#and harm to minors with some amount of blood

[kiryoutann]

Before reading, please check series masterlist to read the warning(s), disclaimer, and to make sure you’re on the right chapter. Minors do NOT interact.

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TW: detailed description of: violence, scars. mentions of: domestic violence, overdose, infant death, family death. a man's way of thinking.

[Please read while listening to this.]

“Simon me boy, ye need to burn to survive in this world.”

Once, a horrible man, with breath tainted by the acrid stench of tobacco mixed with the remnants of a newly drained liquor bottle, said to Simon. Bloody ‘ell, the amount of shit that came out of that bastard’s mouth, acting like he was some kind of philosopher instead of a wife-beating alcoholic who made his sons’ lives a living hell.

Young Simon didn't understand what it meant; he couldn't think much other than that his father was telling him to burn himself alive. Something he would do, something he would find temporary pleasure in until he stole the next alcohol money his wife earned during her 12-hour nursing shift.

Entering his teenage years, he didn’t think much of those words anymore, thinking of them as just another addition to the incredible amount of shite that came outta that bastard’s mouth.

But it returned when he joined the military. He thought that's it—that “burn” his father spoke of was the passion to serve, to protect. To combat the injustices that had lingered since the dawn of time. He wanted to be the one to make at least one change, a difference. To be the best. It served him well, that fire, all through his rookie training.

Or was it fury?

That white-hot rage that burned his gut, driving him forward as the soil crumbled and leaked through the planks of his coffin. It was that very rage that kept him alive, even when he was condemned to suffocate in his own grave. The spark coursing through his red blood cells, filling his fingertips as he dug with someone else’s jawbone for thirteen hours.

It was his unbridled fury that had stayed steadfast by him when he pledged his vengeance for the blood of his family. It was fury that had carried him out of Roba's burning mansion—another one to add to his record of outwitting the Grim Reaper.

Simon went on with his life thinking that that was it—he needed to stay angry to survive in this world. Nothing else matters but getting out, getting vengeance for every cut, every drop of crimson on the dirty tile beneath his combat boots. He had nothing left to fight for—no family, no home to protect anymore. So, fury had to be the answer. Simon just had to stay an angry man.

And he grew rotten. A stray dog always baring his canines. Ill-suited for domestic life, dropping in only when he needed sustenance—something, anything to hold between his teeth to chew and tear.

Those fingers were corrosive—fluoroantimonic acid in human form, but he did his job even better than he had when he was Simon Riley. Perhaps it was his identity that held him back. Now that he was just an old soul in miraculously intact flesh, there was nothing chaining his feet.

Simon is given three primary roles: hunter, judge, executioner.

Meeting his towering figure means never going home again—any poor bastard who has crossed paths with him is presumed dead. For he has grown rotten; sometimes more corrosive than fluoroantimonic acid, even. He gets the job done, quick and clean.

Simon Riley walks through this world in fury. He is fully conscious, with a dying heart that still beats, filled with deep, deep envy for those who don't have to be angry all the time. Because as much as he needs to keep burning, this is not something he does willingly. It leaves more harm than good. But men like him never have a choice.

Because the pain reminded him that he was alive.

With every blow of the gunstock to the back of his head, he was reminded again and again. As his fist swung at the other guy and the knuckles beneath his gloves connected with a jaw, he was reminded again and again that he was alive.

Simon still hadn’t decided whether he was the luckiest or unluckiest bastard alive.

To be tortured, only to realize that he had survived worse—that he would survive this one and would have to live through the aftermath. And so on until it created a never-ending loop of hell that felt like some twisted form of divine retribution.

“Simon me boy, ye need to burn to survive in this world.”

It was just one of the many bollocks his father spouted. The old man probably wanted to leave some grand, motivational words—to leave a mark. But the truth is, he didn’t need to do that. He’d left enough on him. Like all the times Simon stood in front of the mirror, shaving cream around his jaw—almost scared the shit out of his own mum, thinking he was his father.

And he despised that—the fact that he would be reminded of that pathetic excuse for a father for the rest of his life. That even after years since his father left home to lie in the hospital, counting his days from that bloody cancer, his mother still had the same fear every time she saw his father in him.

“Simon me boy, ye need to burn to survive in this world.”

He needs to burn.

He needs to…

Burn.

The burning ember at the end of the cigar flares up as Price takes a deep drag of it, holding it in the cave of his mouth before exhaling the remaining smoke and mixing it with the alcoholic aroma of a London pub they visited to “celebrate” another successful mission.

As if this was anything close to a celebration. Though Gaz and Soap were indeed deep in their pints and laughing like a pair of drunken fools, the way the Captain and Kate Laswell bend close together tells him that they have already begun discussing some hints about the next op.

Simon massaged the bridge of his nose, feeling the unfamiliar emptiness where his hard-plate mask would usually dig, but instead he found wire beneath the polypropylene. He tapped his fingers boredly on the aged wood, feeling the itch to hold a cold glass in his grasp but having decided not to order anything—there was no point; he wasn’t really planning on staying for too long anyway.

Instead, he tried to find a distraction by doing what he did best – people watching. He watched the bartender serve some fancy cocktail to two birds at the end of the bar, probably those fruity, overpriced drinks that made his throat sore.

Turning his gaze to the far corner, he saw a couple sitting in awkward silence. Looks like some first date gone wrong—judging from the bloke's fidgeting and the lass staring down at her drink, not saying a word. Bloody painful to watch.

Simon glances out the window, watching the steady stream of more people passing by. London is always busy, no matter the time of the day. A city of millions, with each person having their own life, their own stories—the things they wake up to and go to sleep to.

Often, he compares it to old, half-dead Manchester for familiarities, something that might help him blend in with this city. But it’s always the same ending—the differences far outweigh anything he recognizes. The bright lights, the bustling streets, the life—all of it foreign. Seems like the gritty, depressing streets of his youth still suit him after all.

For an hour, he sat there before feeling himself growing more and more restless. Finally, he pushed himself up, ready to make his escape. Soap and Gaz protested, which he ignored before he gave a nod to Price and Laswell, who didn't question him further, already knowing him well enough by now whenever he wasn't in the mood for socializing.

Simon made his way towards the door, stepping out into the soaked streets of London. The rain is coming down hard, and judging from the dark clouds hanging low, it's only going to get worse and more gloomy. Finally, something that reminded him of Manchester.

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he walked beneath the raging sky, trying his best to stay under the awnings and overhangs whenever he could. Droplets of water began to wet his leather jacket, but he kept walking, deliberately letting the rain soak him to the bone.

Self-preservation kicked in as he turned the corner onto another block; Simon was about to try to flag down a cab. However, his eyes landed on a lone figure, almost blending into the shadows, standing under the awning of some shop, trying to stay dry.

Simon knows he wasn't a good man, sure as hell not a gentleman. So is this sudden surge of concern some sort of sympathy, or is it because of all the times he's played the hero—saving countries from missiles, taking down terrorists, all that stuff—that now he can’t turn it off? He walks, long strides stretched out without hesitation even when he knows he’s more likely to do her harm than good—as evidenced by the growing fear in her eyes, her whole body tensing up like a frightened rabbit.

“Nasty night.” He said, being first for the sake of a conversation. That's new.

“Uh, y-yes, quite a storm,” she stammers out, those big doe eyes of hers flickering up to meet his for just a moment before darting away again.

And bloody hell, if that doesn't just about do him in. The way she tried so hard to act innocent, as if she hadn’t just snuck a glance at him when she thought he wasn’t looking. Sweet little thing. It’s enough to set his blood on fire.

“Subway, yeah?”

“Yes, the subway. Though it may be closed by now with the weather.”

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, taking one out and lighting it. The familiar burn and taste of nicotine soothed his nerves, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on why he was so bloody on edge in the first place. He had planned to avoid any socializing tonight—that’s why he left the lads so quickly, trying to get back to his blessed silence.

And yet, here he was, in the middle of a storm, talking to a strange bird he didn't even know.

It wasn’t like he was looking for a quick fuck or anything like that—he really wasn’t in the mood for any of that tonight. So why? He took a long, slow drag of his cigarette. Do you enjoy playing savior, Simon? To make sure she gets home safe and sound before a bad man comes?

And who’s to say he’s not the bad man in question?

“Subway's closed, like you said. No sense waiting in the wet.” He threw his cigarette butt into the gutter. “Come on then. Pub's the best place for now.”

The woman shook her head, managing a small smile. “Thank you for the kind offer, but I'll be right here. Best not to trouble you further on such a night.”

Smart girl, he admitted. Turning down offers from a sketchy-looking man like himself—she has a good head on her shoulders. But as he watched the rain pouring down and the wind howling louder, he couldn't help but wonder if her self-preservation only applied to men and not to the bloody storm and the fever she's definitely going to get if she keeps on insisting on staying here.

“Really, I’ll be fine,” she said, trying to force a laugh. “The rain can’t last forever.”

And he couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed at her refusal. But there was a crack in her answer—the way she wasn’t entirely sure, the uncertainty clear as day. He knew the kind like her, the ones who needed someone to turn their back on them and walk away to make them think they’d made the wrong choice.

It’s just how some humans operate, and he’s eager to test that theory.

“Suit yourself, love,” he said, watching her eyes widen slightly. "But you'll catch your death waiting in the rain."

Simon started to take a few steps away, counting the seconds in his head. One, two, three…

“Wait!”

When he heard it, he felt a victorious feeling swell up inside. Pausing like some considerate, concerned bloke, he turned to face her, waiting for her to speak.

And when she does, shame leaks from her voice. “I'm coming with you.”

On that stormy night, Simon ends up sitting opposite the skittish bird in a pub, her eyes sweeping around the room with a mixture of curiosity and unease. She looks like she doesn't belong here, probably the first time she's ever set foot in a place like this, judging from the way she keeps glancing at the shelves of liquor bottles behind the bar.

The stranger ordered “something light,” and while he gives in and orders bourbon, his drink of choice for as long as he can remember—a therapist he once saw told him it’s some sort of control thing, the need to stick to the familiar, not the kind that appreciates changes.

As he took a sip of his bourbon, the woman started making small talk. She gave a name. Sweet girl asked about his job and apologized before getting an answer, saying she didn't mean to pry, that she was just making conversation.

Too sweet, he thought. Worrying about small things like that.. How do you manage to get any sleep at night?

Simon says he’s in the military, leaving out details about which part of the military he’s in. She feels obligated, then tells him she’s a ballerina—and he wonders if she sees the differences between them. The stark contrast between her delicate, graceful world and the dark, violent one he’s used to.

It's a shame that you have to cross paths with the likes of him – a man like Simon Riley, who's no better than a stray dog ​​with the need to hold something between his teeth.

Worse still, he's a sweet tooth, too.

And so, Simon managed to fuck you on the second meeting.

Fucking hell… His tongue flicked against your swollen clit, bringing you to climax, tasting your juices against his taste buds. But nothing could compare to when he was finally inside you—the tightest cunt he’d ever had the pleasure of defiling. A virgin – the thought of being the first to breach that delicate, untouched flesh—the faint crimson around his condom like lipstick stains—set his blood on fire.

Tears in her eyes as her nails dug   on his naked back. Pretty girl tried to play tough, trying to hide the searing pain as the head of his cock continues to press into you, walls fluttering in surprise at the unexpected intrusion. Lips parted in a cry that turned into a moan. Then, his name is uttered in the most vulgar way.

“Ah! O-oh, Simon! Simon!”

Something snapped inside his mind—but Simon didn’t have time to care, not when he was buried deep in your warm flesh, watching himself slide in and out of that wet hole like cinematography. Your smaller form flushed and glowing, hair spread in a halo above your head. He held back another growl as you pulsed around him, only to follow with a climax that burned through his entire body.

When it was over, he shouldn't even think about coming back. That's not how he operates; after all, he's the type to jump from one body to the next, never looking back, never a second time.

But the second time happens anyway.

Straight to London after deployment, driving his truck like he has an absolute purpose, like he doesn’t hate the city. He parks in front of a grand Neoclassical building and leans against the door, pulling out a cigarette from his leather jacket pocket. He lights it up and waits. He doesn’t know your exact schedule, doesn’t know if you’re coming to work today, and doesn’t know anything about your life outside those two nights. But still, he waits.

As the minutes ticked by, his cigarette began to shorten, the smoke swirling around it. Something wet touched the back of his palm.

“Fuck.” He looked up at the sky, realizing it was starting to drizzle.

Then, out of the corner of his eyes, he caught a rushing shadow. Simon turned around just in time to see you emerging from the building, coat wrapped tight around you as you sneezed. He saw you walking, so rushed, like you got somewhere to be. What's got you so worked up, sweetheart?

You walk fast, as if on a single-minded purpose, eyes ahead but mind elsewhere. And that’s when he sees it—a car barreling towards you at an alarming speed, and you still don’t realize it until the blinding headlights catch the corners of your eyes.

Without a second thought, Simon rushed forward, pulling you out of the road before the red image in the back of his head became a reality. The car blares its horn, and the driver shouts a string of curses before speeding off again. He felt the cold air seep into his airways too quickly, painting him dry inside yet his body wet with a mixture of sweat and rainwater.

“Christ, pay attention will ya?”

At the sound of his voice, you finally look up, snapping out of whatever nearly cost you your life. Simon watches your eyes widen like you’ve just seen a ghost—some sort of apparition that’s just materialized out of thin air.

Someone who shouldn’t be here, and he can’t help but think the same way.

In the second instance, Simon has you pressed up against the kitchen counter, his hands nomadic on your skin, feeling every rise and dip of your body. He groans as your warm, raw walls clamp down on his cock longingly. Once you’re both sated, he slings a wet towel around your inner thighs, and you return his gentleness with a bottle of bourbon you pour into two glasses.

Simon heads out in the morning, but not without letting you help him find his missing device. The damn thing was hiding in the cushions of your couch. He shoves it into the pocket of his jeans, and that nagging, controlling voice (the one that despises changes and relies on familiarity) keeps reminding him to leave no trace, just like he had done with every previous one-night stand.

Against the itch in his brain, he didn't even bother deleting his number from your log afterward. Instead, he let you save it in your contact list.

(The wandering stray dog ​​froze when the door of a house opened.)

“Will you at least call? Or text, if you can. You have my number now.” You say.

(Warm light seeps out from within, bathing his brown eyes in a goldish hue. That stray dog of his has stopped its roaming, has stopped its restless pacing. It loosens its jaw, saliva dripping down its chin. The tension in its body starts to mellow. Something delicious inside. He should have known better than to get carried away—the last time he did, someone kicked him in the shins and hung him by the ribs.

The last time he did, his house was transformed into a gruesome showcase of all he held dear, ending in a bloodbath. His olfactory receptors still remember the scent of iron. Little Joseph’s socks soaked in crimson.

You're just a rotten mongrel, Simon.

But-

That sweet, intoxicating scent spreads like pollen carried by anemo. And before he could stop himself, his legs moved towards that warmth—)

Simon ended promising a text, then disappeared behind your door.

(—like a moth to a flame.)

The pretty girl takes him to a family event—your cousin’s wedding in the picturesque countryside of England. He finds himself surrounded by happy people—people who don’t need to be angry to live. They simply love and are loved, their smiles, laughter, and kisses genuine, fueled by the bonds of affection and not by selfish pursuits.

You introduce him to your cousin—the bride—named Sabrina, then to your aunt, Joyce. For people you call a family, you look pretty wound up tight, sweetheart.

And then, just as he thinks that, your mother comes strolling into the conversation, all smiles and pleasantries. But, he doesn’t miss how the tension in your body skyrockets, your smile turning into something more forced.

Simon knew that. Because he’d been there himself, growing up with a father who was more interested in the bottom of a bottle than he was in his family; the father who taught him to laugh at a dead prostitute because he thought she deserved it—“She’s jus’ some dumb whore, a drug addict. She was hell-bent on a bad end.” Nothing good in that man, and nothing good in your mother either when you throw up everything you’ve eaten after a conversation with her.

