#tw minor violence mention

[snowe-zolynn-rogers]

The Eclipses Show

Pairing: None

Word Count: 1,579 Words

Summary: A good wake up and a bad feelings day for Phase. Crescent has a tantrum.

Warnings: Cursing, Past Death (mentioned), Grieving, Abuse, Trauma, Near-Death Experience (mentioned), Harassment, Minor Violence, let me know if I should add anything else.

Chapter 5: I’m Nothing Like You

Solar woke up with weight on his shoulder and chest like a body on top of his own. What the hell? He was sure it was probably Crescent bothering him again so he simply didn’t respond until-

“Dad…” Phase’s soft voice whispered against his shoulder and Solar opened his eyes as he suddenly remembered the previous day. Umbra was nowhere in sight and Phase was laying tucked up on top of him asleep still. Solar put a hand to Phase’s back and held him there. He did promise he’d stay by them and make sure they woke up.

“Good morning.” Umbra greeted him as he came back with three plates of food. Solar’s body had the function just like their new ones did to turn food into excess battery life but it had been so long since he used the function. It had also been a long time since he was greeted so nicely.

“Morning.” Solar groaned.

“Hold on.” Umbra took a fork full of pancakes and held it up under Phase’s nose. Phase’s nose twitched and then his lips before his eyes cracked open and he craned his head and bit the fork, half awake but obviously simply following the scent of food.

“Mowmim.” Phase greeted around the fork and piece of pancake as best he could.

“Time to stop crushing Solar, sleepyhead. He’s gotta eat too.” Umbra chuckled at Phase’s tired antics.

“Do I get coffee?” Phase asked.

“I got you one better. You get a Red Bull if you stop laying on Solar…for now.” Umbra showed Phase the cold 20oz can and waved it around a little like a prize. Phase almost instantly sat up off Solar and grabbed the Red Bull from Umbra.

“I love you!” Phase told Umbra.

“Love you too, brother.” Umbra patted Phase on the head as Phase framed the plate missing its fork, the fork Phase still had in his mouth. “And I got you iced coffee, Sol. Wasn’t sure how you like coffee so I just went with the maple pecan thing in the Faz-Pad.”

“Can’t go wrong with maple.” Solar smiled a little, sitting up and taking the coffee and plate Umbra offered him.

“I’m more of a peppermint person.” Umbra sat across from the two on Solar’s bed with his own plate and a cup of tea.

“You’re a tea person?” Solar asked, drinking some of his coffee.

“I’ll fall back asleep if I have coffee or energy drink so tea is my main source of caffeine.” Umbra told him.

“Rest in pieces.” Phase told him, stuffing a whole pancake into his mouth.

“‘Rest in pieces’.” Solar snorted at that.

“I pity him.” Phase said, mouth stuffed full of pancake.

“Please chew your food, Phase.” Umbra sighed.

“You’re not my mom!” Phase whined but did as he asked anyway, chewing and swallowing the pancake.

“We don’t have a mom.” Umbra rolled his eyes.

“Technically Sun would be your mom in a way and Corona would technically be mine?” Solar told them.

“Oh hell no. I’d rather not have one.” Phase complained.

“Yeah, no. I’ll be motherless, thanks.” Umbra rolled his eyes.

“Realistically, if we think about it, our respective Moon is our mom, our Kill Codes are our dads, and Sun and Corona were like surrogates.” Solar told them.

“That is…horrifying, thank you.” Umbra sighed.

“Yeah, no thanks. I’ll stick with just having a dad and no mom.” Phase told him but paused. “Had a dad.”

“Are you okay?” Solar asked, holding onto Phase’s hand.

“I miss him. And Bloody.” Phase looked down, eating a bit slower as he tried to mask the guilt and regret he felt.

“It’s okay to miss someone. I’m sure he misses you too.” Umbra told him, patting his shoulder.

“Thank you. It’s just a bad day, I think. I’ll be alright.” Phase gave them a little smile to reassure them.

“Well, when you’re ready to come out, if you want to, I’ll be in the daycare setting up. I have like ten check ins today and I feel like I’ll have more walk ins. You two can do whatever you want today as long as you behave.” Solar told him as he finished off his pancakes and took his plate and fork to the kitchen and stuck them into the dishwasher to be run after dinner tonight.

It was surprisingly easy in the daycare, eight of the ten kids were the well behaved ones with the two rowdy ones playing tag near the ball pit. It was simple to give the eight calm kids some drawing activities and just letting the the other two chase each other with his monitoring to make sure neither killed themself.

Umbra eventually ventured out and helped once the walk-ins began with Phase deciding to stay in their room for the day, too overwhelmed today to really get out of bed or do anything. Solar was sure eventually he’d come out of his grief of his family, they’d help him with getting comfortable with his new family.

Family. Solar already thought of them as family? As brothers? He smiled a little thinking about it. It was nice to actually consider someone his brother.

Phase looked up at the door opening, not turning around since he thought it was either Umbra or Solar telling him it was lunch time. He wasn’t up to getting out of bed. He wasn’t feeling the best today and Umbra had stayed with him for a while, assuring him that feeling like that was fine and that he could take his time adjusting to the new environment.

“Yeah?” Phase asked.

“Worthless extra parasite, get up!” Crescent growled. Phase sighed and turned around to look at Crescent with a bored expression.

“What, backup?” Phase asked.

“Why you little-!” Crescent snarled at the reminder that he was a backup of this universe’s original Moon. “So useless! Can’t even get up and do your job cleaning things during naptime!?” Crescent spat.

“I don’t have to do shit. Just because you’re a prick doesn’t mean you get to bully people into doing things you should be doing.” Phase told him but, realistically he felt a bit of fear pooling up. He could remember that it was Moon who had almost killed him not even two full days ago and Crescent looked like Moon enough that it was making his near death play back in his head.

Flare was gone, he had given himself up and allowed Phase to barely live. Flare had given his life because he had decided Phase deserved a real second chance to change. And he wasn’t going to let Flare’s sacrifice go to waste. But having the visage of your almost-murderer yelling at you was scary.

Crescent stepped more into the room and grabbed Phase by the rays, making him yelp at the pain in the head they created as he gripped them tight.

“You are a mistake! Nobody has ever wanted you just like the other two parasites. If you knew what was good for you, you’d keel over and die like your fucking brothers. Maybe then your daddy would care about you again.” Crescent hissed at him.

“Hey!” Umbra snapped in the doorway, grabbing Crescent’s hand holding Phase’s rays and gripped it tight enough to make Crescent release his grip after a sharp crackle, eyes glowing a crimson that tinged his purple eyes, his bits of the kill code showing through as he was pissed.

Umbra practically threw Crescent from their room onto his ass in the walkway. Phase couldn’t breathe, not that he needed to. He curled up in his bed as the words sank in and he hid his face into his arms, black oil leaking from his eyes as he tried to keep his tears silent.

“Don’t you fucking dare insult my brothers!” Umbra spat at Crescent, shaking with rage. Crescent glared at him as he got up before stalking off, pissed.

The crimson tinge disappeared from Umbra’s eyes as he turned to sit with Phase and pulled him up to hold him.

“It’s okay. Don’t believe him. He’s just an asshole. Never believe someone like him, Phasey. You aren’t a mistake, me and Solar want you. We love you.” Umbra assured him as Phase buried into his arms, hiding so he could cry against him.

“But Dad and Bloody. He said Dad would love me if I died like…” Phase hiccuped.

“Your Dad loved you, he wasn’t the best but he was trying as a new dad. You don’t have to die like your brothers for him to love you because he already did. He’s like us. We’re not the best as expressing ourselves. But he loved you, I know it.” Umbra promised him, rocking him a bit as Solar came to investigate the strange sounds during naptime, keeping track of the kids with his internals.

“What happened?” Solar asked.

“Your asshole tried to harass him and poked at some very raw nerves.” Umbra explained.

“It’s okay, Phase, everything will be okay. I promise. I’m sorry about him, he’s just a prick. Please don’t let his words hurt you too much. He’s just a bully, he likes to hurt people. I’m sorry he targeted you.” Solar sat with them, rubbing Phase’s back.

Before long, Phase was sleeping and holding Umbra hostage with his hands tangled into Umbra’s ruffles, unwilling to let go. Solar went back to the daycare, letting Umbra snuggle Phase while the youngest AI slept.

[gay-----pisces2]

Tw: police brutality, anti-minority, hatecrimes

Anti-minority people: *makes fun of minorities for not liking anti-minority jokes*

Minorities: oh damn man, your right! Lemme just get hatecrimed for no reason, shall I? Or would you rather me get beaten to death by a cop who is a bit biased and/or having a bad day? Wow, lookit how privileged and temperamental I am haha (/s)!

(some minority people do like anti-minority jokes as long as it's not actually harmful and/or it is sarcastic or it is hyperbolic, however some minority people do not like these jokes. Therefore, I urge you to pay attention to timing, the people you're around, and choose your word choices carefully to not hurt someone.)

[nanasparadise]

Hello! I hope that you are doing fine. I want to say that I really lime your writing and reading your writing makes me happy! ^^

Also, is the flower ask prompt still open? Can I get Mirio Togata with Camellia, please? Thank you and have a nice day!

Anon said: “Hello! For the flower prompts: Could you write for Mirio Togata with Ivy, please? Thank you!”

Hiya anon! Thank you for your request, I’m so glad to hear you enjoy my content! I hope this one will make you happy as well <3

"Like the rising sun" Yan!Mirio x gender-neutral reader

Camellia (devotion, perfection): “You know I’d do anything for you, right? My love knows no limits.”

 Ivy (fidelity): “There is no one who’s more loyal than me! I’m tied to you, just like you are to me.”

Summary: No matter how bright your captor was, you couldn’t find happiness again. 

TW: toxic relationship, implied kidnapping, depression, delusional mindset, mentions of past violence (towards reader), noncon touching, IMPLIED NONCON, MATURE AUDIENCE ONLY/MINORS DNI

I do not condone any yandere behaviour in real life. 

“I’m back, honey!”

How you loathed his voice. That stupidly ever cheerful voice, boisterous and loud and always present. 

Soon enough, his equally cheerful smile appeared in your vision. Mirio opened the door to your room, the beaming expression adorning his face blinding you. If you were a poet and he was your muse, you’d describe him as pure sunlight. Too bad you were but a captive in his home and had no kind word to spare for him. 

The pro-hero’s grin faltered when he glanced at your face. “I missed you so much during the shift! Although I had hoped you would feel the same.” A bashful chuckle escaped his lips.

You didn’t grant him a sliver of your attention, knowing that it‘d drive him insane. Stubbornly, you continued staring at the wall in front of you, his form only a blob in your peripheral vision. 

The mattress dipped under the additional weight as a warm hand was placed on your shoulder. Two months ago, you would have flinched. Now, it had become the norm to be touched by him, an inevitable fact that couldn’t be changed. 

The realisation made your thoughts stumble, a wave of sadness washing over you. When did you stop resisting and start accepting this bleak reality?

“Sweetheart,” Mirio sighed, his hand rubbing circles in your skin, “I’m talking to you. Please, speak to me, my love.” 

“Of course I’m not happy to see you,” you replied, your answer a mere whisper in the room. You had hoped it would come out louder, stronger, showing how much you hated it here, hated him. But it cost so much energy to fight back. 

The hand stilled for a moment. Instead, the reassuring gesture got replaced with a tight grip. “I know the first weeks had been hard to adjust to,“ he said, his voice uncharacteristically - dangerously - low, “but I’m really trying my best to make you feel comfortable, Y/N. What do you want me to do? Would you like more clothes? Different books? We can also take a stroll through the garden if that’s what you wish for. Please, just tell me, you know I’d do anything for you, right? My love knows no limits.“ 

You turned your head, staring straight into his blue eyes. Distress marked his face as he desperately tried to make you see his point of view. “Let me go, then,” you uttered, echoing the plea you had made already countless times in the past. 

“Not this again,” Mirio muttered, “I don’t want anything to happen to you, you know that.” His hand moved from your shoulder to your cheek, gently cradling it. Genuine concern was written all over his face as his thumb softly traced your cheekbone. 

Left, right, left, right - a tear trickled down your cheek.

“That night, when I found you in the alley, beaten up and blood on the pavement-”

The movement halted - another tear. 

“-my heart couldn’t take it.” His voice cracked, no hint of joy could be detected in it anymore. “I thought you’d die, Y/N. How did you expect me to react? I had to bring you somewhere safe where no one could lay a finger on you again.” 

Your gaze shifted from his now tear-filled eyes to your leg, inspecting the familiar weight around your ankle in the form of a monitor. ‘Is being imprisoned like a criminal the only way to guarantee safety?’, you pondered, not quite able to hide the bitterness from your face. 

Mirio followed your look, his mouth turning in a resigned line once he saw what you were fixated on. “I had to do this, it was either this or the chain,” he tried to reason, obviously believing that it was the right choice to make, if you interpreted the tone of his voice correctly. 

What a messed up life you were going through.

“Just take it as the proof of my devotion for you! I’d do anything to keep you from harm, even if it hurts me to see you being so miserable. We’re going through this together, baby. There is no one who’s more loyal than me! I’m tied to you, just like you are to me.” His hand wandered to your jaw, gently gripping and directing it towards his face so that you’d look at him again. A crooked smile now graced his face, though you could detect the slight trembling in his lips. Just like his words, it was an illusion - twisted and utterly worthless to you. 

“Time heals even the deepest wound. Soon enough, you’ll get used to it, you’ll even be happy-” you scowled at him, however, it didn’t deter him one bit “-I just need to show you all of my love for you!” This time, a sincere smile reappeared on his face. 

Like the rising sun, ever so stupidly dutiful and joyous. You couldn’t stand to witness it. Day in, day out. 

He pushed your forehead towards him, touching it with his lips in a kiss. Gently. Earnestly. Unwanted.

“I’m so sorry I couldn’t make you see just how much I adore you, darling,” he whispered to you, “I’ll make it up to you. I’ll take a two-week break from work and will dedicate myself only to you, babe.” 

Another kiss followed, this time placed carefully on the tip of your nose. 

“It’d be like paradise, I promise.”

‘It’d be like hell.’

A kiss to your right cheek. 

“We’ll be together all the time, you won’t be lonely again.”

‘I’d rather be anywhere but with you.’

A kiss to your left cheek. 

“And I will make love to you every night, so that you won’t forget that I’m here for you to attend to your every need, always.” 

A horrified expression flitted over your face, your eyes widened in terror as you tried to get away from him, anything but this, you couldn’t-

Strong hands gripped your waist, keeping you in place. And despite them radiating an almost unnatural warmth, you felt a shiver crawling down your spine. 

A final kiss to your lips. 

“Starting now.”

[soundcrusher]

The super secret thing that's definitely Hot Rod x Overlord

Okay, so, it might have taken me three days to finsish this, but it's done now. Here's the "Secret Option that's definitely not Hot Rod x Overlord" that you guys voten on here.

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As a small sumary:

In this little story, Hot Rod never joined a faction after Nyon burned. Instead he became a drifter before becoming a mercenary who works for both factions from time to time.

