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searsage · 1 year

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In the final days leading up to the pyramid's invasion of sol Zavala felt a profound change in the air, around the commander the world had become somehow slower, as if reality was trodden down by the weight of some insidious vaneer, day by still day time crept on slower like a broken record player.

The commander might have assumed it was just his own worries with the pyramid ships fastly encroaching on Io, Mars, Mercury and Titan taking root in his ever worrying mind, but soon his concerns were met in non other then Ikora.

The warlock vangaurd tells him the city was humming with an energy she could not begin to understand, and while the knowledge that he wasn't alone in his worries was anything if not a little reassuring, when he started noticing odd quirks in the people around him his apprehension only intensified..

Shaxx could hardly be heard, yet the titan was still stationed to the right of his post amongst his trophies of war and beneath the song of that wretched ahamkara's skull, the titan's voice low and pensive, his gaze scoured the tower like a hawk, awaiting the unseen shoe to drop.

Zavala could see the tension in locked in the titan's shoulders, ahead of him, he could hear the errant quips of the once joyous parcel maiden Kadi, Tess stood uncomfortably stiff her eyes stern and watching, across from her, their crytoarch Rahool watched the crowds with stoic detachment, hardly giving mind to the guardians and their potential engrams swarming around him.

It was like they were all lieing in Wait..but for what? Zavala hadn't a clue…

But it worried him nonetheless.

As days went one the feeling only intensified, the prickle underneath his pale skin, a yearning of restless provocation, the air was heavy and suffocating.

The streets were fuller as of late, flooding with many loitering guardians, more and more reluctant to leave their roost, and for once the titan Vanguard pardoned this insabordinance, the need to be close was a suffocating instinct once he didn't quite understand himself, yet it was strong enough to pull Ikora from her hiding and into the courtyard.

When the young wolf approached the Vanguard, he could feel them long before they left the counter of Tess's eververse stand to approach him, the insidious pale effigy strapped to their shoulders leered back at him much like the Optics's of the hunter vanguard had that night weeks ago.

The discovery of the inhabitants refusals to abandon their posts in the face of imminent disaster was a insurmountable defeat, the Titan found himself sick with grief, in the dark ages, together they built a world with the blood and backs of selfless heros, and much like the Saladin and Lady Efrideet, Zavala was beginning to wonder if they too would be extinct eventually?

Saint had just barely crawled back from his grave by the skin of Osiris's teeth but the circumstances of his revival were so fickle, where they celebrating too soon? Would they lose more? How long would they last within their pitiful fortress of wall under the travelar?

For every risen that rose, they arguably lost three.

Distress must have been evident on the Titan's face, because a small tap to his shoulder yanked Zavala from his internal downward spiral, The titan glaced up to see the young wolf, they had respectfully removed their exotic helmet stylized to mock the defiled son of Oryx, their bright yellow eyes held knowing sympathy, they patted his pauldron in a stiff and unpracriced attempt at a comforting gesture, by hands more skilled with taking life then consoling them…

They spoke words of comfort, what ifs' and 'maybes', optimisms that once lied in the mouths of those lost to this tireless and unending battle, unbeknownst to them, their false comforts fell on deaf ears, but the titan vanguard nods along dutifully, yet his thoughts are on the clearing around him.

How still it felt despite the rare clutter of life bustling on around them, it felt like eyes were peeling up the thinnest layer of his pale translucent skin, as if someone or something leered through him, not from the shadows but boldly in plain sight unafraid if the stars aligned and his eyes happened to meet theirs.

But they didn't, and the commander's weary gaze dragged on to find no answers that assuage his fears, only when the warlock in front of him abruptly leaned in, gloved hand gripping firm yet hesitantly at his shoulder, does he tear his eyes from the scene before him, instead his tired eyes drawn to the gauntlet clad hand touching his person, surprised at how long it's been since any one had dared touch him without invitation, but wordlessly forgiving the transgression upon seeing the Champion of light's face, it was itched with worry and apprehension.

Quietly the guardian asked if he felt it too, and the commander told them not to worry.

Everyone did.

He found Cayde hours later in the dead of night, purely by accident, the commander had taken a midnight stroll through the towers gardens, a meditative practice he had taken up to help elevate stress, it offered a meager yet necessary reprieve from his burden as commander and with the odd weight settled over the tower now was more then a good time for a moment's breath.

Surrounded by flowers under the soft light of the traveler the awoken pondered the future of the last city, so many what if clouded his mind, but not for before long a whimper caught his attention, it wasn't loud by any means but Zavala was nothing if not sharp and the smallest disturbance was all it took for the commander to start searching for it's source.

He found Cayde, the Exo squirreled away in the small storage room beneath the foyer, the moment he enters the small room he was hit with the pungent scent of stones and flora, the hunter vanguard has rearranged the filled storage boxes in a peculiar pattern with him sitting in the middle, in his hands his fiddled with the corners of a shattered ghost's shell, Zavala didn't need to look at it to know who's lifeless shell it was.

Cayde tells the commander that the Travelar dosen't want him there, that the light is eatting away at his joints, and trying to cleanse him away like filth, But just as quickly as the Exo complains he commends their diety for it's stubborn efforts to bleach out any stain on it's perfect and pristine pedostool.

His voice is grating, and filled with static, as if his throat were clogged by the peculiar flora that was sprouting from the floor around him, and Zavala can't help the anxiety rising along his skin as he stared down into the dim optics of his fellow vanguard devoid of light, yet not inanimate, but a puppet on strings of dark silk..

"How long can you stay?" Zavala's words betray his mouth, he watches the unnatural tenderals slinking inbetween the gaps in his chasis, the instinctive revulsion in his core as he feels his light coil away from the shadow of his old friend, and yet he ignores it, instead he reaches out and pulls the broken hunter from the shadows and into the light of the foyer.

When he has the Exo safely cornered in his room, he sits him down, he was a mess, his torn and tattered cape dusted with debris and dirt, it was as if he was thrown from his sparrow, it dredged up old memories of the hunter slinking off to the EDZ, but no longer garnered the commander's ire, instead his heart twists painfully as he studies the Exo staring back at him.

He looks just as lost as he did when he was trapped within the tower walls, like light attempting to be trapped between clasped fingers, again Zavala fills the hairs on the back of his neck rise, as the light within him recoils viscously.

Cayde tells him, he can't stay and its almost a plead, but Zavala ignores this and inquires again how long he can stay as he closed the window's shutters blotching out the rays of the traveler, Cayde's voice is careful, and for once his own, something the commander is rarely privy to, Zavala can feel his dim curious optics tracking his every movements.

Reluctantly the vanguard give him til 'Dawn'

#Zavala/ cayde 6 #Zavala #cayde 6 #Destiny #destiny 2 #destiny the game #Angst

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poeticiism · 1 year

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CHYLER LEIGH. SHE + HER / have you ever heard of CONCRETE ANGEL by gareth emery well, it describes GENEVIVE PETROVA to a tee! the thirty year old, and NICU NURSE was spotted browsing through the stalls at portobello road market last sunday, do you know them? would you say SHE is more anxious or more OPTIMISTIC instead? anyway, they remind me of hours spent in medical school digging her head into her textbooks, staying up all night to pass exams, the hustle and bustle of an emergency room on the daily, trying not to take home the emotional burden of her job, a long sleeked back chocolate ponytail as her signature look, falling asleep whenever she has the few seconds to spare, maybe you’ll bump into them soon!

TRIGGER WARNINGS: child abuse, death, abusive father, domestic violence, mention of a psychiatric hospital

she had a horrific childhood. her father was a sick and twisted son of a bitch and relentlessly abused her, her older sister katarina, and her mother. katarina, her older sister, was also her best friend growing up. the two were very close considering their circumstances at home. the two girls felt like that only had each other. and of course their mom too.

they all kind of just survived the abuse until something was done about it. eventually the bruises and complaints caught up to them and there was just no more hiding what insidious nature lie behind their front door.

her father fled, and her mother was sent to a psychiatric hospital, forcing cps to give her grandparents full custody of her and her sister until her mother was better again.

the years of abuse at the hands of her own father really gave her a fighting spirit when it came to advocating for other victims of abuse. originally, her older sister katarina had really gone on in life to make something of herself. it inspired ginnie to see her work so hard and build something meaningful like the petrova foundation. katarina had dedicated her entire life to going to school for psychology and vowing to help victims of abuse just like them.

after becoming a well reputable psychologist, katarina eventually opened up her own psychiatric hospital that specialized in treating children with mental health issues. her main goal was to provide quality care compared to the declining reputation of psychiatic hospitals. they were known for their horrible treatment of their patients and the statistics that showed they weren’t as helpful as they seemed to be.

katarina truly cared about her work but was still caught up in her own cycle of abuse. somehow, someway, ginnie’s older sister she had once looked up to with admiring eyes, had fallen victim to her own domestic violence relationship. repeating the vicious cycle that their mother and father introduced to them at such a young and fragile age.

ginnie sniffed out the secret her sister was carrying only a few months into their relationship. one day, ginnie got a call she prayed she would never have to take. katarina had been killed by her abusive boyfriend, her best friend was gone.

it was then that ginnie had a falling out with her mother. the two barely speak anymore. ginnie went to medical school and has never stopped for a moment to actually grieve. she swamps her schedules with never ending hospital shifts and sick babies. all of it a distraction so she doesn’t have to deal with the real pain of her sister’s passing.

ginnie is terrified to ever date, she’s never had a proper boyfriend that lasted more than six months because as soon as it gets to the point where they want to get closer to her, she just can’t seem to let her guard down enough to let anybody in.

#─── ⠀ 🌺 ⠀ ⠀ * ⠀ ⠀ about me ⠀ ／ ⠀ genevive petrova ⠀ !#nottinghillintro

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blzzrdstryr · 3 years

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Darling escaping - Mondstadt girls edition

Inspired by a request I got, will do edition for other characters in the future.

Starring: Amber, Eula, Jean, Lisa, Rosaria

Reader is gender neutral

CW: Yandere themes, confinement, drugging

Amber

It’s highly unlikely that Amber will confine you, but if it reaches that point, then she will try to be as understanding as possible. Being kidnapped is hard and stressful, it’s OK if you hit and yell at her, she gets you, you’re scared and anxious, she will let it slide.

The same goes for any failed escape attempts, Amber will maintain that sweet-saccharine-I-am-not-mad-at-you-please-stop-crying-and-screaming persona very well. She will be very mad of course, partially at you, mostly at herself.

She keeps you confined in the cottage in the middle of the forest - Amber, unlike you, has a vast experience of navigating among the wilderness, so she can almost always recapture you with ease, years spent tracking and hunting lending well in her search.

You will have to be quick and clever if you want to escape - you can’t dwell in one place for too long, nor can you leave any mark in hurry - Amber will use them to deduce your path and location.

You will also have to avoid major cities and settlements - Knights of Favonius have a good reputation and Amber is known for her upstanding nature, she can lie to locals that you’re dangerous escaped criminal or confused and troubled victim who wandered to far for their own good, and have you presented on the platter.

Once she drags you back, she will start to think about escape-proofing the cottage. She might also buy a chain, long enough to let you wander in most of the room. Don’t worry she’ll let you out, she just needs to install new sets of locks on every door in your house.

Eula

The day when she finally loses an internal battle and kidnaps you is the day when both you and Eula start to hate her intensely. Just like Amber, she also tries to be understanding, yet it’s hard. She can sometimes snap back or glare at you with that cold look, which will sink your already drowning sympathies even further.

Escape attempts will be met quite poorly, Eula understands that you’re terrified and stressed and don’t want to be anywhere near her, yet it hurts so badly she loses control. She will say a couple of very insidious and bitter things, as she drags you back, her hold on you a tad too forceful not to be painful.

You will most likely be confined in her mansion - Lawrences might be universally despised by all of Mondstadtians, yet they’re also filthy rich and people have a hard time saying no to shiny mora. You will be allowed to wander in a couple of rooms with all the necessities in your reach.

She won’t allow you to have any maids or servants though - her reputation is already low, and letting a third person in on this dangerous secret will definitely be her downfall.

That’s why she wastes no time when she sees rooms she kept you in empty. Eula will bolt out of the house, uncaring how she might look to others as her mind races, searching for your possible routes.

Your best bet is staying inside or close to major settlements. As it was said before, Mondstadtian despise Lawrences, and Eula isn’t an exception to that. She might be a respected Knight of Favonius, but if you act distressed enough others will question her motives and deter her from grabbing you back.

If you somehow happen to be in the wilderness it’s already over for you. Eula spends most of her time outside the city gates, she is very familiar with the terrains and forests, so she navigates them pretty well. No matter how fast or long you run, she will get you back.

Eula will act extra callous and cold after your failed escape, her heart aching at the fact that you were that desperate to be anywhere but with her.

Jean

Jean is far from being an intense yandere, she will confine you only if she believes that you can’t live comfortably by yourself.

One of the perks of being a highly respected acting grandmaster is that no one really questions her decisions. Even Diluc, who left and now despises the knights, acknowledges how responsible and hardworking she is.

She will convince others that you’re mentally unwell, that you need care and patient guidance to even function, and so she will pressure you into becoming her protege.

None of your words about Jean’s true nature will be taken seriously - acting grandmaster is a kind, hardworking and responsible leader, she does everything in the name of others’ well-being. How can you accuse Jean of something like this?

Moreover, your words will be used against you, as she will present them as a proof of your fragile mental state - you must be deeply delusional to think of your caretaker so badly and poorly, blaming her for things she had no hand in.

You will be “gently” reminded to stay with Jean in her own house,a knight always patrolling near the building when she has work to do. Unlike most yanderes, Jean will allow you to freely wander in the house and courtyard, yet nothing more.

If you escape, you should probably head to the next nation, without stopping in any of the Mondstadt settlements - Jean’s reach is far and wide.

She will dispatch the group of knights, ordering them to safely retrieve you back into her arms - “[First] is scared and confused”, she’ll tiredly sigh and ask them to be gentle with you upon your recapture.

She won’t punish you once you’re back, no she will be calm and collected, despite the inner storm - she has to keep the mask up, both for you and others. You will find two knights on the daily patrol though.

Lisa

Lisa can appear very lazy and careless at first glance, but she is far from that. The witch is the best graduate of Sumeru academy in two centuries and an expert at potion making. She’s also very good at her time management and has a spark of ingenuity, which makes your escape highly unlikely.

First of all, you will be pumped full of sedative drugs, if you aren’t compliant and broken enough - Lisa would like to think that you’re all nice and obedient, but she can’t.

She will slip drugs in your food and water, sometimes she will force the syringe needle under your skin, if you realize what she’s doing and start being difficult.

