#THAT SHIT SUCKED BADE........

[valen-dreth]

i frew up

[afiniteredwood]

Self-indulgent angsty fanfiction for @hybbart 's Ranchers Apocalypse AU :) I haven't stopped thinking about these guys for a solid month. The number of things I had to change after the first draft because I read the Notes Posts is incredible so don't hesitate to mention if I messed up the details somewhere

(Meet Me In The Woods by Lord Huron)

Day 543

Sleeping next to Jimmy objectively sucks.

Don't get Tango wrong- Jimmy is wonderful, a sleepy hugger and a furnace of a man, and Tango is never cold during the winter months. And, mostly, he doesn't have nightmares and doesn't talk in his sleep and Tango knows that he does that. Really, Jimmy has it worse. 

But Jimmy is also all ruffled feathers and whimpered noises brought on by elbowed and healing wounds, and the click-fssssssss of the breathing machine, only worsened after his recent battle with pneumonia. It becomes hard to breathe next to him, the farm dust once trapped in Jimmy’s wings clouding into the air whenever he rolls and the regular rumbling of the machine instilling preemptive terror in Tango’s stomach.

Still, on most nights, it is entirely bearable. Tango sleeps. On the days when he does sleep, he sleeps like the still-dead, and on the days where he doesn’t it’s because of the nightmares or the fact he has pointedly not taken his metal arm off, not because of Jimmy.

He always dreams of blood on his hands, spilling in rivulets down his clammy skin. Not what has happened to them, not what could happen, just blood. It’s probably Jimmy’s. 

So when, two hours after he had bade ‘Goodnight’ to the bedroom already full of the sound of Jimmy’s even breathing, he gets up and sneaks out again, it is an unusual thing. Revy notices his loss, curled up at the end of the bed, raising his head once and whining. Tango shuts the door softly on him. Revy returns his head to Jimmy’s thigh.

Yellow eyes open in the muted dark.

Tango’s sneaking isn’t particularly effective. (It terrifies him a little, how easy it would be for one of the undead to kill him now.) He’s so tired he feels like he could pass out at any second, and really, the creaking of the farmhouse with every gentle gust of wind is more than Tango will ever be able to unsubtly make. 

He makes it to the bottom floor, following the moonlight marking a square of light up the stairs from the glass patio doors to his feet. Spring is still only a dream, so the floor is cold beneath him, and he stands on tip-toes to stumble towards the doors. Something wants him out there- something about being one with nature, of just being able to sit and breathe and relax for a blissfully freezing moment. 

Opening the door is difficult with fingers numb from cold on one hand and metal fingers clicking ineffectively over the lock on the other, but he manages. Shit, but it takes him ages though, trying awkwardly to turn the key in the lock with his flesh-and-blood hand and using his other hand crossed over to turn the handle even though the angle hurts. It’s fine. He’s capable of doing whatever needs doing. 

He continues unsteadily outwards, dropping down to sit on the edge of the patio when he reaches it, legs dangling in the empty space below him. The forest is spread out in front of him, the house backing directly onto the wildlife that before-the-apocalypse had never allowed him. Quiet. If the apocalypse has done anything good, it has brought silence. It’s too early in the morning yet for birds, but there is wind through the trees and the sleepy mooing of distant cows and the even more distant, barely audible and mostly harmonious groans of the undead. 

He hooks one leg back up onto the patio and hugs it against his chest, resting his chin on his knee. 

It should be colder than this, really, but it is an exceptionally early spring this year. Already the ground is beginning to thaw during the day and the old seeds in the tool shed have started to smell damp and earthy again. At night and this early in the morning, it is still bitterly cold, but it's not quite as cold as it should be- not quite.

Tango exhales and his breath crystalizes in the air in front of his face. He shivers in his t-shirt and hugs his knee tighter and thinks of Jimmy. 

Jimmy stands at the top of the stairs and wonders what he must have done in a past life to deserve Tango. Something great, surely- he must have been a hero.

There is a certain sharp beauty to the way that Tango is outlined against the darkness with his blue fire and sparks that makes Jimmy think of gods he doesn’t believe in. He’s just sitting there, shivering and exhaling stars, and he looks so entirely ethereal doing it. Totally silent, just the regular hum of his breathing that Jimmy can only see from this distance, beautifully poised, like a beast that Jimmy could startle into bolting at any moment. 

But he carries the same inherent fear in him as wild animals do, and Jimmy frowns. Tango is never usually scared- not how he is now, hunched in on himself with one hand gripping the deck in the way that only Jimmy can see the tension in. He is only ever on edge, only ever afraid for someone else, only ever worried when there is genuine danger on the horizon. 

Jimmy takes a step closer, down the stairs, grimacing at the noise it makes. Tango does nothing, so he shakes his wings gently and cracks his knuckles and breathes louder through his mouth than he usually does in an attempt to not scare Tango out of his skin when he makes his presence known. Nothing.

He abandons any subtlety and follows Tango’s elongated shadow to the open doors, quiet regardless of how much he tries not to be. The doorframe is cold underneath his fingertips. 

Tango might be crying- he’s not sure. Noise outlines him in gold and cyan and it ripples with every breath, peaking at weird times that could be from tears or could just be the wind around the collar of his shirt. Jimmy’s almost too scared to ask- does he really want to know why Tango is crying? Why he’s scared? Why he’s hanging onto the back porch of the house Jimmy found for them like he’s fighting the urge to slip down and run away forever?

Yes, Jimmy decides. Yes, he does want to know. 

“Tango?” that voice says from the doorway, soft as anything. “Are you working on something?”

Tango does his absolute best not to jump, but he’s pretty sure that Jimmy notices anyway. He shakes his head to dissolve the tension in his frozen muscles, turning only slightly to look at Jimmy’s shadow’s head. He wipes his tears on the back of his hand entirely unsubtly. 

“No,” he admits, an invitation bare and raw in his voice. “Not really.”

Jimmy’s exhale casts a faint shadow next to his face in his image on the deck, pluming outwards from where his mouth must be. Jimmy has always had a fun shadow, Tango notices absently- deformed up around his shoulders where he isn’t really, his wings held awkwardly up against the cold. It really does make Jimmy look strange, like some kind of monster, shifting and growing- Jimmy drops down beside him, leaning defiantly back on the heels of his hands and looking up at the sky. 

Tango swallows his heart and looks at the ground, where he’s sure he won’t see Jimmy’s face. Whatever, Jimmy has a face like a deity incarnated into the body of someone who has known what love is, whatever. There are plenty of those around, plenty of people who make him want to hide himself away because all his fire and grace pale in comparison to the solid humanity of the man next to him. 

“What’s on your mind?” Jimmy asks, before the silence swallows them both. 

“Nothing,” Tango says, his eyes on the ground, the tone of his voice meaning ‘Ask me again and I’ll tell you about how I don’t think I ever made my mother proud, and how she’s probably dead now so I’ll never get to know whether I did. Ask that question again and I’ll tell you how there is so little left of her in the world, and how little there was of her when we lived together, and how there was so much more I could’ve done for her that I never did and will never get to do. Ask me again and I’ll tell you that I regret every decision I’ve made since the end of the world, even in and with you and guided by your hand.’

A gust of wind through the trees and a bird coos softly into the open air. 

“Tell me,” Jimmy says anyway, face half-turned to catch the sharp moonlight and to try to meet Tango’s eyes. “What are you thinking about?”

The dog comes pattering out from the house behind them, having followed a few minutes after Jimmy. He shakes himself all over and grunts, then settles down between the two of them and noses at Tango’s hand until Tango gives in and pets him. 

“Big man,” Tango says, smiling, avoiding the question. “Big shake- oh he wants some scritchies, does he?”

Jimmy frowns at him, but pets Revy too all the same. 

“Tango.”

Tango sighs and cannot bring himself to look at Jimmy. Instead, he finds himself looking outwards, at the forest from which one of the undead stragglers could emerge at any time and they would never be prepared in time to defend themselves. 

“Don’t you ever feel like you’re running on borrowed time?” he asks the forest, voice quiet and careful. 

Jimmy says, “No!” and laughs with such ferocity that it startles Tango into looking at him. Revy leaps up at the sound and jumps and dances around them, barking in the ‘play with me!’ manner that all dogs do when the air around them is happy. 

Shit- Tango remembers why he had known it would be a bad idea from the beginning to look. 

With his head thrown back and hair tangled around his ears, moonlight catching on his throat and on the fragments of glass and sand still in his wings, Jimmy looks every bit the picture of brilliance. Whatever god has possessed him has made him beautiful, has made the night split about him and the sun spill from his eyes when he opens them to look back at Tango. 

Tango’s not sure what face he’s making. Something just short of shock, no doubt- genuine affection blooming in his chest and sneaking onto his face along with this new sort of amazement. He feels himself smile and Jimmy's genuine happiness is so damn contagious that he can't help it even if he doesn't mean the emotion behind the smile. It’s just such a strange reaction, and so much more so from someone like Jimmy-

“Why are you laughing?” he still has to ask, even as Jimmy is still giggling into his hands. “Jimmy?”

“Sorry, sorry,” Jimmy amends, tears in his eyes. “I just- you feel that way?”

Tango has to look back into the distance. Yes. 

“Yeah.”

Jimmy has no joy in him anymore. 

“Oh- I- sorry.” He swallows and returns his hands to the dog, who has fallen back onto the deck with her belly in the air. “Tell me. What do you mean?”

Tango sighs. This was meant to be an emotion dealt with alone.

“You know,” he starts, before realizing how clearly Jimmy does not know. “I mean- we’re still just running from the end of the world. We’re never really going to be safe, are we? We’re always going to be living like this.”

Jimmy tries and fails to not take that comment to heart. Like this- like what? Trapped oh-so-cruelly in the house he had chosen for them, bound by the land nourished by their own hands and the burden of the animals they have given hope to with their presence? Oh, what a truly horrible fate it is, to have to live with one’s friends and family in the countryside. 

“You don’t…” Jimmy casts around for words that won’t come out sour and hurtful. “You don’t want to live like this?”

Something in his tone catches Tango’s attention (maybe it’s the betrayal squirming just beneath his skin) and he looks up. 

“I don’t want to live during an apocalypse, Jimmy. I don’t want to be in danger. I don't like being scared all the time.” 

Oh. Understandable, but-

“We’re not in danger now, are we?” 

Tango frowns at him. “That’s not the point-”

“No, but….” He hesitates. “I don’t know. I don’t think we’re running out of time.” That’s not what I said. “This is all I’ve ever wanted, Tango- a farm and a family and a dog and freedom and, you know, what we have.”

“No- not that we’re running out of time.” Something grips Tango and he wants to say things that he’ll regret. “We’re running on borrowed time. It’s going to catch up to us eventually.”

Jimmy laughs. “Same thing, really.”

Tango shakes his head but it doesn’t matter anyway because Jimmy isn’t looking at him anymore. Instead, he stretches out and lies back on the deck, feet still dangling over the edge, wings crushed beneath him, looking at the sky. Revy squeaks and wiggles over to sit next to him, planting his face on Jimmy’s chest. 

“We’ll take whatever comes to us, Tango,” he says, somehow with so much calm certainty that it’s almost convincing. “No matter what. We’re going to be okay.”

Tango wonders whether that’s a lie.

“Okay,” he says instead of asking whether it is. “Okay. Okay. Yeah.”

Jimmy glances over at him. There’s nothing but uncertainty in Tango’s self-reassurance.

“Trust me.” Jimmy reaches out to touch whatever part of Tango he can reach- his upturned palm on the deck between them, the metal of it cold. “Tango. Trust me. We’ll get through this.”

Tango’s hand twitches towards the space where his other arm should be and he chokes on a pained whimper- shit, fuck, losing a limb shouldn’t keep hurting after it’s gone. Revy’s ragged tail wags between them in his almost-sleep.

“Okay.” 

Sensing the lack of conviction in Tangos’ voice, Jimmy grabs Tango’s arm and tugs him to lie down next to him- well, as close as they can get with the dog snuggled into the little space between them. Tango has never been so uncomfortable in his entire life. He doesn’t move. 

“Tango,” Jimmy says, rolling onto his side to take Tango’s face in both of his warm hands. “I promise. We’re going to be okay.”

Tango doesn’t mean to, but he’s crying again, so Jimmy clambers over the dog to crush Tango in an embrace, tucking him close to his chest. Tango struggles closer still, sobbing into Jimmy’s shirt as he clutches onto it. 

Jimmy hushes him, rubbing his back in circles. His every breath sounds that little bit more laboured with the air spilling out from the cannula, and Tango’s metal arm is stabbing him in the side.

“We’ll be okay,” he whispers. Tango nods furiously, desperately. Jimmy is briefly glad that Tango’s fire does not catch on other people. “We’re going to be alright.”

Tango makes a choked noise and manages, “We’re going to be okay,” his voice watery and sharp with tears. 

Jimmy half-smiles, continuing to rub circles onto Tango’s back. Revy pokes him in the shoulder with his nose and curls up again near Tango’s head. Tango’s whole body shakes with every sob. 

“We’re going to be okay,” Jimmy reiterates quietly. “I’ve got you, Tango. We’re going to be okay.”

[devinox-art]

I'm sure everyone has written a BG3 Tiefling Party fanfic by now. If you enjoy them, you can find yet another one under the cut.

If you say please.

Of course saving a bunch of tieflings meant crowd work for Astarion; the poor bastards were under the impression he did it out of the goodness of his unbeating heart, and not because he was given very little choice by their oh so gracious... Well, as much as he was loathed to admit it, Velvari was their leader. Despite not having a single thing in that head of hers besides a mind flaying parasite, she still felt some sort of kinship with the merry band of tieflings, who were on the verge of being left at the mercy of goblins. The moment she decided they were going to offer aid there was no room for questions. Ugh. But no one else was grabbing the reins to steer this wreck of a group. Too caught up in their own personal shit to do so, he supposed, so off to save the day they all went. 

Which was how he found himself smiling out of reflex and saying whatever it was his small audience needed to hear to allow for quick departure. They offered him a bottle of wine and he took it with charm before he bade them his ados.

"I trudged through goblin filth up to my elbows and this is all I get for my trouble? A pat on the head and vinegar for wine?" he grumbled, the moment he was out of earshot to do so. He uncorked the bottle and made his way back to his tent, but before he could indulge in giving himself something else to complain about, it slipped through his fingers in one smooth action that completely took him off guard. 

His red eyes flicked up to the culprit, a tiefling with otherworldly dark skin that blended in shadows and an obsession with the color gold. A color choice that matched her eyes: golden irises piecing the blackness of her sclera. With the way they caught the fires that lit up the night for them, they almost appeared to glow. Perhaps they did. 

Was this the last thing the poor bard girl saw before she was torn into? Flashes of liquid gold as the claws of hell tore her flesh asunder? He didn't care of course. In fact, the subtle air of guilt she carried around her the morning after made the situation amusing. As long as that aggression wasn't turned on him it was something he could perhaps use in his favor. In fact, it was rather impressive how well she hid the body. If he hadn't smelled freshly spilled blood in the air maybe he too would have been none the wiser. It made him think. How quickly could she make any one of them disappear without a trace?

Velvari tilted her head back to take a swig while Astarion watched on, unimpressed. She  carried herself with proper posture, one arm folded neatly behind her back like a war general. When she walked it was with a confident swagger and when she talked it was with authority. Yet he seen her persuade people where she could have easily intimidated — and it would have made it all the easier if she did. All of this crafted an image that seemed to appeal, one way or another, to the damned and fraying souls he found himself in company. Even the Githyanki held some grudging respect for her. But Astarion? No, if Cazador wasn't a looming figure over his life, he would've been out of here the first chance he got. 

As of right now, this misfit group was the only protection he had on hand. An uneasy alliance but one all the same. 

"You did a good thing. Suck it up and enjoy yourself," she said, licking wine off her gold painted lips. She must have overheard his griping.

Astarion gaped at her. "Enjoy myself? I have a blasted parasite in my head and a–" One of his flailing hands was caught and his fingers were made to curl around the neck of a bottle.

"It's rich, dry, and sharp," she stated matter-of-factly. "I'm sure someone with your expensive taste could appreciate such depth of flavor."