(Please keep in mind that I'm working with whatever I can gather from TFWiki about the characters and their stories from the IDW contenuity.)

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With that being said, please enjoy a roughly 11 pages long fanfic with a pairing that should (probably) have never happened.

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Nyon burned, and no-one cared.

His people died, and no-one cared.

He was the only one left, and no-one seemed to care about that. They only wanted to claim one of the last known survivors of Nyon as their own. Not because of what he could offer to their cause, but rather as a symbol of how cruel their enemy could be.

It was sickening, because neither side didn’t think about what their claim would mean to Hot Rod. The Autobots saw it as a duty to take in a stranded mech without a home as a sign of good will, while the Decepticons only wanted him as a symbol of what a corrupted government could do to you. And call him selfish, headstrong or stupid, but Hot Rod did not want to become either. He, like every Nyonian buried under the ashes of their home and burned by the flames of their deathly freedom, would never join a faction that failed to help those in need.

The leaders only saw their goal after all. They could have helped, but neither did. No-one came when they called for help, and no-one tried to save them. They were pushed to the end. They fought till the end, and only now are the Autobots and Decepticons coming. Trying to claim the last remains of Nyon as their own.

And Hot Rod wouldn’t stand for that. No matter how much they tried to convince him, the young speedster only looked at them, before turning his back on everything. Walking away in search of a new home and purpose, far away from everything that provided a stark reminder of what he has lost, but Nyon’s downfall always found him.

At first, it was a single Autobot caught up in a trap set by Decepticons. And despite his burning hate for either faction, Hot Rod couldn’t turn his back on someone who was in need. So, he helped the Autobot out. Bringing them to safety, before leaving them alone. He couldn’t risk getting on their radar and getting another ‘Recruitment Speech’. He’s gotten sick of them the first time around. Especially those made by Optimus.

‘Freedom is the right of all sentient beings’, what a load of robo-bullcrap. If it truly was the right of all, why were they fighting and destroying life and freedom across the galaxy. Yes, the Decepticons are also to blame, but still, the Prime should be more self-conscious about his own decisions. And that comes from a known hot head”

Either way, this whole mess he found himself in started with one Autobot, and then it just spiraled. Everywhere he went, everywhere he tried to run to Nyon followed him. And then, when he thought about all he had lost, there was always someone in desperate need of help.

And Hot Rod always ended up helping whoever needed him. Be it Autobot, Decepticon, Neutral, or a poor organic caught up in the middle of Megatron’s and Optimus’ spike measuring contest. He was always there to help out, and despite his late friends' wishes, despite everything they hoped for him, Hot Rod took up arms and learned how to shoot, to fight, take on and dismantle ‘bots and ‘cons bigger than him, stronger than him. And when the factions learned about it, Hot Rod found himself facing them again. Over and over, like an endless song stuck in your head.

“Join us!”

“We could need a mech like you.”

“Why are you throwing away your skills, when you could use them for something greater?”

Those were just a few of the phrases Hot Rod heard while helping out, and he hated them. His skills weren’t supposed to be used by one of the sides. They were supposed to help whoever needed him. Whoever was faced with a situation like his own, like Nyonians, where the only way out was death.

So what if he sometimes helped out Autobots, only to face them on the other side in the next battle? This was war, and he was a drifter turned mercenary, Hot Rod had no obligations to anyone. No matter how many of those he fought with called him a traitor for taking on jobs offered to him. Let them think what they want, Hot Rod knows who he is. The last Nyonian he knows, and one who wouldn’t bow before anyone.

Not before the senate, not before Optimus Prime and not before Megatron, even if he was currently working for the latter one.

At least working for Megatron was easier than the Prime. Yes, he might get the occasional question as to why he isn’t joining his quest, but at least none of those questions were ‘Recruitment Speeches’. Not anymore at least.

But then again, working with the Decepticons also had its down-sides. Especially when it came to the mechs and femmes in the faction. Some were okay, some were annoying, and then there were those who seemed to have it out for him. And with ‘out for him’, Hot Rod meant that they were either trying to pick a fight with, or kill him.

Although, it was mostly the bigger ‘cons asking for a fight, because they never truly believe him that he can take them down. And yet, he always proves them wrong. Right now, he was sitting on the downed Decepticon he just fought while cleaning his rifle. It wasn’t his fault that the big lug got knocked out while fighting him. Also, Hot Rod was quick to notice how others seemed to avoid him whenever he was perching on one of his defeated opponents. So, this quickly became a habit. Not only because it kept others away, but also because it added to his image of a menacing mercenary. And such an image is always good.

But, much to Hot Rod’s disdain, one ‘con seemed to not take the hint. Or at least, he chose to ignore the hostile field the speedster let seep through his cracks, whenever he wanted to make sure others knew not to talk with him. Thus why he internally gagged, as he heard all too familiar footsteps come his way.

Great, as if he didn’t have anything better to do.

“Look what the cyber-cat dragged in…” Muttered Hot Rod quietly to himself, as he looked over at the mech. “Overlord, didn’t expect you to come back so soon. I would offer you a chair, but… yeeaaah. There’s none around.”

Overlord only smirked, as he waved one of his hands in a dismissive way, while the other was placed on his hip. “Oh, that’s okay. I’ve been sitting most of the day either way. That little mission was over in nothing more than a second.”

“Sounds like Megatron didn’t give you the interesting one. Heh, but you’re not the only one who’s been pushed to the side lines.” Hot Rod said and finished cleaning his rifle. Storing the cleaning rag in his subspace, before getting down from his perch and walking away. “But hey, I don’t mind it. Just means work is easier for me and I’ll be gone sooner than later.”

“So, you’re leaving again? Didn’t think you would abandone a fight that easily, Hot Rod.”

The speedster only laughed and shrugged his shoulders. Hiding his annoyance when he suddenly noticed that he had company when walking down the hall towards his temporary hab-suite. “Oh, I’m not abandoning a fight. I’m merely doing my job, while hoping to get an opportunity to finally see the… let’s say ‘fulfillment of my dream’.”

“And what would that entail?”

Overlord sure didn’t take social cues, or he opted to ignore them. Hot Rod was betting on the latter, while praying to Primus that his hab-suit would finally show up. He couldn’t stand the company of others, especially when they were nothing more than murderers who killed just for the sake of killing.

Hypocritic, he knows, but what else can he say? Everyone’s going to become a killer sooner or later when getting involved in this war. Doesn’t mean that Hot Rod had to enjoy it, even if there was a small part deep down that somehow relished in the fact that the mechs who didn’t help his people found their end at his hands. It’s poetic, in a way.

"Many things. Nyon being rebuilt would be a part of it, but… I would say seeing Megatron’s and Optimus’ grayed out form would be the biggest part. I wouldn’t even care who did it, as long as it happens.” That seemed to shut Overlord up for a second, and Hot Rod reveled in the silence. Until the bigger mech decided to speak up again.

“Would you try to kill Megatron on your own?” Asked Overlord, and this time, Hot Rod wasn’t sure what to think of the bigger mech. He didn’t like his tone. It was too flat and lacked his usual dramatic tendencies. Making him feel like prey, and Hot Rod hated that feeling.

“No, I’m not stupid.” Was the speedster's answer, before he let out a sigh. “Everyone knows he’s your kill. And frankly, I wouldn’t take your chance away to fight him.” He said with a laugh. “As I said, seeing his grayed out form is enough for me… Just… may I have one request?”

“And that would be?”

“A front seat when you get your re-match. I want to see the look on his face when he realizes that he can’t win.”

A smirk was all Hot Rod got as an answer, before entering his temporary hab-suit. And as he sat down on his berth, rifle stored away next to it and a knife placed in an easy to grab spot, did Hot Rod think about what exactly he said. Hopefully he didn’t make himself interesting for the big-lipped psycho. He didn’t need the attention of someone who’s known for his obsession over bloodshed and killing. It would only lead to problems. And Hot Rod didn’t need even more problems.

But those fears seemed unfounded, because when he awoke from recharge the next day, Overlord was long gone. Send to a mission which Hot Rod found out was far enough away from him. And so, the Nyonian continued his work for the Decepticons, before going his own way again. Leaving as soon as he got his payment and deciding to keep away from the war for a while.

And a while became a long time, because, as the war dragged on and he had to fight and kill more than before, Hot Rod found himself constantly confronted with the darkest part of his spark. A part that constantly tried to justify his killing by saying it was vengeance for his fallen people, but who was he kidding? War turns everyone into a killer, and Hot Rod was fighting with his urge to just go wild. Thus why he distanced himself from both factions from time to time. He didn’t need a longer list of victims, although he would always keep two spots open. Just in case.

His struggle to keep his darkest part at bay is also why he joined many ships and crews not as a killer but as a security guard. Traveling from place to place, until his latest crew crash landed on a planet he didn’t bother to learn the name of. Although, maybe he should have, because a group of Decepticons herded together the remaining survivors of the crash and him, and led them all back to a prison. An Autobot looking prison that was entirely run by Decepticons.

Great, this was just what Hot Rod needed. A place where he’ll probably rot until the end of his days, or die a lot sooner. Hopefully it’s the last, he’s always hated being trapped in one place. It reminds him too much of Nyon and how many of his people must have died trapped underneath rubble or in a room forced to slowly die.

But alas, fate seemed to make his life a cruel joke, because when his temporary crew was brought before the warden… it was Overlord. And Hot Rod found himself regretting his life choices, because out of all the planets he could have crash landed on, it was the one where Overlord was running a prison.

He really needs to have a long talk with Primus after this, because why must he torture him with having to face the one mech he didn’t want to see? But hey, at least Overlord didn’t recognize him when they were in front of him, and didn’t say anything when they were all herded towards the nearest cells. And as long as he kept his head and spoilers low, he should be able to-

“Hot Rod?”

Primus damn it! His luck was never here to stay, was it? So, with a deep inhale, Hot Rod put on his most charismatic smirk, before turning around. “Howdy Overlord, long time no see.” He said, while awkwardly finger gunning at the bigger mech. “Eeeeeeither way, I’m pretty sure your guys are supposed to bring me to a nice cell. Sooooo, see ya later?”

“No. I would rather see you now. We have… a lot of catching up to do.” And with that, Hot Rod was whisked away by Overlord. Separated from his temporary crew and led to another part of the prison. One that looked more like mechs were supposed to live there, rather than being imprisoned. Which means, there’s only one way how this is going to end, and Hot Rod wasn’t ready for that. Not even when Overlord simply pushed him into the biggest hab-suit he’s ever seen and locked the door behind them.

Great, just great, he was locked in with a mech known for killing anyone he pleases. And who was currently lounging on something that looked like a mix between a berth and a plush chair from earth. Weird choice of furniture, but who was he to judge. Hot Rod didn’t have the greatest taste either.

Still, with Overlord ‘seated’, the speedster remained standing. His hands fidgeted by his side, as his eyes roamed around the room. Mapping out possible escape routes, while he was already preparing a strategy in case this encounter would end in a fight.

“Well, well, well, look what the cyber-cat dragged in.” Said Overlord with the most self-serving smirk Hot Rod has ever seen. “I didn’t expect to see you this soon, Hot Rod. And this time, there are even enough chairs that I can offer you one to sit on.”

“Very clever, Lordy. Using my own words against me. Didn’t think you would remember them.” Was the answer Hot Rod gave, while walking around the room. Noting some energon stains littering either the floor, walls or ceiling. “And it looks like you’ve been… busy in here…”

“Of course. A gladiatorial pit doesn’t run itself after all and, well, you could say my sense of decor is quite… explicit.” Said Overlord, as he watched Hot Rod walk around. Observing how the speedster’s hands would sometimes form into fists, while his spoiler shook from something the Phase Sixer couldn’t quite place yet. “But it seems I’m not the only one who’s been busy, ‘Flaming Death’.” A hitch of the spoilers. One that made Overlord smirk even wider. “It seems you’ve made yourself quite the name, Roddy.”

“… A name I hate, but it seems to stick with me.” Was all Hot Rod said, before sitting down on a chair. “Either way, why am I not in a cell? Because I doubt this is only a way for us to ‘reconnect’, Overlord. If you want news about the Decepticons, I don’t know much. Haven’t worked with them for quite some time.”

“Oh no, that’s not why I invited you in here.” He didn’t like Overlord’s smile. Nor did he like how the Phase Sixer was sitting up, arms propped up on his legs and hands clasped together as he leaned forward. A smirk similar to that of the cheshire cat stretching across his face. “I was hoping you would stay here for a while. You see, the fights have become somewhat repetitive. No-one seems to know how to properly entertain my me-”

“You.” Hot Rod cut in. Barely containing his shit eating grin, as he saw one of Overlord’s eyes twitch in annoyance. “No-one seems to know how to properly entertain you. And let me guess, you’re hoping that I could breathe some fresh air into the fights by participating myself. Sorry Lordy, but I’m trying not to fight or kill anyone currently.”

Overlord looked deeply into Hot Rod’s eyes. Trying to find something that would or could indicate that the speedster was lying, but it seemed that his ‘friend’ was speaking the truth. But alas, he could see something simmering underneath the surface of the truth. And that was enough for him. “What a pity then. I know how much you hate recruitment speeches, but my proposition surely will interest you.”

“And what would that be?” Hot Rod didn’t like this. Hearing a speech from Optimus or Megatron was one thing, but Overlord played in a different kind of league. And he was never sure if Overlord didn’t know about the darker part of his spark. The one that liked killing.

“No need to be so tense, Roddy. It’s quite simple. Stay for a few days and join me during some of the matches. You don’t have to fight, only watch. And if you happen to want to join, I won’t stop you.”

This sounded like a good deal. One Hot Rod could do, but he was still unsure. There surely was a catch. “And what if I don’t want to?”

“There’s always a nice cell waiting for you and then you will have no choice but to fight.”

Damn it, that was a good point. And considering how he was currently at Overlord’s mercy, if that mech even knew the meaning of that word, his hands were tied. So, Hot Rod heaved a deep sigh, before nodding. “Alright, but I’ll be allowed to decide when I go. You know why I don’t like sticking around one place for a long time. I get too twitchy whenever I can’t move on.”

“Of course, of course. But I would still advise you to, at least, stay for some stellar cycles. You can’t really get the full experience otherwise.”

And so, Hot Rod stayed. Joining Overlord whenever there was a fight happening and watching the poor mechs dying for a chance of freedom, but the speedster knew that it was a lie. Overlord never lets anyone live, and he only needed to witness one winner getting annihilated by the Phase Sixer after their hard earned winning streak, for him to get into the arena himself.

At first, he made sure the deaths would be quick. Hot Rod hated dragging them out. No-one was supposed to suffer when he fought them. Not when there was already enough suffering across the galaxy, but then he was confronted with his next opponent. And Hot Rod’s blood started to boil.

He remembered the mech from when Optimus came to gaze upon the burned remains of Nyon. That mech dared to insult his city, his people. Calling them cowards for destroying their home and not finding another way out. And for once, Hot Rod didn’t hold back, nor did he let the Autobot die a quick death.