Funny how he used to react the same way. Until something changed, that is. The fear and the shame morphed into something else. Fury. Rage.

“Ye need to burn to survive in this world,” and maybe for once in his detrimental, too-long life, the bastard was right. And as much as Simon despised staying angry, he stayed angry because it saved him.

When the big day arrived, Simon stood in front of the mirror and stared at a reflection he didn’t recognize. Dressed in that damn suit he hadn’t worn since God knows when, the jacket clinging to him like a skin that just didn’t fit right. He fidgeted with the cuffs, trying to loosen them a little.

It's like Tommy and Beth's wedding all over again, back when he was his brother's best man. Everything smells just as sweet and flowery as it did then, and it's making him sick to his stomach.

“All set then?”

Simon turns his head at your voice, watching you walk out of the bathroom, your hair styled and your makeup done in a dark and smoky way that suits you so well. Christ, the way it makes him feel.

You spot his tie on the bed, then pick it up and approach him, closing the distance between the two of you. As you stand in front of him, so near that he can feel your breath on his skin, something begins to creep up his chest. It settles beneath his ribs, burning, spreading like a wildfire. But, it's unlike the fury and rage he's familiar with. This one leaves a warmth, a pull towards you that makes him ache to touch you, to hold you.

Simon couldn't take his eyes off you, watching the way your fingers worked in and out to tighten the knot. The way you bit your lip in concentration.

When you ask him to lean down a little so you can reach the back of his neck, he’s made even more intoxicated—the mix of shampoo and soap you’re devoted to, the delicate yet familiar fragrance of your favorite perfume that always trails after you. Sweet, but the kind of sweet that leaves him wanting more, like a wild animal who's just discovered a gourmet feast.

It’s a hunger, a need, to plant kisses on the pillar of your neck and feel the thrumming pulse that lives beneath your soft and supple skin. The ache to hold you, to keep you within his orbit. Something grips his heart—and before Simon can register, he’s leaning in, brushing his lips against yours in a fervent, greedy kiss. He guides you towards the bed, his bulky frame poised to envelop your smaller form.

“Simon me boy, ye need to burn to survive in this world.”

Made to cry, his pretty girl, by the woman who brought her into the world.

In this world, there are many kinds of mothers. The ones like his, all smiles and kindness, baking good pies and forgiving, perhaps too forgiving. And then, there are the ones like yours—all faux smiles, pretending to be an angel of a mother when he knows full well she’s the reason you turned out the way you did.

Dependent, easy to manipulate, always trying to please everyone. You thought you could maintain a distance from others, but all it takes is a single act of kindness to dismantle them completely—the seemingly impenetrable walls were actually brittle.

A kitten masquerading as a lion, only to purr and melt at the slightest touch.

It annoyed him sometimes, because he knew you deserved better. But it’s also the reason he stayed, he thought. Because he loved playing the hero, especially to a woman who didn’t know any better.

(Something, anything to hold between his teeth for him to chew and tear.)

As you wait in the car, he hurriedly gathers the last of his things, shoving them carelessly into his duffel bag. The embers of anger still simmer within him, but Simon chooses to be the wiser—getting you out of here as soon as possible is a priority.

“I know men like you,” the devil behind him spits. “You think you’re protecting her—you think you’re saving her, but all you want is a girl to use and toss aside once you’ve grown bored.”

And Simon stops. It strikes a chord within him, punches him right in the gut.

Though, he doesn’t say anything. He wants to lash out, to defend himself and his intentions, but doesn’t. What’s the point? He thinks it would be a waste of time, and you’ve been waiting for him in the car for too long. It would just be a waste of breath.

Yet, another part of him knows the real reason.

That she might be right. That she might be right, and he did not like that.

It was always easy to turn away from reality. He pretended to be the wiser man, leaving pointless conversation for good reasons. But the voice in his tainted head always reminded him of what he was made of, what was left of him. He was a rotten man, selfish. Full of desire without the consistency to commit—

Pretending to stay when he knows he is nothing more than a stray dog who loves to wander.

Simon slashes, rips, and kills men as sport; feasting on the raw hearts of women like his own personal dinner, collecting their teardrops like diamonds on his crown. And yet, he has the bloody nerve to think he can keep something as soft as you in his calloused hands without laying a wound.

(A predator wearing the skin of a man.)

A voice in the back of his head began to whisper, telling him to let you go, to walk away before his teeth sank in too deep and caused you even more pain. Before he became too ensnared, too intertwined.

But he couldn't. He just couldn't.

Not when you're sensually rolling your hips on top of him, your jaw slack as those pretty, plump lips make sounds that cause his cock to twitch in his boxers. The sight of your puffy eyes, the soft curve of your lashes, and the furrowed brows. He groans as you grip his thighs, anchoring yourself to him.

The moans you let out—oh, love, what is this? Why does it feel holy when they're sinning? Like some kind of ablution. He is reborn. He is being sent to heaven, and it is between the plush of your thighs—the divine liquid dripping down your folds.

You drag your fingers across the raised tissue of his skin, and he is blessed. He observes as your eyes glide over every part of his body, recognizing the differences between the scars he bears—guessing how they were created. Fire, knives, hooks.

And fuck, angel.

That sickening clench clutches his chest again as he gazes upon your tear-streaked face. This perfect creature is mourning his scarred flesh, once burned and healed, textured. Your lips quivering as you sob.

What are you grieving for, pretty?

Probably thought he was some sort of good guy who didn't deserve this. So consumed by her turmoil, she forgot that every cut and burn meant he survived; he won and survived. Can't say the same about the other guy, though. Not that Simon would—no.

He's too selfish to share your attention.

Because what if mentioning others who died in his hands makes you pity them instead? Something a sweet thing like you would do.

“Why... why would anyone want to hurt you?” You ask, and Simon answers in his mind: Why wouldn’t they? “Is… is this from your time in the military too?”

“Yeah,”

“What happened?”

“Got meself ‘anged by the ribs once,”

Simon was given three primary roles: hunter, judge, and executioner, but you didn’t know this. Nor did you know that the bastards who had caused these scars had long since died in the slowest and most gruesome way possible. That house fire he told you about didn’t spare them like it spared him.

All of this was evidence that he had hurt and killed—a mortal sin, darlin'. But you let another fat tear slip, thin red roots spreading across your sclera.

Oh.

There was always the other side of the moon that Simon never realized until now, until you did. His God—you—are all-forgiving and shed tears because the other side of the story is that he has been hurt and almost killed. So far, Simon has only seen himself in three main roles: hunter, judge, and executioner. Never the other way around: prey, defendant, and victim.

And oh—oh.

The “God” on his pelvis rocked her hips, taking him to many pleasant places—places a sinner would never have the luxury of visiting. The burn inside him twisted into something different—something warm that pulsed in the chambers of his heart and spread and crawled across his chest.

This wasn't the old fury. So, Simon convinced himself this was lust.

The conclusion must have been made in a hurry, or more like in desperation to see past the truth. He tried to bury it in the depths of his mind where he wouldn't have to acknowledge it. But Simon knew lust shouldn't last this long, nor should it leave him feeling invigorated simply because you had smiled at him.

This was—

“Gonna watch a ballet, LT.?”

Simon snaps out of his thoughts, blinking back to reality. Between his bare thumb and index finger is the special pass you gave him a week ago—the same piece of paper Soap was questioning just now. He turns in his chair to face his sergeant, greeted with that infuriating grin of his.

“Didn’t know you were the artsy type.” Soap added.

“You should’ve knocked, Sergeant.”

Soap laughed. “Aye, I did. But you were too busy starin’ at that ticket to notice.”

The lieutenant didn’t respond, just shoved the pass into his drawer, shutting it with a snap. Soap raised an eyebrow, a sign that he was still curious, but had no intention of voicing his questions, at least for now anyway.

“What’s this about?”

Soap's grin faded. “Ah right. The Captain’s askin’ for ye.”

Johnny watched those brown eyes flicker to the flip phone and then to the skull glove on the table as Simon considered something. Unfortunately for him, that was all—the damn balaclava prevented him from seeing the slightest glimpse of expression that might have been hidden behind it.

“I’ll be there,” Simon said, dismissing Soap with a wave of his hand.

The sergeant narrowed his eyes, pursing his lips in that way he always did when he was trying to figure him out. Then, he walked toward the door, twisting the doorknob. Just when Simon thought he was finally gone, Soap stopped, pausing for a moment.

“Yer obsession is gettin’ worse, sir,” he commented.

At first, Simon didn't understand what he was referring to until he followed Soap’s gaze, and his own brown eyes landed on his duffel bag. Where the skeleton charm you bought him was hanging.

Simon didn't say anything. The door closed with a click.

The voice of his old therapist echoed in the back of his head, saying how he had this need to always be in control, that he hated feeling like he was losing it, like there was something out there that he couldn’t predict or manage. That’s why he clung to what he knew and hated changes.

But as he sat in his office, surrounded by the same four walls, the same desk, the same chair, the same bloody routine he had followed for years, he felt something twisted itself inside him, grafting itself into the tissue of his scars.

It triggered an itch in his skull.

Simon stood up from his chair, jaw clenched, as he strode over to where his duffel bag sat. That voice was louder, the words he had heard playing back like they were on a cassette tape—“there’s gonna be things in life that are out of your control. An’ that’s okay. You don’t have to be in charge of everythin’.”

“An’ when that happens, you just have to let it happen. You can’t avoid it forever, Lieutenant. Avoidin’ it doesn’t mean you’ve solved it—”

Clenching his fists, he tried to deafen himself, only to end up inviting another sickening voice. “Simon me boy, ye need to burn to survive in this world,” at that time, he didn’t understand what the hell his old man meant by that, searched the whole world for answers.

Now, after all this time—after mistaking it for passion, for fury, for lust—the answer stared back at him, daring him to face it. He let out a scoff, thinking how that was the most uncharacteristic word to ever come out of that man's mouth. Fuck.

“—it just means you’re signing yourself up for more pain—”

Simon yank the skeleton charm off his bag, the metal clinking against the zipper as he tears it free. He exhales, his chest empty after he’s done what he’s best known for.“—an’ self-destruction.” The voice finishes.

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[marenwithanm]

Little Links announcement

As we start getting into chapter 4, I just wanted to warn everyone that starting on page 4 (so next week's update not this week) there will be some violence and blood. Mostly canon-typical violence but canon doesn't usually have blood so there's that. I'll put slightly more specific stuff in the tags

[hansensgirl]

summary. | Natasha reunites with her fuck-buddy.

warnings. | SMUT, use of a strap-on, mild dom/sub elements, friends-with-benefits/fuck-buddy relationship, pet names, praise, mild degradation, slight overstimulation, scissoring, dirty talk, and more. 18+ MINORS DNI!

pairing. | Natasha Romanoff x fem!fuck-buddy!reader.

author’s note. | happy pride month! here’s a little concept. enjoy! no beta, all mistakes are my own. taglist: @hansensfics. MINORS DNI! 18+ ONLY!

Red hair. Red in her ledger. Reddish lips. Red dress. Red is everywhere.

You know there are different names for different shades, but you just umbrella-term them all—Natasha.

Even the red-adjacent colours are Natasha. Pink and blood orange, even purple made from complete scratch.

Natasha knows all about your little red-habit. She’s even developed her own, too. Whenever she sees red, she thinks of you thinking of her. And that makes her cheeks turn a subtle red, since she’s been trained well. Never let them into your mind.

She’s smug about it. You think it’s on purpose, since her new strap is red, and she has a grin on her face as she plows into you.

The usually pristine bed is wrinkled mess underneath you. You grip onto the sheets tightly, and when you focus enough, you catch a whiff of Natasha’s laundry detergent. You two rarely make it onto the mattress when she visits, always ending up on the floor, against the wall, or on the couch.

She always has you stay here whenever she’s away. If you told your other friends about this, they would call your dynamic with the redhead something she swears it isn’t.

Natasha’s strap-on drives into you with such passion and desperation, her skill bleeding through it all as she expertly fucks you. Your loud moans fill the room, and they’re music to your fuck-buddy’s ears.

“Yeah, that’s it. What a good little slut,” she chuckles, admiring your blown-out eyes and slacked jaw. Her words have you whimpering, a mild pout to your lip—the sight is both cute and sexy. “Aw, poor baby,” Natasha coos in faux-sympathy, punctuating her words with thrusts.

Her demeanour falters for a bit, when she rolls her hips to increase your pleasure. Her aching clit receives some friction, making her let out a soft moan. She cannot wait until you’re a complete fucked-out mess, desperate and begging her to let you eat her out. That’s one of her favourite parts.

Your tits bounce with Natasha’s every thrust. You try to keep your legs open, but the amount of euphoria that shoots through your body makes it difficult to do so.

She blesses you with the push and pull of her hips, grazing against your sweet spot as she brings you closer to your high. Her warm hands hold onto your waist, fingertips sinking into your skin. Natasha’s nails are polished red, all for the sake of a mission that saved innocent lives and ended harmful ones.

“‘S so good,” you slur, voice sounding like a whimper. The tone, along with the squelching sounds of your sopping cunt, make Natasha’s ego swell. “You like this, petal? Hm? You like getting fucked like a slut?” she asks.

You can’t form any proper words, so you just nod your head and mewl. Her words make your pussy clench. Gasps leave your throat as that familiar feeling begins to build up inside you. You ascend the high quickly, and one of Natasha’s hands move downwards to rub your clit.

Her mildly-rough fingertips add just the right amount of friction to your swollen nub, pushing you over the edge as you cry out. Your back arches off the bed, and Natasha’s plump lips meet yours in a steamy kiss.

Her red lipstick has already left smudges along your body and face, a sight to behold. In her mind, she cannot wait to get her private phone out and snap a few pictures. You try to keep up with her mouth as it moves against yours, tongue pushing inside, and Natasha practically takes your breath away.

Your fuck-buddy swallows up your pornographic sounds, dragging her hips in a way that allows you to ride your orgasm out and feel everything.

Your cunt hugs her strap-on tightly, coating the material with your slick. “Good girl,” she exhales, an almost love-drunk smile on her face once she pulls away from the kiss. You grin at the praise, preening under Natasha’s intense gaze.

“Wanna give me one more?” she teasingly questions, slowing her thrusts. She caresses your swollen pearl. You’ve already came for her more than once—on her fingers a few times before she split you open. You contemplate it as her touches become more and more insistent, yet tormenting. Before you can even answer, Natasha makes the decision for you.

She slowly pulls out of your pussy, admiring how you’ve left her strap glistening. You manage to lean forward and get on your knees. You help her take her fake cock off before locking eyes with the redhead, your mouth opening and tongue stretching out.

Your clean up the mess you’ve made on Natasha’s strap, revelling in the taste of your cunt. The sensual scene makes Natasha’s clit throb, and you can feel yourself aching once again. Her breathing becomes heavy, but she doesn’t stop you for one second.

You make a show of it, humming in delight until she’s had enough of your shenanigans. She pulls the strap-on away and pushes you onto your back once again, climbing on top of you. She straddles your legs, and your stomach fills with butterflies in excitement.

Natasha’s wet cunt rests on your thigh, and vice-versa. The feeling of her hot flesh against your skin makes you whimper. She grabs hold of your hip with one hand, and uses the other to play with your body.

“Dirty, dirty girl,” she chides, gyrating her hips as she scissors with you. She cups your chin and lightly slaps your face, loving how you look completely gone.

“You need me so bad, dontcha?” Natasha smirks, picking up the pace. Your dripping pussy rubs against her thigh, whimpers leaving your mouth. “Uh-huh, need you so bad,” you mewl, meeting her movements.

Her head tilts back, red hair cascading down her back just a bit. She’s let it grow out a bit, but you know she’ll cut and dye it another colour soon. You never really mind, but you always prefer her natural shade.

Your hands reach up, moving along her toned abs and cupping her breasts. She’s beautiful—truly a sight to behold. She takes charge, though, pinching your nipples and groping you whenever she feels like.

