whumper!”

Whumper didn’t answer, just kept walking further and further away. “Whumper! WHUMPER!”

“WHUMPER!”

There was no response. Whumpee stared up at the stars winking down at him, beckoning him to the sky and he sobbed.

[hailsatanacab]

I'll ask after that secret number 8!

I only remembered secret number 8 because I saw your wip here! I'd started this one based on the same prompt, then lost said prompt and stopped working on it 😅

Instead of a snippet, I'm just dropping it all here - maybe that way I'll feel inspired to finish it?

———

It’s a full house for dinner tonight and, really, that should have tipped him off.

Bruce sits at the head of the table, smiling softly as he watches over everyone’s antics. Damian is regaling Dick with everything they saw at the zoo that day (Danny had been so happy to see Delilah the purpleback gorilla again, and her new little additions to the troupe, too!) and how well they are implementing the grant the Wayne Foundation had gifted them. Tim, Steph, Cass, and Duke are all engaged in a thumb-war tournament which Danny has no interest in participating in. It just wouldn’t be fair on them.

Danny loves that look. The one where Bruce’s eyes crinkle when he thinks none of the kids can see him. It oozes love and it makes Danny’s heart, his core, ache. 

It’s been a little over a year since Alfred found him on the street and managed to wrangle him back to the manor to stay—even after the whole biting thing when he realised how rich they were. 

A little over a year here and Danny’s starting to feel like family.

Starting to feel like he might, just maybe, like to make it official.

“Danny,” Bruce says, drawing everyone’s attention. Danny starts at his name, but Bruce’s voice is warm and calm, and his shoulders lose their tension almost immediately. “Danny, I have something I would like to tell you.”

“Uhhh…” is all Danny can croak out, eyes flicking back and forth between Bruce and the rest of them. Smooth. Looking good, Danny.

Except… they’re all happy. All smiles, all relaxed body language, all radiating calm and love and acceptance. Well, not Damian—his face is as thunderous as it always is—which at least means it’s nothing too out of the ordinary.

“Danny, first of all, I just want to impress upon you that this is in no way something you have to do. You are under no obligation to join us and, no matter what, you shall always be welcome with us in the manor.”

Wait, what? Danny squints at Bruce, trying to parse exactly what he’s saying… Is he—is this them asking to adopt him? Do they want to make it official, too? 

It’s been a little over a year and of course Danny has imagined calling Bruce ‘Dad’. Of course he’s imagined being part of the family, of course he wants to make it official!

He can’t help the beaming grin or the bright and bubbling “Yes!” already waiting on his lips. All Bruce has to do is ask, all Danny needs to hear is—

“I’m Batman.”

The smile freezes on Danny’s face.

His lungs stop working, his heart stops working, he stops working, he just—

“And I’m Nightwing,” Dick smiles, breaking the awkward silence. 

Danny’s eyes snap to him, and then down to Tim when he admits to being Red Robin. Duke is Signal, Steph is Spoiler. Damian begrudgingly tells him he’s Robin, but Danny can barely hear it over the ringing in his ears.

“I’m Black Bat.” Cass cocks her head, almost looking concerned. It always felt like she understood him the most. Whenever he was feeling low, too in his memories, or stewing after a nightmare, she was always there, ready to card her fingers through his hair and never mention his tears. It makes his heart ache to think of it now. “It’s okay, Danny.”

It’s meant to be reassuring, but how—how can it be okay? How? 

Danny’s spent a little over a year with them. A little over a year with Batman. 

Batman, who works with the Justice League, who works with…

A little over a year. 

Just under 16 months since he escaped.

“Danny? Are you alright?” Bruce asks

Finally, his lungs kickstart and suck in a shuddering breath, only for everyone to drop their smiles.

Didn’t take them long, did it? Now that their ruse is up, there’s no kindness in their eyes, they’re just… cold, calculating. Evaluating. 

“Why?” Danny gasps, his fingers tingling, his heart in his throat.

Just under 16 months since he—has he escaped? Or was this just another one of their experiments?

"I... I trusted you, why—" Danny chokes back a sob, gritting his teeth as his shoulders shake. Why? Why would they do this? "I was happy here, with you. I thought... Weren't you happy?"

"Danny..." Bruce is looking at him, eyes narrow and eyebrows pinched, in some cruel facsimile of confused concern and all Danny can think is how much of an actor he is. How well he can play the part of a doting father. How much he made him want that.

"I don't understand, why..." 

"I'm sorry we didn't tell you before, I can imagine that it comes as a shock. We shouldn't have lied to you, Danny, but—"

"Stop it!" Danny slams his hands down on the table and pushes himself up on wobbly legs. Even standing, he feels so small. Smaller than Bruce, than all of his adopted siblings. They crowd above him when they all stand, too. "Just stop it! Why are you doing this, why are you still pretending? Stop it!"

It was easier, with Danny's biological parents. The knowledge that they'd do anything to get him on a lab table, to open him up and see what makes him tick, to rip him apart molecule by molecule, had always been there. He knew they hated ghosts. He knew they hated Phantom. He knew they hated him. It was easier because it was something he'd known all his life. When he died, when he became a ghost, he knew what to expect from them. It hurt, of course it did.

But it was easier than this.

"Danny, I'm going to need you to take a deep breath. You're having a panic attack and you need to breathe."

"Breathe?" Danny laughs, the sound harsh and choking, too high pitched in his hysteria. "You're joking, right? Or is this just more of the—the experiment?"

"Danny, please, we don't know what you're talking about, you—"

"You don't know? You're Batman! You work with the Justice League, you work with—" His words choke off as his stomach churns, bile rising in his throat. His whole body itches, screaming at him to leave, he can't go back, he can't, he can't, he can't!

Bruce takes a hesitant step forward and Danny scrambles back, his feet catching on the chair behind him and sending him careening to the floor. Where are the agents? Why aren't they swarming in, ready to apprehend him, strap him back on the table, carve him from the inside out.

"Please, Danny, calm down. We don't—"

Danny stops listening. His back hits the wall and he pulls his knees into his chest, his shoulders dipping down as he begins to sob. His heart throbs inside his throat, too painful to swallow around. Tears fall hot and heavy on his face.

Sure, he could run. He could phase out through the wall and he could be out of Gotham in a couple of hours. He's escaped the GIW once, he can do it again.

But that was before Batman knew who he was. Before he had the World's Greatest Detective on his tail.

Before he... 

He really thought this would be different, you know?

He wanted to make it official.

"Why did... Why were you so nice to me? Why did you make me like you? I really—I really liked you. I-I thought we could be a family."

"Danny, we are a—"

"Don't lie to me!" Danny snaps, but the force of his anger leeches all the fight from him, and suddenly all that's left is a bone-weary tiredness. There’s a lump in his throat that hurts. There’s a line down his chest that burns. "I don't care. I don't care anymore, I don't. Just... don't make me go back there. Please." 

Is it futile? He thought he knew how the GIW operated by now, the depths that they would go to achieve their results, but this... this was a whole new level of pain that Danny thought he had left behind him in Amity.

"We're not going to make you go anywhere, Danny, you're safe here, I promise."

"Safe? Safe? You must have—" he takes a deep breath, tries to stop the quivering of his voice. It’s all starting to make sense, now.  "The reason you're telling me who you are is because you must have told them everything already. I know the Justice League—I know you're working with them, which means the ex-experiment is over now, and they're coming to take me back. And I can't go back."

"Danny—"

"I can’t!” Danny glares at Bruce with all the rage he can, fingernails digging into his skin. “I’m not going back!"

"That's right, you're not going back, Danny. I won't let that happen." Bruce crouches down in front of Danny, his hands open and raised as if he's trying to say he's not a threat. "I don't know who you're talking about, and I'm sorry about that, but I can promise you that you’re not going back there. We will keep you safe."

Danny pulls himself closer, tucks himself further into the wall, eyes flickering all across the room waiting for that tell-tale flash of white as the agents start to swarm.

He should take his chances now and run, he should go, he needs to go!

The rest of them, his brothers and sisters of a little over a year, are spread out, giving him and Bruce some space. The same concern colours all of their faces. Why are they still pretending?

Steph is chewing on her thumb. 

Danny liked Steph and her brash confidence, her jokes. She's been promising to paint his nails for months now, they've just never found the time. He was going to go for green and black, or maybe a galaxy theme, depending on what she felt comfortable doing.

He likes them all.

"You were supposed to be my family." His mouth turns down at the corners and his voice shakes like a child. "You were supposed to—why? Why would you—I don't understand why you would make me like you..."

"This isn't an experiment, Danny," Bruce's voice is steady, soothing. "I promise."

"But you work with them and—"

"Who do I work with?"

"The Justice League."

