#I gave up towards the end

[miguel-owhora]

tf141 but it's trans force 141

soap :333

someone might shoot me for this but i think soap's the hairiest within 141. price is a runner up, but soap takes the cake. he's fucking hairy all over, from the top of his scalp to his toes, this man is a bear, or a hound dog, prancing around the world with no care.

even pre-t he was hairy, and even before he came out lol. he probably has a lot of both older and younger sisters, and i like to think he's their only brother. he'd get so hissy whenever he was forced to shave; he hated how smooth his body felt, how he used to nick himself, how uncomfortable it felt when his hair used to grow back.

when he came out and got on t, he was so smug about not shaving. he's probably the type of person to slap his sister's shaved legs and make some stupid joke about it, grinning when he'd get smacked on the back of his head. some of his sisters are secretly annoyed that their brother doesn't have to shave, and envy that men's societal norms are different for him.

but sometimes soap does think about shaving when his sister's tug at his hair, either on his legs or arms or chest. it reminds him that he's still their younger brother, and they can and will terrorize him.

anyways :3

soap is hairy, and his hair is dark and thick, and it grows darker and thicker further south. he's especially hairy on his chest, belly, pussy, and ass! oh, and pits, too.

rarely does he do anything with the hair around his pussy; if it becomes a bush, so be it. he has good hygiene so it doesn't become 'bad.' but sometimes he'll trim it; not shave, but trim, so it's not poking out of his boxers and not as itchy.

you literally have to pry his lips apart to get to the good stuff, his pubes are so thick and hairy it hides his pretty cunt and even prettier tcock. his cunt is fat and yummmyyyyy

he's probably the type of guy to shamelessly jerk off anywhere and anytime, pulling his pants down and jerking his cock off in front of his teammates who try to pretend they don't notice, but by the end they're all having an orgy or something.

price :333

he also squirts!!! like a whole lot more than creams lmao. he loves not telling any new partner that he squirts, it's like a gamble. either some people are into it or some people aren't, and it's a risk he's willing to take. his tcock is average, it's not too big but not too small.

honestly, it's a tie between price and soap. price is soooo hairy, i mean bro has a beard and all. anyways, unfortunately he comes in second place.

that being said, he's still so fucking hairy it's insane. hair smothers his pecs and chest, and it runs all over his stomach and arms and shoulders and back, down to his ass and hole, around his thighs and legs and toes and at his pussy !!!

pre-t and pre coming out, he definitely used to shave whenever he felt insecure. but once he came out and started going on t, he stopped looking at razor blades. of course, aside from keeping his beard groomed and keeping his bush trimmed so it's not crazy, he doesn't really do anything.

i feel like his ass is hairier than his pussy. it smothers his cheeks and thickens n darkens around his hole, pretty fluttering thing hidden underneath the mass of pubes. so anytime you eat him out, expect for a couple of hairs to end up in your mouth.

i also think he has a bush, but unlike soap, he regularly trims it. not like to the point where he's, like, hairless, but enough to maintain it—much like his beard, he keeps his pussy hair groomed.

i think he has a pretty big tcock. like whenever he gets hard, it swells up and pokes out of its hood, and i can definitely see price leaning back on something, smoking a cigar in one hand and jerking off his tcock with tbe other hfnffbf

i don't think price squirts, he just creams or whatever. he's definitely into fucking people's mouth with his tcock, and praises you soooo good hgngfh, maybe even squeezes your head between his legs.

also!!! i don't price has a naturally slow metabolism, but the reason he isn't fat is because he's in the army and forced to keep in shape. that being said, once he retires and slows down, he definitely gains weight.

hgngh, price having a belly and thicker thighs and sitting on your face, probably drinking some rich whiskey as you eat him out, sucking on his cock GOD

gaz :333

someone's going to shoot me for this but i don't think gaz is all that hairy !!! sure, he has a couple of hairy spots, like his arms and legs, maybe a thick happy trail, but he's not hairy the way soap or price are.

i don't think he shaves but he's not smooth lmao, idk how to explain it but he's perfect, basically.

speaking of perfect, i think his hole is actually pretty hairy, mostly because im into that. and speaking of his hole, gaz's pussy could be hairy, but this mf trims it. not that he isn't into hairy boypussy, he most definitely is, but he just doesn't like when his own cunt is unhinged.

he refuses to shave so all he does is spend time trimming his bush until it's neat and well-put. he's talented enough to make little designs, like that one time he trimmed his pubes into a stupid little skull and it threw ghost off.

this man has a fat fucking pussy, and i headcanon his tcock to be the biggest. even when soft his cock pokes out a bit, which means it stimulates gaz and makes him fucking weetttttt.

he's the type of guy to lead a humping session with someone, or trib idk. he'll pin them down and slot himself between his legs, maneuvering them until their pussies are rubbing against each other. he won't cum until the other person does, and he'd probably talk them through it gooddddd

gaz definitely squirts!!!! only because i like the idea of folding his legs to his chest and fucking his cunt until he's squealing and gushing around your cock GOD the masturbation bonding moments between him and soap would be wet as hell 😭

ghost :333

im going to rip this off like a bandaid and say GHOST IS HAIRLESS

well, body hair wise. i think he has hair on his head :) bro probably keeps it cropped or something idk anyways

HE'S HAIRLESS FHFNFKFKG

i just cannot imagine ghost with any hair. maybe a very light coating, but he's also both 1. white + 2. has blonde hair, so it's barely noticeable.

idk man he's just hairless, including his ass and pussy. god, that just means he's more sensitive. it's easier for him to accidentally rub against something and it'll get him wet as hell, his decent-sized tcock swelling with desperation.

god imagine hitting his pussy; so pale and smooth, it blossoms red under your heavy hand, he'd be soo teary in the face.

i also think ghost is a crybaby during sex. he's so sensitive and it's quick to get him overstimulated, and don't let his tears fool you: he's absolutely into it.

he's also into people folding him in half and fucking him like he's just a fleshlight, and he'd be embarrassed but god he'd let you spread his puffy lips open just to watch your cum trickle out

[spongebob-connoisseur]

Sympathy for the Devilfish

[zarpasuave]

🏮✨Xianyun giving her daughters pretty dresses so they can flex those muscles das right.