Oh please. If it wasn't blood he didn't want it. If it wasn't her blood... He looked between her and the bottle of wine she put in his hand. "Is this your way of telling me to enjoy the little things?"

"More or less," she said with soft laugh, and dropped her hands away from his. Her warmth lingered on his pale skin. 

He huffed in disbelief. "I just want a little more excitement! A little more... fun. Is that really too much to ask?" 

"In regards to you? Perhaps."

"Oh don't be so sour. I like a good time as much as anyone." As he spoke, he looked her over. She wasn't even bad looking. Her black leather top cupped her breasts perfectly, and the deep, plunging neckline showed them off in a way that was mouthwatering. The bumps and ridges between them were on full display as well, like thorns, as if to say look but don't touch. She was sharp all over. It didn't dissuade him in the least; however, he needed to ensure he had an ally in this massive cluster fuck and if it took seduction to secure her then so be it. He's done worse for poorer reasons. "You know, we could always make our own entertainment, darling. Get a little closer, so to speak."

Her long, fleshy tail gave a twitch, but whatever that meant her expression wasn't giving it away. "Maybe. If you say please." 

"What?" Astarion asked with a humorless laugh. It was almost enough to make him retract his proposition. No, he can handle power trips. He can go through the motions of being desirable and he wouldn't even have to be mentally present. He did it so many times before. He was just that good. 

Leaves rustled under her boot as she took a step closer to him. She seemed taller than she actually was but in reality, she was no taller than him. The torch behind her head lit up her orange and yellow hair in such a way that almost made it look ablaze. "Say please," she said, so softly it caught him off guard. It wasn't a command. It wasn't playful either. He didn't know what to make of it, and he would be lying if he said her tone didn't pique his curiosity.

"Please," he said with a purr.

She ran a hand over his chest and shoulder. Even through the fabric of his shirt she felt her warmth. She may not have an infernal engine chugging away in her ribs but she ran hot nonetheless. Her gaze was turned away from him, as if suddenly shy. No, that wasn't it. He saw her do this before, but with animals she wanted to gain the trust of. Astarion's lips parted, bottle of wine lowered and forgotten. 

"I... like being manhandled," she confessed. 

He wanted to laugh. Not a power trip at all. Even if he didn't quite understand what this song and dance was, he started to understand the jist of it. Their gracious leader wanted someone else to take charge in the bedroom. He knew the type. He leaned into her, a hand reaching up to touch her elbow, and he murmured into her ear. "Oh darling, I'll take good care of you. No need to worry your pretty little head over the details." When her eyes met his, he expected heat. Lust. A flirty smile even. Instead what he saw was an emotion he couldn't discern. Behind her, her tail jerked to and fro. Not quite a wag. 

"You can bite me too." That's what made Astarion realize she wanted to discuss this, and what she was doing now? Gouging how receptive he would be. Oh, she was not going to make this as easy as falling into eachothers arms, was she? More than likely also the type that needed to be engaged mentally. 

Weariness started to rear up. "With no tricky strings attached?" He asked. 

She nodded. "No strings attached."

"Then I'll bite," he said with a grin, pun fully intended. "I'll be seeing you later." When she stepped away from him, a flirty little smirk twisted her lips this time and Astarion couldn't help but feel like he won. She dragged her hand away as if reluctant to let go, and he let her. 

Success. 

[istherewifiinhell]

personal pet enjoyment. just some things from the letters and ad space from mirage 8 i thought were funny. (literally just text. okay. and 2 outside images but just for joke purposes)

first not including the whole thing but just the use of the phrase comics fandom. in 1986. NEAT!

Bade Biker #1: Jim Lawson returns with a "prequel" to the Bade Biker story which appeared in TMNT #7. In this 30-page story, you'll discover the origin of Orson the frog, and see how he met up with the drifter, Bade Biker… and how they together confronted the evil Moto-Man! Art and story by Jim Lawson. Shipping September 15, 1986.

sorry for never having read bade biker but now just thinking the phrase "origin of orson the frog" issss so funny. (asss... mentioned. the version of issue 7 i read didnt have ANY side stories so /shrug)

Grunts #1: In every war, there are the foot-soldiers, those valiant trench-sloggers -- the 'grunts'. Now. Mirage Studios presents an anthology-style comic with stories by various artists and writers, featuring the exploits of these unsung heroes, with a twist all of the characters are anthropomorphics ('funny animals', for the uninitiated)! Thirty- two pages, black and white, hopefully bimonthly. First issue shipping in mid-1987.

literally just. 'funny animals' yeah man. yeah....

...Keep it coming! I love it! I think I've figured out who's who: Raphael's the crazy brawler. Michaelangelo's the warm, sensitive type, Leonardo seems to be the leader (aside from Splinter), and Donatello's the one with the mechanically-inclined mind! Am I right? (Spot-on, pal!--Peter) 'Til Fugitoid transforms into a truck, MAKE MINE MIRAGE!

Rob Sturma

Lindenhurst, IL

this is 1986 👍🏻 i say once again why do ppl act like the cartoon invented turtle personality. and being a comedy. that saaaaidd.....

The turtles are best in the city fighting thugs, killers, muggers in the alleys, rooftops, streets and sewers. This space stuff sucks -- Star Wars is dead! After the Cerebus issue, please get back to the basics, strong story and plot, and please start and finish the story in one issue. TMNT seems to work better that way. I'll be glad to see this space opera end. Also it is very violent. - "taking off heads"? Kids read this, you know. "Kick ass"? "Damn" all the time. You guys are an influence. Please consider that.

Despite all of that, I'll wait and see what #9 brings before I drop/continue collecting. Color would help the turtles.

Larry Mindy Chicago, IL

yes im gonna blast a rando from 1986... well e&l did it first (i never know whats weirder sending hate mail. or publishing it in ur comic). again. pre cartoon era here (tho coming soon). take the turtles back to basics. Oh you mean like issue 1 where THEY KILLED SOMEONE?? incredible. wild shit. turtles are making the kids violent the gift that literally never stopped giving. (pretty sure they say worse than 'damn' in these books)

anyway.

[ID from alt: 1. the turtlepedia advisory warning "You're not on Nicktoons anymore!" that says "Some TMNT stuff really isn't for little kids." 2. the next level up advisory "Hey, Kid, you're a long way from Nicktoons" that say "Some TMNT stuff was always meant for grownups. END ID]

[aquato-family-circus]

I could imagine this style of psychic ability usage starts from Raz giving the other junior psychonauts pointers about strength/stamina baded enhancements to their fighting styles, and it blossoms from there

Ah yes, even when he doesn't mean to, he still ends up flipping the Psychonauts upside down.

Though on that note, I wonder how well the major Psychonauts characters would handle psycrobatics training.

Obviously the Aquatos would be fine on the physical part, though their psychic powers would need honing, with Lucrecia being surprisingly limber for her age.

I'd imagine Oleander would be face first in the dirt, sweating and gasping for breath with some war related line for comedy.

Milla would probably be tired but treating it like one of those gogo girl yoga types of people. Sasha would depend on whether he's done any significant exercise since his time as a cobbler, or he'd find some kind of rational sounding excuse before being roped into it.

Not sure how the Psychic Six would handle it, though I'd imagine most of them would struggle due to their advanced ages, with Bob surprisingly handling it better despite ravaging his body with alcohol than most due to sheer endurance from the harder parts of gardening.

And throughout it all, Raz would be pulling a Captain America on Lili, going all "on your left" as he blitzed past, with Lili being very inclined to set him on fire as she stubbornly does her best to keep going. And probably only laugh if Frazie ends up beating Raz in Psycrobatics or something.

Not sure what the interns would do.

I think I agree with a majority of your assessments!

I think Oleander might have a better shot at being able to keep up, just cause I do get the impression he is physically fit, and seemed to have picked up swimming real easily? But he has shit stamina bc he’s sort of stupid, so he ends up gasping on the floor anyways after doing an intense workout without accounting for breaks or stretches.

Sasha I think would suck at the whole thing, remembering that slide from Milla’s Adventures where he’s falling ass over teakettle while Milla retains her composure. Tries to retain his cool about it, looks like a sweat monster.

Definitely agree Bob’s always been one of the more physical of the Psychic 7. I think Bob, Compton, and Lucy are able to keep up well with training (Bob needing to be reminded to take breaks I feel like he could easily zone out otherwise), while the others are different levels of struggling. Otto especially hates physical activity he hates it help him help help mods help. Ford tells him to quit being a baby despite also getting winded real easy, he lost some of that forest ranger stamina from teleporting around everywhere. Cassie’s middle of the road OK at keeping up the workout. Lastly Helmut gets a free pass tbh he’s got to do a completely separate much lower intensity type of physical training bc his body situation is delicate and no one wants him straining or pulling anything out of place.

Re: interns I think Gisu’s the most physically fit of the gang and is more than happy to incorporate Aquato style training into her sick skateboard tricks. Right behind her is Sam, who’s got the most stamina ever and it’s a little scary. Norma hates having to use her noodle arms to do PE and tries to pretend she doesn’t so god help you if you bother her after she’s just done training. Adam and Lizzie are fine enough at keeping up tho Lizzie complains. Morris has a similarly modified training plan that focuses on stamina and the upper body since he, by all accounts, doesn’t use his legs outside the wheelchair; I don’t know enough about working out as a wheelchair user to elaborate more on that.

[kassandras-one-braincell]

Eivor x Fem!Reader - Ink Me Up

Oh, what to do when the Norwegian woman tattooing your thigh is insanely attractive, clearly gay, with a criminally good bedside manner?

Warning: about tattooing and obviously needles.

Word count: 4363

Can be found on AO3 here.

Heavily inspired by this post here. The tattoo itself is purely self-indulgent. Eivor is stupidly attractive and it's not fair. (Y/N) replacer safe.

After months of saving and deliberation, the time had come. For the longest time you had dreamed of getting something big, bold and beautiful permanently inked into your skin. Something meaningful. And you wanted someone talented to tattoo it.

Thus, you found yourself scouring the web for reputable tattoo shops, hours upon hours poured into searching artists’ portfolios, hoping that someone was skilled enough at black-and-grey realism within a relatively close radius. If you were going to pay a hefty sum for a tattoo, you wanted it to be perfect. Your desktop was flooded with reference images of sword lilies – the subject of your desired ink – and about a dozen different parlours, tabs whittling down one by one during your search.

The final tab was the website for a slightly pricier shop, but one of the artist’s Instagrams utterly captivated you. Their artwork was extraordinary, the details in their pieces stunning and intricate; you decided investing a little extra cash would be worth it. Eivor Varinsdóttir, handle @wolfkissed_ink. Grinning, you emailed the artist, requesting a consultation.

You explained to the artist during that consultation that you wanted a composition of black-and-grey realistic gladioli on your left thigh. Sword lilies represented strength, after all, and you wanted to commemorate overcoming a difficult part of your life with something gorgeous and symbolic. That and, well, flowers were pretty. Within the week they had responded with a sketch that was beyond what you could have possibly thought up yourself: two stunning, bloomed sprigs of the flower with petals floating either side, lifelike as a monochrome photograph. Smiling ear-to-ear, you booked up your first appointment.

Unbridled excitement led to the time before your appointment soaring by, with you opening up the file of the sketch almost every day. Bringing us to the present: you stood anxiously outside the parlour door, 12:50pm, ten minutes before your scheduled appointment. Sucking in a shaky breath, nerves both good and bad, you stepped inside.

The tattoo shop was sleek, modern and decked wall-to-wall with flash sheets, the small designs varying in style, colour and detail. Everything was spotless, as one would expect, with shining awards dotted about. Just seeing the various trophies did well to quell some of your anxieties, knowing you were in good hands, that you’d end up with a lovely piece on your thigh. A stout man covered neck to foot in swirling Japanese designs manned the front desk, smiling warmly at you, obliterating any stigmas you had heard from older relatives about tattoo culture.

Biting your lip, you made your way to the desk, mustering a nervous smile. As thrilled as you were about getting the tattoo, the whole pain aspect was still rather daunting. “Hey, one o’clock appointment for (Y/N) (L/N)?” You fidgeted with the hem of your shorts while the gentleman checked his desktop.

“With Eivor, right?” he verified. You nodded.

“Sorry I’m a little early—”

“No, not at all! Rather you be early than late,” he chuckled, clearly sensing your worries. His eyes flickered across a clipboard. “She’s not with a client at the moment, so I’ll send you through now, if that’s alright.”

“Sounds good, thank you,” you bade, pulse quickening. Come on, you’ve wanted this for so long, you can’t pussy out now.

The guy asked you to wait by the desk as he ventured down a long corridor, the black paint giving off an ominous vibe that did nothing for your nerves. A few seconds later, he returned, cocking his head for you to follow. Your knuckles were white from gripping the strap of your purse so tightly.

He led you to the room at the end of the hall, holding the glossy black door open for you. “Go easy on her, Eivor, it’s clearly her first,” he called out, flashing you a wink, before letting the door close behind you.

Holy shit.

She was hot.

Eivor was nothing short of a modern day viking. Tall, rippling with muscle, late twenties to early thirties, blond hair strewn into an unruly braid with a strip on the right shaved clean to the flesh, revealing a fucking skull tattoo of a bird…a raven? Her face was stupidly handsome, eyes blue and icy but warm with greeting, a long and gnarly scar cutting into the flesh of her left cheek with a smaller nick protruding from her upper lip. Hell, the nape of her neck was marred with an even more vicious looking scar. She wore a tight black t-shirt that strained around her deliciously grizzled arms, which were adorned with Norse-looking runes and text curving into circles, ink that carried on to her hands and neck. The smile she offered you made you weak in the knees.

“(Y/N), right? I’m Eivor, a pleasure to meet you,” she greeted, voice deep and gravelly, decorated with a rasp that to you sounded like butter. Fuck me, she’s a tall, tall glass of water.

You shook her hand when she extended it to you, marvelling at the patterns and blacked-out bands on her long, thick fingers. Her nails were cut extremely short, confirming the strong lesbian vibe she gave off. “Likewise,” you squeaked, cursing yourself for acting like some bloody schoolgirl.

She sauntered over to her setup, weight carried in her shoulders, consolidating her already intimidatingly attractive butch energy, sanitised her hands and pulled on a clean pair of gloves. “Come on over,” she said, grabbing a disposable razor from a box. “I’ll just need to make sure the area is shaven, if that’s alright.”

“Of course,” you replied, joining her by the leather chair, covered by a sheet of cellophane. It was a relief to see all the hygiene precautions taken in the shop. Eivor picked up a disinfectant wipe.

“Left thigh, if I remember correctly?”

“Mhm, yeah.”

She dropped to one knee – wasn’t that a fucking sight – and wiped down the expanse of your thigh before gliding the razor over the flesh.

Hesitantly, you asked her what the general procedure was, desperately trying to divert your thoughts from the sapphic spiral they were travelling down.

“Alright, after I’ve finished here I’ll apply the stencil. You’ll get to check if you like the placement, and if you don’t I’ll keep going until you’re happy with it. It’s a big piece, so we’ll have to split this up into two sessions, as we discussed alongside payment.” She brushed away the loose hairs and peach fuzz. “I’ll do the linework this session, and the shading next time.” With one final pass of the razor she pulled back, tossing it into a bin.

Eivor then picked up a sheet of thin paper with the sketch printed on it. She plucked a purple pen from her table. “Give me a few minutes to trace the stencil, then we’ll apply it and see how you like it.” You nodded, trying to focus on your breathing.

While she traced over each line of the sketch, she kindly attempted to soothe your fears with small talk. “I’ll admit, I’ve never heard of a ‘gladiolus’ before our consultation. Any reason why you chose it?”

You smiled. “They represent strength. I finally got through a rough spell and wanted something to celebrate with,” you explained, heart skipping a beat at the soft expression on the artist’s face.

“All the more reason to get this perfect then,” she said with a grin. The way the scar on her upper lip quirked was positively adorable. A couple minutes passed and she re-capped the pen. “Stand up straight for me, darling.” Oh.

Cheeks burning with bashfulness, you complied. Eivor took a second to angle the stencil before smoothing it over your thigh, leaving a purple outline once she removed the paper. “Just have a look in that mirror over there and tell me if you’re happy, okay?”