With the substances muddling your mind you will be as helpless and weak as a newborn kitten, unable to make three steps in a straight line.

With you being constantly high Lisa doesn’t have to stress over your escape - she just needs to lock all windows and doors and add a bit of silencing charms so no one can hear your angered screams.

It would be an incredibly simple, yet perfect plan if it wasn’t for drug resistance. Over time your body will start to adapt to the influence of her “potions”, and you will need a higher dose to be rendered helpless and incoherent again.

You will realize this once the terrible mix of withdrawal and clarity of mind hits you. Half-bent and squirming you will slip from your cell and start to run.

It’s highly unlikely you will go far, especially during withdrawal, but your best chance of escaping lies into contacting any human settlement - you will appear very sick and distressed and they’ll have no choice but take you in and let you endure the incoming torture under the safety of the house.

Once your body is clean, you should run, as far as possible, you should also change your clothes - Lisa marked the ones she kept you in with her electro energy, making you easier to detect.

If she gets you back, she’ll start switching between different kinds of sedatives, so you don’t develop resistance. Lisa will also add a couple of locks and a long chain to her purchases.

Rosaria

Rosaria, to her own dismay, doesn’t own any fancy mansion to keep you in, the house that she lives in is small and cramped as she uses the place to just sleep and keep the little of what she owns here.

This house, despite its small size, has a cellar - it’s empty and unused, with cobwebs decorating the corners. It’s perfect for keeping you in, when you’re difficult.

Don’t worry the cellar is the last resort - Rosaria will confide you here, if you act extra defiant and disobedient. On most days, you’re free to wander in that small house, and if you act extra nice, the nun will let you out under her strict supervision.

She will however, install a long chain and cuff it around your leg when she has to leave for a job.

You can run away from her in two instances, when she decides to go for a short walk with you, and when she is away, if you are able to unscrew or loosen the chain enough for your feet to slip.

If you escape during your walk, you better be an excellent runner, because Rosaria is fast. You will have to compete not only in speed, but also endurance and stamina with her, because Rosaria can run for a very long time, especially when she’s chasing you.

If you escape when she’s away your task gets infinitely easier, you’ll just need to make your way to Mondstadt and make your accusations - Rosaria isn’t very popular here, nor does she have a great image, so your words will hold some weight.

Whether she is found guilty or innocent, it will provide enough time for you to leave the city and head for the neighbouring nation.

If Rosaria gets you back, then you can forget about seeing a sunlight for a very long time, she will keep you chained in the cellar for at least two weeks as a punishment.

#yandere genshin impact #Yandere genshin impact x reader #Yandere genshin #Yandere genshin x reader #Yandere Amber #Yandere Eula #Yandere Rosaria #Yandere Lisa #Yandere Jean #Yandere Amber x reader #Yandere Eula x reader #Yandere Jean x reader #Yandere Lisa x reader #Yandere Rosaria x reader #Female yandere #Female yandere x reader #Yandere x reader #Yandere

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deluluass · 3 years

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could yoy do please some yandere kuroo and kageyama headcanons? 💕

nsfw is welcomed 😊

My first headcanons 🤞🏽

Yandere! Kuroo Tetsuro

Content warnings: markers of a toxic/emotionally abusive relationship; dumbification; daddy kink; sex toy(s); mild public play/exhibitionism

😇SFW😇

This boy has a fascination for messy people.

And by "messy", I mean that Kuroo has a soft spot for those who put up some sort of front. A performative mask to hide their crumbling psyche.

Oh.

Those are his favorites. (Especially when they're not even aware that they’re hiding something.)

Maybe it's because they're so easy to manipulate? (Or perhaps it's a mild case of schadenfreude?)

It's the instigator in him.

He knows which buttons to push and at what time to exactly do it.

Kuroo lives for being that guy who causes a full blown fight by simply dropping a backhanded comment or two.

For being the final straw that eventually breaks the proverbial camel's back.

And then slipping back into the shadows to watch the Drama unfold.

So it's not unlikely for him to form an obsession for someone who's so emotionally vulnerable.

Someone who has the weight of the world on their shoulders; who has everything locked up inside to the point of bursting.

Because then it won't take much to have them falling apart and unraveling before him.

But he's also a caretaker, you know.

He's opportunistic and covertly callous and mischievous, yes.

But you've seen how much he tends to those close to him.

So when you do fall apart, you will do it in his arms.

He will take care of you.

He'll say everything you've always wanted to hear.

You're beautiful and wanted and loved and you don't have to be brave anymore.

Kuroo's here and he understands you.

From the barest changes in your inflection to your most subtle facial expression.

Other people won't catch it.

To Kuroo, though? Tell-tale signs that you're hiding your feelings again.

He understands you in a way that no else had; that no else cared to try.

And eventually that’ll be the very thing that you’ll hold onto.

Never mind that his every word has become an indisputable fact (when it shouldn’t be).

Never mind that the line between Kuroo just being a mindful boyfriend AND Kuroo disregarding your boundaries has become too blurry that it’s impossible to tell which is which.

Never mind that your entire world has narrowed down to just him and you.

Because all your friends have, one by one, made their way for the exit.

They tell you that they're so tired.

They've warned you- begged you, actually- to end this insidiously suffocating relationship.

"I know he's only been nice to you and to us, but there's just...something wrong about that guy," they say.

But until they pinpoint, exactly, what that "something wrong" is; and until you see it for yourself, you're sticking by his side.

Damn whatever people say.

So.

Kuroo's not the yandere who'd chain you up in his basement or something.

Not that he's above it, but because he doesn't really need to.

Not when he has you bound right where it really matters.

😈NSFW😈

Kuroo has perfected being a dom down to a Science.

He knows exactly when to be mean and hurtful and sweet and kind and giving to you.

Kuroo's very generous, methinks! But only if he believes you deserved it.

So you better prove that you earned it!!

He'll having you cumming and gushing into his hand if you pleaded just enough!!

Looked into his eyes all pouty and teary and pliant to all his wishes.

Very into treating you and talking to you like you're not capable of comprehending words.

Oh, darling. I know I'm hurting you. I know I am. But you like it, don't you? That's right. Fuck yeah, you do, you fucking slut.

That's because you're just a dumb little baby, aren't you? You'd be happy as long as daddy makes you cum?

And you'd nod and say yes so obediently as he pounds your little hole even though you can't hear him over the sound of your own moans.

ALSO!!!

HE IS A TEASE!!!!

A FUCKINGN!!!!!!!!! TEASE!!!!

Every seggsy time is edging time!!

Has a thing for slapping your ass until your cheeks are bruised and tender under his palms.

And for sticking a vibrator inside you while you're out in public.

Just to teach you a lesson whenever he feels like you're not learning enough.

"Do you want me to come back until you're ready?" the waiter droned, obviously suppressing the urge to roll his eyes when all you did was grip the napkin in front of you.

You couldn't even look at poor kid; couldn't even make out a sound. You're too busy stifling the tingling within your walls, prompting you to cross your legs beneath the table and squeeze your thighs together.

And Kuroo's just...scanning the menu. Sitting idly before you. He's resting his chin against his open palm, long fingers brushing under his nose, while you're practically grinding down the chair.

You feel yourself leak into the crotch of your underwear, sticky liquid squelching against the crack of your ass as the toy continued to vibrate, burning you up and melting your insides, the buzzing a white noise only you could hear.

His indifference was unflappable. Kuroo even managed to call out, "Excuse me. Sorry about that earlier. We're ready now," so smoothly despite your desperate attempts to catch his attention. Then, he recited a bunch of dishes that you didn’t have the appetite for. Like you’re not outright writhing and earning a few disconcerted looks from the table next to you.

All you wanted was for him to put an end to this. You've learned your lesson. You're not gonna disappoint him again.

Instead, you watched in agonizing fear as he reached for his pocket. And immediately, without a warning, you felt the toy shake violently inside you.

"Ah!" you cried, sharply folding your arms and legs, making the plates and utensils clink against each other as your wrists chafed against your hard nipples.

Your boyfriend halted, leaned closer, and looked at you in a convincing display of concern.

"Are you alright, babe?" he muttered, caressing your knee, his nails pressing down just a tad. Not too hard. Just enough for you to hiss in a heady mixture of pleasure and pain.

You managed a small, quivering "uh-huh" as you begged him with your eyes. Conveying as much message as you could.

"Daddy, I'll be good for you. I swear. I won't lie anymore. I won't make you angry. I won't do anything that you wouldn't be happy about. Everything I do from this moment on will be just for you, daddy. I promise, daddy-"

But Kuroo only huffed out, a small, faint grin tracing his lips as he turned back to the waiter and said, "One cream pie, please."

Yandere! Kageyama Tobio

Content warning(s): rape/noncon

😇SFW😇

Fourth wall break, if you will: thank you, anon, for putting these characters together because I Believe that they’re each other’s foils in terms of yandere-isms. And this is gonna be an interesting contrast to see (at least, I hope it would be).

So Kuroo’s all subdued mind games, right? Like, you have to do a whole routine of mental gymnastics if you want to dig deep and analyze how he had your head spinning.

But Kageyama?

Kageyama says fuck that.

Kageyama, genius though he is, is about as subtle as a metal bat to the head when it comes to his darling.

He has no qualms about tying you to his bed once the opportunity presents itself to him.

But it didn’t start out like that.

At first, perhaps Kageyama was just an aloof classmate whose entire life revolved around volleyball.

The one who couldn’t even take a time out of his day to hang out with the rest of the class on a weekend.

Though Kageyama has a knack for attracting hostility from other people, there comes a time (rare it may be) that it is offset by people who are sympathetic to his idiosyncrasies.

His darling falls under the latter.

That's what draws Kageyama to you.

Hearing stuff like "D'you know what they used to call him before? King!" and "King because he's an arrogant dickhead who thinks he's better than everyone" are not new to him.

But hearing these are: "Stop that. It's rude to talk behind a person's back."

"Kageyama's passionate about volleyball. More than anyone we've ever met. Ok so it's alienating for us! Whatever! But isn't it admirable that he's doing his best at a thing that he loves?"

Kageyama did not get it.

You're not his teammate.

You're not his..anything.

You had no cause to try and be nice to him and defend him and..understand him, really.

So the rest was history.

The beginning might have been awkward.

Every time he tried to talk to you, Kageyama, for some reason, always blurted out the wrong things.

But you didn't mind. You just liked being his friend.

And Kageyama liked having you by his side.

Kageyama liked it, especially, when you're in the sidelines and cheering him on. (This caused quite a ruckus in Karasuno.)

It should have been weird. Kageyama had not known anything else besides volleyball.

Your presence should’ve been that of a stranger encroaching on someone else’s property.

Somehow, though, you fitted in so perfectly.

Like you’re made to be there.

So he tells you: “You’re free, aren’t you? You should be watching me play by now” and “You should be waiting for me after class” and “Stop making excuses. You’re not tired. You can still drop by practice”

You’ve tried to reason with him. (Even contemplated about ending your friendship.)

But it’s not like you’re ever gonna shake him off.

Besides, you know that he wouldn’t accept anything less than perfect.

😈NSFW😈

His darling was his first sexual experience.

And like any beginner, Kageyama was pretty...uh..bad at it ngl.

Add that to the fact that he’s on the bigger side and your first with him wasn’t consensual.

At that time, all Kageyama knew was that he really, really wanted to touch you and kiss you and fuck you senseless until you acknowledge that there’s no running from him.

Trust, though, that Kageyama will not settle for being bad or, heaven forbid, mediocre at it.

Nope.

Not. a. chance.

Doesn’t matter that you’ve spent the entire day fucking.

Kageyama will not rest- not let you rest, until he drags out a moan from you; until you’ve ruined the sheets with how much he’s made you cum; until he has you begging for more.

Will experiment a lot.

Will test out how fast and hard he has to fuck you to get what kind of reaction he wants from you.

Very attentive even to your quietest gasp.

If you so much as show a sign that you’re finding whatever it is he’s doing to your body pleasurable- curl your toe or arch your back- Kageyama will amp it up to the point where you’re screaming.

He’ll have this haughty, shit-eating grin while doing it too.

“Yes, you can,” Kageyama growled. “Spread those legs and show me how you do it.”

You shook your head, your body protesting at the slight movement. You’re already on the verge of blacking out. And you don’t have to check the ticking wall clock to know that, by now, Kageyama, too, should be knocked out and dozing off beside you.

But he only grabbed your wrists, making you howl in pain as soon as he touched the cuts and bruises across the skin. Remnants of the nylon rope that bound them together not too long ago.

“Touch yourself,” he repeated.

Kageyama’s voice is a rasping noise to your ears, his hot breath causing goosebumps all over you as he pressed his lips against the shell.

“No-no more, Kag-Kageyama,” you forced yourself to say, though your throat was dry and aching from all your screeching.

He clicked his tongue.

You flinched.

And you didn’t think it possible for Kageyama to be more frightening than he already is. Until you’d done as he’d told and, like a wolf patiently waiting to pounce, Kageyama zeroed in on how you moved your hands, his own reaching for his cock.

He didn’t take his eyes off of you, groaning as you trembled and mewled under your featherlight touch. Kageyama stroked himself, grinding into his fist until pre-cum dripped from the head.

“That how you like it, huh,” he croaked.

Before you could even reach an orgasm, Kageyama had already pushed you on your back, mimicking the way you pleasured yourself. Only this time it was rougher, more unforgiving, and indifferent to your cries of “Stop! Stop it, I can��t- Enough, Kageyama!”

#tw non con haikyuu #yandere headcanons #dark content haikyuu #yandere kuroo #yandere kageyama #yandere haikyuu #tw noncon #y/n's gender is not specified

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thesevro · 3 years

Text

gimme more / gojo s.

𝖌𝖔𝖏𝖔 𝖘𝖆𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖚 𝖝 𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖗 𝖘𝖒𝖚𝖙 𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙: 2.2K words

𝖁𝖆𝖑𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖎𝖓𝖊'𝖘 𝕯𝖆𝖞 𝕾𝖕𝖊𝖈𝖎𝖆𝖑 | 𝕱𝖊𝖇𝖗𝖚𝖆𝖗𝖞 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟏 𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘: Explicit SMUT, overstimulation, food play

A HALF-MELTED BUTTON of chocolate meets your mouth. You look up into blue ice, slipping your tongue from your mouth to take the chocolate between your lips. The blue of his eyes sparkles with unholy sin. His forefinger helps push the chocolate past your lips. Part of the finger slides into your mouth before he pulls it away to watch you with godless reverence. Then he bends down to kiss you.

"Want a taste, too," he mumbles into your mouth. Gojo balances his bulk with a hand on the pillow beneath your head. His tongue slides into your mouth. Licks yours. Tastes sweet sugar on your tongue.