You become a mess beneath her, climax building up again. You know her’s is impending, too, with the way her mouth drops open and her grinding speeds up a bit. The shared slick-sounds fill the room, as well as the smell of sex and your collective moans.

It’s almost poetic—how you both come undone at the same time. You try your hardest to keep going, euphoria seizing your muscles.

Your hips buck upwards to meet Nat’s, and she gasps as the waves of her orgasm crash down. Her eyes squeeze shut, her nails sink into your skin a little, the sting adding the perfect amount of pain to your pleasure.

You gasp as you slowly come down from your high. The stars in your vision dissipate, and your heart clamours in your chest.

Natasha leans over you, moving closer. Her breasts rub against yours as she uses your body for her satisfaction. You take gratification in this, part of you wishing you could be nothing but her plaything for the rest of your life.

Before your thoughts run too wild, she captures you into a searing kiss once again, taking complete control. She lets you breathe every now and then, letting out groans and sighs of satisfaction, before she resumes her actions.

You squeeze your eyes tightly, seeing a bit of red in the darkness. Natasha is always there—she’s everywhere. But you prefer her on top of you, making you feel the most sinful of things. Things you savour as precious, sensual memories full of red-hot passion.

[evnseokz]

{ ☆ breaking the ice - p.sh }

pairing: closed off! sunghoon x f. reader

contents: somewhat reserved sunghoon (at first), lowk down bad sunghoon, jake is an extra in this, kind of typical guy saves girl party scene, smut at the end, dry humping, making out, a little fluff, mostly just sappy romance, maybe slight angst if you squint

based off this request here

a.n: tysm anon for the request!! i hope i did it justice. i focused a lot on the plot and dialogue in this one, w.c. 2.6k

MINORS DNI

sunghoon had always been the silent anchor of his friend group, the one who seemed to glide through life with an effortless coldness that both intrigued and confused those around him. He rarely piped up, preferring to observe from the background, his thoughts hidden behind a mask of nonchalance. it wasn’t that he didn't care; rather, he found solace in the quietude of his own company.

up until you entered the scene, invited by his friend jake for a casual lunch that would unknowingly disrupt his carefully maintained solitude. at first, sunghoon regarded you with mild indifference, his responses curt as you attempted to chip away at his icy exterior. but as the days stretched on, you began to see each other more often, and your laughter filled the spaces he had always left empty. something in him began to shift, tugging at the corners of his guarded heart.

——

flash forward to a couple weeks later, jake was throwing an afterparty for some event he held previously that had to do with his band. he held the party at his house, as it was big enough to withstand the amount of people he invited. sunghoon was standing, leaning against the wall of the crowded abode, his drink in his hand as he scanned the room. laughter and music mingled in the air, but his focus was solely on you. you were standing by the kitchen island, chatting animatedly, a bright smile lighting up your face. but it wasn’t just your smile that held his attention; it was also the guy next to you.

“come on, just a little more fun, right?” the guy said, his fingers brushing against your arm in a way that made sunghoon’s blood boil. sunghoon recognized this guy, everyone knew he had a reputation as a smooth talker and troublemaker. the kind of guy who toyed with people like you for fun. “maybe we should just stay here?” you replied, your tone playful but laced with uncertainty. sunghoon’s heart raced at the sight of you inching away from the kitchen. “aw, don't be like that,” the guy laughed, leaning in closer. “i promise it’ll be worth it.”

sunghoon could see you visibly stiffen, clearly uncomfortable with the situation, and he couldn’t take it anymore. ���hey!” he pushed off the wall, his legs carrying him across the room with determination. “what’s going on here?” you turned, surprise flickering in your eyes. how long had he been watching you? “sunghoon! we were just—“ “just what?” he interrupted, trying to keep his voice steady. “you were about to go... where?”

“just to the bathroom,” the guy interrupted with a smirk. “no harm done.” “yeah, well, its not a good idea,” sunghoon shot back, stepping between you and the guy. “you don't need to follow her, man. she can find it on her own.” “relax, it’s just a quick walk,” the guy said, crossing his arms, his bravado oozing. sunghoon felt the heat rise to his cheeks. “not with you. not ever,” he spewed. you looked between the two, confusion mixing with concern. “sunghoon, it’s fine. really,” you say, seemingly trying to ease his growing frustration.

“no, its not fine,” he insisted, his voice rising slightly. this is probably the most you’d ever heard him talk. “you don’t know what they say about this guy; he’s bad news y/n.” sunghoon pleads with you. the guy chuckled, but it was an empty sound. “a little jealous, huh? cute."  “call it what you want,” sunghoon said, his gaze locked on you. “but im not letting you walk away with him. not like this.” your expression shifted, realization drawing. “sunghoon, i appreciate it, but i can handle myself.”

“maybe you can, but i don't trust him.” the words spilled out, raw and desperate. “you deserve better than some guy who only sees you as a piece of meat.” a silence hung between them, heavy with unspoken words. sunghoon took a breath, his heart racing. “i want to be the one who gets to know you. not him.  you’re worth more than this.” your gaze softened, and for the first time, sunghoon saw something flicker in your eyes—maybe understanding, maybe something more.

“okay,” you said softly. “let’s stay here, then.” sunghoon exhaled, relief flooding his body, but he didn’t take his eyes off the guy who was still lingering around. “and you can back off.” his gaze stern as he looked him in the eyes. the guy rolled his eyes, but there was a hint of wariness now. “fine, whatever. your loss."  he spoke childishly as he walked away. sunghoon turned to you, searching your face. “i meant what i said,” he said softly. “i know,” you replied, a hint of a smile creeping in on your face. “thank you for stepping in.”

“i just—“ he hesitated, heart pounding with a mix of fear and hope. “i don't want to lose you to guys like him. i want to be the one you trust.” your expression shifted again, this time filled with something deeper. “then show me. show me you’re the one.” sunghoon nodded, feeling a spark of courage ignite within him. “i will. just give me a chance.” he took your hands in his as he spoke, his gaze softening as he looked you in the eyes.

“i never dubbed you as the jealous type,” you giggled, eyes gleaming up at sunghoon. one of his hands reached behind his neck to scratch nervously. “me neither,” he laughs with you. silence falls upon you two, awkwardness suddenly seeping in. you take a sip of your drink, and look around the room. not quite sure what to do next. sunghoon rocks on the balls of his feet, also unsure of the next move he should make. suddenly, a very tipsy jake stumbles his way over to the two of you. “hey guys! what’re you up toooo,” his words slur slightly as he speaks, placing himself in between the two of you, an arm thrown around each of your shoulders. you and sunghoon glance at each other nervously, not sure what to say. “uh, i think we’re actually about to head out!” sunghoon says quickly, pursing his lips afterwards. you nod in agreement as jake lets out a loud whine. “alreadyyyyy?!” he pouts. sunghoon laughs at his friend before pulling him off of your shoulders. he looks him in the face and grabs the red solo cup in his hand, and setting it on the counter. “i think you should call it a night too,” he says. jake shakes his head no before stumbling off again.

sunghoon pinches the bridge of his nose with his fingers, clearly disappointed in his friend. “he’ll crash eventually,” you snicker. sunghoon laughs with you before reaching out and grabbing your hand in his. “so, about heading out?” he asks, and all you have to do is nod before he’s pulling you through the sea of people and out the front door. “did you drive?” he asks. you shake your head no. “i took an uber,” you reply. sunghoon nods in satisfaction. he rocks on the balls of his feet again, suddenly becoming hyperaware of the fact that you are alone together right now. “do you maybe wanna come back to mine?” he asks, his voice shaking with nerves. “i’d very much like that, yes,” you beam up at him. he lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding before beckoning you to follow him to his car. he opens the passenger door for you, letting you sit down before leaning across you to buckle you in. your breath hitches in your throat at the proximity, the scent of his cologne filling your nostrils as he stands back up. “t-thank you,” you say coyly, toying with the hem of your skirt. sunghoon nods a quick no problem before shutting the door and walking around to get in the driver's seat.

the ride to sunghoons apartment is quiet. sunghoon focused on the road in front of him while you watched the night sky out of the window. once pulled up to his place, he unbuckles and gets out of the car, headed over to the passenger side. you unbuckle your seatbelt before he even opens the door, afraid his smell in such close proximity to you will drive you wild. once the door is open, you scurry out of the car, almost tripping in the process, but luckily sunghoon was able to grab your arm, steadying you. “easy there; don't want you getting hurt,” he says, playfulness in his tone. you curse yourself for immediately blushing at his words. he closes the car door before heading into the main doors of his apartment building. you follow along closely behind him. he stopped in front of the elevator, pressing the up button. now its your turn to sway on the balls of your feet. after what feels like forever, the elevator finally dings, and you both enter. you watch sunghoon as he presses the number three button. the doors close, and here you guys are again, in awkward silence.

you stand next to each other as the elevator moves between floors, and you let your gaze fall upon the boy next to you. you had always found sunghoon attractive, but that attraction has skyrocketed since his whole hero moment at the party. the elevator dinging pulls you out of your trance, head snapping forward. sunghoon let you step out first; your heart was racing. you walked beside him as he guided you to his apartment, his casual confidence making your pulse quicken even more. “so, this is your place?” you ask, glancing around as you approached the door. “yeah, just a simple apartment,’ he replied, smiling. he opens the door and gestures for you to enter. “make yourself at home,” he beams, following in behind you.

you looked around the place in front of you, taking in the modern decor and the faint woodsy scent that lingered in the air. “it’s nice. cozy,” you breathed. sunghoon chuckled, closing the door behind him. “cozy is the goal. would you like something to drink?” he asks. “water is fine,” you smiled to him, watching as he moved around the kitchen. as he filled two glasses, you couldn’t help but admire the way he moved with ease, letting your gaze fall to the way his back muscles tensed as he moved. he turned to face you, leaning against the counter, a playful smile on his lips. “so, where should we start?” he trails off nervously. “well, what do you wanna know?” you reply. his eyes shine as he looks at you, “anything. everything.” heat rushes to your cheeks as you look at him, his desire to know more about you sending butterflies straight to your tummy. 

“well… one time i tripped and fell into a fountain during a school trip,” sunghoons laughter echoed through the room. “oh no! did you get wet?” he questioned through his chuckles. “absolutely drenched, i had to walk around the rest of the day in a soggy shirt.” he leaned closer, his eyes sparkling. “i think that’s hilarious; i wish i could’ve seen it.” you both laugh for a moment before silence falls upon you again. you look at him, “aren’t you gonna tell me one of your embarrassing moments?” a nervous chuckle leaves his lips, a sheepish grin forming on his face. “once i thought i was being smooth at a party and accidentally spilled my drink all over someone. turns out, it was the birthday girl.” your laughter floods sunghoons ears, his heart swelling at the sight of the smile on your face. “that’s definitely pretty embarrassing!” you continue to giggle, teasing him slightly.

he begins to move closer as you laugh, the air between you two shifting. “yeah, i wasn’t very popular that night,” he says, his voice softening. “but i guess i can be a little clumsy.” “maybe it’s just because you’re too busy being charming,” you say to him, meeting his gaze. he took another step towards you, his expression suddenly serious. “i don’t want to mess this up, you know?” desperation in his voice. “mess what up?” the sudden topic change is confusing you. “this,” he says, glancing at the space between you two, then back to your eyes. “us.” the weight of his words hung in the air, and you could feel a thrill run through you. “i don’t think you could mess it up.” your chest heaves as you look up at him. anticipation is coursing through your bones. “really?” he asks, stepping even closer, your breaths mingling. “what if i wanted to kiss you right now?” your pulse quickened. you contemplate for a second on what to do, but quickly come up with an answer. “then you should.”

sunghoon hesitated for a moment, searching your eyes for reassurance. then, without breaking eye contact, he leaned in and pressed his lips against yours. the kiss was tentative at first, a soft exploration that quickly turned heated. you melted into him, your hands finding their way to his hair as his fell to your waist. his tongue swiped along your bottom lip, asking for entry, which you granted. your saliva mixing as you moaned into his mouth. the two of you shuffled around the room as you kissed. finding yourself in front of his couch, he goes to sit down, and you follow, only breaking away for a split second as you straddle his lap before connecting your lips again. his hands are resting on your hips, and you lightly grind down on his lap, earning a groan from him. you bite at his bottom lip, pulling slightly before letting go, breaking the kiss, but only so you could continue to pepper kisses down his jaw and neck.

he moved his neck, giving you more access as you bit and sucked slightly on the skin. small groans left his mouth, his hands beginning to guide your body on his clothed erection. a moan fell past your lips at the sensation, your assault to his neck stopping as you focused on the pleasure you’re feeling between your legs. you wrap your arms around his neck, leaning your forehead against his as he continues to grind you on his lap. small pants are coming from your mouth, as well as groans from his. he drops his head down, taking his turn to trail kisses along the exposed skin of your collarbones and chest. you roll your head back, a moan leaving your lips. one of sunghoons hands travels up to your face, bringing you back to lean against him, fingers caressing your cheek ever so slightly. you lean into his touch, whines leaving your lips as you chase your high. his hand falls back down to your hip, helping you in quickening your pace. the texture of his jeans hitting your clit in just the right spot to send you over the edge, your body trembles as your high washes over you, head thrown back as sunghoon helps you ride it out. his own orgasm followed shortly after.

both of you are a panting mess, and sunghoon can’t help but hold you tight against him, hugging you gently. you tighten your arms around him, enjoying the comfort of the boy in front of you. you pull away for a moment to look eachother in the eyes. a smile forms on both of your lips as you chuckle breathlessly. sunghoon is the first to speak. “that was. wow” you giggle at his words, fingertips fiddling with the hairs at the base of his neck. “i think we need to do that again sometime, maybe with less clothes,” you joke. sunghoon is smiling from ear to ear, thinking about how lucky he is to have you here right now. “maybe so. but how about a proper date first?” he says. and you nod eagerly.

“i’d like that.”

.

..

…

[honestsycrets]

Stung | [Miguel O'Hara x Reader]

❛ pairing | miguel o'hara x reader

❛ type | oneshot

❛ summary | after a discus malfunction, you're bitten by an anomaly and refuse medical attention. you're in a state that you refuse to show to miguel-- at all costs.

❛ tags | NSFW, sex pollen, mention of a wound, slight chase, miguel o'hara doesn't like to be ignored, cum eating, creampies, abnormal amount of fluid, venom bite, slapping, some insecurity, spanish is not translated, sexual memories.

❛ sy’s notes | my obligatory ABO-sex pollen fic for ATSV. i usually make a ABO/Sex Pollen piece per fandom I write in, so here's one for Miggy 🐝

“All done!”

You slipped out of HQ’s packed infirmary with a jaunty bounce in your step. Crispy, coppery blood was matted onto your forearm concealed behind a hastily tied bandage. You weren't concerned about it. It would resolve within the hour. Likely less. As would your elevated body temperature. Despite the doctor's prattle about the benefit of further testing, you found their concern to be a non-issue. These things were virtual non-issues, even if the doctor and your man thought otherwise. 

The hallways at HQ were like any other day in your city. Congested with the coming and going of spiders in their daily lives. A glimpse at any group might reveal decadent flirting and haughty laughter. Some were in a rush to their own worlds, but most were completing work assigned by the Spider Society. The one you were looking for reclined against a wall with his arms interlocked one over the other. His displeased rumble prompted you to his presence above all other voices in the crowd. 

“You should have let them run the tests.” His voice was teased with concern but became mild, little more than a drab sigh at your refusal. You blew off his concern with a shake of your hand, gone yellow and bubbly behind a bit of ineffectual gauze. His eye glazed over the wound. You couldn't tell what he was thinking behind his mask, but you didn't need to. You only needed to convince him you were right.

“It’s stopped bleeding, Miggy. It’s just a scratch,” You held up your arm, flicking it with emphasis. His eyebrows raised for a moment, then flattened, staring at you with a dull rictus. “It was just a brief malfunction of the discus.” 

