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PACIFIC RIM! IT’S ROBOTS PUNCHING KAIJU
#pacific rim#pacrim#kaiju#guillermo del toro#posters#my art#LADS IT'S MY FAVORITE MOVIE????#i found this foray into graphic design™ from college#wow i miss her (otachi)#*bad australian accent* rrrrraleigh#laughs remember when i tried graphic design
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Young Love (Marco x f!winged!reader)
A/N @quinloki 👉🏼👈🏼 I did it, I made it based on the prompt ‘Oh i’m in love’ I don’t think it turned out as well as I was expecting but I hope it can at least bring a small smile to your face. I wanted to do at least something for your birthday, kind of like a thank you for all the things you give us. This is really soft as it is when marco is on his teens; again I really hope you like it and here we gooo
Reader here is replaced by Dokucha which stands for reader in japanese
Dividers by @/drinkthesky and @/firefly-graphics
“Huh, Marco, where are you going?” Teach called, watching as his senior jumped off his post and walked into the forest that lined the clearing they were currently making guard at
“I’m taking my break,” He called, not waiting for the response of the former as he continued to walk deeper into the forest, sighing when he finally made it to another clearing ways away from where the current ceasefire was taking place.
He dropped to the ground with a slight huff, closing his eyes and crossing his arms as he thought of his small exchange with Roger’s first mate; his fists tightened as he remembered how easily the man had brushed him aside. Embarrassment filled him at the memory of his full-blown attack being stopped by a single finger. Perhaps if he hade-
His eyes shot open at the sound of leaves crunching and rustling behind him. He knew that thanks to the ceasefire, even if it was one of the enemy crew, he was in no danger. He glanced behind him to shoo them off, only to pause at the sight of the stranger.
Standing there, slightly hidden behind a tree, was not one of Roger’s men. In fact, it wasn’t even a pirate; rather, it was a young woman. By the looks of it, she appeared to be a native of the island they currently stood on.
Marco’s face flushed as the woman peeked her head out of the tree. A small arrangement of feathers decorating the back of her head, held together by a highly intricately designed headband. In her hand, she held a similar-designed bow. However, it was the wings that she showcased on her back that grabbed Marco’s full attention.
Marco scrambled to get up, letting out a small yowl as this caused him to fall head first into the ground, quickly picking himself up and trying to appear casual in front of the girl.
“H-Hi,” he cursed himself for stuttering as he tried to get his nerves under control.
“Are you a local?” He questioned
“I am, who are you?” She questioned
“I -I’m from the Whitebeard pirates. We stopped here for supplies but encountered some difficulties, so our stay has extended more than planned.”
“You’re a pirate?” She exclaimed
Marco was caught off guard as the girl jumped fully out of the tree, fluttering close to him.
“What is it like out there? Have you been to many islands? Do you travel in a big boat? How does it feel to travel? Do you have a big crew?” She hurriedly asked, curiosity shining in her eyes as she leaned closer to the young man, her hands forming fists as she lost herself more and more in her excitement
“Ah! I - Im sorry,” she spoke, taking a small step back.
“I got a little excited… I’ve never seen the outside world, so I guess I got excited to meet someone who has,” she muttered, slightly hiding herself with her wings in a bashful manner.
“It’s okay,” he assured her.
“I don’t really mind telling you about our travels; we have seen all kinds of islands.”
The two spent the rest of the night exchanging stories. Marco excitedly told her about the different seasoned islands scattered in the sea, even telling of an island lost in the old times and an island made entirely out of trees. The girl listened in awe at the dangerous adventures the man had taken part in and the numerous treasures he and his crew had managed to claim, laughing at the tales between him and his brothers, along with the Captain of the ship he referred to as pops.
In exchange, Dokucha told him all about the island. The small village she and the rest of the villagers resided in, being taken in by them when she was fairly young after her family had been wiped away by a hurricane that stroke the island as he comforted her. She told him of the colorful flora that littered the island, even showcasing some of it by tucking a blooming flower on his hair much to his delight. She told him of the equally extensive fauna; from big to small, the island was home to all kinds of creatures. It wasn’t until the sun began to peak that Marco took notice of the time as he shot to his feet.
“I have to go back to camp; the ceasefire will be ending soon,” he spoke, stopping as he spotted the disappointment on the girl’s face. He kneeled down close to her again as he grasped her hands, the previous flush returning to his face as he did
“I can come back tonight,” he promised.
“Really?” She questioned hope filling her face
“I will,will I see you here? I still have to tell you all about the Moby dick.”
“Yes! I will see you tonight, then!”
“Great!”
And so the two promised.
-
“Marco! I was worried you wouldn’t show up! She exclaimed as he spotted the small tuft of hair approaching the clearing with haste.
“I’m sorry, the fight went on longer than I thought it would tonight,” he explained.
“Are you okay? Were you hurt?” She questioned worriedly as she took in any possible injuries
He gushed internally as she worriedly assessed him, spinning around him to ensure nothing was amiss.
“My injuries heal,” he stated with pride as he stood confidently.
“Heal?”
“My devil fruit enables me to heal myself instantly.”
“Devil fruit?”
He paused, realizing that she must not have acome across the concept of devil fruits on the island; as he explained the concepts and power of devil fruits and how his own worked, he watched as her awed expression grew into an elated one as he offered to show her his full Zoan form.
She gasped as the man before her enveloped himself in cyan flames, covering her eyes at the bright flames in the otherwise lightless clearing. Once her sharp eyes adapted to the change in light, she lowered her arms, gasping as she took in the huge bird that stood before her; entranced, she approached him, extending her hand towards him and gasping; it wasn’t hot as she was expecting the flames to be, rather they were warm, they were inviting, they were
“Beautiful….” She uttered as she kneeled in front of him taking him in
The words she spoke would forever be engraved into Marco’s mind as the words that would change what was a small crush into a blooming love.
-
“Marco! You’re here; it’s strange seeing you during the day, isn’t eve-Marco?” Dokucha stopped her words as she took in Marco’s frantic state
“Marco, what’s wrong?”
“I-it’s over... the fight is over.”
“I don’t understand. Is that not wonderful news?”
“N- I mean, yes, don’t you know what that means, Dokucha?
“That the fight is over?”
“It means it won’t be long before we leave,” he sighed, defeated
“Oh,” she muttered
“I won’t see you again?” she questioned
Marco frowned, his own heart breaking as he heard the young woman’s heartbroken tone.
“Please come with me!” he pleaded, grasping her hands.
“Come.... with you?”
“You can have the adventure you wanted. You can see the Moby Dick and travel in it.”
“But what about my village?”
“Is there anything left for you here?” that silenced her; she knew that although he was right, despite her loving the village and its people and vice-versa, there was nothing more to gain if she were to stay here.
“Will your Captain be okay with this?”
“I won’t let him say no.”
She shook her head, letting out a disbelieving laugh.
“You didn’t think this through.”
“W-well, I have a beginning and end. I’m still figuring the in-between”
“You’re a dork”
“Is that a yes?”
She smiled, leaning in a quick, chaste kiss on the Phoenix’s cheek.
“Let’s go.” She grinned, opening her wings and promptly taking to the sky.
Marco looked entranced at the girl touching his cheek as he tried to take in what had just occurred.
“Are you going to stay down there?” She hollered
“Oh... so that’s what it is. I’m in love,” He spoke, a smile growing on his face as he heard her call out to him again.
“I’m coming”
What we thinking?
Taglist:
@Imaginarydreams
@amethystviolin
@h0n3y-l3m0n05
#one piece#one piece x reader#one piece imagine#one piece fluff#i love you quin#quinloki is amazing#quinloki#happy birthday#marco x you#marco x reader#reader x marco#marco op#marco one piece#one piece marco#marco#marco the phoenix x reader#marco the phoenix
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So something I realized watching a few videos and reading a few articles is that most of us aren’t angry at the idea of AI in general. Many of us are excited to learn about AI systems that can identify cancer better than doctors, for instance.
What we’re angry about is generative AI being used to destroy the jobs of artists (and I mean all creatives here), who have already been dealing with their work being devalued by modern society.
And I’m not sure how to deal with it. I do remember learning that when photography became a thing, many painters were horrified and terrified of would erase the art of painting. It didn’t obviously, and in fact photography because a whole new art form.
I grew up during the birth of digital art. I distinctly remember the phase digital art went through where many people declared it to not be “real art” and that it was “cheating” etc. I’m sure other millennial artists also remember this transition. But graphic designers pretty quickly adopted digital tools, and websites like DeviantArt popped up, and I don’t think there are too many people nowadays who would say a digital painting isn’t “art”. Still, I do imagine there is a gulf between how some people would view the “artistic merit” of a 3 ft tall oil painting hanging next to a 3 ft tall print of a digital painting, even if the subject and styles were similar. So the worries that digital art would erase physical painting was also proven false. And for the record, I think digital art is 100% art. The merit of digital art is equal to that of physical art.
On the other hand, I can’t say these changes didn’t affect older forms of art. Like, photography did affect the world of painting. I don’t have statistics, but it seems like it probably affected the world of portraiture the most. And I wonder if many of the 20th century art movements were influenced by photography. None of my art history classes touched on that and it’s kinda weird to me. There is definitely something about a Dada or cubism or surrealist painting that transcends beyond what a traditional photo of a landscape or a portrait can do. There is no location in the real world with actual melting clocks or people whose faces show multiple angles at once.
And then there was the digital photograph that changed everything again! Film has become a niche art form.
There were specific kinds of jobs lost due to the digital transition, too. I’m thinking of things like murals being replaced by printed banners, or book covers often being done in photoshop. Oh, and that’s another tool that was faced with fear: Photoshop! There was a fear it would destroy the need for professional photographers because everyone could just fix their own photos. Turns out nope, and in fact people skilled in photography and photo editing are still in demand. And of course there’s the loss of 2D animation in favor of 3D animation, the loss of practical effects for digital, etc.
And you might argue that in some of those cases people can tell corners are being cut and that they won’t stand for it, but Marvel movies still make billions of dollars so…
So I don’t know what’s going to happen with AI art. I am NOT saying “all current artists are stupid and wrong, in the future history students will laugh at how stubborn they were to resist this idea”. AI art is not comparable to photography or digital painting.
With a photograph, you still need to compose the image in the frame, you need to position yourself in the real world, you need to know your equipment, whether you’re using film or digital. You also need to know how to process that photo either in the dark room or in Photoshop. These are skills the average person does not have. You cannot tell an AI “that shot was good but can you increase the contrast?” It’ll just produce a completely new image.
I read an article about an art director who was encountering difficulties as the department tried to incorporate AI. They got back first drafts of art ideas from the people employed to work with the AI, gave critique, and the second round was just completely new images that didn’t include the suggestions… because they couldn’t. AI does not understand color theory. It does not have the ability to take critique. It can’t slightly alter the layout of a design.
And all of that applies to painting too. AI (currently) can’t do what a trained art student can do. It doesn’t know that to create a sense of atmosphere you should make distant objects bluer. It doesn’t know how to use human physiology and psychology to draw a viewer’s eyes across a large painting to reveal a story.
AI also can’t replicate INTENTION - and intentionality is a HUGE part of art. WHY an artist chose those colors, that medium, that composition, those tools, why they chose to display it a certain way, why the composition is like this instead of that - all of that adds meaning to the painting that you can’t get with AI.
(Yes, there is an absolutely valid field of art critique that evaluates a piece of art on its standalone value and the message it conveys without the context of the artist’s intent, but that should be compared to the analysis that DOES include the artist’s intent! That comparison can bring about so much understanding!)
Anyway I’m going to end this post now because it has gotten WAY too long. I focused mostly on painting and photography in this post because those are my particular fields of speciality, but this applies to ALL ART. It applies to music and writing and scripting and acting and composing music and just. Everything. All art.
I don’t think there are any forms of art AI doesn’t threaten. Now granted, AI can’t currently pick up a paint brush. It can’t use a crochet needle. It can’t hold a camera. And maybe there will be some sort of return to physical media in response to AI produced digital art. Or maybe there will be a response in digital art to stylistically distinguish it from AI in a way AI can’t reproduce. I’m not sure what will happen. Maybe some proof the image was digitally painted by a real person, somehow. Or that it’s a real photo, or a real article. I saw someone mention there may end up being labels like “100% human made” like we do for organic food lol. Maybe work in progress videos or photo metadata will become more commonplace as evidence of authenticity.
Anyway, NOW I’m ending this post. Whew.
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TR Guys + Their Types PT 2
Headcanons! ↳ Black Girl Edition🤎
⚜️Featuring: Hakkai Nahoya (Smiley) Draken Mitsuya Wakasa
(Honestly I love making these)
Hakkai
~ Ugh, Hakkai the sweetheart. ~ He's so freaking shy and awkward so he'll definitely need some help from a more bold kind of girl....at least with a bit more guts than him or else chile...the relationship ain't getting nowhere.
~ I could see Hakkai with a girl that loves to color coordinate clothes and kind of match together every now and then; maybe for a little date night.
~ Going off of this^^ I could for SURE see him having a couples fashion page together with her. Like think of those boujee high fashion show audience member outfits like a Schiaparelli or Balmain vibe.
~ I think Hakkai would go for the kind of woman with a really naturally soothing voice. That kind of just airy, light voice.
~ Definitely loves the kind of woman that loves doing fun activities together (I know y'all remember that scene in S2 when Hakkai was tearing up that bowling alley and pool table and all that)!
~ As for hairstyles, Hakkai truly does love anything she's wear and I could definitely see him getting style advice from you (even though he eats all of his hairstyles).
Nahoya (Smiley)
~ I can so see him with someone that's good at doing hair. Like she'll try out all these cute styles on him that'll have him lookin' good. I could see him start feelin' himself after she tries a new style on him that he likes. (Potentially a genuine hair stylist).
~ Will definitely turn her into his own personal hair stylist.
~ I think he'd love the kind of girl that will take his outfits and completely finesse them. Like wearing one of his bomber jackets or tops and makes it look ten times better on her.
~ I can absolutely see him going for a girl that's into high street wear styles! For example: Imagine a graphic tee that's tied in the front for a slight crop effect with some cute cut out designs in the back, cute jeans, topped off with tie up heels and a cute little mini bag.
~ She MUST get along with his brother or else it's just not happening. But that's obvious.
~ Since he be so damn rowdy all the time, I can see him with the kinda girl that levels him out.
~ I can also very much see him with a comical girl. Like she's just always making him laugh and is genuinely a funny and witty person. Also good with comebacks.
Draken
~I feel like Draken definitely likes the girly type. Lipgloss collections, cute skirts, a plethora of perfumes both high and low end, and shopping is a therapeutic experience for her. Like he can't keep up with her new outfits.
~ Personality-wise she's gotta value family and friendships. He definitely would NOT like the type that's just always randomly cutting someone off because of one minor argument or something they said. I think he'd like the kinda woman that will work things out and value the people she has in her life (especially because he never really had his parents so he always cherishes the people he does have).
~ I think he'd like a ray of sunshine kind of girl. Just always lighting up a room with her bubbly and upbeat personality.
~ When it comes to her hair, I can absolutely see him obsessed with the different kind of braid styles she does. From Fulani braids to cornrows with zigzag parts, he just utterly eats it up every time.
~ And don't even get him started with the cute beads! Like..it's a yes for him.
~ He definitely likes for her to do his hair for him, and try out different kinds of braids aside from his simple braided ponytail.
Mitsuya
~ Ok so this man Mitsuya for sure loves a family oriented woman, just straight off the bat.
~ I think he'd like a very down to earth and friendly kind of girl.
~ I could see Mitsuya with a cook like...hold on hear me out.
~ Mitsuya is already good at cooking but I can see him with a professional or just really great cook. I can imagine him cooking and learning things from her wether it's just how to cook more efficiently or cooking foods from other cultures (*cough* Like Soul Food *cough*).
~ Mitsuya would like a girl that can show him all kinds of new things and he could show her new things as well.
~ I think Mitsuya is just the kinda guy who is interested in lots of things so he'd like a girl who's open-minded in that way too.
~ Definitely can see him with a fashionable woman too. I just imagine him first meeting her by being so entranced by her outfit and her walk (instantly she becomes his muse that he creates all kinds of fashions for).
~ I don't think Mitsuya would mind being with a tall girl either. On some Zendaya x Tom Holland vibe!
~ I for sure believe Mitsuya loves to do spontaneous dates! Some days it's real fancy and boujee and other days it's just a chill date night at home with a nice meal he's cooked and a cute "restaurant music" playlist he picked on Spotify. So a woman that doesn't mind the full spectrum of dates (cause let's be honest some girls be like boujee dates ONLY, trynna be extra...) he'd really appreciate.
Wakasa
~ Honestly I feel like Wakasa would like a woman that's really opposite from him in certain ways.
~ For example^^, I think he'd love an energetic, highly sociable type of woman. Loves to talk and meet new people while Wakasa's a bit more quiet and reserved (doesn't mean he doesn't like to talk, it's just not gonna be his go-to thing to do unless he's drunk as a skunk).