You walked over to the mirror and stared at your thigh. The tattoo was large – which you expected, with the amount of detail in it – and perfectly central, the loose petals appearing to float down the length of your thigh. “Perfect,” you breathed out, giving the woman a thumbs-up.

Eivor switched over her gloves and gestured for you to take a seat on the chair. “Get comfy, then. Do you have water?” Nodding, you took out your water bottle from your handbag. “Brilliant. Still want to do this?”

“Hell yeah.” Weirdly, the nerves about the pain (not about the sexy artist) had almost wholly subsided, leaving you brimming with anticipation.

She poured some jet black ink into small caps, no larger than the tip of your thumb. “Remember to breathe through it and hold still, yeah? You picked a smart place for your first tattoo, not too close to the bone.”

“I’ll try.” Eivor opened a sealed packet containing a new, sterilised needle, inserting it into her tattoo machine. She switched it on, the buzz of the machine’s piston filling the room with a gentle hum. Looking up at you, she cocked her brow – if only your gay thoughts could bugger off for two minutes – as if to ask, ready? Affirmatively, you beamed at her.

Dipping the needle into the ink, she pulled the skin of your thigh taut. Immediately, you noted the warmth of her hand on your leg, fighting off a shudder. Then came a mildly painful scratching sensation as she brought the machine to your thigh.

Honestly? It wasn’t bad. Irritating, like an itchy eye, but not drastically unpleasant. You followed Eivor’s advice, keeping your breathing steady, averting your attention to the artwork on the walls, some of which you had seen on her Instagram portfolio. Portraits, flowers, animals, realistic-looking jewellery…the woman had mastered black-and-grey. You knew you picked the right artist. The frown of concentration on her face spoke volumes about her dedication to the art, steeled and intently focused on the lines she was pulling.

When she wiped the area and reached for more ink, she glanced up at your face. “All good?” she asked.

“Yeah, no issues here.”

“Wonderful.” She set back to work, positioning her needle over the flower’s curved stem, dragging it downwards in a slow arc. “Your skin takes ink like butter, by the way.”

“Oh, that’s good,” you breathed out. Her hand suddenly felt a little warmer. Tell me this woman does audiobooks, you thought.

After a few more lines, you tried to pepper in some small talk without breaking her concentration. Fortunately, her bedside manner was immaculate, and she entertained your questions without any grudges.

“Your voice is really soothing. Where abouts are you from?”

“Oh, thank you. I’m from Norway, moved here a few years back.” She grinned at the compliment. “It’s funny, people usually say the opposite about my voice.” You wondered if they were deaf.

“It’s a nice rasp,” you chuckled. Buzzing stopped, more ink.

“I was bitten by a wolf when I was nine,” she explained. Buzzing recommenced, scratching returned. “My larynx never properly healed from it, so I’ve sounded like some chain-smoker since before I hit double-digits, despite never touching a cigarette in my life.”

“You don’t sound like a chain-smoker, though. I mean it.”

Her grin widened. “That actually means a lot.”

An hour passed by, most of it spent in comfortable silence, with Eivor checking in on you occasionally to see how you were coping. Certain patches of nerves stung a little more than others, but none of it was unbearable. That was until her machine passed over a particularly rough area. It fucking killed, the burn of the needle seemingly deeper than anywhere else, the sting infinitely more intense than before. You hissed, gritting your teeth together.

“Ow,” you winced, clutching onto your water bottle in an attempt to relieve the pain, to no avail.

Eivor continued pulling her line, her rasp coming out in a low mantra. “Just breathe through it, nice and slow…” You tried to follow, attempting in vain to relax your shoulders. “Keep holding still for me…” Your breaths came shallow but steadily so, the stinging slowly becoming more endurable. The machine reached the end of the line. “Good girl,” she muttered, blissfully of absent mind.

Good girl.

Oh fuck.

Just when your clearly gay tattoo artist couldn’t get any hotter, she comes out with some hot-girl bullshit like that. And fuck, you didn’t think you had a praise kink before, but now this certainly awakened something. Why, why did it have to sound so good in her husky voice? No, you were absolutely not going to fantasise about your artist, not when her hands were on your skin, on your thigh of all fucking places. God, this stupidly attractive Norwegian butch was making you uncomfortably hot.

When she finally pulled away, sweet bloody reprieve, you took a sip of your water. “That wasn’t fun,” you remarked.

“Took it like a champion, though,” she beamed proudly, clearly unaware of the affect her words had just had on you. “Need a break?”

“Just a minute or two, thank you,” you sighed with relief. Eivor wiped you down and analysed her work.

“We’re just over halfway there,” she commented. Only halfway? Fuck. You allowed your eyes to wander over the black lines, all perfectly smooth from practiced precision. Yeah, this woman was talented.

“I mean, that killed, and that was my thigh…” you trailed off, making her laugh. “What was the most painful tattoo you’ve gotten?”

Eivor answered without hesitation. “My head, without a doubt. Packing solid black into that thing was agony. My fingers killed, too, but all completely worth it.” You couldn’t help but agree with that last part. Her hands looked extremely good, both with and without those gloves.

“I’m guessing places with more nerve endings and by the bone are the worst, then?”

“Definitely. The palm of the hand is the most sensitive, and it’s tough to get right. Ink bleeds, skin bleeds…and if you don’t do it well it’ll just fade. All that pain for nought.”

You gulped down some more water. Ouch. “Duly noted.”

After ninety odd more minutes, Eivor switched off her machine for good, the linework finished and utterly flawless. “All done for this session,” she announced, changing gloves once more to clean and wrap the area. There was minimal irritation around each line, and the wipe felt wonderfully cool against the reddening flesh.

Once she finished placing various equipment in a tub labelled ‘autoclave’, she escorted you to the front desk. You paid half the decided fee of the tattoo and booked your second session for three weeks’ time. Eivor gave you an aftercare kit, explaining in detail how to keep the tattoo clean, how to prevent infection, and to avoid direct exposure to sunlight as much as you could. Eagerly, you listened, trying to drink in as much of her voice as possible before departing.

“I’ll see you in three weeks, then. Take care, (Y/N),” she grinned. From the moment you stepped out of the shop, you knew that grin would be engraved into your mind for the weeks to come.

  The second appointment couldn’t have come quickly enough.

You spent an embarrassing quantity of time thinking about your dreamy tattoo artist, right up until the day you walked back into the shop, this time free of any concerns pertaining to the tattoo. The gentleman from before recognised you and asked how the tattoo was holding up, if you’d had any issues keeping it clean, to which you replied all was good. Only this time, Eivor came to greet you by the front desk.

“How’s it going?” she asked, welcoming as before.

“Really good. I just hope I’ve been doing everything right,” you chuckled, anxiously glancing down at your thigh. The redness had completely disappeared a few days after your first appointment, the black ink proudly meandering over your skin.

Eivor smiled reassuringly. “Trust me, you’d know if you haven’t. From here it looks like you’ve done a fantastic job of keeping it clean, anyway.” You followed her to her studio, mentally noting how she was wearing an even tighter black t-shirt than last time, the fabric clinging to the defined contours of her muscled back, biceps, abs… Needless to say, the gay thoughts had returned at full-force.

As before, she shaved and disinfected your thigh, but instead of a stencil she had the full greyscale reference images for the design printed and taped to a metal beam above her table. She took careful time in diluting various caps of black ink into a plethora of greys, experience shining through as she added precise amounts of diluter to each cap. There was something addictive about watching the woman work, with how methodical she was, how delicately she handled the bottles of ink.

When she unpacked a needle, you noted the shape was different to before. “Now, some parts are gonna be only a little rougher than before. Others will suck, I’ll warn you now,” she mentioned as you positioned yourself on the chair.

“Mama didn’t raise a bitch,” you joked. Eivor laughed.

“You handled it like a trooper before. I have zero doubts you’ll do the same today.”

And so she began, making multiple passes with the machine unlike before, packing in the different shades of grey in front of her, scratching into the already broken skin. It wasn’t massively painful, but Eivor was right – last time was a breeze in comparison. You rested your eyes and bore the pain, focusing on the faint music playing from the shop’s reception.

As previously, she was ever considerate, checking up on you as she worked – albeit not as frequently, now that you were accustomed to the needles – and encouraging you through the nastier patches. You tried your hardest to not look at your thigh, wanting the final result to be a surprise, but over time it grew increasingly difficult not to sneak a glance at her hands. Merely the thought of them flustered you (pathetic, you knew) and nothing would be more embarrassing than drifting off into a less than appropriate fantasy about the woman when she was simply being professional.

Time blurred together amongst your inner dilemma – to look or not to look – until Eivor’s signature rasp caught your attention. “Time for your least favourite part,” she said, giving you a knowing look, positioning her needle in one of the petals over the area that hurt like a bitch previously.

“Oh god, I forgot about that area.”

“Just own the pain and keep still, alright?”

“I’ll try.”

Eivor smirked: a wicked thing that could have killed every sapphic in a mile radius. “Squirm and I’ll pin you down. I’ve had to do it before, and I’ll do it again.”

That, under different circumstances, would be an appealing notion.

Closing your eyes once more, you tried to decipher the song lyrics resonating through the shop’s hall, grimacing when the needle penetrated the skin. Just focus on Rihanna, focus on Rihanna…

“That’s…not so bad, actually,” you mutter, not entirely self-assured of the words leaving your lips, hoping some placebo affect would take place.

Eivor chuckled, dipping into another shade. “You sound convincing,” she drawled.

“I’m – ow – serious… Okay fuck, that’s way worse.”

“Shh, it’ll be over soon. Find something to focus on.”

So you did, on what happened to be the first thing in your immediate line of sight when you re-opened your eyes: Eivor’s bicep. God, her shirt strained around the muscle, black fabric against tanned skin and the deep green runes littering her arm. Perhaps the ink had something to do with her ancestry, given that the woman said she was Norwegian – that or she was just a mythology nerd. Your eyes trailed over the spirals of script, the perfectly concentric circles. Mind wandering, the idea that she may have tattoos on her back and front piqued your interest. Then came the delightful image of Eivor without a shirt. Pinning you down. Fuck.

Before long the pain subsided, leaving a dull ache where the needle had worked at your skin. “All done, darling,” Eivor murmured, wiping the patch. Darling. You knew it was simply her bedside manner, trying to keep you as relaxed as possible, but damn was it having the polar opposite effect. Cheeks feeling impossibly hot, you unscrewed the cap of your bottle and took a sizeable gulp of water. She gave you a moment to breathe, now that the most difficult part was out of the way. Still flustered, you drained half your bottle.

Concern plastered on her face, Eivor leaned closer, inspecting your face intently. “Are you feeling faint?” she asked, evidently worried. “It’s important you tell me if you are—”

“No, no, I’m fine, really.” You were stuttering, annoyed with yourself that you made her worry. “Just being weird. I promise.”

“You do?” Her eyebrows were still upturned, not entirely believing you.

You nodded frantically. “Yeah, really. Please don’t worry.”

Taking a slow breath, she restarted the machine, relief flashing across her features. She gestured for permission to continue tattooing, which you granted, and set back to work.

Cursing internally, you let your eyes flutter shut, thoughts full of nothing but ‘good girls’ and ‘darlings’ in a husky Norwegian accent. Numbing yourself to the needles, you drifted off into slumber.

  “Hey, (Y/N)?”

A gentle pressure squeezed at your hand, slowly stirring you, bringing you back to the world of the living. Yawning, you opened your eyes, gaze brought to a gloved hand atop your own.

“Good evening,” Eivor said, retracting her hand and watching as you gasped and scanned the studio for a clock in a panic. Evening?

“Kidding,” she laughed. “I finished up ten minutes ago.” You shot her a half-hearted glare through sleepy eyelids.

“That was mean,” you pouted. She grinned.

“I do stab people for a living.”

Snorting, you swung your legs over the side of the chair, stretching them to regain a semblance of sensation. Chest pounding with excitement, you looked to the mirror at the side of the room, then at Eivor, silently asking permission to peak at the finished tattoo. She held out her hand in gesticulation.

Giddy with anticipation, you walked over and… Holy shit.

It was beautiful.

Each shade of grey blended into one another in a perfect harmony, so seamlessly that the black outline from before was barely visible. The shadows underneath each leaf, each petal looked real. Every speckle and wrinkle on the petals shone through, love and attention going into every marking. The falling petals were akin to a photograph, with the light grey background wash tying them to the main flowers, each little shadow appearing to give them different depths. It was beyond anything you imagined. All that pain, mental and physical, turned into a lifetime of beauty.

You didn’t realise you were crying until the salt of tears rolled into your awe-parted mouth.

“I’m, well… Wow.” Beaming, you turned to face your artist, who looked at her artwork with pride. “Thank you, Eivor. Thank you so much.”

She shook her head and offered you a box of tissues, from which you took one gladly. “I’m just honoured to have helped you lay that chapter of your life to rest. May the sword-lilies battle any shreds of it that remain.”

Stunned by her poetic inclination, you dried your eyes in silence, lips curved into a joyous smile. Meanwhile, she removed her gloves.

“You have tissues at the ready. I’m guessing people cry a lot here?” you asked, finally prying your eyes away from the masterpiece on your thigh.

“Mostly from the pain,” she remarked.

“You know, you could just lie to me so I don’t feel like such a fucking sap.”

The sound that left Eivor’s mouth in response was nothing if not angelic. She practically howled in hearty laughter, echoing through her studio, her eyes crinkling at the corners. You didn’t think it possible for your grin to widen further still, but her outburst was contagious in the best way.

“I’m glad you’re happy with it. Truly,” she breathed out, chest stilling from her fit.

“It’s beautiful. Happy is an understatement.”

Eivor made her way over to the desk in the corner of the studio, where a graphics tablet lay alongside a stylus. “Now, before I dress it, I’m legally required to ask you if I have permission to photograph the tattoo for advertisement purposes. I appreciate it’s a personal subject matter and completely understand if—”

“Go for it,” you shrugged.

“Are you certain?” You nodded.

“Of course. It’s a work of art.” The smile she gave you was genuine.

“This’ll only take a minute. Thank you, really.”

She knelt down and snapped a picture with the tablet, checking the quality. “All done.” Eivor then proceeded to sanitise her hands and slip on one last pair of gloves, grabbing the wipes and plastic wrap from her station. “The photo will be uploaded to the shop’s website and my professional Instagram, if that’s alright with you. Completely anonymous, of course.”

“Yeah, that’s fine. Although, it’ll be weird seeing my leg on my feed.” She chuckled.

“Feel free to email or DM if you have any concerns with the healing.” Patting your leg, she stood up to her full height, placing her gloves in a biohazard ziplock. “Well, I’m honoured to have given you your first tattoo.”

“Honoured to be your…canvas?”

And just like that, your time with the artist was up. You watched wistfully as she put together an aftercare pack at the front desk, your previously overjoyed expression drifting into a sad one. After paying, you thanked her one final time.

“Take care, søta,” she said with a wink.

The very moment you arrived back home, you whipped out a Norwegian-to-English translator and immediately tried to replicate her pronunciation of the word she called you, blushing profusely when discovering it meant ‘cutie’. And upon opening your cleaning pack, you found an addition that wasn’t present in your previous bundle:

A small slip of paper. On one side, a mobile number. On the other, in beautifully neat cursive,

I’d love to take you to dinner. Text me if you’re interested?

Yours, Eivor

[starshipsofstarlord]

Online dating

darcy lewis x reader / masterlist

summary; darcy decides to try a dating app, least to say, the guy isn’t anything like his picture. and thus she ditches him, and finds someone else in a hot second / warnings; the oc guys in this fic are dicks, homophobia, darcy being bae, swearing, mentions of sex and cheating, mentions of joy x reader.

he was a polar opposite to what he had portrayed his online self to be, screw the internet! this date was truly tragic, darcy had plenty of things that she could be better using her time for, rather than sitting opposite this oaf, that was licking his unappealing lips, and staring at the waitress when he thought that she didn’t notice.

