#But I don't think it would be a good idea. It would be too heavy

[wingedfuncomputer]

The outskirts of Town

Remmick x fem!reader

Summary: Living far from town with a father who treats you more like a maid instead of a daughter proves itself exhausting. Secluded treated like a bird in a cage a boring cycle life becomes until a random man shows up one night striking up an innocent deal. In name of your chicken coop you accept letting him in. Though as time passes & whispers of violence roughing a sweet couple up around town has you rethinking this weird relationship you have created with the Irish stranger who seemed to come out of thin air.

Warnings: naive!reader, apart from that none really just your father lowkey being rude to Remmick cause he’s Irish 💔.

Authors note: This is just a slice of what I’ve been writing for Remmick. My actual word count for the story is 8.5k as of now, close to finishing but I wanted to see if it’s something you Remmick lovers would want to see (I know it’s pretty lengthy). My story is aimed at not just the romance but scare factor? If that’s what you can call it. no full fledged smut or healthy romance here just trying to ground myself in realistic outcomes. I don’t think that man could love normally lmao. Let me know what you think!

Word count: 1.4K (proofread)

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From a far his eyes locked on her. Right as the sun set she was tending the little chickens, ushering them into the coop. Softly, she tried her hardest to close the door as if not wanting to scare them. A regular passer by wouldn't glance an eye she was a normal little thing, but not to him, not to Remmick.

It was primal how he always found himself being dragged back to her every time the sun decided to hide behind the horizon. Her sweat, her skin, her pulsing blood enticed him as if he'd known her before. She was too sweet to ravish like all those ol' people he had left a mess of before. He let himself get enveloped in the idea that his human mind,what little of it remained had.Affection. With that utterly disgusting revelation he decided to knock on her door to put an end to the feeling once and for all. Heavy, knuckles contacted the chipping paint of the wood.

You had been sweeping the floor when you heard a noise coming from the front door. A little startled your active swipe back and forth stopped confused by who would be visiting your father so late at night. Most people weren't out after sun down. "The floors ain't gon' sweep themselves keep at it girl". His gruffy voice made you grip the wooden stick tighter negating the fact it caused splinters to get stuck to your skin. It was old, long due to be  thrown away but your voice was nonexistent in this house. With a small creak a hesitant humble from a very male voice spoke, "good afternoon... sir".  You whipped your head around intrigued but found your father's body blocking the man who stood at the door. "State your business". He had never learnt kindness, it was a foreign thing to him. "I'm just a lowly traveler going on by, was wonderin' if you could offer some hospitality". A huff emitted from your father as the man continued. "My wife she's no longer with us.. I must find myself across the state but the sun is beating and unforgiving".  Your heart  ached for him, he sounded defeated. Your father surely would say mean ol' things to him n’ get violent. But suprisingly he laughed barking your name then proceeded orders at you, "fetch this man a cup of water". Only for a split second when he turned were you able to capture a glimpse, the man already looking directly at you. His features resembled my father's, except for his frame he looked thinner his face covered in what seemed to be a mix of dirt and sweat. You nod and quickly keep your eyes down. Whilst you grab a tin cup and fill it with water by the sink you hear the small hushing of their conversation asking where he was headed to and why. Your steps are weary making sure you don't spill the water.

"The Catholics did a number on my people kindness is hard to come by. Could you let me in don't want to bother the young lady much?" His first comment is what makes your father's demeanor change, you see it from a few feet away as his back tenses. He ignores the man's request to come inside, "Where you from boy?". Once only a few inches away you decide to lay down the cup by a piece of furniture near by. Eyes creeping behind your father's shoulders it was obvious to see the man was not a boy. He had good amount of muscle on his arms and lines on his face. There's a glint of a smirk in the strangers lips as he glances at you no lack of confidence, "Ireland". That's when your heart drops, with poison your father spits "get your filthy Irish ass off my f*cking property".

"I don't mean no disrespect, I'd still appreciate that water" he takes a step forward which makes your father push him you yelp afraid they'd have a full brawl and the innocent man would end up in his grave. "You won't get nothin' here ! Leave my property". Your hands go up to your father’s arms as you can see his anger exalt, his fist itching to make contact with the Irish man's face. "Father please..." his face full of anger is concentrated on you before shoving your hand away and instead drags you inside from your arm instead. "It's best if you learn to keep away from men like that ." He speaks as if the man wasn't there, you can't help but take a look once behind you once more offering a look of "I'm sorry" before the front door is slammed shut by your father.

That whole night you couldn't bring yourself to sleep tossing and turning, imagining what that poor man was going through. You didn't hear about him the following day or day after that until you found yourself reluctantly putting yet another dead bird into a sack. They were being  ripped to shreds, you made sure the coop was secured each night so what could be killing them? It was sundown, the night air hitting your skin in a way that made your hairs stick up. "coyote... or fox" your body jolts hearing someone break the silent spell in the air. Immediately letting the bag fall and taking steps back as you twist to see who the voice belonged to. "Apologies I didn't mean to scare ya". It was hard to see in the darkness but the moonlight along with your small lamp on the ground allowed you to see enough to say, "your the man from a few days ago". He was standing behind the fence that surrounded your chicken coop. "Guilty as charged" you couldn't help but laugh along with him. "I'm Remmick" he extends his hand towards you which you can only just stare at. It would've been appropriate to say your name and envelope his hand but you don't. Remmick you repeat in your head liking the ring it had to it. "My Irish hands too dirty" he murmurs to himself  which makes you start to ramble in apologies insuring his heritage had nothing to do with your lack of a response. " f’course not It's just that, no offense sir your a- your a...." Your stuttering makes heat flood your cheeks in embarrassment . "A stranger?" He says it so casually no anger laced in between his words just light heartedness. You both stare at each other in an awkward pause before you find the courage to nod. Guilt weighs in your soul after reflecting "I'm truly ashamed about what happened last time, my father...-that is no way to be treated". He just smiles, a little huff of air being exhaled as he leaned into the fence, "it happens more than you know darlin' nothin' personal". His deep voice grumbles nicely when he calls you by that little pet name making your stomach flutter. It must've been as clear as the night sky you weren't allowed around men often, let alone other people.

Remmick seems intrigued by you growing quiet tilting his head to the side as he quirks , "the way across the state ain't an easy one.. stayin’ around these parts is easier. would help if I had a place to rest... ". You would offer him your home in a heartbeat but you knew how your pops wasn't fond of him, let alone yourself. He could barely tolerate you so how would tolerate this stranger . His eyes are trained on your every twitch, your chest constricting and trembling hands playing with the loose fabric of your skirt. It was quite nice really it felt like you were a lil' rabbit troubled by your surroundings. Yet You were unaware that the greatest danger wasn't your father, no not your  father it was the devil himself looming over you in this instant.

He smacks his lips making you look back at him once more. His pointer finger is near his mouth faking thought, "well I might just got a deal that could work for both 'f us". Your eyebrows furrow in confusion but you still hear the poor man out. "I can help ya with the lil' chicken problem... in exchange I get a piece of shelter". His eyes nudge at the forgotten sack beneath you then trail up your frame to your face. Your teeth grind in contemplation. If he helped manage the death of these chickens father would probably lay off my back, let me go in town for food trips or what not for the farm.

"So what da ya, say? You gon' let me in?"

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[slightly-knot-insane]

Elevator Ride

[ m!monster x fem!reader ]

a/n: a friend suggested this prompt so here it is! content: nsfw, oral (fem receiving), p i v

Most people hate elevators, right? They are simply unpleasant. They are closed, inescapable, and they go up and down to incredible heights. True, there are those fancy elevators in hotels and big cities that are elegant and spacious. But then there are these rickety, graffiti-filled, tiny boxes of filth and spilled alcohol that shake as if there is an earthquake outside. You still have to take it, because your grocery bag is heavy, and it would be too hard to walk all the way up to the 10th floor by stairs.

The little red number turns to 0, and with a thunk and a clank, the elevator stops in front of you. It doesn't open by itself, no - you have to open the heavy door, keep it that way with your foot, and push the folding gate with your shoulder to enter. All while holding your grocery bag.

"Ngggh", you heave, cursing the elevator, the gate, the inventor, and the first person who thought living hundreds of meters in the air was a good idea.

"Wait, let me help you!"

You turn and frown in surprise because there is a tall monster rushing towards you on crutches, his leg solidified in a cast.

"Oh no, no need." You feel really bad that he wants to help you in that state.

However, he reaches his thick arm over your head and pushes the folding gate like it's a paper fan. "No problem."

You awkwardly smile at him, absorbing his muscular frame and piercing gaze. "T-thanks..." You squeeze inside and notice his eyes on you. He is expecting something from you. "Um... I think there is room for both?" There isn't.

But the monster apparently thinks there is. He hops inside, slouching a bit to fit, and closes the door behind him. It is extremely packed in the elevator, but being pressed against his toned abs eases the discomfort.

"You hardly changed," he says as he presses the buttons for your floor and the floor above yours. The elevator shakes, and the gravity hits your stomach.

"Huh?" You look upwards and are taken aback by his massive pecks. "Do we know each other?"

"I used to live here a few years ago. I was a bit... skinnier before."

You suddenly remember a lanky monster neighbor who lived a floor above yours. You never interacted, but you always thought he was kinda cute.

As you open your mouth to reply, the light flickers, and the elevator shakes with an ominous shriek of a dying beast. You are plunged into darkness, and the elevator violently stops, pushing you to your knees.

Suddenly, it's all and completely silent. "Oh no..."

"Are you okay?" your neighbor asks you.

"Oh nonono, I hate this! We are stuck! The elevator is stuck!" You are almost screaming, your heart pounding fast.

"Calm down. Are you hurt? I'll just call the—"

"Fuckfuckfuck..."

"Calm down!" The complete darkness around you, the growling shout, and something strong grabbing you by the shoulders completely disorients you. You are floating in something rather nightmarish, waiting to wake up. "Just calm down, I can't stand the... the..."

Oh. Right. This is not a nightmare. It's worse. "Y-you..." Your voice is weak, trembling. "Y-you don't understand."

"No, you don't understand." His voice is low, but potent with something primal.

You wish you could see his face in this total darkness. "What do you mean?"

He sighs, and helps you stand up. "Your fear. The... smell... of your fear excites me."

"What? That's kinda sick," you reply.

"I can't help it! It's my instinct."

"Well, I'm sorry I can't just turn off my emotions and not be terrified of dying!"

"That's true, but... We could turn them to something else."

"Huh? What are you—" The hand that was gripping your shoulder slides upwards toward your neck and lips. He cups your cheek and pulls you closer to him by your hip. He is so massive and hot. You wish you could see him right now.

"Let me take your mind off things." He slowly removes all your clothes, and you let him. He is surprisingly gentle and skilled. He takes your nipple in his mouth and moans. "I wanted to do this since the time I first saw you."

You gasp. "You did?" His sharp teeth almost pierce your nipple and it feels fantastic. "Why didn't you say anything?"