His blindfold hangs at your neck. It is a makeshift collar of silk that brands you with an invisible stripe of his name. He'd tied it tight around your throat. With a finger, he uses it to pull you closer to him.

His chin bumps yours as he tilts his head to kiss you with deeper fervor. One of his thighs slips between your legs to tease you along with the probing fingers of one hand. He opens up enough space between his knee and your core so that his fingers can fit into your pants. His fingers brush your underwear. He grins into your mouth as you shiver against him. Gojo slips his fingers beneath the meddlesome fabric of your panties.

He meets your folds with probing fingers. Spreads the slick seeping from your hole with two fingers. His cock twitches in his pants as you jolt into his hand. You mewl like a kitten as he plays with your pussy.

Gojo laps up a tiny chocolate shedding. Slurps it up right from your mouth. It is sweet on his tongue. He loves the taste of it, the taste of you. The warmth of your tongue is hot and wet on his. He can feel you losing yourself. His mind has already begun to turn and twist into its own nodes.

Gojo fits one finger into you. With the dexterity of a skilled magician he slides his thumb down and along your clit. His middle finger curls inside you. You squeeze the thrusting digit with hot walls of velvet, throwing your head back and moaning loudly as he presses a spot inside you that has always been able to bring you so very close to your high. Gojo raises his head to watch as soft cries spill from your bruised mouth. Already he has been able to reduce you to such a state with a single finger.

A second finger sends your hole stretching wonderfully for him. Gojo licks at your bared throat. His tongue laps at the sweat on your neck. He feels you swallow while his tongue slides against your sweating flesh. You taste like sea salt. Like everything he has ever wanted.

"You liking your Valentine's Day gift?" he whispers into your ear. He nips the shell of your ear, smiles like a smug Cheshire cat as you moan with another curl of his fingers. Your thighs clench around his own leg, around his hand. "Do tell, bunny."

"Y-yes, God yes, I d-do," you stammer out. One of your hands reaches up to grab his head, and you use him to anchor your body as you arch into his hand. The sweet chocolate has disappeared on your tongue. You open your mouth to show him.

"Want one more?" he asks you. You don't even have to respond for him to know your answer.

He feeds you another bite of chocolate, using his mouth this time. He wants to taste you, and taste you well.

He holds the chocolate between his teeth. Kisses you with his mouth open. Using his tongue, he lets the chocolate slip from his mouth and into yours.

Your lips part, and you pant into the wet kisses he forces you to take, sighing as he slides his fingers into your sucking hole with more of his inherent sadism and the violence he tends to hide in himself. He wishes he could fuck your face. Kissing you is like reaching the very peak of cloud nine, but shoving his cock into your mouth is like hopping from cloud nine to cloud fourteen.

"Want to fuck you already baby," he says with his mouth on yours. "Want to taste you. Want to be inside you."

"Then why don't you hurry up already?" you say back. Eyes fierce. He smirks down at you. The way you tend to show desperation is never through a blatant display of please fuck me. Somehow you are always able to make him beg for it, beg for you.

"Of course bunny," he says. "Sit up for me?"

You rise from the bed. He kisses you again as he pulls your shirt up and over your head. You return the kiss with wet, tongue-filled intensity. It distracts him for a moment. Pulls him away from thoughts of fucking you until daylight.

He attempts to pull his head back. You drag him back to your mouth with your teeth around his bottom lip. Your hand falls on his thigh and slides up to fondle the engorged mass of his cock through his pants. He jerks into your palm. Gojo opens his eyes to watch you as you enjoy him. You sit naked before him, a bare canvas he wants to mark with his teeth and tongue and mouth and cock. He wants to paint you white with his cum. Purple with his teeth.

You part for air. Your hand releases its tight hold on his clothed cock to grab his own hand. You bring it to your core. Ask a silent question with a plead in your eyes and how you rut into his open hand with deadly seduction.

"Lie back down, baby," he tells you. You obey without question. The fire in you has spilled over to strike heat through your cunt. Heat that mixes with wet slick.

Gojo takes hold of your pants and the end of your undergarments. He slides it down and off your gorgeous legs. He kisses your thigh with your pants around your knees. Your body shakes like a struck chord.

He slips between your legs, motions smooth as butter. Gojo wonders what chocolate would taste like on your cunt, and is about to ask you if he could let himself have a taste of such a beautiful concoction, but you grate out a whine that makes his cock pulse.

"Satoru," you sigh. He becomes hyperaware of how tight it is in his pants. How tight yet much more satisfying it'll be to fuck his cock into you. "Don't need to be prepped. Can't you see I'm ready?"

Gojo observes with dark eyes as you slide your hand between your wonderful thighs and cup your pussy. He inhales sharply. Hell on fucking high.

Two of your fingers play with your slit. Dip into the sopping wetness there. You arch off the bed as you finger your clit with the insidious motions of a seductive minx.

Gojo practically rips his shirt off. He undoes his pants with deft fingers that tear the article of clothing down from the middle. He tosses the garment to the side.

You admire Gojo with hooded eyes. He is a man sculpted from only the most defined slabs of muscled flesh and the toned lines that are all the product of the hard work he has been putting in for nearly all his life now.

"Like what you see bunny?" he teases. You cock your head at him, plant your feet into the bed. With him between your legs, you roll your hips up to grind onto him. It is not enough to get him inside you.

But it is more than enough to finally make him snap.

He grasps each side of your waist, tightly, and barely even has to guide his cock into your hole to fuck his length into you. Dull throbs of pain squeeze at your hips with the unrelenting grip he has on your skin. If you were not as powerful or as strong as him he would have already broken your bones.

He slides into your slit. Shuts his eyes with the tightness of you tickling each nerve on his cock to hypersensitivity. Your walls suck him in. He grunts. Drives his hips forward with an already harsh thrust that makes your back bow upward. His cock slides against your walls. Gets drenched in slippery slick that forces the most obscene sounds to fill the air. The sounds of his cock thrusting into your pussy are sinful. Wet and loud in your ears. Gojo savors the sound of his hips slapping your thighs with each of his thrusts. He bends over to lace his fingers with yours. The other hand he has on your hip moves from your waist to your back. He holds your back up and uses the lifted vantage to thrust into you harder, deeper. You cry out.

"Satoru!" you moan. He grins.

His face hangs over yours. Your eyes scrunch up as he pistons his cock into you with more ferocity. He watches you with arrogance on every line of his face.

You smell like sweat and chocolate when he ducks his head into your neck. He sinks his teeth into your skin. Bites and licks like a hungry cat.

You feel so fucking good around him. He tilts his head to the side to mouth at the underside of your chin. You shudder at the ticklish sensation of his lips there.

"Feel so good, bunny," he says. "Feel like heaven. I want to fuck you until you can't walk."

You toss your head back at this. Your eyes roll back and behind your head. You squeeze him again, and he grunts deliciously into your ear.

"Oh baby," he breathes out. "I wonder what chocolate would taste like on you while you're like this."

His hips continue to drive you closer and closer to the edge of sighing delectation. With a free hand, he snatches another button of chocolate from the box sitting by your bedside. He smiles at you. Then he traces the outlines of your stomach with the little treat. Slips it along your chest and over your nipples before he drops it into your mouth. It melts as soon as it meets your tongue.

He leans forward to kiss you violently. His mouth transfers the chocolate from his tongue to yours. It tastes like a prize on you.

When he and you have finished gorging on the small bite of chocolate, he licks up the traces of it he left on the rest of your body. He begins with your nipples. His tongue circles the peaking buds with skill. The actions almost make you squirt on him.

"Satoru," you sigh. "So good."

"I know, bunny," he murmurs while finally returning to the perfect place with his face tucked into your neck. He sighs out a sharp breath as your folds swell and clench around him again. The cords in your neck strain against his lips as he bites you again and brings you to your high with another fast thrust of his hips. The bed cracks with this one. You do not hear it. Neither does he.

He only hears sweet cries of his name as you cum. They spread an indulgent high through him.

Gojo cums only seconds after. His powerful thighs shake. The muscles in his back tighten.

"(Y/N)," he pants as he fills you up. "Fuck."

His body sags in the wake of his orgasm. Yours lies limp beneath the expanse of his musculature. He rubs soft circles into your hip with his thumb as you come down from both your highs.

"Baby," he says out of the blue. You hum in response. Stroke his head with loving hands. "I just thought of something. Can I try it?"

"Mm. Yeah. Go ahead."

Gojo grins. You see the danger there and regret saying yes to such a wicked man.

He slips his body between your legs. You shiver as his cock slides out of your hole.

A head of white lies tucked between your thighs. Blue eyes look up at you as if to coax you further into the fire of vexation.

Then he slides his fingers along the oversensitive nerves of your pussy.

You gasp. "Satoru! What are you—ah!"

He slides two fingers through the mess of his cum and your own release. White coats each appendage. With a frown on his lips, he arrives at a disappointing conclusion.

"This isn't enough. Let me taste you."

Heat expands through your core, and the slightest flood of wetness seeps from your hole as he lowers his mouth to kiss your folds, even with the mess that dirties your beautiful, swollen slit.

He licks at your cum. Swallows his own cum up without hesitation. He slides his tongue into and along your pussy until you shine with only his saliva. Your body relaxes when he finally stops. He presses another gentle kiss to your puffy clit then sits up from the wonderful meal lying between your thighs.

"Was that good, bunny?" he asks. Something stiff pokes at your thigh. You glance downward and bite your lip.

"Yes."

"Then let me fuck you one more time."

#saturo gojo #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru #satoru #gojo #gojo satoru x reader smut #gojo satoru x y/n #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x reader fluff #gojo satoru headcanons #gojo satoru x gender neutral reader #jujutsu kaisen #nanami kento #itadori yuji #itadori yuji x reader #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento smut #gojo satoru smut

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tsutsumi-kaina · 3 years

Text

Theory: AFO Gave Tomura Decay (Part 2)

Continued from this post (link!)

Warning: This post has spoilers for both the most recent chapters of MHA (up to ch. 316) as well as spoilers for Vigilantes (up to ch. 109).

Straight to the point:

5. Tomura’s eyes and hair change color with the activation of Decay

It’s easy to write this one off as the anime making questionable choices about Tomura’s color scheme yet again (five years of baby blue hair ya’ll)— but just for giggles, let’s just assume that Horikoshi did intend for Tenko's natural eye color to be black, just like Nana and Kotaro.

Now, there's a theory that Decay's activation destroyed all of Tomura's melanin, which is a theory I enjoy because it totally tracks (albinos lack pigmentation and they have "red eyes" because we're seeing their blood vessels rather than the actual color of their irises). I also like the “his hair went white from the trauma” and “he straight up went super saiyan” theories, because I’m a sucker that kind of specifically anime bullshit.

But what if none of those theories are right? What if there was another reason why Tomura's hair and eyes change color? What if the change was meant to foreshadow something just a bit more... sinister?

Presented Without Comment

Through Dabi/Touya’s story we know that quirk factors do have an effect on things like hair color, and can even change a person's hair color upon activation�� when Rei’s quirk factor becomes “dominant,” we see that Touya's hair gradually begins to turn white as his body changes to become more suited to an ice quirk despite his own quirk being fire-based.

That sound familiar?

So, Tomura's change to red eyes and white hair specifically starts to look more than a little insidious if we assume that A) AFO has always planned to turn Tenko into a new vessel, and B) Tenko actually got his first “dose” of AFO in the form of Decay + a pseudo-vestige, and his body has been gradually changing to become more hospitable for AFO's quirk factor. Exposure to AFO’s quirk factor (and it raging around inside of him like a damn virus) may be the true cause of Tomura’s palette swap.

6. Tenko is 5 when decay manifests, even though it’s been repeatedly stated that age 4 is the latest age that quirks manifest.

This point has also been discussed to death, with people arguing that Tomura simply had to amass enough hatred for Decay to fully manifest (see point 2 on why this “explanation” was most likely just AFO being a gigantic fucking troll). I’ll instead encourage folks to evaluate this point from a narrative standpoint— Hori drew attention to Tenko’s age and his quirklessness for a reason.

“Will he like me if I get my quirk!?” Uhhh....

And Tenko likely having been born quirkless leads to the next point:

7. Tenko, The Quirkless Wonder (or: how having a quirkless vessel is an integral part of AFO’s plan to snatch OFA and not straight up fucking die in the process)

Tenko being born quirkless makes him a perfect candidate to tolerate the simultaneous burden of both OFA/AFO without his lifespan getting completely drained in the process-- the nomufication surgery was more likely just a measure that was taken to make sure Tomura's body was strong enough to make use of both quirks right away.

8. You know what? *beats the dead horse anyway*

Man, isn’t there a sale at Men’s Warehouse you’re late to???

I know I said I wouldn’t touch on this point but come the fuck on, mister twenty-four-seven biz cas isn’t even trying to hide it

Bonus Points:

Machia's sense of smell - Machia tracks others through scent, and is somehow able to locate Tomura after the LOV has hidden themselves deep within the mountains. This is in spite the fact that they've never met before (Machia literally asks Tomura "Are you the one who succeeded AFO?"-- so we can assume he was not secretly tracking or observing Tomura from afar). We know that if Machia's never met a person before, he obviously can't track them via scent-- we see this when he has to stop and literally ask Mina for directions during a flashback. But he still manages to track down the LOV when not even the police/heroes had any inkling of their location. So. If Machia and Tomura have never met before, how was Machia able to find him? As funny as it is to imagine AFO rubbing a pair of dirty sneakers in Machia's face like he's an overgrown bloodhound, I'll put forth the following theory-- Machia was sniffing out Decay's quirk factor rather than Tomura himself. If Decay was formerly in the possession of AFO, and/or if a part of AFO’s quirk factor already exists inside Tomura, then tracking him down is a cinch for Machia.

AFO's pasttime is villain creation - There's a whole scene in Vigilantes where AFO discusses the true nature of a "villain," then brags about being able to create villains by causing imbalances in one's quirk + giving people unsuitable quirks + stimulating quirks with a "violent will" and forcing them to go haywire. It's, uh. Fairly damning, to say the least.

AFO may have used Decay to kill Nana - This one is more conspiracy theory than actual theory, and it may seem like a huge stretch, but hear me out! In its untrained form, we see that Decay reduces people to chunks instead of dusting them-- but it leaves their hands perfectly intact. It feels far too coincidental that AFO just so happened to leave Nana’s hand intact after killing her, and apparently decided to preserve that hand for 30 years on a total whim— and then, wouldn’tcha know it, Tenko just so happens to manifest a quirk that pulps everything but miraculously leaves the hands of those victims perfectly intact. And AFO being sick enough to give a little boy who wants to be a hero the same quirk that killed his hero grandma is a given at this point.

