#Swivel Angle Plate

[nonbinary-octopus]

help I was trying to sleep but my brain decided to start puzzling out the mechanics of a project I haven't thought about in over a year and it's been an hour and a half and I'm still not asleep

[bxlladxnnabxtch]

Eternally Elusive

Rhysand x Reader

❀​🇲​​🇦​​🇸​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​​🇱​​🇮​​🇸​​🇹​❀

Summary: A pestering passerby drags up an unexpected guest that almost blows your cover.

Read pt. 1 of Eternally Elusive - HERE

Read pt. 7 - HERE (currently wip)

Warnings: Harassment, injury.

In your pain riddled haste, you hadn’t realized how worked up you had made Azriel’s shadow. It seemed to be fretting at any slip up in fear of you damaging your already broken wing, it’s movement jagged and sharp as it circled you. But alas, you paid it no heed- couldn’t as you stumbled your way over the border and onto Dawn Court soil in the most pain you’ve been in since you’d left your homeland. The feeling buzzed in your head, and you just knew that you’d be in pain for months just waiting for this to heal up, but that’s only if you get the proper care for it, which you were certainly not.

Even being courts apart, Rhys still seemed to find a way to make your life difficult.

You wondered idly if he knew how badly his slip up had fucked you over as you splinted your injury, enchanting the wooden block to stay in place with a wave of your hand. Your wing still throbbed, the pain thrumming through you like a steady stream. It was the slightest bit more bearable with the splint in place, the appendage no longer visibly deformed, and it put you at ease to see it no longer sticking at an odd angle.

The glamour you held over yourself swallowed you like a comforting blanket, the weight of it putting you at ease as you looked out on the bustling streets of the Dawn Court. The last thing you needed right now was someone noticing who you were, the whispers would no doubt make their way back to the inner circle and you didn’t need another guest appearance as of right now. You dragged a hand down your face, rolling your shoulders in an attempt to ease the tension that had built up along your trek into town.

A brush along your wing had you jumping and scrambling to recoil away from the touch. Your head whipped around, swiveling frantically in search of the source. Your eyes landed on a short, brunette fae. His eyes were a piercing gold, shimmering in the setting sun. You’d almost say they were beautiful if they hadn’t been holding a tinge of disgust, staring at you as if he was floored by your very presence. Azriel’s shadow stilled when you locked eyes with him, the darkness settling at your side.

It's slight coolness as it brushed against you offered you some solace from your peaked anxiety as you stared at the fae. “An Illyrian?” He scoffed, looking down on your form perched on a wooden bench. His upper lip curled into a scowl as his eyes narrowed. “You shouldn’t be here.” He sneered. Your eyes darted around, a few people nearby eyed you both, a few previous strollers slowing down to watch the interaction. Your pulse spiked, and the fae seemed to pick up on it as he huffed a snort. “Are you a spy? Come to feed information back to your whore of a High Lord?”

The comment hit you like a brick to the face, the insult causing a slice of hurt to bloom in your chest despite your current status with said male. Your features downturned, a kaleidoscope of memories flooding into you from Under the Mountain- both yours and his. You didn’t have time to fully react to anything the fae had said- to what your body had forced you to remember.

A sharp, commanding voice sounded from behind the Dawn Court native, and he bristled at the sound, a visible tremor running through him. “Are we now in the business of disturbing travelers?”

You watched as the golden eyed fae slowly turned around, almost as if he were dreading what he would see. He moved to the side, and your eyes landed on a black haired woman, the girl coated in glittering armor from head to toe. The Dawn Court insignia sat proud on her chest plate, her dark hair sprawling well past the emblem and stopping just before her waist. She held the same shimmering golden eyes as the male- but these were sharper somehow, and they seemed to swirl with power. White wings stood proud behind her, so big that the ivory feathers brushed the ground where she stood.

A Peregryn, you realized.

A member of the elite aerial legion the Dawn Court proudly harbored. You were stunned, as were most passerby at her presence, only attracting more attention to your already uncomfortable situation. Her eyes landed on you, and they widened slightly in recognition.

It dawned on you in that second, and you stiffened into an immovable force.

Glamour didn’t work on Peregryns.

You stared at each other wide eyed, a silent acknowledgement of what was taking place. A runaway monarch- and a soldier of another court. She had all the power here- a cruel switch that was bound to be flipped at some point; you just didn’t expect it to be so soon. She could report this back to Thesan, have you sent back without so much as a thought. Azriels shadow circled you, and you waited with bated breath to see what she’d do.

She blinked. Once. Twice.

Her eyes fell back onto the brown-haired male still staring at her in thinly veiled horror. “Get moving.” She said coldly, jerking her head in the direction of another bustling street. The male sputtered for a second, eyes darting back to you before stuttering out a “yes, ma’am.” You watched him disappear into the crowd of people making their way down the busy street, the few people that had stopped to watch the interaction dispersing with him.

Your eyes fell back on the woman, the Peregryn now making her way towards you as if she were on a mission. The look in her eyes had you leaping to your feet, hopping off the bench as if the wooden structure had scorched you through your clothes. You got up in time to meet her face to face, her golden armor glinting in the setting sun.

You swallowed thickly, your pulse racing as you locked eyes. Her face seemed to hold a certain kind of awe you’d compare to a child receiving a new toy. Her eyes slipped over to your injured wing, the glance lingering for a second longer than you’d anticipated before it flickered back to your face. The fae bristled, a realization seeming to dawn on her as she floundered. “M-my Lady.” Her legs bent to steep into a kneel, and your heart rate spiked so violently the Peregryn flinched, your arm shooting out to stop her from completing her bow. Your nails dug into her armor, creating a soft creaking noise as your voice fought its way out of you. Commanding. Desperate. Almost a plea as you spoke.

“Don’t.” You said lowly, eyes darting around as she slowly eased out of her half completed kneel. She managed to take in your frantic movements in her confused state, eyes searching the streets in hopes no one had saw what she had just attempted to do. A fae with light brown hair seemed to eye you as she walked by, and that was all it took to have you hauling the Peregryn into a nearby ally.

“Are you trying to get me in shit!?” You hissed, casting a glance to the street you were just standing in, the shadows of the ally helping you to remain hidden. “No- no, my lad-“ You cut her off. “Don’t call me that, I’m not Your Lady.” You let go of her armor, confusion staining the woman’s face, only becoming more saturated with each passing second. “I may serve the Dawn Court, but I was born of the Night, you are as much My Lady as Thesan is My Lord.” Your eyes darted to her dark sprawling locks, and it clicked for you. She may have been a Peregryn, that much was obvious, but she held prominent features of the Night Court.

It was possible, much like your own lineage. A union between a Peregryn and a member of the Night Court. You saw it. A reflection of yourself stared back, the pride that swirled in her eyes when she talked about her heritage. You remember being like that, once. So proud of being from both the Winter, and the Night Court.

It was long gone though, that pride.

One of those homes was ripped away from you.

You hope she doesn’t suffer the same fate.

“I’m glamoured right now.” You said, tone much softer. A crease formed between her brows, face falling. “Oh.” She paused, looking you over before she spoke again. “I thought you were here for the Fall Solstice.”

That’s right. The Solstice.

Where the three Solar Courts came together in celebration. Where the day and night fall together in equal harmony, each as long as the other. You had completely forgotten in your haste to make it back to Winter. Your mouth fell open, eyebrows raising as an expression of surprise overtook your features. It was clear Rhys wouldn’t be attending any festivals after Under the Mountain, and now with you missing, you’d be surprised if he left the house. Especially with… her to attend to.

“I’m guessing that’s a no?” She asked. Your eyes fell back on her. She really didn’t know? Did Rhys not alert the other Courts to your disappearance? Or is it just so early he didn’t have a chance yet? You swallowed nervously, wringing your hands together anxiously. “Well, since you’re in town you’re still welcome to come.” The Peregryn said softly, sensing your unease. “Pardon my bluntness, but you don’t look to be feeling too well, you should get some rest. I should probably get back to my post regardless.”

You realized just how long you’d been standing in the ally, and you nodded your head in acknowledgement. She inclined her head slightly, almost a bow but casual enough to be brushed off. “It was an honor.” She said sincerely, turning to make her way out of the overhang. You watched her exit the ally, ivory wings brushing the ground as they followed behind her.

Hauling yourself up the stairs of the inn, you used the wall to support most of your weight. Azriels shadow was swirling around you, fretting as it always did when you were in a less than favorable state. The groan you let out when you reached the top was almost guttural, and you had to muster up the very last bit of your energy reserves to scuffle the last bit to your room.

You fiddled around with the key, leaning your forehead against the door and attempted not to wince as your arm knocked into your wing. Getting the key into the lock was an accomplishment in itself, and you pushed the door open, ready to clean yourself up and have a short nap. The door swung open, and you threw the key onto the dresser on your right side, swinging the door closed behind you.

The door swung closed, revealing the bed and a battered Azriel sitting atop it.

[deanstead]

Bad Feeling

Pairing: Matt Casey x Reader

Requested: yes by anon

Summary: Matt gets an uneasy feeling, which intensifies when he spots Y/N's car at the scene of a multi-vehicle accident.

Square Filled: Hurt/Comfort for #resa.3kfiestabingo

Word Count: 1,324

Warnings: canon-typical mentions of car accidents, injuries

A/N: Some hurt/comfort that has been sitting in my drafts for too long! Also, I'm gonna start tagging my oc (child) characters!

MATT CASEY MASTERLIST

Matt glanced at his phone, the lack of response to his message concerning him just a little. "Get a grip, Matt, maybe she’s driving.” He muttered at himself, just as the bells went off.

All units, Multi-vehicle accident.

With no other time to let his mind wander, Matt hurried towards the truck, nodding at Stella as the sirens sounded and the trucks hurried towards the address that dispatch had given them. But it wasn’t until Stella pulled the truck over at a distance away from the crash that Matt felt an irrational bad feeling blossom in his chest.

Matt pushed the feeling aside as he got out of the truck, wondering what the hell was wrong with him today. But he didn’t have long to be distracted as they immediately got to work.

He’d just sent most of them off in pairs when he spotted it - the flash of color, the partial license plate that sent his heart down to his stomach, the realization that the bad feeling was no longer irrational, while there was a crashing in his ears.

Stella spotted the car almost at the same time that Matt did, her head swiveling back to look at her Captain, but Matt was already on the move, gripping the tool he had in his hand tighter as he avoided people and vehicles alike, before he got there.

“Y/N!”

The car was lying on its side and Matt got on his knees to peer in, his heart thumping hard against his chest even though he’d done this a million times before.

“Alex?”

His four year old blinked back at him, looking alert and Matt’s eyes left Alex just for a second to glance at where you were motionless in the driver's seat up front.

“Hey buddy, you okay?” Matt said, peering in at his son.

“Daddy?”

Matt nodded back at Alex. “Listen, I need you to stay still alright?”

“You get me?” Alex asked, although he didn’t move as his father had instructed, continuing to lie on his stomach.

“Yes, I’m coming to get you, alright? Does anything hurt?"

Alex shook his head slowly and Matt nodded again. “Will you be a brave boy?”

He nodded quietly and Matt turned his attention towards you with a nod at Kelly.

Matt could hear Kelly talking to Alex, so he headed towards the front of the car. “Y/N, can you hear me?”

Matt glanced at Sylvie when you didn’t respond, the unease written all over his face.

“Casey, we got this.” Stella assured him, as the rest of the team worked even faster now, the loud sounds of their tools seeming to overwhelm the sounds of the other truck sirens that were coming to help.

As Cruz pulled off the back door, Kelly reached in for Alex, who was more than happy to wriggle his way towards his favorite uncle.

Kelly pulled Alex into his arms, his eyes raking the little boy for any sign of injuries before Violet reached them to check him out, Violet then bringing Alex straight to Matt.

“Hey buddy.” Matt said, keeping his voice low even as his eyes darted towards where Stella and Mouch were working on getting you out.

Matt felt the fear spread throughout his body even as he propped Alex into his arms. “He just has a few scratches and he’s fine but we should still go to Med.” Violet told Matt, as if she knew he needed a distraction.

Matt smiled. “Thanks, Violet.”

He offered Alex a reassuring smile, turning his body at an angle so that Alex couldn’t see them lift you out of the car.

Stella looked up with a small shake of her head.

You still weren’t responsive.

“Matt, you can come with us. We should get Alex checked out too.” Sylvie said. With a silent nod from Boden, Matt climbed in after you, reaching forward for your hand quietly, Alex sitting in his lap.

The hardest part for Matt was juggling a toddler and being worried for you, like Matt had to choose between being a father or a husband, when he was both.

You’d been wheeled straight into a treatment room with Connor and Ethan assuring that you were in good hands, while Maggie directed him into a room with Dylan.

“Hey. I’m Dylan. You must be Alex.”

Alex glanced up at Matt who gave him an encouraging nod and Alex smiled back at Dylan.

As Dylan spoke to Alex and checked him out, Matt found his eyes wandering towards the treatment you were in, the hurried movements from across the ED not comforting at all. But he couldn’t leave his son here to go check on you.

“Case.”

Matt heard his best friend’s voice first before he registered his presence.

“Why don’t you go check on her?” Kelly said, reading his thoughts immediately, recalling the time Stella had been brought in. “Alex and I can hang out. What do you say?”

“Yeah!” Alex’s excitement when it came to Kelly had never come more in handy.

“Thanks, Sev.” Matt said, Kelly patting him on the shoulder.

Before he left, Matt pressed a quick kiss on his son's head. "I'll be right back." But Alex didn't seem too bothered, distracted by Kelly and Dylan.

Matt hurried across the ED, just as Connor came out from the treatment room. “Casey, good. I need to bring her up to surgery, alright? There’s some broken bones and she’s bleeding internally. I need to go in and stop the bleeding. Can I do that?”

Matt nodded quickly. “Whatever you have to do, Connor. I…”

Connor nodded back. “Casey, I got her.”

Matt leaned over to give your hand a squeeze, even though you still didn’t seem to be conscious. “Alex and I will be right here, baby.” He whispered, before they quickly wheeled you off.

When you become conscious of your surroundings once again, you were confused at first. Your vision swam for a bit before the ceiling became clearer and your brain registered the smell that could mean you were only in one place - the hospital.

“Y/N?”

You blinked, angling your head to the side as Matt shot out of the chair he was in. You could feel the warmth of his hand and you smiled, your fingers closing around his until the memory of how you got here hit you like it had just happened.

You exhaled sharply and Matt stiffened, frowning.

“Alex. Matt, Alex he… he was in the backseat. He…”

“Shh.” Matt squeezed your hand tighter. “It’s okay. Alex is fine, alright? Kelly just brought him out to get a snack. But he’s fine. Dr Scott looked him over. He had a few scratches but that was it. Breathe.”

Relief flooded your system now as your body relaxed, only the pain left throbbing through your system.

But at least Alex was safe. That was something.

Matt sighed, his hand going to the top of your head as he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Thank god.” He whispered.