Technically it was more of an impalement, but if Miguel wasn’t going to ask, you weren’t going to invite him to delve deeper. Otherwise, you might spend the next few hours of your life fixing a wound that surely would have closed up by the time results were back. The injury site mildly itched. That was all. Never mind, the slight, honey-colored rash migrating from the puncture site to your elbow. Or the referred pain. Minor things. 

“You’re being stubborn.” 

“You’re the one to talk.” You snapped the discus free from your sash and chucked it toward Miguel.  He caught it with an unsurprising amount of ease, claws clicking in unison against the ineffectual metal.

“¡Qué problema!” he mocked, his voice dry and absent of discernible emotion. 

You closed the distance between your bodies to slide your arms around his broad neck. His other hand came to your lower back. It was warm, the way he touched you, from the bundles of affection that fluttered in your belly to the heat dappling across your chest. You missed this every day. It made fleeing the infirmary all the more worth it.

“I put the anomaly in another discus. One that actually works, no thanks to your programming.”

“That’s what happens when you take things without asking.” He flicked the discus between his thumb and index finger, waggling it for emphasis. It was true that there had been nights that went with banging, clacks, clatters, and the occasional outburst when things weren’t quite going his way. There were a few discuses on his desk. You just so happened to take the one that malfunctioned. “I was working on it. ¿Qué era?” 

“Oh,” you mumbled. “Just some stingy bees. What harm could they do?” 

His eyes roamed your wound. You couldn't help but look down too, both horrified and fascinated by the way the rash had moved in just a brief few minutes. The colour had begun to fade. You glanced up, flattening your mouth into a slight, forced smile.

“Fine. If you're sure.”

To be fair, you secured many anomalies with and without the help of others. They all went into their cozy, temporary forcefield homes until they could be fairly redirected to their appropriate dimensions. In the downtime, you could help or hinder Miguel's progress. Then, your watch would alert you to another disturbance and the cycle would continue. 

Until that morning. 

Your watch blared, and blared, and blared some more. The early morning sun began to rise and cast offensive beams of light into your room. Usually, it didn’t bother you. But this morning, everything offended you from the scratch of silky sheets on your naked body to Lyla illuminating what darkness was left, all golden and cute. You wondered if that was how Miguel felt when you forgot to pull the curtains, strung out on the bed after he finished with you.

“Woah! Oops!” she turned, covering her eyes with her spindly fingers. A growing ache throbbed between your legs. It wasn’t quite the same dull soreness from Miguel’s late-night visit last night, either. “Sorry, sorry. Miguel--”

“He can handle it,” you bit out, snappier than you intended. It wasn't like you. “Or-- Jess. No, Gwen. Gwen can do it, she loves--” 

“He asked for you.” 

Of course, he did. You scrunched a pillow over your head. Your Miguel couldn’t see you this. Absolutely not. You debated getting up, ignoring what you called a negligible ache that was quickly morphing into a terrible pounding. You can't believe how quickly the thought fell apart, pushing yourself to sit up in bed. The ghost of his scent floods your nose, flashing memories of the night before.

Something at work set him off. Something that commanded no intimacy, but the mechanical release of his rage that wouldn't destroy precious resources. He sat on the edge of the bed, driving your mouth onto his cock with the aid of your hair bundled around his fist. You recalled the shakiness of his thighs under your fingers, his firm legs spread wide fucking your mouth with cold abandon. He chased his own orgasm selfishly, needing the release, needing to see your body painted by whips of his cum sprayed across your exposed breasts. He pulled you off in silence, inspecting the drool and cum that spilled down your chin and throat in rivulets. "What--"

Your face tightened, glancing down at the growing tension in your belly. Everything began to annoy you, especially the scratch of the sheets against your skin, your bed empty of his presence. How could you tolerate that uniform plastered to your ass? You buried into the offensive bed. This was fine. This was normal, recalling what you'd done last night. Surely, the burn had to do with the whole being launched through not one, but two crumbling buildings the day before. The dust and rubble. Were you close to your cycle?

“Tell him I’m dead,” and without another word, you resolved the call. Within seconds she popped up again, bent at the waist because this was your life now. Never could you just… take a day off. There was always something. You muffled your screams of protest into the mattress and dug your feet in, kicking off the sheets, the blankets, the pillows, all of it.

“Is this a fit? You’ve never had a fit before,” Lyla noticed. A fit? She thought the burning of your body was a fit? Damn AI. Resolve. 

Resolve. Resolve. Resolve.

It became cathartic after a good while. Or it would have been if not for your senses hyper-fixating on every minor change in your body.  Despite your apprehension, you knew. What was once a dull pain radiating from your forearm morphed into something much worse. Something you couldn’t blame on the rather average experience of being pelted through the average event of windows and concrete. It was more than a tingle. It burned as it coursed through your body. 

You stumbled over the bundle of bedding into the bathroom. It was there that you realized that to your horror, you weren’t just lubricated, now you were soaked. Your fluids coursed down your thighs as you dabbed the region clean with a bundle of tissues. It did little good. Touching the area exasperated the issue. Maybe you needed an orgasm, maybe ten. An hour or so later, you slammed the heel of your palm into the mirror, fracturing it into shards of terrible glass that crumbled onto the countertop. Beads of blood dabbled onto your reflection. 

“If you d--” resolve.

So not a reaction to your average bee sting. Correction. A great, big, fat colony of hissing, buzzing bees. The act of recalling information was like jamming your hand into fluid water to snatch a tiny hair tie. No matter how many times you tried to recall the information, you couldn’t quite grasp it. It was there, floating around your head, but inaccessible. Your mind traveled back to Miguel. How gentle his lips could be, trailing soft kisses along your neck and shoulder when you rode him in reverse. How deep he'd go. 

"Fuck off!" Your watch blared again. Its beeping filled your bathroom, echoing over and over. You reached behind the door to pluck a silky white slip from its hook and dragged it over your head. You were about to resolve the call again when the hot timbre in his warm voice saying your name gave you pause. Your Miguel, popping up in a golden haze. You found yourself gazing at his full lips, full and plump. If only he was here. He could have his lips on your--

“What are you doing?” 

Lost in thought, you failed to realize that Miguel had been calling you by name again. You shook your hazy mind free of the thoughts that formed a swirling cloud over your head. You slumped down the wall and onto the floor.

Help was what you failed to say. As your mouth opened, nothing came out. The words were not wording. The vulnerability of asking for help was palpable. You soothed yourself by shifting your hands underneath your skirt. What would he think if he saw you here-- ripped asunder by your own biology? Whore. Miguel lowered his gaze, his eyes squinting at the sweat dabbling down your neckline as he looked you over. He wouldn't want you anymore.

“Are you listening? ¡Coño! What is wrong with you!?” 

Resolve.

You resolved him. Your Miggy-- resolved. Oh, you swallowed dryly. He wasn’t going to be happy about that. It wasn’t a matter of if Miguel would come for you. It was a matter of when. When he had time to separate himself from trashing-- whatever was the closest object to him in the lab-- to take out his rage on you. You reached for your medicine cabinet. You had more important things to worry about. First on the list? The searing heat.

Your watch was better off tucked away in a chest in the closet.

Night came with no solutions. You crouched on your window sill, chest rising and falling. You sought to stare at anything but the mindless buzz of the tv screen inside. Even with light pollution, some stars winked in the distance. Your body was a bundle of warm heat, buzzing with irritation after a fruitless day of soothing your body. You grew accustomed to your pert nipples against your silky slip, the lubricant coursing down your leg. At first, denial. Now, acceptance. You thought tomorrow might be better.

You felt his presence before you heard, smelled, or saw him. Through the sea of scorched sensations battering your senses, there was one that stood apart. A tickle that niggled at the back of your head. It could have been anyone, but you didn’t have to guess to know who it was. “Lyla." 

“You haven’t called him all day,” Lyla squeaked. 

“Called all-- I answered his call!” Your dress was matted to your body, cloaked in an abhorrent amount of sweat. It was only minutes ago that you retrieved your watch confident that you could bullshit something, anything, for a few days of reprieve. You jammed your shaking finger to resolve the call. 

“Not all of them. Miguel was worried.” 

“Worried! Lyla, that is not worried,” you spat. That was your Miguel, scaling the side of your apartment. His talons cracking the siding of your apartment. The reverberations spiraled up your legs, sending waves of anticipation lapping at your core. After your long day, you weren't sure how you were still somehow upright. With every crack of his talon into the brick siding, you were running out of time to come up with an excuse.

In a bid to escape, you fell into your room. The hard floor knocked the breath out of your dry lips. You stumbled onto your feet and supported yourself with a bookcase of less than half-read books. “Lyla, he can’t see me like this!” 

“Then tell me what’s going on,” she popped back up. “C’mon, you can tell me, it can’t be that bad.”

If her tone was playful in some half-baked attempt to neutralize your fight, the threat was imminent. Your hand connected with the top of the window, applying pressure to close the window. A hair too late. At the same time, Miguel’s clawed hand curled around the bottom of the window sash. You were too slow for the man who excelled with power, speed, and efficiency. You weren't going to win this fight. Not with your body threatening to crack at the very sight of your man's strength.

Though you saw him nearly daily, he always took your breath away. His sinewy body was always a sight, his suit accentuated his thick and fine cut. You moistened your lips, longing to run your fingers through his thick dark brown hair as you did every night. You caught his sharp gaze a second longer than you should have.

 “Open up,” he whispered coolly.

He was a distraction. The wind was not on your side either, blowing wisps of his scent into your overwrought senses. His natural musk mixed with the sweat of a hard day's work. Somewhere in there, bitter blood. You could smell the caramelized scent of the flaky, buttery empanadas and hot coffee you shared the day before. It gave you pause, his intoxicating smell and the sultry trill of his voice. But you couldn’t let him see you, not like this.

“Oop, there he is. Just checking on you,” Lyla chittered. Resolve.

“Miggy, please go away,” you sobbed in frustration, shifting to shoulder the window. “Why are you so stubborn!?” 

“It’s who I am.” 

The window cracked all at once. With mere milliseconds to respond to the sash careening into the upper rail, you whirled past the bedroom door. Miguel broke into a run behind you with long strokes of his legs. He made contact, sending you barreling into your lazy sapphire couch from the impact. You saw stars for a fraction of a second before you lurched on your palms and elbows, scrambling off of the couch and across the floor. His hand caught your ankle and dragged you underneath his body.

“¡Ay!” you bit out. “No, no no no. Miggy!” 

“¡Callate!” 

His hand wrapped tightly around your throat to force complacency, pinning you back to the hardwood floor. Your palms slammed onto his chest, drawing lines down his chest. Bits of pathetic electricity fizzled on his broad, muscular chest, a consequence of your fading focus. That focus was eviscerated when Miguel threw his hips flat against your core. Your frantic fidgeting against Miguel soothed some of the terrible, buzzing pressure rattling between your legs like warm honey on a sore wound. The ache for his relief became more important than the impulse for substantial breaths.

“Don’t move. Why are you--”

“I can’t help it,” you cut him off, straining against his large palm to stare at his crotch. His gaze fell on yours, following the path to his soft cock. His eyes widened with the sudden attention. Tears threatened to spill over from your eyes, pricked with spikes of pain. "It's too much!"

You ate your shame with his body crouched between your legs and his large palm choking the air out of your throat. The influx of air not only brought your scent, but your day-long desperation to fix what you believed was wrong. He could smell it now. He could see it now. He could hear it in your voice. He knew why you failed to answer his calls. The violent jabbing of the resolve button. Throwing your watch into your cramped closet to ignore the calls. The pheromones that soaked your apartment. It was unavoidable.

“You can’t help it,” he repeated. Miguel considered you with razor-sharp eyes, nearly as sharp as the talons that rescinded into his arms. 

"I'll see about that." His hand left your neck to reveal bundles of bumpy shivers that soared across your skin. He raised his finger to wipe away the wet tears that fell from your flushed cheeks. Then dropping lower, Miguel chased the thin straps of your gown with his claw and slid the offending fabric off of your breast. The nub was as hard as it had been hours ago when you twerked the nipple between your fingertips and dreamed of Miguel.

“You’re...” he cupped your breast in your palm and massaged your nipple with one sharp twist of his thumb. The gasp that left your lips wasn’t one you were proud of. Your undulating hips that ground down on his cock weren’t entirely unwarranted. You needed it. "Hot. As if you're in heat."

This couldn’t be happening. From a ball of rage to one of arousal, he released a tiny amused chuckle. You spent much of the day in different parts of the apartment with your hand, toy, ice, and water into your body to soothe this terrible ache. So Miguel wouldn't see you like this. It was this moment you sought to avoid after your long day: The moment of Miguel's disapproval. Now he laughed at you.

“Happy?” you sobbed into the forearm that kept Miguel stable. “Go away, someone else could use your stupid help.”

“Don’t you need me?” Miguel dipped his head down. Strands of his dark hair tickled your hypersensitive skin. With the lightweight fabric of his suit, pressing your cunt back against his clothed bulge felt wonderful. You bit your lower lip and watched his cock jut against its fabric. You lifted your puffy eyes to his gaze and found a wicked gleam there. He knew it wasn’t enough contact for the pressure and painful spasms to abate. Deep down, you knew that Miguel was your only hope for relief. Who else could, or would, you call in this condition? Mostly because Miguel always fixed everything.

"Miggy," you murmured. After this pitiful display, he wasn't rejecting you? Your mind flowed weightless and light. The terror of your day faded under his careful caress. In its place, comfort that he would take care of you.

“Don’t you?” His hand snaked between your folds and found it soaked wet, the low throbbing of your pussy palpable. He retracted his fingers and spread the sticky fluid between his thumb and middle finger. At some point, silence became better than an answer. Miguel brought his hand down on your cunt for a sharp slap. Bundles of nerves cried out under the abuse. It shook free a squeal from your lips, bitten raw by the pressure of the day. Your head bobbed into a mechanical nod as to save yourself from another slap.

“You know how to ask. It’s si Miguel, por favor Miguel.”

You needed the warm sensation of his cum. But making those words proved too difficult. Your canines pierced bloody holes in your lower lip. You clawed up his forearms, trying to leverage and force him closer. Miguel grabbed your shoulders and thrashed them back down onto the floor. You felt bad for the downstairs neighbors. 

“Say it.” 

“Miggy,” you looked into his eyes. They were blown wide, nearly fully black with a thin outline of scarlet, chasing the outline of your exposed breast. For all his talk, you realized he wasn't immune. Even with his face tight, his eyes focused on the same thing you needed. Maybe, all this time, you were baiting Miguel with half-assed answers. They were invitations. Invitations to come to fill this need you had. You would be lying if you said that wasn’t what you wanted this whole time. Finally, you had him where you wanted him. 

Miguel broke eye contact first. He cupped his plush lips around your nipple, suckling the breast taut and wet. You cried out in surprise and arched into Miguel’s mouth, enticed by the fangs that grazed your nipple. As quickly as he came, he was gone.

You lurched up, palming Miguel's dick through his pants. His hips bucked into your palm. He refused to make any sound as he considered your next movements, releasing Miguel’s cock from his suit. Impatience and need coalesced into your brave movements, sliding your palm against him. He was impossibly thick and hard, dribbling at the tip. Miguel huffed a small noise as your palm ran over him. You dared to call it a moan.

Miguel sneered and shoved you back onto the floorboards. “I’ll only tell you one more time. Ask me properly.” 

"You do too, don't you?" You giggled. A noise that grated his ear. With the belief you wouldn’t bolt, Miguel shifted back onto his knees. You wouldn’t. There was nowhere left to run. Not that you even wanted to, fat and hungry off Miguel's growing desperation.

"Come here." He snaked his hands underneath your knees, dragged you close, and pushed them to your chest. Your eyes fluttered shut. Moments later, the sensation of his thick dick sliding against your engorged folds forced them back open. It gave you just enough relief through the pulsing pain to look at him with your hazy eyes. From this angle, you appreciated how large Miguel had gotten. His round cock-head bobbed and crested over your mound as it rubbed against your aching clit. His face was trained, focused. He wasn't going to relent first.