- - - - - - - - -

Anyway, I get that a lot of folks dislike this theory because it takes away a lot of Tomura’s agency-- but honestly, his entire character arc has been about him trying to rediscover his true self and reclaiming his agency after a lifetime of having his identity abused out of him by pretty much everyone he’s ever met. AFO was always going to be the final boss of that character arc, which has been less about “becoming the greatest villain” (and hoo boy people on twitter are reeeeally hung up on this particular misconception about Tomura’s arc) and more about discovering his true convictions and “becoming his own person”-- Just as Izuku’s character arc is about becoming his own person and learning to actually value himself, rather than him just becoming All Might 2.0 who acts as a hero at the complete expense of his own personhood.

I don’t feel that Decay being an implant from AFO harms Tomura’s character arc in any way-- rather, confronting the lie that he was somehow “born evil” and exists as a slave to Decay’s destructive impulse feels like the next hurdle Tomura needs to overcome before he can truly reclaim his agency.

#mha spoilers #shimura tenko #shigaraki tomura #AFO #my hero academia

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thegirlonpeetamellark · 3 years

Text

Christmas Break - Part 1

Surprise!! After a looong time away Court returns to Everlark fic world with a little holiday treat for everyone - enjoy! :)

Hi everyone. So 2020 has sucked. For me, the beginning of quarantine was actually a bit of a gift. Being home gave me the gift of time, something I haven’t had much of as my daughters (who were very little when I started writing in this fandom) have gotten older. While I never stopped writing, it was a struggle to find long enough chunks of time to get into a flow. I started writing again with earnest. Not all of it was my fanfiction; some of it was my original work. El keeps me posted on the humbling and kind asks she gets about my writing. I felt bad that despite my increased writing, I still wasn’t ready to update any WIPs. But I did remember a story I had started for the final holiday PiP that I was never able to get past the first page (due to lack of time that year) and to my surprise, it started flowing. I had every intention of finishing it and having El post it as a gift to this fandom. But once my school went “back” in October and hybrid learning started, that was it. My time was gone. And further, my family experienced the very sudden and non-Covid-related death of my aunt. So while I have nearly half of this story written, it’s not done. But it will be, very soon, since it is a one-shot. As with all my stories, it took on a life of its own and it needs more love. So what I have for the readers who have loyally followed me is the first part, the part that involves Christmas. It’s my hope to have a second part posted in a week or two, so that by the time that part posts, a final part is nearly done.

Thank you for your asks and your patience, and thank you to El, one of my favorite people in this world and the best thing my time in this fandom has given me. Thank you for your encouragement. Our friendship means the world to me.

Here’s to a better 2021. Love to you all. Court

Christmas Break

Fuck, not again, Peeta grouses as the opening notes of that insidious Mariah Carey song pipe through the loudspeaker. That’s the third time in the last two hours. He’s all for holiday spirit, but if he never hears this fucking song again it will be too soon.

Leaning his forehead against the cold pane of glass, he peers out of the fourth-story window into the darkened sky. When he had arrived at work a few hours ago, the snow had just been starting to fall; a slow, lazy tumble of flakes. Now it’s coming down in a tumultuous swirl. It figures Panem would finally see a white Christmas his first Christmas Eve on rotation in the emergency room. No doubt the weather is partially to blame for the crush of bodies crowding the waiting room tonight.

Peeta walks away from the window and opens the cabinet where he stashes his Clif bars. The economy-sized box looks suspiciously closer to empty than it did the other day. He’s heard complaints from other doctors and nurses that snacks are pilfered on a regular basis and was warned to label his own boxes. But he had forgone the warnings. If someone needed an energy bar badly enough to steal one, what was the $20 he had spent on them at Costco. He snags one and unwraps it.

He’s just raised it to his mouth when his Apple watch pings and his silenced cell phone pulses insistently against his thigh. Heaving a loud sigh, he sets down the energy bar and withdraws the phone from his pocket.

“Mom, you’ve got exactly 60 seconds,” he grits out. He doesn’t even need to look at the screen to confirm it’s her. She’s called twice already tonight, calls he’s ignored with good reason, but somehow his mother thinks a phone call from her trumps any actual emergencies her doctor son could be dealing with. Which, tonight, have been nonstop since his shift began at six.

“Please tell me you ate something,” she begins.

“I was just about to, when you called,” he replies. “I’ve only got a couple of minutes. It’s been utter chaos for the last four hours.”

“We missed you at dinner. I can’t remember the last Christmas Eve when I didn’t have all three of my boys together.” Peeta closes his eyes. All these years my mother has been gushing about having a doctor in the family, and yet she never stopped to consider the ramifications of actually having a doctor in the family, he thinks. Particularly its impact on holiday gatherings. She obviously hadn’t learned anything from this past Thanksgiving, as now, just a month later, she’s already dumping a fresh guilt trip on him for missing another family dinner.

She continues, “And Jackson and Maxwell were just devastated when they heard you weren’t coming, until I assured them they’d see you tomorrow. We will see you tomorrow, yes?”

Peeta suppresses another exasperated sigh and breaks off a chunk of the Clif bar. “Yes, Mom, I’ll be there.” And though it’s childish, he crams the bar into his mouth and mumbles around it, “I wouldn’t miss it for anything.” His chewing masks the sarcasm that weighs down the words.

“Excellent. We need an updated family portrait before Everly and Rye have to leave for her parents’ house.” Placated, his mother moves to ends the call, but not before getting in a less-than-subtle comment about how much she adores his brother Rye’s fiancée and how happy she is Rye is settling down.

Staring at the disconnected call flashing on the screen, Peeta tries not to let the remark get to him. Mostly because he knows it’s a lie. His mother has complained more than once about Everly and how she’s not good enough for Rye. Peeta knows the dig was directed at him. He hasn’t truly had a serious girlfriend since junior year of college; just a few casual relationships that barely qualified as relationships. He doesn’t know how his mother expects him to meet someone with the hours he keeps. And his father, for as close as they are, never seems willing to jump to Peeta’s defense.

Taking a deep breath to let his irritation suffuse, he jams his phone back in his pocket and scarfs down the rest of his pathetic dinner. All three bites of it. Then he uses the restroom, dutifully washes his hand, and stalks out of the staff lounge, his short break over.

As he strides up the corridor, he hears loud shouting coming from the ER waiting room.

“…should be asleep in her bed, waiting for Santa Claus to come, but instead, we’re still here waiting for someone to take a look at her arm! It’s been over two hours! Don’t you people have any compassion? Or is Ebenezer Freaking Scrooge running this place tonight?”

Curious, Peeta veers towards the reception desk, where his eyes land on the ranting woman. She’s young, probably no older than her mid-twenties, and in spite of the fact that her dark hair is spilling out of a messy braid and she’s not wearing any makeup, Peeta is immediately struck by her beauty. The rosy flush to her cheeks from her tirade actually makes her even prettier. She’s cradling a toddler and protectively shielding the little girl’s right arm. The toddler’s blonde head rests on her mother’s shoulder, her thumb wedged into her tiny pink mouth. Her left arm clutches a stuffed orange cat. She looks tired. Actually, both mother and daughter do.

“Miss, I understand your frustration, I really do,” the receptionist says calmly, her eyes cutting to Peeta as he stops by her side. He reads the name on the file on top of the stack, the next patient scheduled to be seen: MCMURPHY, JOSEPH. Clearly not the little girl in front of him.

“I don’t think you do!” the young mother cries, her eyes flashing steel. “She’s three, she’s in pain, and she’s scared. And what’s more, I’ve seen at least five people go ahead of us who came in after us!”

“That’s not how the emergency room works, miss,” the receptionist replies. She drums her fingertips on the desk, offering the young mother a tight smile.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” the young mother adds, an edge of desperation creeping into her tone. Discreetly, Peeta moves around the receptionist’s chair, scanning the desktop until he spies the stack of files for the patients awaiting admission. While the receptionist continues to give the young mother the run-around, he thumbs through the stack, searching. His eyes land on what he’s looking for: a date of birth. His lips tip up. Bingo. This has to be it: HAWTHORNE, IVY ANN.

At the exact second his hand snatches Ivy’s file from the pile and slips the other one in amongst the stack, the young mother’s eyes lock on his. Her gaze narrows. He can see the exhaustion all over her beautiful face. Her full lips twitch, her countenance suspicious as they stare at one another.

“Ivy Hawthorne?” Peeta taps the file he had extricated. An immediate flicker of relief lights the young mother’s mercury eyes, and that lush mouth breaks into a grateful, relieved smile. The receptionist’s neck snaps up. “I’ve got this,” he adds, his tone leaving no room for her to argue with him. It’s not protocol for Peeta to take a patient directly, but it’s also not blatantly against the rules. Sure, it might mean a little more work for him, but if it means he can get this little girl home sooner on Christmas Eve, it’s worth it.

He smiles at the little girl. “Ivy, I’m Doctor Mellark. I’m going to help make you feel better, okay?” She nods once but doesn’t lift her head from her mother’s shoulder. Peeta’s arm sweeps to the side, ushering the young mother and Ivy past the desk. He scans the hallway and spies a partially drawn curtain halfway up the corridor. He leads them to the available partition and close the curtain behind them. As he turns to face them, he nearly slams into the woman. She hasn’t moved, and her luminous grey eyes fasten to his. She looks as if she’s going to say something, but several seconds pass and she’s still quiet, still watching him. The silence starts to become uncomfortable. Peeta clears his throat.

“If you’d have a seat, please, Mrs. Hawthorne. You can hold her while I get some more information from you.”

The young woman’s lips part slightly, again appearing as if she wants to say something, but instead she shuffles forward and Peeta waits while she settles on the edge of the hospital bed, gingerly adjusting Ivy so she’s sitting sideways across her mother’s lap.

Peeta sinks down onto the stool and scoots towards the edge of the bed. This close he has a much better look at Ivy’s mother. She really is a beautiful young woman, and given how adorable Ivy is Peeta assumes her husband is probably also very attractive. He feels a twinge of jealousy. Lucky bastard. Pretty wife, cute kid…probably has a nice little house and a golden retriever too. Living the dream. His dream, if he allows himself to admit it to anyone but his mother. If he was being perfectly honest, he had always envisioned himself married by now.

“How old are you, Ivy?” he ask, even though he knows from her chart and her mother’s declaration that she’s three years old. She hesitates, and still clutching the stuffed cat, manages to display three fingers. Peeta smiles at her again.

“I have a nephew who is the exact same age as you are. He told me just last week that he’s a big boy now. Are you a big girl, Ivy?” He keeps his tone gentle, hoping it will put her at ease with him. She nods, her big blue eyes lightening imperceptibly. “I thought so. Can you be a big girl and tell me what happened to your arm?”

Her mother answers automatically, “She fell. I was only gone—” Peeta holds up his palm. He has the triage nurse’s initial assessment, so he knows Ivy’s arm is likely broken. What he doesn’t know is how the arm got broken. And those details he needs to try to get from Ivy herself. Kids her age always tell the truth when it comes to how they were injured, and unfortunately it’s part of Peeta’s job to make sure there isn’t a more sinister reason she’s in the E.R. tonight, no matter how sweet and innocent her mother appears. He’s already had a few encounters with suspected child abuse, though his gut tells him that isn’t the case with Ivy Hawthorne.

“Please. I would like Ivy to tell me how it happened.”

Something dangerous flints in Ivy’s mother’s now stormy grey eyes.

“She. Fell.” The words are curt, enunciated coolly, but her voice is soft and Peeta can tell she’s keeping her temper in check for the benefit of her daughter. Eyes still pinned to his, she inhales deeply. A second later, her shoulders relax. “Go ahead and tell the nice doctor how you hurt your arm,” she whispers, stroking Ivy’s curls.

“I was trying to see Santa,” Ivy replies, her tongue tripping in a lisp on the “S’s.”

“What do you mean by that?” he prompts her.

Ivy scrunches up her button nose. “I was trying to see up the chimney. ‘Cause the chimney at Aunt Katniss’s house is so skinny and Santa Claus is real fat and I don’t know how he’s gonna fit down it to bring me my presents!” Her blue eyes brim with tears and her lower lip starts to tremble. Peeta reaches over and pats her knee.

“I wouldn’t worry about that, sweetheart. Santa Claus is magic. He’ll get you your presents, no matter what the chimney looks like.” He exchanges a look with her mother.

“It was all my fault,” she says quietly. “I went in the kitchen, to get the cookies and milk—”

“And the carrots! For Rudolph and the other reindeer!” Ivy chimes in, her eyes shiny wet.

“I never should have left her alone, not even for a second. This is my fault. It’s my fault. She wouldn’t have slipped and fallen off the hearth if I had been watching her.” Guilt chokes her words, and it sounds as if she’s close to tears.

“Accidents happen, Mrs. Hawthorne,” Peeta says empathetically, “that’s why there are emergency rooms.” She presses her lips together, her brows knitting.

“It’s Everdeen,” she says quietly. Peeta drops his eyes to Ivy’s chart, and furrows his brows, his gaze wandering to the young woman’s left hand. No ring. A brief thrill curls through him at the thought that she’s single. Asshole, he immediately chides himself. So not what you should be thinking about right now. He scans the chart more carefully and shakes his head.

“I’m sorry,” he begins, “but this lists Primrose Hawthorne as the mother, under the Parent/Guardian information, and a Rory Hawthorne as the father. I just assumed—”

She cuts him off. “Primrose Hawthorne was her mother. But I’m not Primrose Hawthorne. I’m Katniss. Katniss Everdeen. I’m her aunt. I should be listed as her primary emergency contact.” She swallows and squeezes her eyes shut briefly. When she opens them, they plead with his. Peeta glances down at Ivy, and then raises his eyes to Katniss again. The guilt that was clouding those silver irises a moment ago has dissipated, replaced with anguish. He doesn’t know what the full story is here, but he didn’t miss Katniss’s usage of the past tense in referring to Ivy’s mother. So he honors her silent appeal not to ask questions.

“Okay, Ivy, you fell, and you landed on your arm? I bet that hurt,” Peeta says to the little girl, but his gaze stays fastens on Katniss. She gives him the faintest smile and mouths, “Thank you.”

~*~*~*~

An hour later, the orthopedist informs Peeta that Ivy Hawthorne is ready for his approval to be discharged. Not wanting to keep her and her aunt waiting any later than necessary, he sets down the X-ray he had been studying, and heads back to where Ivy is.