Based on this🤭:

[seph-ic]

animation practice w a shot from season 5

[matrixfangs]

blood and elderberries

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: Remmick has been your friend since childhood, and he's been spending a lot of his time in the woods.

word count: 5.8k

warnings: slight smut, DUBCON AT THE END, pls pls skip if you’re uncomfy with that!!!, blood, murder, fire, spooky woods, probably inaccurate religious imagery, definite misuse or mistranslation of Irish Gaelic, 18+ please!

a/n: hi everyone! this is my first fic on this account so please be kind to me! it's also my first time writing anything related to smut and I'm very nervous about it so please bare with me if it's written a little awkwardly! my requests are open if you'd like to send me anything, though it may take me a few days to get back to you, as this took me a few days so I'm gonna take a break now lol <3 also feel free to shoot me something in my inbox if you just want to chat! enjoy! :3

In Ireland, it hardly snowed, but when it did, it didn’t disappoint. Fat snowflakes fell over your hair as you walked on the cobbled road, the snow crunching underneath your feet and soaking into the fabric of your shoes that weren’t built for the cold. As you journeyed to the local market, the sun was still rising, warm pink and yellow streaks bled into pale blue. On the horizon: a burning hole of a sun. You let it burn spots into your vision, just to continue looking at it.

The market was quiet when you entered it, the only sign of life being the freshly baked goods at the front windows, handcrafted pies, and loaves of bread. Steam coated the glass, and underneath it all was the lingering scent of him. Something earthy with a sweetness underneath, like the berries he liked to pick in the woods at the edge of town. “Dia dhuit.” A honeyed and resonant voice pulled you away from the pies, your head rearing up to glance at the front counter. He was there, an apron tied around his waist and a streak of flour against his cheek from the early morning. Remmick, the shopkeeper's son. He’d been your best friend since you were young, but the feelings that had developed for him as you’d gotten older were something new entirely. Watching his careful hands work had become your personal torment. You shifted from one foot to another, warmth spreading across your face. Your eyes roamed over his body, all neat angles and sharp lines. Despite the dusting of flour across his cheeks, his hair had been neatly combed back, and the clothes underneath his apron were clean and pressed. He somehow always managed to look completely perfect, standing before you like a marble statue. Completely untouchable yet begging to be disheveled. “Nice pies.” You smiled, crossing the distance to him and placing your hands on the counter. The wood cooled your burning fingertips. “You've been out in those woods again?” “Aye. They’re elderberries. Picked them just last night.” He raised his fingers, revealing the faint purple stain on the tips of them. Your gaze lingered on the veins in his hands, the skin that looked tough enough to knead dough but soft enough to caress skin. “You should be careful, Rem. Those woods spread out for miles.” You told him, the words easily tumbling from your lips for the hundredth time. But he never listened. Those woods weren’t safe; you’d been told that by your parents and grandparents for as long as you could remember. Your childhood had been filled with fables of people who’d gone missing for days and coming back changed. Like they’d been hollow shells of who they’d been before, something heavy sitting on their chests.

Remmick shrugged, and it was a familiar gesture that made frustration eclipse all other emotions. He moved around the counter with a small box in his hands. “Nah, they’re plenty safe.” He opened the box, placing a pie inside and securing it with a piece of twine with a baker’s precision. His eyes shot up to meet yours, and he held out the box. “You should come with me sometime.” He let that hang in the air for a moment. “I’ll keep you safe, a pheata.” 

He pressed the pie into your hands, his thumb grazing over the bumps of your knuckles. “No charge for a fine thing like yourself.”

Heat traveled up your neck as you met his icy gaze. “You’re sure?”

Remmick cleared his throat and let his hand release the box so he could instead lean forward, bringing his lips inches away from your ear. His scent lingered, cinnamon and clove filling your nose. You felt his warm breath brush the skin of your collarbone.

“You’ll just have to owe me, a chuisle.” He backed away, his eyes never leaving yours as he returned to the counter. “The edge of the woods, tonight after supper.” He winked, only breaking contact when a new customer came inside, ringing the bell against the door. You had to remember to take a breath before you left the shop, the pie held so tight in your hands that the delicate paper of the box had crinkled beneath your fingers. The snow continued to fall as you left the shop, but somehow you felt warmer than before.

The day dragged on, slow and painful. Your father worked checking and cleaning the game traps at the border of the woods, while you and your mother tended to the animals at home. Fed the chickens, milked the cows, spun wool from the sheep. You were stirring the stew for dinner in the kitchen when your father returned home. His cheeks were bitten red by the cold, and he held three rabbits in one of his hands. He kissed your mother on the head from where she stood, setting the table. “Fierce strange day.” He hummed, setting the rabbits on the counter. “Tracks in the snow near the traps. No animal footprints I’ve ever seen.” He shrugged, rubbing his rough hand over his beard. “Tracks went deep into the woods, I didn’t want to follow.”

You chewed on your lip, continuing to stir the stew. Your father made quick work of sharpening his butcher knife against a whetstone and slicing into the rabbits to add them to the stew. A loud curse from your father cut through the evening calm. The inside of the rabbits was black and dry, like the blood had been completely drained from the poor things. The only thing that remained were the organs, shriveled and lifeless.

“Th'anam 'on diabhal!” Your mother cried, hands flying to her mouth. “What sort of thing could have done that?” “Could it have been the cold?” You asked, your voice cracking. It was a hollow question. You knew the cold couldn’t dehydrate a creature from the inside out. You thought of Remmick, of the fables and the elderberry bushes. The woods that liked to eat people whole and spit them back out as ghosts. You dropped the wooden spoon of the stew and headed to the front door, grabbing your cloak.

“Where are you going, wean? Your mother followed after you, wiping her hands on the apron covering her dress. She looked at the dining table. “We haven’t eaten.” “I’m sorry,” You told her, hand wrapping around the cold metal knob. “I forgot that Mrs. McCoy asked me to pass along a message for Remmick. It was urgent, I don’t want to forget.” Crisp winter air met your skin as you pulled the door open. Night had claimed the village, and all that was left from the sun was a melted slush of water on the road. The squeak of your shoes was faint as you walked in the direction of the woods, a heavy anxiety pressing on your chest. You’d tell Remmick that he needed to stay away from them - that the Devil walked in the wood. You rehearsed the words in your head, your lips moving in a silent speech, until you reached the line of trees at the edge of town.