No, Hot Rod took his time with killing this mech

At first, he made the mech stagger and fall by weaving between his punches. His opponent was taller than him, but this wasn’t the first time Hot Rod faced off against someone that was bigger and stronger. And neither was it his first time fighting a mech who had an ego bigger than what was healthy. So, it didn’t take him long until the Autobot was tired out, and with one quick punch between his chest plates, the big fella fell. With Hot Rod quickly descending upon him. Ribbing through cables and painting the ground of the arena with his opponents energon, until the Autobot could no-longer move. The speedster hard removed every cable needed for that.

However, Hot Rod didn’t finish him off yet. Rather, he took one look at the mech, before igniting his fire. Coating his right arm with flames burning hotter than they should while he slowly pressed it against his opponents chest. Melting his chest plating as Hot Rod’s hand steadily buried its way closer and closer to the mech’s spark. And when he reached his destiny, Hot Rod stared into the Autobots eyes. Tilting his head slightly to the side while smiling sweetly, before plunging his hand deeper. Burning him from the inside.

And only when it was done, did Hot Rod look up. Staring Overlord straight in the eyes, as he slowly got up. Energon that wasn’t his own dripping from his frame, before he turned around and left the arena.

He had given them a spectacle. He had given Overlord exactly what he wanted, and now, he was tired. Primus, was he tired. Using his flames freely without restriction was one thing, but using them in a concentrated way that made it able for him to burn through another Cybertronian’s plating was another thing. There were many things he had to consider after all. The spot where he was concentrating all his flames to, the intensity of the heat used and the willpower to pull through.

And that alone made Hot Rod tired. Tired enough to not notice the looming presence following him.

“That was quite the show you put on, Roddy.” Great, Overlord coming after him was the last thing he needed. Especially when he was low on fuel and his frame was screaming at him to rest.

“Can we not do this now Overlord? I’m not really… in the right mood for whatever this is going to be.” Hot Rod sighed, as he felt his body slowly shutting down. Maybe he shouldn’t have gone all out, but pit be damned, it was worth it. Even if it was just to shut up the dark part of his spark and, in a twisted way, protect his fallen city and people's honor.

“I can see that. Using those flames of yours must have really tired you out.” Overlord grinned, as he scooped up the exhausted speedster and started to carry him down the halls. “I can’t recall ever seeing them. Nor have you ever said anything about them. How come?”

Hot Rod didn’t want to, but he couldn’t help but lean against Overlord, before answering the big lug. “I just didn’t think it would interest anyone. Flames aren’t really that special after all. There are far cooler abilities out there.”

“And yet, I must admit that they fascinate me. Seeing you burn through your twelfth opponent with such ferocity, such bloodlust, one could start to think that you relish in the pain of those you kill.”

Hot Rod knew that Overlord was toying with him, but frankly, he was too tired to indulge him. So, he simply shrugged his shoulders as best as he could, before closing his eyes. Thinking more about the fact that he’s killed twelve mechs so far, with only the last one being a brutal death. Seems like he still has his self-control in check. Good.

"Twelfth… huh? So, did you come to pick up the scraps and finish me off? Don’t think that that would be satisfying for you.”

“Oh no. I’m not here to fight you. I’m just here to make sure you’re taken care of, before your ‘final fight’. I want you to be presentable and at full strength after all.” That didn’t sound good. The final fight, from what Hot Rod has seen, was one between Overlord and whoever the unfortunate Cybertronian was that got so far.

“Sorry… but that won’t happen. The second I can, I’m calling in our deal and leaving this place. And you can’t really do anything against it, Lordy.”

“Are you sure I can’t do anything against it?” Asked Overlord with that degradingly silky tone of voice that caused Hot Rod’s internals to churn in hate. And, maybe, something else. But he didn’t say so. Instead, the speedster online his optics and glared up at the smug looking bastard towering over him. Growling lowly, as he hurled a small blast of fire at Overlord’s face. But considering his state, it didn’t reach its target. Dissipating the second the blast left his outstretched arm.

Causing Overlord to let out a chuckle, as he readjusted his hold on the weakened speedster. Holding Hot Rod’s arm, while gently squeezing it. “I take this as a ‘No’, Roddy. And if I were you, I wouldn’t try to argue with me. Not when you like your arm.”

“Suck my exhaust pipe.”

“Maybe later.”

Later came all too soon for Hot Rod and, turns out, Overlord didn’t really mean an actual fight when he told him he had to be ready for his ‘final fight’. It was a proposition. One he wasn’t sure if he should accept, but considering everything else, he said yes. And ended up with more than just Overlord sucking his exhaust pipe. Because it turns out that Overlord doesn’t just have very kissable lips, he’s also very good with them… and with everything else too…

That’s also why Hot Rod finds himself fighting back a deep blush whenever he remembers that night. Even as he moved on, leaving the prison and planet, the memory of that night never truly left him. It was something else, and to be honest, it was probably the first time Hot Rod felt understood or even heard out. And the only part that caused some sort of anger to rise whenever he thought about that was, that it’s Overlord.

That guy’s supposed to be a dangerous but charming mass murderer who kills only for the fun of it. Not someone Hot Rod feels comfortable around… and yet, the spark wants what the spark wants. And so, the speedster did the only thing he could think of.

Run as far as he could and wait until the war was over, before going back to Cybertron. He wanted a new start, something that could give him a chance to break out of the circle of violence he found himself in, and yet, the only jobs he got were those that caused others pain. And those only caused the dark part of Hot Rod’s spark to grow, no matter how deep he tried to push it back down. It always rose up, just like Overlord said.

Maybe that’s why he joined that weird crew when they were looking for Cybertronians who wanted to join their quest in finding the Knights of Cybertron. Maybe he thought that the Knights could help him with his problem. They were Knights after all, they surely fought some mechs. They should know how to deal with the urge to kill, right? They could help him, right?

Either way, joining the crew might have been the wrong call. Not because it wasn’t fun, oh no, despite him being surrounded by Autobots, Hot Rod had a blast. He even found a friend in the swordmech named Drift. His problems were more with the crew members who knew him from his time as mercenary. Especially that Whirl fella always tried to pick a fight with him, and Hot Rod always obliged. Whipping that mech’s aft over and over, and always landing in the brig for it. If he didn’t know it better, he would say that that big blue mech was after him. Then again, he did kind of steal his version of the Autobot Codex and vandalize it, so, yea. It’s kinda deserved.

But still, no matter how many adventures they got into, or how often he fought with Whirl, Hot Rod couldn’t escape his urges. They always came back to haunt him, especially after he visited Rung to talk about Nyon. It was turning into a problem, one his new and only friend always seemed to notice. And then, Hot Rod would find himself seated next to the swordmech. Trying his best to meditate with him, but it was harder than he thought.

Things have only gotten harder for Hod Rod since the peace time started, and they seemed to only get worse when it was discovered that none other than Overlord was held on the ship. Like, wasn’t his life already hard enough? Did Primus really have to make him face the one mech he loathes and maybe loves the most?

Primus was probably using him as nothing more than a joke, but at least he got to fight the Phase Sixer. And this time, Hot Rod didn’t hold back like the other times the crew got into a fight. Oh no, he went into the fight with fists raised and fire blazing. Taking some of his new crew members by surprise, because they only knew him as a neutral mech who, sometimes, got into fights with Whirl. Not as someone who would willingly go up against someone like Overlord and flirt while doing so. It sure was fun.

“Well, well, well, look what the cyber-cat let loose. Haven’t seen you since Garrus-9, Lordy.” Chuckled Hot Rod, as he dodged one of Overlord’s strikes by ducking and rolling to the side. “Don’t tell me you’ve been… hey!… Waiting for me in that cell.” Another dodge, before he sent a blast of fire into the Phase Sixers direction. Successfully distracting him from stepping on poor Pipes and probably killing him. “If I had known, I would have visited you sooner.”

“You left so soon after our special night and never came back, I thought you'd forgotten about me.” Chuckled the big mech, before driving his fist into the ship’s wall and ripping out a pipe. Which he hurled after poor Pipes. Knocking him off his feets but not killing him. “But had I known that you were here, I would have broken out sooner.”

“Awww, sounds like I’m your new favorite mech! Heh, I bet it’s my charm that won you over.” Hot Rod quickly struck a pose, before jumping to the side and doing a somersault to dodge another one of Overlord’s punches. Doing his trademark finger guns as soon as he stood up-right again. “Come one, admit it, ya missed me!”

“Of course I’ve missed you, Roddy. None of the mechs I’ve met after your departure have screamed like you have.”

That seemed to shut Hod Rod up, because the flamboyant mech couldn’t quite figure out what Overlord meant. And so, he put his hands together and two fingers against his lips, before moving everything forwards and pointing at the mech in front of him. “You’ve interfaced with someone else? You don’t really strike me as someone who would do something like that.”

“Oh no. I actually meant your screams when you burned the hole into that Autobot’s chest.” Answered Overlord, before quickly smacking away the pipe Hot Rod picked up and threw at him. “But now that you mention it, I also missed those screams.” And with each word, Overlord walked closer and closer to Hot Rod, until the small speedster was literally trapped between a wall and the Phase Sixer. And as soon as he was sure Hot Rod couldn’t escape the situation, Overlord leaned down to whisper straight into his audials. Purring softly. “And I’ve been itching for another ‘fight’, little flame.”

But before Hot Rod could say anything, they got interrupted by some of the crew. Much to Overlord’s dislike. “Can’t you see we’re having a moment!?” He yelled, before noticing exactly who interrupted them. “Ah. Why hello Maximus. I haven’t seen you since Garrus-9 either.”

And then, everything turned into chaos.

Hod Rod still can’t remember how he managed to somehow slip past the two the second Maximus bounced on Overlord like a rapid turbofox ready to tear out someone’s spark, but hey. When he was still a mercenary he didn’t really question things like this either. So, he simply stood there. Watching, taking notes on the fighting styles of both mechs and waving at those of the crew who decided to join the fight. And when asked why he was standing to the side, Hot Rod simply shrugged his shoulders and said, “Would you get in between this?” Which was met with understanding nods, until things got even messier.

And now, Hot Rod found himself sitting in that one cell together with Overlord and that poor minicon Rewind. Or at least with whatever remained of Rewind. It was a shame, not only because of Chromedone, but also because Hot Rod kind of liked the witty minicon. He was fun to talk to, even though he often had to pretend to be someone else in front of him. Just like with everyone else.

“You seem unhappy to be stuck with me.” Said Overlord, after the silence between them grew too large. “And here I thought our reunion would be a lot better.”

“Well…” Started Hot Rod with a rather annoyed tone. “ You just killed some of my crew members and poor Rewind over there, I think ‘unhappy’ is underselling it a little bit.”

“Since when did you care about other mechs? As far as I can remember, you never cared about anyone else but you.” He scoffed while waving a hand around. “But it seems like a few years apart can change even the most interesting mechs. What happened to the Hot Rod who fought bigger mechs than him and then used them as his perch? What happened to the Hot Rod that killed mechs with a single shot, and then joked about it? Where is he?”

“Gone! He’s gone, Lordy. Gone, buried and never coming back.” Growled Hot Rod, before smacking his hands against his face. “And honestly, I was happy with that, but then you had to come back! Just walked right into my life and dug him up again… Thanks for that.”

“You’re welcome.”

“What!? Nevermind, listen. It would have been better if he-” Hot Rod was about to explain why exactly it was better for him to have that part of his life buried, but Overlord stopped him with a quick kiss.

“It’s a shame to see you bury such a lovely part of yourself, little flame.” Purred the bigger mech, before sitting back up and pulling Hot Rod onto his lap. “Do you know how thrilling it is to watch you tear through one mech after the other? To see you turn them into grayed out husks of their former selves? I loved seeing you take out all that buried anger on mechs who deserved nothing else but death.” Overlord chuckled, before his smile turned into a frown as he saw how Hot Rod was avoiding his gaze. So, he softly placed a finger underneath the smaller mech’s chin and tilted it upwards. Giving him no other choice than to look into his smug face. “Why are you so scared of a part that’s so beautiful?”

“Maybe because if I… if I show it, others won’t want to be with me? Because it reminds me too much of Nyon? I don’t know…”

“And even if others would avoid you if they knew about it, what does it matter? You still got me, Roddy. I would never turn away from someone as beautiful as you.”

Hot Rod couldn’t help himself not to laugh. This was cheesy, while also sounding impossible. “You’re joking, aren’t you?”

But Overlord only smiled, before leaning down to press another kiss onto Hot Rod’s lips. “If I were, you would be dead.”

And then, it was their ‘final fight’ all over again.

[kalevalakryze]

Bleed It Out

For Bo-Katan Week Day 6: Bo-Katan and The Armorer Pairing: Bo-Katan Kryze/The Armorer Characters: Bo-Katan Kryze, The Armorer, Din Djarin (mentioned), Axe Woves (mentioned) Warnings: NSFW, explicit, not safe for minors Word Count: 4,125 Notes: don't look at me, I realized I only wrote bosoka smut for this week, and I couldn't just not remedy that... AO3 Link: Here!

nsfw warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Blood, Sex on the Rougher Side, Spanking, Don’t Worry There Will Always Be Aftercare, Crying During Sex, But Not for Bad Things, You Ever Trust Someone So Much You Just Gotta Cry?, Or Miss Someone So Much You Have To Fight Everyone? Anxiety, Bo-Katan Is A Biter, Who Needs Thrown Around Sometimes

To say Bo-Katan got a little ‘antsy’ around the anniversary of Satine Kryze’s death and life days was an understatement. The entire week prior to both anniversaries would lead to progressive alcoholism and violent outbursts towards those closest to her.

Din Djarin had been on the receiving end of one of these outbursts not long after he’d arrived with Grogu. He had only been trying to help, had been trying to learn more and understand from the woman he called his Mand’alor and his friend. Yet, when he’s asked her what was troubling her, the woman had lashed out. She hadn’t attacked the man’s character or religion, but she had thrown insults, many of which couldn’t even apply to the man in the shining armor. When she’d shoved past him to exit the small Mandalorian bar they’d built in the ruins of Sundari, her pauldron had scraped across his chest, leaving a streak of blue across the metal with the force she’d used to shoulder past him.

He had been receptive to her reaction of his presence and had to change his plans to go to the forge to buff the streak out. It was there he’d seen The Armorer and had questioned her on the Mand’alor’s state. She hadn’t known, of course, she’d taken notice, but had yet to voice her concerns. It was in the form of Axe Woves that they’d learned of her annual devolution of her convictions.

The Armorer had helped Din repair his armor, before sending everyone away from the forge, with the mission to find the woman and send her that way. The Armorer could understand the tension in the woman, but she needed to help her find some way to let it off, before she went after more than just Din, who she was lucky enough to have been a very understanding person.

It took a few good hours before anyone had been able to get a hold of her, and she’d heard over the comm channels that Axe would be in the med bay for the night.

When the woman entered the forge, her boots landed heavy on the stone, her helmet covered the way her face was no doubt twisted in irritation. When she came to a stop just feet away from The Armorer, it was with a defiant jut of her hips and her chin raised, shoulders squared and muscles tense, like she was waiting for the most opportune moment to start a physical altercation.