Standing outside the curtain, he hears quiet singing. He draws back the curtain and sees Katniss seated on the bed, with Ivy nestled in her lap. A bright pink cast safely cocoons the girl’s arm. Her blonde head rests on Katniss’s shoulder. Her eyes are closed, and her little body rises and falls with the deep breathing of sleep.

Katniss continues to sing, unaware of Peeta’s presence. He doesn’t recognize the tune she’s singing. It’s not a Christmas carol, at least not one he’s ever heard before, but he continues to listen, captivated by her voice. It’s soft and decidedly feminine, but there’s raspy undercurrent to it that gives him chills. It’s like the first sip of a rich, smoky bourbon.

Gingerly, he tiptoes towards the bed and stands before her for several more minutes, until Katniss finally lifts her eyes. She immediately stops singing. Peeta smiles and nods towards Ivy.

“Someone is worn out,” he whispers. Katniss’s lips twitch into a chagrinned smile.

“I’m sure the second we get home she’ll be wide awake and it’ll take forever to get her into bed. She was already amped up about Santa Claus before this.” She tips her head and gestures with her chin towards Ivy’s arm.

“Warm milk. With a little bit of cinnamon,” he suggests.

“Really?” Her eyes round. “Cinnamon? That really works?” Disbelief clouds her words. He shrugs sheepishly.

“I have no idea. No kids. And I’ve never had much trouble sleeping. I’m usually asleep the minute my head hits the pillow. But I’ve heard from a friend with a toddler that it does the trick.” He waits for her to say something—anything—in response, but she doesn’t. Her gaze is back on the sleeping toddler in her arms.

Watching her stare tenderly at her niece causes something unexpected to claw at Peeta’s chest and he’s overwhelmed by a fierce compulsion to want to keep her here, to get to know more about her. It’s been a long time since he felt this kind of instant attraction to a woman. Why couldn’t he have met her under different circumstances?

“Are we all done, doctor?”

Peeta startles from his thoughts and offers Katniss an apologetic smile.

“Yes, sorry. You are good to go as soon as you sign here—” He holds the clipboard at an angle, to allow her to sign without having to disturb Ivy, “and here.” He flips the sheet back to the second page and she scrawls her name across the line there, too. Normally a nurse would go over discharge papers and protocol with patients, but Peeta had taken it upon himself to grab Ivy’s. He needed to spend every possible minute in Katniss’s presence.

Once the release forms are complete, he review the plan for Ivy’s follow-up care, including how to manage any pain she has and when she’ll need to return to have the cast removed. Katniss listens attentively.

When he’s finished, she stands up slowly, her movements tentative so as not to jostle Ivy. A sigh parts the little girl’s lips and she stirs, but she remains asleep. God, she’s cute, Peeta thinks.

“Thank you, Dr. Mellark,” Katniss says softly. “For everything. I know what you did…” She falters. “I mean, I know we, ah, weren’t next, and ah…” Peeta waves a hand dismissively, sensing her discomfort with his hijacking of the queued patients.

“It was my pleasure,” he replies. “Little girls should be home on Christmas Eve. Waiting for Santa.” He echoes Katniss’s earlier words. “I hope he’s good to her.”

He doesn’t miss the forlorn expression that flits across Katniss’s face as she glances down at her sleeping niece.

“He can’t bring her what she wants most, but he’ll try,” she murmurs and moves towards the open curtain. Just before she steps out into the hall, she pauses and turns to face Peeta.

“Merry Christmas,” she adds.

“Merry Christmas,” he concurs. With a faint smile, she steps around the curtain. It rustles in her wake and resettles. Peeta exhales and slumps against the wall, regret washing through him, followed by a stronger wave of sadness at seeing Katniss go. If it hadn’t been for Ivy, he might have concocted some kind of delay to keep Katniss here longer, found some excuse to pry more information out of her. Like if she’s single. A surge of adrenaline spikes in his blood. He can’t let her go this easily.

He bolts out into the corridor, scanning the bustling hallway for any sign of Katniss and Ivy, but they’ve vanished. Disappointed, his shoulders slump as he trudges towards the nurses’ station to hand off Ivy’s file.

It’s probably best, a nagging little voice inside him taunts, and he reluctantly concedes that it probably is. As much as he’d love to finally shut his mother up and find a woman that he’d want to spend more than a night with, it’s not fair to subject one to the kind of schedule he has to keep. New doctors are low-man-on-the-totem-pole. He’s had mostly graveyard shifts and he’s often on call. It’s his dream to have a pediatric practice, but he’s well aware that he’ll have to toil for a couple of years to get on track to make that dream a reality.

A few minutes later, en route to his next examination, Peeta spies Johanna, one of the triage nurses, coming out of the room Ivy had occupied. His eyes immediately narrow when his gaze lands on her left arm.

“Was that in there?” He motions towards the vacated room and then nods towards the stuffed cat Johanna has wedged under her armpit.

“What, the cat? Yeah. It must have fallen under the bed. I’ll take it to the station, in case someone comes back to claim it.”

Ivy’s cherubic little face flashes in Peeta’s mind. He remember how fiercely she had been clutching that cat, and how she had reluctantly agreed to put it down when it had been time for Delly, another one of the triage nurses, to take her for X-rays.

Peeta’s pulse quickens and he immediately thrusts his hand towards Johanna. “I’ll take it,” he says impulsively. She wrinkles her nose and cocks her head, her hazel eyes intensely scrutinizing him. Though they have a casual friendship, Johanna is far too insightful for her own good. Peeta doesn’t really need her questioning his motives for taking possession of the toy.

“The little girl it belongs to goes to preschool with Max. I’ll make sure he takes it to her after the holiday break.” Fuck, that lie flew off his tongue so easily he almost believes it himself. Johanna shrugs and tosses Peeta the cat.

“Suit yourself. One less thing to overflow the Lost and Found.” She strides past him and disappears into Triage 6. He stares down at the stuffed animal. His heart skips another beat and a slow smile tugs at his mouth.

~*~*~*~

Stifling another yawn, Peeta squints at the numbers above the garage. He’s definitely in the right place. He kills the engine and sits for a moment, glancing at the clock on the navigation system. It’s quarter after nine. Early, but not obscenely so. When his shift had ended at six am, he had driven home and fought the urge to crawl into bed; instead, he grabbed a quick shower and freshened up. True, part of him hadn’t wanted to see Katniss Everdeen again looking like the bedraggled, exhausted mess he was at the end of a rotation, and also true, he was going to have to clean up before he’s due at his parents’ house at one. But he also knew he couldn’t really have shown up at Katniss’s house at the crack of dawn on Christmas morning, even if he suspects Ivy likely had her up by then. He recalls, with a wistful smile, that Christmas morning was the one morning he and his brothers were always awake before his father. It was only a question of which Mellark brother was going to be the first to rouse the others. Him being the youngest, it was usually him, he admits with a wider grin.

He quietly exits his car, careful not to slam the door, and gingerly steps across the icy driveway. He pauses at the un-shoveled front walk, where a pristine blanket of snow blocks his path. “Shit,” he whispers, gritting his teeth as he takes the first step. His foot plunges into the deep drift, up to nearly his calf. He braces himself and takes a huge step, hoping to eat up the distance in a few long strides. Fortunately, it’s not a long front walk. He reaches the also un-shoveled front steps and carefully ascends them. He contemplates ringing the doorbell, but instead raps his knuckles against the door. His breath pipes out in white plumes and he rubs his palms together for warmth as he waits.

No one comes to the door, at least not immediately. Peeta lifts his fist again, but just before his knuckles can connect with the wood again, the front door opens a crack and he’s suddenly looking at Katniss. Those silver eyes round almost comically as recognition lights them.

“D-Doctor Mellark? Wh-what are you….”

“Hi. Merry Christmas,” he begins. “I thought Ivy would be missing this.” He smiles and holds up the stuffed cat.

Katniss stares at him, her lips parting faintly, and shock and confusion war on her pretty face. But then her grey eyes darken with what Peeta can only describe as restrained fury.

She opens the door fully and glares at him.

“You had Ivy’s cat?” she accuses.

“Uh…yeah…” he stammers, his own confusion welling. Why is she so angry? “My nephew…he has a bear. Otis. Can’t sleep without that thing. I thought if Ivy is anything like Max…well, she’d be missing this.” He holds the cat out to Katniss. She snatches it so violently that she stumbles backwards. Peeta is equally jarred, but his jolt is from the very brief brush of Katniss’s fingers against his when she had grabbed the toy.

But Katniss gives him no time to revel in the feeling.

“So this is why no one at the hospital had a goddamned clue what I was talking about when I called there looking for this cat an hour ago!” she spits.

Shit, Peeta thinks, an uneasy feeling clawing its way into his gut.

“Why the fuck—” He can’t help but notice her slight hesitation before she lobs the obscenity at him. “—would you take my niece’s cat? Is this something normal people do?” She’s shivering visibly as she rants, a clear consequence of stepping onto her front porch wearing nothing but green plaid pajama pants and a threadbare black Henley shirt.

“I….I…” He shakes his head. He’s not even sure how to defend his actions. He can’t very well tell her his ulterior motives in bringing the stuffed cat back to her niece. Not now. He definitely fucked this up.

“I was just trying to be nice. That I’d save you a trip on Christmas morning,” he finishes lamely.

Katniss’s nostrils flare and her jaw flexes. “Christmas morning,” she mutters, just barely audible over the clattering of her teeth. “Did it occur to you, Dr. Mellark, that I might be looking for Ivy’s cat and I might call the hospital looking for this cat?” She shakes the toy in his face. “And did it occur to you that, in spite of all the toys she had just opened, Ivy might be bawling and throwing a fit because Buttercup was missing?”

Buttercup, he has to assume, is the stuffed cat.

She pauses, as if waiting for him to defend himself, but all he can do is swallow against the lump crowding his throat.

So she continues, “They made me think I was crazy—but not until after they left me on hold for 20 minutes while I tried to calm a wailing toddler. And then they said there was no toy matching this description in the Lost and Found. And that’s because you had it!” Her eyes are a maelstrom now, but he notices that an edge of frustration has crept into her furious tone.

“And now Ivy doesn’t have it. So thank you. Thank you very much, Dr. Mellark. Merry Christmas.” And before Peeta can release the breath he’s been holding during her outburst and plead his case, she whirls around, her disheveled braid lancing through the air like a whip, and slams the door behind her. Stunned, Peeta can only stare at the wreath on the door as he processes what just happened.

What. The. Fuck.

Heart pounding, gut churning, Peeta retreats to his car. He takes a few minutes to absorb the shock of his encounter with Katniss, his mind reeling through the accusations she made. He never would have expected her to react like this. So much for any shot with Katniss Everdeen.

He finally gathers his composure and navigates out of her complex. As he drives, his mind continues replaying Katniss’s words over and over, and he finds one thing nags at him.

And now Ivy doesn’t have it.

Those words don’t make much sense to him. He just gave the stuffed animal back to Katniss. She can give it back to Ivy. She’ll have it now. In her wrath, Katniss just wasn’t being rational, he decides.

But her words continue to haunt him off and on for the rest of the day. Along with persistent images of Katniss that further torment him. She is never far from his conscious thoughts. As he sits down next to the fireplace in his parents’ house with a tumbler of scotch to exchange gifts with his brothers and his nephews, he finds himself wondering who Katniss is celebrating with. Ivy, obviously. But does she have other family?

By the time the Mellarks all settle around the table for dinner, he’s conjured up the notion that Katniss may not be married, but she surely has a devoted boyfriend who is showering her with gifts at this very moment. Her mood is infinitely better than what Peeta witnessed earlier. She’s probably dressed nice for him, and he’s sitting around her dining room table with Katniss and Ivy, like a makeshift family.

His mother’s irritation is palpable when she has to command his attention twice to try and draw him into the discussion centered on Rye’s upcoming wedding. Peeta murmurs the apology he knows she expects and feigns his dutiful brotherly interest for Rye’s benefit the remainder of the meal. But a dull ache has taken up residence in the center of his chest and he realizes just how badly he wants what his brothers have.

He just won’t be having it with Katniss Everdeen.

#everlark #the hunger games #everlark fanfiction #court81981

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tozxrvo-huskiel · 3 years

Text

Bugsnax Talk (Spoilers)

I just finished this fucking whackjob of a game hooboy, I just wanna note down my thoughts. Major end-game spoilers, don’t read if you haven’t finished/don’t want to be spoiled.

So they’re fucking parasites. All these hours I spent joyfully going snOOpy....banoopy.... It’s all been a damn lie. A sham. A farce. They’re adorably dumb and sometimes-creepy little yumbuggers have been playing with my mind for all that time. I turned Beffica into HotDogica and I just feel mega weirded out. It was funny, cause she was just weird and rounded and hot-god, but like, fuck, that shit was killing her! I didn’t like Beffica much, sure, but like, damn, that’s horrifying.

Things about Bugsnax as creatures that are of interest to me:

- They’re parasites, but they live outside of host basically as mimics. They clearly EAT, or can eat in some capacity, as they chase after and clear sauces when you shoot them on a surface they can reach. The darn things even have flavor preferences of their own. There are sauce plants out in the wild naturally, so clearly they have a means to sustain themselves in that way.

- It makes me wonder though- the few sauce plants that are wild in the game seem pretty sparse. Do they NEED to eat, or are they just capable of it? Grapeskeetos can suck the juices out of another Bugsnax without killing it’s target, so is there a point? Or is it all a ploy to fit into their surroundings?

- Bugsnax also die- it’s mentioned early on that a dead Bugsnax just turns into an (apparently unappetizing) goop, and we see plenty of Bugsnax goop around. Whether those goo piles are dead Bugsnax, or uh... poop, is unclear. It makes sense though, that the goop is unappetizing. They’re parasites, and want to be alive to infect their host.

- They’ve somehow gathered enough information about what Grumpus’ like to eat that they’ve evolved to look like food. The murals on the old ruins shows mostly like... natural looking foods like meat and fruit and stuff, but there’s Bugsnax that look like packaged foods and things that clearly require more complex methods of cooking.

- On that note, the Snackpods, Bungers, and Cakelegs are clearly more modern Bugsnax, as Snorpy points out how nonsensical it would be for them to evolve naturally that way. It certainly makes sense that they are either gathering data, or are being specifically engineered to be appealing (more on this later).

- When a host is infected with the parasite, the change to their minds happen more slowly than the body. It starts first as a fascination that eventually turns into obsession, until all you want to do is eat Bugsnax. An interesting part of this is that there are many Bugsnax that appeal to different tastes, but they aren’t all easy to catch and devour... If their ultimate goal is to be eaten in order to turn the host into more Bugsnax, why be so difficult? Perhaps it has to do with the psychological lure of wanting something you can’t have/can’t easily obtain. Easy-to-catch Bugsnax act as a gateway to chasing down bigger and tougher Bugsnax, and the accomplishment as well as the more interestingly-composed Snax add to the desire to catch and eat them.