“huh?” the scientific doctor pulled her phone out, ushering a puzzled expression on her face as she stared at the blank screen. she of course recognised that no one was making any attempts to contact her, but he didn’t know that. “one second.” she held her finger up, bringing the phone to her ear as she blabbered into the speaker that was inherently catching nothing that she was saying.

“slow down jane.” darcy falsely ushered, using her hands to exaggerate the conversation in her head. she put the phone down, a facade of panic elaborating behind her spectacle adorned eyes as she grabbed her belongings in a frenzy, standing upright and out of her seat. “im so sorry, my friend has just hit some guy with her car and she needs some moral support. tonight is going to have to be cut extremely short.”

short was a relief, but the hopeful expression on this dude’s face wasn’t. perhaps it was cruel to leave this guy hanging, and well, she couldn’t blame him for wanting more, she sent him an awkward smile as he began to speak. “we should do this again some time - properly.” darcy wasn’t dumb, she noticed how his eyes sped to the side as the curvy waitress walked by.

“sure...” no, definitely not. darcy was well aware that she was wasting her time with this moron, she didn’t need a man, let alone a dweeb of one. a quick wave was all she bade him as she exited the coffee shop, only to become engrossed in a scene erupting on the local streets. there was a woman, flinging shirts, and a bra within the bundle that looked as though it was not her size, what was she thinking, clearly it wasn’t, at said example of figurative masculinity.

“screw you durkus!” any guy named ‘durkus’ was basically a label confirming that he was a dick. “i don’t need you, nor the next man! i am a well established woman who has done more for this country than you could ever know, you’re dust beneath my feet, a pathetic layer of residue that i want nothing more to brush off.” perhaps she was being harsh, but it sounded like he deserved it.

from the red lipstick, that the woman was not at all sporting, from the random bra that she had flung at her partner, it was a safe bet to assume that he had cheated on her. darcy plodded closer, listening whimsically in, and realising that her life was pretty calm, there were no longer asguardians or dark elves infiltrating her life, nor the work that she had attained to field in.

she had only recently earned herself the title of doctor, and it was frustrating that people would assume that she opted for a profession in a hospital room, or they would forget the professional endorsement all together, and address her as ‘miss lewis’. she was no one’s puppet, she had scaled herself up the ladder of her career to be where she was now, but another thing that she was alongside such a wave of potential was a feminist.

this dick was shouting in the streets, calling her inexplicable names such as a ‘whore’, and a ‘two faced bitch’. having the ability to hear the insults brew anger in her stomach, she couldn’t just stand there. “what are you going to do, turn into a complete lesbian?” now that was the last straw, it had darcy marching over, and promptly she shoved the guy, making him drop all the items that were grasped in the basket of his arms.

a flabbergasted ‘huh’ was riveted from him, and it made darcy smirk as she attuned his attention towards her; the stranger that had gotten involved in his public display of disrespect and homophobia. “how about you watch your damned mouth before i make sure you can’t open it again. and whilst you’re at it, get some new shirts, you’re not a model, unless you’re the kind that are put on prison pamphlets.”

“who the fuck are you?” he spat his saliva on the ground by darcy’s feet, establishing her with the information that her first impression of this dick had been correct. women just knew with this kind of thing, they could sense trouble from a mile away. “you know what, keep that crazy bitch. maybe you can help her store her katanas, and go on double dates with danny rand and his plus one. rather you than me.”

“don’t ask.” the woman shook her head, tired of the drama that durkus always seemed to bring. she had enough trouble, involving work and extracurricular night time activities, without him adding to them. darcy presented her with a sweet smile, picking up the box of random bits and bobs that was on the floor. “that’s just work stuff, i’m moving offices and as i came to collect some things from our apartment, and i found him- well let’s just say he wasn’t alone.”

“that was pretty easy to pick up on. how’d you not realise that you were dating a total sleaze?” she was blunt with her enquiry, though the woman shrugged, a guilty expression cowering upon your features, like an ashamed shadow. a small, attractive smile graced her lips, secrets hidden beneath the span of the expression.

“oh, i knew. i just had to pretend to be happy, so that my ex, or well now, my other ex joy would stop chastising me, claiming that i haven’t got over her. she’s so up her own ass sometimes and it drives me- shit, i’m sorry, you don’t know me, nor do you need to hear about my problems.” the y/h/c haired woman shook her head, stretching her hand out to miss lewis. “i’m y/n, thanks a bunch for helping me out back there.”

darcy accepted her handshake, completing the action as she smiled. “i’m darcy.” this woman didn’t need to know about her doctor title, in fact, darcy was keen on knowing everything about her instead. “so’d how you meet him?” referring to the person that had most recently became y/n’s ex. y/n was relieved that darcy had shown up, she was sure she’d have used her martial art training for more than composition; she’d have kicked durkus’ flat ass.

“on a dating app.” it was a normal answer, she wouldn’t share the intel that before that she had saved his ass whilst wearing a black hood, stopping him from getting mugged in the dead of night. perhaps she should have saved someone else that particular late evening. darcy couldn’t help but let a small laugh out, finding both their circumstances quite amusing. she was sure a similar situation would have unfolded if she had decided to regularly see the date that she ditched.

“online dating man, it sucks, am i right?” it had quite the reputation, for the two of them especially. “maybe we should just date each other.” she joked, though she was being partially serious. it felt right, they had bumped randomly into one another’s faulted situations on the same day, it almost felt like fate, though that subject was too cheesy to say aloud.

“well doctor lewis, i would not at all mind going on a date with you.” darcy frowned at the title that she had been called, pointing at the side of the woman’s jacket, that had a recyclable label stuck upon the material. “so you majored in science, if i am correct?” finally, someone got it! she could get used to that.

y/n did not appear as a deity nor a creature from another realm, she was normal. or so as far as the eye could tell, in fact, she did not suspect a thing from this woman, much less to be a defender of the earth that worked in a small and less know league than the avengers, yet still roamed the us to protect its people.

darcy though had won this battle for her though, giving her a moment of peace from fighting, and had idly sent durkus on his route far away. y/n could get used to not being the hero all the time, more so if this doctor was her knight in shining armour.

[10millionyearsdungeon]

Praesidium

A/N: Back to our regularly scheduled bullshit...We went into this with zero plan, zero ambition, and came out the other end with something resembling a drabble featuring Hitoshi Shinsou as a hot-shit, Kennedy-esque politician trying to escape from the “family business.” I’d like to thank @dymphnasprose​ for the inspiration, the banner, and for putting up with my crazed plot bunny hunting sessions in her DMs. Proudly part of The Smut Pile Mafia Collab-- huge thanks to @pleasantanathema​ and @present-mel​ for organizing it and keeping us degenerates on time for once. You’re the real heroes.

TW: Wax play, orgasm denial, tobacco use, death threats, graphic violence

=====================================================

You were always used to protection. Your family's name and wealth brought its own Kevlar shield; whether it was the broad shouldered bodyguards flanking you and your entourage during every frivolous shopping excursion or impromptu escape to one of the many vacation homes that dotted the globe, or the mere mention of your father and the weight of his near omnipresence in the highest echelons of high society, protection was almost always guaranteed. You could hear it in the hushed voices of the real estate giants and their trophy wives when you made your grand entrance to every socialite gathering. 

"There she is, Yanai's precious pearl…" 

Dripping in envy and awe, it was no surprise to you when you caught his eye. Heir and only daughter of the wealthiest family in the country, you knew your worth among the elite and so did he. You only knew of Shinsou Hitoshi by virtue of his reputation as a newcomer to the world of national-level politics, but his charm and charisma were undersold by every inch devoted to him in the papers. By all accounts, he left you dazzled by his lazy, almost sleepy smile and the low rumble of his succinct one-liners. 

He played the part of the laid-back Playboy to the hilt, and by the night of your first fundraiser gala Shinsou had you practically eating from the palm of his hand like a hungry stray. By your second date, you could practically taste the Harry Winston hiding in his Tom Ford smoking jacket by the time dessert arrived. Back then you never questioned how he managed to afford the heirloom, four carat diamond he slid onto your finger, nor did it occur to you how he managed to slither his way into the House of Councilors. Blinded by the magnetic sway he held over you and your well-paid collection of sycophants, the how and why seemed largely irrelevant so long as he kept you on his arm. In your waking moments, you could almost catch pieces of a broken conversation from your insomniac lover. 

"Find someone else...I'm done being your enforcer. I have an image to maintain now…"

Many a night he'd stumble in reeking of sweat and sulfur, dark liquor still burning on his lips when he pressed a kiss to your warm cheek as you slept in your shared bed. Morning invariably gave way to bruised knuckles and heavy dark circles as Shinsou hid his fading scars under his slate gray Armani suit. Prior to your wedding night, you thought you caught the rip of his silk and gravel voice grunting from a crooked alley. Following those familiar thunderclap grunts was the crunch of something hard and then a pulpy squilch that made your stomach twist in on itself. The begging that followed was unintelligible from your way to the nightclub, but his voice, your Shinsou's voice snarling a loaded promise of breathing tubes and chronic pain if the offending party didn't pay their due stayed with you until your bodyguard ushered you into the safety of your car. 

"Daddy, I can't do this," you cried. Your father dabbed at your eyes and shook his head at your tantrum. He wouldn't be so blasé about the arrangement or your uproar if he was the one who heard your groom's fist shattering bones just the night before. A vision in white brocade, the four carats on your left hand felt like ten tons weighing you down the aisle as your father all but dragged you to meet your husband at the end. As the crowd rose to receive your grand entrance, you couldn't help but stifle a quiet sob at the sight of Shinsou's surrogate fathers standing in the front pew. Yamada couldn't contain his excitement for his boy, but Aizawa glared on coldly when you met his gaze. Your father kissed your cheek and gave your hands a squeeze before abandoning you before your audience. Shinsou held out his hand, and you choked back another hiccuping sob-- how could you hold those hands the same way when they were capable of such senseless violence? Knuckles cracked and discolored with aging bruises, he groped for your hands and pulled you the extra two steps onto the altar, flashing you that same lackadaisical grin. It was a blur, a bad dream you couldn't wake from. Beyond the sporadic flashbulbs blinking in the crowd, you couldn't pull away from him. 

"I do…" Your voice didn't sound like your own, even as you felt it leave your throat. Shinsou pulled closer and rasped against your lips. 

"This is only the beginning, kitten." 

Kitten...

You couldn't deny how his pet name made you shiver. The single word held a scintillating promise of the night to come, yet all you could focus on were those hands and the crunch of anonymous bones under his blows. Would he ever turn those hands on you? As he gently slid his platinum wedding band over your ring finger, the mate to the ostentatious engagement ring occupying the spot, you melted under the tenderness of his touch. Your Hitoshi couldn't be capable of such violence. Your Hitoshi was a man of change, of reform who wanted to help bring his countrymen into a golden age. Your fingers numbly slid your ring onto your husband's hand and with the action sealed your own fate. The world swam out of view when he overtook you with a blistering kiss, hungry and needy against your lips. He didn't taste like smoke and scotch this time, a flavor you had grown to appreciate the longer you entangled yourself with him. He lingered for what felt like an eternity, the roar of applause and shared joy for the union a soundtrack erasing any fears you might have had prior. 

Your bridesmaids swooned over the intensity of Shinsou’s gaze throughout your opulent reception-- your father sparing no expense when giving away his precious pearl. Shinsou’s family kept to themselves mostly, with Aizawa only stepping from their shadowy corner to address your father over travel arrangements. Hitoshi’s eyes narrowed and that same cocksure grin blossomed over his features as you inched closer, hip pulled closer by that massive hand. “Hey,” you breathed with a soft smile. He returned it in kind and squeezed your hip through the eggshell Vera Wang gown and leaned in to whisper in your ear. Hair slicked back, all that tickled you was the heat from his breath as it fanned against your skin. “I can’t wait to get you out of that, kitten. Gorgeous as you are with it on, the thought of you in nothing but your jewelry has my mouth practically watering.” Predatory gaze amplified by that sex and gravel voice had you melting. He took you by the hand and bade you follow him across the floor of the resort ballroom. Cautiously, you glanced around the room, anxious that someone from the party would notice your sudden escape. Before you had a chance to object, Hitoshi held a finger to his lips and pulled you through the crowd and out of the room. “You really think I can wait any longer when you’re looking like that?” The wait staff cast cursory glances at you and your husband as he continued to guide you away from the noise and bodies keeping him from tearing your gown off and claiming you. “Hitoshi…” you whimpered, pinned with your back to the door of your honeymoon suite. He sunk his teeth into your shoulder and nearly purred at the gasp that left your lips. Fumbling for the key, Shinsou held you from falling into the open door and nudged you over the threshold with an eagerness you couldn’t place. Words were swallowed by hungry mouths and replaced with an exchange of passion tempered only by the quiet frustration of fingering over buttons and parting fabric to unwrap the prize of feeling your skin under his fingertips. Once released from your prison of beaded white silk and delicate lace, Hitoshi pulled away, raking his ultraviolet eyes over your nearly bare frame to further appreciate his prize. 

“Just when I thought you couldn’t be any more perfect.” Instead of shying away from his words, you moved with a certainty that was far from your own. Automatically reaching for his tie, you pulled him down to resume your heated devouring, earning a chuckle and a light spank on your lace-covered cheek in reply. “Impatient, kitten?”

Your fingers worked the buttons of his shirt nimbly, practically digging your nails into his chest just to feel him hiss into your mouth. Tongues waged a war to stalemate status as your husband gave your buttocks a squeeze before hoisting you up and wrapping your legs around his hips. Your sex practically drooled against his toned abs through your useless lace panties. The trail of your gyrating on the ridges of washboard muscle pulled wanton moans from your kiss-bruised lips.

“Feels like you are. Drenched for me already. Who knew my heiress was such a needy slut.” You whined under the degradation he heaped on you as he placed you on the pillow-top bed and guided your hands above your head. Shinsou pulled his tie over his head and wrapped it lovingly around your wrists, brushing his lips and teeth along the gently blushing skin along your blue-blood veins as he finished securing you to the headboard. He moved slowly, teasing every inch of exposed skin with languid grace. A panther in human skin, Shinsou sunk his teeth and sucked purple bruises along your ribs and thighs, parting your squirming legs casually. You felt the weight of his wedding band on your inner thigh and wriggled away from the cold of it. Hitoshi tsked from below, grin tugging on his lips as he pulled your panties down with his teeth. Tenderly, he rubbed a sole finger along your drenched folds. You bucked into the sensation and writhed for more, only to have your husband pull away and drag the slick-stained digit along his tongue. 

“Looks like I’m gonna have to teach you a lesson, kitten.” He blew on your clit, earning a choked moan. “You’re on my time now.” He withdrew, leaving you to whine for him to return, only to be answered by the closing of the bathroom door. You stared at the gold leaf ceiling, seconds dragging on like hours until he finally returned holding a candle, lit cigarette caught between his teeth. Hitoshi took a drag and guarded the flame from his dark red candle as he took a seat beside your whimpering form. He set the candle on the headboard and gently held your face in his hand, blowing smoke into your mouth. The intimate gesture, sharing the air in his lungs made you swoon. Distracted, you barely registered him removing your bra or how he grazed your pert nipples with scarred thumbs. You opened and melted into his attention, desperate for more. You caught his gaze, eyes glazed over with unadulterated adoration, and let out a strangled wail when the first drops of scarlet wax dripped over your shivering breasts. 

The shock of sudden warmth encasing your tender flesh in candy apple red kept you reeling into the next pour. Your Hitoshi leered above you, rapt in your reactions as he brought his free hand to rest on your bare mons. His long fingers grazing along your sopping clit and the continued dripping of hot wax on your skin had you writhing in place. His dark, rumbling chuckle made your blood sizzle under your skin as he admired his work. 

"I think she likes it," he purred, now moving with intent. Arching into the duvet, you pouted sweetly at your husband, legs gently rubbing together as if it would further entice him to continue. "Who knew my kitten was such a kinky slut?" 

"'Toshi, touch me more!" 

His eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hairline, and he pulled his hand away from your glistening sex. Frustrated whimpers echoing through the suite, you were cut short by another trail of red wax burning down to your navel. He took another slow drag from his slow-dying cigarette and smirked. If it weren't for his hardening cock poking your hip through his tuxedo pants you would have never known how hopelessly he needed every moan and whine he pulled from your tight body. Past games, he would have blinded you, muffled his voice behind black silk and noise cancelling headphones, but tonight was different. 