The whisper brought with it the unease and fear he’d been holding on to ever since he’d spotted your car lying on its side in the middle of the road.

“Sorry.” You whispered back, as Matt looked back down at you, as if he was afraid to take his eyes off you.

Matt shook his head with a small smile. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

He looked like he wanted to say something more before he was interrupted by Kelly and Alex coming back in. “Mama!”

You smiled, as Matt took Alex from Kelly’s arms.

“Hey you.” Kelly said, leaning in for a gentle hug.

“Thanks Uncle Kelly.” You answered, smiling as Kelly gave you an affectionate tap.

Matt lowered Alex onto your bed where he gently cuddled into your side and Matt just smiled, before he leaned in to put the both of you into his embrace.

THANK YOU FOR READING!! PLEASE TELL ME WHAT YOU THOUGHT OF THIS!!

If you want to support me, buy me a coffee!

[omnomnomdomcaps]

Louder than Words

Yet another remastered story, everyone! And yes, I'm still here. - ONND

***

Ann stared in vain at the screen in front of her, lingering on the clock in the corner. She had told her boss - the firebrand lawyer that she aspired to be like - that she could have her report done by Monday morning, and yet for the past three hours she had accomplished absolutely nothing. It was as if a fog had set over her, and she knew exactly who to blame.

In one furious motion, the diminutive blonde rose from her seat, stomped through her apartment hallway as loudly as her five-foot frame could, stopped, and pointed, as sharply and as angrily as her finger was capable of pointing.

“YOU!” she bellowed, her face bright red.

“Yes?” Richard, her boyfriend, turned in his swivel, utterly unfazed, resting his hands in his lap as he looked up at his fuming visitor.

“Don’t play dumb with me!” the girl bellowed, “Your stupid fucking hypnosis bullshit has been messing with my head all night, and I’ll remind you that I have a lot of work to do.”

“My… stupid hypnosis?” he repeated softly, raising an eyebrow, “But… I thought that hypnosis didn’t do anything?”

“Oh shut up, smartass,” Ann barked, “it doesn’t. But all your yammering on about figuring out the trigger” - she added air quotes as she mocked - “and how revolutionary you seem to think this bullshit is has been giving me a fucking headache, and now I can’t focus on my goddamn work.”

“My oh my,” the man shook his head in his seat, “such rude words. As I said before, I’m quite proud of this new file, and I’m very appreciative that you would let me test it out on you. I just thought you should know that it’s trigger-based, in case that helps you manage it. After twenty-four hours, I’ll be happy to remove it if you just ask, but I need to collect a few observations first.”

“I don’t need you to remove shit,” she snarled, “It doesn’t do anything, and I wish you’d stop wasting your time on it. Just tell me what the stupid trigger is or whatever, so I can focus on more important things. Christ.”

“Oh, but where’s the fun in that?” Richard smiled, “Besides, if the file really isn’t doing anything, then it’d seem to me that you just need a simple distraction. So why don’t you take your mind off work a few minutes, hmmm? Relax a little?”

Ann growled, but eventually released her pointing hand and exhaled. She wasn’t one to admit it, but perhaps, she thought, he was right - a simple distraction was what she needed.

The girl left her boyfriend’s office and made her way to the kitchen, where she quickly came upon some lingering plates and cutlery from the night’s dinner. Once more, she took a deep breath, before taking a sponge and turning on the faucet, immersing herself in a simple, productive task to clear the fog in her head.

And within just a few moments, that fog seemed to start to clear. The girl felt calmer and more at ease, and didn’t even show annoyance when a familiar face came in to join her.

“Aww, thank you!” her boyfriend remarked, “You didn’t have to do that. Maybe I can help?”

“I can handle it myself,” she said without turning, “but thanks.”

Indeed, it seemed she was almost done with the work anyway, only one plate left to scrub off and place into the couple’s dishwasher. But then, that plate slipped from her hands.

In a moment of sudden panic, Ann scrambled to regain a grip on the wide dinner plate, her wet fingers grasping madly at the air over the sink. Finally, she was able to regain a hold, but it came at such an awkward angle that she ended up diverting the full pour of the faucet towards her body, blasting her with such force that she had to drop the ceramic into the basin below.

The plate shattered into pieces, and Ann just stood there, trying to make sense of what had just happened, and what had come of it. She was drenched - the burst of water had reached her face, her t-shirt, and the front of her pants. As her boyfriend stepped calmly in front of her, turning off the sink and beginning to collect the shattered remains of the plate, the girl erupted once again in frustration.

“Fucking seriously!?” she yelled out, “Why the fuck did you have to distract me again? I was finally starting to fucking relax and you had to get up behind me and…”

“Whoa there now,” he gestured, as if trying to rein in a horse, “no need for that kind of hostility. I’ll just take care of the little mess here, and I think you should probably focus on getting yourself cleaned up?”

Again the girl growled, balling up fists as she walked away. Part of her wanted to keep arguing, but she knew there would be nothing to gain. Plus, she knew he was right - she needed to get herself cleaned up. Her shirt was sopping wet, and the stain on her pants had soaked her underwear as well.

As she changed herself out into dry clothes in their bedroom, Richard once again came to join, tapping her ajar door before peering in.

“You gonna be alright changing yourself there, babe? Maybe I should get you something a little more absorbent, in case you have another little mishap?”

“Real funny,” she rolled her eyes, “I can keep my pants dry just fine, as long as someone doesn’t keep distracting me. Now could you please leave me alone?”

“Alright, alright,” he acquiesced, and walked away.

Ann, dressed in a fresh set of clothes, took several deep breaths to try to calm herself down, hoping that she might be able to focus enough to get her work done. But as she stared again into the screen, she found herself again veering away from her task. She played games, watched news, checked social media, and did everything except the thing she was supposed to do, until a familiar feeling finally pulled her away from her seat.

“God fucking damn it,” she muttered under her breath, shaking her head as she walked away from her laptop. She wondered why she had been so ineffective - she’d never been one to struggle so much with writer’s block or procrastination before, and she didn’t really care about the stupid hypnosis trigger, did she?

But then, only a few feet from her chair, Ann felt something strange. The urge that she had, that had started as a simple need for a pee break, seemed to be developing unnaturally, growing stronger and stronger each second. But it had gotten beyond even that.

The girl looked down, unable to believe what she was seeing. There, at the front of her fresh pair of shorts, spots were appearing. They weren’t some burst of desperation, but small, uncontrolled drop, leaking through underwear, and beginning to drip onto the floor.

“Fuck!” She launched into a sprint for the bathroom, but it was already too late. The drops had turned into a full-blown stream, flowing down across the legs of her shorts and forming puddles on the hardwood below, with her muscles unable to stop anything.

She finally did enter the bathroom, but there wasn’t much left for her to do there. She tossed off her ruined shorts and panties - her second such set of the day - and sat half-naked on the toilet bowl, mulling her situation, cursing until her face turned red.

And then, like clockwork, he showed up, carrying a crinkling package in his hand as he waved to his girlfriend from the bathroom’s entrance.

“What the fuck do you want!?” she balked, “And why do you even have that?”

“Occupational hazard,” he chuckled, “different hypnoses affect people in different ways, and sometimes these h-”

“NO!” she pointed, glaring suddenly, “Don’t say that word - that word that rhymes with ‘yelp.’ That’s your fucking trigger word, isn’t it? Isn’t it?”

Richard smiled and shrugged, and then began to answer. “A good g-”

“No!” she cut him off, “You know what? Don’t fucking say anything. Don’t talk to me tonight. Sleep on the fucking couch. Okay?”

The man standing in the hallway nodded, raising his free hand up to gesture for calm. He said nothing.

“But,” Ann went on, her voice turning timid, “could you leave the package here? Thanks.”

Her boyfriend tossed the package towards her before proceeding to walk away once again. Ann, after a few moments, reached to bring it closer to herself, shuddering as she examined the contents.

Diapers. A small, mostly empty bag of thick, adult diapers. Ann wondered if she really needed them, or if she was simply letting Richard’s riddles get in her head. Either way, she figured, it would be easier to just put one on. Tomorrow afternoon, she reminded herself, she would be done with this insanity, free to go back to her normal life. And she would never agree to let that man hypnotize her again.

With a sigh, the girl took a garment from the bag and unfolded it, trying to make sense of front and back. This will be over soon, she reminded herself, and she stood to wrap the diaper around herself. It was an alien feeling, and she winced as she heard the plastic crinkle. Still, it wasn’t all that uncomfortable, and she was able to ease into the sensation as she walked back towards the bedroom, carrying the remainder of the bag in her fingers.

Richard had gone to sleep on their sofa, as requested, and Ann flopped onto their bed alone, thoughts from the previous day racing through her mind. She was too tired to try to do work any longer, and she reminded herself that it would be a waste of time anyway. Within a day, this would all be over, and that thought calmed her as she drifted off peacefully.

****

Some nine hours later, Ann rubbed her tired head as she tried to adjust to the new day. She wasn’t used to sleeping so long, and she certainly wasn’t used to the new sensation between her legs.

“Oh, Christ…” she mumbled, tossing off her blanket and covers to reveal a sopping diaper underneath.

“Good morning, sleepyhead!” Richard waltzed in, a wide smile on his face, “Ready for breakfast?”

“Could you not be so fucking loud?” she whispered, holding the side of her head, “i literally just woke up. Jesus…”

“Oh my,” he said, speaking more softly now, “looks like someone’s had a busy night, huh? I suppose I’ll just leave you to it, then.”

And for a few moments, he did, working away in the kitchen while the girl tried to orient herself. Slowly, Ann was able to untape her worn diaper, wrap it, and toss into their wastebasket, before pulling another from the bag - the last, she quickly realized - and setting it around her hips.

“Need any… assistance there?” Richard chimed in from the kitchen.

“No!” she balked, “I can change myself. I don’t need you using this as an excuse to humiliate me any more.”

“Suit yourself, then.”

This time, however, it seemed the tapes were baffling Ann. Try as she might, she simply couldn’t fix them around her waist, no matter if she was lying down or standing up, no matter how she tried to position her hands.

“Are you sure you don’t need any help?” he finally asked again, peering into the bedroom door.

“I told you not to… ugh…” the girl scowled, crossing her arms and turning her head. “Fine! Go ahead and fucking change me already. I hope you’re happy, asshole.”

“Always!” he answered cheerily, whistling to himself as he fastened the blushing girl’s diaper.

“Y’know,” he said, just as he was finishing the work, “I think I might have to pick up a few things at the mall today. Would you care to join me?”

“Fine,” the girl replied, her head still turned away, a scowl still covering her face, “whatever.”

Breakfast was a silent affair - flapjacks and scrambled eggs, which the girl ate, to her relief, without incident. All the while, her mind continued to race through her current situation, as she struggled to accept the profound effects the hypnosis seemed to have had on her, and wondered how much further it would go before the day was through.

Soon, the two were in the mall lobby, watching Sunday crowds scuttle about around them. Ann had chosen a light blue sundress to wear - the one clean item she had that wouldn’t leave her with an obvious bulge - but she was still highly self-conscious of what was hidden underneath.

“So what did you want to get here?” the girl asked, nervously maintaining her hands at the hem of her dress.

“Well,” he began, “I did notice that package I gave you was running a bit l-”

“Oh my fucking god,” she cut him off, “You fucking asshole. You just brought me out here to buy diapers, didn’t you? You just want to fucking humiliate me, is that it?”

“Now, now,” Richard answered calmly, “no need to make a fuss. Yes, I may have needed to pick up a few of those, but I’m also happy to go shop for anything you like. My treat - it’s my way of thanking you for -” he paused and grinned, anticipating her grimace at his next word, “helping me with this project.”

Ann’s face turned red as she clenched her teeth. She wanted to scream that this was some trap, but she fought against the urge, not wanting to call attention to herself in this state. Plus, if he was being honest, this could be a chance for her to salvage her situation with a bit of material compensation.

And so, the girl led her boyfriend without a word to an upscale clothing outlet, handing him a basket to carry. For the next hour, she would fill it with anything that caught her eye, smiling gleefully as she snatched up the most extravagant items in the store. And Richard, for his part, said nothing.

That was, until he heard the girl’s stomach emit a familiar rumble.

“Uh oh…” he teased, “looks like someone’s gotta go.”

“It’s fine,” Ann rolled her eyes, “I can wait. I’d rather not deal with a public bathroom right now.” And with that, she went back to picking clothes, as her boyfriend shrugged silently and averted his gaze with a whistle.

It was only a few moments later, though, that a sudden and powerful cramp struck the girl, causing her to nearly drop the dress she was holding. With wide eyes and blush cheeks, the girl looked nervously around before admitting a change of heart.

“Berightback,” she blurted, and she darted off into the mall. And after putting their overflowing basket aside, her boyfriend ran after.

For a moment, Ann stopped and turned. “Don’t follow me!” she yelled, “I don’t need your fucking help, okay? I - I - oh god…”

The second cramp that hit, it seemed, was far more forceful than the first. There, in the mall’s corridor, Ann grunted as she felt her body pushing and pushing, a massive, mushy mess filling the back of her diaper.

She wanted to cry.

“There there, sweetie,” Richard said softly, “it’s okay. Why don’t we just make a quick run to the pharmacy, and then we’ll be off home and get you nice and clean, ‘kay?”

“You…” she grimaced, but she held back. Don’t make a scene here, she told herself, not here.

And so she went along, swallowing her tongue and her pride as he took her by the hand over to the mall’s small drugstore. But against his word, Richard seemed to be taking his sweet time, whistling as he carefully looked through the packages in the diaper aisle, before settling on one he liked.

“Oooh, this is perfect! A nice big package for you. Can you read how many diapies are in here?”

“Fuck off,” the girl whispered through gritted teeth, “I can read fine, asshole.”

“Oh?” the man countered with a condescending smile, “Go on, then.”

Fuming through her nose as she tried to contain her rage, the girl let her eyes drift to the package, finding nothing but incomprehensible symbols on it. Then, those eyes began to dart around the aisle, finding only the same on every other package and sign. And when she realized what it all meant, Ann snapped.

“WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO TO ME?” she yelled, stomping her foot against the store rug, “WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO TO ME??”

“Now now, sweetie,” Richard smiled, putting aside the package he was holding, “there’s no need for that kind of language. Don’t forget we’re in a store now.”

“Fuck you,” the girl retorted, her face beet red as she landed another stomp on the floor, “Fuck you fuck you fu-”

In an instant, the girl found herself looking down at the floor, positioned with her full diaper facing up over her boyfriend’s knee.

“Tsk tsk tsk” he shook his head, stern but calm, “How many times did I warn you?”

*SMACK*

“Little girls like you shouldn’t be using such foul language.”

*SMACK*

“And now, this is what you get.”

*SMACK*

“Is that clear?”

Ann nodded behind watering eyes as she was let down onto her feet, her hand reaching to support her sore bottom as she winced at the sticky mess that had been pressed against it.