~ It's an official cannon that Wakasa is the clingy type so I could definitely see him with the kind of woman that's not really that way but puts up with his clinginess just for him.
~ I'm also getting wise vibes. Like he'd like a woman that is really wise and will have him thinking about things from different perspectives when they talk about certain topics.
~ I feel like Wakasa would like a woman that is (like Mitsuya) on the more open-minded side when it comes to trying all kinds of new things. Wakasa seems like the type that wouldn't really mind trying something he's never done at least once just to see.
~ Definitely could see him with like an outdoorsy girl, or at least someone who's open to camping or going out fishing (and doesn't mind the bugs💀...).
~ I think Wakasa would like a girl that's random. As in just does random stuff out of nowhere due to boredom (ex: breaking out into song loudly in the middle of silence or quoting random movie lines).
~ As for outfits, I think Wakasa would be drawn to like the super cute, dainty, feminine style. Loves him a cute frilly skirt or sundress! He spends so much time around his friends and stuff (a whole bunch of rowdy ass gang boys), that when he sees a really girly girl it's like he's hit by a feminine ultra-blast or something (what am I saying lol).
~ For hairstyles, I think Wakasa would be OBSESSED with the perm rod curls style. Those super cute, bouncy spiral curls would have him staring so hard on accident (lowkey lookin' like a weirdo). I could see him always pulling on them then letting go to watch it bounce back.
A/N🧚🏾♀️: As requested I made some new headcanons @honeybunhottie 🩵 Hope you enjoy it as much as the last!
#wakasa x black fem reader#wakasa headcanons#nahoya kawata#nahoya headcanons#strawberryfairi🧚🏾♀️#ken ryuguji x reader#draken headcanons#draken x black reader#mitsuya headcanons#mitsuya x black fem reader#mitsuya x black reader#hakkai shiba#hakkai shiba headcanons#hakkai shiba x black fem reader#tokyo rev x black reader#tokyo rev headcanons#nahoya kawata x black fem reader
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Title: Perfidious.
Written for a very lovely anonymous commissioner.
Pairing: Yandere!Killer!Childe x M!Reader (Genshin).
Word Count: 4.0k.
TW: Non//Con, Bottom!Childe, Graphic Violence, Kidnapping, Blood, Rough Sex, Bondage, Disturbing Themes, Obsessive Behavior, and Slight Bleeding Kinks.
Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.
You felt steel against your back, first.
Straight, narrow, peeling away from you at the edges; running from the small of your back to the nape of your neck before losing contact where your head lulled to the side. The rope around your wrists was next, soft and smooth but drawn tight enough to bite into your forearms, then the concrete floor beneath your exposed form, greedily stealing away what warmth you’d managed to retain after the metal pole pressing into your spine drank its fill. Sharp copper filled your lungs, the scent of gore too fresh to carry the sickening sweetness of rot nearly strong enough to blot out your vision when you finally managed to pry your eyes open. Even then, your sight blotted grey around the edges, the world a smear of dark shadows and bright lights and red on—
Red.
Red dots, painted across the dull grey of the concrete floor. Red smeared against blank walls and coating the tapering points of meat hooks suspended haphazardly from the low ceiling. Red hair, smattered with viscera and slicked back by sweat, but still recognizable at first glance.
Your voice came out raspy, staggered. It tore at your throat, caught on your teeth, but you forced yourself to speak. You couldn’t think of anything else to do. “…Ajax?”
He was on the other side of the concrete room – a cellar, you realized, somewhat belatedly – but he turned as soon as you managed to wretch the words from your tongue. He was… He looked off; disheveled, but not as distressed as someone in his state should’ve been. His designer clothes and fur-lined coats had been traded out for a plain grey t-shirt and a black apron, the fabric of both visibly wet. He wasn’t wearing gloves, but his hands were stained with crimson up to the elbow, merging into the blood-soaked pair of pliers in his left hand. Relief coursed through you at the sight of his easy smile, and you strained against your restraints as he turned away from whatever he was carving and began to approach you. You stained against the pole, against your restraints, but both held strong, keeping you bound in place as he came to stand in front of you, one of his hands falling low enough to cup your chin. Normally, you’d try to brush off his smothering affection, laugh as you batted his hand away or tried to remind him that not everyone wanted to be greeted with one of his bone-crushing hugs, but now, you melted into his palm, your grin wide enough to tear the corners of your lips. “Ajax, I— I don’t know what happened, I can’t—”
“How does your head feel?” His voice was gentle, his tone soft and light and as warm as the blood still dripping from his fingertips. “That was quite a fall.”
Right. You could remember it, now; the feeling of jutting steps digging into your chest and back, concrete scraping against tender flesh. It came back to you in pieces, nonlinear and broken into disjointed fragments. You were lying on the floor, quickly losing consciousness, then standing in Ajax’s doorway, checking the address on your phone as you tried to figure out why your wealthiest classmate wouldn’t be living in some dilapidated shack on the edge of town. There’d been a bat, and a bolt of pain in the back of your skull, and… and then you were here, in a dirty basement with Ajax and so, so much blood.
It didn’t make sense, but Ajax was above you, waiting for your answer with a patient smile. “I think so,” you tried, despite the pounding in the back of your head, the knotting dread in your chest. “Did… did you hit me? I can’t really… I don’t know what’s going on.”
He let out a breathy laugh. “I guess I did, huh? Not on purpose, though, I promise – I wanted to let you down nice and easy. Had a syringe of the good stuff ready and everything.” Ajax paused, patted a square indent in the front pocket of his apron. “You were more punctual than I thought you’d be. When I heard you upstairs, I figured your little friend had arrived first and…” A quirk to his smile, a slant to the way he held his shoulders. “Well, I wasn’t going to be as gentle with him.”
Your… friend?
Blearily, you glanced away from Ajax, to the corner of the cellar that he’d occupied before you woke up. Your vision wasn’t so spotted, anymore, your thoughts not quite as incoherent, and you were able to make out a worktable covered in tools and hacksaws and knives of all shapes and designs, and a man sitting on a plastic chair beside it. Expect, he wasn’t sitting – he was buckled into himself, slouching forward, only held up by the fraying rope wrapped around his chest and the duct tape keeping his arms bound to that of his chair. His shirt had been torn open, uniform lacerations drawn down the length of his chest in deep, jagged lines, and you could see blood dripping from his lips, his nose, his ears. Red, coating everything in sight. Scarlet as far as the eye could see.
It took you longer than it should’ve to recognize him; patches of yellow and black bruising blossoming across everything that hadn’t been cut open, distorting features that you’d never made an effort to remember in the first place. Even when you managed to scrape something up, it was more of a role than anything else – the boy who sat a row ahead of you in some general biology course you’d tacked on for an easy credit. He’d asked to borrow a pen once or twice. You’d never bothered to learn his name.
Ajax followed your line of sight, chuckling when he saw what’d stolen your attention away. He seemed to soften, squeezing your jaw one more time before pulling away, drawing back and toward the near stranger. “Stephan Zheng. He asked for your number two weeks ago, tried to say it was for some ‘study group’ – as if anyone would be dumb enough to believe that shit.” He laughed, again, but the noise was more strained, less affectionate. “It’s guys like this that really make me sick. I can take the boys and girls that constantly hover around you, at least they know how to keep their distance. Bastards who want to touch what’s not theirs, I just—” He set his jaw, growling from behind clenched teeth before clenching his eyes shut and inhaling sharply. “I’m not asking for a lot, just a little common decency. That’s pretty reasonable, right?”
It took you a long moment to respond, to remember how to use your tongue. “Ajax, did you do that to him?”
“Oh, no, sweetheart. I didn’t hurt anybody.” He turned away from you, taking up a rusted box-cutter. “I tortured him. And, eventually, I’m gonna make sure he never bothers us again.”
Your breath hitched as he moved towards the stranger, but he didn’t try to drive the short blade into his captive’s chest or add to the countless gaping wounds he’d already carved. Rather, he cut away the makeshift restraints, slicing through tape and rope and letting the stranger collapse to the floor, completely limp, completely vulnerable. Ajax remained unfazed, just wrapping his fist around the stranger’s neck and hauling him off the ground and toward one of the hanging hooks – this one shined and spotless, yet to be stained.
There was a slick, sickening piercing sound – metal plunging into meat, straining to penetrate muscle and scraping against bone in a way that made your teeth ache behind your lips. There was a final, shuttering breath from the stranger as the hook’s point emerged just below his collarbone before going limp, his swollen eyes barely open, his chest still. Agonizingly still.
You felt bile rise into the back of your throat. Your vision blurred, your shoulders dropping as you lurched forward, your consciousness threatening to blot out and leave you as helpless as the fresh corpse swaying just a few feet away. You felt yourself start to shake, but even that was distant – your body acting without your consent. If Ajax recognized your panic, he didn’t seem to care. There was a dull, hollow sound as he rummaged through the displaced tools on his worktable, a low coo, and then he was next to you, a sledgehammer with a broken, splintering grip in his dominant hand. “Deep breaths, baby, deep breaths.” He kneeled, bringing himself down to your height. Once again, his hand was on your cheek, thumb running over your jaw as he went on. “He’s all taken care of, alright? It’s just the two of us, now.”
“I don’t—” You didn’t know what was happening. You didn’t know what he was doing. You didn’t know who he was. You didn’t know how the man standing in front of you could be Ajax; sweet, oblivious Ajax, who always stood a little too close and laughed a little too loudly and tipped a little too much whenever he took you out for breakfast the morning after a late study session or one of the disgusting frat parties he’d drag you to. Ajax, who liked to joke about making you his spoiled trophy husband whenever you failed an exam or complained about your constantly rising rent. Ajax, who’d willingly been your shoulder to cry on every time another friend dropped out, or moved away, or just suddenly stopped talking to you without warning. Ajax, who’d just smile when you asked about his shady, ever-changing job and tell you not to worry your pretty little head about what he did when he wanted to get his hands dirty.
It was hard to breathe, hard to think about anything but his name and the copper slowly sinking into the tissue of your lungs. Still, you tried to pull yourself together, to flatten your voice into something comprehensible, to sound half as irrationally calm as he did. “I… Did you kill him?”
There was a soft hum by way of confirmation, another swipe of his thumb over your cheek. “I just roughed him up a little. If he died, it’s just because he’s too weak to take what he deserves.”
For a long moment, you were quiet.
Then, shifting against the pole, you looked downward, to the floor between your legs; the concrete dusted with stains so dry and so dark, they couldn’t have been made that day. “Ajax,” you said, again, drawing out his name into something pleading. “I think I have to leave, now.”
He was quiet for a few seconds, too.
Then, he laughed, and something cracked in your chest. Slowly, he leaned into you, his chapped lips barely brushing against yours before he fell lower, pressing a lingering kiss into the corner of your jaw, then the curve of your throat. “I thought you’d say something like that,” he muttered, as he finally pulled away. “Don’t worry, it’ll only hurt for a few seconds.”
You watched from a distance as he pushed himself to his feet, taking up his sledgehammer. The blow itself was precise, practiced; too quick and too effective not to be something he’d done a thousand times. For a second, as the steel head crashed into your ankle, there was only static numbness; vague pins and needles and the awareness that there should’ve been pain and that pain should’ve been unimaginable. Your mouth fell open, Ajax’s whispered nothings was flattened into a muted buzz, and for a long moment, it was all you could do to stare at your own foot and try to figure out why it was able to bend that way.
Then, he brought his hammer down on your other, uninjured leg, and you screamed.
It seemed to go on for minutes, hours, days. The world was just you, the pure agony racing up both your legs, and the sound of your own voice; ragged and desperate, pleading and cursing and tearing at your lungs until you couldn’t feel anything but the slight tinge of hurt at the back of your throat and a second heartbeat racing in your ears. You thrashed against the pole, kicking out with your useless legs, but Ajax only responded with a throaty laugh, letting his weapon fall out of his hold and dropping back to your height, straddling your thighs and taking your face in both of his hands. He didn’t shy away from your lips, this time. This kiss was brutal, animalistic – his teeth crashing against yours as he drank down the sounds of your pain, moaning against your lips in response. His hips rolled against yours, and you were forced to acknowledge the weight of his cock pressing into your stomach – already straining against the material of his pants. You recoiled on instinct, but Ajax only sunk further into you. “Feel that?” He asked, his voice little more than a raspy whisper. “That’s what you do to me. That’s how much I love you.”
“You’re sick.” You were whispering, too, suddenly too weak and too shocked to do anything else. “You can’t— You have to let me go, this isn’t—”
“As if you’d get anywhere on those legs.” Feverishly, jerkily, he was dragging his shirt over his head, smearing gore along grey fabric as he tore off his blood-stained apron and the rest of his clothes, never letting himself put more than a foot of distance between your body and his. Never dropping that awful, bloodthirsty grin. “I’ve been thinking about this since the day we fucking met. You don’t know how much I wanted to—”
He broke off, pausing just long enough to take your dick in his hand. You tried to tell yourself that it was just the adrenaline, that the loose coil beginning to form in the pit of your stomach was just gnawing dread, but your body was a stripped nerve; every sensation dialed up to its maximum capacity, every touch cutting through your skin and making contact with something more delicate, much more vulnerable that laid beneath your flesh. You could feel the humidity of his breath as it fanned over your throat, the stifling warmth of his chest against yours. You could feel the heel of his palm, calloused and rough, as it ground into your base, and the tightness of grip as his fingers wrapped around your cock. “If I wasn’t so nice, I would’ve pinned you down on the floor of that fucking lecture hall and sucked you dry. But, I wanted our first time to be special.” He pressed a wet, open-mouthed kiss into the side of your neck. “I was hoping you’d crack if I picked off enough of your little friends, but you were just so stubborn. If I didn’t know better, I might’ve gotten it into my head that you just didn’t like me.”
You grit your teeth, clenched your eyes, but there was nothing you could do to stop yourself from hardening against his palm, your body desperate for any scrap of mercy he would show you. Raw agony burnt in your veins, twisting around your ribs and pushing everything below your ankles to an unfeeling distance, but a small, burgeoning warmth writhed beneath it; a unique kind of torture in its own right. You jerked against your bondage, and when that failed, you forced yourself to grimace, to turn away and will yourself not to react to him. It was an effort made in vain, though. Ajax knew what he was doing, even if he was only using his hand, even if he chose not to act like it; toying with you, swiping the pad of his thumb over your flushed head and grinding the heel of his palm into the underside of your cock, keeping you sensitive while making sure to withhold any kind of stimulation that’d actually tip you over the edge. When your fragile composure started to crack, when the first distorted whimper slipped past your lips despite your best efforts, he pulled back abruptly, drawing a jagged whine from the back of your throat. His apology came in the form of a lingering kiss pressed into your collarbone, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Just give me a few seconds,” he said as he moved back, leaning into you. “Been dying to make you cum on my face since I got a look at what you’ve been hiding from me. Don’t have time for that now, but I think my poor heart might break if I don’t get a taste.”
You didn’t have time to ask what he meant before your cock was in his mouth, shoved past his lips with no reluctance or hesitation. You felt his nose hit your pelvis, his throat constricting around your cock, but Ajax had always been dauntless, and now, he was using all that courage and all that arrogance to choke on your length, saliva and pre-cum dripping from the corners of his mouth. It was less of an effort to get you off and more of a prolonged attempt to suffocate himself – his blunt nails burrowing into your hips as he held you still, pinning you underneath him and giving him the time to fall into a half-coherent rhythm, to sloppily bob his head and curl his tongue around your cock. You tried to shut your eyes, to block out what you could and ignore what you couldn’t, but he was just so warm, and messy, and loud – groaning and mewling, constantly drawing your attention towards him, towards the violation of your body.
It was careless, and it was grotesque, and your body drank in every scrap of sick pleasure. It took so much of your depleted strength to stop your hips from bucking into his mouth, to stop your mangled legs from twitching underneath him, that you almost didn’t notice when something warm and viscous seeped against the side of your thigh. Without having to open your eyes, you knew what it was, and you knew what it meant when Ajax pulled away from you, pressing a wet kiss into the inside of your thigh before swiping two fingers through the trail of blood. You watched him, dead-eyed and vacant, as he spread himself open with his blood-soaked digits, every movement too rushed to come across as anything but feral, too rough to be the first time he’d fucked himself that day. You didn’t know which reality would’ve been more disturbing – one where Ajax was just that masochistic, just that willing to hurt himself if it meant hurting you, too, or the alternative, the one where the anticipation had been too much, where Ajax hadn’t been able to wait until he had you at his mercy. You didn’t know which would haunt you more, when the pain reached to your head and you inevitably lost consciousness again.
It wouldn’t take very long. Ajax was too careless, too clumsy as he wrapped his legs around your waist, stringing one arm around your neck while he used his free hand to position your cock against his ass. You clenched your eyes shut, twisted as far from him as you could get, but it was already too late – tears, ugly and searing, were already streaming down your cheeks, a ragged sob tearing past your lips as you felt your cock push into him. Ajax slid back onto you without hesitation, only pausing when you bottomed out to coo and bury his face in the crook of your neck before raising his head, before dragging his tongue from the edge of your jaw to the space just under your eye. “I know, I know, I’m just as happy as you are,” he murmured, when he was done, his tone almost gentle. “And I love you, too.”