"Know your place, kitten. You're in no position to make demands."

You bit your lip and stifled another whine as the wax cooled in the mold of your belly button. Shinsou kept the candle hovering just over your bound body, constantly watching you with the same, slow-simmering lust burning in his deep violet eyes. He stopped short over your dripping pussy and licked the nicotine from his lips. You could see the plan unfold in his head before he had a chance to put it in action. Anticipation had every hair tingling as you waited for his next move. Before he could act, there was a stern rap at the door. With all the petulance and frustration of a child forced to share his favorite toy, Shinsou rose from the bed and trudged to the door. 

"Little busy in here."

"Business waits for no one." The intruder's voice was black ice on a fall morning, cold and sharp as Hitoshi shrank back from the door. His shoulders tensed as he scratched the back of his neck, an anxious tic he couldn't shake from childhood. "You can play with your toy when we're done."

"I told you I've gone straight. No more back alley deals, no more blood on my hands. I'm done."

Your blood ran cold and it crept into your belly to make a new home gnawing through the viscera. Unable to make out much more than the broad back of your husband at the door, you strained to listen to the conversation before the cocking of a gun took your breath away. 

"You're done when I say you're done. Never forget who bought you those votes, how you skated into your parliament chair, high councilor." The voice's tone was harsh, mockingly so with an edge of condescension that earned a defeated growl from your Shinsou. The owner of the voice stepped closer, peering over your husband's shoulder with a frigid smirk that nearly made your heart stop. Aizawa raked his dark, abyssal eyes over your exposed body, resting hungrily on your sex drooling into the plum duvet, and turned back to his surrogate son. "Be a shame if something happened to her. All those billions siphoned away…" From your spot on the bed you could feel the noose tightening around both your necks the longer Boss Aizawa spoke. 

"...all to attend a funeral as the dutiful, lovesick widower with his wife's blood on his hands." 

"Enough! That's enough...you win."

Shinsou buttoned his shirt quickly and cast a longing glance over his shoulder at your quiet sobbing. He never wanted you to know the underworld he clawed out of to finally live in the light. It wasn't enough to want change and leave the bloody past where it belonged. Some ghosts had a way of coming back to their old haunts. Tuxedo jacket slung over his shoulder, Shinsou slicked his hair back and turned his back on you, leaving you bound to the headboard with wax, his own Jackson Pollock masterpiece drying on your skin. You could feel your heart breaking with the gentle closing of the door, and the barely audible, "I'm sorry," whispered ruefully by your retreating husband. Protection was something you used to take for granted, but as you found that night and many after, it was something few in your precarious position could do without. 

[catboy-lover-archive]

Obey Me Romanian MC

idea inspired by @/harunayuuka2060 (too shy to tag them)

Nu ştiu ce inspirație supraomenească m-a lovit dar am început asta la 2 dimineața și am terminat-o la 6.30

Im sleep deprived bc I stayed up all night doing this, enjoy gagicile mele

[added translations]

(under the cut bc this bitch is long af)

Lucifer: Are you not enjoying your meal?

MC: This food isn't even good. Next time I'm bringing my bunica to make you guys sarmale best thing you ever tried 👩‍🍳👌😘 mwah

-

MC: I'm not gonna go out with Satan, Beel, Asmo or Belphie.

Asmo: Awww

Beel: :(

Belphie: What?!

Satan: Why?

MC: Why date a guy who's favorite color is not in romanian flag? 🤔🇷🇴

-

Asmo: But I thought you could-

MC: For the last time IM NOT A VAMPIRE I CAN'T HYPNOTIZE PEOPLE OR MAKE THEM FALL IN LOVE WITH ME

-

Levi: Ohhh!!!! So are you like familiar with Castlevania-

MC: We don't talk about that *cries in disappointed*

-

Solomon: What is this weird potion.

MC: *puts bottle of țuică (plum brandy) on the table*

MC: This is not a potion, but a solution to all of your problems gagica 💖

-

MC: *talking to Lucifer* Oh iubire (love), stop crying over Diavolo again. Why cry over guy who would wear vagabond everyday in my country?

MC: Tsch tsch tsch

Lucifer: What the fuck is Vagabond

MC: Only the worst of streetwear existent. Only f-boys use it

Lucifer: Fair enough

-

Beel: Why do you want to try out for the sports team?

MC: Because Steaua, my country's team, disappointed me 😔

-

MC: Mammon! Asmo! Let me show you guys a thing called ✨manele✨

-

(after the Belphie incident)

MC: Does anybody have a belt.... a belt so I can...no reason...papuci de casă (slippers) works too

-

MC: Hey Belphie! Did you enjoy your punishment? 😜

Belphie: My butt still hurts...

MC: Next time it's the lingură de lemn ♡ (wooden spoon)

-

*MC dancing to Braşoveanca*

Mammon: W-what's that???

Satan: Some sort of ritual I suppose

Asmo: *joining in* It's fun!

MC: Doi✌paşi🦵înainte➡️şi😱doi😩înapoi⬅️ (two steps forward two steps back)

-

MC: Who has summoned me?

Satan: Belphie isn't feeling well and the medicine didn't really do it's job.

MC: Everyone watch closely because I'm going to teach you guys a sacred ritual called ✨Frecție cu Oțet✨

Satan: You're just pouring vinegar on his wrist.

MC: Now here comes the fun part. *maggages his wrists*

Belphie: Someone please kill me this is unbearable

MC: Am I allowed to say Tatăl Nostru (Lord's prayer) or is that too....uhhh weird since yall are demons and stuff-

-

Barbatos: MC...

MC: I'm sorry but crossing myself after I finish a meal is implemented in my brain. It's in the default settings.

Barbatos: What happens if you don't cross yourself?

MC: Lingura de lemn (wooden spoon) *shivers*

-

Diavolo: Do you like my castle?

MC: Baby, Peleş puts you to shame.

MC: Also, too much current (swift). Close the damn windows

-

Lucifer, giving up on life: Oh not again...

MC: DA PĂ CIMPOI DA PĂ CIMPOI JOACĂ FETELE LA NOI 👉👈😳

MC: Real music here 😌

-

MC: There, there gacica (girlfriend). Don't cry. *pats him on the back*

Lucifer: Do you got any more țuică...

MC: That's the spirit!

-

MC: I know I technically didn't die, but can we please have a funeral??? There is this really tasty cake just for this special occasion called colivă. Beel is okay with it so- hey don't ignore me! wait guys this is important- wAIT!

-

Satan: I hate Lucifer because he is my father.

Belphie: I hate Lucifer because he sucks in general.

MC: I hate Lucifer because Favorite color is red which is COMMUNISM COLOUR 😡‼

-

Solomon: See?? MC likes my cooking!

MC: Piftie...Caltaboş...

MC: Solomon, you would make a very good romanian housewife. Say, have you ever considered getting a 701st wife...?

-

Beel: *munching happily on the food MC makes*

Lucifer: *getting a fucking break*

MC: *making grătar(barbeque) cu mici*

MC: Everybody loves 1 Mai!

-

MC: Beelphiiieee!!!! I have a spell for you 😊

Belphie: Please not the lingură de lemn-

MC: *boop on the nose* ✨du-te dracu✨ (go to hell)

-

Lucifer: How did you make everyone behave?

MC: *looking at the papuc de casă in hand*

MC: You either die a hero...or live enough to become the villain...

Lucifer: Interesting, can you teach me?

MC: The secret is to use your wrist-

-

MC, whispering: Psst! Mammon! How's the sarmale trading going?

Mammon: Its okay, but why can't you just give me the recipe?

MC: E din moşi strămoşi (it's from older generations) I can't give it to you

-

MC: Hey pisi, want a ride in my Dacia?

Simeon: ...what? :)

MC: Come on gagica(girlfriend)! We are going to visit my family they will love you!

MC: You can also bring Luke. Just uhhh don't let him drink from the "juicebox" ok? It's not- It's not juice in there

MC: But you can drink. I won't tell anyone.

-

Diavolo: MC you can't leave yet. Not even for a quick visit back home.

MC: Auzi, da du-te-n p- (well why don't you fuck yourself on my dic-)

-

MC: *sigh* Sometimes I wish Satan was wearing Vagabond instead of...whatever that is

Asmo: Ouch, but yeah I guess we are that desperate.

Satan: I'm never tutoring any of you again.

-

MC and Luke, just vibing honestly: ⬇️Intră-n👇apa🌊mării🐚şi🐋nu🐟te🙄teme😱ai😳să-nveți🤯să-noți🐠printre🤔sirene🧜‍♀️🧜‍♂️

(go in the sea's water and don't you be afraid you'll learn to swim among mermaids)

-

MC: No Asmo, I have a date to the ball he's right here *points at țuică bottle*

-

Belphie: *misbehaving*

MC: Vai, vai, vai. Sărumâna Belphie 😃 ( well, well, well good day Belphie)

MC: *grabs the papuc (slipper)*

-

MC: NO LUCIFER IT CAN NOT BE AN AN NOU FERICIT (happy new year) IF WE DO NOT DANCE THE HORĂ

-

MC and Luke, vibing yet again: POVEȘTI DIN FOLCLORUL MAGHIAR!!! (maghiar folklore stories!)

-

MC: Where is my țuică? :)

Everyone: *quiet*

MC: I won't get mad :)

MC:

MC: Foaie verse de trifoi~ *papuc reappears* Dați băi țuica înapoi (green leaf of clover, give the țuică back you fucker)

Everybody: *runs*

MC: Mândruțelor (girls), come back until I'll put this to good use

-

Levi: *exists*

MC: *in love with him bc his fav color is in the Romanian flag and not in the commie flag*

MC: Te las să te lingi cu mime în parcare la lidl (I'll let you french kiss me in the Lidl market parking lot)

-

MC: Lucifer you don't understand!

MC: Sandu Ciorbă cured my depression!

-

MC: Muie cretinii pământului (fuck y'all stupid asses) my țuică is back and I'm not sharing anymore

-

Asmo: We're doing hot girl shit tonight

MC: Ne curvim rău (we're hoeing)

-

MC: futu-ți cristelnița mătii (fuck your mother's font) Simeon you're the one that drank all my țuică

MC: I'll let it slide this once, if u take me for shaorma(shawarma) in Piața Victoriei (Victoria's market)

-

Solomon: Whoops, I accidentally messed up the sarmale recipe

MC: Aşadar războiu alesu l-ai (So you have chosen war)

-

Mammon: MC, how do you say "I hate you" in romanian?

MC: Dar eu sunt mândru că sunt twink. (I'm proud to be a twink)

Mammon, clueless: ok thanks

-

MC, to Belphie: I had such a rough day, please fute-mi una (fuck me over) and not the way I like

-

Mammon: What would be a quick way to make money?

MC: Gagica(girlfriend), listen. Culegător de sparanghel (asparagus picker) in Spain is your go-to.

-

Asmo: *blasting manele vechi (old manele).2006*

Asmo: Please love me!

MC: *already in wedding attire*

-

MC: Beel! Here, try this! Yeah yeah its completely fine!

MC: ...what do you mean it looks like Solomon's cooking?

MC: THIS IS PIFTIE AND YOU WILL LEARN TO APPRECIATE IT

-

MC: *dragging them all by the hand to therapy*

MC: Păi aşa-i hora pe la noi măi bade- (This is hora to us well my mans)

-

MC, talking to Lucifer: Măi omu lu dumnezeu îți fut una de nu te vezi (listen God's man I'll fuck you over that you'll not see again) if u lay a finger on my țuică again

MC: I don't care that you have daddy issues, this is MINE now thank you very much.

-

MC: Doamne cu ce ți-am greşit? (God, what have I done to you?)

MC: tanti Lilith, ia-mă cu tine gagicuțo milf ce ești (Miss Lilith, take me with you you milf girlfriend)

MC: Chiar și culesul de căpșuni din Spania era mai ok dacât (even strawberry picking in Spain is better than) Therapist Simulator hell edition

-

Diavolo: *exists*

MC: Vrei să-ți fiu a ta mireasă? (Do you want me to be your wife?)

-

Simeon: *exists*

MC: Vrei să-ți fiu Ileană Cosânzeană? ( Want me to be your fairy wife?)

-

Belphie: Every time I doze off they say this weird phrase...

MC: Dormeo(mattress company) ! Noapte bună! (good night!)

-

MC: What do you mean im not allowed to have a cross around my neck?

MC: My dead grandmother would kill me it's Sfântu Andrei for fucks sake

MC: The law is law we gotta put garlic and salt everywhere around the house

MC: This is what you get from taking my țuică away AGAIN

-

MC: I mean, at least i dont have to take the bacalaureat and face the woman-hating-Ion-Creangă-fucking-twink-looking-nightmare-inducing Eminescu so

MC: *drinks a Mona Spirt (rubbing alcohol) bottle in one go*

MC: that works wonders for me

[keichanz]

Koi no Yokan | 10

please note: in this particular au, the age when one is considered an adult is 20, not 18.

another note: after rereading this and making some minor edits, i realize some people might think that kagome opening up so soon after meeting him is frowned upon, but considering this particular notion a bit further, i have decided that i don’t give a fuck and i’m too lazy to change it a;dfjaijfhuliffc

AO3

She flashed him a quick, grateful smile before she scurried away, leaving the room to retrieve the necessary supplies and Inuyasha was stuck with that image in his head until she returned.

He had to concede that the wench was even prettier when she smiled, which brought about the question of just how the hell she’d managed to remain pure when living in a place like this. His guess was she couldn’t have been here for very long. He remembered Sen and how she seemed panicked when Miroku had been dragging her away, how she’d silently apologized while looking absolutely wretched and it didn’t take long to put two and two together. The other woman had been clearly protecting her from the lust of men, and he had to wonder why since it was inevitable.

Unless… Fuck, unless it wasn’t by choice—

The door opened and Inuyasha looked up to watch the woman close the door then pad back over to him, a basin of water in one hand and a basket of what looked like medical supplies in the other. She paused before him, bit her lip, and blushed.

“Could…could you move to the bed, please?” Her flush deepened. “S-so I can sit beside you and—um—”

Inuyasha tried not to grin at how easily flustered she got and wordlessly stood up before doing as she bade. Two strides and he sank down onto the mattress. It was hard and lumpy and he grimaced. God, she had to sleep on this every night? How the fuck did she get up every morning without doubling over in pain? Better yet, how the hell does she even get any sleep?

She saw his expression and smiled a little wryly.

“It helps if I fold a blanket beneath me,” she supplied, answering his silent questions as she sat beside him. “Though most of the time I still wake up feeling like a cripple.”

He snorted and her smile became a bit more genuine as she set down her supplies and dunked a cloth into the water she set beside her. The mattress was stiff enough that she wasn’t worried it would spill as she gently tugged his arm into her lap and began carefully cleaning it of blood, old and new.

They lapsed into silence, Kagome feeling strangely comfortable around this man she’d just met, and Inuyasha lost in thought as he quietly watched her work. Her touch was so gentle he barely felt any pain at all. By the time she’d finished cleaning and was ready to apply some kind of smelly concoction he could only assume was some kind of antiseptic, he couldn’t contain it any longer.

He had to know.

“Why are you here?” he asked lowly, staring at the top of her head with a slight frown.

She froze, her hands pausing and he saw her tense, her shoulders hunching. Her fingers twitched against his arm and he heard her suck in a sharp breath, but otherwise remained still.

He inwardly cursed. Shit, he’d made her uncomfortable again. The hanyou prince’s ears pinned and he sighed.

“Forget it,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t—”

“M-my parents,” she whispered and Inuyasha went very, very still. “…They died. About two years ago.”

She finished with the medicine and washed her hands with the water before grabbing a white square of cloth. She carefully pressed it over the cut, muttering an apology when he winced.

“They had both developed an illness of the lungs,” she continued and grabbed a roll of bandage. “And their decline in health was…it was terrifyingly rapid. My grandfather had died the year before of the same ailment, though he passed much quicker because of his age and preexisting conditions.”