She would be silent for the rest of their mall trip, hiding her face behind her hands as her boyfriend checked out the new package of diapers, and looking away as they drove home. It was almost over, she told herself, remembering that there were only a few hours left before the day was up. This nightmare is almost over.

That only made it more shocking, however, when he led her back into their apartment to reveal what was once his office, redone completely into a full, adult-sized nursery, complete with a giant crib, soft pink-colored walls with infantile decorations, and a changing mat, onto which she found herself being placed.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he smiled, “I did a little redecorating while you were asleep last night. Thought you mind need this.”

“What the fuck,” the girl seethed, preparing to burst once more, “You fucking psycho…”

“Now, now,” he chided, “what did we say about naughty words?”

“I can say whatever the fuck I want!”

“Can you, now?”

The girl was ready to go off once more, but she was interrupted by a strange feeling. Her tongue, it seemed, was lost in her mouth, and all of the sounds she wanted to make seemed impossible.

“Ga…” she mustered, “ba… da…” but she simply couldn’t formulate a word.

“Oh, too bad,” Richard commented, unable to fully hide his chuckle at the girl’s state, “Seems like someone’s lost her train of thought. And it’s such a shame, because I’m sure you really wanted to ask for me to undo this hypnosis.

“But that’s not going to happen now, because you went and said those words again - I can. So sad, really - you could have probably figured it out when you were still smart enough, but instead you went and insulted me and my work, thinking you were so much better than all of it.

“I guess it can’t be helped. I guess that’s just the girl you are - or at least, the one you were. Thinking you were better than everyone else, thinking you could do anything. And that’s exactly why I had to teach you this lesson.”

Ann lay in wide-eyed shock as she soaked in the revelation. Her mind raced as she tried to find a way out, a way to escape being this oversized baby, unable to speak a word, being changed out of a full, wet, messy diaper before being put down into her crib for a nap.

But she couldn’t.

[sunlightandsuffering]

Feminist and The Fratboy AU

THEORETICALLY, I COULD WRITE MORE BUT AS OF RN I KIND OF LIKE HOW IT'S ENDED AND STUFF?? it's not as smutty as i wanted but y'all i really think this is the essence of them, feminist mikasa and fratboy eren WE DO LOVE

She’s sitting in his room, lazily turning herself in loops on his desk chair, spinning around over and over again. And isn’t that the definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. 

And yet here she fucking is, in the bedroom of one Eren Yeager, expecting it to play out differently than it has the hundred or so other times she’s been in this exact position. 

Her socked foot taps against the edge of his desk once more, giving her the momentum she needs for one more spin– but she’s stopped. 

Eren is glaring at her, his own foot wedged harshly between her and the desk, “No more.” She winces, definition of fucking insanity. 

“I should go,” Mikasa tells him, sitting up from the comfort of her swivel chair, she should at least pretend she wants to leave, that she has some dignity. “No, we have to work on our gender women’s studies assignment, I need a good mark if I don’t want to worry about the final.” Mikasa glares at him miserably, slumping back into the comfort of the plush high-backed swivel chair, the one she is sure is used for all too much video gaming, “You could, you know apply yourself, that might help.” Eren shoots her an unimpressed look, “Why would I do that when I have an angry little feminist at my beck and call.”

This time she stands up, fully intending to leave, but Eren shoves her back, his foot on her thigh, dumping her right back into her chair, “Relax, Miki, I didn’t mean it.” Debatable. 

She quirks an eyebrow at him, irritated, and a smirk tugs at Eren’s lips, those smug, full lips that she loves to kiss way too much, he’s so fucking irritating.

“Don’t be so sensitive.” She could murder him right now, in cold blood, and ruin his mother’s perfectly beige carpet.

For a moment she considers it, her eyes flickering toward the butter knife, lying innocently on the dirty plate on his desk. It’s probably from before she got here, when Mama’s boy eating his dinner at his desk, like a fucking king. 

Her face twists into a scowl and Eren’s smirk blooms into a full-on grin, but he must sense her rage because he puts his hands up in surrender, just before she can make a grab for the dull silver of the blade. 

“Fine, I’m sorry,” he kicks her affectionately, and she comes back to herself, stops contemplating murder, just three words from him and it’s over, her brain a puddle of mush, “You know I love my angry little feminist.” “Fuck off.” He’s practically beaming now, man spreading wide from his seat on the bed and Mikasa turns to glance over at her notebook, the list of prompts for an essay they need to write. 

“What do you think chivalry is?” Mikasa reads aloud, picking up her pen to tap against the desk, she looks up at Eren curiously, awaiting an answer from the very antithesis of feminism himself. 

“Get on your knees.”

He says it with such authority, such confidence that she’s already moving to obey before she stops herself, hands clutching the armrests of her chair. 

“What?” He doesn’t elaborate, simply jerks with his chin, repeating himself, “Get on your knees.” Mikasa hates herself for following his directions, feels like a fever dream as she drops to her knees, only to find herself looking up at him now from between his legs, that dark feral smile on his lips. 

For a moment, it’s quiet, and she simply sits there, her breathing quick as she tries to figure out his angle, and looks up at him through long dark lashes, coated in the most carefully applied mascara, a layer so thin it doesn’t look like she’s wearing it at all. 

Because despite her rabid dislike of him, she’d wanted to be pretty, to affect him in the same way he does her, for his heart to skip a beat, his breath to come a little faster. Her heart is galloping in her chest as she looks up at him, the tense set of his shoulders, the complete and total fucking power he has over her, on her knees between his legs, looking up at him, awaiting her fate, her pretty face inches from his cock. 

His hand moves and she flinches, expecting what, she doesn’t know, but his touch is soft, his smile still dark, eyes glazed over with something she can’t name, lust, desire, power? 

Carefully, he traces a hand over her face, his thumb brushing over the hollow of her cheek, before slipping up to catch her bangs. He gathers her hair back, tucking it from her face with soft reverence, his other coming up to catch any stray strands. 

He tangles his right hand through the silky strands of her, knotting it at the base of her skull so he has a firm hold, his other hand tipping her chin up roughly. His voice is gravelly as he speaks, evergreen eyes hooded, “Chivalry is holding your hair back while you suck my cock, Miki.”

Her mouth parts, from shock, or an unconscious desire, she doesn’t know, and the wicked smirk on his lips grows. He drops her chin to tug his sweatpants down, his dick jerking up as he’s released from his confines, no boxers because of course he’s not wearing any. He slaps against her cheek lewdly, a drop of pre brushing against her mouth as he lines himself up, resting comfortably against her cheek. 

She’s entranced, watching as he gives himself an experimental stroke, even his own hands not enough to grip his cock completely, an inch or so left out, the thick length of him daunting against the delicate lines of her face.

He’s an imposing figure as he jerks himself off, and Mikasa is caught, silver eyes enraptured. She takes her lower lip between her teeth, tasting the saltiness of his pre, her breath coming faster now, her head foggy with desire. 

“To me Miki,” Eren continues, his voice a low rumble that has her staving off a moan as it settles over her, “Chivalry is keeping your hair out of your eyes so you don’t have to worry.” Eren yanks at her long raven locks, a slow almost painful pull, reminding her of the hold he has on her, the literal and metaphorical grasp he has, how she couldn’t shake him off even if she wanted to. 

“So you can be a good girl and focus on sucking me off.”  

He gives her hair another experimental tug, pulling her just a touch closer, just enough so that plump lips kiss against the hard length of his cock, saliva coating the obscene length of him, a sweet massage that she has no doubt he doesn’t deserve. 

“That’s what I think chivalry is,” He looks down at her, smiling dark with mirth, almost gleeful as her lips part, the weeping head of his cock slipping into her mouth, unbidden, a movement all her own, “Wouldn’t you agree, Miki?” Definition of insanity, huh? Call her insane, then. 

[vendettaspathfanfic]

Chapter Six

(Chapter Index)

(Previous)

(Next)

This evening, dinner was a simple affair, with only Sonic and his mother seated at the elaborately set table in the grand dining room, a familiar scene given his father's common late returns from the palace. He was a man of significant influence and stature, serving as the indispensable advisor to King Maximillian, a role that demanded much of his time. At seven years of age, Sonic found his father's endless discussions on the complexities of governance tediously dull, a stark contrast to the vibrant tales of his own day that his father rarely had the patience to entertain.

In the comforting presence of his mother, however, Sonic was able to talk as much as he wanted. He excitedly recounted the adventurous escapades from the latest installment of his beloved cartoon series, speaking with animated gestures while their longstanding family butler quietly placed plates of food before them. Unfortunately, tonight's dinner featured lobster, a dish that Sonic loathed.

The pungent aroma that wafted from the plate caused Sonic's face to contort in displeasure, his nose scrunching up as if to ward off the offending scent. He turned to his mother, seeking a compromise, only to find her gaze lingering on a cherished photograph adorning the wall. The image captured a moment of regal splendor, depicting her alongside her father and the other esteemed members of the Royal Court.

"Mom?" Sonic inquired softly, attempting to draw her attention. Receiving no immediate response, he pressed further, the word "mama" punctuated by a gentle nudge on her arm.

His mother momentarily snapped out of her reverie, her eyes refocusing with a slight flutter of her lashes as she angled her body to address her son with a soft “sorry, hun. What?”

Sonic's face contorted into a grimace, his voice dripping with distaste as he lamented, "I don’t want this again… it makes me wanna puke." His words elicited a disdainful huff from the butler, who promptly exited the room with a swirl of disappointment.

"It’s good for you, Sonic," she responded, her voice steady and reassuring, "besides, you remember what we’ve said about being wasteful."

Defiance etched itself into the young hedgehog's posture; he folded his arms across his chest like a barrier, slinking further into the embrace of his chair. His youthful face was wrinkled with obstinacy, as the furrow of his brow channeled the essence of his aversion. "But it's gross!" Sonic retorted, the fervor of his sentiment about the unwanted meal burning as brightly as ever.

"Just eat it, please?" The plea from his mother reached his ears as he turned his head away, embodying the spirit of rebellion. "If you do, we’ll get ice cream and candy."

The promise of such a sweet reward sparked curiosity in Sonic, and he swiveled his head back in her direction, catching the nascent smile blooming on her face, a signal of the incentive that awaited him.

With an effort that felt monumental to his young mind, the little blue hedgehog managed to ingest the detested lobster dish, the glazed carrots that accompanied it no less infamous in his eyes. Upon completing the ordeal, he beckoned for his mother's attention, which had drifted back to the photograph on the wall. She met his gaze with a smile that radiated pride and affection, a smile that could brighten the darkest of rooms. Sonic cherished that smile, for it was not just a mere curve of the lips; it was a symbol of his success in bringing her joy. That was a reward far greater than the promise of sweets.

"Good job, Scourge." The admiration in her voice was unmistakable as Sonic eagerly leaped from his seat to envelop her in a tight embrace. But as he held her close, an unsettling thought wormed its way into his consciousness, leaving him with an unnerving sense that releasing her from his arms could mean never being able to hug her again. It was an absurd notion, surely, for she was ever-present in his life, a constant in his home.

But, she’s never called him Scourge before.

Before he could ask where she heard that name, the space she occupied in his arms became empty. Darkness enveloped him, his world tipping into chaos as he tumbled into an abyss that seemed to have no end. A sense of vertigo overwhelmed him; his surroundings stripped away as if the earth itself had opened beneath him. He flailed, attempting to cry out, but found his voice trapped, his throat constricted by an unseen force.

In the midst of his panic, Sonic's efforts intensified, desperation fueling his struggle. His attempts finally culminated in a muffled, yet alarmed "mmh!" To his relief, the sensation of falling ceased abruptly, replaced by the oppressive reality of a worn, filthy mattress pressing against his back. Heat enveloped him, the summer's sweltering embrace untempered by the absence of air conditioning in the orphanage.

As his eyes snapped open, he lay there, drenched in sweat, his heart racing as the remnants of the nightmare clung to him. He struggled to ground himself back in reality, but it soon became clear that once again, he was a sixteen-year-old green hedgehog named Scourge.

Thankfully, when he awoke with a start, his sudden movement and noise didn't disturb Fiona, who was lying on her side, facing him, lost in deep slumber. The moon's soft glow streamed into the room through the slightly ajar window, casting moonlight gently on her beautiful face. As she dreamt what he hoped was a peaceful dream, her delicate eyelids fluttered.

The faint sheen on her soft, heart-shaped lips revealed the lingering touch of the chapstick she had applied before bed, adding an extra allure to her serene visage. With great care not to disturb her, he turned onto his side to face her, tenderly running his fingers through the fur on the exposed side of her muzzle, relishing the softness and finding solace in the quiet intimacy of the moment. A sense of calm washed over him, slowing his racing heart and quieting his restless thoughts as he took in every detail of his girlfriend, peacefully asleep before him. In that hushed stillness, he found a rare and precious moment to simply appreciate the beauty and peacefulness of his lover.

Realizing that sleep would elude him for the time being, he pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead before quietly rising out of bed. Descending the stairs, he made his way to the kitchen, where he reached for a water bottle resting on the counter.

As the lukewarm liquid flowed down his throat, a distinct thumping noise echoed from downstairs, instantly seizing his attention. The source was unmistakable—it emanated from the direction of the freezer.

With a sense of urgency, he hastily replaced the bottle's lid, a quiet “fuck,” escaping his lips as the realization struck that they had neglected to assign someone to keep watch over the freezer that held Miles. Carelessly tossing the bottle on the counter, he grabbed and lit a lantern and dashed down to the freezer, swiftly unlocking it and wrenching the door open.

Thankfully, Miles had made only minimal headway in his attempts to free himself. The most significant achievement was toppling his chair to the ground and making almost no progress in loosening the ropes covered with duct tape.

Amused by the sight that greeted him, Scourge placed the lantern on a mildew-covered shelf and shut the freezer door behind him. "Are you enjoying yourself there, Miles?" he inquired, his tone tinged with condescension.

Miles continued to struggle against his bindings, clearly disoriented from the head injury he had suffered earlier. His mouth muffled by the tape, he could only respond with garbled, indiscernible words.

"I'm sure whatever you just said would have been so terribly hurtful," Scourge began in a mockingly sorrowful tone as he righted the chair. "But it's nothing compared to what you're going to get if you don't tell me what I want to know." With a swift motion, he tore the tape from Miles' mouth, inadvertently pulling away a thin layer of fur from around his muzzle in the process.

Grimacing in pain, Miles averted his gaze from Scourge, his breath coming in ragged pants as he struggled against the dizziness and the throbbing ache in his head.

"Now I can see you renovated the castle a lot since you screwed me over and got me thrown in jail," Scourge remarked, leaning casually against a nearby shelf. "looks real nice, but I’m sure in the process you souped up the security, right? So, if I were to try to waltz in and take back what you took from me, I’d be screwed wouldn’t I? So, either you tell me how to get past security, or you’ll end up getting more than just a punch."

