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I want a vampire Bo to pin reader against the wall and bite. Like the type of bite that stays forever because he wants it to stay and burn. He wants to see it there every morning he wakes and every night before he watches reader sleep. He’d trace it, knowing he caused it. He’ll kiss it because it’s his. He’ll remark it if it fades or he just needs to remind the reader—

I crave that type of Bo.

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Chat, remember this post?

I AM PROUD TO SAY THAT MY “YAUTJA ARE NATURALLY COLORBLIND” THEORY HAS BEEN CONFIRMED. 💀

IT’S CANON NOW 😭

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Can you write about a young lone female Un-Blooded yautja who is trained by her Leader uncle alongside her Un-Blooded brothers in order to take part in the Xenomorph Hunt.

What she lacks in size and brute strength, she makes up for in stealth, agility, and acrobatic ability. She goes through a lot to make it to Young Blood rank.

Her Name is Sha'kala V'reth

Sha'kala combines sharp, swift sounds to evoke agility and stealth, reflecting her swift and silent hunting style.

V'reth adds a melodic elegance, symbolizing her beauty and intelligence. The name overall conveys a graceful yet deadly huntress, revered in Yautja lore for her cunning and finesse.

Better Prey

Yautja x reader

Tw: killing, physically fighting, punching, kidnapping, death

******************

Inhale deep then exhale slow. There’s much to speak off but so little time, but keep your breathing steady. Keep your eyes on your target and pull the trigger between heartbeats, Young blood—

She did; she followed her mentor’s guiding voice.

Sha’kala watched as the human went limp where they stood and took in a deeper breath just to enjoy the fear she created. She watched them scattered, forgetting their loyalty for each other. Three went towards her brother with the other four went to towards her mentor. She hopes that her mentor caught the four humans to be used for the greater hunt to come, and she felt a bit excited. But there was a slight thing. The last two stayed, either too scared to move or too brave to stay behind. Either way, her hunt would be easy.

She unfolded her spear and activated her cloaking device. This should be easy. Too easy.

“This is all your fault!” She pauses at the male voice before sneaking closer, stalking the last two. “I told you this before we left!”

“My fault?” You snapped back, scuffing. “I told you my van wasn’t the best and it would break down! I told you about this so far before!”

Sha’kala steps to the side and hides behind a thick tree. Her mandibles clicked silently, but the humans didn’t notice; they never notice.

Your friend pushes you roughly, making you stumble back but you stood your ground. “This is not my fault, Damien. I didn’t do a damn thing besides drive the can! And I didn’t even want to go! It was was all you—!”

Damien’s hand made a fist and punches you in the mouth, splitting your lip. Growling, you punch back and made sure it counts. All the name calling, all the let downs this man created, the lies, the cheating, the late night waiting—it was now being let out. You held nothing back this time around. Someone had to stand up for you, and it had to be yourself this time. You had no friends, no one was coming, and no one would miss you; odds of a coal in a glass house. You never really know how strong you are until you find yourself against the wall.

So, why not go down like a badass than a bitch?

One thing’s for sure, Sha’kala was impressed. Her eyes widen when you tackled Damien. For a moment, for a small moment, she considered not to hunt you; you were no longer prey in this moment. You were like her in a way but minus the rage and reason. You didn’t want glory or anything like that; you wanted to prove that it wasn’t your van that caused this. And that was true. Her uncle wanted to take those scientists up the road!

But this was better. A group with guns and a knife, this was better. Better prey for a better hunt.

Damien pushes you off and stumbles to his feet, drawing his gun towards you. “You were never worth it.”

“Damien, wait—!”

Sha’kala’s spear whizzed through the air, hitting Damien in the chest. He fell backwards and fired a shot, barely missing your head. His struggled breathing echoed through the night trees, and each breath was a fight. You scrambled to his side, and tried to take the spear out of his chest, but bright red dots fell over your arm then inched up your arm. You followed the lazor to the source, and you freeze up.

You watched how she stepped out and waited for you to pick the gun up just to give her a reason. Her sleek armor that covered her chest and lower half was black and had a torn cloth over her hip, which covered a scar on her thigh. Her back helmet looked to be the same shape as a moth, and the carving on the large forehead was in a language you didn’t understand. It made clicks, chirping in mocking bravery, and inched closer.

“It’s okay, Damien; I have you. Damien? Damien,” you finally looked down as eyes looked back, dead and empty. “Damien…no,” you forgot the hunter and the hum of a gun. You forgot the sound the humming of her gun and clicking. You say his lifeless eyes looking up in fear and regret. You cradle his head and let out a scream that shook the hunter to her core and spread across the forest.

Sha’kala stood over you, her head tilts to the side like a curious cat. Why weren’t you fighting now? Why not pick his weapon? You are prey now, so why aren’t you acting like it?