The words remained on his tongue, repeated in airy whispers and hitched moans, forming a faltering mantra as he started to move – rolling his hips, fucking himself with your overly-sensitive cock like you were some breathing, sobbing toy. Your own vocalizations were less sentimental, a near-incoherent string of stifled cursing and pointless begging just to make it stop. It was a losing battle, if you could even compare it to a real fight. He was tight, and warm, and his eyes burnt into yours; half-lidded but twice as intense as such lifeless blue should’ve been. Your body was his to mold, his to toy with, and he seemed to want to play with you as violently as he could. He seemed to take a special kind of joy in choking cracked gasps and fractured moans out of you, in clenching down around your length and sucking throbbing hickeys into your throat and never letting you escape the sound of skin against skin, the heavy scent of sex and sweat and so, so much blood. Involuntarily, humiliatingly, you felt yourself twitch inside of him, and somehow, Ajax’s pace grew even more unsteady, more sporadic. “Pl-Fuck, please,” he plead, his voice as airy as it was eager. One of his hands fell between your body and his, pumping over his own cock as aggressively as he was fucking himself on yours. “Fill me up. Breed me. Please, please, knock me—”
Anything he might’ve said cut out into a throaty groan, and in a last-ditch effort to save what little pride you had left, you tore your attention away from Ajax, let it skirt over blood-splattered cement before finding what you couldn’t seem to avoid; the stranger hanging on the other side of the cellar, fresh blood still dripping from the ragged hole in his chest. It was all you could do to stare at him, for a long moment, unable to move, unable to think.
Then, his eyes shuttered open, glassy pupils flickering towards you, and you came undone inside of Ajax in an instant.
With a sharp cry and a hitched breath, he buckled into you, burying his face in the crook of your neck and rocking his hips until he fractured just as suddenly as you had – his climax following yours by barely a fraction of a second. You felt his cum, thick and burning, paint the flesh of your stomach, his teeth sink into your shoulder one more time before he straightened his back, his tongue lolling past his lips as he panted. He looked like he wanted to keep going, to keep draining you of all things good and vital, but your body was already screaming in protest, the pain already setting back in – racing through your form with a vicious sort of resentment. Reluctantly, Ajax pried himself away from you, and you were distantly aware of the rope around your wrists falling away, something soft wrapping around your body, Ajax’s laugh as he lifted you into his arms, as you melted against his chest, unable to do anything else. You thought, to yourself, that you’d be relieved if you never heard that sound again. You thought that it must’ve gotten worse, after he’d knocked you out.
You would’ve noticed if his laugh was always that terrible.
“It’s alright, sweetheart. You can get a little rest.” His voice was just as awful, dripping with just as much cruelty. If you’d had a little more resolve, you might’ve tried to shove him away, to make a token effort at resistance.
If you’d been a little stronger, you would’ve been able to do anything but close your eyes and hope he’d be the Ajax you remembered, when you woke up.
“I’ll be right here to take care of you, when you wake up.”
#yandere#yandere x reader#yandere x you#yandere imagines#yandere oneshot#yandere scenarios#yandere genshin impact#yandere genshin#yandere genshin x you#genshin imagines#genshin impact#yandere childe x reader#yandere childe#childe x reader#yandere tartaglia#tartagila x reader#yanderecore#yancore
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There are on social media some very disturbing and graphic videos of the children of Gaza who have been injured during the relentless and inhumane bombing campaign, that Israel's war criminal regime has been waging for ten days now
But despite the necessity to look at them to understand the full extent of the crimes committed by Zionist Jews and their Western accomplices who support them, to understand what genocide means, I don't think this is how we should remember Palestinians, especially the children. They're much more than mutilated bodies.
This video filmed by Mohammed Sami, who worked at Al-Ahli Baptist Hospital few few hours before the attack summarizes their lives nicely.
About this time spent together with the children, Mohammed wrote:
I will never forget the look and sound of their laughter at this moment. We are all trying to be okay.
Mohammed was confirmed dead, we do not know the fate of the children and other workers in this video, although it is likely that they did not survive given the number of victims: more than 800 dead, but it It is still right to them that they spent their last hours in a form of peace with a feeling of hope and the will to live.
He wrote a few hours before the attack on his Instagram in Arabic (I used Google for the translation, my Arabic is not strong enough):
Peace to Gaza, peace, peace Peace be upon all sad eyes Her tears overflow with sorrow and pride Peace, peace, peace to Gaza Today during my stay at the Arab National Hospital (Baptist) I saw families and their children in a state of fear and psychological pressure due to the continuous bombing of the Gaza Strip I tried to relieve them of this fear and panic by requesting assistance from a team of civilian volunteers inside the hospital to change this state for them into a state of playing, laughing, screaming loudly, and letting go of themselves. It is like trying to provide psychological first aid for the children and families by preparing a designated, safe place for play and entertainment. What I did today was an attempt with simple means through which I was able to unload everyone inside the hospital and transfer them to a condition perhaps much better than they were in.. I will never forget the look and sound of their laughter at this moment. We are all trying to be okay.
They were Muslims, so here is a dua for them and for us to help us cope with this tragedy:
Those who, when an affliction visits them, say, ‘Indeed we belong to Allah, and to Him do we indeed return.’
الَّذينَ إِذا أَصابَتهُم مُصيبَةٌ قالوا إِنّا لِلَّهِ وَإِنّا إِلَيهِ راجِعونَ
#politics#history#anti genocide#antiracism#anti colonialism#anti colonization#anti apartheid#anti ethnic cleansing#anti jewish supremacy#anti western imperialism#palestinian lives matter#palestine#middle east#indigenous people#from the river to the sea#palestine will be free#ghassan kanafani
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Phoenix felt it the moment he woke up—a strange unease in his gut that wasn’t quite the usual nerves. He groaned, rolling over in bed, clutching the sheets as his mind cycled through the day’s upcoming events. He had a proposal meeting today. A big one. As a graphic designer, these meetings were always a bit nerve-wracking, but Phoenix had prepped for this. He had everything lined up, his ideas fresh and bold. So why did he feel like absolute shit?
“Just nerves,” he muttered to himself, rubbing his face before dragging himself out of bed. “It’s all in your head, Phoenix.”
His stomach gurgled, a slight pressure building in his chest as he shuffled to the bathroom. He burped, a quiet, bubbling sound that caused him to wince. "Ugh, come on," he groaned, rubbing his chest, hoping it would settle. He brushed it off as another sign of stress—stress always did weird things to his stomach. He wasn’t about to let this ruin his day.
He'd dressed and downed his coffee with half-hearted enthusiasm when his phone buzzed on the counter. Nico’s name lit up the screen, bringing a small smile to his face.
"Morning, babe," Phoenix said, a little relief washing over him at the sound of his boyfriend's voice.
"Hey, my love. How’re you feeling about the meeting? Gonna knock ‘em dead, right?"
Phoenix let out a sigh, leaning against the counter. "Yeah, I guess. Just, y'know, nervous as hell."
"You've got this, baby. You're a damn genius, remember?"
Phoenix smiled despite himself. "Thanks, babe. I needed that."
Nico's laugh was soft and warm. "Go kick some ass, darling. Call me after, alright?"
“Yeah, I will. Love you.”
"Love you more."
Phoenix hung up, already feeling a little better. But no sooner had he grabbed his bag to leave, his phone rang again. His brother’s name flashed on the screen this time, and Phoenix rolled his eyes before answering.
"Daniel, if you’re calling to wish me luck, I’m hanging up."
Daniel chuckled. "Wouldn’t dream of it. Just wanted to remind you not to fuck it up."
“Yeah, thanks. Great pep talk.”
"Seriously, though, bro. You’ll crush it. Later."
Phoenix sighed again. “Yeah, later.”
***
By the time Phoenix arrived at the office, the discomfort in his gut had morphed into something more solid, more nauseating. His palms were sweating as he tried to shake it off. He’d been nervous before, sure, but never like this. Still, he had to push through.
He greeted his colleagues, exchanged some small talk, and took his place at the conference table, but the queasiness in his stomach was persistent, gnawing at him. By the time he sat down, it was all he could do to keep his head from swimming. He burped quietly, this one bringing a taste of bile with it. "Ugh... what the fuck?" he whispered, gripping the edge of the table as his stomach churned. It wasn’t just nerves anymore, and deep down, he knew it.
The nausea built and built until, without warning, it slammed into him like a wave.
"Oh shit," Phoenix muttered under his breath, standing abruptly and making a beeline for the bathroom.
His stomach turned violently, and the moment he made it into the stall, he retched. Hard. Vomit spilled out, a disgusting, acrid mess that burned his throat and left him gasping. He clung to the toilet bowl, shaking, bile still rising.
“Fuck... I’m actually sick," he whispered to himself, a sinking realisation settling in.
It took a while before the wave of sickness subsided, but it didn’t disappear completely. His stomach was still uneasy, still threatening. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, rinsed his face, and stared at his reflection in the mirror. He looked pale, drawn.
But he couldn’t back out now.
Phoenix somehow made it through the meeting, plastering on a fake smile, nodding, and giving the presentation he’d worked so hard on. Every sentence felt like it was ripped out of him, and he fought down the urge to vomit the entire time. It was a fucking miracle he didn’t throw up on the table.
By the time he was done, his coworkers were congratulating him, telling him how impressive his pitch had been. He smiled weakly and muttered his thanks, but all he could think about was getting home.
The nausea grew worse on the drive, the motion of the car only making things harder. By the time Phoenix reached his apartment, he was pale, sweating, and barely holding it together. He dropped his bag just inside the door and rushed to the bathroom.
He barely made it. His knees hit the tile, but the vomit came before he could position himself over the toilet. It splattered onto the floor, the toilet rim, everywhere but where it was supposed to go.
“Shit, shit, shit!” Phoenix cried, choking as another wave hit. His stomach convulsed, emptying everything it had.
It was a mess. A disgusting, rancid mess. He hated it. He hated how helpless he felt. Tears welled up in his eyes as the retching continued. He hated this feeling more than anything—the feeling of losing control, of being vulnerable, of being so fucking sick.
Phoenix slumped against the wall, panting, still dry-heaving, tears streaming down his face. He could hear the front door open, followed by Nico’s footsteps.
“Phoenix? Babe?” Nico’s voice called out, growing closer until he appeared in the doorway.
“Oh fuck..." Nico’s eyes widened at the sight of the mess, but he quickly pushed his shock aside, crouching down next to Phoenix. "Hey, hey, my love. It's okay. Breathe, alright?"
Phoenix’s chest heaved as he looked up at Nico, ashamed and exhausted. "I... I missed the fucking toilet. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. It’s such a mess—"
"Shhh, don’t apologise," Nico said softly, wiping Phoenix’s tears away. "It’s okay, darling. Don't worry about that. Let’s get you cleaned up."
Phoenix sniffled, feeling small and vulnerable, but Nico’s presence was grounding. "I hate throwing up," he whispered, voice shaking.
"I know, babe. I know," Nico murmured, pressing a kiss to Phoenix’s forehead. "You did great. Let’s get you in the shower, alright? Don’t worry about the rest. I'll take care of it."
Nico helped Phoenix to his feet, supporting him as they stumbled to the shower. The warm water hit Phoenix’s skin, washing away the grime, the sweat, the sickness. He felt like a fucking mess, but with Nico there, rubbing his back, whispering reassurances, it was easier to let go.
“Just relax, okay? I’ve got you.” Phoenix leaned into Nico’s touch, closing his eyes.
As they dried off and Nico wrapped Phoenix in a towel, the nausea seemed to settle, leaving behind a deep exhaustion.
“I think I aced the meeting by the way,” Phoenix said, voice hoarse but carrying a hint of pride.
Nico blinked at him, then chuckled, shaking his head. "How the fuck can you still crack jokes after all that?"
Phoenix grinned weakly. “Talented, I guess.”
Nico rolled his eyes, but there was warmth in his gaze. "You’re fucking unbelievable, babe."
They curled up together on the couch afterward, Nico’s arms wrapped protectively around Phoenix. The day had been hell, but at this moment, Phoenix didn’t want to move forever.
"You’re gonna be alright, my love," Nico whispered, pressing a kiss to Phoenix’s hair.
"Yeah," Phoenix murmured, resting his head against Nico’s chest. "I think I am."
#wonder couple#nico kim#phoenix Fuentez#my writing#sickfic#i somehow really hate this bc its rushed but#gblogg back in business#hopefully lol
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bonding. ¹²//tending MASTERLIST.
pairing: spawn!Astarion x named!Tav (non-binary OC)
warnings: 18+. nsft. mdni. this chapter is fluffy angst, little hurt/comfort! no specific cw's!
word count: 3,379
summary: two gays remodel a house domestic fluff and some character background building, set in post-game baldur's gate. two people who are weird and traumatized work on their relationship and reclaim their sexuality through a shared kink. lots of gooey romantic smut while these two slowly figure out their future together.
named!Tav is my non-binary tiefling ranger, Festé. i was seeing far too few fics with tiefling!Tav and i thought it was crucial, nay, critical to include them in the headcanons. i hope you all enjoy! ♡
header credit: i'm no graphic designer, but i made it!!
The smile had melted from his face when Festé launched into their story; and in no time at all, he was hugging them closely, rocking them gently back and forth on the bed. Whenever they paused, or their voice broke, he winced, hugging more tightly. The tiefling trailed off into silence after a time, and he glanced down, noting their blank look and tense posture. Quietly, he asked if they were okay. A small smile crept over their lips and Festé shook their head.
"I murdered him, Star." They looked up, and chuckled. "He can't hurt me anymore." He stroked through their hair, chewing it over for a moment. Astarion tried to picture the scene as they had described it, considering all of the rage that must have built up inside their heart. How the cold, callous treatment of their body and mind had been the catalyst. How anyone in their right mind could have hurt the dearest person that he had ever met. The elf paused, wincing again when he remembered how he had treated them when the two first met; how he had thought they could be so easily taken advantage of. What he could have become, had they not touched his heart.
"Well…" he sighed softly, "Maybe not, but the memories can, darling." He spoke tonelessly. "In your situation, I would likely have done the same." It was only when his imp had laughed wetly into his chest that he sheepishly realized what he had said.
"That's why I stood aside when you…" Festé looked up, giving him a half-smile and falling silent. Astarion huffed a chuckle through his nose and nodded. He relished the memory for a moment, thinking of the weight he had borne for years suddenly being lifted. How relieved and lost he had felt, all at once.
"I… Darling, I'm glad that you trust me enough to share. I realize how hard it is, to…" He stumbled, searching. "It's hard to open up about it." Slowly, he lay his cheek against the top of their head, practiced enough to avoid the jut of their horns; and he whispered, "Thank you for telling me."
Astarion held them closely, rocking slowly back and forth until their breathing evened out and deepened. Then he gingerly leaned back against the headboard and pillows, closing his eyes. Some time later, Festé began to snore softly, and he smiled to himself. He wondered if they knew they snored. He blinked his eyes open and watched them drift off; and he wondered how many people they had kept at arm's reach before now. How many had the privilege to see their deepest parts? A tiny, cynical voice in the back of his mind even wondered: how much of themself were they still hiding? The elf scowled at the thought. He just wanted to know all of them. Astarion began to absentmindedly stroke their back, and thought about what they had said about when they kneeled in front of that half-elf's hearth. Deftly, he reached down, cupping Festé's curled-up hand and examining it in the dim light. Marred, but subtly, with faded scars from burns. Had it only occurred once, or many times?
There had been so much information to take in, he thought, laying their hand gently back against his stomach. And yet, so much left unsaid. Astarion smiled sadly to himself. Knowing what he knew now about their past, he could only imagine what the imp's first impression of him had been. Festé hadn't alluded to it, he suspected, for fear of hurting him. He reclined with a sigh, watching the curtains shiver from the open window. Fitfully, he wrapped his arms more tightly around his imp, as if they would slip away. How was it that they trusted him, back then? He turned his head away from the sunlight peeking in from behind the heavy curtain and closed his eyes once more, drifting away uneasily.
When Astarion lifted his eyelids the next evening, he was surprised to find them crusted with sleep. It didn't happen very often, but it had been happening more now that he and Festé had been in one place for months. Sparsely enough, still, that it made him feel particularly slow and hazy when he got up. The pale elf flexed his hands, blinking and looking down to find the bed empty save for himself; and he lifted his head, listening carefully. Humming, soft splashing, the scratch of cloth on skin, the slide of soap. Astarion was on his feet, faster than he meant to be, and making for the bathroom. He smiled widely when he saw them, facing away and slowly resting back against the edge of the tub with a satisfied sigh. He had already crossed the room in silence, crouching and planting a kiss on his tiefling's forehead. They startled.
"Good evening, darling," he murmured, dodging their horns when their head snapped up, and kneeling at the tub's edge.