“You called?” There was a strain in her voice, as if civility was physically painful. The Armorer did not doubt that it could have been, if the volatile energy that was brimming just over the surface was anything to go by.

“I hear Axe Woves will be spending the night in the infirmary,” she started, shifting her attention away from her workstation to focus intently on the woman before her.

“He shouldn’t have touched me,” the woman defended herself with a snap, body weight rocking on her heels. “He had it coming,”

“He shouldn’t have, this is true. And yet, you should not have responded by attacking him,” the woman’s foot moved forward, though The Armorer’s hand raised to both stop her advance and stop her rebuttal. “Whatever your feelings about the Duchess Satine’s death, reacting in anger is no way to mourn,”

“You don’t get to tell me how to mourn my sister,” Bo snapped, fingers flexing into tight fists. It was clear that the Mandalorian was ready to snap, that she was looking for somebody who would give her a proper fight. The Armorer was not loathe to the fact that it would be her to spur the coming altercation.

“You are mourning a woman who could barely be considered Mandalorian. A woman who gave up her armor and way of life, and then pushed it on to everyone else, banning those who did not wish to conform. Is she worth wasting the breath, now?”

Bo-Katan’s windup was fast, just enough to register in The Armorer’s brain and give her body a moment to tense. Her head snapped to the side, shuffling backwards to regain her balance with the force of the woman’s fist crashing into her face. “You don’t get to talk about her like that,” Venom dropped from her voice, fingers flexing from the spasming of muscle in her hand. There would forever be permanent damage from the way her hand had been broken, leading to what could be considered a merciful punch, despite the way it still had hit like getting kicked by a Bantha.

The next punch was met with empty air as The Armorer moved around her fist to land her own blow into the woman’s chest. The woman was sent off kilter, but responded in turn with her foot kicking out into the leather padding of The Armorer’s shin.

Blue dodged out of the way of the grappling attempts from gold, feet and fists lashing out between the two women. The Armorer stayed silent as she moved around a leg sweep, her elbow driving into the hard metal on Bo-Katan’s back, thanking whatever power led to the woman leaving her jetpack at home for the day.

Bo-Katan lost her footing at the downward pressure applied to the small of her back, a feral sounding growl leaving her helmet’s vocoder as she stumbled. The Armorer pulled up against the woman the moment she found an opening, forcing her arms under Bo-Katan’s elbows, locking behind her back, and then forcing the woman into her workbench with a loud slam, the wooden legs of the table creaking with the force the Mand’alor was shoved into it.

Bo twisted and turned, writhing to find some way to break the impenetrable hold. Her hips bucked back against The Armorer, who leaned her body into her to keep her pinned, her feet kicking into her shins, stomping on her boots, and catching on her apron in her vain attempts to free herself.

When The Armorer tried moving both of Bo-Katan’s wrists to one hand, the woman managed to free herself. The bench moved back with the force of the woman shoving herself away from the pin, when she turned, her foot raised to plant firmly into The Armorer’s gut and shove her back.

The uppercut that The Armorer retorted with was enough to have Bo-Katan’s head snapping back, the pressure seal of her helmet breaking with the force of it and leaving the armor askew and clouding her gaze. There was no gentleness in the way Bo-Katan removed her helmet and threw it to the floor, where it scraped across the stone and jagged rock formations that littered the inside of the forge.

Her hair was a mess, her cheeks reddened, lips dry and chapped from the heavy breathing that moved her entire chest. Her eyes held an intense anger, though the thrill and excitement of being evenly matched was clear. Purple bruises were already forming along the pale skin of her jaw and cheek, with darker purpling closest to her cheekbone where the helmet had bashed into her face with the hit.

Bo’s arms spread, urging The Armorer to swing again. When she did just that, Bo managed to force her knee up into The Armorer’s stomach with force, keeping her doubled over enough that she’d put a hand on the top of her helmet and shoved her backwards.

With the space created between them, the two warriors began circling each other, Bo, with a snarl on her lips, and The Armorer, with a practiced indignation. When she’d passed her workbench once more, the blacksmith slid her hammer from the surface, hefting its weight in her hand as they continued their walk. This seemed to only excite the fiery woman more, as the vibroblade inside her gauntlet unsheathed quickly.

When they met again, it was with metal meeting metal, knife meeting hammer. With the proximity, Bo-Katan had managed to kick into The Armorer’s bad knee, sending her down to one knee and causing her to drop her weapon. In the next second, the woman’s boot found her chest plate and kicked her to the floor.

“Get up,” Bo rasped as she put distance between them again. She was tiring, but the anger still vibrated the core of her being, keeping her blood burning as she kicked the hammer back to The Armorer as she raised on her knees.

The Armorer’s leg wobbled from the hit, a decade old pain shooting from her knee and leaving her leg practically locked. She took up her hammer once more, testing its weight with her flared up knee injury, staring down the bellicose woman across from her.

Teeth bared, Bo-Katan charged once more, the hammer swung into her side, but to no avail, without being able to put her full weight on her leg, she wasn’t able to put enough power behind the swing to divert her course. The redhead slammed into her with the force of a hundred mythosaurs, leaving The Armorer just enough time to dodge her head out of the way of the bladed gauntlet aimed towards her visor.

She’d have to call it, but Bo-Katan was very much out for blood, pushing herself far enough to chase her anger and her thrill. Over exerting herself, The Armorer jammed her knee upwards as the redhead moved to straddle her. Their positions were reversed in short order, both panting, hot breath filling her helmet as blood and spittle dripped from the Mand’alor’s mouth.

With enough of a struggle to have her wheezing, The Armorer managed to roll Bo-Katan onto her stomach, forcing one arm behind her back, while carefully avoiding the blade in the gauntlet, and forcing her other arm against the ground. It was a struggle to remove the grappling wire from the armor with one hand, but she wasn’t an expert in her craft for nothing.

Once the length of grappling wire was removed, she started forcing the redhead’s other arm behind her back. Bo-Katan kicked and tried to throw her off, but the woman was heavier, and she’d worn herself out, her muscles aches and screamed their protests with each contraction as she writhed.

The wire was wrapped tight from her wrists, halfway up her forearms, locked in tight with the grapple hook. Bo-Katan seethed beneath her, insults in a mixture of languages, basic, mando’a, huttese, even the growls and grunts of Tusken left the older woman as she tried to free herself.

As she struggled, and The Armorer fought to regain herself while keeping the woman pinned, the woman was able to decipher the confusing insults: none of them had been directed towards the people she’d lashed out at, but herself, instead. “Lady Kryze,” she tried to call, one last attempt to soothe the inferno that was the youngest Kryze sister.

Her hand reached around to try and still her writhing head, to stop her forehead from smashing into stone. Instead, she was met with the feeling of sharp teeth sinking into the thick leather of her glove, a stinging pressure behind four too-sharp-to-be-human canines, and the warm mixture of blood and spit soaking into her glove.

Her other hand reached away from bound wrists to tangle into sweat damp hair, yanking back hard enough to have the woman yelling out, releasing the hand in her mouth as her head was wrenched backwards.

The woman’s writhing form stilled for as long as The Armorer kept her hair pulled in her fist, the woman’s response to the painful stimuli was telling, and while it was something they’d talked about when this had first begun between them, The Armorer had yet to see Bo-Katan in such a state.

She was used to burning herself out in these fits of anger, would fight anyone who got close enough until no one would come near her, and then take several days to recover, no one had ever stuck around long enough to attempt to aid in releasing the violent energy (not that she’d wanted them to, there wasn’t anyone she’d ever really trusted like this, to give back what she put down, and still offer some sort of care in return). The Armorer’s weight shifted once more, sliding off the redhead’s back. With a violent shake, the taller woman tried to break her bonds, to no avail.

The Armorer hauled her up by the wrists, before she found herself once more slammed into the workbench. The kicking and squirming resumed, though each hit that landed felt like nothing as the woman spent herself on the thought of freedom.

She preferred to take her time with the woman, to go slow enough and give her a clear way out each time, instead, with her hand reburied in Bo-Katan’s hair and pressing her face into the cool metal of the work bench, The Armorer levelled her head near a red-tipped ear. “You are going to tell me if I have to stop, and you are going to get the attitude fixed,” She growled, low and venomous in her ear.

Bo-Katan growled and bucked back against her. “Go fuck yourself,” she snarled, even as she arched her back and pressed her hips up into the warm hips that kept her against the table. The anger was still palpable, but there was no doubt that the arousal was there, that the wire digging into her flight suit and scratching the paint on her gauntlets didn’t do something to her.

There was no one she trusted enough to fight like this, and even less people she trusted to bind her arms uselessly behind her back like this. Even through the cloudy haze of seething anger, Bo-Katan could still recognize the relative safety of the situation.

Her armor was tossed away with as much care as her helmet was., her flight suit ripped at the clasps, only the upper half of anything remained, the leather holsters attached to her belt hung loose against shaking, sweat and slick damp thighs. The ripped remains of her flight suit pooled uselessly around her greaves and ankles. When cool air met flushed skin and a warm cunt, the woman clenched around nothing.

The Armorer did not bother to wait, not with how violently the woman was contortioning herself to keep fighting. She yanked off her glove in one fluid motion, before shifting to stuff the leather in Bo-Katan’s mouth, leaving the woman confused when she’d snapped at the prospect of digging her teeth into flesh again, and met only the thick softness of leather filling her mouth, without the promise of flesh and blood inside.

Two bare fingers slipped into the Mand’alor, who groaned and growled against the glove in her mouth. She could spit it out, if she’d truly wanted, though, between the lewd squelching of her fingers setting a brutal pace against Bo-Katan’s cunt, she could hear the creaking of the leather in her mouth as she’d chewed on the thick hide. Drool dripped from the corner of the redhead’s lips, while her hips bucked back into the harsh pace that was set.

When The Armorer’s fingers slipped from her spasming cunt, Bo-Katan’s forehead dropped against the metal of the table with a hard thunk, her foot once more trying to land a substantial hit back against The Armorer’s bad knee.

Instead of sending The Armorer down once more, Bo-Katan was met with a sharp sting against her ass and the sound of flesh smacking against flesh ringing in her ears. She’d gasped hard against the glove in her mouth, back arching as her ass raised into the air.

The next smack was expected, but the relief and arousal was not minimized one bit. Tears sprang to her eyes at the register of pain, though she did not let one fall, even as The Armorer set a pace that involved dipping her fingers into her cunt, only to retrieve them and smack her ass again. Red marks painted her backside, from the bottoms of her thighs, to the seat of her ass, though each time the palm of The Armorer’s hand smacked against her absolutely soaked cunt, Bo-Katan’s writhing would increase tenfold. The tears started to fall by the fifth repeat of the torturous pleasure, until she was breathing in deep, muffled gasps from behind the glove. Cheeks painted as deep a red as her ass, pupils blown wide, and a mix of blood and drool in a nearly dry river from the corner of her lips.

When The Armorer’s fingers dug back in, there were three nimble digits to spread her out. Her hips jutted back into each rough thrust, with her tongue, she pushed the glove from her mouth, letting it fall against the workbench with a wet thunk. Her breaths came heavy and uncontrolled, chest heaving and arms pulling at tight restraints as she lost herself to the rhythm of fingers curling into the textured coil inside, on the fires that spread from the knot in her stomach all the way.

“Ekur ni,” Bo’s command came out raspy, hesitance thick, despite the anger ebbing into the tone.

The Armorer responded smoothy, her free hand moving from the back of Bo-Katan’s neck to curl around her throat. Pressure was applied to the front of her throat, causing the woman’s eyes to roll to the back of her head, her walls clamping down on The Armorer’s fingers as her orgasm crested the horizon. Each breath came in a restricted wheeze, though the woman rode herself hard back on The Armorer’s fingers with each breath.

She could feel the moment the fight had finally left her body, released with the slick that coated The Armorer’s fingers and the insides of her thighs, when she went to remove her hand from the woman’s throat, there was a quiet command of “Don’t,” Too quiet to hear, she would have missed it if she hadn’t been watching her face so intently for some signal of discomfort.

The Mand’alor kept herself leaned into the hand that was cutting off her air, even after the other woman’s fingers slid from her cunt, she seemed lost in the world of her own wheezing breaths. Wiping off the mess from her fingers onto the ripped back of Bo-Katan’s flight suit, The Armorer started to categorize each injury on the both of them, as far as she could look still leaned over Bo and holding her throat in the palm of her hand.

“I am going to let go now,” The Armorer warned, once the redhead’s eyes started to cloud and each breath grew more of a struggle to take. She was gentle in releasing her bruised throat, guiding her head to rest on the table instead of letting it smack against the metal once more.

From her position, she could see the dark bruises that covered the front and sides of shaking thighs, along with the red-hot sting of abused flesh across the backs of her thighs and her ass. Shoving up part of her flight suit, The Armorer prodded the bruised skin across her ribcage, frowning to herself when she felt the displacement among her ribs. The Armor should have protected her from the swing of the hammer, though they had fought quite a while, and the edge of the table had found the already damaged space on more than one occasion.

Bo-Katan stayed limp against the table, allowing The Armorer’s hands to roam across her spent body, her breaths still coming in deep and uncontrolled. When she was sure the older woman would not lash out again, the wire around her wrists was carefully undone and tossed to the side with her discarded armor. The fabric around the cable had ripped and torn into flesh with the Mand’alor’s struggling, though the woman did not seem phased by any of it.

“You’ll take care of me..?” Bo-Katan rasped as The Armorer started to peel away the rest of her armor and ruined flight suit, shifting with each tap against her body as fabric and armor was pulled away.

“Always,” The Armorer promised fervently, her bare thumb pressing into the damp skin on the insides of her wrist. “How is your hand?” She questioned as she pressed into the curled up extremity. Without her glove, the bruising and swelling was substantial, fingers twitching with every press into damaged tissue, though she was unable to straighten any of her fingers.

Bo-Katan went silent once more, body lax against the table as The Armorer waited for a response. “Mesh’la,” She called, raising a hand to card through and straighten out her hair, wincing to herself at the strands of hair that came free with her hand.

There was a quiet, keening sound from the woman who’d pressed her face against the cool table. The quiet sniffle and near hyperventilative breath had worried The Armorer, who caught the wet shine of tears pooling down her face and dripping onto the table, the small pool streaming to the edge of the caving in table in thin rivulets.

“Cyar’ika,” She tried again, as Bo-Katan’s body shook with a mixture of emotion and exhaustion.

“Don’t want to talk,” She whispered into the metal, before she started to shift her body just enough to push herself up on shaking arms.

The Armorer nodded her head in understanding, shifting back to allow the woman to rise up once more and to aid her in turning around to face her. The Armorer then assisted the Mand’alor into jumping back up onto the table, though they were both immediately hit with the startled yelp of pain from the woman, who’d leaned as much of her weight into the woman in front of her to ease off her ass.