Remmick wasn’t there yet. You pulled your cloak tighter around your body as you gazed up at the trees. They seemed to groan with each gust of wind, as if warning whoever stood before them. The branches reached up to grab the sky with crooked fingers, and the pale blue moonlight spilled between them. 

Though the snow remained on the ground here, the air seemed to be heavier, warmer in your lungs. It felt like a large hand was pressing on your chest, trying to reach your pounding heart. Whispers drifted by your ears like breaths, just barely unintelligible. You turned, looking back toward the village.

“Remmick?” You called, your voice hoarse from the cold. 

“Remmick?” A voice called back from deep inside the woods. It was nearly identical to your voice, but wrong. It was distorted, like it’d been shoved into a throat not made for human noises. The tree branches made giggle-like sounds in response, and you felt the bile rise hot in your throat. When you turned to flee, your face met with an obstacle, solid and warm against your skin.

“Woah, where are ye going?” Remmick’s voice was like water in the desert. His eyes caught the moonlight, his gaze gleaming at you as his brow furrowed. In the dark, his hands found yours. The interlacing of your hands ceased your trembling.

“Remmick, you need to stay away from these woods.” You tried to pull him away, but his hands caught your shoulders, spinning you around to face him. The dark hollowed out his eyes and carved his cheekbones into sharp shadows. “What are you on about, pet?”

��A voice,” You swallowed. “I heard a voice, it was like mine, but it was…” How could you describe a wrongness so strong that it was supernatural? That something had stolen the voice from your throat and put it on like a disguise?

Remmick squeezed your shoulders - comforting or restraining you, you couldn’t tell. “Ah, the wind in the trees feels like they’re speaking to you sometimes, is all. Nothing to be scared of.” “Rem…” You said quietly, letting go of one of his hands, squeezing the other.

“Trust me, A chuisle mo chroí.” His soft voice made your inhibitions melt away. He pressed your knuckles to his warm lips, letting them linger there for a moment. “I just want to be alone with you.”

Your heart lost its rhythm, your hand on fire where his lips had pressed to it. His warm gaze held such a certainty that you weren’t sure how to say no. Maybe it was the feeling of his palm pressed to yours that made you feel safer, but you followed him into those woods.

Remmick’s hand never left yours as you passed the first row of trees, pine needles, and wet grass muting the sound of your steps. He ran his thumb over your knuckle repeatedly, soothing you without words. With him beside you, his arm brushing against yours, the groaning trees and crying wind didn’t seem as frightening. He hummed beside you, low and deep in his throat. 

The deeper you ventured into the woods, the more the cold disappeared, as if time moved differently there. Soon, you were shrugging off your shawl and wrapping it around your waist, as Remmick rambled along about the bakery, the plants he’d come across, a mushroom that matched the color of your eyes. Like summer rain, his voice fell over you, and you wished to open your mouth and catch the drops. “I’ve been keeping track of the plants I come across.” He told you, hand reluctantly releasing yours to pull out a leatherbound book. “See?” He passed it to you, and you flipped through pages of drawings and descriptions of different plants and bushes - their scientific names and the names he’d come to know them as next to that.

“I didn’t know you could draw like this.” You hummed, your voice trailing off as you flipped to the next page. A perfect charcoal drawing of your face, head thrown back in laughter. Every line had been drawn with loving precision, like he’d studied every valley and line on your face. You looked to him, an embarrassed flush brushed across his cheeks. “Didn’t think it worth mentionin’.” He shrugged, taking the book from you and tucking it carefully back into his coat.

“Everything about you is worth mentioning.” You squeezed his hand, looking back out to the woods. They were approaching a clearing, a strange area where the trees seemed to move around it like a circle. 

“My gran would tell me about this place,” Remmick explained as they entered the clearing, his hand on the small of your back as you walked over a fallen log. “She used to say that these woods existed outside of time, and that’s why so many weird things happened here.” 

Your eyes roamed over the white branches of birch trees curling around the clearing. A patch of dry, dead grass lay there, despite the rest of the ground being wet, surrounding it. You followed him in, feeling the very air change around you. It was thicker, warmer, like when you’d step into the room after a hot bath. 

“Have you ever taken anyone here?” You asked Remmick as you crouched down to run your fingertips over the grass. 

Remmick released your hand to sit down in the middle of the clearing. “No,” He shook his head as he stretched his long legs out. Every line of his body seemed to be carved from stone in the pale moonlight. His loosened collar revealed the strong, tanned column of his throat. His broad shoulders filled out his coat, and you could see just a peek of his suspenders underneath. You wondered what it would feel like to pull them off, to let them hang over his hips as you took him apart. “Just you.”

His words fell over you like a warm blanket, like arms wrapped around your middle. 

“Why me?” You sat beside him, shoulder pressed against his. His hand moved to rub the fabric of your skirt between the pads of his fingers, and he looked at you, all soft and pliant in the light.

“Because it was only ever you.” He said, leaning in until your foreheads touched. His breath mingled with yours as his eyes slid down to your lips. “Because every path that I’ve ever walked in these woods has always led back to you.”

Remmick’s hand released your skirt so he could rest it against the soft skin of your cheek. His thumb reached for your bottom lip, pulling it down and letting it go. The first press of his lips to yours was gentle, a soft brush of a kiss. The second was hungry, his rough hand grabbing the nape of your neck to pull you to him. The kiss was a liberation in your body - your fingers flying to his coat, clutching the fabric in your hands like he’d fly away if you didn’t. He shrugged it off in a heartbeat, lips hardly able to leave yours. Your heart drummed in your ears as you reached under one of the straps of his suspenders, pulling it down with a desperation that surged through your body like a flood. A pulse had begun between your legs, its roots spreading through your entire body.

Remmick pulled away from you, his eyes half open as he pulled the other strap of his suspenders down. He kissed you again, his body slithering against yours and pushing it down until your back was hitting the ground. The cool grass pressing against your back was a stark contrast to the warmth of his body pressed to yours. One hand braced near the side of your head, while the other slid down to lift your skirt up above your waist. His lips found your neck, his teeth nipping and licking downward. Your breath caught in your throat as he worked to slide his hand under your stockings and underwear, his fingers pressing against your center. Your nails dug into the dirt beside you, your hips lifting up to meet his fingers. 