- Once the host has been completely compromised, they completely fall apart into food pieces that presumably turn into more Bugsnax. Based on the conversations you have shortly before their deaths, the Bugsnax can’t dissolve a host Grumpus until they’ve completely given up. You can turn an entire Grumpus into 100% visibly Bugsnax, but they don’t immediately fall apart at that point. It seems that their ability to reproduce, or at least convert a host, is solely dependent on the willpower of the creature they’re infecting. This seems to hold true, since Lizbert avoided death by mentally resisting the Bugsnax’ control, even managing to gain control of them herself.

- In the sense that they act like parasites, they also apparently can function as a hivemind? At the very minimum, similar Bugsnax will function together as a single Bugsnax (the Sandopede and Megamak are trailing Bugsnax, and the SnoopyBanoopy, Bopsicle, and Picantis are amalgamate Bugsnax). At the very end, Lizbert commands a platoon of Bugsnax to move away and even has a Bugsnax golem, strengthening this idea. However, like some super-colony ant species, sometimes the workers will decide to remove an existing queen, going after the Grumpus’ even though Lizbert clearly doesn’t want them to. They seem to be able to make joint hivemind decisions, and agree on when and how to carry them out, whether all as one or just in groups of similar Snax.

- Lizbert tells you that the Bugsnax are insidious and patient. At the very end of the credits a single Strabby (presumably Sprout) appears from the boat after everyone has left. This little shit waited for all the Grumpus’ to leave the beach before emerging, and this could likely lead to a new infestation of Bugsnax on the mainland.

- If Bugsnax are truly insidious and patient and as intelligent as Sprout showed, then this could possibly have been either 1. The Bugsnax’ plan all along, or 2. They saw the opportunity and intelligently took it. Filbo CANNOT be killed in the end sequence, and neither can you, and I think the Bugsnax know this. You are guaranteed to escape whether you save anyone at all, and even though the Mama Mewon and Mothza Supreme appear to try to attack the balloon at the end. Sure, it makes sense that the Mewon might not be fast enough to catch you, but that Mothza Supreme seems to hesitate before it reaches you. Of course, this could be simply seen as the game making space for Lizbert and Eggabell to have their jump animation into the scene, but considering it’s in a cutscene, they could’ve had that detail on purpose.

- GRUMPINATI. Clumby clearly is involved with them to some extent, as is shown in the final dialogue of the game, and they apparently have some form of worship of Bugsnax. If you’re keen, you may have also noticed the Clumby does a strange thing with her eye at the very beginning of the game, before you even go to Snaxburg.

- The Grumpinati are are possibly engineering Bugsnax into specific forms, like the Daddy Cakelegs, and it seems that the goal of Bugsnax in their scheme is to mind-control people, or at least have a way to make people more malleable to their whims. Conversations around town show how obsessed the residents of the island already are with the Bugsnax, and they will do a great deal to get them. Sure, some resist better than others (and Gramble is just endeared to them), but without their Bugsnax food supply, the entire town initially fell to pieces. Imagine what control you could have on people if they were infected, obsessed, and YOU controlled the Bugsnax supply? Even Snorpy, as intelligent as he is, believes he’s saving people by eating the Bugsnax, inadvertently falling right into their hands. Crazy shit.

- However, the Bugsnax have clearly existed for an extremely long time, as seen from the ruins. It’s also possible that they appeared naturally, and simply overrode the entire natural ecosystem. Whether this is a case of “The Grumpinati are an ancient group who created this Snax long ago” or “Naturally evolved parasite grows exponentially, and millennia later are discovered and exploited by the Grumpinati” is unclear. What IS clear is that the Snax are being engineered, or at least influenced in shape in some way.

- Compared to more “natural” Bugsnax like Strabby, Cobhopper, and Peelbugs, special food Bugsnax are likely taking shape based on what they see Grumpus’ eating, or are having their forms directly influenced via manipulation/experimentation. Interestingly enough, the most “unnatural” Bugsnax seem more condensed in areas with extreme climate, where most natural creatures might struggle or have to very specifically evolve for their terrain.

- Triffany and Wiggles claim that the size of a Bugsnax may equate to its age, but the existence of the Lizbert amalgamation disproves this. She’s likely been sustained by the Bugsnax she’s been turned into, but based on dialogue throughout the game, she couldn’t have been in the heart of the island for more than a few months.

- Speaking of the heart of the island, is the island itself literally just one giant Bugsnax? The lower tunnels and liquid seem like a strange and nasty digestive tract or something, and the food in the walls don’t necessarily seem alive... BUT, when Bugsnax join together into a single functioning amalgam like Picantis, you only see the eyes of the creature on the dominating head, so.... Does Lizbert become the “head” of the creature when she takes control, or is she just an extra large “worker” unit inside of the main body? Is there a giant pair of googly eyes under the island in the ocean that marks the dominating part of this giant island Bugsnax???

- My brain hurts. :/

#bugsnax #it me #spoilers #long post #i just need to rant about bugsnax a little now that i've finished it

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luzial · 3 years

Photo

I recently commissioned @salesart to do a portrait of Solas (aka “Song”) and Lavellan (aka “Ink”) from my fic, In And Out Of Time Again. I’m so thrilled with how it came out, especially all the little details that reference their codenames. Thank you SO MUCH to Sales for all your work on this piece, and for asking me all the hard-hitting questions like “what’s their height difference.” I had so much fun collaborating with you!

The first chapter of In And Out of Time Again is below the cut, and you can read the completed work on AO3.

Song has had many names. The latest suits him no better nor worse than the others. If he has one complaint, it is that this name lacks specificity. Fen’Harel was a name that was a lie, and a lie that has long since become irrelevant, but he cannot argue that it painted a clear and awful portrait. His other name, the one that came both before and after, he is only too glad to be rid of. He rarely thinks of it now.

Song is in his element in Strands like these, when he can submit to the demands of his teeth and claws and blessedly forget the version of himself that is not like this. It is simple here in the verdant expanse of his home, his first love. When a mountain stands in his way he moves it with a thought. When a beating heart must be silenced, he rips into it and tastes warm blood on his tongue.

His assignment today is a wonderfully simple one: a death. The target is ancient and powerful, though only in comparison to the other things of its world. Beside an agent of Music, it is nothing. He longs for a crush of strength against his own and for the moment when uncertainty asks him whether he can snap his target’s neck before it breaks him in two. The answer, of course, is that he will hear the crack of bone and hold its dying form within his jaws too quickly to satisfy the hunger that burns within him.

Still, he will try to afford it a fair fight.

When he finds the edges of its lair, Song realizes something is wrong. Demons should swarm around him, challenging his right to intrude on their master’s territory even as he cuts them down. There should be whispers here, a choir of disembodied voices singing the Melody’s secrets for those who know how to listen. Yet all that greets him are emptiness and silence.

The raw Fade has begun to reclaim this place, the green waters of its currents rising up to erode the poisoned ground that has been here for three thousand years. Song wanders farther in, his paws sinking deep into the muck, until finally he finds the corpse.

The fear demon that claimed this part of the Fade is gone, reduced to a husk of tangled limbs and fangs that still drip with venom. Song has arrived too late. The death has already been administered, but this means that the timing is all wrong, and for Music, timing is everything.

Whatever killed the demon has done so before it had a chance to strike a bargain with a young mage girl in Kirkwall. Now she will not murder her family and dozens of others; she will not leave alive one angry, orphaned sister. Thanks to this single fault in the rhythm, the entire Strand is lost.

Song is so annoyed by all the absences that at first he does not notice the addition. It is so impossibly out of place that for a moment he simply stares at it. Stuck to the venom on the dead demon’s fangs is a piece of finely-made paper that smells of sugar and flowers, its perfume somehow drowning the stench of the rotting carcass. He reaches out for it with a hand and fingers; it is a thing too delicate to be held by claws. The venom stings but he pays it no mind, for he has seen the single line written on the page in a delicate script: Touch me with fire that I be cleansed.

It must be a trap. Not the venom, of course. Whoever left this certainly knows it will take much more than that to wound him. It would be best to leave the note here and let it rot along with the rest of this discordant Strand. But this is a challenge and an invitation - words that hint at more words.

Song ignites the paper between his fingers and it is as if he has turned the first page in a book. He reads, and when he is done he has become the wolf again, mouth twisted to a snarl. When he has committed the words to memory, he shreds what’s left of the sweet-smelling paper between his claws and grinds it into the mud.

When Song is gone, a shade steps into the pawprints he left and searches until it finds every piece of the burned, shredded, filthy paper.

--------

Tell me I have sung to Your approval.

I’ve always been fond of the Canticle of Transfigurations, or at least of the versions that I’ve penned. Hopefully you have more than a passing familiarity with it as well, or the cosmic cleverness of what I’ve just done will be totally wasted on you. (But I suspect your familiarity is more than passing. If you are who I think you are, you’ve probably written versions of it yourself. If so, how do you deal with the bit in 10:1 about the moth and the flame? I feel like I can never get it quite ominous enough, you know?)

I’ve barely just begun and already I’ve distracted myself with all the questions I wish to ask you. But that just speaks to my point (that I’m about to make).

Is there anything in this world more insidious than words? It took me eight of them to grab your attention. Honestly, I could have managed it in fewer if I didn’t want to make a dramatic entrance. But I did.

I’ve been curious about you for a while now. It’s not like there are many things left to be curious about when you have all of time to catch up on anything you might have missed, so I should thank you for that novelty. I think the first time I saw you was during that bad business in the Deep Roads in Strand 398. I was the hurlock, you were the Grey Warden recruit. Our eyes met as I bit into your commander’s neck and tore out his windpipe. (Sorry about the mess, by the way - I really enjoy getting into character.)

You were definitely meant to lose that fight. I know - I’ve gone back and checked a lot of other Strands and that recruit always dies, the darkspawn always swarm, and the Third Blight always begins. But then you single-handedly cut down the horde after everyone else in your party had died. (I know because I stuck around after you chopped off my head with that broadsword - I just had to see what would happen!) You killed enough of them to prevent the swarm, even though you died for it in the end. (And of course you died for it - you’re good but no one’s that good.)

My point is: do you remember how it felt when that shriek bit into your arm and the Blight burned into your veins? Do you remember the way it spiraled into you, burrowing in your lungs and your heart and your gut until it felt like your body had always been its home? (I’ve been Blighted a lot so I’ve got some pretty good descriptors for it.)

Anyway, let me spell it out in case my metaphors are getting too convoluted: In this letter, I’m the shriek and my words are the Blight. I’ve bitten you and poured my words into you. Your memory will pump them through your mind just as surely as your heart pumped the Blight to the tips of your fingers and toes. Want a cure? Too bad, there isn’t one.

I’m not only writing to gloat. I meant what I said above - I appreciate the novelty you’ve brought to the battlefield. Things are dreadfully dull most of the time. Mainly the Story sends me off to retcon the occasional plot holes your Music introduces to the narrative. There’s very little chance for improvisation, so I have to find amusement where I can.

And this has been very amusing.

Sincerely, Ink

(Keep reading on AO3)

#Art of my fic!#salesart #in and out of time again #dragon age fanart #dragon age fanfic #solas x lavellan #solas #lavellan #solavellan #luzial writes

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greytoiletpaper · 4 years

Text

Out on Allen Street, it’s 7 in the Morning

Set in the same-ish street-siblings universe as First Contact by @cryptids-and-muses and @a-sketchy-character @streetsiblings (they’re still awesome). I present to you... Angst.

Drizzle | AO3

Chapter 2: Deluge

Felipe Garzonas falls.

Jason cannot find it in himself to care. The man was human garbage at best-

A shriek of anguish rents the air, a woman's, while the stalking man pounces on her and bays with his manic glee.

-and they were just going to let him go? No dice. Jason did not push him off the edge, but it’s still satisfying enough for him to know the man is gone now.

It is here, on this rooftop, that Jason understands that the horrors of the world can never be contained, only controlled. In what ways, he isn’t sure yet, but when he thinks of killing, all he can imagine is a figure adorned in a red helmet, ruthless and proud.

When Bruce takes Jason away from the scene, long crimson snakes flow off Garzonas’ body with the deluge, painting the face of Gotham.

Cass believes Jay when he says he didn’t kill Garzonas. He can lie like the best of them, but he can never hide anything from her. Bruce still doesn’t believe him even when she says as much.

“You’re a danger to yourself and the people around you,” Bruce is saying. Cold is the only way that Cass can describe his body.

For as long as she has been with Bruce, Cass has not thought of David. But looking at him now, a small, insidious part of the man that projects the urge to control (something she had only seen from David) starts to slip through. She is so thrown about what to think that she almost misses him firing Jay as Robin.

“No.”

“But Cass-.”

“No.”

Jason resists the urge to groan at his sister. Above them, the three names of his potential mothers are displayed clearly and brightly.

“I get why you don’t want me to. But think of what will happen if we manage to bring one! We could- we could-.”

“My brother,” Cass says, with finality. She gestures to the names (although ‘Sandra Wu-san’ in particular catches both their eyes). “Not theirs.”

Cass makes that stance she always does when she wants him to stop, her back hunched and her eyes pleading. He hates it when she does that, which is why he bites back a sigh.

“Fine. I’ll leave it alone,” Cass has been trying harder to get her smile right. Her effort shows when she gives him a mega-watt grin when he relents.

“My family, love,” She says as she hugs him before leading him away to raid the freezer for Neapolitan.

Later that night, Jason leaves his copy of Huckleberry Finn on her nightstand. He has to make sure that she doesn't think he'd left her behind when he goes. As Jason leaves the window wide open, his sole companion is the rain for the first time in years.

Gotham feels it as it happens. As the madman clubs her boy over and over with his crowbar. She feels every bruise, every bone that fractures, every act of pure, unadulterated cruelty inflicted on Jason.

Her eldest cradles the body, surrounded by a field of debris and smoke left in the wake of the monster that is the Joker. She washes the blood away with her tears.

When Cassandra wakes to see her brother’s prized possession on her nightstand, she instantly knows and never lets it go, even as the sky opens up in time with her tears.

As the casket lowers into the earth, she absently notes no rain, not a cloud in sight. Somehow, in the void that is the Jason-shaped hole in her heart, she realises he would have hated it.

“I think… I want to have my burial when it rains. Gives a whole ‘nother meaning to bleary doesn’t it?” Jason had confessed that once, a slight chuckle drawing from his chest. It fades as fast as it came. He looked away, then. “I don’t think I’d rest in peace without it.”