The nagging pressure never abated. You sought something more, something better, the sensation of being filled. With every glide, you squeezed your walls in protest to his absence. Your hips protested the restriction of your movement, shimmying against the firm hold he had that kept you in place. You wanted more than that. You wanted true relief from his teasing. Miguel drew back to inspect the fluid over his fat shaft as held you down. You gave in, whining at him like a brat.

“Por,” you scratched his forearms. “Por favor, Miggy. You don’t know what it's like.” 

“All fours-- face down.” 

The cacophony of desire battered and overcame any other human emotion you could have. You complied, crawling onto your fuzzy indigo rug for what came next. Miguel’s gloved hand skimmed across your ass, middle finger skimming toward the center. He followed up his gentle touch by reeling back his hand and cracking it across your ass, searing the nerves alive. Once, twice, and then a third. Tears pricked your cheeks again, a consequence of your nerves being overwrought and now assailed.

“Miggy!” 

He shushed you with fervor, another thwack beating the jiggling flesh hot and red. Your legs trembled under the weight of his slaps. “Ignore my calls again and you’ll get much worse.”

“I didn’t-- you wouldn't want me,” your lips parted in defense of what you’d done. Miguel dipped down to spread your folds, rolling his index finger along your pulsing walls. Your body drew him in, squeezing and urging him forward. Your swollen walls were impossibly tight, straining to bring him in more and more.

"You know I do."

The need for more devoured any other thought, any threats of what he’d do next time. You rolled your hips to ride his hand. In place of a slap, Miguel slid another finger slid in beside the first to stretch your walls open. He faltered at your next words and slid his fingers free.

“Not like… not like I need you.” 

“Who decides that?” he pressed on your upper back to force it down. You complied. Miguel stumbled forward, finally pressing his thick head to your pulsing entrance. His round head pressed, just barely, into your wet hole. You clenched down, inviting him into your warmth. You weren’t sure he’d actually give it to you. It was so damn close.

“You do, Miggy,” you murmured, pushing back. He watched as his shaft slowly disappeared into your body, your apprehension of retaliation rendered you too slow to finish.

Miguel snatched your waist and forced you to take the rest, a soppy squelch lubricating his shaft. The sound that slipped from your lips was entirely uncouth, punctuated by his unforgiving thrusts. Your walls strained around his cock. No matter how many times you took him, the drag of his cock and slap of balls against your body always felt somehow like the first. It filled that ache-- the consistent burning need to have him here, inside of your greedy body, scratching something that you could not itch all day. It’s what you wanted. 

“That’s right, I do.” Miguel rumbled, short, punctuated thrusts beating your clenching cunt into complacency. The pleasure ruptured through your cunt-- battering his dick in response. He let loose a sharp grunt followed by a string of curses. Your sweet release spilled over his dick and balls, dripping down your thighs. Your legs threatened to shook, but Miguel was unwilling to allow your trembling legs to give out.

"Ah! Miggy!" His fangs punctured your shoulder to force you to stay in position, his pelvis stuttering against yours. His growl punctuated the warm, soothing cum that soothed your walls like warm honey over a wound. Your walls milked him free of his cum, spasming in response to his orgasm. He pieced himself together against your back, pulling his fangs free and settling a soft kiss over the burning wound on your shoulder. As if he hadn't been the one to tear his fangs into the crook of your neck.

“You’re not letting go,” he hummed in annoyance. He turned his attention down to your ass, ghosting his fingers over the healing bruises over your backside. You squealed, jerking forward. He followed you forward, punching a hole in the floor by your side. “Fuck, don’t move!” 

You cast your attention back toward Miguel. He huffed forcefully out of his nostrils. He motioned toward your ass as if it were obvious-- your walls were clamped over his cock, unwilling or otherwise unable to let him go, as if he had any more cum to give in that current moment. You took it all.

“I. I didn't-- I can’t--” 

“Yeah, I know. That Bee venom does that. Mine should neutralize it.”

At some point, you murmured. It sure as hell wasn’t doing it now, keeping him seated into your cunt that bubbled with the mixture of his and your release. “You knew about it? I could have died!” 

Miguel chuckled. 

“You wouldn’t. You’re too stubborn to die,” he sighed, fiddling with his watch. The tests-- that you never had ran. Ones that he suggested. Ones that you refused quite openly. “Why would I deny myself the fun?” 

His cock slipped free. Your hips dropped and fell slack against the floor. You weren’t proud of the cum that oozed out of your ass over your decimated room, nor the fact that your useless neighbors hadn’t called for help once. Not that you needed it-- but still. You palpated your stomach, slightly distended. Miguel bent down and gathered the mixture of your bodily fluids on his fingers, suckling his own fingers dry. You watched his wet tongue swirl around his fingertips. It wasn't fair.

“Fun? What fun!? Do you know how long I-- You’re a mean man, Miguel O’Hara.” 

He lurched over, his breath tickling your lips. He kissed you, salty and sweet. Your nose scrunched up, pouting against his lips. He left the room for the kitchen, fetching a wet cloth to clean his body with. He zipped himself back into his suit shortly after and dropped the sodden cloth by the cum puddling under your ass.

“Never said I wasn’t.” 

[howtofightwrite]

Is it possible to punch someone in the face in a way that causes visible damage, but doesn't impair them much in the long term?

It's extremely possible.

Your face is, mostly, a lot of soft tissue positioned directly over bone. This means that blows to the face, even relatively minor ones, are likely to produce disproportionately nasty looking injuries, without inflicting any meaningful impairment.

The first two are bleeding. Either from splitting the skin open, or via bruising. When there is bruising, there's also going to be some swelling (because there's relatively few places for the blood to go), so the victim has extremely visible injuries, which will be painful, but are otherwise mostly cosmetic.

Of course, bleeding from the face will look incredibly bad, whether that's from the nose, a split lip, or from simply from the skin tearing during the punch, but, again, that's going to be mostly cosmetic.

Cuts in the mouth can be a bit worse, but again, this can result in symptoms that look much worse than they are. Normally, if you're coughing up blood, that's an extremely bad situation, however, if someone has punched you in the nose and started a bleed running back down your throat, or if you've bitten your tongue or cheek, you may be literally spitting up blood, without being in serious peril.

Cuts to the cheeks and lips can also be caused by your foe driving the soft tissue into your teeth. This can also result in injuries that have difficulty clotting. The actual blood loss isn't serious, but it can be annoying if you've gotten a gashed lip that refuses to stop leaking blood for hours. (I'm speaking from personal experience here.)

A broken nose is a bit more serious. Not because they're particularly dangerous, but because it's likely to permanently alter the angle of your nose. This will also result in a lot of blood making the injury look worse than it actually is. Again, you're not going to lose a meaningful amount of blood, but it'll look exceptionally bad.

While it's less likely to occur with a punch, cuts to the forehead, even relatively solid gashes, are another cases where it will look far worse than the injury is. Your forehead is one of the most heavily armored portions of your body, and cuts there are likely to cause a lot of visible bleeding, without resulting in a meaningful loss of blood. If your body works the way it's supposed to, bleeding from the forehead should get into your eyebrows and flow around your eye, without obscuring your vision. In practice, you absolutely can get blood in your eyes, depending on your facial structure. I can't really speak to that experience, though I'd be inclined to say it's probably not especially pleasant.

Now, a lot of facial injuries hurt. Your face has a lot of nerve endings, and those are quite happy to report to your brain, when something's just caused it harm. This is especially true of your lips and tongue, as you use those organs extensively to evaluate the safety of the food you consume (even if you don't think about it.) (Chewing off a portion of my own lip to get the bleeding to stop still ranks as one of the most unpleasant bits of field care I've every experienced, and I strongly recommend not seeking out that experience.) So, this isn't without any impairment whatsoever, but in general, these aren't going to be life altering injuries, or even wounds that require weeks to fully recover from. Facial injuries are singularly unpleasant, but they are rarely serious. (Unless we're talking about damage to the eyes, or broken bones. Both of which are unlikely outcomes from punches.)

In a somewhat perverse way, blows to the face is ideal for inflicting injuries that look far worse than they actually are.

-Starke

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[citricacidprince]

...Mable stuck with bill timestuck, you say? I wonder if that would go better or worse than dipper being alone with bill.

Here to mention that I somehow only noticed your signature when it was next to fiddleford, and thought you were (rightly) calling him a prince. It took an embarrassingly long time for me to connect the dots.

Haha you’re not the first person to mistake my signature for actual writing so dw you’re good lol!

And as for my thoughts of Mabel and Bill in a Timestuck AU,,,

I may or may not have written a drabble in a mutuals DMs a few years back about a confrontation between Mabel and Bill and the aftermath of it! I also may or may not have just fixed it up and straight up doubled the word count haha-

Since I’m feeling a tad bit brave I’m gonna post the drabble under the cut for anyone to read along with two doodles I’ve done for it, I only ask that yall be nice to me since I don’t write very often and know I ain’t that good at it hehe-

Also I’m not lying this is like,,, 4707 words… I got possessed to write this haha

Before I begin!!! Important!!!

Trigger Warnings: Choking/Asphyxiation, harm to children, minor descriptions of small cuts and minuscule amounts of blood, verbal planning of commiting a murder/killing

(if I missed any please tell me!)

With that out of the way here's my stupidly long Timestuck AU drabble that's been on my back burner for years! The only thing you really need to know is that the twins time-traveled back after Weirdmagenddon of their own volition. Dipper is with Stan and Mabel is with Ford and Fiddleford. Mabel has been staying with the two for almost a month now and Fiddleford is the only one who knows she's a time traveler.

With the stage set, please enjoy!

💫—————————————🚩

It’s late into the night, Mabel is tossing and turning and can't go to sleep. Her mind is spiraling as she overthinks and worries about Bill, her brother, her Grunkles, everything. So at about 1AM she decides that she’s not going to bed anytime soon and gets up off the living room couch which she has called her new bed while staying with her younger Grunkle Ford and Fiddleford.

Despite it being the dead of night Mabel thought it’d be a good idea to just make something food related in hopes it would tire her out. Also, she figured it would be a fun idea since she knows Stanford is most likely still awake and probably hasn’t eaten in a while. She could make him something easy and sweet, like a batch of cookies, and give them to him as a gift! Who doesn’t like 1AM cookies?! If she doesn’t have the stuff to make that, eh, she’ll figure it out and make something else!

A bonus to this is that if Ford says he’s not hungry, a bold faced lie, she’d use her sweetest and biggest puppy eyes until he ate some. Maybe she could even convince him to go to bed and not stay up till 4AM!

The brunette starts making a batch of cookies in the cover of night, making sure to have plenty enough for Fidd's in the morning, and putting her entire heart and all her worries into the mix in hopes the oven would ease away the stress weighing down her mind.

Sure it took a while, but it would totally be worth it to see her young Grunkle's face light up in shock at the sight of a warm batch of cookies shoved into his face and getting crumbs on his nerdy notes!

Right as she was finishing up wrapping up three separate plates worth of cookies in a napkin with a pretty little bow, for the ✨aesthetic✨ she happily told herself, she hears a pair of heavy boots walk into the kitchen.

The voice of her, now young, Grunkle Ford calls out her name in the quiet kitchen. Just as she had expected, he was awake.

Before the excited brunette could whirl around and surprise Ford with the 1-2 AM batch of cookies she lovingly went and made by hand, his low voice rumbled out, “Could you grab me a mug? One from the cabinet.”

He sounded a little funny, like he just woke up. Mabel smiled as she could already picture Stanford’s bleary and tired face as he goes to make a cup of coffee with the mug he’s asking for. She lets out a small sound of exertion as she pushes herself onto the counter since she’s too short to reach the cabinets otherwise and gingerly opens the cabinet so it doesn’t squeak and pulls out a mug. Based on the small cracks and worn paint on the ceramic it seemed a tad old, the faded words of ‘Backupsmore 1973’ barely legible.

Just as Mabel turns around, about to lightly scold her young Great Uncle for drinking coffee at 2 AM instead of getting some rest, a large hand wraps around her little neck. She didn’t even have a chance to scream as she’s suddenly slammed into the now closed cabinet, the air knocked out of her lungs and her head spinning from the impact, a loud sound of ceramic shattering on the wooden floor echoing through the kitchen and Mabel’s ringing ears

A fearful confusion consumes her mind as she, unsure of what’s happening in her dazed state until she catches a glimpse of Stanford. Gone were the warm brown eyes she’s grown accustomed to, in their place were the sickly yellow slit eyes of a monster she knew all to well.

Bill Cipher.

“Shooting Star, there you are! I think you're getting a tad too comfortable around here! Let's fix that!"

Malice built in her throat as she spat out, her brows furrowed and her brown eyes glaring down his yellow ones, “Bill! You-”

“Ah, so you do know me! I assumed so, but wasn’t quite sure!”

The six fingered hand around her neck pressed a tad harder against the wooden cabinet behind her, making her wince from the pressure.

“Here’s the deal, Shooting Star, you’re being a massive thorn in my side.”

Her back was already aching from the impact of her getting slammed against the cabinet.

“Making Sixer second guess his trust in me with your insufferable kindness and child-like whimsy.”

Her sock-covered feet were slipping and sliding on the wooden countertop, legs uncontrollably trembling as her fingers gripped at Stanford’s large forearm in hopes of steadying herself.

“It was amusing at first but now it’s just annoying. So I need you,”

His hand tightened even more, making Mabel let out a sharp hiss of pain.

“Out of the picture.”

Mabel’s feet no longer are touching the countertop as Bill suddenly pulls her away from the cabinet, easily dangling her little body in the air and effectively hanging her. Panic instantly shoots through her and tears well up in her eyes as her airway is suddenly completely cut off, her little hands grabbing and clawing at her possessed great uncle’s forearm while her legs wildly kick at the air, too short to even graze against Bill’s chest.

Bill’s free hand raises up and idly taps his chin, as his musing over something indecisively, an wide and uncanny grin stretched across the possessed scientist’s face as he loudly questions, “Hmmm… how about… throwing you in the lake! If the water doesn’t kill you the cold air will!”

Mabel started to thrash around even harder, her heart pounding in her chest as fear coursed through every nerve in her body, her flight response in full gear as she tried over and over again to get out of Bill’s grip with no avail.

“Oooh! Or I could just tie you up and bury you in the snow! I hear frostbite is real killer these days!”

Blood was rushing to her ears; she could barely hear a word he was saying. All she could focus on was the panic bubbling in her chest and adrenaline pumping in her veins, screaming at her that she didn’t want to die.

It didn’t take long before her vision began to blur, her clawing hands and kicking feet getting more and more numb and slow with each passing seconds. She could faintly hear Bill say something about ‘throwing’, ‘roof’, and ‘classic!’ before she could feel herself almost completely clock out, vision fluttering in and out as her hand weakly claws at his arm one last time.

Just as she was about to give up completely, the polydactyl hand around her neck suddenly let go, sending Mabel unceremoniously crashing to the floor. She let in a large gasp of air, coughing her lungs out as air desperately tried to fill them once more. The brunette doesn’t even care about the small shards of broken ceramic cutting into her hands or shins, she was trying to make sure she didn’t accidentally start hyperventilating as drool and tears drip from her face to the floor with every sharp breath.

Mabel, disoriented and dazed, manages to glance up through strands of her long and curly brunette hair to see Ford still standing there with those disgusting yellow eyes, which were now staring off to space with annoyance clearly visible in his gaze.

"Geez Sixer, you chose the worst time to want your body back to 'test a new theory' huh?" He quietly mumbles under his breath, looking upset that his fun was being rudely ripped away from him.

Suddenly he stares down at Mabel, who was clutching her throat and panting heavily, brown eyes unable to stop crying. Despite this, despite all the pain and numbness that ran through her, she still found it in her to glare at the dream demon with as much animosity as she could muster while surrounded by ceramic shards and small prickles of blood.

"Well… we’ll just have to pick this up another time, won't we Shooting Star?"