Miles steadied his breath, slowly turning his head to meet Scourge's aiming gaze. With gritted teeth, he growled, "You can't."

Grasping the chair that held Miles, Scourge cocked his head, a grin of amusement playing on his lips. "Well, I doubt that's true. They told us we couldn't escape from Zone Jail, yet here we are. Even the tightest ship can spring a leak."

Miles' widened gaze shifted between both of Scourge's eyes as he swallowed thickly. "Not this ship, you fool. Every doorway, hallway, and corner is monitored by scanning posts. And unlike the ones attached to police lines, this system doesn't just sound an alarm. Every entrance and exit is impenetrable to anyone lacking clearance. Not even rats could infiltrate the sewers. And all of that's hardly a fraction of our security measures."

Impressed, Scourge raised his brows, emitting a low whistle of astonishment. "You've really built an airtight system there, my friend. It almost seems... desperate?"

"With the rapid advancements in technology and cybernetic implants, we can't afford to leave any vulnerability unaddressed," Miles retorted, narrowing his eyes as he regarded Scourge with undisguised contempt, as though he were less than the dirt on his shoes. "As I mentioned before, nothing I can say will aid you in the slightest."

Scourge sighed and shook his head. "That really sucks, man," he said as he exited the freezer, closing the door behind him and ignoring Miles' inquiries about his destination.

Hurrying upstairs to his and Fiona's room, he knelt beside her bag to retrieve her combat knife. Startled by the sound of someone rummaging through her belongings, Fiona's eyes flew open, and she sat up, her expression softening as she recognized Scourge's silhouette, relieved that it was him and not an intruder.

"Jeez, you scared me," Fiona sighed, sleepiness evident in her voice as she rubbed her face. "Are you lookin’ for cigarettes or something?"

"Nope," Scourge replied, revealing the knife he had acquired. "Miles is awake and refusing to talk."

"I'll accompany you," Fiona offered, stifling a yawn as she retrieved her bag from his reach, pulling out a pen and an old receipt. "I can write down what he says while you take care of the dirty work."

"Attagirl," Scourge praised, grinning as he affectionately tousled her hair. "Let's go."

Guiding her through the dimly lit building, they traversed downstairs to the freezer, where Miles continued to struggle to escape.

"Why's she here?" Miles grunted, straining against the duct tape and rope binding his wrists.

"If you happen to come up with a way for us to get through, she'll take note of it. If not, well, then you're of no use to us. And we can't exactly release you since you know too much, so it seems the next step is to kill you," Scourge chuckled, delighting in the horror that washed over Miles' face. "But don't worry. I'll make it nice and slow, giving you time to reconsider and perhaps change my mind about doing it. However, first..." His gaze shifted to his tails, tightly bound together with rope and duct tape. "We need to make sure that you won't have any chances of flying away. Fiona, you might want to fetch the first aid kit. Can't risk him bleeding out before he has the chance to speak."

"W-wait! No! Please don't do this!" Miles cried out, his breaths quickening into hyperventilation as he watched Fiona obediently exit the freezer.

"Listen, I didn't want it to come to this, but much like you, my hands are tied," Scourge said, his voice laced with feigned sympathy as he leaned against a shelf, crossing his arms.

"No! I can help you gain entry! You won't be able to do it without me!" he screamed, his wide eyes blinded by fear.

Scourge's expression transformed into a wide, menacing grin as he slowly uncrossed his arms and straightened up to his full height.

“Really?” The smug green hedgehog asked, striding over to the young two-tailed fox and looming over him, leaning in close as he jabbed his forefinger against his chest. “Well, it’s a good thing you remembered. You could’ve been killed.” His smug grin suddenly gave way to a menacing glare. In a swift motion, he withdrew his hand from Miles’ chest and delivered a harsh slap across his face, causing the chair to wobble and splitting his lip. Scourge quickly steadied the chair and grasped Miles’ chin, forcing him to meet his intense gaze. “Don’t you fucking lie to me again, Miles,” he growled, baring his sharp teeth, sending shivers down Miles’ spine.

When Fiona returned, Scourge briefed her on their change of plans. She took the pen they had previously acquired and began to write finely on the back of the receipt.

The success of their mission hinged on having the right technology at their disposal. Miles, the primary designer of the security system, was indispensable to their plans. Their first objective would be to hack the body scan post for entry, a task that required a neural link to connect to Miles, allowing him to access necessary technology through the eyes of the person with the implant. However, due to the Destructix's distrust of him, he would have to be guarded and sequestered away from the castle to prevent any potential betrayal.

To bypass the body scan post, one would need optical implants that would allow them to scan the post, enabling Miles to use the neural link to hack into it and grant every individual passing through with clearance. Yet, this was only part of the larger challenge— the entire security system needed to recognize the Destructix members as authorized personnel. To achieve this, someone would require an interface plug, a wired implant located at the back of the head, along with a neural interface chip. When the wire was extended and connected to specific machinery, it would grant the individual the capability to hack into the technology.

Once someone was plugged into an access point with the interface, Miles could then proceed to hack the entire security system. This would provide the Destructix with unhindered movement throughout the castle, enabling them to locate the remaining members of the Suppression Squad and eliminate them, ultimately allowing the Destructix to seize control of the throne.

Before Scourge and Fiona could explain the plan to the Destructix in the morning, they found themselves contending with the aftermath of Predator, Lightning, and Flying's excessive drinking the previous night.

"Well, I don't know why you drank so much of that crap, but I hope it made you happy," Simon grumbled with a scoff as he entered through the front door, carrying a tray of to-go cups from a nearby coffee shop.

"Mmmm'kay. Shut up, Simon," Predator groaned, his eyes tightly shut as he sat hunched over in a nearby chair, nursing his throbbing head.

With a roll of his eyes, Simon handed Predator a cup of black coffee, scoffing, "drink up." He then turned his attention to Flying, who was slouched against a nearby wall, struggling to keep his eyes open as his tongue lolled out the side of his mouth. "Got some for you too, Flying," Simon said, prompting Flying's eyes to sluggishly roll toward him, blinking one at a time.

"Is that coffee-tea-fre-" Flying began, before a sudden wave of nausea overtook him, causing his eyes to bulge as he clamped a hand over his mouth and gagged. He scrambled to his feet, dashed toward a nearby window, flung it open, and retched outside.

Simon groaned in disgust and called out, "I'll put this in the kitchen, then..." before handing Scourge his coffee.

"Thanks, man," Scourge said with a courteous nod.

"Thanks for not drinking as much as these idiots," Simon remarked, his disdain evident in his voice. "Have you seen Lightning, Fiona, and Toxic?"

“Lightning’s probably still asleep cause I haven’t seen him yet. Fiona’s giving Toxic a haircut so she looks less like her wanted picture and also we saw a daddy long leg crawl out of one of the mats in her hair.” Scourge said, casually drinking his coffee.

Simon blinked a few times in surprise before muttering, “go figure… Well, if you see the girls, let ‘em know they got drinks with their name on them in the kitchen. I’m gonna wake up Lightning.”

As expected, Simon located Lightning, who was sprawled out on a set of child-sized mattresses, emitting loud snores. With a roll of his eyes and a shake of his head, Simon set aside Lightning’s coffee, knelt down, and nudged Lightning's shoulder, attempting to rouse him. When his efforts failed, Simon noticed that Lightning still had water in his bottle. He unscrewed the cap, tossed it aside, and emptied the remaining contents onto Lightning's head.

Lightning groaned and attempted to turn his face away as the water splashed against his forehead. Without opening his eyes, he managed to mumble out a slurred, "hello?" before some water entered his mouth, causing him to choke and erupt into a fit of coughing as he hastily sat up.

"Hello, Lightning. Coffee's here," Simon said with annoyance, standing up.

As Lightning recovered from the coughing fit, he grumbled and shook his head in an attempt to rid his fur of the water, groaning as the motion exacerbated his headache and nausea.

"You didn’t have to waterboard me, Simon," he groaned, squinting as the bright light aggravated his newly awakened eyes.

"Don’t be so dramatic. You gotta get straightened up. Fiona and Scourge got Miles to talk, and they’ve got a plan they want to tell us," Simon responded, offering Lightning his coffee.

"I don’t want anything else in my stomach right now…" Lightning groaned, the scent of the coffee in his hand intensifying his nausea.

"Well, if you get sick, either puke out a window, or if you do it in here, you're cleaning it. This place is filthy enough without three drunk bastards making it worse," Simon declared firmly, his distaste unwavering.

"Agh… Fuck off…" Lightning slurred, his struggle evident as he fought to keep the vomit down. He staggered to his feet and stumbled toward the window, grappling with it in his disoriented state.

"For crying out loud…" Simon growled, stepping in to open the window for Lightning, who leaned out and threw up.

As he left Lightning to deal with his hangover, Simon muttered bitterly, "it’s like a house full of toddlers. Hell, today I haven’t even had a problem with the actual toddler here.”

After a wait that spanned several hours, the group finally regained enough composure to gather and listen to Scourge and Fiona outline the plan they had devised. They arranged their seats into a communal circle within the same room where they had convened the night before.

“How can we trust Miles to do what we say?” Predator questioned, his voice tinged with doubt.

“He doesn’t have a choice. I know from experience he’s a coward that’ll do anything to live. One of ya will need to stay with him while we work and be ready to gut him if he makes even one wrong move,” Scourge replied, his arms extending in a languid stretch as he reclined back in his chair with an air of nonchalance.

“I volunteer-steer-beer!” Flying burst out with gusto, only to wince as his booming, obnoxious voice aggravated his pounding headache.

“Alright, knock yourself out,” Scourge casually responded with a dismissive shrug, now leaning forward in his seat, his fingers weaving together in front of him.

“Who's getting the implants?” inquired Lightning, downing some ibuprofen that Fiona had supplied to ease his discomfort.

“The rest of you guys. We never know what we’ll run into. Can’t leave any stones unturned,” Fiona declared, her voice firm and decisive.

“Me too?” Toxic chimed in, twirling one of the short pigtails Fiona had fashioned in her hair.

“No way, kid,” Scourge stated adamantly with a shake of his head. “Cybernetics aren’t good for you when you’re that little.”

“I’m taller than Ren!” Toxic contended, climbing onto her chair and stretching to her tiptoes in an attempt to demonstrate her height.

“Tough. You’re still barely taller than a fire hydrant,” Scourge teased, his mocking tone evident. “You gotta wait til you're older.”

“Sit down before you fall and crack your head open,” Simon commanded, his tone authoritative, directed at the young blue hedgehog.

With a scowl of indignation and a growl meant to convey ferocity, Toxic reluctantly descended from her perch and slouched back into her seat, her arms folded in a tight cross.

“Save it,” Fiona interjected with an eye roll, “anyways, Simon, Lightning, and Predator; you guys are going in first. Grab some uniforms from the guard locker room and you’ll easily pass as one of the guards. They know Scourge and I too well, so we’ll wait until the security system is down and you find Patch and Alicia to storm in and join the fight.”

“But what do I do?” Toxic mused aloud, now reclining sideways in her chair, her legs swinging idly over the edge.

“You’ll help Flying guard Miles,” Fiona replied, her tone conveying confidence that this modest assignment would satisfy Toxic’s desire to contribute.

“But before all of this, we gotta remember implants cost money that we don’t got. So…” Scourge began, a mischievous grin spreading across his face as he felt a surge of adrenaline coursing through him, his hands eagerly rubbing together, “We’ll be ‘borrowing’ some money from a bank out of town.”

This infectious excitement quickly rippled through the group, with members exchanging eager grins and approving murmurs.

"It's in a pretty wealthy neighborhood. And hey, even you can join us, Toxic," Fiona said, her arms crossed, a hint of pride in her voice as she gauged the group's reactions.

"I can?" Toxic gasped, her voice lifting with excitement as she bounded out of her chair and approached Fiona, her tail wagging like a flag of enthusiasm.

"She can?" Scourge echoed, his tone a mixture of surprise and concern, unsure of involving someone so young in such a dangerous activity.

"Yes," Fiona confirmed, assuring the group with a calm authority, "like I said, it’ll be an easy heist. She can help us take out security. We’ve all seen how she can kick ass. Simon, you can train her on a pistol."

Simon, looking somewhat resigned, pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed deeply. "If you insist, ma’am," he conceded, albeit with heavy reluctance.

"Babe, are you nuts? She’s four years old!" Scourge protested vehemently, his arms thrown up in disbelief.

"So what? Don’t be a fucking dickface!" Toxic retorted sharply, flipping Scourge off with her ring finger. Scourge responded in kind, sneering as he mirrored her gesture.

Pulling Scourge aside from the rest of the group, Fiona's voice dropped to a hushed, persuasive tone. "Look, we made a deal with her that if she didn’t do what we told her she’d be rat food and clearly it’s been working. This is part of that deal, hun. Besides, if she managed to put us through that much hell at first, imagine what she’d do to plain ol’ guards."

"How is it worth the risk?" Scourge pressed, his apprehension evident as he pondered the unpredictable nature of their youngest member.

"It’s like I said, if we broke out of Zone Jail of all things, we can rob a fucking bank even with your crackhead sister tagging along. Besides, we need everyone from the gang there to do different things, and do you really wanna leave her alone? She could wander off and a bounty hunter would snatch her. Then what? Game over," Fiona argued, her logic resonating with the risks they faced.

Scourge's jaw tightened, the truthfulness of Fiona's words sinking in, especially the part about leaving Toxic alone. With a heavy exhale of resignation, he muttered, "this better work."

"It will. You’ll see," Fiona reassured him with a confidence that bordered on certainty, punctuating her promise with a light kiss on his cheek before returning to the group. "We’ll start preppin’ tomorrow. Get all the equipment we need." She turned to address Lightning, Flying, and Predator, her face scrunching in disgust as the pungent smell of vomit and alcohol reached her. "For now, there’s a gym with showers not far from here. Let’s make it reek a little less around the place, hm?"

Nodding in silent accord, the gang made their way to the gym, their footsteps echoing against the pavement as they traversed a desolate stretch of the neighborhood. The eerie stillness of the area hinted at its sparse population, offering them a cloak of anonymity that would aid in evading any potential bounty hunters on the prowl for Toxic.

Upon reaching the gym, they made a beeline for the bathroom and obtained the much-needed cleaning supplies from the dispensers, the clinking of coins and the soft hum of the machines filling the otherwise quiet space. As they each cleaned up in their respective shower stalls, the sound of water cascading down in rivulets served as a welcome reminder of the simple luxury they hadn’t had since their escape from prison.

Despite Scourge's usual indifference to cleanliness, he found solace in the sensation of grime washing away from his body as he stood beneath the shower's stream. Closing his eyes, he allowed the water to cleanse not just his physical form, but also his spirit, feeling the weight of his troubles slowly dissolve and disappear down the drain. During his time in prison, he had been constantly on edge, his natural strength and agility restrained by a control collar that left him vulnerable and exposed to frequent beatings. However, as the water flowed over his face and quills, he realized that despite the lingering risks, he was finally beginning to believe that everything would ultimately be alright. He resolved to face whatever challenges lay ahead with newfound determination and resilience.