He doesn't reply but keeps going down, until he reaches your pussy and rubs his nose against your bush. "Mmmmm, you smell..."

"Delicious?" you reply nervously, and he chuckles.

"Yes..." He dives into your cunt and licks you with insatiable lust. You moan, holding him by the horns, grinding against his tongue. Just as you're about to cum, he pulls himself out of you and sits on the floor. "I'm sorry but my leg hurts. I have to..."

"Don't worry," you say in a rushed tone and yank the elastic of his sweatpants to release his cock. "I'll take over."

"Oh fuck, will you? Good girl. Ride my cock."

You could feel he had an impressive girth, but you were so ready to claim it. To plunge it into yourself. "I wish I could see your cock."

"Yes. Shit," he replies as he helped you position yourself. "I wish I could see you. I always wanted this and now... Fuck, we are doing it in the worst place possible."

You slide down his length, your dripping pussy pulling it in. He feels so good inside you. He is big, he is bumpy, he is firm, and fills you just right.

"Yes, sweetheart..." he growls. "Yes, ride my cock. Fuck me."

You keep rolling your hips, grinding against his stomach, guiding his big hands to pinch your nipples or hold your neck in just the right way. "Yes... fuck yes..." You are so close, the pressure of your delight expanding in your stomach. "I'll... I'll..."

With a loud whirl of electricity, the light comes on, and the elevator starts moving. It's working again, and it will open soon. You two look at each other, red-faced, disheveled, teeth bared, breathing heavily, sweaty, beautiful. And oh-so-disappointed.

With a sly grin, your ex-neighbor makes a fist and slams it against the emergency stop button. The red light turns on as the elevator jams again. The only difference is, this time, there is not a drop of fear in your body.

[acidakerizo-47]

I guess I'm back!! (cry my hater, cry harder and louder but I don't even care and I'll never leave the IZ fandom ;] )

I was searching for a long time for any IZ fanarts where Zim and Dib are older and taller than it is in canon in their show style drawing, but everywhere almost all artists changing Dib too much or leaving Zim small as a cat, so I decided to make my own design version of them and hope I made it successfully

why does they look like that in my vision?

EXPLAINING: Firstly — we all remember that in canon Dib is a clone of Professor Membrane, SO, it will be logically that grown up Dib will be look like his dad physically, starting from his body and finishing with his face and even "cowlick" on his head. I'm not agree with Jhonen Vasquez's version of adult Dib in DWLD episode from the show bc it looks not similar to his dad — he has a small shoulders and "weakly" body structure, his cowlick bends for a several times with years of his life (his grandmother has only twice curved "cowlick" hairstyle that Professor Membrane inherited from her) and clothing style doesn't feeling like that gothic dark boi we used to see... Maybe I could to change Dib's shirt? it sounds nice, but his shirt is his style trick that even Jhonen didn't removed! Also Dib leads a physically active life: he is often outdoors, has parkour skills and he's able to withstand quite heavy physical exertion during paranormal research and fighting with Zim that saying us the fact that Dib a strong buddy with excellent physical fitness.

Secondly — standard Jhonen Vasquez's drawing style for IZ show included small shoulders for every character (for irkens only Tallests and "fat" characters has shoulders bigger than standard). Why Zim can't be tallest and why he has body structure is more miniature than Dib's? Look: all irken invaders and soldiers from the elite has a standard miniature body structure and almost all of them is not so tall bc they can't somehow, even if they could have a excellent physical fitness. Zim — is the smallest irken that has a nutritional problems (as we saw in show episodes irkens eating a very heavy and fatty foods, while Zim gets sick of almost every food and eats mostly snacks that talking a lot about his development). Still he can grow up but it will happen slowly (I think at the same level as in humans) and with height restrictions. Also I'm thinking that Zim had to adapt to human food over the years (remember when he was getting sick from cheese and burning from meat in the show, and when he was drunk from eating a lot of cheese and didn't reacted on the meat hamon strike on his face in the movie Eneter the Florpus). As a Bonus Zim never will be the Tallest just because he has extremely bad and criminal reputation, and was also publicly expelled from the empire and was made an object of ridicule.

I was thinking about it for a long time and I've got an Idea to make this reference and maybe use it for further arts, we needed to have this sort of content, I guess :>

if you want — you can use this reference with my design version for your arts, I'm absolutely don't mind about it! It would be very nice if you could mention me as the designs author, but it is not necessary.

I love you and wish you have a good day, sweetie (⁠｡⁠･⁠ω⁠･⁠｡⁠)⁠ﾉ⁠♡

[wings-of-ink]

Checking in - Author Updates - Quick Poll

Hello all! I hope you are all doing well!

I wanted to check-in. I don't have a ton to say on development, just wanted to keep you in the loop on where I am at personally since it tends to affect production speed. I also have a question for you at the bottom.

As I've posted about before, this year has brought about some challenges for me. There aren't a ton of good developments on that front, and my job is being...difficult. The (technical) good news is that I am still employed, but some days I wish I weren't. (I'd much rather be writing IFs, lol.) There is still uncertainty about the future of my job because it is at the mercy of the whims of my government. But what is more pressing currently is that my employer has opted to treat its employees worse (let me tell you, this is a feat because they've never really treated us well), by making our lives and jobs harder. I've made some "worst-case scenario" plans to prepare, so I'm just getting by one day at a time. Oh...and I also have needed to work overtime again, so that's another time suck there. Ugh. In May, I'm taking a couple days of off for me to rest.

In more recent news, I am doing physical therapy...yippy! In recent months I have struggled with my right shoulder. I assumed it was one of those "you're in your late 30s" pains, and I just dealt with it. Don't do that, by the way. I have a very bad habit of just doing with little regard for pain and discomfort. But, it got difficult to hug without pain, and nothing messes with my huggin'. We really don't know what is wrong with my shoulder/arm, but I'm doing virtual (oooh shiny) PT (not the Silent Hill variety) to hopefully correct the issue. If I don't see results, I will need expensive tests and scans. No worries currently, though, I don't think this will slow me down much at all. I can still write and I don't experience any discomfort when I do.

I'm also still working on a coding class, which is self-paced, but I'm sticking to a lesson schedule to make sure I get it done. I would really love to be able to make improvements of my own to GC or even make my own Twine Template someday.

So, in more fun development news, Chapter 6 is growing steadily. And so is Chapter 5, technically. If you missed it, check out this Tumblr ask where I talk a bit about that. The ask and answer contain some slight spoilers for Ch 5 & 6, but nothing too specific.

Chapter 5 is up by a bit over 1500 words, if you're curious, and Chapter 6 is up to over 69k words. I am wrapping up a big moment for Zahn, which might be a bit heavy. After that, there's a more fun moment, which will present a few coding challenges for me, but I'm looking forward to it. *rubs hands together like housefly*

Finally, I have a question for subscribers or those who may want to sub in the future. I find myself wondering what else to post about at times. Especially when I have inordinately busy weeks, I just can't think of things that you may want to see other than peeks at the chapter. I sincerely wish I had more time to add more projects. I have so many ideas kicking around in my head...

So, I was wondering if you were interested in seeing things other than God-Cursed that I have worked on. These would be things that may or may not become much of anything later, so I wasn't sure if there would be much pull to see them (or if it would just be a cruel tease, lol). I have an incomplete IF that I did to help me learn Twine a couple of years ago. I used it to just get acquainted because I am very much a hands-on learner. It's a humorous and simple story (loosely) based on an actual time in my personal life. I have debated about finishing it. I have a couple of others as well where I was playing with a story idea to see how it felt. I also have a complete romance novel which I am slowly editing for publication.

Patreon, Ko-fi links if you want them.

So that's all for me. If anything big happens, I will let you know! ^_^

Take care, everyone!

~Lunan

[klonnieshippersclub]

A Taste of Trouble

Here's the last little drabble before Klonnie Weekend (starts May 2!). Dinner was supposed to be about negotiations. Bonnie showed up with a plan. Klaus showed up with a different kind of appetite.

The restaurant was empty, candlelight flickering against the polished glass. It should have felt romantic, but Bonnie sat stiff as a board across from Klaus. Her arms were crossed, and she glared at the Original Hybrid before her.

"I'm doing this to help keep my friends safe, not because I like you," she snapped. She accepted his dinner invitation to negotiate a truce, and yet Klaus was more interested in discussing her personal life

Klaus leaned back lazily in his chair, swirling the blood-red wine in his glass. His eyes dragged over her, slowly, appreciatively.

"I think you do like me. Why else would you wear such a dress?" he said.

Bonnie rolled her eyes. "You wanted to talk over dinner. I wanted to dress appropriately."

"Well, I am very impressed," he said, voice low and heavy.

"I didn't wear this to impress you."

"Yes, but I can still appreciate the view."

Bonnie ground her teeth together. "You should focus on your girlfriend." She remembered the foolish Martin witch, Greta, who looked at Klaus like he hung the moon and giggled each time Klaus made eye contact with her.

He waved a dismissive hand. "I already told you she is not my girlfriend. Terms like that mean nothing in the supernatural world."

Bonnie scowled. "Vampires don't have girlfriends or boyfriends?"

"Dating is for humans," Klaus said, leaning forward. "For witches, wolves, and vampires, there are spouses, partners, or mates. And that is why I do not take your relationship seriously."

"That is enough," Bonnie snapped as she closed her fist.

Klaus smirked, unbothered. "Have I hit a nerve? Suggesting you belong with a real man?"

"No, you are..." she spluttered.

"I am what? Making you believe you deserve more?"

Bonnie shook her head frantically. "I can't stay."

"No, please," Klaus said, his voice soft. "All of this is for you."

"This is not a good idea," Bonnie muttered. "And I am not a cheater."

"You would not be thinking of cheating if you did not feel something."

"Goodbye, Klaus," she hissed.

Before she could leave, Klaus blurred forward, snatching her phone off the table. Bonnie gasped, lunging for it, but he was already texting.

"KLAUS!" she shouted.

He raised his brows innocently. "There. You are single."

Her phone buzzed, Jeremy's name flashing across the screen. Why are you breaking up with me? it read.

Bonnie's mouth dropped open. "WHAT DID YOU DO?!"

"Saved you from impending doom," Klaus said, utterly unapologetic.

"Why would you ruin my relationship?" she cried.

"You wanted this," Klaus said with a devilish smile. "Secretly."

"I barely even know you!" Bonnie protested.

"If you want to fix it," Klaus said, tossing the phone onto the table, "call him. Apologize."

"You call him!" she snapped.

Klaus shrugged. "Do you really want me to tell that boy we are having dinner alone?"

Bonnie's eyes lit with fury. "He does not need to know about this."

Too late. Klaus picked up her phone again and dialed.

"Hello, Gilbert," Klaus drawled when Jeremy answered. "You are not good enough for Bonnie. She is moving on. With me. And I can't wait to taste her." Before Jeremy could respond, Klaus hung up and blocked the number.