“Remmick,” You said his name like a prayer, your eyes fluttering closed at his gentle touches. His mouth had reached the swell of your breast, his teeth marking and bruising the soft skin there. “Moilligh beagán, mo ghrá.”

Remmick pulled back, his chest heaving as his hand continued to move against you. His fingers had just begun to curl, your hands gripping the grass - and then he stopped. He looked out into the woods, his brows knit together.

“Do you smell that, love?” His usual soft and warm voice had an unusual edge to it, making you pause.

You sat up on your elbows, your body trembling as you tried to register what he’d asked you. But you didn’t have to. The overwhelming smell wafted past you, and Remmick stood up. The reflection of orange in his eyes made you turn your head, looking up to see heavy, charcoal gray smoke rising from above the trees.

“Fire.” You said, panic rising in your throat. You stood on shaky legs, wrapping your hand around Remmick’s toned arm. The muscle underneath his shirt tensed. “In the village, there’s fire.”

Remmick’s jaw clenched, and his hand reached down to grip yours. He pulled you through the woods like he knew every branch on the ground. The warm air from inside the clearing turned back to cold, filling your unprepared lungs. Your boots were soon hitting snow again as you reached the threshold of the woods, your eyes immediately searching for the source of the fire.

Remmick’s home - a small cottage at the end of the road.

“My mother.” The words were strangled, hoarse.

Remmick released your hand, clutched in his grasp as he sprinted down the slope and toward his burning home. Angry flames were licking the blue-black sky, the smell of burning wood filling your nose as you ran after him, your heart hammering in your ribcage. His feet splashed against melted snow and cobblestone. Local villagers had gathered outside the home, holding each other as they watched the fire eat the house and the small barn that Remmick’s father had built behind it. Their faces glowed orange, demonic masks that the fire had made for them.

“My mother?” Remmick called to neighbors, grabbing them by the shoulders and shaking them. “Has anyone seen my mother?”

They were shaking their heads, apologizing, crying. Remmick turned to look at the cottage, and you knew what he wanted to do. You reached for him, but he wouldn’t even look at you.

“No,” You said, tears beginning to fill your eyes. “Remmick, don’t.”

He wasn’t listening, his arm tearing away from your grasp. He shook his head, the fire waving in his pupils. His mouth hung open, slack in a dreamlike state.

“I can hear her,” He said quietly, walking toward the fire. “I can hear her calling…”

You looked up, trying to hear what he was talking about. You heard nothing but the foundation of the house cracking like bones, the sparks popping and flying off the roof. 

And then, in the doorway, you saw it. Your entire body froze, your own nails digging into your hand. You felt blood trickle down your palms, but you couldn’t feel the pain.

A dark figure stood there, cloaked in black. It stood in the flames like it was nothing but a summer breeze, fingers longer than what could be human. A shadow of horns spiraled from its head, something akin to the horns of the ram. And on what would be the face, if you could have seen it, were two red glowing dots for eyes. Despite what you could see, Remmick hadn’t stopped moving. He was walking into the fire, like the figure was calling him. You had been right. The Devil walked in the woods.

You couldn’t move, you couldn’t scream for him. Something had seized your body, pinning your feet into the snow-covered ground. The villagers cried, but none of them seemed to see Remmick entering the fire, or the figure that beckoned him. You felt your entire being die as he disappeared into the orange abyss. There was no scream of pain as the fire absorbed him, nor an acknowledgment of the figure that followed after. There was just numbing silence afterward. When the force that had kept your body still released you, you fell so hard to your knees that you felt the skin break open, blood against snow. 

The villagers hadn’t been able to move you from that spot, not for hours. You watched the roof collapse in on itself, the shed behind become reduced to ash. But you still somehow thought that Remmick could walk out of those flames, that he would press his lips to yours and wake you from this nightmare.

—------------

The murders began a few weeks after the fire.

The first victim had been Mr. Flynn, a sweet old man who had the biggest book collection you’d ever seen. When you were young, you’d run to his house with Remmick in the summer heat, feet bare and grass-stained. You’d sit in his room of books and tear through pages like you wre starving for them. He’d been found in that room, sitting in the armchair by his hearth, a book in his hands. He looked like he was sleeping, until you reached the front of them and discovered the two holes at the base of his throat, an inch or so apart. Sticky, wet blood stained the front of his shirt and trickled off the chair onto the hardwood floor. 

The book in his hands - a collection of James Joyce's poetry. A favorite of Remmick’s.

Rain on Rahoon falls softly, softly falling

Where my dark lover lies.

Sad is his voice that calls me, sadly calling

At grey moonrise.

Love, here thou

How desolate the heart is, ever calling

Ever unanswered - and the dark rain falling

Then as now:

Dark too our hearts, O love, shall lie, and cold

As his sad heart has lain

Under the moon-grey nettles, the black mould

And muttering rain.

The murders continued, one every week. The fifth week, the midwife who had brought both you and Remmick into this world, found just outside the nursery doors. The seventh, a local farmer who had been tending to his horses, found in his stables. Eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve. While your village disappeared, your mother struggled to get you to eat, to sleep, to do anything. You spent your days on the porch, watching people begin to board up their windows, place crucifixes on their doors. The village priest began to host nightly services to pray for their lives, and though you didn’t attend them, you could hear their prayers and sermons echo through the village.

“And I stood upon the sand of the sea, and saw a beast rise up out of the sea, having seven heads and ten horns, and upon his horns ten crowns, and upon his heads the name of blasphemy. And the beast which I saw was like unto a leopard, and his feet were as the feet of a bear, and his mouth as the mouth of a lion: and the dragon gave him his power, and his seat, and great authority.”

People didn’t leave their houses much after the priest was dead, the thirteenth to be found. 

After that night, you opened the door in the early morning to find something nailed to your door. An elderberry leaf, splattered with red. You turned it over and over in your fingers as you sat on the porch that day, waiting for the sun to go down. You waited for him because you knew it was him. 