"Yes, I do, but we—"

"And the Justice League works with them. The GIW." Danny trembles with the name, clutching tightly onto his hoodie. "I'm not going back there, Bruce."

Danny doesn't miss Bruce's look over his shoulder, nor Tim's nod in return. Tim turns slightly to the side to hide his movements, but Danny bets he has his phone in his hand, probably letting them know they can take him now. Guess this is it, then. They'll be here soon, and he'll be gone.

"Kill me."

"Danny? What do—"

"If you ever had any kindness for me, if you ever cared, kill me. Please, Bruce. I can't do it again."

"Danny..."

"End me now. Take my core out and break it, please, before they get here."

[blackfoy]

Baby Viktor

Due to a magical mishap in the lab Viktor ends up de-aged. Little Viktor comes to himself in a place he doesn't recognize, with no clothes and no cane. He is very obviously in Piltover, and there is a very large man calling his name and asking him if he's ok and what he remembers. The poor boy is very frightened, and it doesn't help that they are not speaking in his first language, so he is still having some trouble with words at this age. Jayce, of course, helps the little one up and puts his own shirt on him, which hangs down like a dress, but little Viktor is even more terrified because of the strength in Jayce's arms and the fact that his hand practically covers his entire torso.

Of course, the poor child tries his best to put together how he got here. He understands that he is missing memories, but he doesn't know he's been de-aged, so he is trying to figure out how a crippled child from the undercity ended up in the rich part of Piltover. The feeling of being out of place gets even worse when he finds out that Jayce is a councilor and when he meets Mel, who looks extremely extravagant and is also a councilor. Any and all ideas he can come up with are, of course, bad ones, but there is little good he can figure from his situation. He had never thought of himself as one of the ones to sell their body for food and shelter, much less to big, strong, rich pilties, but he assumes his past self must have had a reason and tries to be good and not make himself sick with his own thoughts.

[ghostf1ux]

The Demon's Sword: A New Life (A New Death)

Day 3: Pinned Down

Word Count: 5.2k

TW/CWs: Living Weapon things (manipulation, conditioning, etc etc), dehumanization, usage of it/its for pronouns (for dehumanizing reasons)

Chapter 1 || Chapter 2 ->

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

Before, there was quiet, comforting darkness. The kind that wrapped you up, swaddled you like a baby and made you feel like you were floating in eternal bliss.

It was nice.

It was peace.

It was rest.

And then… it faded away.

Something happened. It's a blur, lost to a fractured mind's memory.

But then there's green.

Acidic, toxic, evil, disgusting green.

Green like maniacal, cackling laughter reverberating through a broken bird's skull.

Green like swishing robes and hushed whispers and fear and a twisted perversion of life.

Green like drowning, burning liquid filling his lungs, filling his veins and ripping him apart and stitching him back together and everything is pain and everything is hurt and everything is green green green–

The boy– not a boy anymore, not with how the green, the Pit has rewritten him– screams a guttural, agonized scream as he claws himself to the surface and–

And why does that feel so familiar? Choking and drowning and burning and stabbing and hurting and dad it hurts so much, please help me, please– 

Hands burning against his skin like acid rip him out of the toxic water, ignoring his thrashing in favor of following orders. Orders he can't hear, not over the blood rushing in his ears, not over his gagging as he throws up that glowing green nectar of hatred and carnage, not over his awkward scrambling for anything of use as he finds his own body to be unfamiliar and foreign to him.

The hands move him around, pushing and pulling and shoving and hitting and hurting. His nerves are alight, the slightest touch feeling like an open flame against his skin. He doesn't know how many there are– too many– that shove his shoulders to the ground and drive a knee into his back, pinning his legs so he can't kick them off while a fistful of his hair is yanked back. More force his mouth open and shove something inside, something harsh and metallic that fits almost perfectly to the backs of his teeth and doesn't quite let him bite down all the way, but close. Enough that he can close his lips and nothing more. Something else, attached to that, pushes down on his tongue, keeping it flat and pinned to the floor of his mouth. Useless.

He rips his head out of the grip holding him there, roaring at everything else that comes even close.

It doesn't deter them. They grab at him again, this time more forcefully, the metal pressing painful lines into the roof and floor of his mouth. Something hooks and slides and snaps into place over his mouth, and briefly, he panics, but it subsides when he finds himself still able to breathe, if with a little more difficulty than before. It's solid, and heavy, and digs into his skin under his jaw and across his nose and cheeks, but only just barely obscures his breathing. Not nearly enough to hinder him in any way, but when he tries to open his mouth he finds it’s plenty to keep him from doing that ever again.

Despite that, he fights. He snarls, he growls, he struggles. Even when his arms are pinned behind him with thick metal shackles, he tries to squirm his way out of the grip of the hands.

Eventually, it works. The hands– they let go, and he's blissfully aware of the respite it gives his skin, his nerves that feel like a naked live wire.

When they try to return, he lashes out on instinct, in desperation, to get them away from him again. Blinded by the green as he is, he's painfully aware of the warm wetness splashing over his hands and his arms and his face and his chest as he moves from one obstacle to another– just trying to get away, to get safe, to get home– 

When nothing reaches out to touch him he pauses, breaths heaving and irregular and stuttering and raspy. Something within him settles, for now, at least. The green bleeds away and– 

His eyes widen at the scene around him. Blood splatters coat the stalagmites and pool under the twelve bodies surrounding him. All the forms are unmoving, crimson coating every surface in sight. The only other color is that wretched green, shining brightly, acidically, despite the gore piled around him like a fucked up ritual circle.

He falls to his knees, uncaring of the way the blood splashes up onto his bare legs and the rough stone digs into his knees. Something stirs and twists within him. It's not guilt. He doesn't feel guilty. It was self defense.

It's… he doesn't want to say it's satisfaction. It's not satisfaction. This– he isn't satisfied by this. He doesn't take any pleasure in this. The blood, the gore, the senseless violence of it all, the way it makes his blood burn hotter, brighter, excitement and adrenaline coursing through his veins as the green takes and takes and takes– 

“Alzali,” a man's voice– smooth and oily, like a snake– barks from behind him. He whips his head around, staring up at the man who called him by that name– it's wrong, he knows it's wrong, but he doesn't know what's right– with narrowed eyes and a growl building in his chest. The woman beside him– she's younger, but they look similar (and very familiar)– tuts, manicured nails hooking into the underside of the muzzle and pulling up. The metal hooked to the inside of his mouth digs into the back of his teeth and forces him to follow the motion. He is left teetering dangerously on his knees with his hands useless behind his back, the smallest misplacement of weight ready to send him careening so only the metal digging into his teeth holds him up. She produces a chain– thinner than a traditional one, but no less strong– that gets hooked into a small gap across the front crease of the muzzle.

“As I said. The perfect candidate to become the Sword of the Al Ghuls,” the woman murmurs, her voice thick and sweet as honey, but with a bitter, deadly undercurrent that sets his instincts on edge. Her hand that had hooked under the muzzle before now rests heavily in his hair, idly combing through it. He growls, lurching away, but she just pulls the chain attached to the muzzle taut and the metal in his mouth follows the chain, dragging him back to her side so she can rest her hand in his hair a little more firmly this time. “Some training will be required, but that was predicted.”

“See to it that it happens swiftly,” the older man replies, glaring through bright green eyes at him. He levels the man with his own heated glare, not backing down until there's the cold press of razor-sharp metal against his throat. “You would do well to respect your betters. Always remember that you exist at my sufferance. You are a weapon, a Sword, who answers to the Demons alone and will serve only to be used by the Demons alone. You exist to kill, and nothing more.”

When he responds with nothing more than his defiant, continued glare, the woman tugs sharply on the chain with another tut of disappointment. “He shall spend his time in the Cage for the foreseeable future.”

“Begin its training following that. I expect results by the year's end,” the man hisses, sheathing his katana and turning with only the whisper-quiet swish of his cape signaling his departure.

The woman watches as he leaves, then tugs sharply on the chain again. “Alzali–” she snaps, only waiting a mere few moments for him to begrudgingly scramble to his feet before he's tugged along by the muzzle.

She keeps the ‘leash’ short as he's led through the compound. Memories flitter about in the dark haze that is his mind, and somewhere along the way, whether he remembers it or simply puts the context clues together, or some combination of the two, he deduces that this is the League of Assassins. Or Shadows, depending on who you ask. The man from before was Ra's Al Ghul, the leader of the League. The woman currently leading him to who fucking knows where? Talia Al Ghul, Ra's’ daughter. Both master assassins, incredibly dangerous, and people he really does not want to be in this position with.

Alas, it seems that even with his new lease on life he was still dealt a shit hand. 