Cassandra fills the silence with the hymns of her tears – droplets staining the well-loved pages of the last piece of her brother – and hopes that it will be enough.

In her mind, her efforts are for naught when they devolve into wails as the first shovelfuls of dirt encase the ebony coffin.

The first thing she sees when she enters the cave is- is the atrocious thing. All the noise in the cave seems to phase out. The squeaking of the bats. The banter between Dick and Babs. The low murmurs of Bruce and Alfred in the corner. All she can focus on is the caricature of her brother in full view of everyone in the Batcave. She looks at it, and the world becomes a sea of pink and brown and white. The uniform he died in still bloody and ragged; all her thoughts a cacophony of wailing; iron on her tongue; roaring in her ears; she feels nothing in her but pain.

Jason Peter Todd

A Good Soldier

She hates it. Hates it with a passion because Jason was so much more than a soldier. He was her Jay, her brother, everything; all she has left of him is a small paperback and this disgusting mockery of his memory.

But he’s Batman, and he grabs her by the arms and pins her, even as her legs kick out viciously. She headbutts him and manages to push him off, nailing him square in the jaw with her knee as she flips back.

“Cassandra-.” Batman starts.

“Mine,” She snarls, eyes blazing and her hand pushing Bruce away from her. Even with the pads of his armour, she knows it hurts. She turns to leave.

“Not Robin. My Jay. My Brother. My Jason.”

Standing in Jason’s room, Cassandra closes the window he left open. She notices a picture frame on his nightstand. It’s of them, Huckleberry Finn spread between their legs and their foreheads pressed together.

Cass curls into a ball and clutches his treasures to her chest, sobbing because there is no rain to fill the vacuum she’s found herself in.

Far, far away, a man between worlds shatters the dimensions. The ripple disturbs Gotham, but she cannot deny her love of the results.

Gotham watches as her prodigal son begins his dramatic return; rising from below to walk above once again.

“So, is it really true that you took down Troia when you were only thirteen? All on your own?” The new Robin, Tim, is okay. Really. Cassandra just can’t look him at and see someone else in the uniform. When she doesn’t answer, the boy seems to fidget nervously. She doesn’t even know what his eyes look like.

“I–I guess, since I’m here to be Batman’s new Robin, I was hoping I could be the Robin to –.”

Cassandra doesn’t even let the boy finish before she leaves.

Jason wakes up drowning. It’s not water that enters his lungs, but an unnatural, sickly green liquid that vexes and rots and makes his body feel like he’s on fire. Nandra Parbat is where he is when he’s calmed down from being dipped into the Lazarus Pit, trapped in a fortress of assassins that want to mould a Bat into one of them. It’s an entirely different League.

This time, Cass is not here to keep them away.

When she meets Steph, Cassandra is enamoured because the girl smiles and laughs (except she still isn’t the same, no one is), almost just like Jason. But there are slight differences between the girl and her brother. Her hugs are great, but they don’t feel right. She smells like lavender instead of the rain. Despite how much the girl likes to joke with her, not one of them manages to draw out her smile.

Cassandra holds onto the girl like a lifeline anyway.

What bone she can throw, Steph has an uncanny knack of finding things that others take ages to locate, which is helpful enough for right now since Tim is still missing. It doesn’t help when Steph reads that Tim is in a warehouse with none other than The Joker.

He’s practising his aim when she comes in, almost plucking the gun out of his hand. Jason grips the girl’s arm and flings her over his back. Rose Wilson, a wolfish grin plastered on her face and snowy hair fanning under them, doesn’t even look fazed.

“Wow Jace, if you wanted to pin me you could have just asked,” His only friend in this place is what keeps him sane; when the Joker of his nightmares haunts the edges of his mind, she is there to let him know it isn’t real. Despite how different they are, she’s a breath of fresh air in this hellhole they’re in. He should probably tell her how he feels.

“You’re such a fucking chicken-shit,” Is what comes out of his mouth instead. Rose only smirks at him, silver mane and eyes with almost the same mischief his sister had.

“Your aim still sucks balls by the way.”

He growls, raising his arm to let his gun do the barking.

Ranting and raving greet her as she sneaks in through a window, a litany of nonsense and stammers echoing around the warehouse. She drops from the catwalk as silently as she can, but the madman obviously still hears her as his head bends at an impossible angle to look right at her.

“Oh. Look who showed for quality time with Uncle Jay!” She doesn’t mean to, but Cassandra flinches, and the Joker’s twisted grin shifts. Big mistake. “Oh? Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” It takes every inch of willpower in her not to rasp the words, but Joker sees through it regardless.

“What? Don’t like my name?” The Joker pouts, but it looks more like a sneer. “It’s just me yaknow? Your Uncle Jay.”

Another flinch, and the Joker steps closer, a snake in the reeds.

“Mister Jay,” He’s stalking closer now; her body won’t move. “JayJay.”

“Jaybird,”

“Jay,” She is so still as the Joker seems to tower over her, his sick grin crueller and sharper (David flashes in her mind) than any other time she has ever seen it. Poison flows from his mouth like saliva as he croons.

“That’s what you called him, isn’t it? When he was still here, your precious Robin. Not this -,” He gestures to Tim, who is wide-eyed and struggling. “-phoney replacement. Want me to-? Let me tell-.” The Joker stops, frowning at the ground before continuing, his voice aberrantly low. “When I beat him over and over with that crowbar – pink with blood and brown with dirt over the white of his skin –, do you want to know what he was saying?

“The only thing that came out of that pretty little mouth of his was how sorry he was that he was for leaving ‘Cass’ behind.” The madman leers at her. “Was that you? Cass? I gotta tell you, the whole apology shtick got really boring after a while, but…

“I’ll tell you one thing. Something you can keep between just you and your Uncle Jay,” He leans in close to her ear. “I think that our Jay is almost just like me now!”

The madman cackles, his eyes sick and twisted, and his body is nothing but mania. Something in Cassandra, strained and twisted for the past three years, finally snaps.

She strikes him, harsher than she’s struck anyone ever before. So severely, she can feel his ribcage snap. His flesh becomes mince under her fists. He stumbles and contorts as she overwhelms him with every piece of her fury. The gale-force that is Cassandra Todd blows through the Joker, who laughs and laughs and laughs.

The monster scrambles for his gun, suddenly slick and focused. Cassandra snaps off the comic ‘Pow!’ that sticks out of the muzzle when he fires it at her. She backhands his face with the full force of her knuckles, knocking him down, and all he does is chortle. The Joker’s body twists and squirms as he is pinned in place. She raises the broken end of the comic and skewers his leg into the ground.

The Joker’s mouth froths. His eyes are bloodshot as he becomes more depraved and maunders yet, he’s still fucking laughing. Laughing as his spittle flecks onto every surface around them when he thrashes. Laughing even as she clenches the sides of his head and pulls. Laughing even as they both feel his flesh strain and shear as she tries to tear it off. The part of her that has so vehemently denied killing now cries for bloodlust. For this is justice, this is vengeance, this is for her, Jay. Cassandra, with all her might, prepares to wrench off the monster’s head and-.

And Batman pushes her off him. Batman blocks her assault on his body when Cassandra rebalances herself. Batman protects the god damn fucking Joker. She roars with her rage, her grief, and doesn’t even feel the sedative that Tim plunges into her side until it’s too late.

Glaring at Bruce, at Batman, all she sees from his body is fear and concern and all the latter is directed at the death-worshipping monster he cradles in his arms. Absently, before it all goes to black, she thinks she should leave. Leave without Batgirl, without Jason, without everything she has ever cared for.

She does, and like her brother, the tears of Gotham are the only family she has left.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

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tonystarktogo · 4 years

Text

(this could’ve been) a villain’s origin story

part IV

For @shitistanstank who wanted to see Bucky’s reaction and @everything-is-applepie who asked for more [Warning: Bucky is an unrepenant killer and his mindset is dark(er) than Tony’s parts were]:

James hates mentals. Doesn’t matter if they can read your thoughts, break out illusions that have you question everything you believe, make you forget everything you are, everything you used to be or if their powers are even more insidious -- every single one of them is a manipulative fucker with a god-complex.

Usually, James doesn’t generalise like that -- it leads to assumptions and assumptions lead to stupid mistakes that get you dead -- but in this case he’ll make an exception. It’s widely known that, as fussy as the Winter Soldier can be about his jobs, he always takes contracts involving mentals. Doesn’t matter how old they are, what gender, how powerful, what specific abilities.

Mentals are weapons in a way that physicals aren’t, can’t ever hope to be -- and it doesn’t matter what their intentions are, what fucking alignment they hold -- like alignment isn’t just a skewed personality test gone wrong -- or what laws they follow.

[Every supe uses their power. You can’t not. You can’t be less than you are, even if some like to pretend otherwise. Like to play at being human, idealising what they’ve lost and will never achieve again.

Even when you don’t want to, even when you train yourself mercilessly, grit your teeth against it-- a supe’s first instinct is to use their abilities to the fullest. To survive. To live. To make life more comfortable.

There’s better men than James out there who like to offer long lists of requirements, of all the people they refuse to kill. As though not killing children, women, supes, humans, whatever the fuck their line in the sand is, somehow absolves them from the fact that they kill others for money, power or pride. As though having rules -- morals, as they like to sneer pretentiously -- makes them better, when all they do is choose and find one life more worthy than another.

James doesn’t have a list. He takes a contract or he doesn’t, depending on whether he trusts the contractor to pay up and not stab him in the back while he’s at it.

Have you ever seen a five-year old in a temper-tantrum that can bend the minds of those around them to their will? Have you ever considered what a toddler with the ability to erase memories is, what they become? Do you really think it was morals that kept anyone under fourteen from being chosen?

Rules, after all, are rarely implemented before they’ve proven to be necessary.]

The problem with having a reputation for killing mentals is that mentals don’t take kindly to being killed. And it’s hard to be prepared for a threat you don’t know exists until it reveals itself and tries to twist your mind into hushquietobeybenothing.

Granted, that doesn’t stop most of the stupid ones who track him down from monologuing about their righteous revenge before they get on with it. So convinced that just because James didn’t see them coming means he won’t kill them anyway.

Arrogant fuckers, all of them.

He’ll make them regret that before he’s done.

At least the last set of attackers wasn’t stupid. Makes it more of a pain, but ultimately a more satisfying fight. And fuck, if he hadn’t been blind-sided by the witch, James would’ve gotten away clean. But Scarlet Witch [And what kind of bullshit name is that when everyone knows her powers are anything but magical?] has been a persistent pain in his ass for a while now.

She’s smart and powerful and embodies everything James despises in a mental. The only reason they haven’t gone to war so far is because Scarlet Witch couldn’t care less about mentals as a whole. The only thing she values is her brother -- and the guy is a physical. A physical James wouldn’t try to land a hit on unless he was 100 percent sure he could take out the witch as well.

And Quicksilvers is a hard man to hit.

They don’t have an understanding of any sort because James doesn’t do understandings with mentals. But The Captain does, which puts Scarlet Witch and James into an awkward position as far as battles go. That’s the only reason James assumes their last showdown was an accident -- and, also, presumably the only reason he wakes up at all.

James doesn’t wake up slowly. Hasn’t since they shoved the pills down his throat for the first time, back before they realized that injections were that much more effective.

[The doctors never did figure out why James activated at all from such a low dosis, why he survived at all when the pills turned out to be useless with the sole exception of him. Granted, James killed them roughly forty hours after the first test, which might have played a hand in that.]

He comes to from one moment to the next -- finally, finally free of the black nothingness the witch trapped him in [nothing like what she can do, or so the rumors go, but that doesn’t make him itch to see her brain splattered over a sidewalk any less] -- and is immediately aware of his body, his surroundings, himself.

He’s in an unfamiliar place. He’s half-naked. He’s in a negligible amount of pain. He’s unrestrained. He’s not alone.

James is up and moving before the observation fully sinks in. It doesn’t have to. He already has all the data. [Has pinpointed the steady breathing and puttering motions of one person, placed him to his left, four steps, notices his odd surroundings even as he moves. There’s a wrench in easy reach that James aimes before he even sees the person -- man, young, brown hair, a head smaller than him -- and throws before he’s finished taking stock of his surroundings.

It’s more reflex than cold-blooded murder, really, not there’s much of a difference between the two where it concerns James.

The man ducks, proving that he’s not quite as idiotic as James initially assumed for keeping him unrestrained in his direct vicinity. That or he has good instincts.

He’s not a mental though, James can tell. He can always tell. His killing intent goes down a solid 60 percent with that realisation, though that still leaves him with plenty to work with should his potential client [James has lived through weirder recruitment strategies, though not all those potential bosses have] and potential victim prove troublesome.

It’s not that James wants to kill every human he meets. It’s just that he prefers to plan for the eventuality of needing to kill them and how to accomplish it efficiently, rather than be caught off-guard when the inevitable happens.

[There’s something that never made it into any of the papers and articles about supes and it’s this: A supe’s life is insane. There’s no logic, no rationality, no clear reason why you can’t go to a public swimming pool without accidentally ending up in a lagoon filled with starving piranhas. The Captain once theorized that supes offend the natural order or balance and this is nature’s way of striking back, of wiping them out. That or their unnaturalness attracts similar insanity.

James thinks that’s bullshit, not that it matters. He still has to live with the painfully ridiculous situations he tends to get himself into, after all.]

As such it really is nothing personal that as soon as James finally gets a clear view on the man -- kid, really, can’t be a day over twenty -- who’s found him, he immediately plans the guy’s death. It’s not like he acts on it right then, James isn’t a total barbarian.

He even gives the kid time to regain his footing and stare at him in shocked surprise, mouth half-way open and holding a bag of marshmallows as though those will somehow soften the next blow.

James is not gonna lie, he totally expects the boy to pull a sonar death ray, explosives or something similar out of some hidden stash and start some tirade about James having killed his parents and how he’s been planning this moment for a long time, or something along those lines.

Not to offer him marshmallows.

James gives the innocuous bag the deeply suspicious look that offer deserves.

[On an unrelated note, his respect for the boy rises a smidge. James doesn’t know many people with the foresight to keep something ans inconspicious as poisonous marshmallows within easy reach.]

“No.”

“Oh.” The boy looks disappointed.

A scientist eager to see his newest creation in action? James doesn’t frown, but it’s a near thing. He’s not fond of scientists. [They tend to end up dead in his vicinity, but most people do.]

“Can I offer you something to drink?”

James raises his eyebrows, but fairly obvious attempt to drug and or kill him aside, he’s never before wasted a chance to be a little shit and he’s not planning on starting to now.

“You can.”

The kid blinks. Snorts. “Oh, I like you.”