Bonnie was trembling with fury and something worse, something hotter.

"You are impossible!" she hissed.

Klaus smiled, showing his fangs. "You will thank me later."

Bonnie barely had time to react. One second, she was pissed beyond belief and the next, Klaus had crossed the space between them and crashed his mouth against hers.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was raw, greedy, and devastating. His hands gripped her waist, dragging her flush against him. Bonnie gasped into the kiss, and Klaus used the moment to deepen it, his tongue sliding against hers.

Before she knew it, Klaus hoisted her up effortlessly and sat her right on the edge of their table as a couple of empty glasses crashed to the floor. She barely noticed, too overwhelmed by the way his hands roamed her thighs and hips. Klaus kissed her like he was starving and she was the only thing that could satisfy him.

Bonnie was supposed to hate him and walk away like a good little witch. Instead, she found herself wrapping her legs around his waist to close the distance between them.

"You drive me insane," the Bennett witch breathed between kisses.

Klaus just smiled against her mouth.

"And yet, you still can't let me go," he whispered back. “Do you want me to let you go?”

Bonnie should say no, pull herself away from the hybrid but instead something inside of her burned. “No, don’t let me go,”

“Allow me to serve you, little witch.” Klaus purred, lowering down as he squeezed her hips.

“I-I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” Bonnie said, she gasped at Klaus’s soft kisses on her legs.

“All I ask is to hear my name.”

[writing-whump]

On the train

We are starting the road trip! Have some sick Rip at the train with Dylan and Hector.

"Are you sure you don't want to come?" Hector said, chewing his lower lip.

"Totally sure," Arnie repeated.

"Absolutely and completely?"

"Urreversibly," Arnie said with a grin.

"I don't know. Isaiah is finally feeling better, the trip is a great opportunity to spend quality time with him..."

Arnie lifted his hands. "Go and enjoy it. I'm glad you guys are reconnecting."

"You should be reconnecting too."

"You need it more. Besides, it's basically a wolf road trip."

"I'm taking Olive to meet Isaiah. He is taking Seline. They are historical tourist cities. Enough space for humans."

"It's gonna be all couply and cheezy. I won't stand in the way."

Hector must have looked pathetic, because Arnie's expression softened.

"To be real with you, I'm really okay. I don't believe you are neglecting me or leaving me out. I want to try to have two weeks for myself without your check ins and control and random bursts into the place."

Hector eyed him sceptically. "That makes me want to go even less. What do you want to do without my supervision?"

Arnie stuck his tounge at him. "No parties, passing out drunk or doing drugs. Swear. I'm gonna be responsible."

Hector frowned, looking down.

A sigh from Arnie. "Hex, I love you, man, but you are smothering me. I'm trying to make friends outside the freaking pack and I can't have them over, stay over and you scare whoever stops by the door. Please, just go."

"Arnie..." He didn't know what to say. It made sense. It also made his chest heavy with panic and dread.

"We are gonna figure something out, okay? I'll look into apartments-"

Hector jumped up from where he had been leaning against the table. "What-"

"Two apartments," Arnie cut in. "Two. Next to each other. So you can hover behind another wall, if you won't allow me the student dormitory. And honestly, this could solve crap for you too. You spend most of your waking time with Olive in that tiny place, cause you can't bring her over to the pack base. You need a place where you can be together and you can keep me safe. Perfect solution."

"I have no idea where such a place could be," Hector said dryly, looking away in shame. Maybe he really did spent a lot of time with Olive now. He hated he couldn't have his two most important people at one place.

Sure, he did get Arnie and Olive together from time to time and they were on good terms. But he couldn't bring Olive to the pack as his human girlfriend. Not as his chosen partner. It was dangerous and risking an upheaval he wasn't ready to deal with. He needed more people in his corner first.

Plus, it would put Olive in danger too. Uncomfortable at the very least. He didn't know how to explain what being with him would entail...and if he could, he would spare her from it for as long as it was possible.

"I can't believe you're gonna leave me alone with Rip," Hector said, cause it was easier than acknowledging the rest.

Arnie watched him knowingly though. "It's not gonna be so bad. You spend 2 days in the car with him last summer. A one day train ride will be much easier."

"That's just the first part. I thought you would be there keeping me company."

"You will have Dylan and then Isaiah, Sel and Olive waiting for you there after the flight. You won't even notice the guy for the rest of the trip."

"That would be too soon. I don't like him."

Arnie chuckled. "I don't think so. You are jealous, but that's not really his fault, is it?"

"I know. It's Isaiah's."

That earned him an eyeroll. "Jeez. One of these days, you could also stop thinking about relationships in hierarchies. People don't just get replaced, they create new roles for themselves."

The younger boy leaned into Hector's side casually. "I'm so not worried about Olive replacing me or whatever you keep stringing up in Hector-fantasy-land, okay? Go and enjoy the trip."

...

Rip wasn't particularly happy about the travel arrangement either.

On one hand it was cool they didn’t have to take an extra car for him. And that this wasn’t a training trip but a real holiday kind of thing.

Rip loved travelling. He had managed to criss-cross most of Europe on his own — on top of trains, hitchhiking rides, walking the backroads. He avoided crowds and tourist traps, sure, but he could move through cities on top of roofs with his parkouring skills just fine.

Being invited like this—being trusted enough to tag along with Isaiah, Seline and Dylan—it was unbelievable. He was still getting over his excitement and disbelief.

Okay, not trusted exactly. Isaiah probably wanted him as backup. Extra eyes and muscle. Someone who could move fast, stay alert, cover for them if things went south. Maybe, maybe, Isaiah felt a little safer with Rip watching his back when he wasn't at a hundred percent.

That was fine. Rip could be useful. He wanted to be useful.

It had been a couple of weeks since Isaiah's hospital release and he had reassured them all he was ready—which they had believed, once Seline confirmed it.

Rip was glad just to be included. He would bring his best game. Be sharp, strong, effective. Maybe if he proved himself enough, Isaiah would trust him again on future trips. Even the ones involving wolves.

Especially the ones involving wolves.

The last half-year under Isaiah’s care—going with him to meets, not just lurking in the shadows—had been so different. Like someone had pulled a blindfold from his eyes.

He hadn’t even realized he had gotten used to living like that. Half-blind, half-feral.

Isaiah was helping him see it.

Rip had thought he didn’t miss wolves. Or company. But being seen—being able to walk through crowds without shrinking, to meet the eyes of those who would have spat on him before—it was different.

He had fought for survival, for his right to exist, wherever he went.

But now he could walk among wolves who once judged him an outcast and a waste of oxygen—and face them directly.

It made him feel dangerous. In a good way.

Not that he knew what Isaiah was really after. The guy moved like he was playing three games at once, seeing five different meanings where Rip barely caught one. Held ten agendas, eleven sets of cards.

Rip didn’t get it. But somehow, Isaiah always ended up helping people. Even the ones no one bothered with.

It was...something to see.

Isaiah wasn’t perfect. Wasn’t even easy to read most days. But what he was building—whatever this was—it felt solid. It felt good.

Rip wasn't supposed to think about that. As long as wasn't betraying strays and he wasn't hurting anyone who didn't piss him off nonetheless, he didn't give a shit about what he did. Feelings really had nothing to do with life.

This was new. Risky, even. He wasn’t sure what the hell was happening to him. But he knew this much: He wanted to stick around and see what Isaiah did next.

...shame he was stuck with Hector of all people in the train. They had their own compartment, so it was just Rip, Dylan and Hector. Even with the six seats, it felt way too crowded.

Rip offered to come on his own. He could hitchhike the trains just fine, thank you. But then Dylan said he would come with him and Isaiah shook his head in that exasperated way...but nobody wanted to make it difficult on Isaiah so early after his recovery and there was no way Rip could handle a flight.

So here they were. In the spirit of being helpful, Hector offered to take the train with them, sending his girlfriend ahead with Seline and Isaiah to fly for one hour, instead of riding the night train.

Rip honestly wondered how long this pretense would last. Someone with such a fiery temperament as Hector wouldn't take long.

On most days, Rip considered himself quite resistant to most things. But he didn't like loud, explosive people demanding attention and things to be their way with that implied or else.

Hector fit that to a T.

"I'm telling you, trains are the most comfortable rides," Dylan said, getting comfortable over two seats next to Rip. "Rode them for half of my life. You can move more than in a car or plane, you are way more steady, there are snack bars. What's not to like?"

Rip had to admire how unconcerned Dylan was. Crowds of people filling the train in the other compartments didn't seem to register to him at all. For all looks and purposes, he acted like a real human.

Dylan's shadow was so tightly suppressed that Rip could barely feel it. That had its own kind of limitations. Getting in touch with it would take a couple of days. But it was more than fitting for a two-week road trip through Italy.

Hector scoffed. "The best is obviously the car. You can control the ride, stop and go off some predetermined path. That's why we are getting a rental car, when we arrive and you two are both going to be okay with it."

Dylan rolled his eyes, which was precisely what Rip wanted to do. Someone should remind Hector that he wasn't in charge of them, like with every other wolf in his life.

Someone other than Rip, preferably.

Rip crossed his arms, like that would keep Hector out. He didn’t want to need him for anything. Mildly disappointed by not having Isaiah there was one thing, but he couldn't even talk with Dylan like he wanted to. Not with Hector staring at Rip the way like he wanted to have a fight Rip couldn't retaliate.

Urgh.

Dylan wasn't bothered. Got himself earphones and kept showing Rip some kind of game on his phone that made Rip's eyes hurt.

The stray wolf was content to get some sleep. If Isaiah was there, he would want to show off and be alert and helpful. But with Hector eager to be in charge and Dylan's shoulder against this, he didn't care.

Rip wasn't sure why he was feeling so sleepy. He kept yawning, although he could go less than 4 hours of sleep a day and be fine for a couple of weeks—something Isaiah wouldn't allow him, anyway.

It was unsettling, feeling this sleepy with Hector right there, glaring and scowling.

There was this pressure behind his eyes though. When the promised snack handling mini-bar came over, Dylan cheerfully took over their orders and got sparkling water, coffee, croissants...

Rip wanted to share into Dylan's enthusiasm, but the smell of the croissant and coffee repelled him. Settling on sipping the sparkling water, he couldn't understand the feeling of unease that was drying his throat.

The sparkling water wasn’t sitting right.

Half an hour later, his stomach sloshed with every lurch of the train, bloated and tight. The compartment felt smaller by the minute, buzzing like a tin can full of bees.

Rip shifted in his seat, tugging at the collar of his shirt. Heat pulsed under his skin.

Tried to forget the noise, the motion, the way Hector’s scowl seemed to scrape against him even when he wasn’t looking. But the heaviness behind his eyes wouldn’t go away. And every breath tasted like iron and heat.

Rip leaned his elbow on the armrest, pressing his forehead into his palm.

The coolness helped, a little.