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

Through the winding, nearly identical passageways of the Nanda Parbat, it's not long before he's all sorts of turned around and confused. Not that he can turn his head to take in any potential details, with the chain keeping his head pointed forward.

Talia stops before a large, plain door, at least compared to all the others. When she leads him inside, he's surprised to see it open into a wider arena. Not the actual floor of the arena, but instead to the outer stands of it. It's not big, could maybe hold between a hundred and two hundred people in the stands. Despite the size, it's not nearly full.

Figures clad in dark robes line the stands, heads snapping to stare at him. Calculating, assessing, predatory eyes, from every angle, from every side. He can feel them tracing over his every step and movement, noting every imperfection, cataloging every weakness.

He has a lot of those. He knows. Because with every step, he nearly stumbles. His weight is all off. His balance, as a result, is fucked. He can't even imagine what it might look like, might feel like, to go through any more complicated motions that used to be muscle memory, because his skin itches and pulls and it's not right, it's not fucking right.

Talia stops him on the edge of the sunken arena, unclipping the chain off the muzzle and letting the shackles clatter to the dusty ground behind him.

He only gets a glimpse of everything around him before Talia shoves him over the ledge and he falls the ten or so feet down into the sand-floored arena.

He manages to catch himself before he completely crashes into the sand, and it's a good fucking thing too because not even two seconds later there's someone on top of him with something bright and sharp and dangerous and the green flares up in response. He's suddenly aware of everything and nothing– the gloved hands grabbing him, punching him, beating him, his desperate and clumsy struggle to fight back, the inferno rushing through his veins that tints everything that horrible, awful green, making the roar of blood in his ears sound like that evil, haunting cackling– but not the silence of the crowd, not the scuffling of feet against the sand, not his own gasps of pain when the dagger or sword or whatever rips into his body ruthlessly, mercilessly. If he thought his body was strung like a fucking live wire before it's nothing compared to now, and he screams, he knows he screams, but he doesn't hear it, not over the cackling, not over the feeling of his flesh fucking melting– or at least what feels like it– and certainly not over that shrill, ear-piercing whistle that manages to break through everything else. It's sharp as the katana that nearly sliced open his throat earlier, an unspoken command he doesn't know the meaning of, can't quite place the intent.

He throws the body off him, snarling and using the wall to help him find his balance.

That whistle fucking burrows into his brain, ringing in his ears.

The green flares from an inferno to an erupting volcano, and everything else…

Disappears.

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

Everything becomes a haze of green.

His life becomes a cycle of pain, a desperate struggle to fight off every attacker that comes for him, then choking (usually, sometimes it's just his restructured bones cracking and grinding together until unconsciousness takes him if he’s not choking on his own blood from his throat being slit), then drowning, then everything hurting way too fucking much, and then it repeats.

Over.

And over.

And over.

And over.

Until he doesn't know how many times it's been that he's died and been forcefully sewn back together with fiery green threads.

Until he doesn't know how long it's been since the first time he learned to breathe again, and that godawful muzzle was fitted onto him, and he was called “Alzali” for the first time.

Until the last time he drank anything other than the venomous green he drowned in and the blood he after choked on is nothing but a distant memory.

Until he doesn't even remember what anything tasted like in his mouth besides the metal hooked behind his teeth to keep the muzzle in place, and the grains of sand that made it in through the little gaps.

Until rest and respite were just two distant words with no meaning, no hope to them, because even in unconsciousness he never got the rest, and in death he would always be ripped from it back into the cold.

He’s learning to expect it.

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

Somewhere along the way, he stopped needing to be thrown in the Pit as often as he used to.

And when that happened, somehow it all got worse.

When he used to be brought to the Cage to be pitted against the League's members, he was now brought there for formal training to refine his skills. Of course, that was just a glorified way to say he was still being beaten within an inch of his life, just, now he couldn't kill the person doing it to him.

Not for lack of trying.

With the beginning of every match, he would start on the defensive. Talia would watch on impassively until he was unable to get up, and throw him into the little two-by-four foot cell she liked to shove him in to recuperate. When the injuries were bad enough, he was tossed right back in the Pit, then the cell. When they weren't, the residual healing effects would take care of it in the three or so days at a time he'd spend curled up in the silent, suffocating darkness.

After long enough of only minimal improvement, it became clear that even with them forcing him to fight, he would have no motivation if all he knew was pain and suffering.

So one day, after god knows how long of him being locked up in that cramped, suffocating cell, Talia came to let him out. Instead of leading him back to the Cage, however, she led him to another cell that was devoid of anything resembling a room besides the fact that it was big enough to let him spread out at least twice over, and contained a small mat in the corner. He was tossed in, but that didn’t stop his exhausted gaze from turning confused and suspicious at the sight of the space, the small bottle of water, and small thermos of… something, on the ground.

“Drink. You will have six hours here. When your skills improve, you will be brought back here instead of the cell.” Talia tugs him closer before fiddling with something on the front of the muzzle, and, amazingly, takes it off. The metal bit remains in his mouth, but just the feeling of the air on the lower half of his face is more of a balm then he ever would’ve thought it would be. “You will be rewarded for your learning and cooperation, and punished for your continued resistance. There is always more that can be done. Remember that.”

With that, she takes the muzzle and leaves, locking the cell door behind her.

He wastes no time following the direction, stretching himself out and finally getting some actual food and water in his system, enjoying the six hours of peace he’s been given.

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

After that first reward, it became very apparent to him that he didn’t actually have a choice in improving.

Because every time he even seemingly disobeyed, every time he hesitated to snap to attention at Talia’s sharp command from the stands of the Cage, or when he glared at her for calling him to her side, there was a punishment. Not right away, of course, or at least, not the big ones. A short reprimand, a single tug to the muzzle or a knee to the gut was the immediate punishment. The big punishment was at the end of the day, when the tally was counted.

Those punishments were worse than the beatings he’d receive in training. They usually consisted of lashes, where he would be forced to his knees with his wrists chained to a post in front of him. Talia wouldn’t do the punishments herself, just watch impassively off to the side. Sometimes she just stood there with crossed arms, sometimes she would sip a cup of tea, sometimes she would simply be doing paperwork or making calls for whatever work she did for the League.

Suffice to say, he started learning.

But the muzzle never came off again, only replaced by a new one with space between the metal for a straw to drink the water and broth provided to him.

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

The first time, he was desperate. It was after a punishment, a whipping of thirty lashes. He was already unchained from the post, crumpled in a heap on the rough ground. Blood leaked from the wounds, old and new, on his back. His body was a mess of blood, sweat, searing pain, and barely held in tears. Talia stopped in front of him, arms crossed and looking down at him.

“Alzali,” she ordered tersely, intense, emerald-green gaze trained on his form. The order is the final test for the day. After every punishment, she’d call him to her side with that name, that command. If he failed to heed it, another five lashes were administered and his wounds were dressed, but only with the bare minimum effort and materials, and then he was thrown back in that cramped cell that makes him nearly freeze up with the thought of being shoved in there again.

He breathes out a slow, measured breath, limbs shaking as he tentatively unfolds himself and forces his aching, burning muscles into some mockery of a kneeling position he’s seen the other assassins doing. His form is not nearly as rigid as it should be, he’s half curled over and using his hands to support himself from falling over, but his head is bowed and no reprimand comes.

He holds himself tense and still as he can be as shifting weight steps lightly out of the room, until it’s just him and Talia. Him, kneeled and bowed in a pool of his own blood that still drips off his back. Talia, who watches him with the smallest, triumphant smile. It’s barely anything, only people who really know her would even be able to see it.

He certainly doesn’t.

“Come, Alzali,” Talia orders, almost… softly. It’s not actually soft, but it’s as close to it as he’s heard from her in the months of him being here.

It’s slow, and agonizing, but he manages to push himself to his feet before her. He towers over her, despite his hunched form and trembling body. Despite this he does it without a sound, long since having any sort of sound-making beat out of him, whether it be in pain, anger, or god forbid, defiance.

Talia turns with an approving nod, letting the chain hang limply between them as she leads him back into the Nanda Parbat’s corridors. It acts more as a guide and a threat these days than a leash. A constant reminder that he can’t run, even if no one is actively pulling on it, tugging him forward with it. 

That night (he presumes) he’s brought to the more spacious cell he was brought to for that first reward. There’s no water and no food, but there’s enough space for him to stretch himself out and that’s good enough, in his book. 

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

The second memorable time was during a regular morning of Talia coming to retrieve him for training. He had been allowed to stay in the bigger room that night, had even been allowed some water and proper dressing of his wounds for snapping to attention any time Talia called for him. He still got a punishment for all his other mistakes, but it was only twelve lashes and the treatment afterwards made up for it. He was improving, according to Talia.