“Let me help you to the room,” The Armorer spoke after a few moments of Bo-Katan’s heavy breathing in her ear. When Bo nodded, The Armorer helped her up once more. Truthfully, they’d both leaned on each other for support as The Armorer led the way to the small room that occupied the great forge. Bo-Katan stood bonelessly against the wall beside the door, watching The Armorer move around with tired eyes.

They kept everything they needed in the room, from bacta, to sedatives (a long story), to any other item they may need, including extra clothes and flight suits. With the small fire lit and casting dancing shadows across the room, The Armorer went about gathering supplies.

“Come,” She called once she settled against the edge of the bed, her leg spread out to take pressure off her knee. Bo came obediently to stand between her legs, her nose crinkling at the sharp smell of bacta invading her nostrils. Generous amounts of patches and salve were spread across damaged skin, and a scan was taken over her ribs with the small handheld device that confirmed the crack. “You are going to take it easy, six weeks, at least,” The Armorer spoke with no room for argument, leaving the woman to simply nod in a quiet understanding.

There was a small shift in the woman, before Bo-Katan was being tugged gently and guided across her lap. The pliable woman allowed herself to be moved, relishing in the moment to press her sweaty forehead against the hot/cold feeling of her apron. A cool sensation numbed away the stinging heat of her backside, applied with more care than Bo-Katan figured she’d deserved, enough to nearly bring tears to her eyes once more.

When she was finished, Bo-Katan, still pliant as ever, allowed The Armorer to shift and move her around as she pleased, until she was resting back in the soft furs and the downy sheets from Coruscant. The Armorer did not lay back with her, which rose a sound of argument from the exhausted redhead.

“My leg,” Was the only response Bo-Katan received, though she’d understood easy enough. She had landed a pretty solid hit to her weak point, she’d doubted it would feel much better without heaps of bacta either.

“Do you need help?” She questioned, even knowing she would be turned down. The most she’d seen of the woman’s skin had been of strong hands, hardened by a long life of work. It was truly an honor to see as much of the woman, one she would never believe she was worthy of, but one she would never take for granted.

“I need you to rest, Mesh’la,” The Armorer’s voice was soft as she reached to card her fingers through Bo-Katan’s hair until the woman’s eyes drifted closed, the crackling of the fire and the soft sound of the woman’s voice reciting old poems giving her a serene soundscape to fall asleep to.

Translations: -mesh’la – beautiful -cyar’ika – darling, sweetheart -ekur ni – choke me

[oh-katsuki]

Where The Panther Killed The Stag (Hanma x Reader)

masterlist | ao3 | series masterlist

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Pairing: Hanma x Reader

Series Content Warnings: THIS SERIES IS A PSYCHOLOGICAL HORROR AND INCLUDES THEMES OF: murder, violence, abuse, alcohol consumption, mentions of drugs, hard kinks, rumination, guilt, depersonalization, dub/noncon, organized crime, mind break, and other similar themes. 

Summary: You're a good student at the top of your university class and the vice president of your student-led club. A shiny toy on the top shelf of your social circle. Hanma likes toys he can break. Slowly but surely, you begin to spiral into a twisted situation that is entirely out of your control, putting your life and the lives of the people around you at stake.

Or, Hanma takes an interest in the University of Tokyo's resident good girl.

Chapter Title: Mice, Men, and Those Above Them

Chapter Content Warnings: fem!reader, mentions of violence, threats, slight feelings of helplessness

Word Count: 2.8k

A/N: I’d like to thank my ADHD for giving me the power to complete this series. I’ll be posting it on a bi-weekly basis on Tuesdays and Saturdays for the next six weeks. For now, please enjoy the first chapter and be sure to heed the content warnings as the series progresses!

You have never made waves. Well, not in the traditional negative sense. You have always been an overachiever, someone who stands out from your peers in the best way. You’ve always got your best foot forward, a star student at the top of your university, recognized yearly for your achievements with the pretty certificate to match. As far as everyone is concerned, you are the absolute cream of the crop. But you never cause trouble. 

In the small town you grew up in outside of Tokyo, Nikko, you’re something of a celebrity. When you come home to visit the quiet streets of your hometown, people recognize you. They stop you and ask how you’ve been, if your studies are going well, before calling you their pride and joy. The mountain city is quaint but beautiful, famous for the shrine built nearby after the 17th century. Nothing really ever changes there and people tend to stick to the same ordinary mold, so when you got accepted into the University of Tokyo and decided to leave that cycle, people talked. They called you exceptional. 

You attend the University of Tokyo on a merit scholarship, are overly involved in school activities, and are a well-known face throughout all of campus. If there is something going on, it’s likely that you’ve been a part of organizing it. That’s just how you are. A good girl with a good streak who wouldn’t dream of stepping out. 

Still, you’re a people pleaser. You’ve known this about yourself since you were young, finding yourself bending to meet the will of others and coast by as a “good kid”. It’s what earned you these grades, glowing recommendations from teachers that earned you a spot at one of the most prestigious universities in Japan. You should be proud and you absolutely are. 

In exchange for the ability to have complete control over your future, you give up any chance of mistakes. One slip up and that beautiful future you’ve crafted comes crumbling down. You can’t afford to let your iron grip on yourself slip. 

So you don’t drink, you don’t smoke, you don’t party, or date, or have sex because none of those things fit into your life narrative. God knows you’ll probably settle down with a man (probably a medical student), work, have kids, and retire to become a housewife who runs their home with charts and lists and bulletin boards. 

You will probably marry someone like Ichiro Hasegawa. Clean cut and grad school bound, he should be sitting across from you in your club board meeting. In your free time on campus, you run a student collective for learning how to network in business. It’s a large club with about 300 active members and a small board of twelve students who ensure that organization activities run smoothly. You are the Vice President, set to take Hasegawa’s place as President next year during your final year of university before graduating. Elections will be held next quarter in March. 

Ichiro has dark hair and wears glasses. He’s a lot like you and honestly, you quite like him, even as his seat remains glaringly empty while the treasurer rambles on about next quarter’s budget. It’s all incredibly boring and though you enjoy the responsibility, his spiel has you tapping your foot against the floor in exasperation. 

“Will we still be hosting the job expo next quarter?” He turns to you, leaning forward. “I know by that time it’ll be a new council rotation, but it’s good to know for budgeting.” 

“Looks like it. We’ve just got to book a venue on campus and contact companies for programming, then we should be set. I can forward you the list of contacts later.” You chime, not needing to check your notes. It’s easy now, to put on that little fake smile and pretend you’re having a good time. You remind yourself that it’s all for your future. All of this will pay off when you have your dream job and the cushy corporate life you’ve always dreamed of. 

“Sorry I’m late.” Hasegawa closes the club room door behind him, adjusting the collar of his sweater with a nervous hand. 

He’s handsome, really handsome. Even now, as he takes a somewhat hurried seat across from you, you find yourself admiring how put-together he looks, the way the light from outside hits his dark hair and high cheekbones at a perfect angle. Yeah, you could definitely marry someone like Hasegawa. 

“A text would have been nice.” The treasurer pipes up. Ever the straight edge. You don’t take the time to admire the irony in that thought. 

Hasegawa gives you a look over his glasses that makes you instinctively straighten, nerves humming through your body as you toss him a shrug. You’re unable to protest the other’s statement, but you feel heat rise to your cheeks nonetheless. Something about him makes you nervous. This delightfully innocent back and forth the two of you have shared for the better half of the year almost makes the stress worth it. 

The meeting continues about as smoothly as any meeting before it had. Hasegawa picks up the slack that you have been unable to pick up and pushes forward until the meeting nears its close, all the while sneaking you pleasant glances across the table. It’s positively middle school, but something about the way he peers at you makes you shiver pleasantly. Maybe he’ll ask you out, not that you have time for dating right now anyway. 

You find yourself slipping into a pleasant daydream, one where you can relax a little bit and let him take you on a date. You might be getting ahead of yourself but hey, what’s the harm in a little fantasizing to pass the time. 

You’re torn from your daydream by the club room door opening. It’s odd, as you weren’t expecting any visitors, but you see the small, quiet boy across from you grow pale, his face falling into something that looks like terror. It isn’t until you turn to the doorway and realize just why. 

In the door frame stands perhaps one of the tallest men you’ve ever seen. He looks to be about twenty-something with jet black hair, save for the streaks of bleach blonde, yellow from a lack of toner. He wears a suit, gray with pinstripes and tailored to the inch. On his face are a pair of silver round-rimmed glasses and behind them sits the coldest pair of eyes you think you’ve ever seen. Just his presence sends a chill down your spine. 

He glances over the room with half-lidded eyes, looking bored despite the fact that he’s just rudely intruded on a meeting, and you find yourself standing from your chair on instinct. 

“Uhm, I’m sorry sir but-” You step up to him, eyes trailing up his figure as his looming presence settles over you. For a moment, he doesn’t look down, eyes staring straight ahead at Suzuki Haruto, the treasurer, whose body is rigid in the chair across the room. Then his gaze sinks down to meet yours and you’re met with stoney gold eyes. You suddenly feel like prey before a predator. “This is a uhm… private meeting.” 

“Is it?” He speaks, a rich baritone voice dripping from his lips, and you can’t detect a single ounce of care. The man looks away from you just as quickly. “Suzuki, you’re late.” 

“Hanma, sir!” The boy stands up, trembling as his eyes dart across the room and then back to the pather standing in front of you. “I know, sir. Money is tight and- and my mother she- we don’t- I’ll have it to you by Monday. Give me until then.” 

Suzuki pleads, hands stiff by his side and his slacks bunched in them. 

“So you’re in a position to beg now?” The man named Hanma replies, pulling his hands from his pocket and inspecting his nails. On the back of his hand, there is a tattoo that reads punishment. You shiver. “You think I wasted my time coming down here to hear you beg?” 

It takes you a moment to register the situation, the tattoos on his hands, the demands for money, the expensive gold and diamond earring hanging from his left ear. This man is dangerous and the alarm bells in your head are firing on all cylinders as you stand before him. Even Hasegawa is stunned into silence. 

“No, sir!” Suzuki shouts, far too loud for the room. 

“So, if I give you until Monday, you’ll have my money? All of it?” Hanma questions, tilting his head to the side. “If you don’t, I’ll take your teeth instead. As if that would cover half of your debt.” 

Hanma’s gaze drifts down to you, straight-backed in front of him. It’s bad enough that he has to take time out of his day to come collect this debt and he should be upset that he’s not getting it. Honestly, he should be taking his teeth out here one by one and making all of you watch while he does. He’s sure that would be fun and in idle passing he imagines which one of you would be sick first. But he’s bored. Hanma is so, unbelievably bored, until he sees the way you tremble when he sets his gaze on you. 

You look so… malleable. Shorter than him, though just about everyone is, and cute as a button. Hanma can’t help but think that you look like you’d be fun to break and he figures that he might just poke some fun at you in his own cruel way. 

“Need something?” He leans forward slightly, lacing his fingers together. 

Your eyes dart to his hands where you get a good look at the tattoos, and you visibly suppress a grimace, heat flooding your body because despite yourself, his fingers look enticing. Whatever energy he has, it’s making your heart race in a way entirely unfamiliar to you. Hanma looks like someone you should be on your knees for. You shake your head slightly, answering him as well as clearing your mind of whatever repulsive thought just pushed its way into your brain. 

“Uh no-” You pause. “Uh, sir.” 

Hanma stands at his full height again. “Good answer.” Not that he means it. 

He watches the way you look at him, wide-eyed. You look fun, like a new toy for him to break. Probably pretty when you’re in pain, when you’re so scared that you swear you’ve got ice in your veins. If Hanma is capable of showing interest in anything, it would be in you right now. 

Your toes are curled in your shoes, the air deathly still. If Hanma is thinking anything, you can’t tell what it is. You pray he doesn’t find your name, that he doesn’t remember your face and you acknowledge that you’re flattering yourself thinking someone like this would take an interest in you at all. You watch as Hanma tilts his head, eyes still half-lidded and bored, watching you. For your reactions, you think. Under his gaze, you feel incredibly small. 

You think he might speak again to you but instead, he looks back to Suzuki, pointing a finger at him. “Monday.” 

Before he leaves, he gives a look to the room, one that turns your limbs to lead. Despite his boredom, despite the seemingly permanent deadpan he wears, you feel yourself grow heavy within his orbit. Hanma says nothing, but you know what it’s meant to do. You know the message he means to ask and the consequences for the wrong answer. What did you see? Nothing. Nothing at all. 

And then he tells you with anything but words, one simple twitch of his eyes as they narrow slightly, that it doesn’t matter anyway. You’d be dead before you even reached the station. 

—

Haesgawa ends the meeting almost immediately after Hanma leaves. Suzuki looks panicked, eyes wide as he pleads you all to forget what you saw. He tells you all that it isn’t a big deal, his own issue involving student debt. Some part of you feels bad for him, but when he begs for none of you to go to the police, you find that his words strike a chord deep in your chest. It’s incredible that Hanma could make someone feel like this. It’s incredible, but his presence felt so huge that you hadn’t noticed the two people waiting in the hall for him, two people who had gone under your nose because you were so focused on him. What is it like to have that much power?

“Are you okay?” Hasegawa catches up to you on your walk back to your apartment, His eyebrows pulled together in genuine worry. 

“Huh? Yeah? Why wouldn’t I be?” You turn, giving him a genuinely warm smile. You’re flattered he even came to ask. 

Hasegawa frowns, taking in your appearance. “I’ve never seen you like that.” 

You think back to Hanma, the way his gaze settled on you so cooly and despite your fear, something claws in your chest. Part of you wants him to look at you again, settle that cold stare on your features. You shiver at the thought of him, the defined edges of his face, sharp eyes and features, criminally beautiful, cold, and collected. 

“Oh…” You pause, licking your lips slightly and scuffing your heel against the floor. “He was just scary. That’s all.” 

You’re lying because some part of you knows that wasn’t it. Even if he is bad news, Hanma wasn’t just scary, he was terrifying, panther-like in manner and gaze. 

Hasegawa looks at you for a moment, nodding. “Do you think we should…” 

“No.” Your response is immediate and laced with panic. “No, I think that might only cause more problems for Suzuki. He asked us not to.” 

When you meet his gaze, it’s full of regret, an understanding between the both of you that speaking to anyone else about it would only make the problem worse. Hasegawa nods, fair features growing a bit solemn before he mutters a quick goodbye, suddenly uncomfortable that he’d even brought it up. 

You mull over the events of the meeting in your head for the rest of the day, distracted while you study as you imagine Hanma’s hands, long and broad, ghosting across the lapel of his suit. The way he inspected his nails as if he was thinking about how Suzuki’s blood might look under them. 

It’s not as if you don’t feel bad. You do, unbelievably so. There is a part of you that is weeping in this helpless position, not used to the lack of power you feel, but drawn to it all the same. 

Later that evening, between studying for class and bed, your fingers ghost across the keys of the keyboard, typing in the last name you’d learned. Hanma. Even typing it out feels sacrilegious, like you’re setting yourself up for some cosmic joke. 

It doesn’t take long to find information on him, hoards of it. Ironically, his job description is just “entrepreneur” on nearly every website you can find. But you’re not too concerned with it, rather, you’re concerned with the news reports on him. Scores of articles written about Hanma Shuji (which you learn is his full name) and the Tokyo-based gang Toman. 