The sun went down slowly that night, like it was trying to keep you from your fate. The last of the snow had melted, the air a bit warmer to welcome a morbid spring. Your bare feet pressed against cold pavement as you walked to the corpse of Remmick’s home. You hadn’t dressed all day, a sheer white nightgown clinging to the curves of your body as you stopped in front of the charred remains. 

You waited, standing there for nearly an hour as the breeze blew through your legs and hair, kissing your skin. 

A voice, as familiar as his hands on your body.

“A chuisle mo chroí…” The words that had once warmed your chest every time he said it now made your body go rigid.

Your head turned before the rest of your body, eyes meeting his cold, gleaming ones. He was dressed in clothes that weren’t his. A black button-up shirt, a size too small. Pants a size too big, held up with suspenders. The carved lines of his face had become even sharper, the hollow points of his eyes and cheekbones cloaked in shadow. The only part you could see of his eyes were his irises, amber, orange, and red, swimming in pools of black. Nothing like the clear blue you’d looked into just weeks ago, before he pressed his lips to yours. Your body betrayed you, a heat forming in your throat. His beauty hadn’t diminished; maybe it was even stronger.

You took a step forward.

“Your eyes…” You said hoarsely. “Looks like the fire is still in you and fighting to get out.” 

He smiled, and his smile was odd. More crooked than usual, and his teeth in the dark seemed.. sharper. Not the smile that he had pressed against your skin, though it still somehow made your legs feel weak. “No fire could have kept me from you.”

Your chest ached. All you could do was let out a broken breath that felt forced out of you, your hands aching to reach for him, but too terrified to move.

“Where have you been, Remmick?” You asked him, taking a step back. “Rather, where do you go when you’re not…” Draining your neighbors. Draining them of all their blood like those rabbits your father had found near the woods. The woods where Remmick had pressed his fingers to the most intimate parts of you.

Remmick turned his head, looking out to the slope that lead to the woods. Even in the early spring, you could still see your breath in the cold nighttime. Remmick had no breath, no movement in his body that read any way human. The rise and fall of his chest that you had once used to ground yourself was absent now.

“Come to the woods with me.” He said quietly, looking to you with an insatiable hunger. “When the sun is out, I sleep in the cold dirt, and it’s the most peaceful silence you could ever ask for.” You frowned. Remmick’s voice had changed, an accent that you didn’t recognize bleeding into his regular speech. You took another step away from him, and he followed, his body becoming coated in moonlight. It was then that you could see the viscous,  thick blood that coated his chin and chest, and the way that his teeth didn’t fit right in his mouth. A monster in your lover’s body -  the Devil in your lover’s body.

You asked what you didn’t want to know. “Who?”

Remmick didn’t answer. He just continued to ramble. “I can show you what I’ve seen. Life beyond life, death beyond death. The ability to move between worlds, to see what can’t be seen-”

“Remmick,” You backed away as he continued to move toward you, eyes seeming to get redder with each step. His gaze no longer held anything that made you feel safe. “Remmick, who? Who’d you-”

Remmick paused, inches away from you. He lifted his hand, and his fingers were long, with curved nails that went well past his fingertips. He took a strand of your hair in his fingers, twirled it around. Your body remembered his touch, wanting to connect to him like a magnet. But you stilled, staring at his eyes that gleamed like stained glass windows. “Do you know,” He said quietly. “I thought it would be your father that would taste rotten, but it wasn’t. It was your mother.” He smiled, his eyes fluttering closed as he breathed in deep through his nose. He had begun drooling, like a rabid dog. “She called your name as she went, sweet Death taking her into his arms…”

You tore yourself away from him, your hair tugging from his grasp. Your body burned, wracked with grief as you looked at Remmick, or whatever had replaced him. He was grinning, his hands pushed into his pockets. The drip of blood from his chin onto the ground made you feel nauseous, your hand clutching at your stomach.

“You’re scaring me, Remmick.” You said quietly, holding your hands out as if you were trying to not frighten a deer. But he wasn’t a deer. He was a wolf, and you were the prey. “Why don’t you just go?”

“You sweet summer lamb…” Remmick frowned, as if from genuine concern. “I’m not leaving without you.”

Remmick’s body twitched, as if taken over by something otherworldly. His head cocked to the side with an inhuman crack, his eyes traveled up your body, to the sky, to the woods.

“A game,” He said, a grin forming on his face again. “Like when we were children…do you remember? I’d chase you… You’d laugh.” His arms twitched as he took his hands out of his pockets. 

His voice fell into a deep purr, his eyes half lidded with a sick sense of desire. “Wouldn’t you like to laugh again?” 

Remmick lunged, his body moving quicker than you’d ever seen a human move. Your body twisted around, sprinting away as fast as you could with your bare feet on the cold ground. You knew he could have caught you from the moment that you started running, but he was having fun. Playing with his food. When you turned your head for a split moment to look behind you, you could see him walking, slowly. Hands at his sides, drool dripping from his mouth to the ground. His tongue caught out to catch it, and it was longer, flicking out like a serpent.

He was leading you to the woods, your feet feeling the switch from cobblestone to wet grass coated in mist. You felt the twist in your stomach as you passed the threshold, the way the air changed, and the trees whispered no longer fascinated you. You couldn’t help but wonder if the chase was somehow foreplay to something bigger, to something worse that he would do to you. 

Deep down, you wanted to know what he’d do to you if he caught you. The shame of that ached in your chest as you ran. 

You whipped past tree branches that seemed to reach out for you, catching on your nightgown and cutting your skin. You could hear his voice, echoing around you. 

“And they worshipped the dragon which gave power unto the beast: and they worshipped the beast, saying,”

You groaned as a branch ripped into your arm, your head spinning. You jumped over a log, passed through a bushel of elderberries.

“Who is like unto the beast? Who is able to make war with him? And he opened his mouth in blasphemy against God, to blaspheme his name, and his tabernacle, and them that dwell in heaven…”

A blow to the face, your nose crunching against something rough. Your body flew back as you felt the blood flooding from your nostrils and over your lips. You’d run into a tree that you couldn’t have seen in the dark. The woods spun in your vision, your nose already swelling and pulsing. Your lungs burned, and you turned, preparing to run in a different direction. 