She unlocked the cell door and stepped in, where he was already waiting on his knees with his head bowed and hands folded in his lap. She hums approvingly, as she always does whenever she finds him like this. It makes him relax, just a touch, to know she’s happy with him.

She’s just tipped his chin up to clip the chain onto the muzzle when a soft ringing interrupts the near silence. Talia straightens, pulling her phone from her pocket. She glances between the device and him, his gaze impassive as he waits.

“Stay here,” Talia mutters, lifting the phone to her ear and taking the chain with her as she leaves.

He watches her leave, lowering his head to look straight ahead rather than up. Her voice echoes from the hallway outside his room, slowly becoming quieter, as if she’s walking further away. His gaze lingers on the cell door, left wide open. His fingers twitch as he stares at it.

This is the first time he’s been left alone with an open door. 

A means of escape.

No one in sight, or even nearby, if he had to bet. No one came down here very often, other than Talia and himself.

He could… he could run.

He could escape.

He could try.

Would he succeed?

He probably wouldn’t succeed.

A compound of assassins, one he doesn’t even know the layout of? Why is he even slightly entertaining that stupid idea?

Plus, when he would inevitably be caught, he would be put through so much worse than he goes through right now. It would be like the beginning, whenever that was. Worse.

It feels like a lifetime ago.

It feels like just a few days ago.

It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.

Talia told him to stay here.

If he stays here, he doesn’t have to go back to that cramped cell. He doesn’t have to be thrown back in the Pit.

So he stays.

He doesn’t know how long he stays there. By the way his knees and back begin to ache, he guesses at least an hour or two.

When he finally hears footsteps again, his body reflexively straightens and tenses. He watches the doorway with sharp eyes, narrowing them when he sees more than one shadow on the ground.

Talia rounds the corner, that pleased pull to the corner of her lips reassuring him, his gaze turning less intense in response. Following her is the flowing form of Ra’s Al Ghul, dark green cape swishing dramatically as he enters the small cell. His face remains impassive and calculating, even once his gaze lands on him, but he’s able to detect the brief sparkle of genuine surprise before it’s gone.

“As I said before,” Talia indicates matter-of-factly, stopping beside him in a scene that gives him deja vu, “he has improved immensely. It is only a matter of time before he is ready.”

Ra’s hums flatly. “And when shall that be, daughter? I grow weary of its reluctant progress.”

“Soon,” she assures him. “Since the first time, the time it takes for him to learn has shortened dramatically.”

“I wanted results by the year’s end,” Ra’s hisses, and he tenses in response, more of a reflex than anything else. 

Talia motions for him to stay, before stepping forward. “It has not yet reached the end of the year, and these are results. This is not an endeavor that can be completed effectively within a single year, father.”

“Fine. Then we shall test its combat prowess,” Ra’s huffs, turning his attention back to him before barking a sharp “Alzali!”

He goes to move before glancing at Talia, who gives him a minute nod. With the affirmation of Ra’s being someone to obey, he stands, averting his eyes down in an effort to avoid Ra’s’ gaze with the hope he’ll take it as a show of respect and submission.

Ra’s just turns and walks out of the room, him falling just two steps behind the father and daughter. Close enough to shadow them, far enough that they retain their space and can move freely as if he isn’t even there.

They bring him back to the Cage, where the stands are once more lined with assassins eager to fight in the ring. Having been through this plenty of times, he waits for Talia to direct him to the edge of the wall before hopping down. Her and Ra’s take their seats, and Ra’s motions for them to begin.

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

The third time, arguably the most important time, was during a training session.

He was just doing his normal sparring session with the assassin who was teaching him bladework. Katanas and daggers for the most part, but he was being trained to use almost any weapon containing a blade. It was going well. He learned every move the assassin had to teach him, and was holding his own in the sparring match.

That being said, when the assassin retreated once more after knocking him to the ground again, he was reminded of his inexperience despite the training having been happening for the past months.

He brandishes his knives– a kris and a karambit– dropping into a ready position across from the assassin, who’s leveling their katana at him steadily.

The assassin rushes at him, sweeping the long blade across the air at him. It’s easy to dodge– but the following strike twisted towards his abdomen isn’t.

Despite this he flips over it, movement flowing smoothly into a swipe at the assassin’s neck. They lean back just a hair’s breadth out of the way before the katana is coming up at him from below. He blocks with the kris– swings out a leg– wrenches the blade out of the assassin’s grip in the same movement–

A shrill, ear-piercing whistle splits the air. His eyes narrow on his opponent.

In the half second after his foot hits the ground he’s already pivoting into a bent knee. His kris dagger acts as a bladed shield against the kick aimed at his head while his karambit digs into the assassin’s thigh– then drags up up up– right through the assassin’s abdomen– through their ribs– their chest– up to their shoulder– before slashing a ravine all the way across their neck. Warm blood sprays across his face, drenching most of the front of his robes.

He stares wide eyed as the body crumples to a pile of blood and gore on the sandy ground. His hands shake, still gripped around the two knives, both slick with the assassin’s blood.

He didn’t want to kill the assassin.

He didn’t mean to kill the assassin.

“Good job,” Talia praises from behind him. He doesn’t turn to look at her, gaze trained on the dead body. “You listened well. A special reward is in order. We shall get you cleaned up, then you may enjoy your reward. Come, Alzali.”

There’s only a moment of his gaze lingering before he’s dutifully following Talia out of the Cage. He feels kind of… numb? Or maybe blank is the right word for the spread of emptiness that stems from his chest out to the tips of his limbs, head thick with a cavernous empty space where he thinks his thoughts should be. It’s not like he hasn’t killed before, but every time he has, it’s been out of desperation or when he wasn’t in control of himself because of the Pit. That was– that wasn’t either of those. He was laser focused. Nothing was different. So why…?

Talia leads him to a different room than his. It’s huge, at least compared to what he’s used to. Everything looks expensive as hell. There are two beds, which strikes him as odd, but he dismisses it when Talia directs him to the washroom, where he’s told to clean up. Usually she doesn’t particularly care how dirty he is after a training session, since he always gets washed up after his wounds have been treated (as long as he’s been good) so he doesn’t fully understand why she’d be telling him to do it now.

Regardless, he listens. He gets changed into different clothes than the ones he’s been wearing his whole time at the League. They feel like a higher quality, and are softer. Quieter when he moves. Brand new, and fitted perfectly to his bulky frame. They’re darker than the other ones, all blacks and greys with red accents. There’s a hood that shrouds most of his face in shadow, though he doesn’t flip it up right now. 

When he returns, Talia motions for him to sit on the floor behind where she stands, her back to him. He folds his legs underneath him, kneeling and waiting obediently.

“My father believes you would be best as an unthinking, unfeeling object to be ordered around at his discretion,” Talia muses, swaying slightly. “Despite this, I believe you to be your strongest when you care.”

He furrows his brow in confusion. Talia seems to sense it, despite not facing him.

“I do not believe, even with all we could do, that your emotions could be removed. It is your blessing and your curse. Therefore, you will utilize them.” She turns, but he hardly notices her because his gaze is locked on the toddler in her arms, looking down at him with narrowed eyes. They’re the same shade as Talia’s– that vibrant, soul-piercing emerald green– but their shape is different, akin to his father’s presumably, and so, so familiar. “Damian, this is your brother, Jason. Jason, you are the Sword of the Al Ghuls. You will answer to Damian, and you will protect him with your life and more. He is your priority in every situation, no matter what my father may say.”

He– Jason– Jason nods, watching the boy with wide eyes. She sets him down, and Damian approaches him, studying him intently. His gaze lingers on the muzzle with something like confusion, but he doesn’t comment, only turning back to his mother.

“I thought I was the only blood son,” Damian questions.

“You are, habibi. Jason was taken in by your father, but due to his mistakes, was lost to him. Now, he is here to serve us.”

“The Sword of the Al Ghuls,” Damian murmurs, turning back to address Jason. “And he is adequate in battle?”

“He would not be the Sword if he was not,” Talia responds easily. Damian nods.

“Fine, if we must have him.”

Jason watches him leave, then turns back to Talia, who watches him with a knowing gaze. They stay like that, before she nods.

“Come, Alzali. I have business to attend to. You will accompany me.”

He nods, standing and following silently behind her. Memories, hazy at best, swirl through his mind for the rest of the day while he stands by Talia, a silent shadow while she works. Nothing really sticks in his mind, but he knows one thing. One thing that sticks through it all.

The name ‘Jason’ sounds right.

[skyloftian-nutcase]

I have decided to add my masterful art skills to the Whumptober madness

Whumptober Day 5 - Pin Cushion

Wars and Legend were having fun in the desert

[thetarttfuldickhead]

Vague prompt: Rebecca vehemently disagrees with the dad advise that Ted gives Jamie

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Ted, why would you tell him something so stupid – not to mention potentially dangerous! What’s next, are you going to tell me I need to forgive Rupert for the years of lying and cheating and bloody gaslightning, too?”