"Evening, my love," they turned, chuckling and dripping, to look up at him. "I was lost in my own world." They leaned up, and he bent forward to give them a proper kiss. "I got up early, and planted the garden," they covered a yawn with their hand. Astarion leaned in, nose inches from theirs, and smiled. He rested his elbow against the edge of the tub, and nodded, getting comfortable.
"What did you plant, my dear?" he asked softly.
"Carrots, potatoes, lettuce, and leeks," they mirrored him, resting their opposite elbow on the tub's edge. "And in mid-summer, I'll plant the pumpkins." The tiefling beamed at him, and he raised his eyebrows.
"Pumpkins, darling? Whatever for?" The imp wrinkled their nose at him and chuckled.
"Of course! Haven't you ever carved a face into a pumpkin for Harvestide?" At this, he had to laugh, and shook his head in disbelief. "When I was young, my parents taught me how." They shrugged, and continued, "I'd like to do the same with you, love."
"Well," Astarion lifted his free hand and checked his nails, and caught Festé rolling their eyes. "I suppose I could try it," he teased them with a pompous tone, and the pair laughed together. "Turn around, dear, let me do your hair." He stood, pulling the bathroom stool close before sitting and combing his fingers through Festé's damp hair. They hummed in muted pleasure, and the elf smiled, beginning to braid it. It really was getting long, he noted, even since the last time he had commented on it. If he let them wear it loose, it would be almost to their hips, but he loved braiding it for them. He loved that they let him braid it for them. The elf lost himself in the moment, watching his pale fingers weave through the dark curtain of their hair until suddenly, he was finished.
"It feels so good when you do that," Festé murmured sleepily, looking up at him upside-down. "You have such a gentle touch." He glanced away, embarrassed, before bending forward to kiss their forehead.
"Don't flatter me, darling," he sighed, sitting up. "Not yet, at least. I have a gift for you." The imp raised their eyebrows, turning in the bathtub to face him once more.
"A gift, hmm?" They drawled, grinning widely. The depth of their voice sent a shiver up the elf's back; and he chuckled, more out of nerves than anything else. "I suppose we had better choose a date then, shouldn't we, love?" He watched their tail flick back and forth slowly under the surface of the bathwater, and they turned halfway to pull out the drain. "I'm betting you won't let me see it until the day of, will you?" Festé stood slowly, dripping and reaching for their towel, but his hands found it first.
"I… not a chance, darling," Astarion hissed playfully, wrapping them up. "You'll have to keep your eyes closed." He leaned down to lay a peck on their cheek. "Come with me." They grinned, following without protest.
Astarion glanced back at them, making sure their eyes were closed once they both reached the top of the stairs. As if they sensed his gaze, they whispered, "I won't peek, love. Lead on." He felt a flutter in his stomach, letting out a breath to steady himself before he opened the door to his room. The elf took his imp's hand once more, leading them into the middle of the room and silently giving thanks that they couldn't see the mess of fabric piled high on every flat surface. He paused, looking around before grabbing a dark strip of silk hanging over one of the unused mannequins. Festé scowled a bit and sighed dramatically when they felt him tie the makeshift blindfold on. "Don't you trust me?" they teased, catching his wrist in one hand when he brought it down again. He cursed himself momentarily for all the training he had been putting them through.
"Oh, hush and let me work, imp." He tutted, and Festé let out a full-bodied laugh. "Stay right there." They released his wrist, waving him off, and he turned to one of the other mannequins in the small room, starting to gather the fabric up. "Tell me more about the garden, won't you?" He murmured thoughtfully. If they were going to be travelling this summer, why would they bother? Especially if there was a chance they wouldn't be back, he thought grimly. With ease, he lifted the nearly-finished dress from the mannequin body. "Drop your towel, and hang on to my shoulders, dear."
"I didn't plant much, honestly. Just things that would grow over the course of a few weeks while we're gone." They let the towel fall, hands finding the elf's shoulders when he moved close. "It's going to be a wet summer this year, but I'm worried about the weeding…" Festé hummed.
"Oh, I see." They were so casually optimistic, and it was contagious, as usual. He tried a light tone, wondering in passing if it was convincing. "Well, we'll just have to take care of it when we come back from Candlekeep, won't we? Step," he said, catching their ankle and guiding it into the proper place in the mess of fabric. "Other foot," he breathed, repeating the motion.
"I know what you're thinking, Star," they sighed softly. "But we… we'll make it back." They dragged their fingers lightly up the sides of his neck, and he shivered. "I promise," they breathed; as if sensing the tension in his shoulders; and he straightened up slowly.
"I'll take your word for it, I just…" Astarion paused, gazing down. "Arms down for a moment, like… Yes. Perfect, darling," he smiled, adjusting the sleeves of the garment. "I'm just worried. I can't shake the feeling that we're walking into a firefight. What if something happens to you? What if you get…" he cleared his throat. It was too easy to confess in such a cramped space. The elf busied himself with the buttons, doing each one up deliberately slowly, letting his fingers linger against Festé's chest. What if that heart stopped? "What if you get separated from me? What if one of those spawn bites you? What if, gods forbid, you get turned?" An uncomfortable silence descended on the room as he stepped away to look the tiefling over. Astarion sighed harshly, feeling the itch of shame creep up his back. "Turn for me, my dear. Slowly." Festé obliged, and they lifted their arms halfway from their sides.
"I've been thinking about that possibility, Star," they whispered once they were facing away from him. "Would forever really be so bad? Well, if it were with you, I…" Astarion watched a tremor ripple through them, and he recalled their last discussion on the subject. Silently, he moved close to them once more, ghosting his hands over their hips before he tied the sash up at their waist.
"Have you changed your mind?" He murmured, lips flush against their ear. Their hands found his, and he noticed that they were trembling, if only slightly.
"I don't know, Star. It's complicated, I…" they sighed deeply, their head bowing.
"If I could change you myself, darling, I would. If you wanted it." He bit his lip. Shit. His mind was racing, imagining the fury he would feel if someone else touched them as he had. If someone else bit them, if their blood danced along someone else's tongue. He stiffened, arms locking even more tightly around them. Festé lifted their head.
"Is that what you're worried about?" Their voice was soft. Astarion kept silent, and his imp turned around to hug him properly. Something in him softened, then. "Are you worried that I wouldn't be yours anymore?" The words were a punch to his gut, and he felt something, a sort of liquid heat, flood his chest. Several moments went by as they held each other, and Festé spoke up again. "Star? Talk to me, please…"
"I… I am," his voice sounded hollow, far away. "I'm worried about you becoming someone's mindless spawn," he spat. "But, I'm also worried about being left behind if you die," he finished, harsher than he meant to be.
"It's complicated, right?" Festé whispered into his shoulder, their arms tightening around his waist. "I'm sure the jealousy makes it worse."
"I'm not…" his voice faltered, and they chuckled.
"You don't want anyone to know me like you know me. It's okay, Star. But you have me, and I'm not going anywhere, if I can help it."
They were right on that front, he had to give them that. Even the jealousy he felt when the tiefling had told him about their long foray with that despicable half-elf had been hard to tamp down, and the man was long dead. It felt like a white-hot fire iron in his middle; and he no longer wanted to think about the irony of Festé standing with him in the wedding dress he had made specifically for them, being jealous over an imaginary vampire sinking its fangs into them. He shook his head, exasperated with himself, and moved away from them. "Gods, you should see yourself," he breathed, crossing his arms and taking in the dress.
"How bad is it?" Festé breathed, mock-serious.
"Simply terrible, my love," he chuckled. "Turn again for me?" He focused, eyes darting right to left as they revolved slowly on the spot. It was so very nearly finished. It was just the finer details, like the hem, and a few stitches around the waist, that remained. He congratulated himself silently on getting their measurements almost exact by sight, and hummed. If had had more time, he would have stitched the entire bodice in lace, but the sheer white fabric he had chosen was perfect against Festé's rosy skin. It hugged their chest, moving up into a high neck, but the sleeves fell open and flowing at their shoulders. "Lift your arms again, pet," he murmured, moving closer and kneeling in front of them.
"Like this?" They raised their hands and rested them on top of their head. "The sleeves seem long, I hope that's…"
"That's perfect," he praised, smiling even though the tiefling couldn't see him. He spotted a loose thread in the intricate stitching of their right sleeve, reaching out and pinching it between his fingers. "Hold still," he leaned in, audibly snapping the thread against his fangs.
"You're doomed to put your fangs on me every-" they started, and he shushed them, stifling a laugh. They chuckled above him as he worked, pulling at the skirt's fabric. It was a simple black satin, with dual slits to expose the imp's thighs. He sat back on his heels, humming a bit while he adjusted the waist. Finally, he took the pins out, cinched the fabric slightly tighter before pinning them again. It only took a few moments for him to stitch each side securely, and he set to work removing all of the pins, smiling to himself. Festé seemed to know when he was finished, and pushed their fingers into his hair, enclosing him in the white curtain of their sleeves. Astarion sighed again, pleasured by his accomplishment as well as his lover. He leaned in, pressing a messy kiss to the inside of their thigh in return. When he stood again, he took their hands.
"Aren't you going to pester me with guesses as to what you're wearing?" They grinned, shaking their head silently. He leaned in, drawling softly in their ear. "Really? Not even a peep? Don't you want a hint, darling?" A moment passed, and the imp nodded. "Yours," he said, dropping one of their hands, "Is white and black," he traced his fingers from their shoulder to their waist, over the intricate phoenix he had stitched. "With a black skirt." He reached down, squeezing their hip. "And mine is matching in black and white."
"I knew it!" Festé cried out, laughing wildly. Astarion let out an exasperated scoff, and they found his cheeks with their palms. "No, seriously, my love; I'm much too red for anything else to go nicely with my skin. I knew it had to be-"
"Wrong," he interrupted with a hiss. "You would look stunning in anything. But especially so in this." He pulled them close and pressed a chaste kiss to their lips, making them flinch and chuckle softly. "I can't wait for you to see it."
Festé was silent for a long time, and Astarion studied them closely as they pursed their lips. "Star…" they started, trailing off into silence again. Another long moment passed, and the elf waited. "Star I… I hope you know this, but regardless of what happens…" they came close to him, and he turned his head deftly to dodge their horns when they pressed their cheek to his shoulder. "Regardless of whether I'm mortal or not, I'm yours, If we ever come to be separated, I will find my way back to you." Astarion lifted one hand, smoothing it over their back. "What I worry about, secretly," they continued, swallowing thickly, "With changing, is that I wouldn't be warm to the touch anymore. That I…" Festé sighed harshly, "That I would no longer be alluring to you. This is the first time that I've felt, well… wanted, since my parents died. It's stupid, but I…" Astarion flinched, and his imp fell silent once more. Finally, they whispered, "What if you found someone more appealing than me?" They laughed humorlessly.
"Darling…" he whispered back, "It's not your blood, it's you." Wasn't it? Astarion's mind felt clouded. What if it was only their blood that made the tiefling so alluring to him? Their initial relationship had been characterized by it, after all, he thought. The way it had spilled over his tongue that first time, the unexpected swell in his chest, the absolute elation he had felt over the next few days. No. He pushed away the notion entirely. "Gods below," he shook his head, chuckling a bit. "We're a pair, aren't we?" He squeezed them, and Festé shivered. "We're both being given a good thing, for once; and we're both so worried that it's going to slip through our fingers."
"Star, what do I have to do to convince you that I'm not going anywhere?" The tiefling mumbled into his neck. "I'll do anything," they sighed. Astarion was surprised by the anxiety that seeped into their usually calm and even voice.
"Well, I…" he shifted his weight slowly from one foot to the other. "You're wearing the dress I made for you, aren't you?" Festé nodded, clinging to him. "In the townhouse that we both live in together. You could… Oh, I don't know… marry me?" They chuckled wetly, and sniffled.
"I can do that," they whispered, their arms locking around his waist.
"What can I do, little love, to assure you that I'm not going anywhere?" The pale elf asked, lips brushing their earlobe.
"Tell me you love me?" Festé pulled back, stiffening when Astarion gently gripped their jaw.
"I love you, and I'll tell you as often as you like," he breathed against their lips, before pressing a light peck to the corner of his imp's mouth.
author notes:
well well well, i guess it's all out there in the open now, more or less
these two are idiots but they're my idiots and they're just doing their best
thank you for waiting out this hiatus, and for supporting the fic! you rock! you matter! you get the wedding episode as a reward!
#.fic#fic: bonding.#otp: bloodfire#oc: festé#baldur's gate 3#bg3#bg3 fanfiction#astarion acunin#astarion bg3#astarion x tav#spawn!astarion x named!tav#bg3 astarion#astarion#astarion x oc#spawn!astarion x oc
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cicatrix.⋆☁︎:・꧂
chapter twenty-five. kairosclerosis. [NEW 10/24] ❤︎❤︎
18+ only | rocket x f!oc | 25/40+ | wip | wordcount: pending. masterlist, notes, & moodboard | navigation chapter twenty-five. kairosclerosis. ❤︎❤︎ ART: pearl’s character design | pearl & rocket’s bunk | heartspur scene | chapter one. nemotia. art by @/frostedwitch| rocket & pearl snuggle | adorable pearl x rocket selfie by @/starriidreams | sexy, evocative waterlily pearl x rocket painting by @/hibatasblog ♡
the crew finds peace on alon-gim, but all things are temporary. see warnings below.
“You’re really pushing this whole brat thing,” he drawls, though it’s a lie. Everytime she shows that thread of a backbone, he just wants to reward her. Twice as much when her pupils bloom in her moonsilver irises: little lovely eclipses, like they are right now. She licks her lower lip, and it glistens like it’s waiting to be bitten. “You could… punish me again?” she suggests breathily, her lashes suddenly heavy on her eyes.
For fuck’s sake, he thinks. The only reason he doesn’t think he must’ve died and gone to some kind of heaven is because he knows he’d never deserve one of the better afterlifes. “I could,” he agrees, all mock-consideration. “Maybe tie you up, nice and tight. Gag you with those panties, finally.” She shifts under the covers — rubbing her thighs together, he thinks. He tries not to groan. “Or,” she offers cautiously, like she thinks he’s going to say no to whatever’s about to come out of her gorgeous mouth, “you could teach me to kiss you.” Her cheeks are scintillating-bright and his own eyes flare down to hers, locking on to those blown-out, starless pupils. “To, uhm—” Her face screws up, like she’s trying to remember something she’d heard, once. “—to suck your dick.” For fuck’s sake.
read more on ao3 | masterlist, notes, & moodboard AHHHHH THE ANGST SO SORRY
a story about scars. two survivors learn about themselves, each other, hope, and the universe. a freakish little monster visits the high evolutionary’s bride on her wedding night. an adventure of intergalactic proportions ensues. aka raccoons make plans; the universe laughs.
WARNINGS for this chapter: cunnilingus, begging, rocket’s fantasies, fellatio. a fight + angst. rocket can’t let himself be happy for long.
fluff ✮ | spice ✩ | some smut ❤︎ | much smut ❤︎❤︎
banners & rose dividers by @/saradika-graphics | pearl dividers by @/thecutestgrotto
#fic update#cicatrix#rocket raccoon smut#rocket smut#gotg rocket#rocket raccoon lemons#gotg x oc#rocket raccoon x oc#angst with a happy ending#rocket raccoon#guardians of the galaxy#rocket raccoon fanfiction#gotg fanfiction#rocket gotg#gotg rocket x oc#rocket raccoon fanfic#rocketraccoon#rocket raccoon x original character#oc x rocket raccoon#guardians of the galaxy fanfic#guardians of the galaxy fanfiction#gotg fanfic#slow burn#slow burn romance
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The Falcon and the Owl
Pairing: Sam Wilson x Reader!Stark Word count: 2377 Summary: reader and Sam meet at the party during age of Ultron and flirt when there’s a fight Sam saves reader’s life.
I was never an official avenger thanks to my brother, Tony, I didn’t care that much after a point. I had taken an noticeable part in the SHIELD as a manager of the Stark Industries and the main graphist designer for my brother’s crazy ideas. I was a doctor in reality with love of experimenting in genetics, Nick Fury was particularly interested in my love for that subject and had me in the helicarrier many times…
Tonight though, it was a day off. It had been a hard mission for the avengers and they needed a small soiree so I contacted Maria Hill and James Rhodes and had it arranged immediately, calling the closest of the fellow heroes that saved the world last year. I was fixing the cava carefully as the guests began to arrive.
I was sitting at the top of the stairs leaned on a pillar with a glass of rum staring down at the party, I liked that everyone was having fun. I saw my brother with Thor they were speaking and giggling as Nat was serving them, there was Helen with Rhodey speaking as Banner approached Nat in the bar. Clint was with Maria and Happy laughing and drinking beers.
“How come you hosted a party Steve, didn’t know Avengers were a social club.” Sam joked, I didn’t flinch it wasn’t polite to listen to conversations you weren’t included.
“We had a tough week, so Dr. Stark made this surprise for us.” Steve approached me and turned down to me. “Why are you sitting here…?” he asked me and smiled down at me.
“I am spectating the children Steve, making sure they are having fun.” I smiled back at him. “So children… are you having fun?” I asked and turned at the two.