After everyone had completed their showers, they returned to the orphanage. While some members of their group were still recovering from the effects of the previous night's revelry, Simon took Toxic to the backyard to teach her how to shoot empty beer bottles off the fence using a silenced pistol.

"Keep one hand on the bottom, Toxic, and don't touch the trigger until you're ready to shoot. Keep your finger to the side, like this," Simon instructed, kneeling beside her and guiding her small hands to demonstrate the proper way to hold the firearm.

"Okay," Toxic responded with an eager nod. "Can I shoot now?"

"Not yet. First, aim at the space between the two small bumps and make sure it's pointed at what you want to shoot," Simon advised.

"Okay," Toxic responded, her small hands adjusting her grip on the pistol with determination. "Now can I shoot?"

"Go ahead," Simon replied with a nod.

Without hesitation, she pulled the trigger, and the sharp crack of the gunshot was followed by the satisfying shatter of the bottle.

Toxic gasped in amazement and giggled, her eyes sparkling with pride as she beamed at Simon. "I fuckin’ gotted it!"

"You sure did," Simon said with a soft chuckle. "Now take out the rest of them."

Leaning against the weathered wall of the building, Scourge and Fiona observed as Toxic skillfully shot several more bottles, her focus unyielding and her aim true.

"Not bad. She's a natural marksman in the making," Fiona remarked with a lopsided grin.

"Good thing she's only shooting bottles," Scourge snidely remarked, retrieving a cigarette and lighter from his jacket pocket. Fiona signaled for one, holding two fingers in his direction, and Scourge obliged, lighting both of their cigarettes. As they inhaled, Scourge wrapped his arm around Fiona, the sun casting a warm glow over them as it descended toward the horizon.

"Do you think we should check on Miles?" Scourge asked, a sudden pang of concern causing his heart to skip a beat.

"I'll feed him later, but there's no way he's getting out. Simon and I tested that padlock we got earier, and it's secure," she replied confidently, referring to the heavy duty lock lock they had obtained during their earlier supply run.

Scourge smirked with pride, imagining the futile attempts Miles might be making to escape, a sense of control and satisfaction washing over him.

"Not much longer," Fiona began after blowing a cloud of smoke out of her mouth, the wisps curling and dissipating in the air, creating a momentary haze around her. Her eyes, filled with a determined glint, scanned the horizon as if envisioning the future. "We'll rule this world again. We'll bring everything under our control, just like it used to be."

"Fiona," Scourge chuckled softly, the sound mixing with the rustle of the wind, and dropped his spent cigarette, the feeble embers flickering before he snuffed them out under the sole of his shoe, his eyes fixed on his lover's with an intense yet tender gaze. "We already do."

[olet-lucernam]

A Hollow Promise [22] chapter v, part iii

main tags : loki x original character, post-avengers 2012, canon divergence - post-thor: the dark world, canon-typical violence, mentions of torture

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summary: In the aftermath of the Battle of New York, the Avengers need a few days to build a transport device for the Tesseract. With the Helicarrier damaged and surveillance offline, SHIELD sends an asset to guard Loki in the interim: a young woman who sees the truth in all things, and cannot lie.

Even long presumed dead, her memories lost to her, Loki would know her anywhere.

And this changes things.

Some things last beyond infinity. And the universe is in love with chaos.

(Loki was never looking for redemption. It came as an unexpected side-effect.)

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chapter summary : despite his chains, loki begins gathering his pieces on the board. astrid works on escaping her own confines, and mitigating the damage of disasters to come.

recommended listening : venus in gemini, dezi

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“So. What do you think?”

The question rang slightly in the room, ricocheting against metal plates and graphite-grey walls.

Arms folded, facing out into the open floor, Fury allowed the slight turn of his head and expectant silence to serve as invitation.

After a moment, Alethia- sleekly attired for the autumn chill like a native Manhattanite, in black skinny jeans, mid-heeled ankle boots, and fine-knit turtleneck sweater of berry wool- pushed herself off the wall, stepping forward.

She and Romanoff had been on the roof before Fury called them into the VERITAS testing area, drinking coffee in the cold and soundscape of noise above the city. Alethia had stripped the long wool coat she had been wearing when she arrived inside, draping it over one of the chairs, but Romanoff was still wearing her camel leather jacket, curls soft and mouth faintly pursed, eyes fixed on Alethia’s back.

Glancing over the two of them, Fury could easily understand why Romanoff had identified with her. The resemblance between their circumstances was self-evident, but the subtler physical similarities were in the details; it was written small, in the simple facts of their heights, their builds, the way they moved- a confident ease with a slight tension underneath, like a dancer waiting to fall into the right steps.

They matched nicely against each other. Fury could envisage sending them out into the field together, on intelligence retrieval and social reconnaissance- Romanoff’s ability to assess and assimilate, and Alethia’s eye for truth and steel nerves, would make for an invaluable combination.

Fury’s eye flicked back to Romanoff where she remained in place, exuding a faint anxiety like the vapours from paint thinner.

He knew that Romanoff wasn’t unaware of her bias. But neither did that awareness make her immune to it.

Rather than letting it become a liability, Fury had warped it into an advantage; if Alethia saw the truth in all things, it was better to offer her a favourable truth, in the form of a handler who wanted her recruitment to be successful for reasons beyond fulfilment of mission parameters.

Alethia halted- coffee cup still in hand, its heat-sleeve stamped with SHIELD’s eagle insignia- before the centrepiece of the room, head tilted consideringly, the sheen of her curls shifting across her shoulders.

The wide chair was set on a high swivel, aggressively angular, constructed from darkly brushed titanium, strict right-angles, and heat-sensitive fabric. A biometric plate was affixed into the centre spine, metal cuffs locking at the armrests, leashed with black electrical cables; a unit reminiscent of a cranial halo capped the structure, winged forward to encase the temples of its occupant. Immediately behind where Alethia stood was a large, simple control centre, inset with a touchscreen display.

“The fruits of your labour.” Fury announced with a wry twist of aplomb. “Thought you might like to see it. Ninety-six variables in total, monitored and analysed by a unique algorithm, based on and verified in efficacy by your contributions. Say hello to the alpha version of VERITAS- the Verification Enhancement for Response Input Technological Analysis System.”

“Stars. If that acronym were any more tortured, the Geneva Conventions would have something to say about it,” Alethia quipped, almost more to herself than the room.

“It was the initial code name for the project,” Fury replied with the intonation of a shrug, unfolding his arms and stepping forwards, the leather drape of his overcoat shifting with the motion. “We’ve got a few like that. But, if you feel that strongly about it- give it a new name. The DNA of it is mostly yours.”

People tended to be more reluctant to destroy or abandon that which they felt personally invested in, Fury found.

Alethia gave a quiet hum from the back of her throat, and lifted a free hand to skim the closest cuff of the chair.

“You think so.”

“It wouldn’t have been possible without your input,” Fury admitted, “not on this time scale. Maybe not even in this generation-”

“It was your design, Nicholas. So- congratulations,” she lifted her voice to call out. “It is a highly sophisticated piece of scrap.”

She rapped a fingertip against the cuff, two neat taps.

“I hope that you’re satisfied.”

Fury took a long moment to study her.

In most cases, he would avoid rising to the bait. Not unlike another troublesome asset that came to mind, Alethia had an element of narcissism to her character- and worse, just cause for it; like Stark, she acted like she knew more than anyone else in the room because, most often than not, she did. Fury’s general policy was that they did not feed egos, particularly those attached to individuals that liked to provoke. Indulging it was a short-term solution that would result in long-term headaches.

Alethia was an exception. Unlike other consultants, they had little information to use as leverage, her available history alarmingly sparse- something that happened approximately never, given SHIELD’s not inconsiderable reach and resources. And as Alethia had deduced with irritating accuracy during their negotiations, the threat that had brokered her cooperation- to flag her with every agency that SHIELD had backchannels with, threatening her meticulously cultivated anonymity- was a card that could only be played once.

Romanoff’s evaluation had found that the most effective strategy was to play her game. Alethia would speak in circuitous riddles and rhetoric, but the more you paid attention to her words, the more you engaged, the more threads she would cast out to watch you follow, chasing towards the truth that she was hinting at.

It was a power play- but one that Fury could tolerate. The rules were consistent, for the most part, and Alethia played fair.

“That the most advanced lie detector system in the world,” he answered patiently.

“Nicholas, you couldn’t even use me properly.” Smoothly, she pivoted to face Fury, unimpressed and unusually direct. “This machine can’t talk back when you’re asking the wrong questions. If not scrap- it is a monument to irony.”

“With regards to what?”

Alethia pushed off the chair, shoulder set, a strange pressure gathering in the air.

“SHIELD is a monster. You might be the hand feeding it, but you are not the one holding the leash.”

She flicked her head back towards the gleaming chair.

“Call it Cassandra.”

With that parting shot, Alethia cut a path out of the door.

Romanoff shifted her weight, as though moving to follow her- but Fury halted her with an open palm and quelling look.

Six minutes later, Fury emerged onto the rooftop.

The Base- codenamed in recognition of its legacy as the original headquarters of SHIELD, after it was established on the foundations laid by the SSR- would have been an imposing building in any other city. Within the cloistered, oversaturated streets of Midtown, however, the broad tower block of dark stone and glass panes blended in amongst the billboard-plated skyscrapers and storefronts that lined the avenues, glossed over like any other corporate office building on the island. At over a dozen storeys tall, the roof was far enough above street level that the coordinated chaos melded together into a rush of tires on asphalt and idling engines and a miasma of passing chatter, punctuated by the distant blare of car horns, sirens, and rattle of construction work- a cocktail of sensory overload, diluted down to a half-ratio. The rubble of the Incident had been cleared, its smoking wounds cleaned and under repair, returning the great aortic chambers of the city to full capacity.

Alethia stood near the edge of the roof, gazing down at the traffic below, vanilla hair and underdressed torso caught in a cross-breeze. As the wind twisted around her, Fury thought he caught a snatch of a high-contrast melody- something that rang of Rodgers and Hammerstein, and the golden age of Broadway showtunes and classic jazz standards.

“For someone who was so determined to keep her mouth shut when you got here, you’ve sure got a lot to say,” Fury interrupted, projecting his voice above the rush of traffic and whip of the winds, strolling up behind her.

“For someone who demands answers at every opportunity, you’re not very willing to listen,” Alethia retorted swiftly, knocking back the dregs in her cup and setting it on the raised edge of the roof. From the drop of liquid left on the plastic rim, it seemed that Romanoff was continuing to keep her sweet with a supply of matcha lattes.

“I’m listening now.”

“Ah, right. Like you were with the Tesseract?”

Fury’s visible eye narrowed.

“What did you mean by that jab? About monsters and leashes.”

Alethia drew her bottom lip between her teeth, glowering, eyes burning like a golden-hour sun behind storm clouds.

Eventually, she filtered out a shallow sigh, her expression cooling.

“There is a principle,” she began slowly, dark lashes lowered as she watched the traffic below, “in regards to statecraft, that you cannot design a seat of power solely with regards to what will allow one individual to do good- but must also consider what will prevent another from accomplishing evil, if they were to acquire the same position.”

Alethia looked directly at him, sombre in a way that she only was once she had given up any attempt to fight or undermine.

“I would strongly urge you to consider what evil could accomplish in your position, Nicholas.”

“Implying that you don’t think I’m evil,” Fury observed, with some intrigue.

It was an unexpected, and interesting concession; Alethia had made no secret that she held SHIELD wholly in contempt, and Fury by extension as the one at its helm.

“I think that you’re a manipulative, opportunistic bastard with few scruples and broadly altruistic intentions, which makes you very good at your job,” Alethia answered, glancing away with a dismissive air. “I also think that you’re arrogant enough to think that you’re paranoid enough, and about the right things, rather than what fits your worldview and skillset.”

Fury absorbed on her appraisal. He had received less scathing evaluations, but he found himself oddly unoffended by it.

“So what should I be paranoid about?”

She looked to him with a slow blink, her expression hard, more resolute than angry. Her irises seemed deeper than the usual hazel, verging upon amber, despite the flat light of the overcast midday skies.

“I told you. You are not holding the leash.”

The meaning clicked.

Fury’s initial, instinctive reaction was outright scepticism.

SHIELD was strictly compartmentalised for a reason. Trust was a commodity both coveted and scorned in the industry, and any system worth its salt in resilience did not merely trust in the integrity of its participants, but enforced it. SHIELD was no different. Its structure split its various branches and operations in such a way that its design could trap and isolate the first hairline-fracture roots of subversion, before they could sink deep enough to alter the fabric of the organisation, or its directives.

The structure of the organisation was not of Fury’s making, but it was one that he had maintained and improved upon since he had been appointed as director, and it worked. A certain level of grime was to be tolerated- in an organisation like SHIELD, entrenched as its operations were within the global network espionage, geopolitics, and commerce, both legal and black market, there was no such thing as clean hands, and even less so of a clean house. It would be the height of naivety and idealism to believe otherwise. But Fury would have detected the swells of a schism forming, of acceptable margins for disagreement becoming an unacceptable division. The sharks may circle, and there would always be blood in the water, but they would never get close enough for a bite.

SHIELD’s identity, and its purpose, was as secure as they had been when Peggy Carter and Howard Stark had founded it.

Common sense dictated that he should verbalise none of this to Alethia.

“So what do you recommend? Tell me what I should be looking at.” Fury began consciously convincing himself into a counter position that he could justify- that there was more to gain than to lose in hearing her, that it was eminently for Alethia to have noticed a risk that they had failed to assess.

Truth was the only shield that held against Alethia. If he didn’t believe it, then neither would she.

The irked tightening of her eyebrow was not encouraging.

“I know you’re humouring me, Nicholas, but let’s ignore the subpar charade otherwise for now.” Alethia shifted into resigned slant, arms folding against the brisk air. “Alright. First. You need a stricter delineation between personnel files, and dossiers on civilians and associates. Especially in regards to storage and access permissions. The keys to unlock one door should not work on another. It’s a security risk, and more than a little alarming that I have to bring it up. Second- stop kidnapping people. Human rights and due process aside, it’s a good way to build up ill will with the very people you may need help from in the near future. Less vinegar, more honey.”

“They are people of interest-”

“Stop kidnapping them.”

“So you’re telling us to ignore the risks-”

“I am telling you that the secret is out,” Alethia interrupted sharply, “and that the bell can’t be unrung. So- exploit it. Instead of trying to wrench the curve backwards, stay ahead of it. Advise the appropriate legislative bodies. Drive the drafting of fair laws to cover the hypotheticals that have become realities- just like with every other advancement in history. Provide evidence for public trials. Give people due process if and when they violate the law, and stop kidnapping people on the basis that they might, possibly, at some point, become a threat. Offer them the resources to help them control their abilities, instead of the choice between constant intrusive surveillance, working for you, or getting disappeared to a facility that doesn’t legally exist.” She paused, with all the ominous inertness of an active hotplate. “And get some actual oversight.”