Ted blinked at her, looking a little stunned, and Rebecca loved him, she did, and respected his opinion hell of a lot more than she did most other people’s, but sometimes he just didn’t get it.   

“Well, no, but to be honest, I kinda thought you might have had already, what with you no longer feeling the need to destroy him and those other things you said.”

“That’s not forgiveness, Ted,” Rebecca said flatly as she reached for the drink she suddenly felt a very strong need for, “that’s just not letting him matter enough to make me do things I otherwise wouldn’t, and that’s not even remotely the same thing.”

[marichild]

#82 + fyozai? 👉👈 hehehe

ROSIE HELLO <3 ty for the ask I am insane about fyozai and had to break my brain a little to find a way to make this about fyozai LOL (fic ask game can be found here!)

#82: Fyodor Dostoevsky, Dazai Osamu, & All-in by 6FU; (from Alien Stage)

A universe brimming with dreams

Who will remain standing

At the end of it all?

Don't you wanna know?

“I can’t help but think,” Fyodor says mildly, “that you’re up to something.”

“And you’d be absolutely right, of course, but that’s hardly new,” Dazai replies, stretching so that his head hangs upside-down off the couch arm. Sitting like an actual civilized person on the chair across the room, Fyodor raises an eyebrow at him. Dazai pouts. “I don’t want to give away the entire game this early in the game, Fyodor!”

“So you are planning something convoluted,” Fyodor says, mouth stretching into half a smile. “I’d wager that it has to do with the girl you picked up a month ago.”

“Well, obviously,” Dazai mumbles, slumping back down. It’s so strange to look at Gin and see a version of her that’s years younger than he remembers her. “What else would all this be for?”

Fyodor says, “aren’t you the little martyr, saving one girl and leaving the rest to die,” and Dazai nearly quips back, it’s better than a vampire plague, before he remembers that it’s years too soon for him to have a hint of that plot of theirs. Instead, he sits up and grins at them.

“Call it the goodness of my heart,” he beams. Fyodor sighs, but they’re smiling, regardless. Of course they know that Dazai does not do anything out of the goodness of his heart.

Dazai considers telling Fyodor about his plan—they’d believe him, for one thing, given they most certainly know a thing or two about singularities. They might even help him fine-tune it—

—if, from the very start, they hadn’t considered his fierce anger over Odasaku silly and a weakness he hasn’t been able to snip. In another life, Dazai hides out from both crime and the punishment to be doled out if the other side catches him and meets Fyodor on the sly, pretends not to care about their little comments regarding Odasaku and Ango; in this life, he prioritizes only one thing.

Across every universe, across multiple realities, this is the only one where he has a chance to save Odasaku. He only has one chance. One shot.

That’s why he grins and instead of giving away vital information that Fyodor will pick up on in a few years’ time, he tells them, “my plans always work out, you know. You’re going to have a hard time moving ahead with your world dominating. I have all the chess pieces in place.”

Fyodor is hardly fazed. “Oh, Dazai-kun,” they say, fond, amused, “you’re mistaken if you think you can stop me. My plans stretch so much farther than you can even conceive—and yet, you’re the only one who has a hope of untangling them.”

Dazai thinks of the vampire outbreak, of clinging to Chuuya in relief that the plan had worked, of nails digging into his skin in Meursault. Of an apple and a knife in the back.

Who’ll be left standing, in the end, when Dazai is gone?

“I’m so excited to see, Fedya,” he croons, “who the winner is.”

bonus lyrics:

We only get one life, so I'm living mine for me

Cause I'm the one from your wildest dreams

I'll create a fantasy in this crazy world

And change it all, I'm going all-in

Every obstacle in my way

I've crushed them all

Step all over me but I'll rise again

It's you who's in the wrong, bet you had no idea

[princelancey]

‧₊˚✧Ｆｉｃ Ｍａｓｔｅｒｐｏｓｔ‧✧˚₊‧

my fic tag: sorcha writes <- anything & everything from plot bunnies and lore questions to links to full fics

AO3: stressed_out_star_kid <- my full fics

some highlights (imo & according to kudos/yall)

Trapped -> Lance struggles after his DNF in Jeddah, luckily for him Fernando is there to help him through anything (Strollonso, emotional hurt/comfort, complete) Vegas Wedding -> Esteban, Mick and Lance wake up with no memory of the night before and three gold rings. Oh and they have to deal with their grid dads finding out (Lance/Este/Mick, fluff & humour, complete) Sea Madness -> Fernando had fallen out of love with the sea, but life on the water was all he knew. That is until one day his world gets turned upside down and myths become realities. aka Strollonso Mermaid AU (Strollonso, slowburn fluff & angst, WIP)

Requests: OPEN (I mainly write for Lance and the many men he has seduced, but I'm open to stretching my writing muscles to most pairings) [looking at my ask box rn yall got me doing plenty of stretching ajkdf]

prompt lists (please let me know what list you're picking from 🙏) quiet acts of love that make me cry 🫂 Send me a Ship and a Number and I will Write a Kiss Fluffy Prompts Trope Mash up

[adrift-in-thyme]

Whumptober Day 5: Pinned Down

Read on Ao3

- Sky & the Chain

- Summary: in the depths of a cave, Sky encounters a deadhand

CW for allusions to claustrophobia and blood and injury

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

Sky can’t say he particularly likes caves. The one on Skyloft had intrigued him as a child, to be sure. But stepping inside of its constraining walls, stumbling and falling in near-darkness, praying that he won’t be attacked by a keese or chu…that is an experience he will never forget.

The ones on the surface are even worse. The surface air already presses down on him (he wonders if he’ll ever grow accustomed to it.) But inside the caves it is nearly suffocating. It only adds to their stifling feel, closing around him like a vice.

And now, as the door slams shut behind him, caging him and the other heroes in gloom he decides that he doesn’t just dislike them. He hates them.

He and his brothers had entered the cave earlier this morning. A nearby town had reported that a monster had made its home there and the heroes had decided to look into it. Which had led them here to this tiny room…where arms stick grotesquely out of the floor.

Sky takes an unconscious step back and bumps into the barred door. An unnatural horror creeps through him, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Slowly, he draws the Master Sword.

Its glow is a comfort, but only slight.

“What in Hylia’s name is that?” Wild asks. He stands beside Sky with his own weapon in hand and a look of disgust on his face.

“A deadhand.”

Their leader answers in a voice that lends no reassurance. His tone is steady and cool, but Sky can detect the fear hovering just past it.

He swallows, hard.

“And what, pray tell, is that?” Legend inquires, snappishly. His discomfort is plain to see, even past his front of annoyance.

Time unsheathes his sword in one swift motion. Though his face is hidden from view, Sky can see the tension in the way he holds himself, hear the catch in his breath when he speaks.

“A terrible monster that burrows beneath the ground to await its victims.” He turns now, skewering his companions with a piercing glare. “Do not let it grab you.”

“So,” Hyrule says, slowly, “how do we kill it?”

A grim smirk lifts Time’s lips. “You can either walk right into its clutches and hope you can squirm away before it removes your head from your shoulders,” — Twilight's eyes go wide — “or you can do this.”

He produces a small, circular object from his pouch and holds it up to his eye.

“Hey, that's cool! What is it?” Wind pipes up, but Warriors shushes him.

“I’ll tell you later, sailor.”

Time remains still for a moment, studying the ground. Sky leans forward, peering at the spot, trying to see what he sees. But the ground appears empty.

…except for the horrifying arms sticking out of it, of course.

Then, the older hero draws a bomb out of his pouch. Bending, he sends it into a gentle roll. It slows around the middle of the room and tips over. Its fuse begins to spark.

“Prepare yourselves,” he says. “When it shows itself, aim for the head.”

Sky shifts, his grip on the sword tightening. The tension in the room makes the atmosphere even more oppressive and he struggles to breathe through it.

But the sound of the bomb going off shatters it. And in the next moment, something large and white and horrifying erupts from the ground and Sky can focus on nothing else.

It turns its long neck, angling itself to face the heroes. Grinning at them with massive, crimson-tinged teeth, it begins to move its gelatinous form forward.

Time lunges for it, sword held high, and the other heroes quickly follow suit. But even as he moves, more arms emerge. He cuts them down with a swift, horizontal swipe and then lifts his weapon, ready to cleave through the deadhand’s skull. Multiple others erupt in front of him, though, and he is forced to leap back. He only just evades their grasping fingers.

“Are these things supposed to have this many arms?” Wild asks as he fights his way through some that have come up around him. 