“Are you sure avengers ain’t a social club?” he asked and turned at me confused.
“Steve… look down there…” I pointed to the floor he looked confused and did stare at where I was showing him. “You dropped your manners, because you didn’t introduce us…” I joked and Sam laughed while Steve rolled his eyes and nudged my side. I laughed and slapped his hand, he knew I was ticklish.
“I assumed you knew him since you invited him…” Steve spoke and looked between us. Sam turned at me to see what I would reply.
“To be honest he doesn’t ring a bell.” I spoke up and looked at him. I tried to be as indifferent as I could, I do not know why…
“That’s a first, people usually remember me, especially women.” Sam responded with a smile, it was a funny smile.
“I like your confidence… but I still do not recall your name.” I reminded him, I just had the need to get over confident and self aware people a bit off their little cute castle of confidence… that’s what childhood trauma smells like, with a brilliant minded brother like Tony.
“Sam Wilson, Trauma counselor and pararescue Jumper U.S. air force… and very charmed” Sam spoke bowing lightly and looked at me with a playful gaze. I held back a chuckle, it was a natural response when people were matching my sass and weren’t awkward or scared of how I responded. Steve had left us alone and I didn’t realize when it happened.
“Nice to meet you Samuel, I am Y/N, Y/N Stark. Co- Owner Graphic Manger in Stark Industries, Neurosurgeon, Shield agent in the science department… PhD in Metropolitan college at Pathology.” I introduced myself and smiled at him cocky, he was taller than me even though I was wearing heels, for a moment I saw Tony’s gaze over at me but I turned my back.
“Ah, is that all?” Sam asked and looked at me, taking a sip from his drink.
“No there are more. I just don’t want you to feel bad.” I spoke up coldly my gaze looked at him trying to not look at him, with a polite and slightly amused smirk, he seemed to enjoy it. I was enjoying it…
“Oh do tell, Perhaps I will visit a Trauma Counselor afterwards” Sam joked back and I raised my eyebrows at his responses.
“I happen to be a Forensic Genetist from the SHIELD academy and a teacher for Russian… I also speak Italian Greek and French… and I paint in my free time.” I added and sipping my glass of wine elegantly. “I’ll cover the expenses if you are feeling overshadowed I smiled but I got serious clutching my head as I heart a high pitched frequency as if electrified cables were on contact.
“Are you alright…?” Sam asked me his hand gently touching my forearm, I turned down stairs at my brother, he looked buzzed as well but he kept talking with the people at the small lounge.
“Yes, i am but-Oh…” I spoke and looked at my original design working. “Ultron…” I murmured as the robot stumbled, Sam was dragging me slowly closer to the rest as I was staring at it, it’s a bad habit I had… it was a magical feeling see my designs alive and walking every time Tony created something I designed I was swallowed by this feeling of satisfaction, he looked good and he would look even better with the final designs and the color it would look even better than before.
“Mhm- Some dreams, gotta kill the other one-.” The robot mumbled in low volume, he grabbed his head, Sam had me moving backwards slowly. “He was a good guy…” he said and turned at us.
“You killed someone…” Steve asked, I hadn’t realized how close to the rest we were;
“How did you activate yourself- You weren’t even half built.” I asked and looked at it.
“The other guy helped me… He was a good guy.” He responded again, it was as if we had an actual conversation
“Who sent you?” Thor asked, staring at it like death, the tension in all of them was giving me the chills, even Tony seemed anxious on the matter.
“What do you plan on doing?” my voice was heard, it was a recording the robot was playing it. “I see armors all over the world” then it was my brother’s voice.
“Yltron…” Bruce realized and stared at my brother…
“In the flesh…” the robot spoke and excuse me was that sarcasm I heard in his tone, other than coldness and reality. “Well not yet… Not like that, I have some updates to perform and a new body, the one mother designed for me… Its under construction, the other guy gave me the blueprints.” He said and turned to me.
I heard clicking, agents preparing their guns… “Jarvis…” I whispered, it was the man that raised me when my parents passed away Tony was 21 and I was 14, Jarvis was our butler, he was named after him since AI Jarvis was our baby sitter.
“I am on a mission, Peace at our time.” He said and the walls of the lab behind him broke by my brother’s flying suits that started shooting at us. Sam got my waist and pulled me behind the table Steve flipped as he was swiped away.
“Stay here- you’ll be-“ Sam was to say looking down at me as I raised my dress and took out the small knife I hid to my thigh.
“I’ll be safe- I know, I didn’t mention gymnastics before huh?” I asked and raised my head from the side, he pushed me down by my shoulder as there was a shot towards me.
“You look like you don’t know it thoughj. It’s a knife Y/N how will you fight robots with that. scratch the tin cans?” he asked me infuriated by what he translated as ignorance and recklessness.
“Well, I am a scientist Wilson I know how to disable them… I only need something sharp, other than your jaw.” I said, hopefully the flirting would manipulate him into letting me do what I want. Rhodes slid down the stairs to get to us, as I waved at him. But before he could reach us a suit blasted him, “James” I exclaimed and looked at that way.
Sam turned to help him but a suit snatched him, he was trying to make it to let him be but as he mentioned this was not human, he seemed to struggle. “Y/N don’t do it” he spoke as I was already climbing up stairs to get on to higher ground and tossed my heels aside.
“Tony cable color.” I exclaimed jumping over the railings. My hands and legs hugged the back of the robot as I shoved the knife between the neck and the clavicle, it was one of the two vulnerable spots I left.
“Damn you Y/N what are you doing! Ugh… Black and white…” Tony spoke his eyes pinned on me as Maria Hill pushed him aside…
“Get off of it, I got this!” Sam groaned, still held firmly by the evil robots.
“You really don’t look like you are enjoying yourself Wilson and I intend to alter that.” I spoke, my voice heavy as was trying to find the cable my brother said, once I shoved the knife in the thin opening the armor allowed Sam to fall and smashed me to the wall- I felt the air move out of my lungs as we the hand it grasped my neck and brought me to the front. I was squirming- couldn’t breath- I saw Sam jump over it and finish my job.
I fell to the ground, as Sam landed on top of the robot, I turned over and saw Helen, hiding behind the piano and I ran towards her when a robot was right above us, I got in front of Helen- then I thought… I am unarmed, I cover her with myself when Steve came right in front of me to do the same- When the robot was to shoot Clint got the shield and tossed it to him protecting us... and then throwing it to Thor who smashed it.
“That was dramatic, I know you mean well. You just didn’t think it through…You want to protect the world but you do not want it to change…” Ultron said and I slowly stood up, I wanted to take a closer look at him, at the design at the way he was standing and functioning, he wasn’t even ready. I walked passed Steve, he didn’t seem to pay much attention to me but Sam did and held my forearm so I would stay in place. “How can you expect a world to be safe if It is not allowed to evolve.” He added and turned, his shiny blue eyes evolving around us. “There’s only one path to peace. Tony was next to me as Sam was holding me back… “The avengers extinction.” The robot growled and turned his shooters at me, I gasped and Tony dragged me behind him before, a second later, Mjonir, was smashing him into the wall…
Sam and Tony turned at me at the same time “Are you okay?” they asked all at once and looked at me concerned before turning to each other, Sam raised his brows while Tony was frowning at him. “Are you okay?” Sam ignored him looking at me. “As I mentioned I know how to take care of myself… you on the other hand need stitches.” I noticed, my throat was sore but I didn’t like looking weak. Only Tony would ever meet this side of me…
“Oh- you noticed… I knew you couldn’t take your eyes off of me.” Sam spoke and winked as he raised his sleeve gently. I iodine and took the needle on the small pair of scissors as I sat down. I was gently stitching him up.
“I can take my eyes of off you now if you want.” I smiled, my gaze was looking at him, to his wound to be precise, I felt my hands shake gently but I ignored it.
“No please.” Sam chuckled and looked at me. I didn’t avert my gaze from my motions though… “You don’t seem as confident as before… I shall remind you my trauma counselor expertise…” Sam spoke and looked at me he held my wrist as I was finishing with his stitches.
“Do not worry about my mental health… Worry about your general health in case you don’t take me out on a date…” I spoke and swallowed.
“Oh- I may be curious on what you’ll do if I don’t do so…” Sam said and approached his face towards me, we were only a breath away but I didn’t flinch. I only stared at him.
“Trust me dearest, you do not desire to witness the ruthless side of me.” I smiled and patted his cheek with my hand and turned my back to leave, but he held my wrist. I paused and didn’t look at him.
“I could call you if you give me your number” Sam spoke, his voice wasn’t funny like before.
“Look for it I do not know it.” I responded and removed my hand from his grip…
I walked further inside the lab, Dr. Banner was coming out as I walked in to see my brother looking there straight faced. His gaze blank. “Jarvis…” I whispered, it was our cute little invasion, he was making all the algorithms while I was trying to give him an appearance, I was 19 and Tony was 26…
Tony’s gaze was raised upon me, he surveyed me for two full moments before he came and pulled me in a hug. “What were you thinking jumping to that armor?” he asked me and cupped my face, he raised my chin up wards to take a look at my neck. “They left a mark…” he sighed and looked into my eyes.
I couldn’t hide from my brother no matter how hard I tried… he was always able to read me. My eyes shone as I looked up at him. I simply sobbed a bit before he pulled me in a hug. “Does it hurt?” he asked me and I nodded looking at him... He kissed my forehead…
#sam wilson#sam wilson x reader#avengers fanfiction#stark sisters#tony stark sister#Avengers age of ultron#marvel fanfiction#mcu fanfiction#the falcon and the winter soldier#avengers x reader#Flirty reader#fanfiction readers#ironman#steve rogers
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All of You is Left to Love Chapter Two: Welcome Home, Johnny (Depowered Homelander x OC)
18+ | 6.3k | Homelander's early depowered days and the ensuing torture in Vought's supe prison.
>>>>>>> WARNING: Extremely explicit torture, gore, abuse of bodily fluids for the sake of torture, and genital torture ahead. Does have a happy ending-- just very graphic to get there. <<<<<<<
Two weeks.
Or, well… He thinks that’s how long it’s been, anyway. It’s hard to tell in here. There’s no sunlight, no clock, nothing that can let him know just how long it’s been since they threw him in here.
He woke up disoriented, head pounding, room spinning as he tried to get his bearings. He thrashed and yanked to no avail against the restraints tying him to the chair. The room was dim and dark, and his grunts echoed around him. He began to panic, feeling the creeping distress of the days when they’d tie him up like this in the bad room– when they’d strap him down with titanium bars and get to work and–
All for the sake of fucking curiosity…
A cold sweat overtook him, body shivering. Only then did he realize he was naked.
Where the fuck was he?
Just when the walls around him seemed to be getting impossibly closer, a door opened, filling the room with blinding light. In walked two guards, silhouetted and fuzzy– but one thing was distinct about their shapes.
Both of them wore Vought’s specially designed anti-supe armor.
The realization hit him like a fucking train.
He was in their fucking supe prison.
“What the fuck is this!?” Homelander roared, yanking against his bindings with all of his might. When they didn’t shatter, when the hurt kicked in, that was when panic turned to fear and confusion.
Why wouldn’t they budge?
Why wasn’t it working!?
The first of the guards to approach him did so with a dark, ominous chuckle, menacing in the way he sauntered over.
“If you move,” he spoke up, amusement lacing each word. “You will be tased.” The guard raised a rod and activated it, unleashing a loud crackle of electricity right next to Homelander’s ear.
He flinched, much to the guard’s satisfaction.
Homelander swallowed hard and willed his fear to turn to bravado. “You seriously think that’ll do a fuckin’ thing to me?” He asked with a mocking laugh. “Who the fuck do you think I am?”
Suddenly the rod was at his thigh, arcs of electricity coursing through his body making him go stiff as a board, teeth clenched and breath caught in a silent scream of agony.
“You will do whatever I say, when I say it,” The guard said, ceasing the voltage. “Or I’ll get to poke ya!”
Homelander panted heavily, sweat beading at his brow as he registered the pain.
Pain.
There were sudden flashes in his mind, bursts of memories to distract him as the two guards hauled him by his arms down a bright hallway.
He saw Ben’s face, frantic yet comforting as he seethed in agony.
Right…
That’s right…
Fucking Butcher had finally managed to pull one over on him.
That stupid, stupid syringe slipped past his guard, and now…
He saw flickers of Ben, mostly. Heard the whispers, the promises of safety and reassurances that everything was gonna be okay– all of them repeated until his little spider was breathless.
He remembered the blinding, searing hot pain of the moment. How he writhed in agony in Benjamin’s arms as the serum neutralized every molecule of V in his body. He thought he’d fucking die before it was over. It was like his organs had caught on fire, burning him from the inside out.
Then there was… a bang? A door kicked open, perhaps, or maybe something else? A pungent gas, his eyelids getting heavy, and then… nothing.
Just now.
By the time the world came back into focus, Homelander found himself tied to another chair while one of the guards ran clippers through his hair.
He watched with wide, shocked eyes. It was too late to fucking stop them– not that he even could.
Locks of blonde fell from his head bit by bit until all that remained was a short buzz. He shivered, naked and cold.
Or perhaps it was fear.
“Nobody’ll recognize you now, pretty boy.” Taunted the guard. From up close, Homelander could make out a nametag on his breastplate.
‘Arne,’ it said.
Arne and the other guard hauled him off once again, but Homelander didn’t fight.
How could he?
He was thrown into a cell, landing face first on the ground. It was tight, and his only source of light was a buzzing fluorescent light above his head. The only things he had were a bed, a sink and mirror, and a toilet.
That was it.
No windows save for the tiny one on the cell door. No larger space to escape to if the walls got too tight.
One feature in particular made his blood run cold.
Shackles, chained to the wall.
He stumbled for a moment, approaching the bed to thumb at a stack of clothes.
A white t-shirt and white pants.
He looked at them with disgust, refusing to wear something so degrading. Instead, he meandered to the mirror to inspect the damage.
He stared for several minutes, but it felt like an eternity as he locked eyes with the stranger staring back at him. Suddenly, his reflection took on a life of its own.
“Look what your fucking weakness cost us!” Barked his other self, causing him to recoil. “You’re nothing now! We’re nothing!”
“No…”
He stared, watching as his alter ego pointed out every flaw, every shortcoming, every ugly little blemish until he well and truly hated his reflection more than anything. His hate, however, didn’t manifest as its normal rage.
It came in tears– in fear. It came in the act of curling up on the cold cement floor to weep and mourn himself.
His head spun and all he could possibly do was hug himself and hold on tight as sobs wracked his body.
“Help me…” he whispered through pitiful hiccups. “Wake me up… Please…”
Nobody bothered him for the first night– or, perhaps it had been the first day. Not that he could tell.
The second, though, was when it began.
Arne must have been personally assigned to be his keeper, because Homelander woke to heavy knocks on his door, followed by a tray of food sliding under the gap.
Food was… not the correct word to describe the slop on the tray. There wasn’t even a fucking plate or any utensils.
“I am not fucking eating that,” Homelander grit defiantly, ignoring the grumbling of his stomach. “Fire your chef.”
Suddenly the door flew open, and in walked Arne and another guard– this one different than the last.
“Eat your breakfast, Homelander,” he taunted, waving the prod in his face. “We don’t want our resident celebrity to starve, do we?”
Homelander made to stand from the floor but was met with a sharp swing of the prod connecting with his cheekbone, knocking him dizzy against the ground.
“I said to eat,” Arne grit. “Not stand.”
Homelander stared up at him indignantly, fighting to keep his watering eyes from spilling at the stinging sensation. A hand was suddenly at the back of his neck, forcing his head lower until it was a mere inch above the tray.
“Maybe you need help adjusting to your new life. Here, let me help you!”
Arne’s boot came down hard on the back of his neck and Homelander’s face was pushed into the mush.
“There you go, buddy!” Arne laughed sadistically, twisting his foot to really make sure he rubbed it in.
The other guard failed to suppress a giggle, making no move to stop her partner’s blatant cruelty.
Homelander sputtered against the slop, trying desperately to push against the boot just enough to breathe. He tried to clamber backwards but couldn’t wiggle his head out from under Arne’s boot.
Suddenly, the prod was pressed to his back and that white hot pain shot through him, halting his lungs entirely as he seized with the current.
“See what happens when y’don’t listen? It isn’t gonna be my ass on the block because Vought’s old show horse went and starved himself.”
Homelander wasn’t sure what stained his face worse: his tears or the slop.
“Fucking.” Arne grit, jamming the point of the prod to Homelander’s side again. “Eat.”
Feeling truly helpless for the first time in… well, he didn’t want to think about it, Homelander let his tongue roll out and swipe through the mush, lapping up just enough to choke down. It tasted like nothing, but that wasn’t the problem.
It was the humiliation.
He caved under the boot of some fucking cockroach.
“That’s it, boy.” Arne smirked. “Bet it’s delicious.”
The third day was when the beatings really began.
Homelander had no idea who this fucking Arne guy was, but it was safe to say he had some kind of vendetta against him. If he’d thought the occasional tasing was rough, he was certainly proven wrong by the third day. Turns out, those chains had a use.