You met the blacked out eyes and relaxed. “Do it,” you challenged boldly. “Do it. You took Damien and Zane—so take me. Do it.”

It felt wrong. Something didn’t feel right and didn’t set well in Sha’kala’s chest. She’s seen some prey beg for death, and she’s head how some hunters accept their fateful moments. But seeing you like this, seeing that same fighting spirit in your eyes fade with your friend, Sha’kala didn’t like it and didn’t feel honorable.

She stood in front of you, her head titling and clicking, and made a decision.

You weren’t prey.

You were better than prey.

She unclipped a small circle ring on her belt and held it out to you. “What are you…?” A sweet lavender mist hits your face. Blurry vision follows and the noise muffled, and your head was heavy when you feel to the side.

The last you see before you close your eyes were her crouching beside you and letting out a lion-like roar.

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Here's the next chapter of the the story I'm writing! Please like and share my stuff :)

@demiisdead and @rottmntrulesall. If you want to be tagged, let me know!

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Finished your story! Very well done! It’s sweet that Oynx has his mother’s helmet

Do you take requests?

Yeah! I take them :3

What would you like?

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Please read this! I worked very hard on the first chapter!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/67560691/chapters/174616381

@rottmntrulesall @demiisdead

The story is based before he becomes the Grendel King...

Please share this with others!

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Rewatched House of wax recently

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only ten more miles to louisiana

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Rocks and Flowers

Obsessed!Bo Sinclair x fem!reader

This story gives me cottage core vibes

Tw: foreshadow of him murdering those from your life

*******************

Bo brushed out his cigarette and leaned against the base of the tree, his dark blue eyes studying your every move, noting every little thing that made you smile in the garden of roses and lilies. In the summer dress and flower crown adorning your hair, you looked like some fairy from a story he heard. He only smiles softly to himself as he was about to light another cigarette. It’s not that he’s nervous; he liked how the smoke at the end of the bud twirls around you like wisps of fog and fire. He would give anything to draw like his brother to capture this moment to memory.

As the sunset behind you, dipping into the marsh and willows, his breath was taken from his lungs. You were a marble block, and he felt like the carver, seeing the beauty you held under untouched skin. But he wouldn’t break you. He wouldn’t dare raise his hammer or chisel to set you free for all the world to see. You were his masterpiece, his treasure, his and his alone—

“Bo!” You called over like a song, snapping his thoughts. You held a small bouquet of wild lilies and a mixture of yarrow in your hands like some bride. Your smile broke him, and he wasn’t made. “Bo, I found a stream! I think it has geodes!”

There you go again without even knowing it. He dropped his cigarette, his hammer and chisel, and came towards you, his perfect love inside a hidden valley of rocks and flowers. He walked upon the graves of broken bones and sailors who will never speak of you again.

As he stood in front of you, you reached up to place a small flower crown over his hat, and he smiles warmly. The oil on his hands the was mixed with dry blood faded as he held you by your waist. What a way to waste a sunset. What a way to waste a day of sunshine. Even the smell of you drove him above madness but he’ll never show you. He’ll never tell you.

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I am in love with this one

your honor he is guilty of every crime, but look at him! he's just a little guy!

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Beignets Promises

Slasher!Gambit x fem!reader

Slasher!Gambit inspired by: @virgo-arts

Part 1?

First real world in writing for Gambit! Let me know what you think and share it with as many people!

Tw: Blood, death, mentions of past murders, getting cut/injured, if you squint, obsessed!Gambit

He didn’t love you like that.

Love to Remy LeBeau wasn’t a pretty thing tied in a perfect bow and placed on the fireplace for you to find. Love wasn’t something he found as a thing he had to keep alive because everything and everyone around him would die or leave. Learning love from his home, from the thrives, the long nights of trainings and fights was what he imaged his love to be. It was all he ever knew for a long time until he got addicted to his cards, addicted to how they would cut flesh so easily.

He loved the stunned faces his victims made when a card cut deep into their hearts and ever-so lightly under the neck, drawing a thin line of red. The Jack cards cut the deepest, he found out after experimenting one night with a fat bureaucrat caught in his metal webs and deep bayou mud. He had to know what card to throw away and what to keep just like a river in Vas. Stealing the crown, being who he was, being who he is, Remy Lebeau also took a gamble, took a bet on his next canvas and sculptor. It was a beautiful thing to set up the cards on his people. He would give the highest honored cards to people he admired but had to go away.

The bartender who found out who he was, for example, had to go. Remy made sure the kill was fast and clean, promising the whole way through that he would never forget him. He headed his light with a King of Cups, which represented flow and power balance. The police found the dead bartender surrounded by rows and rows of bell flowers and lilacs, which were his favorite. It pained Remy when he had to say goodbye to, but saying it and meaning it are two different things.