Slowly she began wrapping his arm, aware of his gaze on her head, but she kept her own focused on his arm. Her hands were deft as she passed the bandage over and under again and again.

“Anyway.” She sighed and started securing the bandage with a knot. “My parents knew they were going to die. Before they passed, they asked my mother’s sister, my aunt, if she and her husband could take my younger brother and I into their home and care for us since I was eighteen and my brother only twelve. My aunt and uncle are bitter people with no children of their own and they never bothered to hide their disgust whenever Souta and I were in the room. Knowing that, I never understood why they’d agreed to take us in, at least until the day after my parents died and they came to collect us. They didn’t even give us any time to grieve before putting us to work on their farm.”

“They sound like uncaring assholes,” Inuyasha put in, unable to stay silent any longer as she told her story. “Not even giving you time to mourn your own goddamn parents? Callous and selfish.”

Satisfied with her handiwork, Kagome smiled dryly and started organizing the supplies to keep her hands busy. This next part was never easy to recall and she had to fight to keep from crying.

“I didn’t mind the work,” she went on, eyes on her hands as she fiddled with the damp cloth. “It distracted me and kept me from thinking too much about…things. Souta, on the other hand, wasn’t used to such arduous work and he messed up often. He was only twelve and wasn’t as strong as me, and he cried a lot. He missed our parents. H-he…ah…”

“You can stop,” Inuyasha reminded her. It was obvious this was difficult and he didn’t want her thinking she had to explain.

Kagome sucked in a breath and shook her head. “N-no, it’s okay. I’m okay.”

Inuyasha frowned, but didn’t object.

“A week passed before my aunt and uncle got tired of his constant slip ups and his crying, so they sold one of their cows and sent him off to some boys home in another town far away. I didn’t even get to say good bye. The people just showed up one day, bundled him into this fancy carriage, and took off. I tried to run after him, but my uncle held me back. I could hear him screaming for me, crying my name…”

She pressed a hand to her mouth and closed her eyes, trying to collect herself, feeling her eyes grow hot with unshed tears. She hadn’t forgiven her relatives for that and she knew she never would.

“Jesus,” the man next to her muttered and she glanced up to find him shaking his head in disgust. “That’s…fuck, I’m sorry.”

Kagome sniffled and tried to smile in thanks, but gave up.

“I have no idea where he is,” she confessed, her voice raspy. “They wouldn’t tell me what town, or what the home was called. I tried finding it myself, but…”

She sighed and shrugged, then lifted a hand to rub her eyes, wiping away any evidence of tears.

“I stayed with them for the next two years, working every day with hardly any rest. Then, on my twentieth birthday one week ago, before the sun had even risen, they came into my room and told me we were going on a trip. I’d learned by then not to question them so I said nothing and followed them out to the carriage. We traveled to the next town over, about a five-hour ride, and with no explanation whatsoever, they dumped me in front of this place and left without a backwards glance. Madam Kirina was the one that explained they’d sold me to the brothel, to her, and that’s…”

Kagome sighed, opened her eyes, and locked gazes with intense amber.

“That’s why I’m here,” she finished in a murmur and Inuyasha’s chest ached.

<<Prev || Next>>

Chapter Index

[bubble-dream-inc]

i'm rewatching victorious now that is on netflix and would like to rant about how bade is such a horrible couple and the two are horrible partners

this is going to be long because i'm pissed. I used to love Beck and Jade's relationship when i was younger and i noticed now how they suck together; starting with Beck. He:

-straight up cheated on Jade on the very first episode, out of pure spite because she was being immature, and he looked very happy to do so.

-He has absolutely no respect for Jade. At one point, when she breaks up with him because she's jealous of the famous girl, he dismisses it and shows up the NEXT DAY with said girl. what the fuck

-I used to be pissed at Tori for "flirting" with Beck, but the truth is that after that ridiculous Pilot episode, she actually respects his relationship, who doesn't respect it it's himself. He's always trying to make advances towards Tori and she's just trying to be friendly.

-there's that whole scene where he tries to kiss Tori and she says SHE can't do it because Jade's her friend, to which he's like "so what, we're broken up haha". How the fuck does Jade gets back together with him after this???? Besides, this happened TWICE

Now, why Jade sucks:

-I hate how her jealously is a laughing matter. Excessive jealously is a serious problem, and she clearly has it. But i don't blame her, since apparently Beck will give her a reason to be jealous on the first opportunity he gets lmao

-she treats him like SHIT. why is she frequently hitting him a running joke? that's pretty bad yk

-she never holds him accountable for his own actions and blames the girls instead. that can't be healthy

-she always embarasses him with her edgy attitude. i love jade, but that gets old reeeal quick

anway that was my rant about a show for kids. these two are such a good looking couple, but they suck so much, and beck is such an overlooked horrible character with a shit personality. thank u for listening.

[reddielibrary]

The Dream During Halloween

Written by @heknewwellenough

Gift for @reddieforlove

Pairing: Richie Tozier x Eddie Kaspbrak

Word count: 3852

Rating: Teen

A/N: HAPPY HALLOWEEN BRI!!! i hope you enjoy this, and that it’s what you had in mind!!! mwah mwah

Richie doesn’t really believe in God, well, at least not to a certain extent. Okay, scratch that. He believes in something, he’s just not sure if it’s a God or a superior entity or some stupid shit like that. 

What he does believe though, at this exact moment, is that angels are real, and he just witnessed the king of the angels. Maybe that means the god of the angels or whatever, but he doesn’t exactly care about the correct terminology because he’s pretty sure this boy is a real life angel.

REO Speedwagon’s I Can’t Fight This Feeling is thrumming lowly through the speakers by the fireplace, and Richie really needs to find Bill to congratulate him on his music taste. I'm keeping you in sight is right, Richie muses indistinctly. 

“Rich.” He hears from his left, moving limply as he’s shouldered softly. 

“Yeah?” He mutters, keeping his eyes tracked on the boy across the room. He’s sitting by himself on the couch, painted light blue hands gripping a red solo cup weakly, lifting every once in awhile to drink. 

Bev shoves him a little harder, and Richie finally tears his eyes away from the angel on the couch. “Come on man, you’re being creepy. Stop staring at that poor kid. And you haven’t even seen his full face; his mask is covering part of it.”  

“Yeah, no shit Bev. You’d be surprised with what I can make do with having only half a face,” he says, his brows doing a little dance as he grins down at her. “Also,” he continues, reaching towards her headband, “can you start warning me when you want to talk to me? I’m not used to— this—“ he gestures to the dark hair curling right above her shoulders, making a grab at it, but Bev shoots his hand away from where it’s getting dangerously close to her headband. “I always think you’re someone creeping on me.”

Beverly grabs a black curl resting right above her shoulder, almost absentmindedly, and tugs on it loosely. She’s dressed as Snow White, and had dyed her hair with Richie’s own help two days ago. He’s still not used to it though, and it struck him this morning while doing his own hair how much they look like siblings now. 

“I can barely understand you,” she lifts her own solo cup to her mouth, taking a sip of what is presumably something non-alcoholic. “Take that stupid mask off and face me like a woman. Or go talk to the guy on the couch.”

Richie wriggles uncomfortably. God does he want to go talk to the boy with probably the best Halloween costume here. Better than Princess Diana and Prince Charles he’s here with, for sure. But he’s nervous. He only came to terms with this whole I-want-to-kiss-boys-like-a-lot-thing only recently, and even then he hasn’t even come to terms with it super well. The only reason Bev knows is because she’s Bev. His ride or die, his best friend, his platonic life partner, yadda yadda yadda. Same deal with Stan. He knows stuff about them that he’ll take to the grave, and vice versa. 

“I like the mask. It’s gives an air of… sexy mystery.” Richie slouches against the wall, turning away from Bev. His eyes make their way to the boy across the room, trying to pretend he’s not staring. He knows he’s not doing an entirely good job, but he thinks he has the right to stare when someone’s costume looks like that on them. 

“Not really— definitely not sexy. It’s kind of creepy. I can’t really tell where you’re looking at.” Stan remarks, saddling up next to them. He leans against the wall too, bumping his shoulder against Richie’s. His fancy blue prince pants look funny next to Richie’s black and white pinstripe pants.

“He’s looking over there— at zombie boy.“ Bev nods towards the couch across the room. “Where were you?” She adds, leaning to look over Richie towards Stan. 

Richie turns to Beverly, staring down at her sable head, astonished. “Do not just tell me you called him a zombie—”

“Getting water,” Stan says, lifting up the water bottle in his hands to show her, promptly cutting Richie off. Probably to save himself of a stupid argument. “Why don’t you go talk to him, Rich?” He suggests, loud enough to be heard over the music but not enough for the people around them to hear. He reaches over to Richie’s face and lifts his mask to sit on top of his head. 

Richie shakes his head vigorously, his mask flopping over and onto his face again. “Fuck no, Fresh Prince of Derry. I’ll just stare at Himeros for now.” 

Beverly snickers, but Stan looks at him, probably judging him. Richie sees his brows draw in the middle, and it sounds like he’s smiling when he says, “wouldn’t he be Anteros—?”

The sound of a shriek makes its way to Richie’s ears, and he gets the inkling that it’s probably a little more important than some girl getting teased or tickled or whatever the fuck off in the corner. He’s right, because when he looks over, Anteros is laughing at something Bill Denbrough is saying to him. “Oh my God. Did you guys hear that?”

“No? What?” Stan says, looking around, intrigued. “What is it, Richie?” 

“I think I just heard an angel sing.” Richie sighs dreamily, slumping against the wall even further. 

“Actually, I think you mean a god sing—“

“Oh, just go talk to the guy!” Bev gestures to the boy on the couch with her drink, some of it sloshing out of the cup and onto the floor, splashing Richie’s chucks lightly. 

“And it’s not sing, dingus. It’s laugh. Maybe he shouldn’t go talk to him,” Stan continues, “he’ll embarrass himself.” 

“I don’t have to listen to this abuse,” pushing himself off the wall, Richie turns to the royalty behind him. “I’m going to get another drink! Is there anything your highnesses would enjoy from the area of feeding?” He pretends to bow, and snickers when he hears Stan mutter no, thank you, asshat.

Bev does what Richie could only describe as a soft karate chop on each shoulder— the name escapes him— and she giggles also. “I’d like an orange juice.”

“Even though I just suffered some verbal abuse from you not even five minutes ago—“ he calls, walking away, “I will get you your juice of orange. With bubbly water, you freak!” He calls, finishing her sentence before she even begins to start talking. 

“Fucking— bubbly water. Fucking disgusting,” he mutters, walking up to the makeshift bar in the kitchen. 

“Hey, man.” He nods to Mike Hanlon in the kitchen, smiling. He always liked Mike. And Bill, too, when he had been on the lacrosse team last year. The rest of the team fucking sucked— and so did the sport in general, if he’s being honest. He can’t count how many hallelujahs he said the last day of practice.

Mike tilts his head, squinting at him. He raises his hand in a slow, confused wave. 

“Oh,” Richie laughs, pulling his mask up and over his head. “Sorry, man.”

“Oh!” Mike chuckles, walking up next to him. He bades goodbye to the girl next to him, sliding up next to Richie and leaning against the counter. “I thought it was you, Rich. You know— cause of the hair—“ he gestures to the mess of curls on Richie’s head, “— but it looked shorter so I wasn’t sure. Also, your neck is super white.”

“You mean whiter than usual?” Richie cracks, mixing Bev’s monstrosity of a drink. 

Mike gasps out a surprised laugh.“Yeah. Okay, whiter than usual.” 

Not quite what he was expecting, a similar laugh makes its way out of his throat. “I got a sexy haircut, dude, that’s why you didn’t recognize me in my sexy costume.” He says, still chuckling. He punctuates his sentence with a pop of his hip, grinning over at Mike briefly before turning back to the mouth-sore in front of him. 

“Speaking of, I like your costume. That movie’s pretty cool.” 

“I know, but do you know how many oh, are you Beetlejuice’s? I’ve gotten tonight? You think the mask would be a dead giveaway. Or that Bill wouldn’t have invited such dumb fucking people to his party.” Richie rolls his eyes, smiling at Mike’s nice rumble of a laugh. “I mean— I knew half the lacrosse team had zero brain cells, but you'd think at least some of the art kids would be smart. This movie only came out a year ago.” He scoffs. He grabs a half-filled Coke bottle in front of him and the Fanta next to it, pouring them into a solo cup, stirring them together with a straw. He lifts the cup to his mouth and takes a sip, turning fully to look at Mike, from feet to the top of his head. “What’re you supposed to be, anyway? Wait— no! Let me guess, let me guess.”

Mike shrugs, gesturing at him with his own solo cup as if to say alright man, go ahead. 

Mike has got on a yellow blazer, a red scarf around his neck, and a toque. Richie has literally no idea what he is. 

“No-fence man, but what the fuck are you? I’m trying to come up with something funny but I’m coming up short.”  

Mike laughs, like he’d been expecting that, and says, “I’m one of the boys from the Rice Krispies box. You know? It’s a group costume, with Bill and Ben.”

Richie nods. He knows Ben; he’s in his Humanities class and was in his SAT prep class last year, and he thinks Friends is funny, but never mind that little drawback, because he’s also probably the nicest fucking person Richie has ever met. He’s been meaning to ask him to hang out or something, but it’s not quite something he’s gotten around to yet, for whatever reason. In short, he’s just cool, and he makes Richie feel good. Same deal with Bill, and Mike. He smiles. “I was wondering what the fuck Bill was. I thought he was the little Nutcracker boy.” 

Mike bursts out laughing, slapping Richie on the arm. “I can’t wait to tell him that,” he mutters, small hiccups escaping his lips as he continues to chuckle, “he’ll love that—“

“Hi, Mike. Can I get by?” A soft voice says behind Richie. Both him and Mike turn around concurrently, and Richie chokes on the drink he unluckily lifted to his lips only a moment before, because there he is. The Himeros. Or Anteros. Whatever it is, or was, Richie can’t focus, or remember. He feels as if his brain has melted straight out of his ears and onto the floor, or into his drink, or something. He has no idea. None of it really matters right now, anyway. 

Mike says something that Richie tunes out accidentally, and he slides easily out of the way. They start talking, but Richie has no idea what they’re saying. The thoughts in his own head drown out their talk, and the loud talking all around him, and the sound of the opening chords of Witchy Woman starting up, all to a dull murmur as he stares at the back of the boy’s head. He feels like he should be listening to what him and Mike are talking about— to maybe pick up on a few things or something— but he’s too far gone now, his thoughts wrapping around his mind like a telephone cord around a finger. 

Richie cannot understand for the life of him why he has never seen this boy around. He’s a fucking senior this year, for Chrissake, and their school isn’t even that big like one of those schools up in Portland or Bangor. About six or seven hundo kids, give or take. And it’s not like he’s an observant person. He typically likes to think of himself as pretty observant, actually, and there’s not a chance in hell this kid would not catch his attention. He hasn’t even had the honor of having this kid’s face grace his shitty vision, but he already knows it’s going to be an appealing face.

“—Richie?” 

“Huh?” Richie’s head snaps up from where he was staring at Himeros’ feet toward whoever said his name.

It was Mike, and he’s smiling crookedly, like he’s waiting for Richie to answer. “See you later, Rich?” He says, and Richie figures he’s repeating it by the way he’s smiling and the tone of his voice.

“Oh. Yeah, see ya later, Snap.” He nods, a grin splitting his face as Mike returns it, turning to leave.

And then it’s just him and the angel, he realises a few seconds after Mike’s trodden off to go talk to Ben in the corner of the kitchen. It’s quiet, and it’s funny because everyone around them is talking, and Richie has always hated quiet. He opens his mouth to say something, pretty much anything that comes to his head first, but the boy beats him to it. And it’s perfect for two reasons. 

“Hey, Bone Daddy,” the boy says to him softly— like, to him, directly— and he kind of smiles, laughing to himself.

It’s perfect because Richie had absolutely no idea what he was going to say, so pretty much anything could have run out of his mouth, which doesn’t always fly so well depending on who he’s talking to. That greeting knocks the wind out of him though, promptly knocking whatever embarrassing thing Richie could have said out of his mind, too, which he’s entirely grateful for. 