You stopped, a breath caught in your throat. He was there, standing like he’d been there the whole time. In a speed incomprehensible to your eyes, he was in front of you, his hands pushing you to the ground with a force that you never would have been able to fight. His boot pressed into your shoulder, the inhuman weight of him keeping you still against the cold grass. 

Remmick leaned down, his thumb brushing against your lips and collecting the blood that ran there. He looked at you as he pressed his thumb into his mouth, his tongue swirling around to collect what he’d gathered there. He hummed, eyes fluttering shut.

“You taste like the sun… like goodness.” He opened his eyes. “And fear.”

His thumb left his mouth. The same hand moved to wrap around your throat. Not tight, but firm, like a collar that claimed you. His skin was abnormally cool against yours.

“What happened to you, Remmick?” You asked, tasting your blood on your tongue. “After the fire, I saw…”

Remmick smiled, using his other hand to push your hair from your face. “I died. I came back. I was hungry.” He said it so matter-of-factly, like it didn’t matter. “I know it wasn’t kind, what I did to them. But I prayed for their souls when I was done.”

He pressed his finger to your cheek, the sharp nail of his fingertip cutting into your skin. “But not you. I’ll keep you. Our souls will be damned, but we’ll be together.” 

Remmick removed his boot from your shoulder, and you still didn’t move. He leaned down, his body hovering over yours. His hands ran down your sides, his eyes wandered over your face.

“I watched you every night since my death.” He said quietly, something akin to the old Remmick in him as he said it. “And all I could think about was how my teeth would feel sliding into you.” His nose twitched, his mouth curled. “My tongue lapping up your blood.”

Remmick’s knee slid between your legs, pressing against you. Your treacherous hips lifted up, pressing against him. His drool dripped onto your skin as he leaned down to press his lips to your neck, right at the pulse point. His teeth digging into your throat didn’t hurt; not like you thought it would. It was warm and wet, his teeth sliding out of the holes to lick over the bleeding wounds. His hand gripped the fabric of your nightgown, pulling it up to reveal you bare underneath.

“Tastes like sin and goodness all at once.” He moaned against your skin as his hand pressed against your center, rubbing in circles that matched the rhythm of his tongue on your throat. You hated him. Hated the way your body responded to him and how he knew what to do to make you undone. 

The blood was nearly drained from your body when you found your release, your nails digging deep into his shoulder blade. Your body ached from the emptiness, and your nightgown pooled around your legs like a blanket. Remmick sat on his haunches before you, rolling up the sleeve of his shirt to reveal a toned arm, stained with blood. 

His teeth, still coated in your blood, dug into his arm. He let the blood trickle down his skin, hovering it over you to let it drip into your mouth.

The taste was unlike anything you’d ever had before. The very taste of God on your tongue, sweeter than the elderberry pies that Remmick would give you at his family’s shop. It sang in your veins, making you reach for his arm to drink more. You drank until he had to force himself from your clutch, his body falling to lie next to yours, arm pressed to his chest. 

Your body had begun to die, a terrible pain wracking through your body. You convulsed, Remmick’s blood dripping from your lips.

He laughed breathlessly, turning his head to look at you. 

“Our covenant, my love.” He said finally. “I told you every path led back to you.”

_______________

Irish Gaelic translations:

dia dhuit - Hello or God be with you

a pheata - my pet

a chuisle - my pulse

th'anam 'on diabhal - your soul to the Devil! (expression of surprise)

wean - child

a chuisle mo chroi - pulse of my heart

moilligh beagan, mo ghra - slow down a little, my love

_______________

Also credits to the poem She Weeps Over Rahoon by James Joyce, and Revelations 13:1 from the Bible lmao

[starscollide0]

little foolhalo animation because I hate them

[dennylachancerights]

Two-Bit/Soda bestie moment (I spent way too much time on this 😭)

[theultracharmingladynoire]

[fernisfreaky]

Why do I keep thinking that Optimus, Megatron, and Ratchet from Prime were in like a throuple before the war?

BECAUSE IT'S TRUE!!!

[mossmanismoss]

Canon reason why Kratos has always looked like he wants everyone around him to die

[oddthingsndaydreams]

Somedays the artblock wins. Somedays inspiration smashes you like a cadillac on a random dashboard recommend. @transformers-synergize your redesigns are so pretty ;^;

[stationed-radio]

”So, take my tags, and I’ll takes yours, and if I die in this shitty fucking war, don’t tell them we switched; let me be buried under your name - and some fifty years from now, you can be buried under mine.”

[naurius]

[hexesandroses]

When The Night Is Over - Cain x Lane

How much longer could she pretend, how much longer until she unraveled at the seams and revealed what she truly longed for? Even if apprehension kept her desires at bay, Lane knew that none was invincible in the face of a being so beautiful – herself included.

Slight spoilers for the new episodes.

You can also find this on AO3.

Lane couldn't sleep; she was certain that several hours had passed as she lay awake, listening to the sound of Anna’s soft breathing next to her. The silvery visage of the moon shone through the tall windows, and Lane lay enveloped in its glow, restless, exhausted. Countless thoughts whirled inside her mind. Most of them, she realized, centered around the beautiful angel that she spent so much of her time with. 

I can ignore my feelings during daytime, when there are so many bigger issues to worry about, Lane mused inwardly, but never at night.   

She furrowed her brows, feeling frustrated with herself. That day in the library kept haunting her. Too taken aback by Cain tending to the scrapes on her hands, she hadn’t given his words much thought, though they lingered in the back of her head, always taunting her with all their implications.  

“When you understand all this... I’ll be waiting.”  

She turned to lay on her side, one hand tucked under the pillow while the other rested before her face. Lane was no fool; she knew, deep down, exactly what he meant. It was precisely because of that knowledge that she could not bring herself to voice any of her thoughts to him. How could she?  

Yet the prospect of losing his interest frightened her; the childish hope that he would forever stay by her side remained undefeated, even though he had broken his promise once and could very well do so again.  

Weakly, she slapped herself in an attempt to get rid of those thoughts. She needed sleep. She had to stop thinking. 

So she closed her eyes, and... 

To no avail. 