Once the coffin was buried in the soil, Remy never used the King of Cups ever again on another person. Matter of fact, he only used tarot cards on those who need it, those he loved.

There it is again, love.

Such a foreign concept but such a wild feeling when the cards are felt right. He cursed his heart when it fluttered, and he wanted to rip it out whenever he was reminded of home, reminded of you. You were the front porch light that beckoned him home, drawing him back like a moth to a funeral flame.

What made you so special that made him go mad? What was that made him so intoxicated with you? He wanted to love and hate you at the same time, but he couldn’t find the strength. He didn’t used his Heart cards on anyone. They didn’t deserve his heart.

But you?

You.

You were in every card he drew when he hurt your boss for overlooking your work. You were in every dazzling ray of purple and pink when he killed your ex, hanging them high from the quarter square with a 3 of Diamonds tucked in their shirt. You were driving him wild in your old work place as he set it ablaze with his powers, charging everything he could get his hands on, and every bone he could touch. They didn’t deserve your time and effort.

Catching his eyes under his mask, catching his heartstrings in your eyes and voice, he would give it all just to see you bloom and blossom into the perfect person he knew you could be. His little love, his Queen of Hearts.

He loved you in every way that never mattered.

He saw how high you were, and he had to keep you up so high that the clouds covered your beautiful gaze. Even when the steamer from the coffee pot casted a rainbow over your eyes. Mask on or off, he could never let his eyes wander over you too long but he knows every curve.

So, when he saw the bandaged wrapped around your arm, he froze and let his coffee grow cold. He couldn’t keep his eyes off it. The red in his eyes studied the bandage and how you wrapped it with care and tears, and he wanted to rip it apart to see what caused it. The coffee shop down the French Quarter was slowing down from its evening rush, which is a good time for him to go and think of the next person to use, was his haven and was his harbor because that’s where you’re at. So, seeing you hurt was like a steak knife driving through his heart.

The steam from the espresso machine rises up past your eyes, causing you to look in his direction. The tension in his shoulders, the way he gripped the countertop to show white knuckles and veins, his jaw clinching tight, you didn’t know what to make of it.

“Mr. LeBeau?” His name from your lips was enough to snap him out of it. “You okay?”

He blinked twice and cleared his throat, pushing unholy thoughts back. “‘M okay.” He then nods towards your arm, asking, “May I ask what happened?” His voice was smooth like whiskey and soft as silk whenever he talked to you. A gentleman like him should talk to someone like you in a higher and clearer respectful tone.

“Oh, my arm,” he didn’t like how you glanced down and pulled your jacket sleeve on your jacket down. The weather is too nice to have a jacket, and it’s too warm behind the coffee pots to have one. Let the last bits of sunlight kiss your freckles goodnight. “I fell.”

“How?”

“Down the steps?”

“Why is it a question, mon ami?” Remy lifts his brow, and there was a hint of warning in his gaze. “Tel’me what really happened. Won’t get mad.”

A sad look crossed your eyes. “Yes, yes you will.” And that was that. He didn’t press anymore when the light in your eyes told him to be quiet. As much as he wanted to press, to know more, he’ll only get more and more irritated.

He’ll find them, catch them in his web and mud, cut them down until they’re nothing but forgotten. Then he’ll turn around and brighten your day with roses and his beignets with a mixture of powered sugar and brown sugar on top. He’ll do that just to see you brighten and smile. He’ll do it just to feel heart flutter and bloom, and he’ll even call it love.

His love for you was a mixture of blood, death, cards, and beignets in a little basket. It wasn’t like the rest, like how others would love you, but it worked. It worked for him. He’ll protect the world, be an X-Men, killer and savor each blood dripping card, and fall deeper and deeper in love with you.

However, it’s only a matter of time before you find out about him. It’s only a matter of time before you find the hidden room in the back of his mind and unlock the memories and death. When you do, he’ll be ready.

Remy Lebeau is always ready.

Besides, the cards have always been in his favor when it came to you.

[small-sinclair]

Something quick:

Bo Sinclair x reader

**********

He was on his knees in front of you with his head resting on your lap and arms hanging around your waist lazily. They were still covered in blood and mud from the latest visitors, but you didn’t mind; not anymore.

He breathed heavily as he looked out at the world and the last bits of sunlight. “Sure is pretty, huh?” He drawled, voice low and husky. “Ain’t it always pretty with you?”

You couldn’t help but smile as you leaned down and kissed his cheek. His hat covered his curls and you could smell sweat and musk. Carelessly, traced shapes and lines on his back and shoulder, humming a gentle song. The sun rays that kissed his skin and dark blue jumper nearly swallowed him whole. No words could explain how much you enjoyed this, how much peace was filling his stoic eyes.

Instead, you looked at the last bits of the day dip and end with a kiss to the cypress trees and muddy swamp, leaving the marsh to sing a love song that only you and him knew.