It’s also perfect because by the minute he’s being proven right about this boy being an angel. 

“Get it? It’s from the movie.” Himeros continues, almost uncertainly. Richie wishes he could see his face— the mask is partially in the way, and he’s ducked over his own drink that he’s making. 

“Yeah, I get it,” he says in a rush, voice cracking. He takes a deep breath, continuing, “I’ve seen it like a billion times, so.” He trails off. “It’s my favorite,” he adds after a moment. The word fuck bounces around his head, feeling like he’s embarrassing himself or being especially awkward.

“Mine too.” The boy responds, turning to smile at Richie briefly. “When I chose my costume, I thought it was weird not having a Jack to go with, but Bill told me it looked fine.” 

“It does!” Richie blurts, and okay, yeah, he doesn’t exactly have a filter, but there are times when he thinks maybe he should work on that. Like right now. “I mean— it does. Look fine. I mean— I went as Jack without a Sally, and it’s not weird, right? So a Sally without Jack is not weird.” He’s rambling, and the boy is giggling, and most of the anxiety drains from his body because this— laughter, making people laugh— this is easy. Laughing makes him easy. The tension drains from his shoulders, from his brows, the anxiety flooding his body evaporates as he continues, a smile spreading across his face as he says, “your costume is definitely the sexiest one here. Excluding the cheeseburger playing beer pong, of course.” 

Richie watches as a flush coats the boy’s blue cheeks, and it’s probably the most endearing thing he’s ever seen. “Of course. Naturally.” He agrees, nodding along with Richie. He’s finished making his drink, and he turns to lean against the counter to face Richie. “And we— well we found each other, so now there’s no lonely Jack and Sally.” The boy says, and he smiles again. He sounds kind of nervous, and it further confirms Richie’s idea that yeah, this boy is his dream boy. 

Richie grins down at him, and the brief thought of how short this boy is crosses his mind. He finally takes in the boy’s full appearance now that he’s standing right in front of him, face and all. Everything about him just screams cute to Richie, from the sewn patches all over his pants and shirt, to the black boots he’s wearing. Richie notices that his hair is spray-dyed a vivid red, and it’s done really well. He probably went through at least two bottles, Richie muses. His drawn on stitched smile is curved up even more so than it already is due to the boy’s smile, and it makes Richie smile. 

The boy is looking him up and down—checking me out, Richie thinks nervously, Gee-zus— just like Richie was a second ago. The boy can’t see his face— when did I put on my mask again?— and that is both a shame and a blessing. 

“Do you— um—” the boy starts nervously, looking down into his cup and then back up again, “do you want to go up to Bill’s room, or something? To talk more? I feel cramped in here.”

Richie nods, and then realizes it might look like he’s saying no because of the mask, so he clarifies verbally with a loud, “yes! Let’s go. Do that. Lead the way, Sally.”

Himeros-Sally laughs, shaking his head, and leads the way out of the kitchen and up the stairs right outside of the kitchen. Richie follows, not seeing Stan or Bev anywhere. He mentally thanks whatever deity out there is throwing him a bone, and climbs the stairs two at a time, lifting his mask as he reaches the top step. 

“So,” the boy starts, leaning against the door once it closes. He sounds nervous again, and it drives a lot of the remaining anxiety Richie is feeling out of his chest. “Can I um— can I do something?” He shakes his head, looking down at the floor and frowning at his feet. “Sorry. That came out wrong. Can I try something, I mean.” 

“Like— like what? Like smelling Bill’s underwear, or looking for his porn mags? Because I bet they smell like—“ 

“Shut up,” the boy says, and it’s not very serious, as he makes his way slowly to Richie, who’s standing in the middle of the room, feeling silly all of a sudden. He places his hands on Richie’s shoulders, and does this thing that Richie really likes where he smooths them over the expanse of his shoulder softly. He rises up on his toes and his face suddenly becomes a lot closer to Richie’s. From behind his mask and through the peepholes, his eyes are telling Richie that he can tell him to stop. Richie does not tell him to stop.

And then suddenly there are soft lips on his. Uncertain, but not unstable. Richie’s eyes are open the whole time, and now he definitely feels like a fool. 

The boy leans back slightly, and one of his hands comes up to take off his mask. He tosses it onto Bill’s bed, and then makes eye contact with Richie again, and Gee-zus, this boy is the definition of cute. He’s the end-all-be-all of cute boys. Freckles smattering his nose and cheeks. Crinkles next to his eyes from smiling at the moment. Long, pretty lashes. Thick, bushy brows.

 “I don’t know your name,” is what he says after a few moments of just staring at Richie, also. 

“Richie. It’s Richie.” Richie breathes out, “and yours—“

“It’s Eddie.” He says softly. 

“Well, Eddie-Spaghetti. I thought you just wanted to talk?”

The boy— Eddie— frowns for the first time tonight. “That’s not my name,” Eddie argues. His frown is almost as cute as his smile. 

“Not anymore. It’s Eddie-Spaghetti. Or if you don’t like that, I can call you Spaghedward. And if you’re not into pasta at all, Eds can work.” Richie rambles, and then Eddie is pressing his lips to Richie’s again. 

“I guess I didn’t come up here to talk. You sure did though,” Eddie retorts when he leans back again, and Richie can feel him smiling, and that is something he’s definitely into. 

Richie’s eyes are closed this time as he replies with a breathless laugh. “Where have you been all of my life?” 

“Here and there,” he responds vaguely. It’s very obviously a joke, and Richie can’t help but laugh again. After he stops chuckling, Eddie answers honestly, telling him that he’s just quiet, and points out that they obviously have had very different schedules.

They end up laying down on Bill’s bed on their sides while Eddie talks, Richie’s mask thrown up by Bill’s pillow next to Eddie’s. Richie realizes Eddie’s probably as much of a talker as Richie is himself as he rambles on about the organization of classes. “I guess the people who organize classes just hate us. You know, since we seem to have never shared a class together. You’re not taking any AP classes, right?”

Richie shakes his head. “No.” 

Eddie frowns, “me neither,” he mumbles, biting his lip. “I don’t get why we’re not in any of the same regular classes, then.”

What he says goes in one ear and out the other. Eddie’s bitten lips have captured his full attention, and he wants to kiss them. Bad. So he leans over quickly and does.

Eddie splutters, seemingly caught by surprise, blush coating his blue cheeks again. “I— um— oh. Okay.”

“Sorry,” Richie hastens to say, shaking his head again, glasses getting pushed against his face and his hands under his head feeling uncomfortable. “I didn’t know if—“

“No! It’s fine,” Eddie shakes his head too, soft smile reappearing on his face. “It’s fine,” he repeats, softer this time. “I probably should have asked first, anyway. So I’m sorry.”

Richie scoffs, dramatic. “It’s fine. You’re fine. You did kinda ask, anyway. Besides, I wanted those cute lips on me, anyways,” Richie grins, laughing at Eddie’s bashful smile and the roll of his eyes. 

When Eddie doesn’t say anything for a few moments, Richie fears he made it awkward, but then Eddie looks into his eyes and cracks a smile, a laugh escaping his mouth. He starts to laugh even more, and then Richie starts to laugh, and then suddenly they’re laughing together on Bill’s bed in their Nightmare Before Christmas Halloween costumes at nothing. This is the best Richie has felt in a long time. He feels as if he’s known Eddie for years, and not just for two hours. 

Eddie wipes away a few tears from his eyes, rolling onto his back and staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars Bill has on his ceiling. “I’m glad I met you,” he says softly, in the Eddie-way he does that Richie is grown accustomed to in the past couple of hours. 

“Same here, Eds.” Richie whispers back. 

Eddie’s hand reaches over and threads through the hand Richie has resting by his face. Still on his side, and staring at Eddie’s face poised up to the ceiling with his eyes closed, Richie can’t help but think for the hundredth time that night yeah, definitely an angel. 

[darthbelle]

Whatever you say, weeb

And I’m pretty much in agreement with all of your saltiness pertaining to Bade and the Carmilla injustices towards Danny. And that movie ending...boy, that ending sucks. But what do you have against my boy Rex Powers?

oh

and I just started thinking about how Danny got treated again and now I am anger.  (also fuck that ending, I just-) he’s a misogynistic piece of shit and Tori should have let him die in that hospital 

[knives-out20]

Loving You Is A Losing Game - John Constantine x Male!OC

Fandom: Legends Of Tomorrow (2016-Present)

Pairing: Vinoja (OC) x John Constantine

Word Count: 2294

Warnings: Angst, Sad Vinoja,

Notes: ehehehehehehhehehe. Stream ‘Arcade’ by Duncan Laurence, it inspired this oneshot.

Dedicated To: @peccetis​

Vinoja stood in front of the big mirror in the captain's office of the Waverider, hands interlocked behind his back. His lips perked up into a smile when a familiar pair of lips kissed his cheek. The Archangel turned his head, "Johnny, hi" he greeted. 

John smiled up at his boyfriend."Hi, luv".

"What's up? You need anything?" He asked, eyebrows raising. Vinoja reached out, holding John's hands in his own. His eyes sparkled in the light, green with hazel flecks hidden near the irises. 

"Aw, what? I'm not allowed t'come see my favourite Archangel every once in a while?".

Vinoja puckered his lips in thought."I guess so" he chuckled, leaning in and lovingly kissing John, who cupped his cheek. When Vinoja slowly pulled away, he still had a smile on his face.

"Any news on your kids? Any updates?".

"They still miss me, and Hayward is still calling you a knockoff version of him. In my- very pretty- eyes, you're both two completely different people that mean so much to me. You, obviously, in a different way, babe" Vinoja replied, one hand still in John's, thumb stroking his.

John nodded, pulling his hand away."I'll go see where Zari is; maybe even get a bloody heads up as to where we're headed next. Catch you later, luv. Bye, I love you".

Vinoja nodded back, waving."I love you, too, John" he bade John goodbye, watching the current love of his life walk off. Once John was out of the room, out of an earshot and sight distance, Vinoja turned back to the window. He strictly crossed his arms over his chest, hoping to distract himself from the hole in his celestial heart with the breathtaking view in front of him. Vinoja took deep breaths, in and out repeatedly, to see if that would stop the waterworks he was sure were going to come.

"That was cheesy".

"Fucking-" Vinoja jumped, turning to see Sara grinning at him."Hell, Sara, what the fuck?" He scowled, the feeling of tears dying down. Nothing's more pathetic than an all-powerful Archangel crying over his boyfriend in front of a blond assassin who used to be in the League Of Assassins.

"Sorry" Sara shrugged, walking over, though clearly not as sorry as Vinoja would have liked her to be."It was hard not to notice the short romance film John and you just had".

The corner of Vinoja's lip momentarily twitched up. He hummed incoherently, turning back to the window.

Sara's eyebrows raised, shocked."Oh? The great and gay Vinoja the Archangel, not going off on some sort of sappy tangent over his boyfriend? Unheard of" she teased, now standing at his side. Sara reached up to just around Vinoja's neck, and if it weren't for him being an Archangel, she could totally kick his ass.

"Maybe I don't feel like bothering you today over how much I love my boyfriend" Vinoja muttered, his voice hitting a certain edge when he said 'boyfriend'.

Sara scoffed."Took you a while".

Vinoja stayed silent, arms crossed again as he focused his gaze out into the abyss.

"How long have you two been dating for, again?" She asked.

"Around four to five years." Vinoja strictly answered.

"Jeez, really? And you haven't married him, yet?".

Vinoja immediately snapped his fingers, transporting himself to the quiet little library on the Waverider (the last thing he heard being Sara yelling "hey!") and onto a soft couch. Vinoja groaned quietly, running his tatted, callous hands through his brown hair. He rested his elbows on his knees, head in his hands as he stared down at the wooden floor. Vinoja's hand started to shake, as he grit his teeth to not make any sound.

"Hey!".

Vinoja glanced up, seeing a semi-pissed-off Sara at the doorway.

"What the hell was that?".

"You asked me a question I didn't feel like answering".

"You could have told me!".

"Didn't want to, how'd you find me so quickly?" He questioned, sitting up.

"I know how much you like this room, Vinoja" Sara grumbled, walking in and plopping down beside Vinoja. She put her hand on his back, softly stroking."Y'okay?".

"Mmmh, kinda".

Sara stayed silent for a moment."Be glad I like you as much as I do. I'm gonna sit here, and I'm gonna be willing to listen to you, if you're willing to talk about...whatever that was, and what's up with it. Okay?".

Vinoja nodded."What was the question, again?" He wanted to hear Sara say it again, and she knew that.

"Vinoja, you're seriously in love with John. And you've been together for a long time, now. I asked why you haven't married him, yet" Sara reminded.

Vinoja sniffed."You think I don't wanna marry him?" He joked, forcing out a chuckle."I do, Sara. More than anything else" Vinoja admitted, running a hand through his hair again.

Sara was definitely confused now."So why don't you?" She pondered.

Vinoja took a deep breath, spinning the silver ring on his right ring finger with his thumb. He paused for a moment to stare at the 'D.B.' engraved on it, before answering her again."I don't know. I mean, I know, but I also...I dunno, it's so weird even I can't process it. And I'm an Archangel, Sara, I know practically everything". Vinoja's eyes darted around the room as he thought of how to put this."I mean, I love John, I love him so much. But that's a fucking given".

"Oh, no shit".

"But he has these major commitment issues, y'know? I mean, not major enough for him to not date anyone, because, uh, hello, he's dating me. But major enough for him to not ever see himself get married, maybe become John Sallinger, or- or John Constantine-Sallinger".

"But you're you, Vinoja. Who wouldn't wanna drop everything to marry you, man? That's kinda stupid".

Vinoja let out a sad chuckle."Yea, well...He's John Constantine, he does stupid in spades" he quoted what John once told him, shortly after when they first met."John's just not ready for marriage".

"You say that like he ever will be." Sara broke it to him, tilting her head up.

"Gives me a sense of false hope" Vinoja mumbled, clasping his hands together."I just- I love him, y'know? And he loves me, I know that. I love him so, so much, Sara. So much that I'm willing to wait for him".

"And you'll keep waiting 'till the day John dies" Sara pointed out."Isn't the point of relationships to get married, or something? If not, you're just setting yourself up for heartbreak" she referenced a tweet she once saw.

Vinoja hummed in an unclear way."There's many other reasons for a relationship. Rebounds, distractions, need of affection, or you're just fine with being together, marriage or not. Besides, Sara, I'm an Archangel. I've been loving men since cavemen. Surely I'm used to heartbreak by now, in every form possible".

Sara groaned, trailing her hand up to Vinoja's shoulder and giving it a quick squeeze; which was hard, Vinoja's shoulders are broad and her hands are small."Yea, but there's something different about John to you".

"What? 'He's not like other boys'?" Vinoja grinned.

"Shut up," Sara laughed, "you know that's not what I meant". She pursed her lips, inspecting Vinoja. 

He wouldn't even look at her, and that grin disappeared quick.

"When you talk about John, you get this...look in your eyes. Different from the ones you've had when talking about your past guys, like- like, uh...Oscar Wilde, or James Dean. Leonardo Da Vinci, that Lafayette guy from the American Revolutionary War. Hell, you don't have that light in your eyes when talking about David Bowie, or- or even yourself Vin. You only get that spark in your eyes when you talk about John, when someone mentions John, when looking at John, and only John. You're in some whole other kind of love with John, man".

"Yea, and?".

"And you wanna marry him so bad, duh".

"Well, no shit, Sara. But I love him enough to respect the fact that he isn't into marriage".

"And?".

Vinoja looked over at Sara, through his brown curls that fell over his eyes. He whined when he turned away, leaning forward."And that he never will be.”

"And it's tearing you apart!" Sara threw her hands up, eyes going wide and eyebrows raising again."Vinoja, you can't seriously be okay with just dating John forever, can you? I'm glad you consent to how he feels, but this just..." she sighs, shoulders drooping."This just sucks".

"Now you get it".

Sara poked the inside of her cheek with her tongue."So that's it?".

"What?".