Lane opened her eyes and was met by the flickering flames of the fireplace. Next to her, Anna slept soundly, blissfully unaware of the turmoil that her squad mate was going through. Were it not for the state of all things, Lane would have considered her lucky. 

She gazed at the fireplace and thought of burning books and seductive touches. There were traces of Cain everywhere she looked. 

Briefly, Lane wondered if he was asleep. She craned her neck and searched for his sleeping bag in the far corner of the room, only to find it devoid of its owner. Curiosity overtook rationality; as far as Lane was aware, Cain wasn’t on patrol tonight. Where could he have gone? 

The library, she thought suddenly, maybe I can find him there. If he hasn’t disappeared again...  

Carefully, she rose to her feet, tiptoeing between several sleeping bags that lay scattered on the floor. She knew Anna and Kira wouldn’t wake up – warm and cozy as they were, cooped up right by the fireplace – and no one would notice her absence. Her only concern was that the general would hear her footsteps, but then again, Lester’s snoring was loud enough to block out any and all sounds in the world. 

Lane quietly ascended the grand staircase and made her way to the decrepit library. She tried to suppress the shivers that coursed through her body and inwardly chastised herself for forgetting how much colder it was on the second floor.  

What am I doing? What am I hoping to find here? 

Indeed, what was she hoping to find? Cain sitting in the library, waiting for her? Why would he even come here at this hour? Even if he was there, what would the two of them do, what would they talk about? Lane always followed that which intrigued her, but she had to admit that this was pure nonsense. None of her thoughts made sense anymore – not the ones pertaining to Cain, at least. 

She collected herself. She’d come this far; might as well go through with it.  

Lane decided that hope was worthless and prepared herself for disappointment, lest she return to the squad in a bad mood. Still, her heart hammered against her chest when she stopped before the door to the library. Wrapping her fingers around the doorknob, she slowly opened the door and found... 

Nothing.   

Lane bit her lip. This was a waste of time; she was acting a fool for absolutely nothing. She would look back on this moment the following morning and feel puzzled by her own thought process.  

She couldn’t leave, though, for the sight of the dusty little library reminded her of careful touches and small, barely contained smiles; of huge, white wings enveloping her and of one earnest plea. 

“If you want me to be kind, then teach me.”  

Such a difficult request. At times, it felt as if he was more human than Lane could ever be.  

She was about to close the door and turn back when she sensed a presence behind her. The change in the atmosphere could be felt – from cold and bleak, to hot and all-consuming – Lane didn’t have to guess twice to know who it was. 

“You should be sleeping.” 

Cain’s smooth voice jumbled all her thoughts. When she turned to meet his gaze, Lane felt her heartbeat pick up the pace; it was hard to think about anything at all when he was around.  

His steel blue eyes twinkled with thinly-veiled curiosity. Lane had never paid much attention to the way he looked at her before, too preoccupied with chasing after answers, obsessing over her goals – but now, she felt small under his gaze. She could almost feel him picking her apart, searching for a confession in her silence.  

“Were you following me?” She asked, to which Cain shook his head. 

“I couldn’t sleep and happened to hear someone pacing the estate,” he said with a small smile, “it shouldn’t surprise me that it was you.” 

If there was even the tiniest hint of fondness in his tone, then Lane pretended not to hear it.  

Noticing that she had no intention of answering, he then added, “were you longing for this musty room in the middle of the night?” 

“I wanted to clear my head,” Lane said simply. It wasn’t really true, but then again, when had they ever been fully honest with one another? 

“What bothers you?” 

You, she thought. Your words, your eyes, your presence.   

But Lane would never say that aloud. “The Book.” 

All warmth left Cain’s expression upon hearing those two words. It was strange – that sudden shift in mood which Lane felt that she couldn’t keep up with.  

His eyes were narrowed in something akin to disappointment. Lane, suddenly fearing that she would lose his interest, offered, “let’s go inside.” 

It seemed that just the offer was enough to soften him, for Cain said, ���you’re shivering.” 

“I don’t feel it,” Lane shook her head, even though she had been shivering since the moment that she ascended the staircase. “Will you come in?” 

Cain gave in quicker than she had anticipated. He waited for her to enter first then followed after, careful not to hit his wings against the doorframe. In hindsight, coming to the library, of all places, had been a terrible idea; it was worn down, dirty, and the old windows rattled with the wind, letting freezing air seep through the cracks in the window frames. Lane regretted not going to her and Anna’s shared bedroom instead, but as she stood before Cain, all alone in that terribly cramped library, she found that nothing else really mattered. 

“You shouldn’t stay here for long,” Cain broke the silence first, “you’re not an immortal. You’ll get sick before you know it.” 

Bits and pieces of Cain’s humanity shined through each time it came to Lane and her well-being. Had he been hiding it carefully all along or was he blind to its existence? No matter the answer, Lane felt honored, special for being the one to see it. She smiled before she could stop herself. 

“Are all angels so concerned with the health of the mortals?” 

Her eyes immediately fell to the little spot by the bookshelf where they sat together that day. She could still feel Cain’s long, thin fingers wrapped around her wrist as he tended to the little cuts on her hand – a phantom touch that would never fade. 

Cain rolled his eyes, albeit without any venom. “Does it look like they are?” 

She didn’t need to say something so obvious aloud.  

Talking felt so impossible at night. Lane was afraid that it would only take a word from her lips to pop the bubble they were in – but then again, someone like Cain could see right through her. Did he know that all her thoughts revolved around him? Was that why he stayed? 

“You’re tired,” he broke her out of her thoughts. He leaned against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, and added, “if you’re done admiring this cozy little library, then you should head back to the others. You have a long day ahead of you.” 

“Don’t you?” Lane retorted. The words were on the tip of her tongue: I don’t want to leave yet. I want to stay here with you.   

“I’m not the squad’s only cryptographer.” 

“But you’re its only angel.” 

Cain huffed in amusement. “We have Anhea.” 

Lane bit the inside of her cheek. Why couldn’t she just say it? Frustration bubbled in her chest; this was too much. She could banter with him endlessly during the day, meet him half-way whenever he teased her too much, but now all words failed her and Lane looked like a fool – a sad, desperate fool who did her best to keep Cain’s gaze fixed on her. She felt as if she had failed miserably, and the feeling only strengthened when Cain spoke once more. 