“This may be hard for you to believe, but we have oversight.” Fury replied, wondering exactly how inept she was under the impression SHIELD was.

“Your oversight is faceless, tried to nuke Manhattan, and has yet to face any questions in regards to it.” She said flatly, staring at Fury with a particularly blank contempt. “Get better oversight.”

Regrettably, she had a point.

Although, Fury was slightly more concerned with where and how, exactly, Alethia had acquired that information.

“I am well aware of their shortcomings,” Fury answered evenly, “and, frankly, I’m a little insulted by the implication to the contrary.”

“Nicholas,” Alethia sighed, part impatience and part resignation, seething, “I don’t like you. But that does not make me intellectually dishonest. There is a reason why I am talking, despite the fact that you are proving incapable of listening. I know that you know. And I am aware that you are not unreasonable. Or- entirely incompetent.”

Fury ignored the qualifier. It was impressive that she had held out this long without a thinly veiled insult.

“But you don’t trust me.”

Alethia smiled slightly, in a way that declared I would have to be an idiot.

She wasn’t entirely wrong.

“You and yours are not answerable to the public,” she said simply, combing her hair out of her eyes as the wind picked up and tossed it into disarray. “And the Avengers have to be, if the project is going to be sustainable. You had a good idea, but- SHIELD is not the right organisation to execute it. It is not what you’re good at, or suited for.”

“Protecting the world from threats that it’s not ready for?”

“By sealing truth in the well. Yours is a war of cloak and dagger- a necessary one,” Alethia added with a pointed glance in Fury’s direction, as though daring him to accuse her of being unfair, “and you’re good at it. But you cannot protect the public by keeping them ignorant ad infinitum. And treating people as though they’re helpless children won’t help them develop critical thinking skills. It will just keep them- reactive, and uninformed, when the situation forces their awareness. This is not a terrorist cell with a glowing cube that defies the established laws of thermodynamics. This is an entire world that has been emerging for decades, and is past being kept a secret.”

Fury felt his chest expand with a deep, slow breath, his gun holster tightening briefly, leashing in his thoughts.

“So. Stronger protections for our data, more outreach to enhanced individuals, focus on laws, improvement of oversight.” Fury concluded. “Those are your recommendations?”

“It’s not a panacea,” Alethia said, lifting one shoulder, “it’s a safety net.”

“It’s a pretty reasonable report.”

“I’ve learned to lower my expectations.” She lifted her face to the open air, soaking in a sudden break of sunshine from between the clouds, warming her colours and sharpening the contrast between her golden complexion and fair hair. “Nothing that I mentioned should offend your sensibilities overmuch. Although, I notice that you omitted the no kidnapping clause.”

Not for the first time, Fury resented that Alethia was so determined to distrust SHIELD. In some respects, she reminded him of Maria Hill, driven and intelligent and unapologetically argumentative, first to point to flaws that no one else would mention due to adherence to chain of command.

The crucial difference was that Hill was capable of doing what she was told.

“I never thanked you,” Fury decided to say, eventually. “For guarding Loki."

It seemed gracious to acknowledge it, as they neared the end of Project VERITAS.

“It’s unnecessary to,” Alethia stated tonelessly. “You would have forced the issue if I had refused, and I had my reasons to say yes.”

“Such as?”

Alethia lowered her gaze, to cast it out over the city, serenely blank.

“Some that you wouldn’t understand. Others that- you probably wouldn’t credit.”

“Well, I might surprise you,” Fury murmured, before shrugging. “That was a pretty good pitch, by the way.”

“Oh- thank you,” Alethia said, the lightness of her cadence surprisingly devoid of sarcasm. “I spent a considerable amount of time refining it. Including editing out a point about SHIELD’s double standards, hypocrisy, and lack of self-awareness over the concept of unbridled, unknown power in the hands of obscure organisations with dubious motives. I thought it might be- unproductive?”

“Smart call,” Fury replied dryly.

Alethia’s mouth flicked into a smirk, before fading into something more solemn.

“But this doesn’t guarantee that you will take my advice, does it?”

Damn right. A good argument makes you a good orator, not a good strategist.

“You knew it probably wouldn’t. So why make the case?”

This time, Alethia laughed outright, sudden and disorientating as a sun-shower.

“Sometimes,” she said through a luminous smile, “I really just want to walk away, and let all of you die.”

But she wouldn’t.

That much had been proven, by the warnings she issued about the Tesseract, by the fact that she had taken up watch over Loki despite the considerable personal risk, by the arrogance-clad counsel that she offered an organisation that she openly abhorred.

Fury let his mouth quirk.

This, he could be satisfied with. Even if SHIELD had not acquired Alethia’s loyalty, her cooperation was no longer a complete impossibility.

And Fury was reluctant to slam any door shut forever. So long as it was left ajar, he could allow the matter to rest as success enough.

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[abarbaricyalp]

Written for the @sambuckylibrary anniversary event! Rated G, no CWs.

"You know, he's not half so scary in person," Carlos said from Sam's far side.

Sam finished crushing trash further into a garbage bag before he followed Carlos' gaze across the party to the table where Bucky was regaling many, many children with an, undoubtedly, dramatic story. There were enough swooping hand gestures and mimed explosions at any rate.

"Yeah, the TV adds seven layers of hostility," he joked. "He's actually just a good actor."

Carlos snorted and rolled his eyes at Sam's ribbing. "You always were the first one to offer a second chance to anyone and anything. Do you remember when you--"

"When that stray bit me three separate times and I still cried when animal control caught it and took it away?" Sam finished for him. The story had followed him along since he was thirteen. If someone wanted to boil Sam Wilson down to his essence, that was the story they told. "To be fair, someone told me while I was in the hospital getting stitches for the last bite."

"You spent weeks afterwards tryin' to borrow anyone's home phone to call and ask about it 'cause your mama wouldn't let you use y'all's phone," he continued.

"He wasn't a bad dog. Just scared," Sam chuckled softly. He moved his fingers over the textured edge of a paper plate. "It wasn't his fault."

Carlos just smiled at him like he and Sam were on the same page, which was never true. Carlos was usually seven steps ahead of Sam. It's probably what had made him and Paul Wilson such good friends, even though they were otherwise very different men. He clapped a hand on Sam's shoulder and then moseyed away.

Sam looked over at Bucky, still in the midst of his story, and wondered when the last time was that he'd had teeth bared at him as he offered out a helping hand. And, honestly, cold shoulders and sarcasm aside, he couldn't remember. DC all those years (and not years) ago, probably. Even watching the Winter Soldier work again a few weeks ago hadn't been enough to remind Sam that Bucky could be that kind of dangerous. Especially not when it only took a touch and a look from Sam for him to draw back out of the character again. Sam was in no danger of being bit. No good person around was. Definitely more like the kind of dog that wanted to be a lap dog despite being a hundred pounds of muscle.

Sam made his way over to the table, just to make sure he didn't need to offer Bucky an escape. From the angle he was coming at, and the way Bucky's head was on a constant swivel to keep up with all of the laughing and teasing and questions around him, Sam got a chance to just look at him. The sun was bright on his face, making his eyes look like they were lit up and painting his hair more of an auburn than Sam had ever seen it. There were curls forming close to his head, brought out by the humid salt air and Sam had never seen that either. It kind of knocked the breath out of his chest.

Finally, he stepped closer, about to interrupt whatever exaggerated story Bucky was telling, but the man's words stalled him before he could.

"And Sam came out nowhere!" Bucky exclaimed, miming a sudden flight dive with his hand. "He took out a whole bunch of bad guys without breaking a sweat. Steve told me it was the coolest thing he's ever seen."

"Steve Rogers thinks Uncle Sam is cool?" Cass asked, all wide eyed. Sam would be offended, but it was less that Cass was in disbelief and more like he wanted to hear Bucky say it again.

"Steve thinks Sam is the coolest!" Bucky assured. "That's why Sam's Captain America and not someone else."

Sam raised an eyebrow that no one was going to see, but he supposed that the simple version was best while Bucky recounted glory days with a bunch of kids. Bucky reached out to catch a girl by the back of the shirt as she worked on climbing to the other side of the table so she could stand on the bench. She struck a dramatic pose and stared off in the distance for a moment.

"I wanna have wings. How do I get wings?" she asked.

"Well first, you have to eat all your vegetables. And you have to make good grades," Bucky explained, tugging her down to sit. "But you also have to be kind and not selfish, right? Gotta behave like Sam does."

"Even to my brother?" she asked with a frown.

"Even to your brother," Bucky agreed with a solemn nod.

When Sam couldn't stand it anymore, he came over to put a hand on Bucky's shoulder and tug him back from the table. "Hey, mythmaker, you're gonna have to help clean at some point. Come on, let's go," he encouraged, pulled Bucky's shoulder until Bucky dramatically flailed backwards.

"I'm not a mythmaker," he argued as he carefully extricated himself from the table. "I don't exaggerate."

"I do not believe you," Sam promised lightly.

Bucky clicked his tongue and then waved at the kids around the table who had quite eagerly taken his spot, clambering over each other even as Sam and Bucky walked away.

"You can never let me have the spotlight," Bucky sighed. When Sam glanced over at him, Bucky already had his eyes on Sam and he was grinning easily.

"I'm really jealous, what can I say?" he jokingly admitted. They walked for another moment, past all the trash they really should be taking care of, before Sam jostled his elbow against Bucky's side. "It's not like they were listening to stories about you anyway," he teased gently.

"Well, just the last one. Or the last two, depending on when you showed up," Bucky defended. It was unconvincing, especially when he snickered to himself anyway. "Your stories are more family friendly."

"You were sounding pretty bragadocious of those stories."

"Oooh, there's a vocabulary word," Bucky laughed. He nudged Sam towards an empty pier and sat down so he could dangle his legs over the edge of it. Sam followed suit and watched the water lap at the old wood. Algae and barnacles clung to the supports and drifted in the repetitive current.

"I'm proud of you," Bucky eventually said, barely audible over the water. The noises of the party were far enough away that Sam could almost believe he was underwater, with the way his head went light with the compliment.

"Thanks, man," he said back just as softly. "You're not doing too bad for yourself either."

Bucky knocked his shoulder into Sam's and then stayed leaning against him as he stared out over the water. Sam let his own head come to rest on Bucky's, tucking his cheek against Bucky's sun warmed hair. The birds called overhead, waiting for their chance to swoop in on discarded food and open trash. Music started up from somewhere near the heart of the party. The water continued to gently keep time with the wind and the current. And Bucky was warm and solid and constant beside him.

Sam was pretty damn proud too.

[burninlovebutler]

06 - Cold Showers | Forever Winter | a.b x oc

warnings: 18+, sexual tension, cursing, dirty thoughts/fantasies ???, horny!austin, the need to take a cold shower, fem!oc, horny conflicted shit, the pic chosen is exactly what i picture in those scenes 👀

06/? - chp summary: austin has internal conflicts about his body’s reaction to his best friend and the restraint of not bringing himself to take care of it. At least not while she’s there.

see masterlist/summary for background info + chapter log

𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝙸’𝚖 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎

𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝙸 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍

-AUSTIN-

An ungodly amount of pancakes later, Elsie got up and began cleaning up.

"Oh no you absolutely can't do that." I went to grab her arm but just fell short. "I can't let you do dishes."

Her body spun while collecting every dirty dish she could hold.

"Why! You saved me yesterday and you made me pancakes!" Her voice light and bubbly. Mood noticeably better than when she first woke up.

The fix-it pancake magic worked yet again.

I didn't bother arguing further, when she had made up her mind it was hard to stop her.

The warmth of the noon sun helped ease a foggy sensation that had taken shelter in my head.

There was a new heaviness to my chest that was driving me mad. It felt so familiar, but I didn't understand it. Unrecognizable, but I knew it. Kinda like when you can't remember a specific word. You know what the word means and what you're trying to say. But somehow the word no longer exists in your vocabulary.

As I snapped out of my thoughts, I pulled my thumb from my teeth. The skin around my fingernail was shredded. I had tried to so many times to quit the habit, but it always returned.

Elsie went to snatch the last dish left, my white syrup-covered plate sitting in front of me. But I pulled the edge back.

"Nuh uh, the least I can do is bring it to you."

"Now, how is that any different from me taking it?" She gave a playful huff.

"It makes me feel less guilty."

I round the corner and came up behind her to drop the plate into the sink.

I froze when our bodies grazed each other. My hips behind hers at an angle. Her warmth radiated against my body. It felt magnetic. The scent of my sheets and lingering perfume intertwined on her, filling my nose.

She stilled shortly after me. Suds poured out of the now stalled sponge. Her fingers gripped around the blue sponge. It made me wonder what her hand would feel like wrapped around me.

Being jealous of a cleaning utensil was not on my bingo card for the day.

My mouth just above her neck, lips so close to her skin.

I let out a hitched breath that just grazed the small curve of her neck. I felt her tense against me, only bringing her closer. Her hands still paused on the now spotless, soapless plate. Goosebumps rolled across her shoulder that was only covered by a thin black strap.

My hands begged to touch her. Other parts of me craved to touch her too, wanting to press up against her.

The image of her bent over the counter flashed across my mind. Her lengthy chocolate waves wrapped around my fist. Her full hips swiveling against my—

Shit.

I pulled away and promptly readjusted myself. Finding a thrown dish towel, I pretended to clean up around the kitchen. I wiped a random spot on the granite countertop.

What the fuck was that.

"Um, I think I'm gonna take a shower. Do you need anything before I get in?" I tried to stifle the sense of urgency in my voice.

"No no... I'm okay, but I think I want to take one after you?"

Nope. Didn't need to think about that.

She shut off the faucet and spun to face me, back against the counter. Gathering her chocolate waves and pulling them into a high ponytail. A couple loose waves framed her face.

My eyes briefly glued to her, the way her ribbed tank top tightly hugged her curves. The vertical lines stretched taut across her chest. My body soon buzzed with the same feeling as before.

I conveniently held the towel at my waist.

"Yeah- yeah sure of course." From the way my heart thumped against my ribcage, I knew I had to leave before she noticed anything.

It felt like a marathon trying to get into my room. The wooden door snapped into place with my weight behind it. I closed my eyes and let out a sigh.

Sometimes these 'close calls' seemed too close. My rampant heart felt like it had migrated to my throat. I wasn't sure why my mind – my body – was reacting like this. There was no plausible reason.

Unless there was.

"No no, of course not." I muttered to myself.

Realizing the stupid kitchen towel was still clutched in my hand and chucked it across the room.

I frantically attempted to void any memory of the scorching electricity I felt when I touched her. I barely touched her and it was driving me into a frenzy.

My lips just inches from her skin, my hands pleading to touch her.

Did she feel like this too? Or am I just a fucking creep of a friend? Was there anything to it at all?

I'd like to think that I'm a better man than that.