It’s here, in your ideal bedroom, seated at your ideal desk as part of your ideal life that you learn about the less than ideal part of Tokyo that is Toman. A violent gang, more akin to white-collar criminals, run on a massive scale. Drugs, murder, informants, arrests, mass shootings, just about everything you see in those cheesy gang movies that run on late-night television. But this is real. This is real and you’ve just made yourself a witness to dangerous criminal activity. You and your perfect, squeaky clean record has just seen something that could get you killed. 

You scroll for what feels like hours before stopping at a photo of Hanma in a club, seated behind a red velvet rope. Under his arms are two beautiful young women in matching dresses and they’re fawning over him, eyes wide as he stares ahead at something off-camera, entirely unbothered. It’s that same familiar stare he gave you and you find yourself squeezing your thighs together. 

Your mind wanders back to Hanma and his tattoos, the very literal meaning behind sin and punishment and you’re certain that there is nothing you can do for your friend. Getting involved in this, going to the authorities, you’re sure that they’d hurt him for it. That his family or yours would pay the price for ratting them out. You might be a goody-two-shoes, but you have enough common sense to know your place in this particular food chain. 

You don’t sleep much that night, unable to get the memory of Hanma’s eyes out of your head. But when you do dream, you dream of a deer and a panther.

[poured-my-past-down-the-drain]

Tommy closes the door to the hotel room, twisting the lock as an afterthought.

It’s dark outside — at least as dark as Las Nevadas can be. He can see the moon high in the sky from his window and mobs peeking out between the canopy of the forest, deterred by the bright city lights.

The hotel room is dark, too. Dimly lit by lamps and barely-open offshoot rooms, just enough to keep any skin-crawling at bay. The clock is ticking above the door. 11:50, four seconds. Five seconds. Six seconds. Seven.

He put his bag down on the bed, unzipping to dig around in it. It was a very… well-loved, to say, backpack. A shoddy dark-blue dye that still stains his fingers if he touches it after washing his hands, fraying at the edges, beaten and dented pins along the front, and stuffed to the brim with odds and ends of his life.

Call it paranoia, but after exile, it gave him comfort to know if he needed to run, he could have all his necessities on hand at any given time.

He wasn’t looking for a change of clothes or a trinket bag this time, though. This time, he pulled out a box. Nothing special — just laminated thin cardboard with an order number scrawled on the top. A box, a lighter snatched from Wilbur, and a loose, slightly-crumbly, small candle.

11:55.

Tommy zipped his bag back up and moved it to the floor instead. He didn’t need it right now.

One good thing about Las Nevadas hotel rooms was that every one came with a small kitchenette. Very small, of course, but it was there. Complete with a countertop — the surface that Tommy had moved to and put his box on. Food coloring was annoying to get out of white sheets, so he didn’t want to eat on the bed, and the desk was too close to the window. He didn’t want to set up by the window. Anyone, even Him, could’ve come up through the window if they really wanted to.

He shoved down a tremble in his hands.

Instead, he focused on opening the little box.

It wasn’t anything special, really. Just a nice little treat Tommy had begged his favorite bakery for when he saw it in the window. Swearing up and down he’d pay for it once he had the funds, he’d make up what it would’ve needed, anything, as long as he could take it that night.

The baker had grumbled and caused a fuss, and absolutely quoted Tommy a price way too high for a simple little treat that he’d have to pay back eventually. But in the end, Tommy had gotten it.

A slightly stale apple-pie cupcake. Whatever that meant. It had looked delicious was what mattered.

11:57.

He took a breath.

He put the candle into the frosting, in the center of the lovely little apple-slice circle garnishing the top. He lit it, and the room felt a little less dim and dark. A little less lonely.

The past year had been equal parts the best and worst of his life. He’d spent his last birthday in exile, gifted items by Him that would eventually either hurt him or be taken away as punishment. Fed berries and fruit that was just slightly too rotted, sweet just to the point it was sickeningly so, and— and just in case he had been considering leaving Logstead, wither roses.

He loved using those to zap away Tommy’s energy to leave.

Ashy, awful, sharp. Sometimes the flavor was sweet, too, but often it was just ashy, awful, and sharp. They’d turn into sulfury tar in his throat, congealing and thickening enough it would be hard to breathe past them until he was done, trembling, too exhausted to even think of going anywhere. Begging for company past his tears, begging Him not to leave him alone again, not while he was like this.

And feeling indebted, somehow, when He would stay with Tommy until he fell asleep. Like how Wilbur used to.

But he’d gotten away from Him, too, since his last birthday. He’d died, of course. Died and came back. But so had Wilbur — his brother had come back, and came back to him, too. He got Wilbur back, for better or worse. He made up with Tubbo, even, and became part of that family.

Quackity became part of his daily life. It had been so, so long since Tommy had an adult who didn’t want to see him worse.

If Wilbur had to choose anyone to stay in their lives, Tommy was glad it was Quackity. Quackity and Wilbur were both fucked up but at least they were both too stubborn to leave. Or change, for that matter.

Tommy had even found someone he wanted to keep in his life, too. After plenty of… internal turmoil, of course. But he wanted Tubbo to stay — and the most unbelievable part was that Tubbo wanted him to stay, too.

It had been three hundred and sixty four days and twenty three hours. A lot of time, especially with how fast things could change on the Server. And things still weren’t perfect. But it was so, so much better than it had been a year ago.

11:59, fifty six seconds. Fifty seven. Fifty eight. Fifty nine.

He blew out the candle, and the room fell back into its dimness.

[epic-and-kitty]

So I needed to make a legit Twist reference post in case anyone was interested in her specifically.

These are also not in order of when they were drawn and one contains a spoiler for her ask blog but by the time that gets rolling this will probably be burried in the depths of Tumblr

If you have anything to ask about her, do so here or @thingsmysplattershotjrtoldme

[eternalxbarbie]

look what you made me do II LUCILINE

I don’t like your perfect crime, how you laugh when you lie. You said the gun was mine, isn’t cool. No, I don’t like you. I got smarter, I got harder in the nick of time. Honey, I rose up from the dead, I do it all the time. I’ve got a list of names and yours is in red, underlined. 

Today was the day that she was finally going to tell her mother about her relationship. It was a nerve-wracking thought. Caroline wasn’t sure that Liz was going to understand or approve of her dating Klaus, much less dating both Klaus and Stefan. Her mother had always been old-fashioned, and nerves swirled in the pit of the vampire’s stomach as she made her way out of the dorm and to her car.

Lucien had been waiting for her. The pair had not seen each other since that fateful Halloween party and he knew the blonde would be a mess just at the sight of him, so he approached slowly. “Caroline,” he greeted, keeping his distance.

Fear flashed in her blue eyes immediately just at the sound of his voice and she hoped like hell that he hadn’t seen it. Dark veins danced around her eyes, fangs snapping into place as she glared at him. “We have nothing to say to each other,” she spat out, pulling her keys out to unlock her car door.

He ghosted to her side, turning her around and pushing her back against the car. One arm stayed on each side of her head and Caroline was paralyzed with fear. The idea of his fangs in her neck again spurred her on, however. It didn’t matter how much older or stronger he was in that moment. She was angrier. Caroline shoved him off of her with all her might, hissing as he stumbled backwards.

“Why the hell can’t you just leave me alone?” she growled out, rage flashing in her eyes.

“You know why!” Lucien spat back. “You know why and you could help me and yet you refuse.”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you. You assaulted me for no reason. You traumatized me for no reason. I owe you nothing.”

Lucien sighed, one hand coming up to run through his hair as he watched her try to open the door to her car yet again, only to find her hands shaking with a mix of anger and fear.

“Caroline,” he repeated, softer this time. “She won’t be waiting for you.”

Those words were enough to stop her in her tracks. She turned, achingly slowly, to face him again. “What are you talking about?” she asked, voice full of quiet rage.

“Your mother,” Lucien said simply. “She won’t be waiting for you.”

No. No, that couldn’t be true. She had just spoke to her mom only a few minutes before. Liz had been on her way to respond to a car crash just on the outside of the border and then she was going to wait at Caroline’s apartment outside of Mystic Falls so that they could go to lunch. They had just spoken.

“You’re lying,” she said slowly, taking deliberate steps towards the older man. “She’s inside the border. Even if you compelled someone to go after her, the compulsion would wear off once they were inside.”

“If they had to go inside, that would be true,” Lucien answered.

And then it clicked. The car accident. He’d planned this. This was all another part of his sick, twisted little game.

“If you do anything to my mother, I won’t hesitate to destroy you. I swear to God, Lucien, if you hurt my mother–––”

He held up a hand to stop her. “I won’t be the one that hurts her, Caroline.”

What the hell did that mean? Lucien pulled out his phone, dialing a number and grinning when the person on the other end of the line answered. “Hello, love. Yes, I have Caroline right here. She’d like to speak to you, if you have a moment.” He held the phone out to the blonde, smirking. “It’s for you.”

Caroline took his phone, staring at Lucien in horror as she put the device to her ear. “Hello?” she whispered, unprepared for who might be on the other end.

“Hi, Care. Everything okay?”

That wasn’t what she was expecting. Her stomach dropped and she could feel tears springing to her eyes. Stefan. Lucien had compelled Stefan.

“Hi, honey,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm as she spoke. Her eyes stayed on Lucien’s glaring at the older vampire as his smug smirk stayed in place. “Is...Is my mom okay?”

“Yeah, of course,” Stefan answered, confusion evident in his voice. “We’re at your apartment. Nik said that she’s not safe, so I have to stay with her for a while, but we’ll keep each other company. I’ve always liked spending time with your mom.”

Nik? There was no way that Klaus had told him to do that without informing Caroline.

“Stefan, when did you talk to Nik about that?” she asked. Lucien looked positively gleeful now and Caroline was terrified for the answer to come.

“Care, are you sure you’re okay? He literally just handed you the phone.”

Realization and horror dawned on Caroline’s face as Lucien snatched the phone from her hand. “Stefan, I don’t think our girl is feeling too well. I’m going to mend her right up and then give you a ring back. Take care of Liz for us. Kisses.”

Caroline’s hand was wrapped around the older man’s throat as soon as he ended the call. “You son of a bitch.”

It was Lucien’s turn to push her off now, sending the blonde sprawling backwards. He straightened his suit jacket as he waited for her to return to her feet. “I’m going to explain a few things to you now, darling, and you better listen close because I’m only going to do this once.”

“Stefan and I met in Chicago in the 1920′s. We,,,how should I phrase this? Rekindled our connection the night of the Halloween party. Luckily, I happened to catch him after he had been off of vervain for a few days and compelling him was easier than I could have ever imagined. At first, I just had him bring me information but when it became obvious that neither Nik nor you were going to budge on your stance regarding the sire lines, I had to take a more nuclear option. And when I heard from one of my little bird’s that the two of you threatened Casandra? Well, let’s just say that I now had the proper motivation to put my plan into action.”

Caroline remained silent, as much as she wanted to break the vampire’s neck and get to the border and rescue her mother and boyfriend. She needed to figure out exactly what he had in place so she knew how to stop it.

“So, I compelled Stefan to think that I was Niklaus. Nik and his siblings forced me to pretend to be him for over a century, so I’m just taking a page from their own playbook. I sent him to Mystic Falls, and I put in the fake call to the police station about an accident. Your mother made it to the scene, and as soon as Stefan saw her, the compulsion kicked in. The benefit of compelling someone your mother knows to kidnap her is that she’s resistant to fight back. Getting her to that handy little apartment you have on the outskirts of Mystic Falls was easy. My men are watching the building, of course, and will be quick to inform me if you or Nik go to try to stage a rescue attempt. If you do, one phone call to Stefan and my handy dandy compulsion will kick in and then it’s bye-bye Mommy.”

The blonde was coursing with rage at this point and she couldn’t stop herself from interjecting. “And what is it that you’re trying to accomplish here? What do you want from me?”

Lucien grinned. “Now, now, Caroline! I can’t spoil the game that far ahead. If I tell you what I truly want, Nik will have time to plan for it. So, in the short term, I can let you know that the way to get your mother released is simple. If you agree to come to my apartment and be spelled inside the premises by a little witchy friend of mine, I’ll let Stefan and your mother go.”

“Fine,” she said immediately. “I’ll do it. Just let them be.”

Lucien shakes his head. “No, no, no. I want you and Klaus to discuss it first. I want you to suffer, I want him to suffer, and I want to see which one of you he’ll pick to give up. Will he choose his longtime flame, Stefan Salvatore? Or you, the girl that took his world by storm? Whichever one of you he chooses to give up...well, that’s gotta hurt. I’ll give you a week or so, then you give me your decision. Until then, no funny business or Liz bites the dust. And look on the bright side! I just saved you a three hour car ride, love.”

Caroline can’t do anything but glare at him, her hands clenched into fists by her sides. How had they not seen this coming? How had she not better protected both Liz and Stefan? She had to find Klaus.

Lucien blew the blonde a kiss as he started to depart. “I look forward to your decision, love. Toodaloo!”

[crow-with-a-pencil]

Was trying to get inspiration for the thing and ended up rereading your story twisted kelp and yellow eyes. i didnt remember the last part with mel and now my heart hurts.

does mel ever find beetle after that?

Yes, actually! They meet again 9 years later in a much different place, and are currently friends. Both were uhhhhh... anxious after the last encounter, to say the least, but they're still besties in the end.

Also, for those who haven't read, feel free to check out the 11k oc story I wrote a few months back, along with a short reunion epilogue (assuming this link works hhhhh)

Won't spoil anything specific, but your answer lies at the end of the dock.

[rustyarcade]

CONTENT WARNING FOR:

Homophobia

Minor violence

Mention of suicidal thoughts

The next chapter for my Wenclair series! This one is a bit tough to read so it’s alright if you skip it. Hope you like it!

Summary:

Wednesday meets Enid’s family. But things don’t work out.

[polyamorouspunk]

You seem like a nice guy but probs a bit scary to get on your bad side. And you fight terfs so bonus points ig

I’m gonna say yes to that because I have bpd and I’m VERY good at manipulating people and gaslighting them and playing the blame game and it’s very easy for me to frame myself as the victim and anyone else as the “bad guy” and that spills out when I’m upset and a lot of times even “taking accountability for my own actions” feels like just a piece in my “games” if you will to make myself more credible. I’m not so much of a scary angry person so much as a I will make you cry and make you feel like you’re the one at fault while I’m bully you. I DON’T do that anymore, I do want to be clear about that, but before my bpd started to be treated I was a very shitty person who sometimes made people feel bad about themselves just from them disagreeing with me. However, yes, I have dissociated and done some violent things or said some violent things and I think that leans more towards “angry violence” stuff. I’ve had people fear that I was going to attack them with a knife and kill them legitimately so like yeah, I have Scary Cluster B Mental Illness That Makes Me Prone To Angry Outburts, but like, I am harmless really, like, I’m *not* going to stab someone in their sleep, it��s a lot of that misunderstanding like oh of course the girl with the scary mental illness is a serial killer! vibe which I embrace for the aesthetic.