At least until the train jerked again and the nausea sloshed back, hotter and heavier.

He shifted, trying to breathe slower. Maybe if he focused on the window—on the blur of trees and concrete flashing past—it would ground him. He rested his forehead lightly against the glass.

The cold bit into his skin, but it wasn’t enough. The buzzing in his ears didn’t stop. Neither did the sickly heat pooling deep in his stomach, twisting like a rope pulled too tight.

He heard Dylan laughing beside him, tapping something on his phone, chatting about a game Rip wasn’t even registering anymore.

He didn’t have the air to answer anyway.

Rip closed his eyes, trying not to look obvious, trying not to draw attention.

Dylan didn’t notice. Hector sure as hell wouldn’t care.

The pressure behind his eyes had turned into a pounding throb now.

Each sway of the train sent another wave rolling through him—heat, cold, nausea, dizziness—until he didn’t know if he could stay upright.

He gritted his teeth. Counted down stops in his head.

Tried to convince himself it wasn’t that bad. He just needed to last a little longer.

He elbowed Dylan into the side. "H-hic-how much longer?"

Dylan blinked, pulling out one earbud. He checked the time on his phone. "Uh... two hours down, about five more to Bologna, if everything’s on time," he said easily. Then he turned properly toward Rip, frowning. "You good?"

Rip nodded, which was a mistake. The world tilted sideways for a second, the heat in his face flashing hotter, making his stomach clench. He jerked his head away, pressing it back against the cold glass like it could pin him there, hold him still.

"Yeah," Rip muttered hoarsely. "Fine."

Dylan didn’t look convinced.

"You’re pale, man. Like...ghost-level pale," he said, peering closer.

He lowered his voice. "You gonna be sick?"

Rip tightened his jaw. He hated the question. He hated the hiccup that slipped out again when he tried to answer.

"I’m good," he said through gritted teeth. Mostly because if he said anything else, he wasn’t sure he’d keep it together.

Dylan didn’t push, but Rip could feel his friend hovering now, his easygoing buzz replaced with a low, sharp awareness — the kind only wolves could slip into when something was wrong.

"Uhm," Dylan said, voice sarcastic now, "you say it, but you don't look it. Just lemme know if you need-"

Another hiccup cut him off, rough and wet in Rip’s throat. He hunched lower, elbow slipping off the armrest as he pressed his fists against his mouth.

The train rocked slightly, and Rip swallowed hard against the rising bile. The sparkling water sloshed miserably inside him, his stomach cramping up in waves.

"Obviously not fine," Hector said dryly. "Get him into a bathroom before he throws up all over the seats. The train's too full to find a new compartment of our own."

Somewhere beyond the pounding in his head, he registered Dylan getting to his feet, dragging him up by the arm.

Rip wanted to snap back, but the words wouldn't come. The train lurched and he lost his balance, stumbling sideways into the seat.

A strong hand caught his arm at the elbow.

Hector.

Rip flinched instinctively, but Hector just steadied him with a grim, impatient look. "Get a grip," Hector muttered under his breath.

Dylan was already at the door, sliding it open and peering out into the corridor. His eyes were blown wide and he was glancing at them and back, as if not sure what to do, how to best intervene. "Bathroom’s two cars down," Dylan announced. "Come on. You can make it."

Rip tried to push himself upright, but the movement made his vision gray out around the edges. He swayed—and Hector caught him again, this time gripping his shoulder with a steadier, almost awkward firmness.

"Move it," Hector said, quieter now. Not as angry, just brisk. Far cry from Isaiah's calm, gentle tone, though.

Rip swallowed down another hiccup, the taste of bile burning higher in his throat.

The train lurched, stronger and faster than he'd expected, throwing Rip sideways. His vision was all out of sorts, stomach in turmoil, insides practically wringing together.

Dylan was too many steps away, hurrying towards the bathroom and then jumping back for him.

"D-" Rip coughed, then gagged into his hand. Another violent lurch. He couldn't catch his balance at all, shoulder hitting the door of another compartment hard. He squeezed his eyes shut, sweaty bangs falling into his vision. "S-stop moving so fast- I can't-"

"Okay, okay," Dylan said, suddenly appearing by his side. He hooked his arm around Rip's, giving him something to latch onto. The walk was painfully slow, Dylan holding into the railing in the hall while Rip held onto his sleeve like a lifeline.

Rip retched into his hand, the sparkles climbing up his throat, but managed to swallow it back down. It made him stumble, legs all tangled up.

Dylan grunted with the effort of keeping them upright. "Almost there."

The bathroom door loomed ahead, just a few steps more, and Dylan kicked it open with his foot.

Rip basically fell inside against the small sink built into the wall and sank to his knees painfully. The moment he was sure they were inside, disgust shivered through him like lightning from the sheer crampiness. And his body gave out.

He lurched against the movement of the train, seeing stars as the water rocketed out of him. His stomach squeezed and he groaned as his breakfast made a reappearance into that dark grey toilet.

"Christ," Dylan cursed beside him, trying to fit his long limbs inside the bathroom. He had to keep it halfway open.

Rip was panting over the toilet, not feeling better at all. He burped up another mouthful of bread crust, wrapping an arm around his gurgling middle.

"You are okay, man. Did the sandwich from morning-"

Rip whimpered at the mention, pressing his forehead into his elbow. "D-don't talk about food..."

The toilet flushed above him. Shortly after, Dylan lowered himself next to Rip, rubbing between his shoulder blades. "What brought this on? We did the same thing all day...if you aren't allergic to Hector, that is. Totally fair."

That should have made him laugh, he knew, but all he managed was a hitch and a queasy hiccup. "I still feel so sick, D."

Dylan squeezed his shoulder, his hand warm. "Now that we are on it, do you like, get motion sick?"

"I didn't before..."

Dylan pressed the back of his hand to Rip's cheek from behind. "Well, you aren't feverish, so that's the only explanation I got for now."

"G-got something that would make it better?" Rip's stomach rolled along the train, a whole new wave of nausea crashing over him.

"Not here, I'm afraid. We can get you something for carsickness when we stop." Dylan sounded as mournful as Rip felt. "I'm sorry."

Rip just groaned, curling tighter against the cabinet. This was going to be a hellish ride.

[hermesserpent-stuff]

Hermes, I need help making a plot and making a timelime for a new au idea I had while trying trying sleep!

So, imagine an X-Men/Marvel world that's a bit darker, the good guys and villains teamed up instead of splitting, rule the world and control their cities, and the Brotherhood of X find and take in mutants, even if they don't want to go or have families who love them.

Reader is one such mutant, one who has a past with the Brotherhood of X and their mysterious facility/base, hidden from humans and only accessible by those with clearance...

They are trying to resist, be it by helping mutants who want to stay with their families, fight off the Avengers or X-Men from getting too close to a hidden tunnel or group, and generally trying to live their life, albeit with paranoia and barely making it.

Cue them striking up an odd freely relationship with Spiderman, a spider mutant, who is a trainee/student of thr Brotherhood of X and Avengers, and who plans to bring them to justice... but instead grows attached, once he realizes they aren't a threat, and have solid advice when he needs help. It culminates one night with them saving his life, and now he worries they're a mutant in a bad situation who has been brainwashed against the others, against those who could help them...

Cue some of the X-Teens being brought in, Cyclops, Shadowcat, and Nightcrawler, who start to pick up on things Spiderman missed, who start to realize this foe is someone who knows their secrets, knows old codes and techniques, and is a mutant, same as them...

Looks like they need to figure out just who this renegade is...

(What do you think? Reader is a spider mutant as well, but where Peter is more agile and graceful, they're a heavy hitter who's good at defense and distraction. Any ideas for a spider they could be based on/named after? I would like to discuss general questions for them and their world, do some world building, and figure out some of the secrets surrounding it all!) (If that is okay with you!)

Sure! And maybe a tarantula.

Not so good with reader centric aus cause that's not what I write tho

[heartandeye]

《 a dream of better times 》 ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 5 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘣𝘺𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘴

← ch 4 | series masterlist

➵ ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: sylus x male!mc ➵ ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: Plagued by nightmares of memories you don't remember, you think Sylus is in love with a you that no longer exists. You push him away, but you are always drawn back to him in the end. ➵ ꜰᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇꜱ: angst, hurt/comfort, mentions of brother!Caleb ➵ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: attempted kidnapping, grief/mourning ➵ ꜱᴍᴜᴛ? nope ➵ ᴡᴄ: ~6.3k ➵ read on ao3

A/N: the final narrative installment of this series! this chapter took me so fucking long to write. i got lost in the sauce, and tbh i don't even know if i accomplished what goal i set out to end with in the first place. i may or may not have a bonus chapter in the works. my next fic series idea will be based on caleb, so it'll comprise of one shots of memories and scenarios he's lived up until he explodes in main story hehe. if you have any ideas or requests of some sweet summer memories, please let me know in my ask! thank you again for reading, reblogging, and liking! it means so much to me c:

When you come out of the shower almost an hour later, you already expect the change of clothes on a stand next to the bathroom door: a black shirt and charcoal sweats. He’s stopped buying you new clothes every time. Instead, he’s been lending you his clothes from his personal wardrobe. They hang a little loose on you since his frame is a little bigger than yours, but otherwise they fit well enough. This time, you forgo the shirt, your skin still warm from the hot shower.

You tighten the strings around the waistband of your pants and step out of the bathroom, a towel draped around your bare shoulders so you can ruffle your hair dry later.

The master bedroom you chose is the one that is the farthest from Sylus’ bedroom. You chose it the first time he presented you the options, and although at first you reluctantly resigned yourself to the base, now this room feels like home too. Another place where you can let the exhaustion take over you — where you’re the clothes and it is you. Your chest deflates with a heavy sigh at the thought of going to bed, where the nightmares will hook their claws into your brain like vultures scavenging a long awaited meal.

You feel the heavy weight of his gaze before you register that he’s even there. When you look over, he’s leaning against the doorway, a first aid kit in his hands. You’re not sure how long he’s been silently standing there.

He’s changed into a gray sweater and black pants, hair still damp from his own shower. You try not to think about if he stocked all the bathrooms with the same shampoo he uses, or how you and him now have the same shower gel scent clinging to your bodies.

And while you restrain yourself, he continues to watch you — a lion in wait surveying their battered prey. Your grip on the towel around your shoulders tighten when you see his eyes settle especially where the band of your underwear peak over his sweatpants before flicking back up to your eyes.

Suddenly warmer and a bit more vulnerable than when you came out of the shower, you wish you had put on that shirt.

“May I come in?” he asks, calm despite you storming off earlier. You can’t get a good read on his expression. Whether it’s because you’re so tired or because he’s put on a mask of his own, you’re not entirely sure.

For a moment, you wonder what would happen if you said no. Would he go obediently into the night? Would that unreadable expression contort into something full of resentment? Or, would those solemn red eyes melt into a quiet agony again, like the night you couldn’t resonate with him?