The possessed body of Stanford Pines strolls towards the archway leading out of the kitchen, however before he leaves completely, he stops and whirls around with that same twisted smile Mabel vividly remembers seeing on her possessed brother’s face just a few months ago. "Oh, Shooting Star? Would you be a doll and clean up this mess? Wouldn’t want anyone getting hurt now, would we?"

And with one final cackle he left, making his way back downstairs to Stanford’s study, presumably to make it appear like he never left in the eyes of the oblivious scientist, leaving the little brunet alone on the floor to lightly grip her neck, wincing at the bruise that's bound to appear the next day.

She stayed there silently for what felt like hours but was only just a couple minutes, the adrenaline coursing through her veins slowly but surely fading away as the feeling finally came back to her numb fingers and toes, relieved that she isn’t hyperventilating anymore and she can actually breathe.

She eased herself off the cold wooden floor, her little body trembling the entire time.

Despite the feeling of spite coursing through her veins for that awful dream demon, he was right…, she really didn’t want anyone to get hurt… So instead of immediately going to fix herself up she spent the next 10 minutes sweeping up the broken mug and getting all the broken shards of ceramic into the trash.

Curse her and her big heart…!

When she was done it was about 2 AM, and it was now officially time to check the damage.

Before she left the kitchen she made sure to put the plates of cookies into the fridge.

She didn’t really feel hungry anymore.

With a couple of winces and hisses of pain she managed to tip toe herself up the stairs and to the bathroom, making sure she didn’t accidentally wake up Fiddleford by stepping on a loose plank or opening the door too loud. Once inside she gingerly pulls out the old timey medkit from under the sink and sits on the floor.

Well, technically the medkit was modern since it was the 80s…

Wah, Mabel! Not the time!

With a deep breath she gingerly treats the tiny cuts gracing her hands and shins, trying not to cry as she disinfects each cut just like Grunkle Ford taught her to at the end of the summer, plucking out mini pieces of ceramic embedded in her skin with a pair of tweezer like how her Grunkle Stan had taught her at the beginning of the summer (note from her past self, splinters are never fun).

Cleaning and applying band-aids to the cuts was the easy part, most of the bandages would be hidden under her sweater and the winter pants Fiddleford had gifted her during her first couple days staying at the shack.

It was her neck that was going to be hard to hide.

Mabel stood up and got on a step stool to look into the minor, immediately wincing at the sight of her bare neck, dark purple was already creeping in and bruising every bit of her neck. The brunette leaned closer to get a better look and almost whispered out one of the many swears she had accidentally learned from Stanford while living here.

There was a hand bruised into her neck, and it encompassed her entire neck.

She gingerly touched her neck and winced at the dull pain. Guess she wasn’t going to take off her sweater for about 2 weeks now… just 1 week if she was lucky enough…

She tentatively took a step outside of the bathroom and tiptoed down the hallway again, trying to not make a single sound. Just when she got to the steps she heard a door open behind her, causing her to instantly crouch down and hope that she was far enough down the stairs that her body was hidden from sight.

She dared herself to peek just above the top step to see Fiddleford standing outside of his room, stretching and yawning before closing his door and walking towards the bathroom Mabel just left, making the 13-year-old let out a sigh of relief that he wasn’t going to see her like this.

She knew she should probably tell Fiddleford what happened, but she just couldn’t. Maybe it was that childish fear of getting in trouble over nothing getting to her, or maybe it was the fear that her young Grunkle would be blamed for what Bill did.

Regardless, despite her better judgment, she kept her mouth shut and decided to hide her bruises from everyone else in the house, silently thinking of a way she could somehow protect herself from Bill.

She could practically hear Dipper yelling at her about how bad of an idea this was, but she was too shaken up to think of anything else…

So, she kept with the plan even as she shakily slipped a sweater over her large t-shirt she wore as a night gown and fell asleep on the couch, huddled in the corner in a ball as vivid nightmares haunted her fitful sleep, showing flashes of a possessed Stanford Pines throwing her off either the house or a water tower.

She woke up the next day to the warm smell of breakfast and the soft tones of Fidd's humming a tune in the kitchen, her body absolutely aching and a tad sweaty from the combo of the sweater and the fireplace keeping the room warm.

Mabel winced as she got off the couch. Yep… her back is definitely bruised.

She tentatively walked towards the open archway leading into the kitchen, silently calming her nerves and trying to put a smile onto her face. It helped that Fiddleford is making breakfast, she loves his food.

The kicthen was so empty when she first arrived but the southern man immediately starting keeping the place stocked when it was clear that she was going to stay there for a while. He also insistent on making her a meal 3 times a day since she was a ‘growin’ lil’ girl’. Because of her memories of Fiddleford being ‘Old Man McGucket’ were much more prominent in her brain it was easy to forget that he was once a father, but in those domestic moments when he doted and fussed over her it was clear that he was a good one.

Well, when he was sane that is…

She quickly shook off the bleak memory.

Happy thoughts, happy thoughts, happy thoughts…

She let out a low breath as a wide smile covered her face, her round cheeks rosy as she happily skipped inside.

Fiddleford perked up at the sound of Mabel walking inside, smiling as immediately spoke with a fond voice, "Ey there sweetpea, sleep well?" He idly glanced behind to see Mabel in her baggy t-shirt/sleep gown as well as a sweater on top of that, making him raise an eyebrow as he playfully asks, "Did someone get' cold last night?"

"Just a little bit." Mabel playfully replied back, unable to stop the wince that crossed her face at the sound of her hoarse voice.

Fiddleford, who was already done making breakfast, immediately whipped his head around at the sound. "Honeybee, are ya' alright?"

She lightly coughs into her fist a couple times and passingly remarks, “I’m fine, it's just morning gunk! Just need some water, haha!” Trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

Fiddleford still had a suspicious look in his eye as he looked over the little lady before deciding to let her off easy with this one, grabbing a rag and wiping his hands while replying with a quiet, “Alright, if ya say so, sunshine…”

He quickly pours Mabel a glass of water and then grabs a plate of bacon and pancakes. “Fer you, made just how you like it,” Mabel sits down in her chair as Fiddleford places the glass of water in front of her and a plate of pancakes and some bacon that is extremely burnt. “Burnt in a volcano.”

The brunette drinks some water first, happy to note that it actually does ease the pain in her throat! After that she eagerly grabs a burnt piece of bacon and shoves it into her mouth, loving the way flakey black residue smears onto her fingers and the overwhelming taste of what can only be described as ‘BURNT’ fills her mouth. She muffles out, “It’s perfect!” In between bites as Fiddleford chuckles at her antics and makes himself a plate. “Yer such an odd lil’ duck, honeydew! Only kid I’ve ever met who wanna me ta’ burn their meal!”

Mabel immediately shoots back, pointing at Fiddleford with a mouth full of bacon, “Tahts cause ohther peowple are COWERDS!!!”

The lanky man lets out a full on belly laugh as he grabs his plate and sits at the table, the two beginning to talk about anything that crosses their mind.

Stanford wasn’t going to join them for breakfast. He’s usually asleep at this time or buried in whatever notes he was currently writing.

…Mabel feels a little bad that she's kinda happy he wouldn’t join them… Her throat feels like it’s constricting all over again at the thought of those sickly yellow eyes and horrid laughter…

At some point while eating, Fiddleford makes a joke that makes Mabel loudly laugh, the sudden shout of laughter causing her to wince and try to grab at her throat. She stops herself a couple inches short of the grab and quickly puts her hand back down, but the damage was already done.

Fiddleford, concern coming back at full force, puts down his fork and immediately asks with a concerned tone, "Honey, is ‘ere somethin' wrong with ‘ur neck?"

Sweat began to bead on Mabel’s forehead and she tried to immediately brush off the concern with a not so convincing, "Whaaaaat, psh, nah!"

He raises an eyebrow at the clearly nervous little girl. "Mabel, if yer' hurt I'd like to know."

She starts to fidget in her seat, fingers wrapping together and her brown eyes darting away. "Look, it's not thaaaat bad you don't gotta worry about it-"

At the confirmation that she is indeed hurt makes him sit up and shoot back, "Well tha' just makes me MORE worried bout it!"

Unable to come up with anymore excuses Mabel plays with a fork in front of her, eyes locked with her plate. Fiddleford let out a soft sigh and leans closer to the brunette across the table and rests his hand on hers, a kind smile on his face as he gently adds on with that fatherly tone that immediately made Mabel feel better, "Darling, it ain't gonna get better if ya’ don't lemme help. I promise I ain’t gon’ get mad, ya hear?"

Mabel tentatively glanced up at the southern man’s soft green eyes and could tell he meant every kind word.

So, despite her promising to keep her injuries a secret, she takes a deep breath and nods her head, gingerly taking off the thick hand-made sweater to leave her neck and bandaged up arms exposed to the world. The lanky southern man’s eyes seem to grow more horrified every passing second.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph-"

Fiddleford jumps up from the table, almost making his plate fall off while doing so, quickly rounding the table and crouching in front of the brunette with green eyes filled with so much worry and horror.

He found himself fussing over the girl who had easily wormed herself into his and Ford's hearts and found himself growing even more sickened at every bruise and cut he found, though nothing could compare to that sinking feeling of dread he felt looking at Mabel's bruised neck.

He cupped the brunette’s face and could feel tears well up in his eyes as he stuttered out a confused, "W-wha'..., Mabel wha' on earth happened-" His heart breaking trying to even comprehend what could have happened to her.

On the opposite end, Mabel could feel her heart swell at Fidd's fatherly fussing, but tried to brush it off the best she could, not wanting him to worry about her.

"I'm fine really! I just, uh… tripped down the stairs…? …Yeah! Didn't want to worry you, haha!"

Fiddleford, who suddenly stopped paying attention to what Mabel was saying, let his eyes looking closer at the girl's neck before they widened in a horrifying realization.

"I… Is tha' a hand…?"

A rush of panic suddenly runs through Mabel as she tries to come up with some excuse to throw him off, something, anything!

"Fidd’s it's FINE! I just… uh… wore a sweater that was too tight…?” Goodness she’s screwed, even she was aware of how unsure she sounded.

Fiddleford still wasn’t paying attention. Instead one of his hands lowered from her rosy cheeks and ever so slightly touched her neck with the lightest of touches. His green gaze was analytical as finger traced down the bruised skin, talking to himself so quietly that even Mabel almost didn’t hear him as he quietly began to count.

“One, two, three, four, five, s-”

The blond cut himself off with a sharp inhale through his nose as the look of worry that had previously graced the southern man's face suddenly disappeared and was replaced with a look Mabel had never seen on his face before.

It was a quiet anger. The kind of anger that's terrifying to witness as it bubbles from deep inside but you refuse to let it show on your face, even as your hands begin to tremble and your vision goes red.

Without saying a word Fiddleford stood up and stayed completely silent, unable to say a word for about 10 seconds while his face was blank and unreadable. Finally, Fiddleford looked down at Mabel and gave a kind smile that didn't fully reach his eyes.

"Sweetie, could ya' stay here a sec? I have something importan' I need tha’… discuss… with Stanferd."

After finishing that statement he gently patted the top of her brunette head and walked out of the kitchen archway, turning the corner and heading up the stairs that lead to Stanford's room, walking with such silent intensity that it kinda frightened her.

After a couple moments of staying frozen in her chair she finally managed to shake off the feeling, realizing she had to stop Fiddleford! As scary as it would be seeing Stanford again after last night's… incident… she couldn't just let Fiddleford go confront Ford without the full story!

She sprang up from her chair and winced at the pain radiating from her back. Yep! Still definitely bruised!

Mabel rushed out of the kitchen and up the stairs. She stumbles to a stop at the end of the steps as she sees Fiddleford standing outside Ford's door, just as quiet as he was downstairs. He raises his hand and gives a firm echoing knock and she could faintly hear her young Grunkle respond with a strong, "Come in!"

She hates that she shivers a bit at his voice.

She hates that she's a little bit afraid of him.

Fiddleford doesn't respond and instead just opens the door and then quietly closes it behind him. The door doesn’t close all the way which makes a sliver of light from Ford's bedroom/study shine against the floor in the hallway.

Well... Fiddleford hadn't broken any windows or started yelling, so maybe, just maybe, he's going in there to calmly talk out the problem with Ford? Well, that was more wishful thinking on Mabel's part. She HOPES they will just, talk it out, and no one will get hurt...

A loud crash and shout echoed through the hallway.

A girl could dream can't she?

Mabel sprints to Stanford’s door, tripping over herself the whole way, and yanks open the heavy wooden door as quickly as she could.

When she finally pries it open she’s greeted with the sight of Fiddleford in the middle of trying to choke out Stanford, while Stanford is leaning against one of his smaller wooden cabinets, pushing Fidds away (to the best of his ability) with his foot, clutching his very bloody nose in confusion.

Mabel rushes in and pushes the southern man away from her bleeding Great Uncle to the best of her ability but Fiddleford upon seeing Mabel finally backs off from trying to murder Ford, but the look of pure anger firmly remains on his face.

Ford looks at Fiddleford with pure confusion as he pushes himself off the small wooden cabinet, clutching his bleeding nose all the while.

"F, what on earth has gotten into you!"

Fiddleford stared back with his mouth agape, absolutely gobsmacked, before finally yelling back, "Wha'- what's gotten into ME?! What's gotten into YOU Stanferd Pines!"

Fidds pushed past Mabel and jabbed his finger into the brunet’s chest.

"She's a lil girl?! How DARE you even lay a FINGER on her!"

"F what on earth are you talking about?!"

Fiddleford roughly grabs Ford's shoulders and pushes him to look towards Mabel with a surprising amount of force.

"SHE'S what I'm talkin' bout! Stanferd Filbrick Pines who gave you tha' idea ya' had tha' GODDAMN right to even lay a FINGER on her-"

Stanford couldn't focus on the rant Fiddleford poured into his ears instead his eyes state frozen on the disgusting purple mark staining Mabel's neck.

"Mabel… who-"

Stanford knelt next to the sweet girl who reminded him so much of Stanley in his youth and felt a familiar pang in his chest. That feeling he'd feel whenever Lee came home covered in bruises. That feeling to protect… and to hurt anyone who dares to hurt them.

"Sweetheart… who did this? What happened?"

Fiddleford scoffed. "Ya should know."

Ford shivered at how cold F had sounded. Out of all of his years of knowing him, Fidds had never sounded like this.

Then the meaning of those words finally hit him.

Stanford rushed to stand up and looked back to Fiddleford's furious eyes with his own look of disbelief.

"Y-... You think I did this?"

Fiddleford's eyes didn't change in the slightest.

"Ya'. Ya' I do."

"We've known each other for years, we went to college together, I went to your wedding, you are easily my best friend. Do you honestly think I'm capable of doing something like this?!"

"I used ta'," Fidds crossed his arms. "Now I ain't so sure."

Ford didn't know HOW to feel. This felt like a betrayal but not in the way Stanley's felt. He also felt offended. And hurt. And so many other emotions that were swirling in his chest.

"How? How did you even get it in your head that I had something to do with this!? How could you look at me and even IMAGINE me hurting her?! I can't even imagine myself hurting her! She's-"

"Hand."

Ford froze from his rant.

"What."

"Yer' tha' only one who coulda' done it. How do I know? Hand."

"Ya' always go on an' on about the statistics of someone' being polydactyly. About how different ya' are."

"I want ya' to look at how many fingers are on that handprint on 'er neck, look me in tha' eye, and tell me who's most likely tha' guilty party."

Stanford froze, his face turning white at the realization. He didn't need to turn around and investigate the bruise on Mabel's neck. He now knows it had 6 fingers. When you put all the facts together, one thing is clear.

He IS the most likely person to have done it.

But there's a problem with that.

He DEFINITELY didn't do it.

He glanced back at Mabel, who seemed to be nervously pulling at her nightgown the entire time. After a moment she finally glances up, but after looking into his brown eyes for less than a second she quickly looked back down.

He didn't do it. He knows he didn't.

But if he didn't, why did she look so scared of him?

He didn't do it…

…Didn’t he…?