Time lets out a grunt of frustration and exertion as he slashes at the offending arms. 

“These monsters have infinite limbs. Neglect to kill them quickly and they regenerate. But no, they don’t normally have quite this many. There may be a second one still hiding.”

“Well that’s reassuring,” Legend snarks. 

Sky can’t help but agree with him. He casts a glance down to the ground beneath his feet, praying the second monster isn’t lying in wait there. 

“Can anyone reach this one’s head?” Four asks. “If we cut it down, I’m guessing these arms will retract. Is that right, old man?”

Time nods, just barely dodging another claw-like hand.

Sky takes a deep breath, forcing the idea of the other monster from his mind. “I can reach it.”

He raises his sword, waits for the telltale zip of power, then frees the beam. It soars toward the deadhand’s head. But at the last moment another arm shoots upward like a gory plant and absorbs the hit.

The monster turns toward him with more speed than Sky would ever have imagined it possessing. He grits his teeth, steeling himself. He raises the sword again.

“Sky! Look out!” 

The sailor’s shout is just a moment too late. A new bunch of limbs erupt around the Skyloftian like a morbid cage. Eyes widening, panic streaking through him, he tries to cut them down. But they are too fast.

They snake outward, dagger-thin fingers clamping onto him like vices. They curl around his neck, his arms, his legs and waist. He chokes on the rancid air he can no longer inhale. The Master Sword clatters to the ground. 

“Hold on, Sky, we’re coming!” 

The sounds of the struggle surrounding him fill his ears, yet Sky hardly hears it. He fights desperately. But his efforts are useless. Hands continue to come, grabbing at his face, dragging fingernails across his scalp, tightening around his body. 

And then, the second monster appears. He rises from the ground only a few feet from him, enormous mouth already beginning to open.

Sky chokes on a mouthful of tears and blood. Already the world has begun to take on a grayish tinge. Unconsciousness is coming fast, heralded by the tightening of the hands around his neck. But not fast enough to block out the sight of the deadhand.

It is inches from him now. Sky drags in short, fast breaths that garner him no air. His heart thunders in his chest, every beat reverberating throughout his body. He is smothered by his unearthly bonds; by the walls that press close on every side; by the terrible, inescapable stench of death and decay. 

Desperately, he tries to reach for his fallen sword. But the hands constrict further, as though they know what he is attempting to do. For a split second his vision bleeds white, ears filled with a ringing and rushing that sets his stomach churning. And when it clears the monster is right in front of him. 

He has mere seconds to steel himself for what is about to come. 

The gaping maw is all he can see now, a dark chasm filled with yellowish teeth that drip with blood. 

How long has it been since this thing last devoured someone? He wonders, distantly. Who was the unlucky soul who suffered such a fate?

Terrified as he is, he can’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for them. 

But just as quickly as it comes, it is gone, replaced by a vice-like panic. Because in the next moment, the deadhand’s mouth closes around his face.

Sky goes rigid, a strangled scream breaking free of his constricted throat. Pain explodes across his face. The smell of blood and death and centuries-old decay fill his nostrils, smothering him. He chokes on it. 

He can feel his own blood trickling down, now, from the places the deadhand’s teeth have sunk into. It stings his eyes, cascades past his lips. The sickly taste of iron sits heavy on his tongue. 

Sky has seen sinister creatures on the surface — grinning bokoblins and leering moblins, chasing him with their clubs and swords, eager to bring him down. But never before has he been prey to one like this. 

It moves closer, ravenous for human blood and flesh, fingernails penetrating deep into his skin, hold continuing to tighten until Sky is certain his bones will break. 

Desperately he tries to thrash, gulping gasps of rancid air that never make it to his lungs. His fingers stretch outward, trying once more to pull the Master Sword to him. But she doesn’t budge. 

Tears stream down his cheeks, mingling with blood and dirt. He is suffocated by agony and terror. This is so different from the sky, where everything is fresh and cool and free. Where the biggest threat are the octoroks he and Zelda used to plow through with ease. 

Down here, there is no air, no safety, no escape. There is only darkness and gloom and whatever horrors may hide within it.

Oh, how he misses the sky.

“-ky, Sky! Hang on!”

Hang on. He can do that, can’t he? Yeah, he can…he…

Another breath catches in his throat. A nauseating crunch sounds from far away. Pain rockets through him so fast he nearly blacks out. But through the darkness that crowds his vision is the tiniest bit of light. He clutches it with every bit of his remaining strength.

And in the next moment, he is free. 

There is a terrible jolt that sends shockwaves through his aching form. Then an unearthly scream fills his ears, as the monster finally disappears in a cloud of black smoke.

The arms go with it and Sky crumples without their hold. But Time is there to catch him before he hits the ground. He cradles the Skyloftian to his chest and Sky blinks dazedly up at him.

“T-time?” He mumbles and the old man nods, eye sharp with worry. 

There are scratches carved along his face, their bloodied lines stark against his skin. Sky frowns, trying to find the words to ask if he is alright. But he can hardly manage to cling to consciousness, much less formulate a complete sentence. So, he settles instead for lifting a clumsy hand, trying to brush the blood off the old man’s cheek.

Time catches his hand before it makes it there, a small, sad smile tugging at his lips.

“Don’t worry about me, Sky. Rest. You’re safe now. The monsters are gone.”

Sky blinks again, then nods. Gentle hands brush his face, turn his head slightly to inspect his wounds, and he lets them. Everything hurts and his lungs are on fire from too long without air. The stench of death still clings to him like a disease. 

He feels oddly light too, as though he is floating. Floating on waves of agony and an eternity of darkness. 

He drags in another breath, thankful at least that he can breathe once more.

“Is he okay?” Someone asks. Wind, Sky believes.

With an effort, he opens his mouth to reassure the sailor that he will be. But all that comes out is a rasping cough. It sends waves of pain through him and tears spark hot in the corners of his eyes. 

When at last, it ends, someone maneuvers his head up and tips a potion to his lips.

“Here, drink this.” It’s Warriors now. “It’ll help.”

“He’ll be okay, sailor,” Twilight is saying from far away. “We’ll patch him up.”

“And then we’re getting the heck out of this cave,” Legend says. “We took care of the monsters, yeah? There’s no need to stick around and see if they regenerate.”

A glimmer of hope alights within Sky, shining just past the haze he drifts in. And as the potion slides down his throat he does his best to swallow it all. He’ll do anything he can to make the healing process faster, so he can escape this place. 

It seems the others agree with him. Because once they have bandaged Sky and he is secure in Time’s arms (the old man had staunchly opposed his offers to walk, despite his assurances that the potion had greatly helped), they practically race through the cavernous hallways. Sky closes his eyes as they turn down paths that all look the same, blocking out the memories of his horrifying ordeal and waiting for the wonderful moment when the sunlight will fall on him once more.

He only reopens them when Wind cries, “hey, look! The exit!” And then they’re stepping out into the blinding light of day and he is gulping great mouthfuls of fresh air, staring bravely up at the sun, heedless of the way it makes his eyes tear up.

“Doing alright, Sky?” Time asks as he carefully sets the Skyloftian down beneath the shade of a large tree. They all need a short breather before setting out to find a good place to camp for the night.

Sky smiles up at him, reveling in the feel of grass beneath him. “I’m alright. But I would rather not explore any more caves for a while.”

Time chuckles. “I believe we can all agree with that sentiment.”

And sure enough, a chorus of assent erupts from the group. With a small chuckle of his own, Sky leans back against the tree and closes his eyes.

[shrinkthisviolet]

10 or 22 or 24 with hartley or eddie and anyone else you'd like to write for <3333

Ofc! These all got fairly long collectively (the first one especially), so I'm putting them under the cut. I don't write a lot of Hartley and Eddie usually, so this was a fun challenge—hope you like these!

10: "Please… what am I doing wrong?" "What aren't you doing wrong?!"

(Eddie & Malcolm, and they’re brothers here!)

22: "…you knew?"

Hartley was nearly shaking as he led Harrison to the accelerator—what he was about to say would surely sound crazy, would put them back months, but he couldn’t stay silent about it. Not when there was so much at stake.

The others liked to joke that he was cold and unfeeling, and he didn’t exactly dispel that notion. But he wasn’t a monster.

“…tley?” Harrison’s voice pulled him back to reality. “What are we doing in in the accelerator?”

Hartley took a deep breath. “There’s something I have to show you,” he explained, “and…and I know it’ll be hard to hear, especially this late in the game, but—”

“Hartley,” Harrison sighed, “if it’s such bad news, may I suggest getting on with it?”

Hartley flushed, nodding. “Right. I…here, I’ll show it to you with the schematics, that’s easier.”

“Oh?” Harrison’s voice sounded odd as he followed Hartley. “This should be interesting.”