The moment passes. You give one singular, apprehensive nod. The tentative air in the room is tangible, almost ticklish. The kind of sensation that triggers a fight-or-flight response — and lately, you’ve been a flight risk more often than not when it comes to him.

Sylus crosses the threshold into the small domain you’ve claimed as yours in the vast territory of his. He’s always been polite about entering your room, always a quiet and yielding question before he carves himself into your space. Yet you could count on one hand how many times he would come to this side of the floor and intrude on your peace.

You think he should come see you more often, catch you off guard like right now. Have those hungry eyes linger on your skin — as if there’s no other way he could look at you. This place is his, after all. (And you…)

You think you’d like him to make the first move once in a while. Fill up your hands with proof that he wants to see you. Fill your hands with him — his skin, his face, his hair.

God, even now, you think it’d be nice to melt yourself into his arms and just forget everything. He could take you back to that valley again, and maybe stand between you and your demons. You could live in a dream, losing yourself where reality can’t find you.

If only it weren’t for the sight of those flowers, swaying gently in the wind. They’re waiting for someone else, aren’t they? And you’re pathetic enough to soak up their patience. It sure as hell beats everything else you’ve been seeing in your sleep. How much could a pinch of selfishness hurt?

“Come here,” he says, his voice slicing through the veil of your thoughts. He’s sitting on the sofa, the first aid kit he brought with him opened on the coffee table.

Again, you think to decline for a split second. You want to resist that pull he has on you, to defy him out of whatever small pride you have left in you. Really, you just want to run away back home to familiarity, good or bad.

Instead, your feet carry you to the seat next to him, but you don’t sit down. Strands of your wet hair drip water droplets as your tired eyes look down at him.

“You said you’d give me answers,” you say to him.

He doesn’t blink at your guarded words. “I need to treat your wounds first.”

You make no move. “First I have to come to your base. Now I have to get treated. You’re not trying to weasel your way out of the deal  you  proposed, are you?” Your behavior isn’t fair. Anyone would be worried to see you in the state you’re in. You know that. Yet bitterness still tinges your words because you like that he’s fussing over you more than you should.

“You saved me back there. How can I let my hero walk around my base in such bad shape?” Sylus is born with a silver tongue. It’s all a part of his career, his carefully crafted persona.

But the furrowed brow, the sigh he gives? That’s not a part of his act. He continues, “Rest assured, I always keep my end of the bargain. So sit — we can talk after I look at your wounds.”

He gently tugs on your hand, and your body follows suit like a doll, nice and easy. You could never resist him for long.

“Let me see,” he orders, motioning with his head for you to turn around. He rolls his sleeves up to his elbows, medicinal cream in hand with the cap already off.

You hesitate. It didn’t look pretty in the mirror, and you don’t want him to think you’re this careless all the time. One glower, though, and you concede reluctantly.

He doesn’t have to say anything for you to tell he is unimpressed with the state of your shoulder.

“These last few weeks have been rough,” you admit. “But this is nothing new. My teammates and I get banged up pretty regularly. I’m used to it.”

“Regularly? The training regimen at the Hunters Association must be sub par. Train with me for a few weeks and you won’t get hurt like this again.”

His offer sounds more like a threat. When he rips the bandage, the sharp sound of the adhesive tearing from the rest of the roll grates on your ears. But when he takes your arm to wrap it, he’s gentle.

“Or would you rather I tag along on your missions?” The questions slips from him innocently enough.

“Absolutely not,” you say immediately. The scene of having to explain his presence to your colleagues without surrendering his identity already gives you another headache. When you toss a pleading look over your shoulder, you’re surprised to find that he looks quite serious.

“Then take better care of yourself.” When he touches the darkening galaxy bruise on your shoulder, you flinch. “Hold still. It’ll be over soon.”

The cream is cold on your skin before it warms up between his finger and your body. You suck your breath in through your teeth, but Sylus ignores it, taking his sweet time to finish treating every small scratch he can find. Every gentle press elicits a twitch or a wince.

“Can’t you be a bit more gentle?” you ask, half joking to dispel the small amount of tension in the air. “I’m the victim here.” Truthfully, it’s the nerves from being around him in such close quarters than it is about the pain. His touch, his gaze — they all sizzle on your skin.

“My poor kitten is injured. He must be treated even if it hurts.” He sticks a patch over the medicine and finally lets you go.

You try not to act like you’re hurrying to put on the shirt he lent you, glad that even if it’s another layer of him, you now have something between your skin and his. Some form of armor from his eyes and his hands.

“And what about you? You must have gotten a few injuries yourself since…” the last time we spoke. The words fizzle out on your tongue when you remember the last time you were both in the same place. “Well, there must be something I can look at,” you say, your tentative wellness check disguised as shoddy payback.

A hint of a smile curls the corner of his lip. “Unlike a certain someone, I can take care of myself.”

Truly, he looks completely fine — as usual. Not a hair out of place. You let your eyes roam his exposed forearms, where what few old scars are raised against his otherwise flawless skin.

You haven’t given any thought as to what your first question would be, yet it comes off the tip of your tongue effortlessly. “Did I — she — take care of you? When you were hurt before.”

He stiffens ever so slightly, caught off guard by your question. Business has now begun.

He dutifully responds, “Yes. I… was taken care of.”

It’s strange to see Sylus uncomfortable. There were times you thought nothing could phase him. It must be true that the past can never be outrun. It lingers like rotten fruit on the ground and hangs the heart like a gallows.

The urge to brush your fingertips over the skin that those other hands have touched washes over you.

Only a moment later, Sylus takes your hand and presses it to his arm. You’ve missed how hot his body runs and how it warms you slowly, then all at once.

“If you want something, just reach out and grab it,” he says with some amusement.

That damn eye of his that sees your heart so clearly is cheating. All the questions you ever had, and he had always kept what you wanted from you — just out of reach — when he could have taken your hand just like that. And whatever may happen, he remains infuriatingly unbothered, while you grasp at the crumbs he throws at your feet to salvage something of yourself.

You withdraw your hand. “This must be so easy for you.” The accusation comes smoothly, surprising even yourself.

Sylus huffs with laughter. “Nothing is ever easy when it comes to you.” He speaks to the you now and the you unknown. Or he’s speaking to himself — another bitter inside joke.

Your voice is sharp with ice as you say, “Can you blame me? You said I owed you a life, made me shoot you, then dodged every question I have. How am I supposed to play my part in this little play you’ve created?”

His eyes narrow at you, and whatever gentleness you saw has an edge to it now. His voice lowers into a dangerous growl. “I want to make it clear that I have always done what I wanted. You’re also free to do as you please. Don’t get any ideas in your head that there’s some crafted role you and I are meant to play.”

In an instant, the embers of your anger that has festered in you for so long catches flame all at once. You don’t care if you've pissed him off.

“What do you even want with me? Is it the aether core? Resonance? You’re already so powerful. Why are you trying so hard to fit me into your schedule like…” Like you want to see  me.

You stop yourself, unsure if it’s wise to say the unspoken. Instead, you ask, “Are you hoping that I might just one day remember everything?”

You’re not sure what you want his answer to be, whether to prove you right or wrong.

Do you really want  me?

You want him to say it. You want him to be honest.

(You don’t want him to say anything. You want him to lie to you.

You want him to throw you any sort of lifeline between the you and the him that is here now.)

He is unabashed as as he considers your expression — as unreadable as his. Eventually, he says it quietly. “I do.”

You didn’t realize you’d been holding your breath. His answer is neither barbed nor soothing. It fills the gap between your bodies on the sofa, heavy with something akin to grief — some mutation of it that has evolved past its life cycle.

Yet, despite the hard set in his jaw and the silence that comes after, you still want to ask.

You want to press your thumbs between the chinks of his defenses into his flesh, a visceral wont that urges you to dig deeper and deeper until his beating heart is exposed for you to rend apart until you’re satisfied.

You need to see him break apart in your hands, to know that he understands the pain of loss like you understand it now.

( Like you understood it back then, long after the sword pommel has left your hand, replaced by red petals slipping through your fingers into the wind.)

You blink, bewildered at yourself. What the fuck is wrong with me?

Sylus has always been honest with you — and the truth doesn’t discriminate no matter who it is that speaks it.

But you — you simply want to find relief in wounds that can’t be bandaged or dressed with topical cream. This is the kind of demand that breeds pain. Your grief has folded into itself, curdled into something rank. In dreams, in reality, maybe you are always destined to drive a blade into his heart.

And you don’t want to do that to him anymore.

“Sometimes the absence of an answer is better if words will only hurt. A convenient, if frustrating, form of protection.”

…Or is it that you didn’t want to hurt yourself?

You are nothing like Sylus. He enjoys the quiet of solitude.

And you, after an entire year of it, you are sick of its silence. It cuts into you with every Metaflux-related news, with every time you accidentally scroll too far in your messages and see that apple profile picture — and the deepest cut is when after picking up those death certificates, there was no longer any way to quiet that terrible, terrible pang for braised chicken wings.

This whole year you’ve been losing this fight against phantoms and they keep appearing to beat you into submission. There’s not much left of you to submit at this point.

Frustration wells up within you — it’s always lived in you from sun up to sun down lately. You don’t know when this sludge has lodged into your heart and seeped into your soul. Some days you can’t even remember what you used to enjoy doing, or taste the food in your mouth. In between the sleepless nights of murder and the quiet mornings that remind you of what is gone, you’ve started to lose yourself.

I don’t know who I am anymore.

Your fingers itch for the knife that you left on the streets of the N109 Zone. The image reflected in its blade was just that — an image. It’s serrated blade is no camera. And besides, you’re tired of pictures. They’re just relics of memories held captive by someone who longs to turn back time. And what use is longing?

A weapon, on the other hand, is much more practical. Better to cut ties with than to remind yourself of what’s left behind.

That you  are left behind.

“That’s enough,” you say to yourself and get up from the sofa. You’re not sure if you can handle any other answers tonight. Maybe you’ll try again another day. Or maybe you’ll leave the what-ifs and doubts at your doorstep, where they’ll greet you on every rising sun to remind you of the courage you lack.

You take long strides to the door, too eager to escape. You don’t even know where you’re trying to go — another of the millions of rooms in the Onychinus base, or home where you can curl up in the darkness with that taunting necklace — but your fingers wrap around the doorknob, poised to swing it inward —

— and the crack you manage to pry open immediately slams shut.

Sylus’ fist is planted by your head on the heavy wood, gluing it to the door frame with his strength. He’s so close you could feel the heat of his body through the knit of his sweater and the fabric of your shirt, feel the slight brush of his breath on the back of your neck, feel his hair grazing your skin as he lowers his head to yours.

He speaks softly, his voice filling the shell of your ear and sending tremors from the base of your skull down the length of your spine. “Keep asking me. You have questions, and I have answers. So, keep asking me.”

He could have used his Evol to lock the door or to restrain you, to force you to turn around and face him. Yet here he is, personally negotiating with you like there is something on the line if this deal falls through.