“I’ll walk you to the others. You’ll be safe and warm there.” 

“I feel safer with you,” the words spilled from her mouth before she could process them. Instantly, her breath hitched in her throat, and Lane fought every urge to avert her gaze as she watched Cain’s eyes widened just enough for her to notice. They glimmered red for a moment – a thing so inexplicable yet mesmerizing to witness – and then they returned to their usual steel blue, just like that. 

“I have put you in harm’s way more than once. I could do it again.” 

“You didn’t mean to do it,” Lane murmured, unsure, “at least, that’s what I’d like to believe. If you wanted to harm me, you would have done so already.” 

Cain studied her closely. Curiosity, fascination, desire – all contained in the brilliant blue of his eyes. It took nothing more than a single look for him to understand her inner workings; Lane knew he had her figured out when the corners of his lips pulled upwards in a small, teasing smile. 

“Ignorance is charming. What if I won’t be able to protect you?” 

“You promised.” 

“Is it just my protection that you want?”  

Lane froze. Time stood still as his words rang in her head, over and over. How much longer could she pretend, how much longer until she unraveled at the seams and revealed what she truly longed for? Even if apprehension kept her desires at bay, Lane knew that none was invincible in the face of a being so beautiful – herself included. 

But she couldn’t say it, not yet. The truth would break them out of their ephemeral fantasy and ruin everything that they shared. 

“I don’t understand you,” she lied, hoping that Cain couldn’t see the slight tremble of her hands. He approached with slow, calculated steps until they were separated by just an inch of space, until Lane could feel his breath on her skin. 

Warm, warm, warm, just like that time in the monastery; he was all she could see, all she could feel. Cain was desire embodied, a temptation that Lane struggled to reject.  

“But you’re here anyway,” his alluring tone made it harder to breathe. Lane clenched her fists, doing her utmost to ignore the way his wings wrapped around her form as if by instinct.  

She breathed, “I just wanted to clear my head.” 

To which Cain smiled, “is it working?” 

His cold hands wrapped around her wrists and Lane desperately willed her heartbeat to slow down. Cain was no angel – his touch invited the most lustful of thoughts and his eyes, which bore into her own, reflected a desire for something, someone. 

“No,” Lane said, unable to conceal the truth, “my thoughts are in disarray. I don’t know what to do.” 

Cain’s eyes glinted red. One of his hands slowly trailed her arm, her shoulder, until it settled on her neck. The cold of his palm sent shivers down her spine, but Lane stood still, patiently anticipating his next move. 

How would they face one another in the morning? Would the others notice that something had changed between them?  

Does it matter?  

“If you really don’t understand yet,” said Cain, “then you can return to the others and pretend this didn’t happen – and I will keep waiting until you change your mind.” 

There was a softness in the way he spoke that soothed Lane’s tired, overwhelmed soul. One more word and she would melt against him, place her empty heart in the palm of his hands and ask him to take care of it. There was no use in pretending any longer. Lane had signed herself up for this on her very first day in the estate, when Cain’s breathtaking visage lured her in like a lamb to the slaughter. 

Thus, Lane laced their fingers together and marveled at how quickly Cain’s nonchalant facade shattered. “I want you near... more than your protection. Don’t disappear again.” 

She thought she imagined his breath hitching. 

“Is that so?” 

Lane nodded, noting that his icy hand in her own suddenly felt like anything but. “Just this. I won’t ask for anything more.” 

“You should,” Cain breathed, leaning in closer, closer, “you can ask for anything. I have been waiting for you to ask.” 

“I’m not sure what I want,” Lane confessed quietly. She hadn’t planned this far; this had already gone way beyond her expectations. Still, as if by instinct, her gaze lowered to his parted lips and she thought, oh. Are they as soft as they seem?  

The angel noticed her staring and almost chuckled before he murmured, “it seems you’ve figured it out.” 

Before Lane could protest, Cain closed the gap between them and pressed his lips against hers in a tender kiss.  

She couldn’t move, at first. Surprise and cluelessness had enveloped her whole for a brief moment – what now? What did she have to do next? Lane peered at Cain as he moved his lips against her own, willing her to reciprocate. His brows were furrowed, his eyes closed shut, his snow-white hair fell over his forehead and he looked every bit angelic. If Lane had known that he could somehow appear more beautiful than he already was – like this, exactly like when he kissed her – then she would have confessed sooner.  

Closing her eyes, Lane tentatively returned the kiss, and immediately the pair of white wings around her drew her body closer to his. She was pressed against his chest – not unlike the time he took her into the sky, but better, so much better. Why had she waited so long for this? His lips were sweeter than wine, softer than the clouds that had caressed her body when she flew straight towards the earth that day – until Cain caught her, because he would always, always catch her. He did it even now, for Lane’s knees were so dangerously close to buckling. She breathed him in, invited him to kiss her deeper; Lane parted her lips a tad more, allowing his tongue to roam the inside of her mouth. Every touch, every movement of his lips lit her body aflame. She could confirm it now: Lane was alive, wholly, entirely alive. Although her mind was muddled, it was all she could think about – I'm alive.  

She wished this moment could last forever: just the two of them, wrapped up in each other’s arms, kissing until they could no longer breathe. Would he let her? If Lane asked for it, would he give it to her? Would he do his best to draw another sigh from her lips, turn her pliant in his arms? 

If only. If only there was no tomorrow, no responsibilities that lay like a burden on their shoulders – they would have tried, then.  

Disappointment bloomed in her chest once Cain pulled away. She breathed heavily, gazing at his reddened face all the while, whereas Cain rested his forehead against hers ever so gently. It was all so new; the tenderness, his soft caresses.  

“You stopped shivering.” 

Lane hadn’t even noticed, lost as she had been in the angel before her. 

“I feel warm,” she answered, to which Cain smiled. 

“The general would’ve been disappointed if you caught a cold.” 

“The general?” Lane repeated. “Or you?” 

Cain looked to the side in an almost shy manner– had he always been so endlessly endearing? “Don’t get too bold, Lane.” 

She would have to teach him something about kindness after all. 

[aphelionatseven]

i. promises oceans-deep, but never to keep

peter - taylor swift

[sloshys]

Kids called fungles