Interesting wasn’t quite the word Hartley would use, but he let it go—Harrison was a perfectionist, but he also didn’t take bad news well. This was going to be difficult.

And indeed it was. Showing Harrison the schematics didn’t even so much as faze him:

“Harrison, the numbers are off. See, look here, it says the screws are bigger, sturdier than they really are. I even went to measure them myself. I—”

“Hartley, I assure you, I had those numbers verified quite a few times. They’re accurate.”

“Except they’re not. Even the math highlights multiple discrepancies—look here, and here—”

“What do the simulations say?”

“…Harrison, are you listening to anything I’m say—?”

“Hartley. Answer my question.”

“The simulations are being run with the wrong numbers! Don’t you understand? Their indications of success—”

“I can vouch for those numbers personally.” Harrison’s voice ran cold. “I understand your concern, Hartley, but I assure you, the findings listed, and the simulation results, are quite accurate. I would suggest you trust me on this.”

And lost for anything else to say, Hartley nodded.

Maybe he should’ve taken that advice. Maybe then he wouldn’t have gotten fired, his reputation smeared. But all he could feel when he finally walked out of STAR Labs unemployed, when the accelerator exploded months later and claimed so many lives, was a deep-seated rage.

He didn’t…he didn’t mean to hurt so many people. He was just…

Anger and too much power drove some to madness. For all his bluster, Hartley had never really been strong enough to resist temptation.

(There was one life, though, that he couldn’t take, that he wished he had.)

“Oh, Hartley,” Harrison murmured after Hartley was sequestered in a wildly-unethical shoebox-sized “prison cell” for his crimes, with little to do but seethe, “were you trying to kill me that day?”

No more than you’re trying to kill me now, putting me here. Dabbling in cruel and unusual punishment, Harrison?

“Hartley?” Harrison prompted again, his voice irritatingly scolding. “It’s not polite to ignore—”

“I don’t wager it would make much difference,” Hartley cut in, “seeing as I’m already in this sorry excuse for a cell. Hmm do you think confessing would get me transferred to a proper prison with more humane treatment?”

Harrison sighed. “You always were stubborn.”

Hartley barked out a laugh. “Ah, yes. I’m the stubborn one. You are the one who ignored my warnings, who let the accelerator project move forward despite proof that it was—”

“—flawed?” Harrison tilted his head. “Now, Hartley. What you had wasn’t real proof. I admit I was foolish to ignore your claims, but…what you did was alter the numbers to suit your claims.”

Hartley’s eyes widened. “What? I would never—that’s not even my area of expertise! You know I couldn’t—that I wouldn’t!”

“Perhaps.” Harrison smiled. “But it’s your word against mine, you know. I’ll give my mea culpa of course, apologize for what you’re entitled…but don’t pretend your proof was irrefutable. We both know the truth.”

And then, very suddenly, it hit Hartley. He knew Harrison far too well…so the look in his eyes, the tilt of his head, his smile that almost seemed like a smirk…

It all clicked.

…you knew? All this time...you lied to us?

As if realizing what Hartley had deduced, Harrison’s smile broadened. “Well, I’ll leave you to rest, Hartley. I’m sure you’re quite exhausted after today.”

No! “We’re not done here!”

“Oh, I believe we are.” Harrison sighed. “It’s a shame, you know. You had so much potential…but nothing can last forever, you know.”

“You’ll pay for this. You’ll pay for all of it!”

“Yes, yes.” Harrison waved a hand. “As you wish. Sleep well, Hartley.” He smiled. “I wager you’ll need it.”

And as Harrison left, as Hartley’s curses to his retreating back went unheard…furious tears rose in his eyes, especially once the door had closed.

Hartley meant what he’d said. Harrison Wells would pay for this…and for everything else.

He wouldn’t rest until he did.

24: "Unless you ask me not to in the next five seconds, I'm going to hug you."

Iris was struggling. It didn’t take a genius to realize that.

Eddie had clocked it before they were even friends, and he’d tried to help as much as he could, but…she was pretty reserved, and he didn’t want to push. Still, he always made it clear to her that if she needed anything at all, she could always ask, no strings attached. And on the few occasions she took him up on that—can you cover Dad’s shift on this day? That day? Next Wednesday? Next Monday?—he gladly did so. It was worth it to see the stress leave her shoulders…to see her smile in the aftermath.

And then, a week or so after they’d started dating, she asked, “Could you come visit Barry with me?” And of course, Eddie agreed. He was confused as to why they were heading to STAR Labs rather than the hospital, but Iris explained: “Dr. Wells offered to help Barry as part of…I don’t know, making amends.”

Eddie frowned. “Do you trust him?”

“No,” Iris admitted, brows furrowed, “and neither does Dad, really, but…the hospital can’t keep up with his heartbeat, while Dr. Wells’s machines can, and it’s better than thinking Barry’s dying almost every hour.”

Can’t keep up with his…? “Isn’t that weird?”

“Majorly,” she agreed, sniffling. “But I…I’m sorry, Eddie, I can’t think about that right now.”

“Of course.” He winced. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“’s okay.”

The rest of the ride was quiet, with him feeling like an idiot, and her sniffling softly in the passenger seat.

“Are you—?”

“I’m fine,” she snapped, sighing shakily. “S-sorry, I…”

“It’s okay.” And it was, really. He just wished she knew she could confide in him.

When they did finally reach STAR Labs, she swept him inside and he awkwardly introduced himself to the boisterous but somber Cisco Ramon, and the more terse Dr. Caitlin Snow.

He didn’t miss, though, that Caitlin was a bit gentler to Iris than she’d probably ever admit. For that, he was glad.

And then…Eddie was introduced to Barry Allen.

“I’ve told him a little about you already.” Iris smiled weakly. “Called you Detective Pretty Boy.”

“Oh?” Eddie blushed.

“Well, you know, I’m all about the facts,” she teased, turning back to Barry as she said, “You’ll…you’ll love him, Barr. Eddie’s been…” she swallowed. “He-he’s been…” and then, much to Eddie’s horror, she broke down sobbing.

“Iris,” he gasped, slowly winding his arms around her and pulling her close—much to his relief, she clung to him instead of pulling away. “Iris, it’s okay, I’m right here. I’m right here, I promise.”

He wasn’t sure how long passed of him holding and soothing her, but when her sobs tapered off, he slowed his breaths to help her catch hers, still holding her tight.

“Thanks,” she whispered finally, with one final sniffle before she wiped her eyes and stood up, looking back at Barry. “I’m gonna stay a while longer.”

“I’ll stay with you,” Eddie offered, “if…if you want me to.”

She smiled sadly. “Thanks, Eddie.”

So he settled in beside her, deciding not to press her about what had just happened. When she was ready, she’d tell him.

And in the meantime…it didn’t take long for her to start chatting happily with Barry again, her expression brightening just slightly.

Not entirely, though. So Eddie couldn’t quite shake his worry.

As he drove her home, he debated whether he should ask. Would he be a bad boyfriend for just acting like nothing had happened? Or would it be worse to press him for an answer? What if he upset her again? Oh God, the last thing he wanted was to—

“I’m sorry.” Her voice broke into his thoughts as they pulled up to her house. “About…about earlier.”

“Nothing to be sorry about,” he assured.

“Eddie—”

“Iris. Your best friend is in a coma. No one’s gonna blame you for not having it all together.”

She started sniffling again, and he reached for her hand, squeezing it twice—are you okay?

“I don’t know,” she admitted shakily. “I-I’ve been trying so hard to stay strong, and I can’t possibly let myself doubt that Barry will wake up one day, but…God, Eddie, it’s so hard. It’s so fucking hard, because deep down…” she broke off, sobbing.

He squeezed her shoulder. “Unless you ask me not to in the next five seconds,” he said softly, “I’m going to hug you.”

She sniffled and put her head on his shoulder, and he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close.

“He’s gonna be okay,” he whispered.

She laughed bitterly. “How are you so sure? You don’t even know him.”

“No,” Eddie agreed, “but the way you talk about him…I almost feel like I do. And if he’s really the amazing, miraculous guy you describe…he’s gonna wake up, Iris, even if it takes him a while. You just wait and see.”

That did it—she pulled back slightly and smiled, albeit weakly. “You’re incredible, Eddie. You know that?”

He blushed. “I just like making you smile, that’s all.”

“Yeah, like I said.” She kissed his cheek, making him blush deeper. “Incredible.”

And…well. If Iris thought so, then it was probably true, wasn’t it?

prompt list!