But it works, this businessman’s way of persuasion. So you turn around, and it takes you a moment before you can meet his eyes, trapped between him and the door. What is it that he sees for there to be such a storm in those beautiful red eyes of his?

“Missed one,” Sylus says with a click of his tongue, and you realize he’s talking about the cut on your jaw. It doesn’t even hurt, but the way his brows are knitting together, you’d think you would need stitches. It makes your heart beat a little faster, a little harder, and you think that even with the shirt on your skin and the space between the two of you, he can sense it innately like an animal.

“Don’t do this,” you say, turning away.

“What am I doing?”

“Don’t act like you actually care about me .” You hate the way your voice cracks on that last word. It sounds exactly like how you feel.

The edge around his voice is rough as he says, “I do care about you.” Then, like before with waning confidence and what sounds like wary hope, he says, “I missed you these last few weeks. I could only hear about you through Mephisto. You have no idea how much I wanted to see you. I was worried.”

He speaks to you like a long-lost lover. Like it wasn’t three weeks that passed but three centuries. Those three words I missed you have a force of their own, and you’re afraid of them because you know precisely what sort of weight they carry. You’ve said them yourself once, twice — and the love nestled in them now has nowhere to go.

But Sylus’ words are different — dangerous, even. They are released into the air like locked-on missiles.

“No. I’m — ” you say, throwing your hands up in surrender.

I’m afraid.

Sylus cuts in before you can out yourself. “You said earlier that it must be easy for me.”

His eyes are glowing brighter than usual, so intent on enveloping your entire being that you can’t suppress the small electric tingles running beneath your skin. His eyes have never lied to you, and even now they are full of sincerity, pain, longing — and cautious hope.

And in those bright eyes of his, you see yourself reflected. You try not to wither under his thoughtful gaze as you stay upright against the door he’s caged you with. “I don’t care about easy. What matters more to me… is that you’re here.”

You blurt out, “I can’t remember anything. I’m useless to you.”

He tilts his head. “You have never been useless to me. Those memories seem to matter less and less the more time I spend with you. There are other things that are more important now.”

Though you say nothing, your questioning look gives you away.

Sylus’s smirk is brief before he continues, “When you’re with me you like to put up quite a fight. I don’t mind that at all. But when you’re with others, you look like you’re enjoying yourself. And…”

He draws away from you. The absence of his body warmth leaves you wanting to chase a step towards him, but you don’t.

“And what?” you prompt.

The steady gaze never leaves your face as he says, “You don’t smile like that when I’m around. And I mind that very much.”

You’re taken aback for a second. Was he… pouting? Something as simple as a smile — well, then again, aren’t you the same, crying at a side of him you’ve never seen as he lay in a bed of flowers? What was it he said when you first met — you and I are the same. True kindred spirits.

“You don’t smile around me like that either.” Your eyes fall to the curve of his lips. “You really looked happy there in that dream.” You have to swallow a bolt of nervousness before you can ask, “What was that place?”

“It was... a haven we never had.” He meets your eyes again, and there is an unexpected and immeasurable softness you find there, along with a damning hint of pain. This is the first time you’ve seen Sylus sound so vulnerable. “It’s a moment of peace when I need it.”

“Why… did you show me something so personal?” you ask, curling at the edges of your doubt despite yourself.

“I thought it would help. You deserve a dream of better times, like this one, not visions of us at our worst. That’s not who you are. You deserve to be free of bygone sins — to live freely.”

Your breath hitches at his words. That’s not who you are. All this time you’ve been waiting for him to define you, wanting him to tell you who exactly you must be. But he’s never said any of that, did he? Wrapped up in everything else, you simply added those expectations to yourself all on your own.

“You should have come to see me and say that earlier,” you say, hands curling into fists. “You stayed away.”

“There was a chance you’d get better if I wasn’t around. I didn’t want you to bear a past that no longer has a place here. But… even my best efforts are still tied to those memories.”

The regret is etched in the line between his brows, that all he can do is give you more of the past to soothe the sting of those nightmares.

You wonder if that dream of the flower field is also his personal hell. When he enters to find peace and stands alone among those waiting flowers, what expression does he wear when he sways in the wind along with those red petals?

Maybe it’s the same one you wear when you look up at the sky and see jet streams cutting by.

You take a step forward. Under his watchful eye, you carefully place your hand on the center of his chest. Under the fabric — under skin and muscle and bone — you can feel that quickened heartbeat of his. It thumps solidly against you, like it longs to burst forth and touch you back.

The heart is the body’s most precious gem, guarded by layers of muscle and fat and conscious decision-making. Any harm to it and the body dies. Yet he lets you touch it again, despite all you have done to him. You think he is a reflection of his heart, and you — yours is still sore with longing and grief. You wonder what it’d be like if he could touch yours too.

When you open your mouth to speak, the words start pouring out. “You die every night in my dreams. Sword, gun — it doesn’t matter which. It doesn’t matter who.” Even now, you shake recalling those nightmares, like you’re kneeling there again amidst the fire and brimstone; the finality of his death a torturous proof that hell does exist. “My hands are always wet with your blood, and there’s always a hole in your heart.”

Sylus doesn’t move away from your hand, nor does he press closer to you. He lets you speak, lets you open up some of that pain to give away to him. You’re like a bird, always hiding your hurt until the very end. So when the words come, he accepts all of it.

You take another step towards him, then another and another, until you’re pushing him onto the sofa. Your shadow falls across his face as you lean over him, one knee crooked next to his thigh. He looks up at you with such tenderness that your chest tightens.

“The night we met, you tried to…” To make me remember what I did to you.  You struggle with the words, not for his crime of wanting to resonate with you, but because you felt guilty for not being able to be what he needed — what he wanted.

The first time those memories took form in your brain, you had asked, That… was real?

He answered you with the barest hint of bitterness, If I say yes, will you give me a sincere apology?

Now he stays silent with expectation, waiting for you to finish that sentence. To condemn him like he once did to you and even the score. It makes you sick how he thinks he deserves your vengeance, incapable of being forgiven as he looks up at you like a sinner before his god.

Don’t you deserve to be free of bygone sins, too?

You remember how he squeezed your trigger finger and the way his blood splattered from his chest, how his face was illuminated in pain for just a moment.

In the end, it’s always the pain in his determined face that lingers in your mind. Not the blood, not the wound, but how he thinks it’s right that he’s the one who must hurt.

“Sylus.” The way you say his name now is different from when you were helpless on the ground and sighing it into the shattered visor of your helmet like it’s your last prayer. Now it’s decisive, full of clarity even if you’re not sure what it is you want to say just yet.

He gazes at you, tense with the longing to take your bruised and cracked soul and sew it stitch by careful stitch with threads of gold. His attention, just like in those three days he wanted so badly for you to simply remember , is completely and unwaveringly on you.

This time, though, you meet him head on instead of shrinking back.

“These hands of mine are rough and calloused,” you say.

His eyes fall to where you have your hand splayed in the center of his chest, and he gently takes it in his. He pulls you fully towards him onto his lap, your legs straddling either side of him.

You can’t help how your heart kicks in your chest when he slowly slips his fingers between yours, like he’s always wanted to do this. It’s how he’s studying the way they’re joined, turning your hand this way and that before pressing his lips softly to the back of your hand. The contact of his lips with your skin zings through your arm.

“And they fit perfectly in mine,” he says gently.

The lightness of his words races along the surface of your bones, and when it reaches your chest, something clicks into place. That shade of doubt you had before, when you thought you didn’t quite fit right into him, now burns away in his warmth. When he holds your gaze with his eyes again, you know he can see how much you wanted to hear those words.

You think his face, looking up at you in some degree of reverence, was not something born, but carved.

The slope of his eyebrows, the sharp angle of his jaw, the shape of his shoulders… He is a beast in human form, only wanting for your touch. The most desperate of desire that can only be captured in the coldest of marble.

This man, as deadly as he is beautiful, reserved only for you to see up close and personal. A small seed of greed sprouts in you — you try to suppress how much you like being the only one who knows him like this.

But still, you go on, remembering how much smaller she was, nestled against his chest. “I’m just about as tall as you, you know.”

Sylus raises an eyebrow at you, a confident smirk playing around his lips — smug, even. Some of that terribly charming humor lights his face up. His other hand slips under your shirt, and you shiver at the delicate touch around your lower back, holding you securely in place against him.

His eyes flick over your head, as if measuring your height in earnest. Your heart hammers against your ribcage at the proximity.

“Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he says after his assessment, amused. “You have a ways to go in that regard.”

You fight the urge to glare at him, but he huffs a laugh at your expression anyway.

Still, you press on, “Whatever I was before, I’m not anymore. This body is completely different.”

“Hm…” Sylus’ gaze heads south, taking in the sight of you and again lingering where the band of your underwear peeks over his sweatpants and where your shirt is raised with his hand on your skin. And though your ears are turning red, you grab his chin and force him to look at you.

He meets you with a devilish smile. “So it is. I quite like it anyway.”

You push through your bashfulness, ignoring the slight warmth in your cheeks. “I’m not who you expected to find.” You don’t ask if he’d be fine with that.

“My dear hunter,” he says, eyes softening. “You asked me who I see when I look at you.”

That question you hurled him at the peak of your weakness — a question from your heart. The kind that when the answer is about to present itself, you find yourself holding your breath.

The hand on your lower back slowly slides up your side, sprouting butterflies in your stomach from the trail of heat he leaves on your bare skin. His fingernails delicately trace upwards, careful not to press on your bruises, until his hand is touching the center of your chest, mirroring yours a few moments prior. You’re struggling to hold his gaze — struggling to stop yourself from pulling him in even closer.

You remember the first time you and Caleb found an injured bird on the ground. He taught you how to hold it between your fingers like a makeshift harness so it couldn’t fly away. Through its thin ribcage, you were fascinated by how fast its tiny heart could thump — and that wild, desperate look in its eye. You never shook off the way it looked at you, wondering if your fingers will unwrap and leave it to its fate.

Its whole life defined in one moment, held in the palm of your hand. You think you understand that little bird now. The warmth in your tiny fingers was as much a sentence as it was a comfort. Fear and relief — the knowing that you are at the mercy of someone else’s love.

Sylus’ answer weighs like a cinder block against you when he says, “I have always ever seen you as you are.”

You don’t say anything for a moment. He tilts his head at you, allowing you to take your time.

With trepidation, so much so that you can’t hide the small tremor in your voice, you say quietly, “The thought of you terrifies me.”

You feel his fingers tense against your sternum. That was certainly not the answer he was expecting. You bear down on him, so he can feel the thudding of your heart rattling your very bones. So he can know just how much power he has over your heart, in its fragile entirety, and that you are entrusting it to him.

You say, “If I don’t live up to whatever vision you have of me, you’ll leave me behind.” Then, in an even smaller voice that barely comes out in a whisper, “I’m getting really tired of being left behind.”