"You're sooo in love with John, that you'll succumb to the part of his commitment issues that lets him be in serious relationships, but also to the part that doesn't want anything to do with marriage? Despite how much you wanna marry him, it's his issues over your wants and needs?".

"I mean...yea, I guess. If being his boyfriend is the closest I'll ever get, Sara, I'll take it. If my kids have to call him 'dad's boyfriend' or 'Mr. dad's boyfriend' for the rest of the time we're together for, so be it. It's one relationship, Sara" Vinoja concluded.

"One relationship that means more to you than your Blade!" Sara rebuked."He doesn't want what you want, and I admire that you respect it, but jeez, it's a stupidass decision".

"I know, I know, I'm just...I'm afraid of ending things with John over something as small to an immortal as marriage, y'know?" Vinoja whispered, hands gripping at his hair."You could say loving him is a losing game, huh? And I'm fucking addicted to it".

Sara huffed, giving Vinoja one last look. She stood up "listen, Vin. You just...think it through, what you want. What you want out of this relationship with John, whether you wanna use all your quarters on it or whatever".

"I don't know what I want, Sara! My mind turns into some weird labyrinth each time I think about John 'n' me and marriage" Vinoja cut her off.

"All I'm saying is that if you walked into this relationship, head-over-heels but knowing you could never marry him? Then all I know is you two have always been a losing game, Vin" Sara put her hands up."For an immortal such as yourself, you should know know that giving this up won't take a lot". 

Vinoja squeezed his eyes shut, head hanging."Maybe I walked into dating John, knowing I could never marry him, it was like seeing the end before it even fucking began. Still, you see me carrying on with us, don't you? I'm still here, dating John, still so in love with him that I stay up at night, thinking about him. That I write award-winning albums worth of songs about him. I'll love him until I somehow stop, or until he stops and he breaks up with me, or until he dies. Marriage or not, I'm staying with him. And- And I love him. And you're right, he is different from any other man I've been with. So different that long after he's gone, I'll find myself lying awake at night, still thinking about him. I'll find myself wishing I could have married him, so that he wasn't just some lost cause of a boyfriend I couldn't make my husband".

"Vinoja-".

"But, even for an Archangel, we can't always get what we want. I'll find myself wishing everything that has ever happened to John, never happened to him so that I could have married him, and officially made him mine" Vinoja looked up at Sara, eyes sparkling with the threat of tears."I love him so much that I'm willing to wait for something that'll- that'll never fucking happen, Sara, I know. Shame on me for never learning from all my experience, I guess. That's on me. Consider yourself happy if John ever does fucking break up with me, leaving me to find a guy to actually marry. Maybe I'll finally learn some shit".

Sara stared at Vinoja, the silence being borderline deafening. She blinked, "you're unbelievable, Vin. You're also practically wasting your time, if you love him but you can't get what you want. John won't magically wake up one day and erase his commitment issues just like that-" Sara snapped her fingers "-no matter how bad you want him to, and I know you, I know that deep, deep down, you secretly want him to".

Vinoja gulped thickly. He abruptly looked down, at his bare ring finger on his left hand.

"Quit your game, Vinoja. Before you hurt yourself even more". Sara promptly turned around, and walked out the room.

She turned down the hall, and jumped when she saw John, who had his back against the wall, clear that he had been listening in on their conversation.

"Jesus-" she whispered, clutching her chest. Sara kept eye contact with John, before shaking her head and walking past him, not saying a word.

John watched her go, not doing anything to stop her. Once she was out of sight, John stepped closer to the doorway. Slow as can be, he poked his head around to look inside.

Vinoja's chest fell as he exhaled, vision going down to the floorboards. 

John bit the edge of his lip, his eyes gaining a certain softness as he watched Vinoja. He quickly pulled back into the hallway, back flat against the wall like how Sara found him. John looked up at the roof, silently sighing as his eyes fell closed.

[littleangel4996]

His Favorite Student

Professor!Duncan Shepherd X Reader one shot

Summary: you are one of Duncan's best students. You are never late, never miss a class, nor flirts and asks for help. What happens when he asks you to stay after class.

Warning: Smut, Oral(female and male receiving) fingering vaginal, Spanking, Age difference (reader is 23 and Duncan is like 36) Sir kink , Praise kink, public sex.

Y/n P.O.V

"World War II was also called the Second World War, conflict that involved virtually every part of the world during the years 1939–45" Professor Shepherd finished after writing down the questions on the board. I've been studying in his class for 3 months and aced an A in his class not missing a lesson in his class. Especially if I get sick I pack myself Theraflu and Tylenol. Most of the girls in my class are always wearing trampy ass clothes such as short skirts, crop tops and don't get me started on how they "accidentally" drop a pen or a pencil and bend over in front of the Professor's desk while he's doing work showing off their pretty pink thongs. 

Ugh, I just want to jump over my desk and kick them square in the face-

"Ms. (Y/l/n)" Professor called out. "What was the cause of World War II?" He asked. I didn't need to look in my book or ask a partner.

"World War II began in Europe on September 1, 1939, when Germany invaded Poland." He grinned pointing at me saying "Right you are" and writes it on the board. I couldn't help the smirk coming up on my face. I can't help it, I love being right and I never gotten an answer wrong in my life.

"Alright another question, Who were the leaders during World War II?" Regina, dressed in a short pink dress showing too much cleavage with brown hair rose her hand up being all flirty and shit. "Ms Smith, go ahead".

"United Kingdom, Soviet Union, France, and uhh the United States yeah." God her fucking voice is more annoying than nails on a chalk board. Plus she got it totally wrong. Almost.

"And their names and you're missing three countries" he almost sounded annoyed at her answer. Again, can I kick her?

"What the hell, that is so totally right. I've been studying every night how can I get it wrong!" She exclaimed.

"The Allied powers were led by Winston Churchill of UK, Joseph Stalin of the Soviet Union, Charles de Gaulle of France, and Franklin D. Roosevelt and Harry S. Truman of the US. The Axis powers were led by Adolf Hitler of Germany, Benito Mussolini of Italy, and Hideki Tojo of Japan." I answered.

"And Regina if you weren't studying what's the Professor's pelvic area and trying to get his attention by dressing like a Barbie doll whore you might get the answers right next time". All was heard from the class was "burn" and "damn girl". Professor Shepherd had to quiet down the class and dismissed us having Regina cry while leaving the class. 

As I was about to leave Professor Shepherd stopped me.

"Ms (y/l/n), a word." Fuck me. I've never been in trouble with him but I guess when I called Regina a Barbie doll whore then yeah I guess  going to get a lecture. He gestures me to have a seat and him facing me leaning on his desk.

"So Ms (y/l/n), why do you think it was okay to call Ms Smith a Barbie doll whore" he scowled.

"I'm sorry Professor, she really pissed me off, she doesn't care about this class none of these sluts do. Dressing in their pastel short dress, bright makeup and when they bend over showing their fucking thongs right in front of you're goddamn face" I ranted. His expression softened. He leaned in front of me with his hands on the chair handles.

"Are you jealous?"

"No, I'm just here to learn and not worry about sex or partying like everyone else does" I snapped. He leans back smirking on my answer. 

"I knew there was something about you that I liked. You're self assured, ambitious and intelligent beautiful creature" he complimented. I got up from the chair. Am I dreaming or what because he never complimented me like that.

"Umm, Professor-" he cuts me off with a kiss, grabbing my hips. 

"Please, call me Duncan (y/n)" he breathed. Without thinking for a second I began pulling him for another kiss. This kiss was very needy and passionate. Damn I've always thought Duncan was attractive but never thought of him as a good kisser. I know this feels very very wrong and I'm going against everything I wouldn't do but fuck I want this, I need this, I need him.

I grabbed him by the collar of his black button up, turning around to push him on the chair. I waited for him to take his trousers down but it is almost like he wants me to do it. 

"I'm nothing like the other whores, take off your own damn pants" he was taken aback by my words but managed to unbuckle his belt pulling down his black slacks along with his briefs. My eyes widened at his size and girth. I looked up at him and smirks at my reaction.

"Can you handle it little one"

"You've underestimate me sir" As I got down on my knees wrapping my delicate fingers around his shaft as I jerked it with my hands a little then I take just the tip in my mouth slowly swirling my tongue like a lollipop and taking him fully and stroking him. Hearing him groan just encourage me to go all the way.

I hold the base of his penis with one hand, and play with his balls with the other.

"Fuck, you're really good at this " he complemented and I just winked at him making my movements faster with him grabbing a hold of my hair out of my face so he can have a good look at me. I swirled my tongue as I used the exact amount of suction to drive him insane. He moaned and moaned. Every moan I got out of him was a trophy, only driving me onward. 

Summoning every bit of self-restraint he had, he bade me to stop. "Come up here my pet." he beckoned over to his desk. Without asking I pushed the papers to the floor. I looked behind me and he's still sitting in his chair.

"Now, look at the mess you've made. I'm afraid I'm gonna punish you my dear. Now be a good girl like you've always have in my class and take off those jeans.

"Yes, sir" I replied. I start to unbuckle my jeans, pulling them down slowly to tease him. He knew what I was doing and he wasn't liking it. 

Finally getting the jeans off along with my panties ,pushing them aside with my foot. When I was about to unbutton my blouse Duncan jumped out of his seat as he pushed my hands away and ripping it open to reveal my Victoria's Secret bra. Luckily you can unclip it from the front so he won't have to rip it off so he won't buy me a new one. He takes the bra off me tossing it with my pants and shoes. His hands start to stroke your sides and my fingers slip under your hip bones. I raise my hips to meet his but stopping just short.

"Tsk tsk tsk baby" he said, turning me around as I placed my hands on his desk.

" Now, you are going to count whenever I spank your pretty smart ass and when I do spank you will also say sir" he growled in my ear and I nodded with a whimper.

"*Spank* 1, sir." I whimpered

"*Spank* 2, sir."

"*Spank* 3 sir" I moaned.

"*Spank* 4 sir".

"*Spank* ahh oh fuck, 5 sir please. I need you sir so badly" I moaned. I looked behind me and he gets down on his knees and he starts to devour my pussy with his tongue and mouth from behind as I gripped his desk for leverage.  No man has ever done this with me. All of them didn't know how to please me and Duncan Shepherd, my history professor is having me bend at his desk devouring my pussy like it's water. He starts to lick me up like an ice cream cone and starts pumping a finger inside me. 

"Ever Since you've walked into my class, you're all I've been thinking about" then adds his second finger, curling them as he hits my g-spot. I knew I was ready to cum. I wanted to cum so badly and he knew that. Duncan takes his fingers out of me as he stands up and gives my ass one more slap. 

"Are you ready for me baby" he said, stroking his cock. 

"Yes sir, please fuck me" I gasped as

he plunged his cock hard inside me.  I rose up on my elbows and pushed back against him as I felt his hips slapping rhythmically against my ass.  Duncan grabbed my shoulders and pulled me back against him with every thrust. I looked back at him as we watched each other’s pleasure grow.  His cock was even harder now, and I was drenched with arousal. The look in his eyes was almost feral, and I wanted him to fuck me…hard.

His hands found my breasts, and his fingers coaxed my nipples, and they ached with every pinch.  My clit began to throb, and I thrust my hips with the arousal that was building again inside me.

"You're the only one that interest me" he nipped and sucked on my neck, leaving me a red mark to remind me I'm his.

"Not all those ladies who think they're better than you. You have something that they don't. A brain, and more importantly a fucking personality" he growled in my ear.

"Oh yesss" I hissed. His pace became more faster. 

"Please, I want to cum" I gasped.

"What was that my favorite Student, say it correctly and I may just give you what you like my angel" he groaned.

"Oh please sir, please let me cu-" I was cut off by his hard fast thrust screaming from the pleasure I was getting. 

"Don't you dare cum without me, " he said. Thank God for birth control. "We're gonna cum in 5...4...3...2...oh fuck 1, cum for sir baby cum for me" my orgasm came out of me as I came all over my Professor's cock and thrusted a couple more times in me.

---

We start putting our clothes on. Luckily Duncan had wipes so I wouldn't have to feel sticky. "Well I better be going" I was about to head out of his class then I turned around by Duncan giving me the sweetest, softest kiss.

We pulled away with our heads touching and said " I meant what I said (y/n). You're very special to me. May I take you to dinner on Saturday". I simply nodded. "Yes, Duncan I'd love too" .

A/n: Any thoughts on this? 

Like, comment or reblog and I have one more one shot. 

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[awakenedrp]

BADE WAVEWAR HAS JOINED THE STARS

THEY ARE A 27 YEAR OLD PASSENGER THEY ARE A HUMANOID FROM AN UNKNOWN PLANET

KNOWN TRAITS:

Bade can be considered rather resourceful, if not for appearing as if he’s as charming and harmless as a sheep. He knows how to manipulate people, how to play them and move them all the right ways to get what he wants. He’s no stranger to sacrifice and selfless acts, but it’s always to serve a cause, never because he truly cares about other people. He doesn’t know how to. He has a lot of tact and knows how to read social situations, to a point where he almost always has a plan going in that rarely doesn’t work out. Sticky situations and problem solving are his mood.

BIO: THE UNIVERSE DEMANDS BALANCE; ARE YOU OF THE DARK, OR THE LIGHT?

In retrospect it has felt to Bade as if he had known about the Knights of Ren all his life, even before they took away his brother to teach him in the ways of the Force. His brother had been his center of the universe, even after he left. Bade had always played with him, asked for his attention, and gotten what felt like the entirety of his love. For it was true that his brother loved him more than anything, even when he was gone, he tried to send out some kind of message to let him know everything was alright. Bade kept all the gifts and messages he had ever gotten, no matter how distant his brother started to grow from him, the messages seemed to continue. Until they didn’t.

Everyone in Bade’s family was loyal to the Empire - or at least, in Bade’s mind they were - and they behaved a certain way to him because he wasn’t force-sensitive, he always thought. But he had never asked. When his brother died in the final battle at Exegol, killed by his own master as was said, Bade had become fueled by rage. He had always dreamt of becoming an officer, of seeing his brother again, working for the empire, helping the Order take over, fight the Rebels and all the other scum who thought they were allowed to make choices for other people. His brother had been taken away to serve a purpose, he would commit to that goal from now on. His parents had grown distant from him years before, not understanding how he could not see what the First Order was doing to their children, so when Bade turned against them, they simply shrugged, let him rage and waited quietly for him to calm down and leave.

And leave he did. Barely a young man at best, sixteen years old, still grieving over his brother, he took the first ship he could find, and learned more than he cared to admit. He had always fancied thinking of himself as a rather intelligent youth, but those first few years it became terribly apparent that he didn’t know shit. He lost his appetite to share his opinion about his loyalty to the Empire within a week, after he had found himself waking up bleeding on the floor of a cargo ship, unable to remember how he had gotten there, but remembering enough to know why. He got smarter after that, kept his mouth shut, said only what he thought other people wanted to hear. But not enough that he would appear to be sucking up to others, because he was well aware of his age and statue within any community that he joined.

As he grew as a person, he grew as a manipulator, soon it went beyond just saying what people wanted to hear to keep him out of trouble, and towards saying and listening and aiming his words to get what he wanted. The more he did it, the less he found it difficult to betray people who had come to trust him. And after all those years, he still had one goal: to help the Empire win favor again, and to kill Rey. Because he for one couldn’t believe his brother had been killed by his own master. No, the Rebel scum had been behind it. And whenever he took out the last picture he still had of him and Baru together, he felt that rage from when he had first learned of his brother’s death return as if it had never left at all.

Yet, for all his forced secrecy, Bade managed to evade banding together with other loyalists, to his own frustrations, this often meant having to gather second hand information, and always being too late to be part of the offense. So too had he been too late to take part in the attack on the Jedi-headquarters, where he had been for a while, stalking the territory under false pretence of being there as a simple medic who would soon leave the planet again. He had gone for the long game, but the day the attack happened, it would appear others too had twitching fingers about destroying the Jedi Order. His wish to be the one to end Rey’s life and take revenge for his brother’s death was met with several problems as he watched the place fall apart, using the fake credentials as a medic to find himself a spot on a smuggler ship, running away from the chaos and bloodshed instead of towards it. Yet, as he boarded the Derelict, it seemed like luck was on his side after all.