❔—————————————❓

Now this is a bonus doodle based on an idea I had for the aftermath of this! Stanford is stuck mulling over this in his room and when he finally leaves he notes that Mabel isn't asleep on the couch like usual. So of course he freaks out and assumes she ran away, running all over the house in hopes of finding her. He runs upstairs to Fiddleford’s room and knocks frantically on his door to get him to help him find the missing girl.

Fiddleford opens the door looking annoyed and tired. When Stanford says he can’t find Mabel and that he’s looked everywhere the southern man cuts him off by instantly replying “I know where she is.” That instantly calms down Ford but he looks confused as he asks “You do?” To which Fidd’s opens the door a little bit more to show Mabel asleep on his bed.

Stanford lets out a soft ‘Oh.’ And just stands there, looking awkwardly at Fiddleford for a moment before trying to break the tension with a weak chuckle and asking “Did she want to have a sleepover?” The blond doesn’t even hesitate to reply back, “Yeah. Because she’s scared of you, Stanford.” And closing the door on the brunet’s face.

Stanford doesn’t move for what feels like forever before he heads back to his room, feeling a little sick.

Anywho, I’m done now!!!

I’m happy and sorry you read through all of that, you can leave now! 💥💥💥

[kingofbodyrolls]

End of the World (m) | myg | teaser

→ Summary: Your government has been telling you to prepare for war, just as a precaution given the recent political changes around your country. Did you listen and prepare? No. Are you paying the price now, friends all but gone, and your city burned to pieces? Yes. Survival instincts kicking in, you search for a place to rest, nourish your battered and hungry body, only to find yourself at the porch of a stranger. Will he help you, or leave you to your own demise?  → Pairing: Yoongi x reader (female) → Genres/AUs: science fiction, apocalyptic, survival, co-dependency to stay alive + heavy angst, fluff and smut. → Tropes: strangers to lovers, forced proximity (because love that shit) → Rating: mature/explicit/R18 (this is mature/explicit content, so minors, please do not interact.) → Word count: still writing (approx 10-20k) it’s a one-shot! → Author’s note: hiya. I’m currently writing this apocalyptic story with Yoongi, because… well. I’m fucking scared. So this is me working through and with my fear for something that I’m afraid is actually going to happen. We don’t need to talk about it, because a lot of bad shit is happening all over the world 😭 This is purely a story, though made up by my fears, yeah. Anyway, it’s okay if you’re not into it! The vibe for it is like The Last of Us and maybe a bit Fallout, I think if you enjoy that type of stuff, you’ll enjoy this one too. But it’s really heavy, but there’s a decent amount of fluff to balance it out, because, it’s still a fanfiction and it wouldn’t be that without some good old fluff and smut 🥰

You know you must move, but before you leave, there’s a promise to fulfill for Yuri.

You relieve yourself and step back onto the road, eyes fixed on the distant horizon that seems miraculously untouched by the ravages of war. That glimmer of hope pulls you forward. You have to reach it. No matter the distance, no matter the obstacles, you must get there. 

It’s your only chance.

You walk and walk—days blur into weeks. Your clothes hang off your frame, tattered and too big. Bombings have become a constant backdrop, each explosion a distant rumble you barely acknowledge. The earth’s violent shudders no longer faze you. Hunger gnaws at you, a relentless companion, its grip tightening until you can’t even remember your last meal. Water, your only steadfast ally, has kept you moving; without it, you’d have long since fallen.

You trudge along the desolate highway, the city a distant speck on the horizon behind you. You have no sense of how far you’ve traveled, only that the remnants of your home have shrunk to a mere dot in your vision. The road stretches endlessly ahead, a bleak reminder of the ground yet to cover.

Dizziness is your constant companion now, your throat as parched as the Sahara despite your efforts to hydrate. Water is scarce, and you’ve been rationing it for days. Hope feels like a distant memory, and though the elusive horizon you’ve been chasing for weeks appears closer, it still seems maddeningly out of reach.

Your body feels like lead, your feet swollen and throbbing with every step. 

Sleep is a distant memory, haunted away by visions of blood-streaked faces, final breaths, and echoing cries. Bloodshot eyes and a disheveled appearance mark your struggle; you’re still in your tattered nightdress, stained with blood and reeking of fear and sweat. 

No food, no shower, just the relentless march through this wasteland.

You’ve lost track of time—is it still September? 

The biting cold cuts through you, your torn and ruined shoes barely offering any protection. You trudge onward, desperate to find shelter, weary of hiding in the bushes from strangers who might wish you harm. Paranoia grips you; every rustle in the distance, every shadow makes you jump. Trust is a luxury you can’t afford. You feel like you’re unraveling, teetering on the edge of sanity.

When your eyes land on a solitary house down a side street off the main road, you can hardly believe it. You’re nowhere near your end goal, the neighboring city, yet here it is—a lonesome house in the middle of fucking nowhere. You chuckle, convinced you’ve lost your mind. Why would there be a house out here, untouched by the chaos? You blink repeatedly, but the house remains. Your feet carry you forward, despite your spinning head and the jumbled mess of thoughts in your mind.

The house, partially concealed by tall trees and lush bushes miraculously untouched by the war, seems like a relic from a forgotten world. An old jeep, battered but intact, sits beside the porch with its white picket fence. You approach cautiously, every step feeling surreal, and lift your hand to knock. Your bloody knuckles leave crimson smears on the pristine white door, a stark reminder of the nightmare you can’t escape.

You lose track of time standing there, every second stretching into an eternity, before the door is abruptly ripped open. You find yourself staring down the barrel of a rifle.

“Who are you?” a male voice demands, harsh and suspicious, but the words barely register. Your vision blurs, darkness encroaching, and the last thing you feel is the hard impact of the porch floorboards against your head as you collapse.

→ Do you want to join Yoongi on a quest for survival as the world crumbles around you? Let me know and I’ll tag you when it drops 💜

Also please let me know if you’re interested, excited about it— otherwise I’m probably just gonna post it on my ao3 only, lol. I’m scared 🫣

Read the second teaser + book cover [here]!

It's been posted!!!!

[snoopledrooplecheesedoodle]

Yandere! Slasher! Heartslabyul Headcanons

Just a quick ramble hopefully because I saw something by @lustlovehart about serial killer Floyd and Jade and I was like: Jade Leech would make a convincing Hannibal Lector. Then I was like Deuce but Jason Voorhes. Now is the product of my brain rot. Non-Twisted Wonderland setting. Reader is gender neutral unless explicitly stated. Minor characters aged up.

Tw: yandere behavior, medical professional abuse, gore, murder, cannibalism, mentions of murder being recorded, forced cannibalism, verbal abuse, ooc Dylla mentions of some other real nasty shit

17+ CONTENT, DO NOT INERACT IF YOU DO NOT WANT TO BE TRIGGERED BY THE FOLLOWING CONTENT. IF YOU INSULT MY WORK BECAUSE YOU IGNORED MY WARNING YOU WILL BE BLOCKED! BY CLICKING KEEP READING YOU CONSENT TO READING THE FOLLOWING MATERIAL!

Riddle Rosehearts:

Bros the perfect serial killer I mean he's got it all:

Perfectionist attitude, dedicated to his work, abusive mom. I mean the slasher film practically writes itself.

I'm going with Riddle becoming a doctor like his mother was and being known for being one of the most successful doctors in the city. People are waitlisted trying to visit this "miracle doctor".

By day Riddle is the strict perfectionist who cares deeply for his patients, by night Riddle is meticulously finding and sadistically torturing criminals and "rule breakers" before beheading them. At first, he is seen as a benevolent force for ridding the city of its criminals and scum. However, The Red Queen, as he is called, swings her axe indiscriminately and soon beloved public figures are on the chopping block.

You could meet Riddle a multitude of ways, for this I'll say you are a critically ill patient who is in and out of the hospital. Hearing about the "miracle doctor" lead to you pleading with the red head. Riddle was moved by the "innocence" in your eyes and your desperate tone of voice. You needed him. He agreed and started your treatment.

Riddle grows feelings because of your kind and forgiving nature. You don't hold his strict and commanding behavior against him, only seeing it as him doing his job. Finally, someone worthy of the help of the Red Queen.

The problem came when you came into the office battered and bruised one day. Riddle demanded to know who the perpetrator was, but you kept you lips sealed. Riddle grew angry at your defiance, how dare you defy your queen, your protector. He screams at you, causing you to cry and curl into a helpless ball. Riddle feels guilt at making you feel this way and apologizes before gently encouraging you to tell him who your abuser was.

Riddle felt his rage hit an insurmountable amount when you revealed your abuser was the personal nurse your family hired for you. How dare this insolent peasant lay a finger on your divine form? No matter, Riddle will look through your patient files to find information about this personal nurse. He finds out that this nurse lives with you as a live in nurse, Riddle takes this information in with a sadistic grin.

Time to pay them a visit

You heard a garbled croak as you exited your ensuite bathroom. What could be making such a terrible noise? Cautiously you peeped through the door and crept towards the source of the noise. It was coming from your living room. You pattered over to the living room in bare feet, when a strong odor hit you. Iron. TWACK something slides from the living room to your feet. It was a head, YOUR NURSE'S HEAD! You opened your mouth to scream when a gloved hand silenced you. You stiffened as you hear a familiar voice.

Quiet my patient, you don't want to be framed for murder, do you? They were breaking the rules so I must punish them. The rule being one must never harm the spouse of the Red Queen!

Trey Clover:

Yo can you imagine though?

Your sweet town baker feeding you treats he made with love and your ex-boyfriend's flesh and blood (don't worry you'll only taste it a little). All with loving golden eyes and a knowing smile.

After some time in the big city for college, Trey moved back to his hometown to take over his family bakery. He is immediately accepted by the community at large for his amiable and brotherly aura. In no time at all the bakery becomes popular to people outside of the town as well (particularly cannibals and other shady characters).

People come to the front for sweet treats and are led into the back to become the fresh ingredients. Trey mostly murders people that come from out of town and tourists, people the town folk won't miss. However sometimes he has to make do with the outsiders within the town. Anything to feed his clients and himself.

Let's say that you moved to this small town of Bakersfield (name of town) for a fresh start in life, leaving your toxic family and manipulative ex-boyfriend. You decided leaving the city would allow you to escape your problems (plus there were serial killers loose, you didn't want to be beheaded or killed on tape). You like the idea of being part of a small tight knit community that work as one big family. However, you were disappointed when the community greeted you with a cold shoulder. Already your thought new life was going to be a disaster until you met Trey.

Trey met you when you visited his bakery, he doesn't remember seeing your face around (he wonders what you would taste like). He turns on his customer service smile and greets you kindly. Your glum expression immediately turns into a cheery grin. That's strange he kind of likes making you smile. You order one of his special desserts, which he whips up fresh just for you and your beautiful smile (men have pretty smiles too male readers, if I have any).

You end up coming to the bakery pretty often, not only for the sweets but the charming baker who works the front counter. You're surprised that he's single because you think he's quite handsome and kind. You gotten a tiny crush for the man who serves you pastries with a smile, and gives you back your money claiming your presence is enough. Trey put you in such a good mood that you brought some of the extra sweets for your neighbors and actually started making connections with the town's folk.

Trey saw you becoming more welcome with the townspeople and that left a sour taste in his mouth. He had to bite his lip to the point of bleeding to prevent himself from scowling when you rambled about how nice everyone has been. He was the first person to be nice to you and this is how you treat him? Looks like he'll have to play dirty to get back into your good graces. He may or may not have found the number of your old abusive ex and revealed your location. He knows that its wrong, but he'll make it up to you by being your protector.

Soon enough you'll only depend on him

This man was sick. No person you met could look at you so lovingly while bashing your ex's head in with a crowbar. This psycho killed people and ate them and was forcing you to play a twisted form of house. The chain around your leg reminded you of this fact. Every. Single. Day. "Open up my love, you're losing weight far too much, I can't have you wasting away." You look the devil who called himself your husband in the eyes and glared weakly. "I won't eat anything you make!" Trey laughed callously at your scorn. "It's funny that you think you have a choice." A rough hand grasps your jaw while the other pushes its way inside. You knew better than to bite his fingers, pain was a cruel teacher. The spoon of stew lays in your mouth and the hand holding your jaws puts more pressure on it causing you to whimper.

"If you swallow, you won't have to stay in the cold and lonely basement. Won't that be nice, sweet pea, you'll get to sleep in our nice warm bed. Only if you're a good for me and swallow.

Cater Diamond (longest one by far)

Hoo boy, this dude also is prime slasher material.

We'll keep the backstory of overbearing sisters and constantly moving due to his dad's job. This wore on his psyche harshly and made him more shut off from the rest of his family. Of course, his family only started caring when his grades start to slip. He was diagnosed with depression and ADHD. The medication only helped him get better at faking being happy and carefree all the time. His life allowed for him to become a very good liar and mask emotions very well. When in high school and during his current adult life social media was his one safe place where he could feel happy. Everything was fake and that gave him comfort that others people's lives were probably as miserable as his. He perfected his camera work and putting on a cute face for his audience and became quite a successful instaounce model (haha I made it more American) and influencer. When Cater graduated (barely) he refused to go to college and instead focused on pursuing his dreams of becoming a full-time influencer.

While Cater may seem cute, sociable, and relatable online, he also is jealous, vindictive, and murderous offline. He sees other people who are pretty and popular as a threat to his online presence, and threats must be eradicated. Enter his other pastime on the internet, streaming himself torturing and killing popular people on social media for an eager and sadistic audience. He goes by the username Killer_Diamond 💎💎♦️ and has millions globally bid to see who's suggested method of torture will be expertly carried out by Cater's creepily cheerful persona.

For this we'll say you're the cute new barista at an aesthetically pleasing cafe Cater frequents for coffee pics. You greet Cater with the same positive energy he exudes. He orders a very complicated coffee, and you create the coffee right the first time. No one in all the time he's been here has gotten his order to his high standards. Why are you so special? It almost makes him frown how flawlessly you completed his order, but your genuine smile makes the sides of his fake grin wobble. How could you so openly and freely be happy?

Let's say that you were adventurous and decided to peruse the dark web for some spooky content to sate your curiosity. When you stumble into a red room by accident. What you saw horrified you a person who you recognize as some model your friend gushes about being hot was being tortured as the live chat was filled with other horrific suggestions as what else to do to her. You felt bile come into your mouth as you saw the person in a bunny mask rip the model's eye out, causing her to scream loudly. The bunny mask turns back to the camera and chirps "Ooh a new person tuned in, say hello to them." You slam your laptop shut and lay awake in bed all night.

Cater felt like he had a new pep in his step, humming to himself a popular song he made his way to the cafe. Murdering always cleared his head and helped him destress, much more affordable than therapy. He greets you with a genuine zeal to see you, poor thing with large eyebags and a shell-shocked expression. He didn't like seeing you so disturbed. He asked you what was wrong, only for you to fake a cheery expression and ask him for his order. Cater knew you didn't trust him, so he'd have to befriend you if he wanted you to speak. Perhaps even kill the person who made you so upset.

Wait kill? Why did he care what happened to the person who upset you?

Cater offers you to sit and have a coffee with him, you try to explain that you're still on shift but Cater doesn't hear it and sits down beside you. Cater knows how to keep a conversation going and knows just the right things to say to make you more trusting of his intentions. He's a bit irritated that you still won't tell him why you're upset, but no worries he'll get you to open up.

You were losing sleep over the murder you saw take place. It had been weeks ago, but you still could see that eye on the tip of that knife. Should you call the police? No, the murderer might be able to trace it back to you. What on Earth are you going to do? Your phone pings notifying you that Cater or Cay-Cay as he prefers you to call him was messaging you.

Hey babe<3

Found this cute little hole in the wall sushi place, thought it'd be good for you to come and eat some food with Cay-Cay😘💕

Well, you'd always have Cater.

On my way Cay!