Oh, there it is. Those words you haven’t been able to tell anyone all these months. Because if you did, people would just pity the wound you’ve bared to the world — one among many that Caleb’s absence has left on you. You don’t want to be a charity case, a burden on those who will never understand what loss is to you.

Those words, spoken aloud, tear the last remaining traces of armor from your face, and the exhaustion that wears you like a coat surfaces. Yet you keep his gaze that can see straight to your heart. You know he can feel the overwhelming ache of loneliness, and you wonder if he is no stranger to it either.

The breath that comes out of Sylus has the slightest tremble to it. His hands untangle themselves from your body to cradle your face ever so gently.

His touch sends dazzling shivers from your cheeks to the base of your skull and all the way down your spine. Without meaning to, you give a slight nuzzle into his palms, drunk on his touch. The exhaustion seeps into your brain, a fuzziness beginning to take over. The long days of work and grief pools over you, sinking your lids halfway.

It’s a relief to put into existence what you have hidden from for so long, and relief can be oh, so tiring.

A hint of mirth appears in his eyes at the sight of you like putty in his hands, slicing through that split-second look of heartache that crosses his face at your confession of vulnerability.

“I have an awful habit of giving in to you,” he says. “If you so desire it, I have no choice but to stay by your side.” He brings your face closer to his, your noses touching. “Be warned. It’s not so easy to get rid of me once you say it. I’ll be by your side until the end of time.”

Your heart flutters at his threat. “That’s not possible,” you say, and though you started out confident that these were just sweet nothings, there’s just something in the way he says them that has you doubting yourself.

“I’m not the type to half-ass my deals. I have a reputation to uphold, after all.” He chuckles. “Why don’t we find out starting tomorrow?”

He easily picks you up, one arm under your ass and the other, reassuringly, on the back of your neck. You don’t resist, only humming your agreement. He murmurs something about how you’ve lost a bit of weight, and though his voice is right next to your ear, he’s starting to sound far away.

Your face nestled in the crook between his neck and his shoulder, you breathe in his scent while you still have the chance, fingers digging into his sweater as if you never want to let him go. Apart from the surface-level tinge of shower product, there is something headier — something decidedly him , sweet and natural and addictive.

“I want to make you smile like in that dream,” you say as if in answer, sighing at the memory of that valley. “You have such a handsome smile.”

“It’s not as hard as you think.” He sets you down on the king-sized bed and presses a lingering kiss to your forehead. “We can talk more about how handsome I am later. For now, sleep to your heart’s content.”

When Sylus draws away to leave, your fingers catch him by the sleeve. “You said you’ll be by my side until the end of time.”

You like the way the corner of his lip quirks up. You’re already halfway to your goal. Just need the other side.

“So I did,” he acknowledges.

“Do you have to go tonight?”

He climbs into bed, pulling the covers over the both of you. “No. Tonight I’m all yours.”

Your eyes are already closed when his arms draw you into him and tangle your legs with his. But before you are completely submerged into sleep, you can’t help but ask one last question. “Are those flowers your favorite?”

It takes a beat before Sylus can answer. “Yes, they are.”

“Then I guess I like them after all.”

Sylus’ laugh is the last thing you hear, rumbling throughout his chest. It follows you into the dark, along with his unnaturally fast heartbeat.

That night, for the first time in months, your sleep is undisturbed. Dreamless and content, without wondering if you’ll wake up to a quiet kitchen or a quiet phone.

You don’t look forward to the morning light, but you think with Sylus, you could believe in his words.

After all, he is a businessman, and he has quite the reputation to uphold.

[kaivenom]

yandere kid pirates with a reader who has venom/symbiote? pretty please

Yandere!Kid Pirates with a venom!reader HCS

Warnings: a little gore (lets remember that venom eats people and this is yandere), maybe some hints that can be seen as sexual.

A/N: i did Heat, Wire, Killer and Eustass Kid all together. It can be viewed as platonic or romantic in reality. I hope i did it well and that you like it

Masterlist

They would try to feed you all the chocolate you want, but let's be real, no one in the crew knows how to take care of another living being.

You sometimes feel like some of the withered plants on the ship, but they try they best to stock the ship.

When you confess to them that you also may need to eat living beings heads and that chocolate sometimes wasn't enough, they all agreeded to give you the the food you needed.

This can go two ways depending on how apprehensive you are towards the thing about eating.

Option one: they could get on the ship with a sack full of heads and leave them to you to eat, all with a big smile on their faces cause they did something good for you and eased all the process.

Option two: they kill al the people and Killer starts doing "special chocolate smoothies" for you that have the brains inside. You start to feel less hungry and better, and they are all happy cause you don't really know what you are eating.

Heat is always asking you things about how you are feeling or if venom is talking, not that he really cares but because he feels like it is an experiment.

On the other hand, Eustass orders you to tell him what venom is saying when he is angry at you, you both had an argument or you seem off. He can be a little rude asking about it but he really cares about how Venom sees him (he doesn't want the symbionte making you change your opinion of him).

Wire keeps calling you to the nursery and checking you, sometimes it is a little awkard cause he looks at your body intensely.

They all hate when you transform and end up being the same size as them, they only tolerate this when you are all in battle or your life is on danger. Otherwise they gould get really mad. They like you smaller than them, they see it as a cute thing.

If you try to escape from them, they have an ultrasound system which makes you instantly week, and also makes venom separate from you... so it's not a good idea to run away.

That ultrasound system is also their speakers for music, so sometimes you have to ask them to please lower a little the heavy metal, which they do if you accept doing something for them.

They ocasionally try to see were your symbionte limits are, they can get a little extreme with their tests, especially Eustass and Wire.

Killer is the one who takes care of you the most, but he is also the one who cuts you when you do something wrong, cause in the end you heal really fast so instead of slaping your hand, he cuts your arm.

The rest of them assume that since you have venom, they can man handle you rough and brutally.

On the emotional aspect, they don't try that much but... when they see you really sad, anxious or some negative emotion on big proportions they try to console you. They aren't good, mostly cause they think that their big and masculine figures are enough to make you feel better.

The only thing you could get in those moments is a hug, but you had to come get it.

One final point is that Heat likes to mess with you by making blasts of fire, which makes you extremely scared and anxious, he just laughs and loves how you jump around trying to hide.

They all laugh (especially when you did something that accidentally make someone angry) but when it is too much to handle, they argue with Heat and stop him.

The bonus: is that you are emotionally vulnerable so you would be searching for support in the one who stopped the torture.

[writeriguess]

I love everything you write, let me say that first, are you tired of writing for Katsuki? You get reqs for him so much! I feel like if I was a writer like you are I would be so burnt out from him specifically

I hope you don't feel obligated to write everything that's asked of you, I really want you to enjoy writing

First of all, thank you so much for this message — for the kindness, the compliments, and honestly, just for thinking about me and taking the time to ask this. It really does mean a lot. I don’t always get the chance to talk about this side of writing, so I appreciate the space you've given me to do that without judgment.

I feel like I’m going to lose half my follower base by admitting this, but... yes. Honestly, yes. I adore Katsuki, I truly do — he’s a character that’s very close to my heart and has been for a long time. But at the same time, I would be lying if I said it hasn’t gotten exhausting. Right now, I have 37 requests sitting in my WIP folder that I haven’t even started yet, and 26 of them are for Katsuki. That’s almost all of them. It’s a lot.

And to be completely honest, whenever I get a non-Katsuki request, I genuinely let out a breath of relief. Not because I hate him — I don’t, not at all — but because it feels like I’m getting a rare break. I know I caused this myself, and I don’t think it would be fair to turn down all the Katsuki requests just because I’m tired. People send them in because they love the way I write him, and that’s such an honor. I would never want anyone to feel bad for requesting him or to think I resent them for it. I really don’t.

But I do wish there were a little more variety sometimes. It’s hard to stay excited and inspired when your inbox feels like it's been set to an auto-loop. Some days it feels less like I’m writing and more like I’m just recycling the same fics over and over. Even when the prompts are totally different, even when the ideas themselves are genuinely cool and creative, it still feels like I’m walking the same path ten different times. And because of that, I haven’t been writing nearly as much as I used to. There are days when opening a WIP with his name attached already feels like a chore, and that’s a really sad feeling when it used to be something that filled me with so much happiness and creativity.

I also recognize that my own love for him has started to fade a little, and that’s maybe the hardest part to admit. I poured so much energy and heart into writing for him that now there’s just... less left. Less excitement, less newness, less joy. It’s not gone, not entirely, but it’s not what it used to be. And it makes me a little afraid that someday I’ll lose that spark for good.

But at the same time, writing — even when it feels repetitive — is something that's keeping me afloat right now. There are some really difficult, really heavy things happening in my real life that I can’t stop or fix, no matter how much I want to. Knowing that I have this little world I can still come back to, where I can create something that makes other people happy, is one of the few things keeping me from sinking. So even if writing for Katsuki sometimes feels tiring, it’s still better than not writing at all. It’s better than giving up this community that’s been so good to me, even when things feel a little lopsided or overwhelming.

I’m committing to it. Because you all — and this community — are worth committing to. And even when I get tired, it’s still something I’m grateful for at the end of the day.

I’m not blaming anyone for sending in Katsuki requests. Truly, please don’t feel bad if you have or were thinking of doing so. It’s not your fault. If anything, it’s just a reflection of how loved he is, and how much people trust me with him. That’s a really beautiful thing. I just want to be honest that I wish there was a little more love sent toward other characters too sometimes. I think it would help me bring better energy, better ideas, better writing to everyone if there was a little more balance.

Thank you again for your message. Seriously. It gave me the chance to be honest in a way I usually don’t allow myself to be. And it means the world to me that you care about how I’m feeling behind the scenes. I hope you’re doing well, too. ♥

[giraffeiisms]

Nervous ticks, while plainly visible to most, still danced across Ellie’s skin, betraying that bite of anxiety she was trying so hard to shove down. She kept her head low, pretending like she wasn’t practically vibrating out of her skin, finishing what food she could stomach before setting the half-eaten packet down beside her with a soft clink.

"I... look, I'm not the fucking best at talking to... uh, people," Ellie started, dragging her sleeve across her mouth and shooting him a quick sideways glance. "I know everyone's lost someone. I'm trying really hard not to have a doctor pissed at me, so if you tell me to shut up, I'll do it. No questions asked."

Maybe it was all those months spent traveling with Joel, constantly walking on a landmine of his anger and grief, but Ellie had gotten damn good at knowing when to shut her mouth. Tonight, though, the pain meds had pretty much stomped that filter into the dirt.

"You did good," she added quickly, voice quieter. "Honestly, I know it would take a lot for anything to even get in here." Bold words for someone who was all but clinging to the idea of him staying with her a little longer.

When Aaron stood up, Ellie flinched without meaning to, her whole body locking up like a scared animal. The room tilted slightly as she braced her palms on the couch, sucking in a shallow breath through her nose.