In fact, they were installed just for him.
Arne began the day, as he did any other, by sliding Homelander’s breakfast of mystery goo through the door hatch, watching at the window to make sure he choked it all down.
It was humiliating to be forced to eat with his hands like some fucking animal. But it was either this or the prod, and… well…
He was left alone for a few hours after that. That’s all he ever was anymore. Unless Arne came in, of course.
Homelander stared at the ceiling, trying to ignore how tight the walls felt that day. He wondered where Ben was. If his little spider was okay. If, god forbid, they took him, too. He imagined Ben coming to save him, but…
He’d been so terrible to his little spider. Did he even deserve it?
As much as his heart ached and yearned for his Benjamin, it was the thought of his love that kept him sane. The only warmth he found at night was in his memories of his bug boy’s arms wrapped tight around him, of the songs he’d sing and hum, of his smile…
Benjamin was his lighthouse in this horrible, horrible storm.
A banging at his door stirred Homelander from his daydreams and in walked Arne with yet another nameless guard.
“Shower time, inmate.” Arne stated bluntly. “Stand.”
Homelander obeyed, as he’d learned to do, and allowed them to cuff him for the walk. He stumbled, weak from dehydration. They hadn’t given him any water, and he had too much pride to drink from the sink. It was one of the few things he had control over, anyway.
When he tripped over his own feet, Arne gripped him by the back of the neck, lifting his face from the floor.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” He spat, squeezing the back of Homelander’s neck harshly as he shook him. “Get the fuck up!”
Homelander clambered to his feet, guided by the harsh grip at his neck, and trudged on.
When they finally arrived at the shower room, he was forced to strip in front of Arne– who made all sorts of derogatory comments about his body to the other guard.
“Skinny fucker, ain’t he? They really shoved his ass in a padded suit and figured nobody’d ever see that he ain’t all that?” Arne chuckled loudly. “They definitely were overcompensating for him, too. That supposed to be a dick?”
Homelander grimaced, making his way over to the area he’d been told to stand, roughly three feet ahead of a wall. He’d half expected a spout of water, or, well, anything else.
Instead, just as he looked down, he was blasted with a torrent of water, knocking back against the wall where he hit his head. He made to cover his face with his arms, but nothing helped. Nothing reduced the blistering force, no matter how tightly he curled up into a ball.
Homelander howled in agony when the blast veered between his legs, pummeling his cock and balls just long enough to make him unfurl and heave.
“I do fuckin’ love this thing,” Arne hooted while he practically drowned Homelander the cold force of the hose they used on unwilling participants.
When the blast finally stopped, Homelander’s skin was blisteringly raw, sensitive to the air around him. Even the slightest graze of air against his skin felt like he was being burned.
“Up you go.”
When he didn’t move, Homelander was met with a swift kick to his side. He rolled over, wincing in pain.
“Ah, ah, ah,” Arne chided. “I said get,” kick. “The,” kick. “Fuck,” kick. “Up!”
“Christ, man!” The other guard called out, voice somewhat shaky. “Don’t you think that’s a bit much?”
“I don’t remember askin’ for your fuckin’ opinion,” Arne shot back, continuing his onslaught until Homelander somehow managed to rise to his feet.
Things only got worse when he got back in the cell. Instead, he received the first of many very personal beatings. He was thrown against the wall first before Arne lifted him to stand in place as his personal punching bag.
God, he wanted to hit back. But his body was so…
It just felt like jelly. And it hurt so fucking bad…
“You fuckin’ supes,” Arne panted as he brought his fist to Homelander’s jaw for the umpteenth time. “Always lookin’ down on us humans. Treating us like shit, like we’re just playthings for you to fuck around with!” He gripped Homelander by the jaw.
“How’s it fuckin feel to be one of us?”
Homelander lost track of how many times he’d been hit. He’d damn near blacked out, crumbling to the ground when he simply couldn’t fucking take anymore. When all that was left of him was a ragdoll body, Arne finally smirked down at him, leaving him with one last parting gift.
A boot pressed against his balls, pushing down so hard that Homelander’s vision whited out while he moaned in agony.
A guttural scream tore from his throat when Arne stepped his full weight on him.
He thought they were going to burst by the time Arne finally let off.
“Too fuckin’ easy.”
Hours went by after the guard left, but all Homelander could do was lay on the floor and weep, tears mixing with the blood seeping from his mouth and nose, from the gash at his brow bone. His alter ego’s voice mocked him, mocked Arne, mocked the whole fucking situation. He did nothing to help with the pain and humiliation; he simply exacerbated how lifeless John already felt.
“B-Ben…” he hiccuped through a tight sob, crying out for the one person in the world who could possibly save him. The one person who ever really gave a damn about him…
He called out for his little spider over and over, voice small and quiet, praying that saying Ben’s name enough would summon him and everything could be okay.
He laid there all night, naked and shivering.
Cold.
They never did give him new clothes.
By the approach of the second week, Homelander had grown used to the nebulae of bruises marking his body. Every other day, Arne would drag him to the shower room and hose him down, pelting all of his aches and pains raw all over again. All that, and he wasn’t even clean. Homelander was at least partially convinced Arne enjoyed making him suffer his own body odor.
His face was seemingly forever swollen, battered black and blue from the amount of times he’d been socked in the head. By now, he couldn’t recall what his face looked like when it wasn’t broken.
He decides to count himself lucky that the most permanent of the damage so far was simply a chipped molar.
The worst, though, was how fucking thirsty he is. He still hasn’t released that last scrap of pride, silly as it was not to just drink from the fucking sink. It was the last thing he could control, the last low he could stop himself from stooping to, but it seemed it wouldn’t be long until he would have to. The only liquid to have touched his parched tongue came from when he’d be hosed down, but it just wasn’t enough.
Perhaps the guards had begun to realize he was on the cusp of severe dehydration. He should’ve known better when one of the regular ones walked his food tray in rather than use the hatch.
Homelander was shocked to find several things different about the setup. The first being that there was an actual fucking plate for his food. A paper plate, but a plate no less. The second, a spoon– plastic, but still a fucking spoon.
The third?
A plastic cup of water– with fucking ice, too.
The first few aggressive gulps didn’t even register taste, but when they finally did…
“Jesus– Fuck!” John gags, spitting the liquid out and swatting at his tongue as though he could smack the bitter, salty taste off his tongue. If he would’ve only had his superpowered nose, he’d have fucking known better…
From outside the door, he can hear Arne cackling. The realization of what he drank had him running for the toilet, heaving up what little was in his stomach, gagging even more when the taste of bile touched his tongue.
He fails to hear the sound of the cell opening.
“Oh, but you gotta drink up!” Arne sings, words gripping Homelander with terror.
A hand catches the back of his head and he’s being shoved further into the toilet, face submerging into the putrid muck inside.
“Can’t hear ya in there,” Arne taunts, yanking Homelander’s head from the water for but a moment. “What’s that?” He asks over the sound of heaving gasps. “Still thirsty?”
John barely has time to gasp a full breath before he’s underwater again, thrashing to free himself to no avail. He was too weak now.
Too weak to do anything but accept whatever was done to him.
After fighting for his life for god only knows how long, he was cast off to the side, gasping and sputtering, face and hair stained with his own vomit.
“Who’da ever thought Homelander was a fuckin’ piss drinker?” Arne laughs as he exits the room, kicking over the tray of food on his way out. “Bon appetit!”
John weeps silently for what must have been an eternity before he finally finds enough gumption to put his head under the sink, rinsing off the dried crust from his face and hair as best as he could. He splashes water over his battered face until his arms begin to ache. Even then, he still didn’t feel clean.
He brings handfuls of water to his mouth, swishing it around to rinse and spit the taste away. Eventually, he succumbs. Presses his mouth to the edge of the faucet and sucks heaping gulps of water, drinking and drinking until it sits heavy in his gut.
The man in the mirror looks back at him, prideless and ruined. Battered and broken.
Just another toy for someone else’s sick sadism.
Over the next few days, his food arrives swamped with urine. He has to flush the contents to hide that he’s not eating. He begins to starve, becoming weaker and weaker with every passing day. His stomach begins to moan and roar regularly and painfully as he becomes miserably fatigued.
No longer could he stand without a dizzy spell taking him back to either the floor or his bed, and he counted himself lucky that he had started to simply pass out when Arne would decide he was overdue for a good beating.
At least when he woke up dangling from the chains, the only thing left to feel was the aches.
These were the days when he truly doubted he could continue on. Doubted if he’d wake up in the morning, doubted if he’d see the sunlight again.
If he’d ever see Benjamin again.
Between the pain of the beatings, starvation, mental anguish, and his broken heart, he didn’t know if he could take any more.
On the fourteenth day, he was chained again, begging for mercy as Arne drags a blade across his right cheekbone, tip digging deep. The blood that seeps from him feels deceivingly warm, like one of those gentle caresses he’s so longed for. The blade trails down to flit across his neck, nicking his adams apple before slicing down the front of his shirt.
“You know,” Arne begins, teasing the point down the dip of John’s marred chest. “They said I only had to keep you alive. Didn’t say shit about what I could and couldn’t do to ya while I’ve got ya.”
John clenches his eyes shut in sheer terror, his blood running cold as the knife dragged from the waistband of his pants to trail over the curve of his penis.
“W-Why…” He chokes, his voice a squeaking whisper.
God… He’d finally broke hard enough to ask.
“Why not?” Arne counters. “You know, I’m not actually a workaholic. Used to have a family, a gaggle of kids, the whole deal, yeah?”
He didn’t look up to meet Arne’s eyes. He’d learned several times now that he was not permitted to look him in the eye.
Only equals did that.
“Till you came around, that is.” The guard continues, tone souring. “Ever think about your collateral damage, Homelander?”
The knife came up to his left breast, slicing slowly, making him hiss in pain.
“Ever think not to be so fuckin’ careless with those fancy fuckin’ lasers of yours!?” Arne rips the knife down, cutting deeper before the tip of the blade escapes John’s skin.
“I’m not gonna stop till you’re begging to die! Just like my little girl did! Begged, with her fuckin’ guts falling out, to die!”
The knife touched his shaft again and, for a split second, pure unbridled panic tore through his body.
“I’m gonna–”
Suddenly, the room went totally black.
After a moment, the emergency lights kicked on, illuminating everything in a dim red.
“Goddamn outages…” Arne grumbles, sheathing the knife to mutter into his radio. “You know, they’re having trouble payin’ the bills after all the shit you’ve done.” He grips John by the throat, holding tight until he begins to turn purple.
“You–”
Suddenly, a thud– a real fucking loud one at that.
Then, creaking. A loud groaning sound from the door that has barred him from the world this whole time.
Perhaps his eyes were deceiving him. His brain must be playing tricks, because there’s no way–
There’s no way he caught a glimpse of something red just barely peek over the window to the door.
There’s no way. It couldn’t be. It was all a sick, twisted trick to give him hope when there was none left.
But then… Why was Arne bracing himself..?
His cracked lips curled into his first smile in weeks.
Within the blink of an eye, the door was torn straight off the hinges, and hope stood at the threshold. Hope had come for him.
His prayers had manifested and hope had come for him.
In walked Benjamin, his beautiful, beautiful Benjamin, head tilting to the side in a calculating, cold observation.
“And just who the fuck–” Arne begins, but is silenced when Ben webs him to the wall.
“Johnny…” Ben breathes, removing his mask before falling to his knees before his love, gently taking John’s battered, bloody face in his hands.
His heart about fucking stops at the sight of him. Rage boils deep in his core as John falls into him, straining against the chains to nuzzle into his neck as close as physically possible.
“S’Okay,” he murmurs, removing his gloves to properly caress him. Ben strokes carefully up and down the length of his back as he listens to every detail John sobs against him. Every harrowing fucking word.
“-e-every day, he fucking– I– I can’t–” he hiccups, words spilling free faster than he can make them make sense. It’s messy, it’s out of order and hurried and babbled and–
And…
“Shh…” Benjamin shushes him, gently moving John’s face away to look at him. “I’ve got you, Johnny.” He says as he brushes his thumbs through the scruff on John’s cheeks. Ben reaches up and grasps a chain, snapping it from the wall in one clean yank. He repeats the action on the other side and John’s arms fall.
He rubs at them, breathing feeling and blood flow back into his love’s arms.
Ben is the first touch of warmth John has felt in so very long…
The shackles remain at John’s wrists, but Ben reassures him that they’ll be broken off later.
“You’re safe now, Johnny. You’re okay.” The web-head coos, fingers dancing at the nape of Homelander’s neck as he hugs him close, letting him muffle his cries. “It’s over, baby. We’re gonna go home…”
Once John’s tears dried, once the gruesome details were all out in the open, the web-head finally pulled back.
“Who?” Ben asks.
John can see something dark twist in his eyes. Something he’s only seen once before.
A violent promise.
A wordless vow.
“Tell me who did it…” Ben murmurs.
Tell me so that I may paint a mural of blood in your honor.
With a trembling finger, John points directly at Arne.
“H-Him.”
Ben smiles at him sweetly, pressing a kiss to his forehead, drawn out and gentle. He places his mask in John’s hands before his stands, walking over to Arne slowly.
The way he looks at him… Like a predator about to toy with its prey.
The first thing Benjamin does is remove Arne’s helmet.
John realizes for the first time that he’s never seen Arne’s face before. Now that he has, now that a real face was attached to the man who tortured him, he’s almost afraid he’ll never stop seeing it.
“Man, he made you sound like a real tough guy,” Ben teases, his tone dry. “You look like you’re about to shit yourself.”
In a flash, Ben rips Arne from the wall, leaving tattered scraps of his anti-supe suit behind in the process. He throws the guard to the ground harshly. His head makes a dull thunk against the cement.
John skitters to jump onto the bed. It’s as if Arne being anywhere near him induces pure panic, which only makes Ben’s blood boil hotter.
Arne scrambles to his feet quickly, attempting to make a break for the door, but Ben catches him by the throat, hurling him to the ground once more.
“What’s wrong? Don’t like this game?” Ben asks, tossing Arne back down after another failed attempt.
Though his eyes were swollen and his vision somewhat limited, John watched closely. Part of him was afraid this was a dream. That blinking would dispel the illusion and he’d be back in those chains, standing on shaky legs as Arne cut away at him like a true butcher.
Ben grabbed Arne by the collar, hoisting him up to reattach him to the wall.
“I think you need a taste of your own bullshit,” Ben muses slowly. He grips Arne by the hand, squeezing harder and harder until he could feel the warning creaks of bones under too much pressure. Arne began to scream and writhe while Ben simply grinned, increasing the force more and more until–
“JESUS– OH FUCK!” Arne howls, head thrown back against the wall as Ben shattered his hand.
“Whoopsie daisies!” Ben giggled.
John cringed at the sight of Arne’s hand, but a flood of relief hit him. Somehow, the sight of the guard’s dominant hand, the one he always hit him with, being shattered brought him comfort.
“Mmm,” Ben hums. “Nah, not enough. Not yet.”
Suddenly, Benjamin drove his fist into Arne’s gut, making him hurl.
The realization that Ben hit him full force stirs something in Homelander. Ben never uses his full strength on others, not even on other supes.
He truly meant for the guard to feel every bit as helpless and weak as he’d made John feel.
“Shame,” Ben tuts, stepping away from the mess. “Hey, babe.” He peers over at John. “Didn’t you say he stuck your head in your puke?”
John nodded timidly.
“Welp. Guess it can’t be helped then. But first…” Ben lifted a hand to Arne’s face, resting his fingertips in various spots. He willed the setae in his fingerpads to embed, letting them burrow deep before slowly pulling back, ripping the flesh from his face.
He didn’t even wince at Arne’s screams.
Wordlessly, he repeated the process over and over again until the guard’s whole face was a blood soaked mess.
“You sure do bitch a lot,” Ben finally spoke. “I prefer my toys quiet, though. Open.” He orders, grabbing Arne by the jaw. Benjamin forces his mouth open before shooting a burst of webbing inside, clogging Arne’s throat just enough not to suffocate him.
“Much better.”
Once Ben was satisfied that Arne’s face would burn enough, he tore him from the wall and threw him face first into the puddle. He rested his foot over Arne’s head, pressing him down into it.
“Hmm… No problem doing it to others, but can’t handle it yourself?” Ben muses, twisting his foot against the back of the guard’s head. “Shame.”
Arne’s muffled screams left John feeling so satisfied. So happy just to see him feel even a fucking fraction of what he’s suffered.
Ben took a step back. The very second Arne rolled onto his back, the web-head drove his heel directly into his groin.
John swore he heard the sound of Arne’s testicles bursting, but it was mostly drowned out by the most blood curdling scream he’d ever heard. Not even he, on even his most unhinged day, had ever made someone scream like that.
“Tough luck, bud.” Ben chuckles. “I’m no doctor, but I don’t think you’ll be getting your dick up again after that one.” The wall crawler lifted Arne once more to the wall, this time positioning him upside down.
The guard seemed totally out of it, and that just would not do.
“Nope, c’mon!” Ben shouts, slapping him harshly. “Wakey, wakey!”