It had to end.

A familiar ache came from below my waist. My head rested against the door followed with a low groan.

This was so fucking weird. Maybe I just hadn't gotten laid in a while. The body does things by itself sometimes. Right? For no reason at all. Right?

That's it. It had to be it.

Maybe a cold shower would help, since I wasn't exactly going to take care of this now.

-

The frigid water flowed down my chest, down past my waist. I winced as the cold water subdued the pulsing coming from my hips.

There was nothing more that I wanted than to take care of myself now. It felt almost painful not to. But I couldn't. Not with her here. It was all too fucking weird.

Yet, the throbbing demanded my attention.

I leaned on the cold, tiled wall, resting my head against it.

Christ, do I wanna fuck my best friend?

"She has a boyfriend." I reminded myself. "A boyfriend that could probably kill me."

And she's my best friend. That's the important one.

As if my subconscious heeded a warning, I was sharply reminded of the swelling surrounding my eye.

Well, I guess not getting the shit beat out of me was pretty important too.

I wanted more than I could handle.

A mental film tape unwillingly flicked on, scrolling through each burnt desire.

Picking her up and sitting her on the counter.

Each scene charred the film more than the last.

My lips on her neck, my tongue on her skin. Littering the curve of her shoulder with marks.

The 35mm tape in my mind melting at the edges.

Her thick thighs wrapped around my waist. My hands squeezing any and everything I could find.

The tape caught flame and disintegrated completely. Stifling, suffocating.

Fuck.

Was that what would happen to us if I gave in? Would we burn to dust?

Fuck.

Not even the ice cold water could extinguish this.

I wanted more than I could handle.

-

She told me once, when we were drinking, that she had faked every orgasm with any boy she'd ever fucked, every boyfriend. That no guy ever made her finish.

I wanted to change that.

Note: The smut will build & intensify with the story - I wanted to pace it along side the characters. The way they're struggling to fully speak or accept it. I imagine they don't want to process it fully, even in their thoughts. So it purposely starts out fairly tame and vague.

Next Chapter: 07 - Giving In

[benjaminthewolf]

Larry (Pokémon Scarlet And Violet) Lol (Safe Edition)

I was going to post this next Monday, but since these stories are for @luci-voracious-blog ‘s birthday she requested they be posted the day of.

Fatal edition:

****

You couldn’t exactly remember how, precisely, you had ended up in this situation, and yet, right now, that barely even mattered. Swaying precariously between the shining, slightly warm light fixtures hanging directly above the tables of unassuming customers down below, you, with a long drawn out sigh and a head shake, begin to meticulously scan along the vast and lively landscape beneath you, searching vehemently for an option of escape; ultimately coming upon the understanding that the total amount of options before you was just simply only one.

Gazing down directly onto the currently fresh, wafting, and steamy plate of Onigari rice upon the naturally relatively small table-for-one occupied by what appeared to be a well-groomed, serious, formal man wearing a suit, you couldn’t help but wonder if the aforementioned man was just barely cramming in this meal between two long-houred, exhausting business shifts. Regardless, you knew you still had to make it out of here, and so, into the cushioned ball of rice you would fall.

Taking a couple of seconds in order to properly angle your dive, (just to ensure you wouldn’t accidentally splat your form on and all across the wooden table), at last, you brace the fall. The air vigorously rushing by as you gracefully cut through its resistance via the form in your dive, you are thus able to make a successful, rice-enabled landing, and are now all but guaranteed to survive. Or, at least, that was your initial presumption, before your elevation once more, began to rise.

At first, as your instincts practically screeched at you to figure out what was going on, you viciously swiveled your minute, fragile form all around upon its tiny platform, in order to eventually grasp ahold onto the situation. As the natural result of all this, however, a glance into a giant eye was all but destined to shock your poor body into submission, as the angle from which you had observed the glaring body part continued to grow more and more acute. Perhaps more alarmingly, though, despite the sheer fact that you had just gazed directly down the pupil of the organ, which would normally ensure an interpersonal lock, this time, that just simply didn’t happen. Whether this man was so lost in his own thoughts to notice or utterly incapable of noticing due to intense bodily fatigue, or another third option, was anyone’s guess. However, whatever the cause may be, it still ended up having the exact same effect.

You began to yelp and plead desperately up to the unaware giant above. Alas, this seemed to do practically nothing to change the situation. Eventually, you had come so close towards the as-of-yet still closed maw of the man, that you were now all-of-a-sudden, forced to prepare yourself for the inevitable unveiling. Two seconds later, the dreaded unveiling came.

Stretching open and wide whilst simultaneously salivating excessively, several goopy tendrils of saliva became extended out between the length between the gums, as both you, as well as the rice you lay upon, were finally shoved into the gaping, heated chamber.

Being placed nicely onto the middle of the tongue, you begin to notice slight fluctuations happening upon the slick muscle beneath you, causing you to immediately leap off the ball of rice, so as to avoid becoming crushed beneath the shimmering force of the molars rising up in preparation for the first bite. Seemingly a millisecond later, a gentle shove from the tongue causes the ball to roll towards the awaiting teeth, before a booming, shuddering crash firmly echoes all around you, prompting the molars to rise up once again, in order to come down just as well.

Thus, you were forced to focus solely on attempting to keep your footing within the slippery, shifting maw as the rice was moved left, to right and back in order to spread the job of chewing across the entire array of white grinders. A few selective times, gravity snatched the upper hand, forcing you to subsequently make a bit of a squishy splat, landing face first upon the slimy muscle. However, you always managed to regain your footing, praying internally that as long as you made it through this, you would still have a chance to hop out once the majority of the rice had been swallowed. With this firm plan in mind, the up and down, left, right, and center swaying motions of the muscle became only slightly more tolerable, as you continued to hold out for what was coming.

Adhering to this exact plan, the moment the mushy, saliva-soaked paste that had once been the ball of rice became somewhat packed together by the constantly shifting tongue, your muscles firmly bunched in preparation. Managing to avoid the sliding motions that the rice was naturally adhering to by grasping desperately onto the tongue’s slickened tip, you are able to glance over your shoulder and watch as the rice was swiftly shoved into the upper esophageal sphincter, a deep gulping sound echoed throughout the pink, goopy chamber, before at last, the tongue returned into its normal resting position, and you were again able to stand.

You have a slight breath from your lungs. Yes, with both adaptability and quick thinning, you would be able to make your way out of pretty much anything. And now, with the ginormous, gaping jaws currently separating from each other once more, you were now finally able to escape the slippery chamber of this customer’s maw, and, soon enough, make your way out of the restaurant entirely.

Or, at least…that’s what you would have gone on to do, provided that merely a singular second later, you had, indeed spotted the glistening, transparent form of both some sort of water glass, as well as the contents within. Rather unfortunately for you, however, due to the aforementioned transparency, both items appeared to be almost entirely invisible to your being as you attempted to leap out the maw. It was this single, simple mistake, therefore, that would end up costing you victory.

The instant the flood hit your senses, you were once again forced into a paralyzing state of shock, in both a physical and mental sense of the phrase. Utterly unable to reboot yourself into action before the torrential flow had showed you all the way back towards the gullet, you are barely even able to be aware of your surroundings before a great, squishy gulp boisterously reverberated about your two ears.

Suddenly, you had found yourself being effortlessly squelched down and through a constricting tunnel. The powerful muscles around you squeezed in and then out upon your miniscule being. The natural slickness and warmth that had also been present in the maw appeared to be greatly amplified inside the thick walls of the throat. Your breathing began to grow erratic. At one point, you were rather exceedingly sure you had sensed your own heartbeat, having grown powerful enough to be sensed from outside your chest. However, you were eventually doomed to realize that this was absolutely not your heart you were listening to, but rather, the heart of the man who had swallowed you. Knowing as a result that this meant you were reaching your final destination, both your hope as well as your sanity almost immediately sank to your shoes. Finally sensing but minutely the deeply pitched grumbles and groans emulating from the chamber within, you proceeded to brace for the impact. The moment the lower esophageal sphincter came into view, you firmly clench down your two eyelids whilst you effortlessly slide through the natural valve. Now, you were trapped inside of the stomach, with utterly zero options left for you to escape. Promptly shoving yourself up against the walls as a result of this, you began to quiver subtly, as the cushiony, goopy, smooth walls practically encompassing you joined in with motions of their own.

Gazing around your new confines with an acknowledgement of your inability to escape, you finally settle down into motionlessness, as the compounding emotion of despair only continues to grow inside of your minuscule, feeble being. Whilst the rice was effortlessly churned up by the chamber and nicely mashed into a goopy, homogeneous paste, you yourself begin to grimly wonder just what your new fate is to be. Giving a swift blinking motion, you once again let out a sigh. At this point, there was only one way to find out.

Back on the outside, the restaurant customer who had previously unknowingly swallowed you had gently placed his hand upon his middle, and was now graciously patting and rubbing over the thing as he lay in his chair and relaxed. He was not entirely sure why, exactly, he was feeling something oddly heavy inside of his guts, but that hardly bothered him enough for him to really care. Sitting in silence with a growling, full gut, the man could suddenly feel something rising up inside his throat. Being forced to release it in a deep, echoing burp, he swiftly placed his hands over his mouth and glanced around to make sure nobody was staring at him. Upon making sure nobody was, he gave a satisfied nod, before promptly going back into his previous position of comfort, still completely unaware of your ultimately, merely unlucky presence within.

[mwritesmonsters]

Monster Lady Knight

Taking a brief break from writing my current novel "Imago" to sketch out something more medieval fantasy. Based the vibes on my love of FromSoftware's worlds, but other than that I just made shit up.

CW for gore, death, crawly nasty things, and body horror. Questionably positive CW for tentacles.

At sunset, a hollow-eyed steed arrives at the gates of Tur. A destrier, once. Its sockets gape black. Its albino hide ripples with maggots beneath it. Its walk seems slow, yet in a short time it covers greater ground than a messenger gelding’s gallop.

Atop rides a manikin knight. Her chitinous armour folds over her slender stature like petals. Each plate is opalescent and white. The cuirass is deformed, exaggerated in its curve, as if the knight’s chest might distend like a fish bladder. She wears no chainmail. Where the chitinous armour can’t cover her, over the underside of joints and the neck, there is taut skin-like fabric. The white helmet ends in a tall ashen plume. The visor is down, and through its breaths a sickly light glows like a will-o’-wisp, the knight’s features completely obscured.

No guard stops her. No name nor banner is asked for. Only one watchman sits in the stone tower, and he’s too busy trembling in fear and sweating his shirt off.

Residents likewise hide from the manikin knight. Tur is a small town, cosseted by fast stone-toothed rivers and hills that break spines. The only man-made defenses are arbalests, all poised skyward, and a paltry volunteer regiment. Tur has a plan for dragons and for invading infantries. When a puppet of a sin-god passes the gate, there is no longer a plan.

Ruddy dust puffs at the destrier’s hooves. The horse itself makes no sound besides a faint thronging squelching. In the dead silence of Main Street, the knight’s breath is ghostly and loud.

The knight doesn’t stop before the monastery’s chapel. Sister Moranna tries to convince herself that’s for the best; perhaps the knight is just passing through. It’s unorthodox to journey through mountains rather than circumvent them, but still, there’s a path to Zaferes through Tur. Caravans ride by on occasion.

Despite Moranna’s best efforts, anxious thoughts surface like bloated corpses. What if the knight knows?

The puppet horse walks, unmistakably, to the mausoleum. To the hexagonal god-tomb at the heart of the monastery courtyard, a nexus garlanded with supplicant statues. And all the many glimmering candles, all the incense and flowers and food, can't help fix Tur’s secret: Tur-god has left its tomb.

Only the Emissary and the inner circle of the monastery is to know. To the people of Tur, there’s still someone holding the threads of their fates. Someone to shift falling rocks away from the hunters’ heads. Someone to hold a birthing man’s life-thread away from deathly haemorrhage. Someone to tell them what purpose their life will best serve, and to ensure it continues within unconquered walls. After finding the god-tomb tracelessly empty, the monastery resorted to the oldest trick in the book.

To bullshit.

The moment Moranna thinks this, the knight’s horse halts before the sealed doors of the mausoleum. The setting sun bleeds up the horizon and haloes the knight’s nigh-translucent figure with red, the helmet plume like a distortion of air above fire. The manikin holds the reins passively. Her head tilts at an odd angle, like a limb of a chewed dog toy. Moments trickle past; the sky slowly darkens, but the manikin does nothing more.

Mother of Threads, please, let her be our last. Let no more manikins come to our doorstep. Let the gods of sin stay their eyes from our town.

The chapel doors burst open. Precisely opposite Moranna’s chamber window, tall oakwood flings apart, rusted hinges shrieking.

Sister Ogdena steps into dying light.

A young maid, she is. Her earth-black habit is still rich in its colour. Her face is unmarred by the sun.

The manikin knight’s head swivels west to face Ogdena. The rest of the body follows shortly after, as the horse shifts to align.

In Ogdena’s eyes burns a tear-stained desperation. Fear, shut tight.

“The Mother repaid my offering,” Ogdena says. “You’ve arrived.”

It’s all Moranna can do not to thud her fist against the stone wall. The monastery should’ve never accepted those plague-ridden children. Everyone knows a slow death is their fate. All the Grand Cleric achieved is provoke a moron’s compassion—a moron that sent for a sin-god’s knight! Does Ogdena—this girl, this child—think the tall tales of sinners are true? That the manikins offer anything but destruction? Lies, all of it, sinners’ lies.

Meanwhile the knight dismounts. She does not tie her steed down; it stands abjectly still. Sister Ogdena watches. The idiot’s hands are clasped before her and her head is held high. Doesn’t fool Moranna. Even from her window, she can see those hands shudder.

The knight walks. The motion is not articulated. Only the legs step, while the torso and head glide unmoving. Moranna is paralysed as she watches the manikin breach her home of twenty-five years, unharmed.

Not just unharmed. Invited.

She slaps herself out of it—not on her fucking watch.

Moranna doesn’t bother with the habit; the chemise will do. Her candle trembles as she runs down the halls that curve round the courtyard towards the infirmary—Mother of Threads, fuck and burn that fucking infirmary.

She’s too late. By the time Moranna reaches the vaulted hall of twenty straw sickbeds, the manikin knight already stands in its centre, and Sister Ogdena, the fool, flanks her side.

Shamefully, Moranna hopes for sudden deaths. The children are almost at their end anyway. Nine frail bodies, skin over bone, breathing shallow and fast. The nuns have taken great care to bandage all skin lest vile blood seeps through, but these children have bouts of horrific thrashing, and some gauze came undone. Wherever Moranna can see skin on them, it’s all pustulated.

“Please,” Ogdena murmurs.

The knight unfurls a finger. Choose one.

Moranna must stop them. She must. Only her legs hold her hostage, motionless like the knight’s abomination of a steed, and her mouth is clamped thoroughly shut.