[flowersandskeletons526]

“Anyone Who Doubts My Love is a Liar” - Marcanne oneshot

This was just a really quick thing inspired by art from @clums1ly on twitter and I haven’t been able to get the little fic idea out of my head. This is the quickest thing ever and I am SO exhausted I have no idea how good this is. Enjoy!

----

“How long is Sasha going to be at the conference?” 

Marcy stooped over their tablet, painstakingly lining one part of the comic panel for the umpteenth time trying to get it right. In the next room at the kitchen table, Anne leafed through a stack of reports and sorted them into various piles by the aquarium departments discussed. The shuffling paused for a moment as she answered, “Just a week.” 

“When did he leave?”

“This morning.”

“How many times have I asked this now?”

“Three in the past hour.”

Marcy grumbled and flopped their head down on their desk, resting their head on the cool wood beside their tablet. Anne giggled. The chair scraped over the floor, and then Anne was pulling on their jacket to sit them up and wrapping her arms around their neck.

“I miss him already, too,” she said. “It’ll be quick. He promised to call us tomorrow morning and every time he gets the chance.”

Marcy leaned their head back, and Anne placed a quick kiss on their lips. They smiled as she smirked down at them. “Am I being overdramatic?”

“Mm… I can’t really say anything. You know how I feel about that stupid motorcycle and I’m not a fan of him driving it so far. I really wish he would have gotten a train ticket or a bus or something else besides that thing.”

“Oh, come on, you know he loves that thing. Besides, he drives better than I can walk.”

“Marbles, that does not make me feel better at all.” 

“Anne!” 

“I’m teasing,” she sang. “He’ll be okay. He won’t be gone long at all.”

“I know logically it’s not long but… I just don’t really, you know…”

“Don’t like him being away so long?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t either. It’ll be okay, though. Trust me, it’ll go fast, and we both have work to keep us occupied and you have that big Creatures and Caverns campaign this Friday, right?” 

Marcy leapt to their feet, nearly headbutting Anne. “Shit, I forgot that was this week! I have to get my plans together, I have such a huge plot point coming up in the story and I still have so many details I have to work out! This group is ridiculous, I swear to Frog, I have to come up with fifty different scenarios to prepare for every weird idea they come up with, Anne you wouldn’t believe it!”

Anne doubled over laughing. She caught their sleeve and pulled them into her, quickly calming the surprised panic as she looped both of her arms around theirs. She had to stand on tiptoe to kiss their cheek now, something that neither they nor Sasha ever stopped teasing her for. They melted into her and shifted so she could put her arms around their neck. She moved the long part of their hair out of the way, scratching lightly at the undershave as they closed their eyes. They gave her a quick squeeze and pulled her flush against them. 

“I’m going to start dinner,” she said. “Will you help me before you get started on your campaign plans? I know you haven’t eaten yet today, so don’t even argue with that, and you’re good at getting the measurements exactly.” 

They flashed a dopey, hopeless, lovesick grin. “You know I can’t say no to you.” 

“Yeah, I know. Come on.” 

Marcy quickly saved their drawing before following along.

Later that night, settled into bed, they spent hours staring at the ceiling. Anne was fast asleep, snoring softly and curled up against their side, clinging to their arm. She fell asleep like hitting a switch, despite the fact that she conversely had to set at least ten alarms to wake up on time in the morning. They were jealous, almost, especially now that they were once again lying awake, exhausted but not tired, or at least not in a way that signaled to their brain to turn off already. It was made even worse by the cold, empty space on their other side.

They had gotten so used to the three of them cuddled together every night since they moved in together. They were used to Anne beneath their arm or cuddled against their back, used to Sasha hiding his face against their neck or lying on their chest and always so delicately considerate of their scar. They liked the comfort after so long apart, and the trio wasn’t utterly inseparably codependent anymore, but still…

Anne mumbled in her sleep and wriggled closer to them. Heaving a sigh, they squeezed their eyes shut. It was only a week and they had a myriad of things to distract themself. It would pass before they knew it.

----

“We want nothing to do with you.”

Marcy stares at Anne and Sasha. They were so young back then - before Sasha cut his hair, before Anne developed the little metallic lightning bolt scars covering her body, before Marcy got the chance to apologize and do everything they possibly could to make up for their mistake, no matter how often their girls assured them they didn’t have to, not anymore, not after everything that happened to them. And now here they are again, their little young selves, telling Marcy once again that all that the mistakes had gone too far to forgive. 

They clap their hands over their ears and violently shake their head. “You can’t do this to me, not again,” they beg. Spots of orange open in the grass beneath their feet. “It’s lazy, you know that? You don’t even get it right!” 

“How about this?”

Marcy looks up. Their girls, their girls as they are now, watch them from across the open meadow. Their eyes are wrong, dull and empty and devoid of all the beautiful light that Marcy so often finds themself getting lost in, and they recognize that but it’s so hard to look past everything else. All they can focus on is the unadulterated hatred on the specters’ faces. 

“Everything has to be just right with you,” says Anne. “You’re so clingy.”

“You can’t stand a single change,” says Sasha. “Anything out of routine makes you freak out.”

And then, in unison:

“You really can’t do anything without us, can you?”

Marcy clenches their jaw and presses the heels of their hands into their eyes. More orange eyes open in the sky as Marcy falls to their knees. The voice - no, voices - that come next are horrifically familiar. Through the shrieking of centuries-dead geniuses, their own voice shines through, twisted with mockery and vitriol.

“You could have had everything,” the voices say. “Countless worlds. Eternal happiness. Them. You could have had them without any of the turmoil.”

“That’s not how it works.” Tears stream down Marcy’s face as they choke on hiccuping sobs. “I know that’s not how it works. The three of us talked things out and we know how to make it work now. I learned to stop hiding a long time ago and you don’t know that because you’re gone and we won and you can’t keep doing this to me!” 

“And you believe that?”

“Stop.”

“They’re lying to you, just like you lied to them. You were hurt, that’s all they feel bad for - you’re a pity case. Have you ever realized that’s what they always say when you try to apologize?”

“Stop it!” 

“‘You don’t have to make up for it, you don’t have to keep feeling sorry, you don’t have to keep apologizing because you already went through so much.’ They feel bad for you, Marcy, but we never did. We had faith in you when they didn’t. We tried to give you a world where you could have everything you wanted but you refused.”

“Shut up!”

“Don’t tell us you never regretted it.”

“I said shut the fuck up!” 

The world fractures.

----

Marcy awoke gasping. Awful burning arched between the scars on their back and chest. The room around them was split by taut strings of glowing orange light, all the pieces turned and twisted and offset from each other. Marcy clapped their hands over their eyes and tried to slow their rapidly quickening breathing. 

It wasn’t real, they told themself. Anne and Sasha loved them more than anything, they knew that. It was just a horrible nightmare with the remnant of whatever was done to them tearing their brain apart like it did almost every night for the past decade. Their girls were always there to soothe the nightmares away and assure them that all the lies the phantom voices told them were just that: lies. 

But Sasha wasn’t there. No, no, he was at his conference, that’s what it was. Marcy knew that. They shook their head and reached over to the other side, just needing to feel Anne there even if she hadn’t woken up to notice. 

Their hand meant empty sheets. They shot upright. The pain in their chest worsened. They looked around the room, dimly lit from the moon through the open curtains, and they found both of their companions to be missing. Anne was supposed to be there. Sasha, no, but Anne was supposed to be and it didn’t make sense that she wasn’t. 

Everything has to be just right with you.

“Anne?” Marcy called. The split second of silence immediately turned them frantic. Tears ran down their face. “Anne!”

Anne ducked back into the room holding a glass of water. They were already on their feet as she set the glass down and let them fall into her arms. She cupped their face, eyes wide as her brows drew together. 

“Woah, Marcy, what’s wrong?” she asked. They shook their head and buried their face against her neck. Tangling her fingers in their hair, she gently lowered them to their knees and hugged them as tight as she could without hurting them as they dissolved into a bawling mess. She kissed their shoulder, their cheek, their temple, anywhere she could reach without dislodging their head from its place. She adjusted to pull them into her lap. 

“I’m sorry,” they sobbed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.” 

“No, baby, it’s okay.”

“I-I-I just, I woke up and you, you weren’t there and they kept saying all these things-”

Oh. 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. I’m never going to leave you.” She pulled back as far as they would allow, just enough to press their foreheads together as Marcy tried to quiet the gasping pants that their breathing had quickly devolved into. “Marcy, take a deep breath. I’m here. It was just a nightmare, okay? Whatever they say, they’re lying. I promise you that they’re lying. I love you so, so much, and Sasha does too, and we’ve worked through all that. You have nothing to apologize for and beat yourself up over anymore.”

Marcy whimpered and hid their face again. “They said… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t…”

“It’s alright. If you want to tell me, you can tell me.”

They took a shaky breath. “They said… they said that you guys only stayed because-” Their voice hitched. “-because of what, what A-A-Andrias…”

Burrowing deeper into Anne’s embrace, they clutched at their chest, right over their scar. Anne nodded and stroked their hair. She knew what they wanted to say, and she would die a thousand times over again before she made them actually speak it aloud. 

“Marcy, we’re here because we love you,” she promised. “You and Sasha are the loves of my life, and I know he feels the same. You made such an insane effort even after you moved to work through things with us and within yourself. You put so much work into fixing things. It’s one of the biggest shows of love that you tried so hard, okay? I love you so, so, so much. I’m never going to leave you, I promise. Never again.” 

Marcy just nodded. Anne waited for their breathing to calm until she was comfortable with helping them to their feet and pulling them into bed with her. Wrapping her arms around their waist, she curved around her, front pressed against their back, kissing the back of their neck as the tremors and sobs wracking their body eased.

“I’ve got you,” she whispered. “I’m never going to let anything anywhere close to that happen again. If someone wants to try, they’ll have to go through me, and a literal god is my colleague so that’s going to end really badly for them.”

That got a weak, trembling laugh from Marcy. “I forget that sometimes.”

“I’m pretty sure they have the same voice as one of the characters from that show you used to watch when we were younger.”

“Which one?”

“The cartoon where ninety percent of the women are lesbians.”

The laugh was stronger this time. “I think I know what character you mean,” they said. They untangled themself and rolled onto their back, looking up as Anne as she supported herself on her elbows and leaned over them. She wiped the tears off their face, following the touch with kisses and making sure to plant one on every single little scar she found. One hand went to their chest, very tentatively hovering over the gnarled tissue there, and when Marcy smiled, pressed her palm flat over it. “Thanks, Anna Banana.”

“Always, Marbles. And hey, if you wake up and you need me and I’m not there, just yell and I’ll come flying in, okay? Unless I’m in the bathroom. Then I’ll just yell back.”

Marcy threw their head back laughing at that one, although they immediately hissed and held a hand over their eyes. “Shit, ow.”

“Headache?”

“Yes. Just a pulse behind my eyes again.”

“Well, you just keep your eyes closed for now and try to fall asleep again. I’ll be right here being the lookout for both of us.” 

Marcy grinned. “Can I have a kiss before I go to sleep?”

Anne responded by pressing their lips together. It was a quick, sleepy, easy kiss, but there was so much love conveyed in it that Marcy’s heart swelled from just from that one brief moment. As they rolled onto their side again, Anne held them tight. They felt her smile against the back of their neck.

“I love you, Marcy. So, so, so much.” 

“I love you, too, Anne. With all my heart.” 

“That’s all I’ll ever need.”

“Yeah.” Marcy took her hand and held it to their lips. “Me too.” 

[lildevyl]

FebyWhump Day 6: Secrets Revealed

DSMP Mafia AU

Summary:  After his interesting encounter with the young blond, Wilbur decides to do a little digging on the young Tommy Innit.

Mafia/Superpower AU.  Inspired by Fate of Mortality by SPooKZSTARZ and 12AM? No, Never W1sh111

TW: Mention of Violence, Minor Character Death, Character Death, Mafia AU, Crime, Mentions of Murder, Mafia like Violence Mentioned,

It was strange.  Normally someone who was in the Severing Industry never acted or talked like that to someone like Wilbur and his family.  And yet the kid acted like he didn’t know who they were, which was weird considering their family business and who the kid’s boss was.  Clementine was the manager of the Wait Staff of the Casino and  her nephew, Tommy was a waiter.  And yet it appeared that Clementine tried to keep her nephew in the dark about who Wilbur and his brother and father are.

But what was it about the kid?  He was bold, brash, loud, annoying at first and didn’t seem like he had a filter.  And yet he was not so afraid of talking to a lot of the people that did nothing but shady businesses.  The kid, Tommy even laughed and said how dumb their plan was to try and get any intel.  Truth be told Wilbur kinda forgot the kid was even there when he was talking to his father Phil on what to do next.  Tommy scuffed and said, “If you really want to know how to get the true dirt on someone. Then go undercover as a staff member.”

They all looked at each other with raised eyebrows.  “Seriously?”  Tommy asked.  “How many times have you ever noticed any of your staff members when they’re coming and going?  How many of the maids know your combination locks to the safes?  Your passwords to your computers?  The code to the alarms?  When you're talking business on the phone do you stop talking when a staff member comes and starts cleaning or delivers a message?  How many times have you even noticed any of the wait staff until now?”

Silence.

“My point exactly!”  Tommy said.  “So, let’s do an experiment then.  You’re Siren right?”  Wilbur nodded.  “Okay, then let's get you dressed up a staff member and see how much dirt you manage to find out about your clients”

“And if I don’t?”  Wilbur challenged.

“Then I’ll be your personal waiter every time you stop by then,” Tommy offered.

They shook on it and Wilbur got ready for his first undercover job as a waiter.  Tommy even took one of the name tags off of the board and put on Wilbur, reading Henry.  And boy was Tommy right!  He found out so much info it wasn’t even funny!  Although Wilbur did feel bad for that one girl Sally.  Her Mom was trying to marry her off to anyone rich to keep living the lifestyle since her business was starting to go under.  When Wilbur got back to his family and gave his report, he couldn’t help but be intrigued by the blond.

There’s something about Tommy but what?  Wilbur knows that he’s seen that kid before but for the life of him.  He honestly just can’t put his finger on it.  Wait  .   .   .   Didn’t Clementine have a brother?  What was his name again?  The sound of the keyboard clicking away was heard from Wilbur’s Office.  After about an hour of searching, Wilbur found what he was looking for.  Clementine’s brother Timith Actias.  Wife Clara Actias and son Thomathy Actias.  The family they had gotten rid of years ago.  The Actias decided that they didn’t need to pay back the money they were owed and ghosted Wilbur’s father, Phil for months at a time.  To be fair they give the family plenty of time to pay it all back.  But just decided to ignore paying their debt until they came knocking.