Arne’s eyes fluttered open in a daze.
“Now, I just want you to know,” Ben arched a brow at him, smirking. “You’re gonna feel this the whole time.”
He wasted no time in ripping the top part of the anti-supe suit away, revealing Arne’s chest. Ben pushed his thumbs against his sternum, fingernails breaking through as his flesh gave way, digging deeper… deeper…
Arne couldn’t even muster the scream at this point, just silent hisses and squeaks of agony.
Homeland watched with bated breath as Ben quite literally peeled away Arne’s ribs, snapping them away and chucking them to the floor.
“I saw once, in some shitty horror movie or something, that you can’t pass out from pain,” Ben mused nonchalantly, staring down at Arne’s agonized face. “Let’s test that.”
Ben snaps one final rib, and grins at the sight of Arne’s exposed heart.
“In the next life, keep your hands to yourself.” He says, kneeling down to be eye level with the guard. “Or I’ll fucking find you there, too.”
Ben drove his fist through Arne’s chest, snatching his heart out in one slick motion. He made his way back to John, handing over the dying organ to his awestruck lover.
“Feel it die.” Ben whispers. “Feel him die and know he’ll never fucking touch you again.”
When all was said and done, Ben carried him out. His blood drenched suit was more than enough of a threat to get them past the remaining guards without confrontation.
Much as he’d like to claim otherwise, John passed out shortly after he felt the sun shine against his face.
He shot up as soon as he came to, mind screaming that it had all be a sick joke– that he was going to wake up to gray cement walls, paper thin sheets, and that bitter cold. He yowled at the pain of his injuries, falling back to the bed.
To the soft, warm, comfortable bed… Surrounded by blue walls… In a room with a window.
The sound of shuffling from the bathroom coming his way had him bracing to be met with his abuser, but…
In ran Benjamin with an arm full of bandages and gauze, holding a water basin in the other.
“Shh, shh…” hushes his little spider as he takes a seat at the edge of the bed. “It’s okay, Johnny. You’re safe. You’re home…”
Ben strokes softly at the left side of his face, gently cooing love and tear-filled promises that wash over Homelander like a healing rain.
“I–” He began before ceasing. His throat was incredibly sore, perhaps from dehydration, but most likely because he’s spent the last two weeks screaming and sobbing. Instead, he let his tears spill silently.
Benjamin was gentle with him– something he’d missed so fucking dearly. He hated how he flinched away from his little spider, but Ben promised him that it was okay. That it was normal after everything he’d been through.
Ben worked first to bathe him. He’d assembled a tub of water for rinsing, as well as one with some soapy water. Both were warm and comfortable, swapped out each time Ben felt they became either too cold or dirty.
It was his first taste of dignity in… god, he couldn’t even tell anymore. It felt like decades, even if it wasn’t.
He sighed when Ben tilted his head upward to massage the cloth into his hair, working the grime out in such a simple yet effective way. That alone made him feel so much better.
But even more so when he brushed it in soft circles against his face, removing the build up of oil and blood, sweat and tears… Stripping away the evidence of his suffering inch by inch, dabbing gently over the gash on his cheekbone.
Perhaps it was his overfamiliarity with pain, now, that kept him from wincing at the burn.
Or maybe it was the fact he was staring up at the love of his life– his hero– that truly numbed the pain.
Either way, the soothe of ointment against the cut and the patch of gauze taped in place were second only to the kiss pressed to his lips. His eyes fluttered shut and he choked on a sob, lips quivering against Ben’s
From there, he wept the whole time, taking shuddering breaths as Benjamin cleaned and wrapped him. His little spider was so gentle with him, so tender and careful. He left kisses over every splotch of black and blue, each peck a promise of safety, of love, of never suffering like that ever again.
He had forgotten what those tender promises felt like.
Now that he had them back… He could practically fucking drown in the vast sea of their love.
Ben stripped John’s lower half bare, noting each and every injury, gritting his teeth when he saw the bruises marring his genitals. For a moment, he truly believed he didn’t torture that fucking scumbag nearly enough. But… No.
No, right now he needed to stay calm and care for his Johnny. Needed to wash the past away from him and help him start clean, literally and figuratively. No amount of fury, no amount of pain inflicted on that guard would ever undo the abuse Homelander had been subjected to.
No, it was time to heal.
Homelander whimpered when Ben began to clean the insides of his thighs, tears falling even harder when Benjamin asked permission to give him a thorough cleaning rather than simply wipe over him. He stifled his sobs as he felt Ben handle him tenderly, working pliant skin around to wash him properly, front and back. It was humiliating, but… Somehow, it was alright.
“Still okay?” Ben paused, thumbing away some of his tears.
Homelander leaned into his touch and finally had his impending breakdown. Full body sobs tore through him, each one releasing his pain, his shame and humiliation, his terror and anxieties…
Everything.
Ben crawled into bed and simply held him, letting his frail lover take shelter in him. The wall crawler did the only thing he could think of and began to hum.
He hummed and hummed, pausing only when his throat clenched too tight from sorrow. Oh, how he hated what was done to his Johnny. How he fucking hated himself for not finding him sooner.
Eventually, Homelander calmed down, too fatigued to continue.
Benjamin took the time to dress him in soft clothes before carrying him to the kitchen to allow him his first dignified meal in weeks.
Much to John’s initial upset, Ben wouldn’t start him off with a full meal– though he did scarf down every morsel of the ham sandwich Ben gave him, trusting his food for the first time in days. And, oh, how the taste bloomed in his mouth.
Real fucking food.
Even the electrolyte drink Ben provided tasted heavenly.
“I just don’t wanna risk refeeding syndrome, y’know?” Ben explained gently, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. His next words were but a whisper.
“I can’t lose you twice…”
John swallowed hard against the tidal wave of emotion that washed over him. That was the only fucking reason in the world good enough to prevent him from just raiding the fridge himself.
It would be baby steps from here on, at least until he was stable. Ben doubted the full effect of losing his powers had even hit Homelander yet. He’d been far too busy just trying to survive to even realize…
But that was okay. He would be there. Benjamin would take every single step it took to adjust right alongside his Johnny. Even if it meant he, too, would stumble or fall, he’d be there.
“Welcome home, Johnny.” Ben murmured as Homelander nuzzled into the crook of his neck, both cozied up in bed. “Welcome home…”
#homelander#homelander x oc#homelander fanfiction#whump#extreme whump#all hurt with later comfort#this hurt me very much while i wrote it but#fuck if i didn't wanna see this man whumped by someone just as fucking sadistic as he is/was- if not more#depowered homelander
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So, my choices for ever getting a chance to buy a PS5 are either: start playing the lottery and win, OR rob a bank. Now, the lottery thing is at least legit but there's little to no chance of me winning anything at all. But a bank robbery is a lot of effort and too much risk as I am very small and not at all imposing in any way, shape or form. I would likely just be laughed at. Also, I don't own a weapon to rob a bank WITH. I saw the latest trailer, which I have tried to avoid but gave into temptation, and apart from the absolutely confusing scenes I saw (Zack holding Aerith's unconcious body? Sephiroth at the church? What...the fuck is that?) Why is the black materia so BIG? Its not only massive but looks like a Halloween crystal ball prop with a spider web design on it. Did I misunderstand what the pattern was? I will never know unless I watch a let's play on youtube or something, but finding one where no ones talking over it is usually rare. Also I get annoyed because they don't play how I play. Stop letting your health get that low??? TAKE A DAMN POTION OR USE HEAL. Not that hard and its giving me anxiety.
And then they show a scene of Sephiroth aparently holding Cloud's face lovingly against his man tiddies. I'm sorry but since Sefikura is my OG ship, it makes it even more annoying that I can't play it. Am I whinging? Yes. Its only a game, its not essential to life, but...BUT it's my all time fave game with my all time fave characters in fancy HD graphics and my all time fave world looking mindblowingly stunning. It is sad and I need to vent. Adding a special mention: Vincent's voice. I liked his previous VA tbh, but this one is pretty good too. No one should talk like that. No one. It should be illegal. Its almost on par with Sephiroth's previous voice, that man could read a phone book and it'd make people weak at the knees. I remember watching AC for the first time and when Sephiroth says: on your knees I want you to beg for foriveness. I nearly choked on my drink. Edit: I have been reminded that it is the keystone, not black materia. My dumb self forgot about that bit entirely, I blame sleep deprivation. Haven't slept properley for a while and I wrote this at 5am. Well, hopefully people can forgive me.
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Alice in Borderland – Last Night in Soho AU
CW: murder, violence, abuse, horror, drugging, poisoning (It's an AU of a horror movie, guys)
(This came to me some time ago and I got so excited by the idea that I made a moodboard and short little snippet for it! The snippet is under the cut. Please read with discretion because it is an AU of a horror movie. But other than that, enjoy!)
“A police officer came by earlier. He asked about you, and about your well-being. A welfare check, he said.”
Arisu lowered his head as his elderly landlord spoke. He should’ve known this would happen—after how he’d been acting, someone was bound to call the police and ask them to check up on the insane graphic design major. He wondered who it was—Chishiya, or Usagi, or Karube and Chota… he wouldn’t have even put it past Niragi, after Arisu nearly stabbed his eye out in the library.
He tried to focus on the record playing in the background—he used to be able to depend on his mother’s records to bring comfort when not even his video games could. Now, though, he couldn’t help thinking about Takeru, the young man with so many dreams that had been exploited and murdered.
He’d been so sure that old man—Aguni, Karube called him—had been the one who did it, who took advantage of Takeru and used him, then killed him when Takeru tried to leave. But he’d been so, horribly wrong, and the innocent man paid the price. Maybe he really was going insane…
“It had me worried,” Danma-san continued. “He told me you’ve been saying a young man died up there in your room.”
Arisu glanced up. The old man’s face was strange. It was solemnly indulgent, like he was a schoolteacher and Arisu was a little elementary school boy he was scolding for pulling a girl’s pigtails. But why?
He tried to control the shaking hands that held his teacup and bent forward into the best bow he could manage. “I-I’m sorry, Danma-san,” he said meekly.
Apologizing didn’t seem like enough—not when Danma-san had been kind enough to rent him his room, put up with his video games and music, and look after him while he slowly unraveled. He wondered if Danma-san had known Takeru. Based on the man’s age now, he would’ve been the same age as Takeru in the 1960s. Maybe he could’ve asked Danma-san and avoided the entire mess he’d made of himself.
“Oh, it’s quite alright, Ryohei-kun.” Danma-san waved his apology away with his hand. “Really. It’s funny, because… you’re not entirely wrong.”
Arisu slowly lifted his head to stare at him in confusion, even as dread began to gnaw at him. What was he talking about…?
“Truth be told,” Danma-san went on, “I hadn’t thought about it that way before, until you brought it up. But I guess it’s true—a young man did die up there. The young me that came to Tokyo all those years ago.”
For a moment, Arisu could only stare dumbly at Danma-san, unable to believe what he’d just heard. The old man stared back at him, looking like he was patiently waiting for him to catch up.
Then Arisu studied his face. And suddenly, time seemed to rewind on Danma-san’s face. He slowly aged backwards—wrinkles disappeared, skin tightened and smoothed out, hair darkened and grew, until the face that stared back at him was…
“Takeru?” he whispered faintly.
How? How was this possible? He watched Takeru die…
But then he remembered what the old man, Aguni, said before he stormed out of the bar. “Why don't you ask Danma what happened to Takeru? He knows exactly what happened. He practically did it himself!”
“I had goals like you,” Danma-san kept speaking. “Dreams, like you. I wanted to be a performer on a big stage. I wanted to act.”
The faces of Takeru and Danma-san started phasing in and out, blending together before Arisu’s eyes. And it suddenly seemed like two voices were coming out of the man’s mouth; Danma-san’s and Takeru’s.
“Being a whore’s a little like being an actor, you could say.” The wry laugh grated on Arisu’s eardrums. “You have to pretend you’re somebody else—that it’s not really you there, being used so thoroughly by all those… animals. It was how I tried to forget them all, and all of their faces. I blanked them out, erased them. I had to, because then, it wasn’t so real.”
All Arisu could do was sit and listen in numb shock. Takeru was alive this whole time—he’d been in this house the whole time, indulging Arisu’s music tastes and reminding him that no visitors were allowed at night and letting him think he was dead. Arisu hadn’t even recognized him. But the eyes—the eyes were identical, the same shade of brown. Except what had formerly been lit up with sparks of enthusiasm and ambition were now bitter and dulled.
“So yes, Ryohei-kun. In a way, you’re right. Takeru did die in that room. He died in that room a hundred times. And then one night, the man who put me there—put me to work,” the word was spat out like something disgusting, “and stole my dreams…”
Visions suddenly flashed before Arisu’s eyes. It was the same scene he’d watched in the mirror, of Takeru struggling on the bed with the knife to his throat. But this time, when the knife was raised in the air and brought down… Takeru caught it. He wrapped his right hand around the blade and looked up. Then Arisu watched as the look of terror on his face slowly melted away to a look of unbridled rage. He yanked the knife out of the hand and stabbed it into the chest.
Danma-san turned his right hand over and rested it on his lap so his palm faced up, and idly ran his other hand over the two long scars there, a knife blade’s width apart. “Well…”
Arisu couldn’t tell what was reality—Danma-san in the living room looking down at his scarred palm with a look of barely-concealed satisfaction, or Takeru in the dark bedroom stabbing his captor over and over and over again, blood spurting all over him.
“I made sure he died.” Danma-san looked up at Arisu with the beginnings of a satisfied smirk on his face. “One hundred times.”
Arisu’s ears began to ring. His heart began to pound wildly with terror.
“And do you know something, Ryo-chan—can I call you Ryo-chan?”
Arisu quickly nodded his head, managing a terrified squeak of, “Y-Yes,”
Danma-san’s smirk became a full smile that looked absolutely terrifying. “It felt so good, Ryo-chan. It felt right.” His face suddenly melted away into Takeru’s, covered in blood and sharing an identical smile. “And then later, when all those assholes came knocking at my door, expecting me to lie back and take it as usual…”
The shrill sound of the doorbell rang painfully in Arisu’s ears, and the shadows of all the men—all the ghosts he’d seen in the library—passed before his eyes, headed for the stairs up to Takeru’s room.
“They made my life even more of a hell. So it was only right that I sent them there.”
Reality melted away again before Arisu’s eyes, replaced by the dark room lit up by red neon lights, illuminating Takeru and his knife as he murdered all the men. He stabbed them in the chests and slashed at their throats, getting his face and his once pristine, flashy clothes coated in even more blood. It was all Arisu could see, all he could feel, it staining his face like he’d been there himself, and all he could smell.
Then he watched as one by one, they were dragged away by Takeru, who ripped open the walls and floors of the house.
Arisu suddenly remembered what Danma-san said the day he moved in. “I hope you won’t mind the smell. I’ve never been able to get it to completely go away.”
He suddenly felt lightheaded and his stomach rolled, threatening to throw up the tea he just drank. He put the bodies in the walls and floors.
And he stayed rooted to the spot in his chair as Takeru did just that, roughly throwing and stuffing the bodies in the walls and floors, then boarding up and replacing the torn out wood and slotting the floorboards back in place.
“I’m sure you’ve seen the newspaper articles on them—you’re smart enough to do your research, Ryo-chan. Did you see they called them ‘missing persons’?” Danma-san gave a terrifying bark of a laugh. “It was actually funny after a while—everyone wondering and worrying about where they’d gone to, when I knew exactly where they’d been. I’ve always thought they were asking the wrong questions. They shouldn’t have wondered where they were, but who they were. But I knew exactly who they were. And I was doing everyone a damn favor.”
And then Takeru was there again, covered head to toe in blood. That look of ambition and determination was back, but it looked wrong—it was twisted, darker, like the determination of a trapped animal to escape its cage.
“I wasn’t going to be used anymore,” he spat at Arisu, gripping his knife. “I wasn’t going to let this fucking place break me.”
A tear slipped down Arisu’s cheek as he looked at Danma Takeru—the young man Arisu had seen as a kindred spirit, someone to admire… maybe even someone who could’ve been his friend. Why did this all have to happen to him? “I’m so sorry…”
Danma-san frowned softly, like he was comforting a little crying child. “Oh, Ryo-chan, why are you apologizing? It’s not your fault.”
“N-No, I… I understand.” He looked imploringly at him. “I know what you’ve been through.”
Something sharpened threateningly in Danma-san’s expression. “Oh, do you now?”
Arisu nodded, hoping he could somehow get the man to believe him. “I do, I—I saw it—”
“Did you?” Danma-san suddenly seemed incredibly dangerous. “And you think because you saw, you understand?”
Arisu wanted to break down in terrified crying. Another frightened tear rolled down his cheek. “I-I’m sorry, I d-didn’t mean to get you in trouble with the police—”
“Oh, don’t worry, Ryo-chan,” Danma-san chuckled, like it was all just one big joke. “The police think you’re insane. And it’s not like you’ll tell anyone.”