Ogdena doesn’t bargain. She must’ve known that would be the deal; hoped, perhaps, otherwise. The fool sister is pale as the knight’s armour, but unlike Moranna, she’s not immobilised.

She points to the bed of the smallest child.

Moranna must stop them.

She can’t.

The manikin knight glides to the sickbed, and Moranna could swear the feet aren’t touching the ground. Sheer gossamer threads unspool through gaps between petals of chitin, and twist into pale white tentacles that remind Moranna of pus. In a moment all the gauze is unbound. Underneath lies what must’ve once been a girl, or at least something with a body of one.

The manikin’s touch is, perhaps, gentle. A sin-god’s puppet is hard to judge by her mannerisms. A tentacle alights on a sore on the girl’s stomach, between rib and hip bone. The image makes Moranna think of a rider pierced by a pike. Without any good reason, she’s convinced the tentacle is razor-sharp.

It discharges something silver. Something liquid, crawling. It makes a quiet and horrible sound Moranna can’t help but want to forget.

Instead she remembers. She’s heard it before, this indescribable shriek-sigh-laugh, and she’s seen this silver. She’s seen it all when her first home fell and became the maggots’ breeding ground.

It seems the Mother of Threads repays Moranna’s offerings, too. Because that’s the only thought that could’ve ever propelled her cowardly body to fight.

She dashes for Sister Ogdena. Grabs the fool by the meat of her arm.

“You fucking twit!” Moranna screams. “What’ve you done?!”

The unthinkable. The fool, the idiot, the cunt has done the unthinkable. Even if the cursed manikins never return in greater numbers, the monastery is indelibly marked. Tur will whisper. Tur will fear. Fewer and fewer will come to the chapel to receive assurances from the nuns that yes, Tur-god really does keep them safe. Tur-god is here. Tur-god yet loves.

They will doubt. Weigh the facts of their hard lives against pious words.

The bullshit is done.

“Do you want Tur godless? Worshipping sin?!” Moranna is shaking Ogdena like the fool nun is a lifeless puppet. “Do you know what you’ve done?!”

And then she finds out:

The tentacle really is sharp.

It slashes her across the stomach with the force of a warhammer. The pinpoint precision, however, is that of a longsword in a warrior’s arms. It curves around Ogdena and finds Moranna’s gut, eviscerating her instantly. The force flings her against the infirmary altar. Right where the Grand Cleric lays offerings for the sick to survive.

Moranna doesn’t die in that moment. Instead her second worst dream comes to life. She’s expiring through one of the slowest, worst wounds imaginable, and it burns like a thousand dragons, and it reeks of shit and of piss and of blood. Her gore splatters over a holy site, and she’s alive to see it. Alive for a little while longer but already rotting, wallowing in the knowledge she’s failed to stop the doom of her town.

The manikin knight turns her back to Moranna and faces the fool nun. Ogdena looks like she’ll vomit.

“Do it,” she says, averting her eyes from what became of her fellow. “Do it now.”

Every sin is a debt. And some debts are paid at once.

Ogdena’s eyes flare open with wordless shock as the knight lifts her visor. Moranna tries to keep the world from fading, tries to witness, at least to finally know what in godless hell that helmet hides. But the blackness of death is already eating at her sight.

She doesn’t see the source of Ogdena’s horror. Moranna’s head lolls, unable to hold its weight. All she manages to catch is a glimpse of the sick girl’s body.

No pustules. No bleeding sores. A normal girl. A healthy girl with only one white wound shaped like a many-limbed star. Like the point of impact on shattering glass.

Only then is Moranna over. In agony and disbelief, the end of her thread comes.

[tchallasbabymama]

What if the five tribes could have chosen to challenge right after Killmonger threw T off the cliff? Like if there was a member of the royal family challenging first, and they won, would the tribes be able to contest them as well?

-

"The border tribe does not challenge the new King!"

"The mining tribe... does not challenge the new king."

"The merchant tribe does not challenge!"

The River Tribe elder rose as his lip plate trembled. Across the rocks, Nakia dabbed her tears and glanced at him. But through her reddened eyes, he saw that she was still as keen as her blades.

He remembered his own words, "Ungubani!" without which most of this would not have happened.

"The River Tribe... WILL challenge the new King." He said with finality.

N'Jadaka didn't seem to know the River Tribe's champion at first. Until she stepped down into the water.

His smile was genuine. Genuinely amused, as he watched his new opponent still wiping away the tears that had sprung from the previous one's defeat. She was clearly too shaken up to even last a minute in combat... just a pretty girlfriend of the so called King- who thought she'd never get scratched in her life if she tried to.

"Aight... I like this. Couple goals, huh?" He taunted, feeling his victory boost his ego.

Nakia was silent as she allowed herself to be painted with a few white dots and stripes where necessary. They waited for a few minutes as the Talon Fighter brought her weapons down to the falls. N'Jadaka glowered at her all the while, and she didn't meet his eyes.

She didn't even look at him until she drew her weapon and tested its sharpness.

"The River Tribe challenges you. Do you accept it?" She spoke at last.

"Bring it, shawty..." He chuckled.

The priestess trembled as she stood between them. "Let the challenge... begin."

N’Jadaka swung into action and spun the blade to bait her to block to the left, planning to slice her arm as she stretched it. Instead, Nakia dodged, stepping towards the edge of the waterfall. She seemed too distracted to see where she was going.

Erik swung again, horizontally, this time. It was a hard blow to block, and too fast to dodge from that angle. But almost as if by accident, it got tangled in one of her rings, and a flash of pain shot up N’Jadaka’s arm as his flesh was cut by the inner rim. His arm went numb, but he kept his hold on his weapon and swiped at her with his spear to push her further near the edge. She fell for it and moved backwards

He lunged and forced her to block a blow from above with both her blades as he brought his foot up to kick her in the chest- but she swiveled on her heel, dodged the kick and pushed him backwards, making him lose his balance. Just before he could regain it, she ducked down and sent a blade slicing through the back of his left knee, making that part of his cargo pants bloom with red, hot blood. He tried to stay steady, and took an opening to maim her- only to suddenly find that they had switched positions in the process of him trying to balance, and he was at the edge. He didn’t have time to move in before he had to dodge her blades again. 

And again. And again. 

His heel rested at the last rock over which the water flowed horizontally, and the current was tugging at his weakened knee. He lunged to stab her with his sword, but she caught it in her ring again, proving that she did this on purpose. With an effortless turn of her wrist, the sword was out of her hand.

N’Jadaka was panting hard with blood loss. His locs fell over his eyes as he glared at the warrior. To his dismay, she seemed calmer now. She hadn’t even broken a sweat, from the look of it: she remained completely dry above her knees, albeit with some tears that stained her face.

“HYAHHH!” He yelled as he came at her yet again with his spear-

But she only stepped sideways and swiped at him with her blade again to send him back. He blocked that, but found that the broken spear was also wedged in the curve of the ring. With a yank, the stump splashed into the pool.

Now he stood at the edge, unarmed and bleeding. Nakia held her rings before her for a moment before flinging one at him like a disc. He didn’t see that coming, and froze as his head spun from the oxygen that he was losing. The blade cut through the air, and then through the skin on his chest, making a deep gash as it stuck there in his sternum. Now, he couldn’t breathe.

The whole world was a blur and the only thing he could see was her piercing gaze. 

She strode forward like she was just getting her keys or something, before raising the other blade over his head. He didn’t dare move as he trembled slightly on his feet. 

She lowered the blade around his head, almost like a collar: and pulled her first blade out of his chest. He gasped as blood gushed from the wound, and tried to staunch it, before he felt the inner rim of the blade gently cutting his neck.

N’Jadaka had no choice but to stumble forward as Nakia walked back from the edge, with one blade around his neck.

“This isn’t your King.” She spoke finally, after having stayed silent the entire time. She turned her gaze on W’Kabi. “This ... isn’t your King.” She repeated.

Me reading this whole thing

Goddamn that was good! Writing whole ass fics in my askbox 😂

[asouthernbucket]

Neomounts monitor desk mount

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[frankenwolf1564]

MP-24 Star Saber: Lush, but still lacking

Ok, now I have something to say. We’re starting from vehicle mode though because the build-up to the full form of Star Saber is worth it.

                Released in 2015, MP-24 Star Saber was the first full update of the character, bringing back every feature of the original toy while also adapting his on screen look from the Victory anime in spectacular fashion. This obviously extends to his alt mode, the completed V-Star dwarfing anything around it while its unique form factor further helps set it apart. The landing gear aren’t great though, the hinges holding them in place too weak to support its weight most of the time. They fold back up from it just sitting there. Saber’s separate jet mode is substantially less immediately impressive, but it still carries a quaint charm.

Transformation to robot mode is a simple affair of pulling out the legs and unfolding the arms a bit. The only major changes from the original are small things like flipping out the feet and untucking his forearms. The Brainmaster feature was reworked to give him a neck swivel, albeit a stiff one, and make the titular gimmick robot smaller. The Brainmaster itself simply sits inside the chest, acting as a support to push the face into place when you close the panel. The head and inner robot are completely detached, rather than the face being inside it.

Articulation wise, Saber is good but nothing substantial. He comes with opening hands, a bend at the elbow and a swivel just above it, and his shoulders are on a hinge that connects to a swivel on the body. His legs though… he doesn’t have proper hips. You can spread his legs apart and that’s it. His thighs swivel just below those “hips” and his shins swivel again below the knees. He lacks any kind of ankle tilt in this mode, but his feet are sculpted at an angle to compensate. Don’t even try for anything but a static standing pose. You can get him moderately stoic at best. His legs and complete lack of a waist swivel make it a futile effort that will leave him looking unnatural and awkward. He is very handsome though. Overall lacking for a Masterpiece release but considering the features at play and the fact that I doubt anyone is here for just him, it’s not a huge deal.

Saber’s transformation to Star Saber is mechanically simple but filled with spectacle. Saber is the weaker half of this equation, needing you to partially transform him into jet mode then make him a cube. The V-Star is where the bulk of the fun lies. Unfolding the legs and sliding the arms down feels great. Getting him back is even more fun thanks to some buttons needed to unlock his legs. Slotting Saber in can be tricky thanks to an additional set of tabs that need a fair bit of force, but he’s also (mostly) secure after that. The chestplate/legs don’t tab in anywhere, but it’s held up fine by ratchets. Then, to complete the look, you just need to put on his helmet and watch in awe as the face plate flips down. The completed result is a tall, slender robot mode that feels like it came off the screen. It’s not quite the same effect as say, the MP Beast Wars figures, which from photos alone look like the actual models come to life, but the proportions from the anime are realized well enough to still capture Star Saber’s essence perfectly. This is helped by the superb color separation, most of which isn’t thanks to paint. The majority of his different colors are pieces of cast plastic. This even extends to Saber, leaving the Brainmaster as the piece of this set with the most paint. Ironic, considering its size. While this decision likely impacted a few other parts of the figure that we’ll touch on in a second, it does mean that he’s incredibly durable. There’s almost no paint to chip. My only real complaint about the colors is the chrome on the chest. It is gold, but it’s fairly faint and looks almost silver most of the time.

For the combined mode’s articulation, it’s a step up from base Saber in every way. His arms are fully flexible with a double set of elbows and swivels, and he has a butterfly joint at the shoulders for those sword poses. His hands can still open, but now his index finger can move separately. No joints in the fingers though, they’re locked into a curl. He has a decent ab crunch, and his front hip skirts move out of the way to grant his legs a full range of forward movement. His side and back skirts are a different story, both being molded as a single, static piece. You can get at most two clicks of his ratchets going out or back. His leg swivels are in the same places as Saber’s, except now he has actual hips, which still helps immensely despite their limitations. Then, to cap it off, he has just… the most pathetic ankle tilt. It’s barely there. Don’t be mistaken, you can still get Star Saber into plenty of good-looking poses, but you really have to fight his legs and either the awkward angles they can create or the angles they won’t go into. He doesn’t much like holding his sword either, as his grip comes undone rather easily.

Overall, this is a fine release, even going on 9 years strong, but it’s clear to see where some of his faults lie. Not bad by any means! It just could have been better. All those extra parts for color separation didn’t leave much room for things like fully realized joints, and he was designed with a potential MP Victory Leo in mind. Because they just haaaave to do Victory Saber. Even though it’s the worst super mode. The need to be stable with extra weight probably had more to do with some of his stiffness than raw parts count. Maybe they could splurge on the solid plastic colors because they accommodated for Victory Leo. I can’t tell you. It does all leave him very sturdy though, an aspect that the MP line has somewhat lost over the years, from what I understand. He doesn’t feel like he’s going to break whenever you’re handling him, which you need to do if you want some good-looking poses. You’re encouraged to play with him because of his awkward joints and you’re not discouraged from doing so thanks to a near complete lack of paint chipping and solid construction. Even if you don’t care much for posing your figures, he’s still really good. He still looks amazing. Handling him doesn't carry an innate sense of terror, unlike the subsequent Haslab Legacy release. And he’s not a 35-year-old Japan exclusive toy. Just a 9-year-old one.

[amazingthingsforyou]

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[rensect]

"Will the pain stop if we go deeper?" (( for Cident and/or(?) Cisor! ))

They are hands in a mind cavernous and pocked as a black moon. The Ren's hands travel deeper into the caves, feeling for knots, undoing them, and loosening the tangle of vining synapses that are the dwellings; for clusters of scum.

Khan mind walks like some of the Ren, by a different measure, finding planets inside of people, the way Cident tracks fringe groups to the most remote regions of wild space. Comparably, by will. Persistence. Constancy. And if it be, by blood. By bone. By the same agency Cident wields to drag the specimens out from their moon-caves, to peel off and dry their skins in the sun. For that reason alone, the question jars and scours. It feels wrong under Cident's plates.

Will the pain stop if we go deeper?

Cident halts, and his upturned helm-back swivels to face Khan. A section of the blackness spreading behind him in all directions halts, palpitating in the shadows—no more than the outline of movement in the dark.

When the blackness is beskar-thick, it's difficult to tell whether Cident's helm shows its front or back. What is clear is the fire and fear it spits.

"I told you. You shouldn't have come along if you can't bear the pain."

Will the pain stop if we go deeper?

Stop if we go deeper?

The echo grates at him. His helm swivels again.

"Do you hear that?"

Cident whirls around, a madness of angles and dark reflections in that gloom-ridden pit. Without facing the other man, he spits, and his words are barbed and brimmed with helm-fire.

"Khan! Forget what you were told and use your ears. Do you hear it?"

Will the pain stop if we go deeper?

Will the pain stop if we go deeper into pain?

Deeper into pain

Into pain

Into pain

A heartbeat he should have long forgotten pumps, pumps, and pumps. Pumps so that Cident would run with it. Instead, he looses his saber on the darkness, into an echo, nameless and bodiless, perhaps legible only to the hand that made the smudge. For Cisor, as of yet unborn, destroys planets such as Cident from the inside out, forming new ones from their remains.

@paramounticebound