"Uh... I guess," she muttered, trying to shift and bear as much weight as she could on her bad leg. The effort was almost comical—her knee buckled almost immediately, and she hit the couch again with a soft grunt. Her breathing, already rough, turned harsher, rasping out of her lungs with a sharp audible wheeze she couldn’t hide even if she wanted to.

Still, stubborn as hell, she managed to inch herself forward anyway, giving Aaron easier access to check her wounds. Victory... sort of.

"You know," Ellie started again, forcing casualness into her voice, "I don't even think the nurse we had at the school was trained. Pretty sure she was doing it as, like, punishment or some shit." She snorted weakly, trying to keep things light even as her chest fought her with every word.

Another wet cough ripped its way up from her ribs, bending her forward slightly. She hocked a glob of thick mucus into the trash can beside her, grimacing but pretending not to care.

The silence after was heavy, stretched too thin.

"If you're worried about the cough," Ellie rasped finally, shifting tired, bloodshot eyes toward him, "I've had it for weeks now. Started after Joel and I had to take a goddamn polar plunge running from some hunters."

She laughed, but it came out wrong—broken and rattling, chest too tight to pull enough air.

[mihhkael]

⚠️Gore_

[lunarharp]

love's shadow will surround - 6k T orufrey fic about a witch and a silverleaf

He's left the lights of his small house on, his tiny atelier, waiting - he likes to see the glint of it on the leaves, his light reach the tree here. Give him what he can. It's always a comfort.

But when his physical senses are dulled, it brings it all back like fog, the flashes of memory. Of that day, all of them around the twisted body. He cups a few straggling branches, letting the hurt filter through him, almost as if keen to. They called him the Witch of Light in those days, eulogise his work still - but that was his masterpiece.

[beastsovrevelation]

I was looking through my notes for Good Omens fanfiction, and realized almost every damn story includes Crowley having a baby.

There's the one where Heaven and Hell decide to use an angel baby carried by a demon as a diplomatic tool, leading into Crowley being protected by Michael, and them falling in love.

There's the one where she leaves her baby with Anathema and disappears, which triggers all the following events - from the search, to Aziraphale's trial, and everything else.

There's the one where she has to supply the new Antichrist, which leads to her and Lucifer falling in love, and her being crowned the Queen of Hell. (Well, this one is really two stories set in different timelines, in the second one the "baby" is like 27)

In the one inspired by a dream, she does have a baby eventually, but that's far from the worst thing that happens to her. Gabriel's treatment of her after is... How the Hell will I write this damn thing if I can't even think about it.

There's no baby in the one where she gets tortured with diluted holy water.

I see I have no storyline with male Crowley just yet... Fine, that's not true. I do have some thoughts for Crowley x Fem!Lucifer... It could include a new Antichrist, too. And, Crowley wouldn't be the pregnant one for once. But, dealing with pregnant Lucifer would probably be even scarier.

[xavierfan]

more bre3ding/cr3amp1e p-links pls 🫣

warnings: sexual content below! p-links and sexually explicit descriptions are in this post

i genuinely don't know what to say anymore but this is sylus. on everyone's soul, THIS IS SYLUS

this one too

this too

sylus likes to fuck his seed back into you himself, he does so quite softly. it's an extremely intimate act when he does it, he's gentle and slow, and it's really not about possession to him. he just likes it— the warmth, the slickness, the sound, and the lewdness of it all.

> heavy breeding kink with no hints of possessiveness, he straight up just wants you to have his kid idfk. he would definitely say stuff like, "you're going to make a wonderful mother to our kids." / "kitten, one day you're going to get pregnant and i'm going to be so lucky." / "fuck, kitten, you want me to fuck my cum back into you, right? you want me to get you pregnant, right?"

idk why but this one gives me a caleb vibes

this one is also him

this one too

this too 😭😭😭

i keep adding caleb links im tweaking

caleb really enjoys watching his cum leak out of you. he would tease you, "pipsqueak, you're wasting it", as he just watches you squirm. to him, this is something akin to 'marking' you, walking up behind you later while out talking about, "think you're still leaky, pip."

> he's also probably got a crazy breeding kink mixed with a little —or a lot— bit of crazy obsession idfk, shit like "when your belly gets big, everyone's going to know who you belong to" / "one day i'm gonna get you pregnant" / "you'd look so good carrying my child, pips" / "if you let it all out, you'll hurt my feelings pips."

i think rafayel kind of goes feral once you let him cum in you... like he just keeps going idk

teasing him

rafayel is less breeding kink more crazy about you. loves anything to do with you, sex is not an exception, and he puts you on a pedestal a little differently to the rest of the boys. a bit like a mutt, you let him cum in you and suddenly he can't stop rutting into you, trying to chase another high.

> less breeding kink, more pathetic subby male who is so fucking excited to be fucking you. "fuck. fuck. fuck. 'm gonna cum again, please? please let me keep going?" / "princess, you feel soo good, please." / "princess, i'm sorry, let's keep going..." / "i'll be so good for you, princess, let me keep going."

sorry i know you specifically asked for breeding and i know this isn't but it still has cum ...

this is also zayne idk

zayne....

zayne rarely ever finishes inside of you, citing that it's not good for you, but that doesn't mean he doesn't want to. idk how to explain it, he doesn't let himself finish inside of you because he's worried he'll lose self control.

> heavily likes the idea of breeding, like it probably takes everything in his body to not ram into you as he feels his balls squeeze, probably in your ear talking about "you'd look so beautiful pregnant." / "want to start a family with you." / "one day i'm going to get you pregnant, no need to worry." / "if you keep asking me to cum in you, i just might one day..."

i think xavier would like you fucking yourself with his cum... like shoving anything that comes out back inside

this one too

anotha one

xavier just wants to watch your fingers plug your hole up to prevent any more spillage. it brings a smile to his face to see how desperate you are to keep all of his seed inside of you, it probably gets him hard all over again prompting him to say something like, "don't worry, there's more where that came from."

> no specific breeding kink per say but likes the possessive element of pregnancy like caleb, "they'll know what we get up to at night." / "maybe when you're pregnant he'll stop coming up to you" / "want everyone to know how good you make me feel every night"

notes : i couldnt find that many links 😭😭😭 i've been searching all day so i'm sorry anon... pls forgive me... i hope the little blurbs makeup for the lack of links :(

[gloomwitchwrites]

Hope you can do this-

WE TOTALLY NEED t141 with a wife reader doing that one TikTok trend about standing naked in front of them, like they could be watching a rugby game and reader comes into the room with nothing but a towel on, drops the towel, completely flashes them and then leaves 😂

(you can do gender neutral if you don't want to do a female reader 💕)

HA! OKAY! I know this trend! I've seen videos of it before. Love, love, love this idea, anon. I could have gone real smutty, but I controlled myself (shocking, I know) and only went a bit cheeky (lol) with it. I hope you have a good laugh or smile while reading. Enjoy!!

Task Force 141 x Reader (can be read as gn!reader)

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): established relationship, non-descriptive nudity, suggestive themes, dirty thoughts, shenanigans, swearing, implied sexual content

Word Count: 800

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

The documents are sprawled out across the dining room table. John has been pouring over them for hours, considering every bit of information, determining importance.

In his peripheral, you float about, a moving shadow that appears and disappears as you roam the house. John would like to spend time with you, to bask in your presence, but it’s not to be. This is far too important to merely set aside.

For a time, you disappear, then your shadow emerges again. John expects you to continue on, but you linger, and it draws his attention up and away from the documents.

You stand before him in nothing but a fluffy white towel. Your skin, that of what he can see, is slightly wet as if you’ve just emerged from the shower.

“Love?” he prompts.

You don’t speak. You simply drop the towel.

All thoughts of the upcoming mission leave John’s head. In its place is your nakedness and the rushing of blood to his dick as it hardens.

As words form on his tongue, you abruptly turn, giving him a full view of your bare ass.

Fuck it, John thinks as he pushes back his chair.

The mission can fucking wait.

John "Soap" MacTavish

Johnny’s tongue sticks out from between his teeth. It’s just a sliver of pink—a hint of the concentration brewing in his gaze.

“Come on,” he mutters, clicking the buttons on the controller. “Come on.”

He’s off. Away from work. Enjoying the comforts of home.

You appear from the right, directly between the television and the couch. Johnny notices but says nothing. When you don’t move away, he glances over. You’re in nothing but a fluffy, white towel.

“Coming to join me, love?” he asks with a wink.

As a reply, you smirk, and then drop the towel you’re wearing. It pools at your feet.

Johnny’s gaze completely shifts in your direction. He stares…and stares, the video game forgotten. You’re completely naked, looking goddamn delicious. All the blood in his brain promptly rushes to between his legs, building an aching need that grows by the second.

And you’re…walking away? No. You should be sitting in his lap right now. You should be on his dick.

“Oi!” he shouts, standing abruptly, the controller clattering to the floor.

You glance over your shoulder, and Johnny melts under that look. Desire hangs heavy, and Johnny decides right then that the game can wait.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Kyle leans against the kitchen counter, his gaze distant as Price chatters away in his ear. They’ve been on the phone for five minutes—a new record for Price who thinks cellphones are evil incarnate—and the man won’t shut up.

“No,” says Kyle, keeping his tone neutral. “I hear you. It’s a fucking mess that one.”

You appear from around the corner in nothing but a towel. Kyle smirks in your general direction, extending one arm toward you with the intent to draw you close to him. But you do not approach. You remain completely out of reach.

Frowning, Kyle pushes off from the counter. The words begin to form on his lips and then promptly disappear when you abruptly drop the towel.

His mouth hangs open, breath stolen, with gaze fixated on all that nakedness.

Price is still talking—still jabbering.

Kyle hears none of it. Price’s voice becomes a low buzz as all of Kyle’s attention goes from his head to his dick.

“Captain,” he manages to gasp out as you dart away down the hall. “Captain. I have to go.”

Kyle doesn’t wait for Price’s affirmative. He ends the call, legs already moving to follow you.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Simon lifts the hammer, intent on striking the nail to push it further into the wall.

Just as he brings his arm down, a shadow appears in his peripheral. Within him is a tug—an insistent urge to look and seek out the source of the movement.

And Simon does.

Shifting his head just enough for the shadow to become solid, Simon’s gaze falls upon the one person he loves most in this world. It’s only seconds that pass, but his brain registers everything about your figure in an instant. It’s your exposed skin, then the towel wrapped around your body, to you opening it up to reveal the nakedness underneath, only for you to drop the towel where it pools on the floor.

The hammer comes crashing down, but Simon doesn’t notice that the trajectory has shifted. Not until it falls, and misses the nail, coming down on his hand.

“Bloody fucking hell,” he growls, staring down at his now throbbing thumb.

Simon glances up, ready to tell you off, but you’re already walking away, bare ass on full display.

You naught thing. Distracting him on purpose.

Simon sets down the hammer, following, intent on teaching you a lesson.

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