His heart pounded even harder in fear and he shook his swimming head wildly. “I-I won’t—I won’t tell anyone, I promise.” He couldn’t help a frightened hiccup. “Please don’t hurt me… I swear I won’t tell anyone.”
“No, no.” Danma-san shook his head. “I know you won’t tell anyone.”
What did he…
His head suddenly felt so heavy. His arms and legs felt weighed down, like his bones had been replaced by lead. Arisu’s eyes lowered, and fell on the teacup he still held in his hands. He looked at the tea, and suddenly remembered what Danma-san said when he handed him the cup.
“Drink up. It’s a special blend.”
His eyes widened in horror, and he made a noise of terror as the teacup slipped out of his hands and fell to the floor. A rushing sound began to fill his ears and his vision swam.
“Don’t worry, Ryo-chan,” he heard Danma-san, or was it Takeru, say as he swayed dangerously on the couch. “I’m not gonna stab you like I did the others. You’re too much of a sweet boy to deserve that. You’re just going to peacefully fall asleep. And everyone will think you just offed yourself—they were worried you were going to do that anyway.” Danma-san looked him over in almost mocking pity as he gripped the couch and made strangled noises as he tried to cough up what he drank. “You poor boy… they really were all very concerned about you. Especially that one with the bleached hair—Chishiya, I think? The one I threw out after you snuck him in on Halloween. He might’ve been the one that requested the welfare check, I think, but the policeman didn’t say. With how he carries himself like a prideful cat, I didn’t expect him to care so much about you.” He looked mockingly moved. “It’s almost romantic.”
Arisu could only whimper in fear as he fought off the urge to close his eyes. He felt like he was going to faint. His vision swam and dark spots appeared. He could feel his grip weakening on the couch cushion. His mind screamed at him to get up, to run, to call Chishiya or Usagi or anyone and get help… but he couldn’t move. His limbs felt too heavy.
“So.” Danma-san smacked his legs before getting up to cross the room and go behind him. “We’re just going to let you make yourself comfortable,” he said lightly, “and lie down. Come on now, Ryo-chan.”
Arisu weakly sobbed and tried to get away from the hand placed on his shoulder. He didn’t want to die… not like this…
“Hey now, shh,” Danma-san, or maybe it was Takeru, shushed. He patted his head and gently pulled him back by his shoulder. “It’s okay. Come on.” Arisu was forced to lie back against stacked pillows, too weak to fight back. “Just lie back… There we go.” He patted Arisu’s head again, stroking his hair. “That’s a good boy. You can just drift off to sleep, listening to that music you love so much.”
Arisu whimpered and looked up. Takeru’s youthful face looked back at him, smiling down at him around the blood splattered over his face. “No more excitement for you tonight, Ryo-chan,” he crooned.
As he looked up at the man he’d dreamed about and grown to care about, Arisu couldn’t keep himself from weakly crying. He didn’t want to die… Especially not at the hands of someone he’d admired for months. It felt like a betrayal, even though Takeru had only ever been a ghost haunting him, never really his friend. He’d always thought of Takeru and seen him as the lively, ambitious, and talented young man—the sort of man Arisu would’ve been overjoyed to have as a friend. Not like this, a jaded, embittered man who had to kill to survive and escape the people who took advantage of him. Had Arisu taken advantage of him too? Was that why he was killing him?
He supposed he was never going to find out.
The rushing in his ears grew louder, slowly drowning out everything, even the music playing from the record player in the corner. It all felt like he was hearing it from underwater. His vision swam even more. His eyes felt so heavy…
And then, through the rushing sound, Arisu heard the doorbell ring. It began to ring over and over, like someone was hurriedly pressing the button. He tried to focus on that, locking in on the sound and training his ears on it. The fog in his mind cleared somewhat, and the muffled sounds became clearer as the ringing doorbell switched to someone began to pound wildly on the door.
“Arisu?!” a voice shouted. “Are you in there?! ARISU!”
Hope weakly lifted its head in Arisu’s chest. Chishiya.
#alice in borderland#imawa no kuni no arisu#imawa no kuni no alice#aib netflix#aib moodboard#moodboard#last night in soho#au#alternate universe#horror au#horror#fanfiction#aib fanfic#alice in borderland fanfic#aesthetic#aesthetic moodboard#arisu ryohei#aib hatter#danma takeru#my writing
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Book Review: Mexikid by Pedro Martín
Mexikid: A Graphic Memoir
Written and illustrated by Pedro Martín.
Genre or Category
Pura Belpré Winner
Target Age Group
PreK-6th grade
Recommended for ages 9 years and up, grades 5-9th
Format
Physical, print
Summary
What is a “Mexikid”? Pedro (or Peter, depending on who’s calling) Martín may have the answer! In this lively graphic memoir, Pedro/Peter sets out to tell the story of one wild road trip, wherein he and his family go to Mexico to retrieve his Abuelito who is coming to live with them. However, Abuelito won’t go without a fight! In fact, he has business of own to attend to before settling in the United States. Mexikid will have you laughing and sobbing all in one go!
Justification
This book was chosen because it fulfills the category “Pura Belpré Winner.” This graphic novel has received many awards, all of which it absolutely deserves! To name a few, it was the winner of both the Pura Belpré Author and Illustrator Awards. It was also a Newberry Honor Book and an Odyssey Honor Audiobook! In addition to these awards and honors, it was also listed “Best Book of the Year” for NPR, Booklist, Kirkus, Amazon, New York Public Library, and the Chicago Public Library. It was also listed in lists for “Best Books of 2023” for Booklist and the New York Times, received “Best Graphic Novel of 2023” for School Library Journal, and was in the Association for Library Service to Children (ALSC)’s 2024 Notable Children’s Books. It also has many starred reviews in reputable literary review publications.
Evaluation
For this review, I will be evaluating illustrations,accuracy, and design and layout.
Illustrations
Mexikid is a graphic novel for younger audiences that utilizes a variety of vibrant colors to bring its story to life! The illustrations are lined with a bold black line, which helps to separate details like clothing, hair, facial features, backgrounds, and objects that the characters interact with. Additionally, the linework comes in handy when diagrams are used to illustrate levels of the earth, maps, and areas within the Winnebago that he and his family drive cross-country. Although the illustrations seem simple, they are highly detailed with shadowing, cross-hatching, and other forms of emphasis that bring out things like texture and movement.
Accuracy
Mexikid is a graphic memoir, which is based on the experiences of the author, Pedro Martín, and his family. In the section titled “Some Of Your Questions Answered,” the author states that he likes to say his stories are “... 100 percent true, 90 percent of the time.” He also says that his heart and his memory like to play tricks on each other, too, which can make it difficult to remember specific details. With the information that he didn’t remember, or didn’t access first-hand, Pedro Martín states that he gathered information from his family and other loved ones who did have those memories, such as the ones of his Abuelita. Although this graphic memoir is based on a true story, the author tried his best to create a sense of authenticity that was real to his own understanding and perspective.
Design and Layout
The choice of text used throughout is incredibly fun to read through because of the way it mimics handwriting, especially handwriting that belongs to a young boy. Not only does this make it engaging, and sometimes easier to read, but it also creates a sense of relatability between Pedro Martín and the reader. Another interesting design choice was the use of less-than (<) and greater-than (>) symbols to let the reader know when characters were speaking Spanish throughout the graphic novel. Although, this is typically for longer pieces of text. Shorter sentences will often be written in Spanish, sometimes with an English translation at the bottom of the page, led by a asterisk (*).
References
Martín, Pedro. (2023). Mexikid: A graphic memoir (P.Martín, Illus.). Dial Books.
Martín, Pedro. (2023). Mexikid: A graphic memoir [Cover illustration] (P.Martín, Illus.). Dial Books. https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/691514/mexikid-by-pedro-martin/
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My GQ Stylist Rendezvous
Listen to this curated playlist that sets the mood for My night as the story unfolds. Enjoy!
So, picture this: our protagonist, your Divine Ruler Ororo Snow, finds Herself at a trendy Midtown bar in the heart of Atlanta. The music is bumping, the drinks are flowing, and the vibe is just right. Not to mention She's just left an epic birthday celebration at the High Museum with Her friends. Little did She know, this night would take a turn for the unexpected.
How did it all start? BC it's 10:30pm right now
As Divine Ruler was sipping on Her cocktail with Her friend, an interesting man appeared next to Her friend. Unbeknownst to them it's the GQ Stylist. They introduced themselves and struck a conversation one that Divine Ruler was definitely oblivious to. Before She knew it, they were deep in conversation, bonding over their love for fashion and good vibes.
Who else joined the party?
Just when Divine Ruler thought the night couldn't get any better, the GQ Stylist's best friend showed up. He was there the entire time She just never noticed being in Her own world She's completely uninterested in the male species. He happened to be Mr. Life of the Party, with a sense of humor and soft long luxurious hair that smelled like tobacco and vanilla. The trio hit it off instantly, laughing and joking like old friends.
And then what happened? Bc its 11pm 👀
Another male species that tried to get Divine Rulers attention earlier in the night tried to put himself in the lingering conversation as things were just starting to heat up. The GQ Stylist being the straight forward speaker that he is got this weak beta loser out of the way while Mr. Life of the Party was solidifying the nights excitement with Divine Ruler. One thing led to another, and before Divine Ruler knew it, She found Herself in a situation She never thought possible. The GQ stylist and Mr. Life of the Party invited Her to join them for a night of adventure. What started as innocent fun quickly escalated into a night She would never forget.
3 Ubers later...... it's 2:15
Divine Ruler met the gentlemen at their swanky Midtown Hotel, with nothing in mind but lets face it the only thing open at this time of night is waffle house and legs even on a Friday night. With every turn Mr. Life of the Party struck out with their next move. Its ok their from out of town and they were too entrapped with Divine Rulers Aura that they spent hours falling deeper under her spell. That's when She learned they weren't shy! At least not like all the men She's ever met before. They were willing to do WHATEVER Divine Ruler commanded of them. And that they did!
But it's 8am now, and the flight is at 9am
As the sun rose over the city, Divine Ruler couldn't help but smile at the memories of the hours just before. It was 8am, neither of them had been to sleep and the men had a flight to catch at 9am. A whirlwind of excitement, spontaneity, and a touch of daring. Who would have thought that a chance encounter at a food hall would lead to such an unforgettable experience? One that had the men begging Her to come and visit their city for another unforgettable night.
So, the next time you find yourself in a similar situation, remember to embrace the unexpected. You never know where the night might take you. Who knows, you might just find yourself in a stylish threesome with a GQ stylist and his best friend.
Did I trigger your cucky desires? Good! you know you'd never be bold enough, charming enough, or fly enough to ever catch My eye so you will do what a good beta does and submit yourself to MY Power. Be a good cuck and fund My next sexy Rendezvous with a real man, something you will never be! subscribe to My LoyalFans right now.
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Corey and Oats in…
Corey and Oats VS Dragonsnow.
NOTE: Please note that this story is satirical and part of a fictional series, this story makes fun of Changed and the fandom, I am aware the creator is Asian but I am going to keep him as being Caucasian in the story to go with his 'stereotypical edgy basement dweller/evil villain' persona, this is a work of fiction and nothing to do with the real person.
Everyone’s favorite duo went on adventures together all the time and were always there for their owner Mel, one afternoon Mel was on her computer and she was on Youtube watching videos when a recommendation for a game she didn’t like…’Ugh, Changed AGAIN? I don’t care if everyone has their own opinion, I am going to say this game is evil and corruptive.’
She clicked on the gameplay video and posted a comment and got a nasty response…’It’s his game and if he wants to add something to it, he can.’ ‘Screw him then, Dragonsnow is a horrible nasty pervert who gives furries a bad name. Why do some people simp over transfurs? There is nothing hot about turning into a transfur. All that forced mind changes and horrifying transfurs, i’m sorry but cute graphic designs don’t distract from the horrors I was no doubt forced to watch.’
“What do you have against Puro?”
“He sexually violated me, you idiot.”
Mel broke down in tears as she remembered how Puro sexually violated her and tried to assimilate her, she hated that black latex weirdo and she was glad Corey and Oats sorted him out last time. ‘Mommy, do you want us to stop him for you?’ ‘Yes, that would be nice.’
Corey and Oats raced into the bedroom and pulled out a special item from the bedbox, they used the item to open up a secret tunnel which they went through, with their friend AIyido the beholder following them they went through the tunnel and arrived at where Dragonsnow lived.
Dragonsnow was in his evil lair which was actually in his basement that he hadn’t moved out of yet (because he was repulsive and nobody loved him and he didn’t have a girlfriend because no woman would date a man like him), he laughed evilly to himself as he added yet another addition to the fetishistic game. ‘With this next addition, I shall brainwash every single innocent player in the world and transform them into transfurs to be part of my unholy army of transfurs. Muwahaha!’
“Oh no you don’t Dragonsnow.”
“Who are you and what are you doing in my lair?”
‘I am Corey Covid and this is my friend Oats, and our friend Aiyido.’ ‘And i’m their owner Mel, and your horrible game is evil and you are grooming innocent kids into having fetishes they aren’t old enough to know about yet.’ ‘It’s not my fault Roblox players are easily fooled.’ ‘Oh yes it is.’ ‘And now we are going to stop you.’
“Oh no you’re not.”
Dragonsnow summoned an army of transfurs to come after Mel and the group, they were all goopy animal-creatures made of goopy black latex and they all wore a white mask just like Puro. ‘Those creatures do not scare us.’ ‘Yeah, let’s do it.’
The masked transfurs lurched towards the duo, but Aiyido zapped them with his eyerays…’Your puny latex powers are nothing compared to the sheer power of my eyerays’, he floated around and zapped more of them.
Mel screamed and panicked as transfurs crept up to her and tried to assimilate her…’No, no…I don’t want to be a masked abomination like you, no no no…’ She broke down in tears before mustering the courage to use some magic.
She was immune to being corrupted/brainwashed and she used some magic to make things better by curing all the brainwashed victims, turning them back to normal. ‘Where are we?’ ‘You’re in the lair of the man who brainwashed you.’ ‘He did that to us?’ ‘Yes, he did THAT to you guys, he brainwashed you into being mindless transfurs who only exist to transform people into more of the ilk. As much as I like transformations, that is one transformation I don’t want to undergo myself.’
Corey roared a powerful roar which shattered all of the screens and he used a spell to destroy the last remaining copy of the game, in turn he used another spell to hack into Dragonsnow’s computer and deleted every single piece of data consisting of the game.
Aiyido zapped Dragonsnow with an eyeray that froze him in place. ‘You cannot escape my gaze, I am the almighty beholder, a beholder sees all, I know and see all and I know you brainwash innocent players and kids into playing your fetishistic game and now I am going to put an end to it.’
The duo floated around and finished off the remaining groups of transfurs before curing the brainwashed fans of the game, said former fans realized that they weren’t really fans of the games and were just brainwashed into liking it and that’s what made them feel sick, they felt like Dragonsnow had violated them mentally.
“Noooooo, my perfect plan.”
“Has just been ruined.”
‘Yes, and because of your horrible behavior and because you unleashed that horrible game, you are grounded until a remake of An American Werewolf In London comes out.’ ‘You cannot ground me.’ ‘Oh yes, I can. And while you are grounded, you will be confined to the Nightmare Realm’s prison dimension.’ ‘Not only that but you will eat lumpy potatoes like in those Yvyond videos Mel’s friend Adam makes.’
A vortex appeared in the middle of the floor which sucked up Dragonsnow and transported him to a prison dimension, where he wasn’t allowed to be in any contact with any creatures, all the transfurs had been improved last time to be horror characters and Tim Burton characters, and the transfur terror had officially came to an end.
‘We did it, yaaaay!’ ‘Yes, that horrible man has been punished.’ Corey and Oats hugged Mel and they looked around for a bit before gesturing to Aiyido who used hi powerful eyerays to clean up the mess. ‘That should fix this for good.’ He produced a copy of the improved version of the game from earlier and erased all copies of Changed, replacing it with Monsterfied, which was the improved version.
The duo looked over at Mel who told them it was time to leave as she used her powers to make a tunnel that they went down and into, going all the way back to Nile Road, they all arrived at their home in Nile Road and told the staff about the nasty comment that Mel had gotten, saying that the person bullied her for having a different opinion.
Corey reported that user and then made a grounded video about him being grounded and forced to have a tea party with Oats. He also made numerous grounded videos about Puro and Dragonsnow and the Changed fanbase which were all funny as all hell.
They had afternoon tea and an hour later it was dinnertime and they had some delicious food for dinner, while back in the nightmare realm’s prison dimension, Dragonsnow ate lumpy potatoes (which he would eat for the rest of his life because he was grounded), they emailed Jill about their adventure afterwards.
After dinner they relaxed and had fun, and they all sang along to a few songs, and when it was time to go into the bedroom they went in. Oats put on his pink nightgown, Aiyido put on his dice themed pajamas and Corey put on his bat pajamas as they all gathered around, they gathered into the bathroom to brush their teeth and an hour later they played around for a bit before getting ready for bed.
The duo and Aiyido got into bed with Mel and turned out the light, drifting off as they did so. Their horrifying ordeal was over.
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