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His Sun

Bo Sinclair x pregnant!reader

******************

“Co’ere,” Bo says softly, his hand reaching out to you. There’s a gleam in his eye, something new to him. “Darlin’ rose, come closer?”

Absorbing the sunlight on your freckle kissed skin, it looked like you were gliding through the rays as if they were water. Though the wooden floors absorbed most of the light, you were still the brightest star in the universe. How did he get so lucky? What star fell from the sky and decided to spend its final light on him? If he could bask in your golden rays, he would die with his heart shimmering like cooper coil.

His hands were calloused as you took his, and he pulled you down for your back against his chest. Subconsciously, his hand reached around your growing bump as if he were protecting it from the dust of his own darkness.

“Six months in and you’re still as pretty as ever,” he drawls, kissing the top of your head. “Sugar, think they hear us talk? Hear your pretty voice an’ me going off?”

He shudders silently as your hand slipped over his. “I would like to think they do,” you answered, rubbing your thumb over his knuckle. “You nervous about the doctor’s appointment tomorrow?”

Huffing a breath, he buried his face between the corner of your jaw. He nods slowly as his other hand wrapped around your chest, squeezing you slightly. “They said twins, doll,” concern laced his words, “what if they’re not…if they…shit, I can’t think of stand the thought of they’re—“

“They won’t be like you or Vincent,” you reassured, running your other hand through his hair. Your fingers brushed the long, jagged scar on the back of his head, and it made him tense up and growl a warning. “Dr. Henrik—“

“What if he’s wrong?” He cuts your words off as he turns his head to look at you, but he stayed on your shoulder. “What if they’re connected? I can’t,” he tried to find his words in a scrambled notebook, “I don’t want my children to go through what Vinny an’ I did. I don’t wanna see’em get bullied for a scar or anything.”

You shifted slightly in his arms to see him better, and you lifted his face up. “Beauregard, listen,” you thumbed the scar on his chin. It was so old that it was nearly a foreign thing to his face but the pain still lingered. “Our children will know love and be loved because we love,” your words felt like a heavy yet warm hug to him, and he couldn’t help but believe in your words, “and you are not your parents. We aren’t like them.”

“Mama said—“

“She lied about calling you a monster,” you already knew what he was going to say, “because I see you, Bo. I see you.” Your lips brushed against his before claiming a small kiss. “I mean it when I say it. You’ll do great.”

The weight of the world rolled off his shoulders after your kiss and encouragement. You truly are a wishing star. “Thank you, darlin’,” he said, pulling you back in his to his heart. The uneasy barbed wires that stung his air and heart washed away. “If I keep gettin’ worried, just…just remind me, okay?”

“Okay,” you kisses his cheek then nestled into his warmth. “I love you, Bo.”

He responded with a kiss on the neck and tightening his arms, grunting an acknowledgment. He’ll say it; give him time. That’s all he needs, really: time. Time to grow with you and his sons, time to find out who he’ll be when his children are here, and time to change the scarred past to a better future. You and Jasmine are here, the daughter he has no blood with but he’ll kill anyone for her. Now she won’t be lonely as much as he was before Lester was born.

He felt your weight loosen in his arms and heard soft puffs of air leave your lips. As far as he’s concerned, you are the sun and Jasmine the stars. He? He’s the lucky sky that gets you all to himself.

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It’s my birthday!!!

🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉

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I LOVE IT!! ITS HOW I IMAGINED IT

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Vote for Themes!

Theme submissions for Rogue/Gambit Week 2025 are closed. Thanks to everyone who made prompt suggestions. Now it is time to vote for your favorite themes. You can vote here! Voting concludes on February 26, 2025.

The results will be revealed in early March.

Remember that Rogue/Gambit Week celebrates all versions of Romy across the Multiverse–comics, animated series, movies–and encourages all forms of fanworks–fanfic, fanart, fanedits, gif sets, and any other creative talent you wish to share.

Please like and reblog to help spread the word. Thanks!

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Writing Prompts are Open

4# 🌙❤️🤍

love-confession-related prompts

"You know I'm not the type to that anything seriously but...I mean it when I say I need you."

"I thought I made it obvious that I'm smitten over you, even your friends said it was obvious..."

"I don't have a good history with relationships but I'd like to give it another shot again, for you."

"We do live in a loveless generation, but that doesn't mean we can't try to have something meaningful."

"Yeah, I couldn't sleep last night 'cause I was up late writing poetry about you."

"I'm not sure if I should be flattered or offended that you waited so long to tell me."

"Well, now that my little brother already spoiled the surprise...yes, I am in love with you."

"You're loveless because you haven't given me a try yet."

"Come on, you knew from the moment you met me that I was gonna fall hard for you."

"All I'm asking is if we can go out sometime? Are you okay? Do you need a glass of water?"