[microwavetoaster-selfships]

Little drabble for today, since technically today(or perhaps yesterday?) Was the day I had my little...moment of. Wow it would be so funny if I got engaged with Finn and of course it happens to be cliche a few days before Valentine's Day. Anniversary. I know I don't really post my writing a lot and keep it more private but that's mostly just cause it's harder for me to write things that aren't very emotionally incorporated, if that makes any sense? With drawing I can do a little cute doodle, draw some hearts around it, and that's it, a nice simple little thingy. But with my writing it is normally a lot more extensive, even if whatever I'm writing is just fluffy stuff. And. Not to mention. A lot of people normally brush over drawings after like five reasonable seconds, but with writing it isn't entirely something that can be consumed so quickly. But! I yap a lot on here anyway.

I don't thinkkkkkk this needs any content warnings? I tried to not go into detail about the actual extent of the woes I experienced and just said enough to get it out of my system, but everything else is true and accurate😉 it gets super sappy fluffy at the end because it is me we are talking about here, so of course it does. I did a shorter Speedrun version of my proofreading, so hopefully it has a nice flow to it!

--------

"Yes, but I want to actually do SOMETHING for today, I mean, something nice at least. It is a special day, we should do something.. special for it!" Kane reasoned, still in bed and curled up to a pillow. He cautiously rolled over onto his back, and his expression twitched like he had winced. He kept the pillow in his arms and loosely hugged it against himself.

"Kane, I'm pretty sure I just watched you die, I'm not going to let you expend what little energy you have left that needs to go to resting." Finn sighed, upset, sitting carefully at the edge of the bed. He certainly wasn't upset at Kane, more so the situation; and perhaps what little he could do- or have done- to remedy it, to no fault of his own, of course. Or anyone's, really.

Considering that Kane wasn't always that keen on bigger events anyway, his prying for one was a bit ironic. But just because he didn't like going out to restaurants or typical romantic events that involved eating out in public or resulted in lots of noises going on like at restaurants, it didn't mean that Finn didn't like those things. And, perhaps, Kane felt a little guilty inside, because he had been out of commission for most of the day, so anything that they could've done couldn't happen.

"It's not like I didn't know this might happen." Finn said gently, turning a little so he could look at Kane when he said it.

Kane sighed a little, almost in a pouting manner, and glanced at Finn to meet his gaze for a moment, "I mean, I know that we both knew it was going to happen, cause the prediction and all- and I could feel it- but..."

"But I'm feeling better now and-"

"Rest." Finn interrupted firmly.

Kane groaned in response, why must he need rest and recovery. Why must he be aware of how truthfully exhausted and sore he felt. "Okay, well I wasn't dying, I was just-"

"You were withering in pain, and trying to tug out your own hair so you could feel something else, you-"

"Okay, okay, but worse case scenario you could've just- I mean we live in England, all the houses and buildings are brick- you could've just bonked me out on the head and then drivin me off to the ER or like, urgent care or something."

Ah, and Kane was met with the look of a man who sometimes forgot what country people grow up to be. A look laced with concern because it was his partner he was looking at, but there was still a slight hint of "Fuck? No!" Whether Kane's country roots lying in America added to this was a different story.

"Er- euhm- Whatever the uh. Thing is called the-..." Kane looks around the room as he racks his brain for it, "The NHS! Yes! Whatever those.. they have like those walk-in urgent rooms, right? Like buildings?"

Finn looked like he wanted to respond with several things like "The NHS wait time isn't worth it" and "The day I put you out of your misery like some animal even if it is to temporarily knock you unconscious is the day I [redacted]" but with as ruffled and exhausted as Kane still appeared, he wasn't going to have the man waste his breath on discussing the complexities of the NHS and every other healthcare system, or whatever else was going through his mind. Instead, he ever so gently nudged Kane over closer to the middle of the bed so he could lay down next to him. He understood that going from forever sleeping on a bed that was hardly bigger than him to the luxuries of a bed that was probably a bit bigger than your dining table was something for Kane to adjust to, but it still drove him mad that Kane, for some reason, slept right at the edge of the bed. Even if he has yet to actually fall off of it.

And Kane couldn't help but crack out a grin over it, he spent a lot of time in bed so there was hardly a moment where Finn wasn't wordlessly gently shuffling him closer to the center of the bed.

"But we aught to do at least something, right? Today isn't just any other day today- not to me at least- I want to at least mark it like that by doing something special. Even if it is something small."

As Finn stretched out and laid down net to Kane, he let out a long exhale, "And you call me foolish?" Finn mused, and with as much little movement as possible he rolled over so he could face Kane and gingerly wrap an arm around the other man, tucking it under the pillow that Kane was still holding closely to himself. He was sure Kane was still feeling sore, so he treated every movement and touch he did like he was trying to do a waltz in a minefield.

Kane cocked an eyebrow, "I do call you foolish. Not that I'm any less foolish- if not more." "You certainly are," Finn's voice turned to a mumble as he tried to nuzzle himself infinitely and impossibly closer to Kane.

"And would you like to elaborate on that?" Kane asked, with a faint grin. He was feeling far more amused that he was able to express himself at the moment.

"The whole point of the day is just to spend it however we'd like, and I don't care how we spend it, I just want to spend it with you."

This was one of the moments were Kane was glad that Finn had his face buried up against him, because even if Finn could feel Kane hold his breath, it at least still spared Kane a little dignity because Finn would miss seeing his eyebrows furrow and the corners of his mouth twist and maybe his eyes watered up just a little as well. "Yeah, but you spent the day like a medieval doctor watching a patient and not being able to do anything about it but sedate them."

Finn frowned a little, but he would've frowned regardless of what day it happened on because it was still something that happened in the first place.

Kane let go of the pillow with one of his arms, and then decided to forfeit the pillow entirely altogether and shift his position so he was laying more towards Finn now. He didn't really have much left to say.

"I just want to enjoy the day with you, Kane." Finn murmured, the weight of affection in his voice was undoubtable.

Kane was quiet for a moment, his eyebrows were still furrowed, "I just want you to know that you are special," he responded, and if his sentence had been any longer his voice might've croaked.

Finn smiled, and tried to be as gentle as he could as he softly tugged Kane ever so slightly more closer to him, "I know that you think I'm special." Again, Kane took a moment before he responded. His mind was having trouble arguing with someone who seemed to radiate their love out of their body.

"You do?" Kane asked. Of course he would want Finn to feel special.

"This is where I get to use one of your own sayings against you," Finn said, starting to grin, "You always say that actions speak louder than words, don't you?"

As much as Kane loved that saying and thought it to be true, it bugged him a little that it sounded like something you would find spelled out as the lesson in the back of a book or TV show for children. Which perhaps was exactly where he had gotten it from.

"I do say that. And at least in my experience I've found it to be relatively true, give or take some case scenario exceptions; as with anything there's exceptions."

"Well I think it is plenty special that I get to do this with you," Finn gave Kane the lightest squeeze possible in his arms, "And you tell me in plenty of different ways all of the time how you feel about me." Kane knew that he did that, but part of him almost wanted to respond with "I do?" because it wasn't the usual for someone to be able to understand the funny language that he seemed to speak.

Kane looked at the ceiling for a little while, soaking in the words and the moment. Finn seemed quite content and peaceful with things right now- which is what Kane wanted. Truthfully, in an ideal scenario Kane would've spent the day treating Finn like he was some royalty- not that he didn't have tomorrow to do that, anyway.

"I like you, Finn," Kane said.

"I like you too, Kane." Just for a few moments Finn had closed his eyes. Then again, no one ever goes to close their eyes for just a few moments and it turns out that way.

No, maybe today wasn't and couldn't be spent as a day for a big grand gesture and display of love and affection, perhaps that was something that was going to be saved for another time, but there was still just as much love to be felt in getting consumed by the peaceful tranquility that came with not having anything but a nice warm and safe home, and being willingly boxed up in a room with someone literally, and figuratively, wrapped up around you.

[poinsettia89]

Definitely thinking about RPing a birth in a crowded, stuck elevator. The carrier and their partner having been on their way to head to the hospital on a chaotic weekend night, and a bunch of people keep piling into the elevator as it heads down the floors. No one makes much of how crowded it's getting, as they all anticipate on getting off. in the lobby— until the elevator stops moving entirely and everyone begins to worry. And in that overpopulated, overheated little space full of people complaining, the carrier's water breaks.

[orchidbreezefc]

a couple taxonomemes

(original [here])

[sticky-bros]

That dadson barbecue party post I made has me thinking about Dean x Ben Braeden. This pairing squicks me out, but if someone else wants to do something with the concept, feel free to.

[shih-coulda-had-it]

I want a story or head cannons about afo going to his private gym for a leg day and forcing yoichi to come with him.

Bonus points if Kudou and Bruce encourage him to go, but it’s because they don’t realize AFO has 0 idea how to moderate his gym routine for a frail younger brother whose knees pop every time he stands up.