James smirks. He can’t recall the last time anyone told him they felt that way, but he doesn’t recall very many things beyond how to hunt and make them bleed.

“You’re the exception of the rule then.”

The boy laughs and if James wasn’t what he was, he wouldn’t have heard the bitterness echoing it. If James looks closely, he can even see the fractures in that pretty, wide smile.

“Believe me, Goggle Eye, I’m the exception of every rule.”

[It’s a good hour later, after the kid -- call me Tony -- has recounted where he found James and needled him endlessly -- “Come on, there’s got to be something you need! If not food or clothes, what about information? The adresses of your attackers? Schemantics of the newest SI rifle? Clean papers? Give me something!” -- that it occurs to James. A stray thought that nonetheless leaves an impression: It’s a good thing he’s human.

Because there’s something broken underneath Tony’s easy words and open gestures, something sharp and jagged -- still bleeding -- that was crushed and never healed quite right. Because when it comes down to it, you can forget the pills and the injections and the endless treatments and experiments designed to push for moremoremore. Because all the miracles of modern technology can’t build a monster out of spite and thin air. The drugs only reveal the potential that’s always been there.

And there’s no doubt what Tony would have been, should he have found himself among the test subjects.

His mind is a weapon worth killing for already.]

James leaves Tony’s lair two hours later, armed Quicksilver’s current adress -- one can never have enough leverage --, detailed information on four potential targets and the knowledge that Tony is the kind of competent that is as useful as it is dangerous and has an agenda James doesn’t yet understand.

He’s not yet sure what to do about the latter.

#ReRe writes #a villain's origin story 'verse #Bucky Barnes #Winter Soldier #Tony Stark #first meeting #dark #dark Bucky #dubious morality #literally everyone in this fic has dubious morals #consider yourself warned #fic #Tony is ridiculous #but we already knew that #Bucky is as chill as can be under the circumstances #oh wait nope he isn't #Bucky is a contract killer and it shows #Bucky also doesn't know how to deal with Tony and it shows #murderous meet cute

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dino-nugget7 · 3 years

Text

A Manifesto Against The School System

As of writing this I am a second year Public High School Teacher. I won’t be able to live with myself if I spend another year at it. Literally, I feel like a bit of a monster for deciding to finish out this school year rather than quitting right now. But we do what we must to survive, my students won’t be less oppressed because I left, and if nothing else, it gives me an opportunity to strategize about what I can do to aid in revolutionizing school because authentic alternatives to public school exist but none I have found have been intersectional enough to replace public education without excluding the kids who would most benefit from escaping the main school system here in America.

Some of the reasons I did not understand how oppressive school actually is, are that my interests and hobbies happened to align very neatly with the “core” classes, and that even though I grew up very poor and moved around a lot as a kid, we eventually settled and I went to a well funded high school that had just about any elective and/or after school club that I might be interested in trying and then some. During that time, I came to see school as a place where I could explore my passions and escape my home situation. So I figured I would love to pay it forward and go be a teacher.

I recognized at least, the privileged position I came from and decided I wanted to go learn how to teach in settings as different from my high school as possible. Which is why I went and got special permission for most of my classroom placements throughout the teaching program to be at alternative schools. In Colorado at least, alternative schools are small public schools which primarily serve students identified as “at risk”, which is shorthand for “Statistically more likely to drop out than the general population for one reason or another.”

I did not know when I asked to be placed in one, but learned within days of being there that most people that even know alternative schools exist, think of them as the places where “the bad kids” go. I realized very quickly that they are actually places filled with kids who have experienced a lot of trauma in and out of school and don’t respond to that trauma the way adults want them to respond. I came to adore kids at alternative schools because they remind me of my younger siblings.

Like my oldest brother, many of them find school mind numbingly easy and boring and have much more pressing matters to devote their mental energy to.

Like my middle brother, many of them have spent so much time around teachers who do not understand neurodivergence that have been convinced of the lie that they are weird, dumb and/or lazy and because of that, trying to participate in school is like hitting their head on a brick wall.

Like all of my brothers and my sisters, they have a ton of skills that they are brilliant at, but that are not prioritized by the school system, so they never pursue them, such as construction, music, makeup and programming.

Many, if not most of them come from living situations full of abuse and neglect and/or poverty so they don’t have the mental or emotional space to worry about much beyond survival, and not only haven’t learned how to make and achieve long term goals, but have never had the luxury of a stable enough environment for that kind of planning to be worthwhile.

All that being said, something that you only realize if you actually work in a few public alternative schools, as I have done through college and my current job, is that the name is actually an oxymoron.

What started me down the path of considering and researching all the ways school is an oppressive system, was a conversation I had with a student in my first year teaching. He was learning about chemical reactions and safety and asked me the infamous question, “Why do I have to learn about this?” to which I said “Because everything is chemicals and understanding how they can interact with one another and ways they can harm you can keep you safe when you do things like clean or cook.” To which he replied, “Well no offense but I have no idea how this shit relates to cooking and please don’t tell me because its not like I’m actually going to remember it when I am cooking, and I already know how to clean safely because of work. But you’re still going to make me learn this boring shit anyways so seriously, why do we have to learn about this?”

I paused to consider what he was asking. I had interpreted, as the system trained me to, that the question he was asking was, “what value does this knowledge hold?” But what he actually meant was “Why are you making me waste my time learning about this thing that I never asked to learn about?” So I replied, as a sort of test of my new understanding, “It’s part of the physical science curriculum the Education Department thinks is important for high schoolers to learn.” He was taken aback, “Wait, you don’t decide what stuff we learn about? What’s even the point of teachers then? Why don’t they just give us a list of all their stupid stuff they think we should know so we can get on with our lives?” He had a point and I have spent a lot of time reflecting on and growing from that conversation.

Sure, there are some key differences that make alternative schools slightly more tolerable than your standard 800-4,000 kid high school. Class sizes are smaller so students get more individualized help. We get funding to help students access things such as food, clothes, hygiene products, and healthcare and know students well enough that we actually know which kids are lacking these resources. We have slightly more leeway than traditional schools to create innovative lessons. We don’t give out homework.

But public alternative schools are still oppressive in most of the ways that the big schools are. I’m sure none of this will be a surprise to most readers, but I want you to really consider how restricted kids in public school are, how restricted you probably were in school as you read through this.

School starts early in the morning and students have to constantly shift mental gears throughout the day due to a tight schedule of constantly rotating classes and a very short lunch break. Throughout the day, bells tell students when they can’t or must move around or eat. Students have to ask when they need to go to the bathroom or get water and teachers cannot go at all outside of their plan period because students are not trusted to be in the classroom without an adult even for a few minutes. They have no control over who they share space with and very little control over their ability to leave that space if it conflicts with their needs. There is a strict dress code which disproportionately targets marginalized students. Students are expected to be sociable but not given nearly enough opportunities to actually socialize. The school keeps records of everything the student has ever gotten in trouble for, every class the student has taken, every grade they have received, their “class rank,” and every intervention program the student is part of. And like every public school, alternative schools must follow state curriculum standards and by extension, grading, data collection, and required testing. On the surface it might not seem like it, but that last point is actually the most insidious one and its the one that has followed students into remote learning during the pandemic.

According to the people who decide how schools work, there are four factors of student choice: These factors are Time, Place, Pace, and Path. For example, if I am running a unit on plate tectonics, rather than giving students a worksheet and telling them to work on it as we go through a slideshow and turn it in at the end of class, I could put them in groups, give them an online choice board of three different but roughly equivalent projects relating to plate tectonics to choose from, each with different rubrics for completion and tell them they can turn it in at any time in the next two weeks. And then instead of devoting class time to direct instruction, I would give them a variety of resources to peruse and teach them how to research more and let them choose what aspects of plate tectonics to focus on and how to present their information. Now, this is certainly a few steps in the right direction away from making kids sit in rows and listen to the teacher drone on about plate tectonics while they take notes. But it misses the most important factors of choice in my eyes, the things that I would be fired for if I actually gave them the choice about: How students spend their time and what they are allowed to prioritze.

None of this is to say that expecting kids to learn is inherently fucked up or that teaching inherently makes one an oppressive person. On the contrary, authentic teaching and learning are vital to our ability to solve our problems and grow as people. If all students were given the opportunities to spend their childhoods learning things that they were actually interested in, to explore the full breadth of knowledge that humans have compiled at their leisure without timelines or milestones except the ones they set for themselves, to socialize with people of all ages, to authentically participate in society both as learners and as educators, as leaders and as team members, the world wouldn’t be perfect, but it would be a lot less soul crushing.

Now, I mentioned at the beginning of this piece that authentic alternatives do exist. To get you started on researching what’s out there, I recommend starting with Sudbury schools and the unschooling movement.

But unless these models somehow miraculously become a large and accepted enough presence to get government funding, or money ceases its hold on us all, the public school system will be the only one that most students, especially impoverished students, transient students, english language learners, and disabled students (especially those with profound disabilities) will have access to. Which is a damn shame and a problem I am committed to trying to figure out how to contribute to solving because those are the students whose lives would be most radically transformed for the better if they got the opportunities that these models provide.

#school #anti school #oppression #manifesto #youth liberation #I am aware that this severely pushes how long people are willing to read for on Tumblr #but I needed to get it out there into the void

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matildainmotion · 3 years

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My Holiday with the Not Less Monster: How are you spending your Summer?

Image by Zoe Gardner @limberdoodle

My daughter is still young enough to get some words and phrases muddled - the kind of thing I can’t bring myself to correct because I like her alternatives too much. She says that characters slipping into a memory, are having a ‘back-flash,’ that whipped egg whites and sugar are a delicious desert known as ‘berangs’ and that, after chocolate, her favourite flavour ice cream is ‘vamilla.’ But she came out with the best one the other day, when she was playing with her daddy. “Shhh,” she said. “Be as still as a frog, and as quiet as a rabbit - the Not Less Monster is coming!”

The Not Less Monster. I don’t know how Nessie is doing, that monster that is meant to live at the bottom of a Scottish loch, but I know that her distant cousin, The Not Less Monster, is alive and well, on land in England. My daughter’s rephrasing of ‘Loch Ness’ struck me, not only because I love a bit of word play, but because I am having a challenging time with her at present. She screamed at me yesterday morning because she wanted more My Little Pony YouTube videos. She raged at me at night because she wanted more time awake (it was midnight). She wants more chocolate and desert (always), more toys and more clothes. She never, ever wants less, but always more. She is, or can become, The Not Less Monster.

However, something about her naming it, made me pause, and realise it isn’t only her who manifests this monster of more-ness. I do it too. Despite my anti-capitalist politics, the myth of more is so pervasive and potent, I also embody this monster daily in ways I barely notice. I don’t want the same ‘mores’ as my daughter - not more stuff - but I do want to get through more emails, tick more jobs off my list, create more, achieve more, change more in the world, change more in myself, things which may sound worthy but are nonetheless, Not Less but More.

Most stories tell us that when faced with a monster it is time to reach for your weapons and your courage. My son is fast becoming a Dungeons and Dragons expert and he has assigned us all fantasy characters. I am a wood-elf called Barbella, whilst my husband is Doldidian the dwarf. My son has insisted I choose which weapons I carry - I have a short bow, a rapier and a spiked buckle shield, so I ought to be well-equipped to tackle this insidious and powerful foe, rampaging through our home. However, I feel saddened and tired by the battling, and it tends to make things worse. When I do battle, when I push back at my daughter in a combative way, or if, it being the summer holidays, I try hard to do less, the results are frightening - the monster grows in its gruesomeness and strength, because I am, of course, attempting to beat the Not Less Monster, by doing More.

A different approach is needed. I remember what my daughter originally cried out as the monster approached: “Be as still as a frog, and as quiet as a rabbit!” This is a monster who needs to be met, unarmed, using other qualities than force and aggression. Another sort of heroism. One of my heroes, without a’ sword or shield, is Natalie Goldberg, author of Writing Down the Bones and other books on writing and Zen meditation. When considering this monstrous challenge, I had a back-flash about a chapter in one of her books entitled ‘Lazy.’ Goldberg argues that all writers (substitute ‘artist’ or whatever maker you choose to call yourself) have “a natural bent towards laziness.” This is startling to me because I do not identify as lazy but do identify, or want to identify, as creative. Goldberg advises a day a month of lying on the sofa, doing absolutely nothing. “But I can’t do that!” I cry, “I can’t take a nap on the sofa!”. The other day, when I was particularly exhausted, I did lie down in the middle of the day and my daughter grew excited about the idea of looking after me, which was touching, but involved me having to get up several times to fetch her all sorts of things (hot water bottle, drink, pillow, blankets, thermometer) that she could then administer to me, so I didn’t exactly have a rest. It’s hard as a mother or carer - holidays are not a time of ‘less-ness.’ There is, it seems, always more to be done. I can’t just stop. I hit up against this every August. What to do? Or rather how to stop doing, or at least do less?

I read more of Goldberg’s chapter on laziness for advice. After her injunction to lie down she goes on to say this:

“Writing is at the bottom of our life. After you’re cleared from lying around, your desire to write will rise up to the surface like a bubble or an old dead fish. Then you can get up for no reason and write a little.”

The idea of my writing, or my making, lying at the bottom of my life is helpful. Underneath the busy-ness and fullness of the days, I can feel it. A lazy, slow part of me that cannot be bothered to get dressed. It makes me think of the quiet depths of Loch Ness, where perhaps lives the laziest monster in myth. She does nothing down there but lie and dream - nowadays she can’t even be bothered to make an appearance. She does less and less, and yet her fame spreads far. Even if I don’t get to lie down on the sofa, if I can remember Nessie, staying still as a frog, maybe I will be able feel when the odd bubble, or dead fish, rises from the depths in me. And when it does, I think the Not Less Monster will look rather smaller and less fearsome, more like a little girl, trying to find her place in this restless world, looking for meaning and comfort in berangs and vamilla ice cream (my daughter) or emails and blogs (me).

I have always had a rather negative reaction to the idea of ‘me time,’ that thing that hard-working mothers are supposed to take. The phrase reminds me too much of the culture of More - the need for more time, more me, more bath bombs, massages, meditations - things that are meant to be a salve to the mad non-stop-ness of modern life but are somehow a part of it. But, when my daughter rages, or when I am trying to write yet more emails, communing with the spirit of an ancient mythical monster at the bottom of a lake - taking a ‘Loch Ness moment’ - this appeals.

So, while I sink to the bottom of a Scottish Loch for my summer holidays, I want to ask you where you will go? Not where you have booked, if anywhere, to go on holiday, but where or how you might do less, not more? How you might not mother, and not make, but, for once, be monstrously lazy?

Image by Zoe Gardner @limberdoodle

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