Wilbur was staring at his computer screen with three death certificates of the Actias family.  Wilbur wasn’t sure what he was going to find.  Clara and Timothy were both murdered, Wilbur knew that since he committed the murder himself.  And their son Thomathy died by drowning.  A swimming accident that happened at the pound near their backyard.  All of it matched up.  But the more Wilbur stared at the screen the more he realized that there was something off about one of the death certificates.  He just couldn’t figure out what though.  The name, date of birth, date of death, the cause of death.  It all seemed to line - wait was it just him or did it look like the date of death was a little out of line?  It was supposed to line up with Date of Birth and yet it’s slightly off center.  At a first glance you wouldn’t see, not if you didn’t know what to look for.

Wilbur typed the serial number on the bottom of the death certificate into the search bar on the website he was using to look at the digital copies of the death certificates.  The name popped up was the same Thomathy Theseus Actias but the dates didn’t match at all.

Date of Birth:  April 30th 1880

Date of Death:  October 31st 1975

So, someone faked Tommy’s death certificate.  And but the looks of it, Tommy was named after his Great Grandfather.  Oh this was gold!  The assets of the Actias estate couldn’t be touched until after the kid turned 25.  If Tommy never claims them before he turns 25 or after he turns 25, then on midnight of January first the entire estate and assets go into public domain for buying, selling, and auctioning.  Well, now, Wilbur always wanted a little brother and this will surely pay the Actias debt and then some without having to deal with greedy money shark lawyers and investors.

Now, the question is, how was Wilbur going to convince his father and brother?

****

Tagging: @weirdmixofweirdness, @tracobuttons, @a-humble-narcissus, @isa-ghost, @febuwhump

[disorderedgem]

Please read. A 17-year old girl was sex trafficked by a man who preyed on her vulnerabilities, sexually assaulted her, and trafficked her for money. She was raped repeatedly by one client multiple times and when she refused to meet with him again, her trafficker grabbed a knife and held it to her throat. It was only after she ‘agreed’ to meet with him that the trafficker let her go. After the client forced her to drink vodka and smoke marijuana, the man raped her again. Once she woke up and realized what happened, she repeatedly stabbed her 37-year old rapist. She snapped. And now she could be facing up to 20 years in prison.

She would be the same or around the same age as her rapist when she is finally free for the first time since she was trafficked. This is Cyntoia Brown all over again. In 2022. The prosecutors haven’t disputed the claims that she was a victim of sex trafficking or sexual assault, yet still push to have her put away in prison for years. Pieper Lewis recently graduated high school in the juvenile detention center.

[sunlitmcgee]

For the prompt list: How abt “You’re a bad liar did you know?” for beeduo?

Prompt 27: You're a bad liar, did you know? This ended up being much bigger than I first expected. It is honestly important enough to be it's own AO3 one-shot, but for now I'm going to put it here, and for now I will only say that this is completely and 100% canon to HWHBH and is part of the current timeline. TWs include mentions of abuse/self-esteem issues, descriptions of burns/minor injury, themes of guilt/regret/self-blame, as well as general mental illness and trauma type things.

 “Did you remember to pick up those chips like I asked?”

 “Er, which chips?”

 “The plain potato Lay’s. The ones in the yellow bag over by the junkfood and right next to the wavy reds. Michael’s been eating them lately and I wanted to get some more before we ran out.”

 “I…I think I might’ve gotten those…?”

 “It’s alright if you forgot. I can go out and get some tomorrow before I head into town. It’s no trouble.”

 Ranboo gave a relieved sigh over by the cluttered kitchen table. A proper mound of plastic bags covered the wooden tabletop. Each one was a dull gray-white and was utterly stuffed with all manner of grocery store pilferings. Tubbo was in front of the fridge and was busy sorting out the greens and a few bags full of fresh vegetables.

 He tucked away a couple of deep green bell peppers before he turned to look back at his husband, who was frowning down at a half-ripened pear like it’d just sullied his mothers’ names along with his father’s taste in music.

 “Ranboo?” Tubbo said softly, concerned and fretting over his beloved’s sullen demeanor. “Is something wrong?”

 Ranboo shook his head and placed the pear into a large wooden bowl. “No.” He said while he slid it across the table to bring it closer to his current bag. “It’s nothing. I’m okay.”

 Tubbo closed the fridge quickly and moved to face him all the way.

 “You’re lying.” He said sharply.

 “I’m fine, Bee.” Ranboo ducked away from Tubbo’s eyes and tried to focus on another pear. His claws were long enough to wrap around the lumpy yellow fruit several times over, and as he picked it up to drop it into the bowl with the rest of the fruit, Tubbo saw a few of his sharpened nails puncture through the ripened flesh and draw out a thin trickle of juice.

 He saw Ranboo wince when it stung his scales a little.

 His chest began to warm as he furrowed his brow and crossed his scaly blue arms, tapped his foot a few times to get the other teen’s attention, then gave a smoky huff when he finally looked back.

 “You’re a terrible liar. Did you know that?”

 Ranboo’s face was sad as his ears drooped. Tubbo sighed, this time in a trail of rose-scented reddish mist that floated in thick ribbons behind him as he walked over around the table and came to his partner’s side. Ranboo blinked when he turned to look down at him, then yelped, high and frail and startled, as he was unceremoniously hoisted off of the tiled floor and into Tubbo’s iron-grip hold.

 Tubbo stood still while Ranboo struggled in his talons.

 He held him like you would a newborn baby, strong yet safe against his chest, arms wrapped tightly around the taller teen as Ranboo worried with where to put his arms while his long legs tensed and closed in around his crinkled undershirt.

 Eventually he decided to fling one arm over Tubbo’s shoulders and gripped the one on the opposite side of his head from where his was propped up into the air. His other hung loosely off to the side and was limp as a dead fish.

 A tired sigh left the ender hybrid while Tubbo regarded him patiently.

 “Bee?” Ranboo said eventually.

 “Boo?” Tubbo replied without changing his neutral expression.

 “Why?”

 Ranboo just gestured at their current position with a limp, lazy talon. He looked back down at Tubbo in time to see the shorter boy shrug.

 “I dunno. Why aren’t you telling me what exactly is the matter so I can try and set things straight?” His smoke turned faintly gray-green as his lashes fluttered in front of his eyes. Both shone a pale azure that was faded at the edges.

 “Don’t wanna.” Ranboo’s response was childish and irritably endearing. Tubbo cursed the day he discovered he loved men thanks to this idiot’s pretty eyes and aloof yet dapper charm.

 He rolled his eyes and focused them back on his husband’s.

 “Do you not want to talk about it because it’s something bad bad, or because it’s just a bit heavy and you feel stupid about being worried over it?”

 A hint of starlight caught in Ranboo’s eyes. It was night outside the mansion and the sky was visible through a nearby arched window. Specks of silver twinkled in Ranboo’s eyes, one with a rudied shine, and the other with a deep glow that reminded him of the forests he’d wandered through when he was still a young boy.

 I’m still young. Just like treasure. Just like my mate.

 Tubbo reminded himself of that important factoid while he waited for Ranboo to respond. Ranboo did so after a moment of deep thinking.

 “...I’m trying to get motivated to tell my parents about things…”

 There was a shift in the air as soon as the words left his lips. Tubbo felt it and shifted his weight to account for his husband’s gradually shrinking posture, bowed head and tensed shoulders certainly not withstanding.

 He kept his voice quiet. Ranboo never did like when they spoke on this subject too loudly. He didn’t want Michael to hear and get his hopes up.

 “Do you want to do it quite yet?” Tubbo asked while he swayed slowly to the side. “We’ve still got to get those extra bedrooms fixed in. Do you want to make a trip over to see Foolish and talk things out with him? I can clear my schedule if that’s what you want to do.”

 He saw Ranboo consider it while his bottom lip pouted. “...no. Not yet.”

 “Not yet to the rooms or not yet to the letter?” Tubbo knew he had to check to figure out what Ranboo meant. Ranboo sometimes struggled when it came to saying things clearly. And that was alright.

 “No to the letter.” Ranboo elaborated while nodding his head. “I don’t wanna bring them here yet. Not until we’ve got the rooms and tell Mikey so he doesn’t get freaked out when a bunch of people show up wanting to meet him. He doesn’t do surprises well, remember?”

 The brief, slightly painful memory of the time Fundy dropped in to say hello came to Tubbo. It made him frown from immense sadness(as well as a brief hint of instinct-induced fury) when he recalled how frightened his son had been of the fox hybrid. It wasn’t Fundy’s fault that his teeth were so pointy, but it didn’t mean that Tubbo wasn’t going to not put his child’s well-being first and not politely ask Fundy to leave before the boy got upset any further. He felt terrible while he watched the young man go.

 I’ve really got to check up on the guy. He’s been out of it since things went wrong with Wilbur.

 A faint bit of rage swelled up when he thought of that bastard’s filthy name.

 It shimmered down and dwindled once he took a second to breathe.

 The smoke from his lips was a deep bruised plum as he sighed in front of Ranboo’s chest, the taste that of purple raspberries mixed with honey and sour, rotten limes.

 “Yeah. I remember. I can tell him about it sometime, or we can do it together if he has any questions. He probably will. Do you think we should tell tre-pardon. Do you think that we should tell Tommy before we send any letters out?”

 This time when the air shifted, it was to something lighter and vaguely warmish. Ranboo’s ears twitched as if to perk, but his eyes remained transfixed onto his talons, which were busy with fiddling with his silver ring where it sat on his right ebony claw.

 He hummed thoughtfully. “Hmm…yeah. I think so.” 

 Tubbo nodded before Ranboo spoke again.

 “I’d kinda…” Then he didn’t.

 “Kind of?” Tubbo urged gently.

 “Nothing.” Ranboo’s eyes fled as he ducked his head once again. He was just so shy, even after everything. It still made Tubbo want to wrap him up in silk and hide him away from the world. Doubly so now that he had a head full of dragon brains that screamed out and demanded that he comfort his precious mate.

 Tubbo’s mouth stretched into a slight smile as he brought a hand up to cup Ranboo by the cheek. Ranboo flinched when his weight was shifted a little. He relaxed after a second and slowly settled, then glanced at Tubbo, saw him nod in unspoken reassurance, and then leaned into the touch and allowed himself to be treated kindly.

 They both stayed like that, just for a little while.

 Tubbo waited for Ranboo to speak and finish the thought wholly on his own terms.

 “I’d…I’d just hoped, sorta, maybe, just a teeny little bit…that Tommy would be here with us. With us and married to us…by the time you guys got to meet my parents.” His smile was a sad one, but his eyes were happy as he curled in and bowed his head until his chin was against his chest. “That’s all. That’s all I wanted to say.”

 Tubbo didn’t have wings yet, but if he did, he knew they’d be drooping in the way Tommy’s did whenever he was disappointed. He felt an affectionate coo warble inside of him as his shoulders slumped to hold Ranboo a bit more tightly.

 “Oh, I know.” He breathed while looking his love in the eyes. “I know sweetheart. And I’m sorry that hasn’t happened yet.”

 There was a moment when they just shared their pain.

 “He’s just so dang perfect.”

 “He is.”

 “He’s perfect and I just wanna have him here like this so darn badly.”

 “I know, I know. I do too. I really do. More than anything.”

 “It hurts that he doesn’t realize how much we love him.”

 “We tell him everyday.”

 “But he still doesn’t believe it.”

 “No. He’s just been taught he’s not allowed to. You know how he is. He’s been…what’s the word…conditioned? That right?”

 “Yeah. Conditioned. Conditioned to think that nobody cares and that nobody loves him. That sick ⎎⎍☊☍⟒⍀ made him feel that way when he was in exile. A-and I was there! A-a-and I didn’t do anything to…to…”

 They stopped when Ranboo’s cheeks started to quietly sizzle. 

 Tubbo carried him over to an empty chair so he could fetch some ointment and a dry washcloth. Ranboo sat there slumped and whimpering while he rushed to get the supplies, and while they waited for the tears to stop while he had the ointment pressed to either cheek, they carried on and spoke just as they had been.

 “Do you think he’s still angry at us?” Ranboo asked while his eyes both twitched.

 “No.” Tubbo answered, sad and guilt-ridden. “He isn’t. Not like he used to be. He’s probably pressed all that anger down or let it go. He’s done that so much since he got back from the prison. Since around Pogtopia, really, but exile was the worst for it.”

 Tubbo leaned back against the counter. Ranboo nodded and sniffled silently.

 “He’s too tired to be upset.” He said weakly.

 “He’s too scared and has never been allowed to be.”

 “He should be. He should be upset.”

 “I know. But he isn’t. He’s happy and he’s happy to be near us. We just need to accept that he’s never going to resent us like he damn well should and not look an angel in the halo.”

 Ranboo didn’t say anything, but it was clear he wanted to. Instead he only sighed and looked up at the ceiling.

 “Maybe we can propose after my family’s left?” He offered with a shrug.

 “Don’t you want them to be here for our wedding?” Tubbo kept his tone light so it didn’t come off as too aggressive. He watched Ranboo struggle and saw that he had failed.

 “I do!” Ranboo bleated while he looked back at his husband, eyes wide and voice higher pitched than usual. “I do, I really really do. I do want them to be here. I just don’t want them being here to make Tommy feel all stressed and like he has to marry us, or else they’ll all get upset and he’ll feel horrible about it forever. You know how he is! He’s sensitive!”

 Ranboo threw one claw in the air to demonstrate his distress. The cloth that was pressed there slid down a little and started to fall. Tubbo held it up for him until he could hold onto it again, then pulled back while nodding his head and agreeing in earnest.

 “I know! I know.” 

 He sighed.  

 “I know…”

 Tubbo wrapped his arms around the trembling enderian, instincts on high blast as Ranboo mewled and clung to him dearly. It was just so much. He was so tall yet so small; his mate, his beloved, his darling Boo. His Rannie. His sweetheart.

 Protect, protect, protect, his draconic brain hissed while the flames covered his brain. Protect mate, protect babies, protect your treasure and tear the accursed world to bloody bits if it ever even dares to come in too closely. 

 The smoke from his ears was a thick and ugly plum.

 It was deep black with a sickly greenish tinge.

 It smelled like cactus fruit mixed with some sharp with a little bit of twang. A bitter aftertaste crept on his tongue from the back of his boiling hot esophagus.

 Cold thoughts, Tubbo Underscore. Think about the sea. Think about the sky. Think about Tommy’s face and how cute he is when he smiles.

 The fire rose up and refused to back down. Tubbo had to physically swallow it before it could get up any higher. His throat burned where the hot liquid bubbled up, but he managed soon enough without too much more difficulties , and was soon cooled down enough to think and to be tired from this whole conversion.

 Puffy’s going to give us an earful if she hears about this.

 They sat in silence. The fridge hummed to fill the void. They really needed to get all this shit put away before it all began to spoil.

 “Do you want to talk more about this in the morning?” Tubbo finally offered as he moved to pull back slightly.

 “Please.” Ranboo begged in a quick, desperate sigh.

 “Alright dear. We’ll sleep on it ‘til morning.” Tubbo offered his hands to help the enderian to his feet. Ranboo kept both rags handy on the sink in case he needed them again. 

 “Let’s get these all put up and then head up for sleep, alright?”

 Tubbo blinked and saw Ranboo straighten up and gingerly nod his head.

"Okay. Let's get to it, dear beloved."