Cater has never felt love before. His family meant nothing to him, and he would never reach out to a fan in distress. However, you were perfect, so sweet and friendly. He felt like he could hide his murder stream from you and just pretend to be your normal loving boyfriend. He felt a blush come to his face at the thought of you being officially his partner. You'd take so many cute couple photos! However, you were too cute for your own good, attracting boys, girls, and others by being your sweet little self. It's not fair that you're so charming that other people want you! THIS WILL NOT STAND! Cater ramps up the murders and even ignores his chat pleading for him to drag them out longer. He just needs you to see that he's your perfect match, even if he must kill the ones, you love and isolate you.

No matter what happens Cater will have a place in your heart. Even if he gets that place by killing.

You were terrified, one night of drinking away your sorrows and now you woke up to total darkness. You tried to feel you way out, but your hands were bound behind your back. Oh god you've been kidnapped! You were going to die! A blinding light turns on revealing a luxurious room with red walls. Oh, seven this was the red room you saw! The person with the rabbit mask walks to the camera which was pointed at you. "Hello again my lovely viewers today I have a very special guest, my lovely!" You shake as tears fill your eyes; you try to scream but the tape covering your mouth prevents you. "Ah, ah, dear, wait till we get home to let out those pretty screams. My audience is not allowed to hear them." Another spotlight lands on a terrified friend of yours who you remember vanished a few days ago. They looked to be in rough shape. The rabbit figure bounced on their heels and walks very close to you with his back to the camera. "Before we start, I'd like to give my co-star a quick kiss for good luck. The figure takes the mask off and you gasp at the familiar face of you friend Cater.

"I know it's not the real thing, but I'll kiss you right on the tape. Oh, don't cry darling you'll have all of Cay-Cay later tonight. For now, we have an audience to entertain!

Deuce Spade:

Bro's literally just Jason Vorhees and Bubba Sawyer I mean come on, a puppy dog like killer who listens to the dead voice of his mother and you only.

Let's say Deuce was raised alone with his mother in the woods, his mother only leaving him to go gather supplies in the town. His mother had to raise him on her own and instilled in him a fear and hatred towards outsiders. Due to his mother raising him by herself and him never attending school, he isn't very educated and had delayed speech. His mother died when he was ten making him officially go crazy and hallucinate his mom still being with him. He's a hermit who lives off the woods and kills anyone who steps foot on his property.

You were a case worker who found a case of a woman who "abandoned" her child in the woods. Weird it's been swept under the rug for twelve or so years. Well, you weren't one to heed the warning of other case workers who begged you not to go. You weren't going to let some child continue to be neglected.

Deuce was going through the motions of his routine. Waking up, dressing, putting on his mask, kill something for breakfast, cook it, and he was currently repairing the small cabin. His mother had gone silent for some time, and it was worrying Deuce. Did his mother abandon him? A loud noise shakes Deuce out of his thoughts, as a terrifying metal monster approaches the house. Mother what do I do?

You drive your car through the woods towards the address on the file. Weird there's no official road up to the house nor any signs signifying that you are going in the right direction. Suddenly an item came hurtling towards your wind shield causing you to scream in terror. Holy shit is that an axe?! You hear a figure thunder up towards you and you scream in terror. A lanky blue haired man with a hockey mask covered in blood grabs the axe from the windshield and raises it above your head. You are prepared to ram the car into his body until he freezes.

Deuce what are you doing? A familiar feminine voice reproaches in his ear. His mother didn't want him to kill the trespasser? Mother I'm getting rid of the trespasser, like you've taught me. A ghostlike pinch formed on his cheek. Why would you try and kill your spouse that I handpicked just for you? After I put all that effort in Deucy you're still so ungrateful! Deuce grunts as he puts a hand up to his masked cheek. No mother I am grateful...they're actually quite attractive. Then stop wasting time and grab them before they drive away!

You scream as a hand breaks through your window and tries to pull you out of your car. You frantically swat at the hand that pulls you out of the driver's seat and places you over his shoulder. You kick and scream as he walks back to the cabin with you in tow, it was insulting how easy he managed to pick you up (Deuce is super strong in this, so fat readers you weigh nothing to him). You didn't want to die before finding the kid. "Hey, let me go, I need to find this kid named Deuce Spade!" The hulking figure freezes.

You are now being held off the ground and, in his arms, (if you're tall your feet are dragging) looking you dead in the eye. You try to maintain calm but who the hell would maintain calm when this muscular hermit is mouth breathing directly on you. The figure takes his mask off to reveal a handsome yet scared face of a man with blue hair, that looked a little too familiar. "Mother was right, you really are made for me." You open your mouth to protest when a pair of rough lips make contact with yours. You pound his firm chest with your fist, to no avail. The man pulls back to look at you with lovesick eyes and a heavily flushed face. "I'm Deuce Spade and mother said you are mine. How wonderful it is to have someone else in the family now!" Oh, geez what have you gotten yourself into.

Ace Trappola:

I heavily dislike Ace, like he rubbed me off the wrong way when we first met him in the game. I know everyone is supposed to be a villain but for someone who's one of our best friends he likes to insult us a little too much (more than the actual ex-bully). I'll try to do my best besides the biased (there are others who I didn't like on first meeting but grew to like).

Ace Trappola and you are childhood friends to your families. To you he's been a monster hell bent on torturing you till the day you die. He'll play the sweet golden boy next door to your parents, asking politely if you're home. Your parents sacrifice you to the demon in front of you to "play". They always blame you for the scratches and bruises you have after the "play date". He always gives you the same sadistic grin when others aren't watching.

Ace is a messed-up boy who wants to make you scared of him. He thinks it's funny when you cry in pain as he tugs your hair or punches you in the face. You're so much weaker than him and that gives him a high like no other. When puberty hit however, you grew much taller and stronger than Ace and wouldn't be pushed around anymore. When he brought a knife to school to scare you, you beat him to a bloody pulp. Something changed in him when you stood over him, once docile eyes filled with rage. It was kinda hot not gonna lie.

Ace goes from the bully to a psycho who stalks you constantly. You must have hit him too hard because instead of wanting to hurt you, he's hurting others who try and be around you. You think he's disgusting every time he groans when you hit him to get him to stop following you. Ace gets taken away to a psyche ward after the Senior Prom massacre. Let's say he didn't take to kindly to you asking someone out to the prom who wasn't him and killed almost every senior in your class including your date. You were the one who knocked him out for the cops to take away. His and your parents were distraught as they never thought an angel like Ace could do something so terrible. You were just glad you'd never have to see him again.

You moved on with your life and worked your way through college getting a degree in your dream field and meeting someone nice. Unfortunately, nothing goes your way as news broke out that an escaped mental patient had fled after a transfer to the mental institution in the town you were in. Ace knew where you planned on going to college and meticulously planned a way to get there so you can be reunited.

You were having a quiet night in, house sitting for a relative who lived nearby. You had ordered some pizza and put on some horror movies. You were watching Hallow's Eve (spoof on Halloween) when the doorbell rang. Must be the pizza guy. To your horror a familiar red head was at the front door in a blue mechanic suit holding a kitchen knife and was drenched in blood. "Hiya (Y/N) hope ya didn't miss yer boyfriend too bad? Cause I missed you a lot. You promptly slamed the door in his face. You don't have time for this.

Mwah different horror tropes hope you liked it. Now that I think about it, Ruggie and Leona or Ace and Deuce would make a pretty good Billy and Stu. Love ya bye!

[mikodrawnnarratives]

Post fire au y/n meets Cryptid Hunter y/n because it would literally be the most perfect crossover ever. I can't get enough of y/nverse

Copper is a caretaker with kids. Struggling. Protective energy rn. Mechanic. Traumatized. They are practically already besties with cryptid eclipse and hunter. Eclipse is a cryptid caretaker who adores children to the point he'll kill rulebreakers who hurt them. Hunter is traumatized and has lots of hero complex stuff going on which honestly I think Copper would relate to the hero complex stuff a lot.

TLDR: They'd get along.

Or at least have fun interactions along the way.

Post fire au characters are from @paper-lilypie (hopefully tumblr actually notifies you of this @ this time)

and cryptid sightings characters from @naffeclipse

Some spoilers for Cryptid Sightings but I think it's just really minor stuff

Much more under the cut :)

If they met after Hunter knew that Cryptid Eclipse was a cryptid all along, they wouldn't be worrying about how destroyed their sweetie's animatronic vessel are when they visit.

So. Cryptid Sun and Moon go after rulebreakers who harm children n stuff. Post fire sun and moon. Have blood covered hands.

The moment they realize. They better book it before Copper's boo is torn to shreds

Meanwhile Cryptid Moon is just having fun with the kids because you know they'd get along

Explosion noises in their minds rn this is so cool they are literally meeting a cryptid woah

Maes is a little more nervous but since Cryptid Moon isn't acting scary right now it's okay

oop

Since post fire au Sun and Moon still got some virus issues in the beginning, their status was debatable. The more time Cryptid Eclipse spends around them, the more they recognize they're gulity lol

Cryptid Eclipse may be the kids new uncle but he's not allowed to beat up their favorite dads.

And lastly some interactions I think would definitely happen:

And lastly some interactions I think would definitely happen

Also, Hunter would think Post Fire Sun and Moon are so cool since they are actual animatronics with advanced ai like WOAH

ALSO I didn't get around to drawing it since my eyes hurt like heck rn BUT with the amount of love both y/ns get from their boys, they'd relate to each other in that way as well

[miaugi]

cold blood | vamp!seonghwa headcanons

cold blood | vampire seonghwa headcanons

synopsis: some vampire!seonghwa headcanons <3

pairing: vamp!seonghwa / fem!reader (will make a gn or male reader eventually)

wc: ~550

warnings: nsfw (minors dni), intentional lowercase, blood, angst if you squint, yandere elements, overstim, degredation, dom seonghwa, very sub reader, possessive seonghwa, vauge toxic relationship, stockholm syndrome if you squint HARD, everything is consenual!

a/n: hi chat! lemme know if yall want more like this or if yall want to be tagged in tha next one :3c

click on the read more!

vamp!seonghwa who watched over every interaction you have had with another man, seething with violent rage and envy as he sees you giggle at the shitty jokes the other men make.

vamp!seonghwa who "happened" upon your boyfriend's corpse in the village's farming land.

vamp!seonghwa who found you in the village sobbing over your boyfriend's body late at night. you haven't been back since the incident.

vamp!seonghwa who comforted you and lured you into his castle. it was only supposed to be one night.

vamp!seonghwa who is over-protective of you, he doesn'twant to see his treasure hurt (or with anyone else)

vamp!seonghwa who, even though he lives in a intricate, sprawling castle, he only wants to be in the same room as you

vamp!seonghwa who feeds off of any men who dare to enter your life. (you wonder why no one seems to approach you anymore.)

vamp!seonghwa who finally lets his vice-grip on you loosen, and you finally go to the market alone, leaving you confused as to why everyone seemed horrified at your presence. (they assumed you died with your boyfriend that night.)

vamp!seonghwa who watches you everywhere you go, intimidating anyone who dares talk to you with his sharp eyes and overbearingly dark demeanor.

vamp!seonghwa who, after feeding on you for the first time, cried because he thought he was hurting you (never again)

"I'm so sorry, did I hurt you? Are you okay?" His brows furrowed as he scanned your paling figure, neck dripping with blood.

vamp!seonghwa who will worship you like his own personal god!

vamp!seonghwa who wears a rosary everywhere, confusingly catholic

vamp!seonghwa who wont let you buy your own clothes, wants you to be his own fashion doll

vamp!seonghwa who personally decorates your room every season, decorating it for every holiday!

vamp!seonghwa who attempted turning you, but got frightened by the process that he ducked out last minute as he didn't want to harm his treasure. (he will watch you die in his arms)

vamp!seonghwa who uses petnames such as princess, angel, and darling daily; he loves watching you squirm.

"Is my angel needy? Does she need me to touch her?" His smooth voice rang from behind you, sending throbs to your tightening core.

vamp!seonghwa who is usually overly doting and overprotecting, but mean and unforgiving during sex, endlessly teasing you and pushing you to overstimulation each time whilst degrading you

vamp!seonghwa who will live for giving oral to you, taking his time to make sure you feel good

vamp!seonghwa who has to leave the room every time you accidentally cut yourself, fighting either hunger or the tent in his pants. he loves the sight of blood on you.

vamp!seonghwa who kisses with an egregious amount of tongue, he loves it messy.

vamp!seonghwa who will love to see you fall apart over and over as you grind on his clothed thigh, once again degrading you throughout.)

vamp!seonghwa who will manhandle you in bed, throwing you over his shoulder when you "misbehave" and degrading you when you squirm with neediness.

vamp!seonghwa who doesn't swear in day-to-day life, remaining proper with his vocabulary (which makes it harder to fight your orgasm when he degrades you and dirty talks you in bed)

"You are such a needy little slut." His sharp voice echoes through your dumbified mind as his slender fingers tease your dripping entrance.

vamp!seonghwa who is a god at aftercare, he immediately cleans you up and runs a hot bath for you afterwards, even if he is sore.

[quixoticanarchy]

Finished reading Cobalt Red by Siddharth Kara and he does a good job showing how the cobalt supply chain is inextricable from incredible human suffering, near-slavery, rampant exploitation, environmental devastation, and child labor. And it’s very clear that no promise a tech or battery manufacturer makes that their supply chain is clean means literally anything bc industrially and artisanally mined cobalt are mixed into the same supply untraceably. And the book also covers the fact that cobalt supplies are finite and when the DRC’s cobalt is exhausted the industry will move elsewhere, rinse and repeat, and the people in the Congo will be left with the ongoing and unremediated -maybe irremediable - damage. All of this so that we can have smartphones, electric vehicles, iPads, electric scooters, almost anything with a rechargeable battery.

It’s also clear that the tech and battery industries are interested in good PR and making empty statements about human rights when they should be taking responsibility for the working conditions of small-scale miners (and minors) dying at the bottom of their supply chains. What Kara doesn’t really address is the demand side of this equation, not just the demand by companies whose products use cobalt-containing batteries but also the consumers sustaining that demand, who buy every new smartphone and eagerly pin their hopes on electric vehicles to let us keep our car-dependent world without the fossil fuel guilt. The book takes it for granted that cobalt will be required in high quantities for consumer electronics and for “green” tech, and to some extent this is true - as in, none of those demands or uses will cease overnight and in the meantime we should worry about how to address industrial and business practices and government corruption in order to treat Congolese miners as human beings.

But it feels incomplete without also asking questions like: should that demand continue? Can it? Do we need this many devices? What costs are acceptable? Can we really have our cake (smartphones, EVs, etc) and eat it too (slavery-free, non-exploitative supply chains that don’t kill the people at the bottom and lay waste to the environment)? What if - as the book would seem to suggest - we really cannot? If one goal of the book is for people to realize what conditions underlie the extraction of cobalt, what action is then incumbent upon us? Personal consumer choice will not undo all this harm, but it is a necessary step in rethinking or attempting other ways to live. Is it a right to have a smartphone, a new one every year or two, if it comes at the price of other people’s human rights? At what point do we say that it is not an acceptable cost that the extractive industries are perpetuating neocolonialism and near-slavery in order that we should have comfortable lives?

We know we have to stop relying on fossil fuels or we’ll burn down the planet (to a greater degree than is already locked in) but the “green energy transition” is not clean at all. Capitalism seeks the lowest price for labor and the highest profits; obviously these extractive relationships owe a lot of their horror to being conducted in a capitalist milieu. But even thinking about, say, a socialist world instead, if it aspires to still provide smartphones and electric vehicles en masse and maintain the comforts and conveniences of the “Western” lifestyle then we would still be relying on massive amounts of resource extraction with no guarantee of less suffering. The devices are themselves part of the problem. The demand for them and the extent to which “modern” life in “developed” countries relies upon them is part of the problem. It is unsustainable. It is built on blood and it makes a mockery of purported values of dignity, equality, and human rights. The lives of Congolese cobalt miners are tied to how we in the “developed” or colonizer countries live and consume. I do not think their lives will change substantially unless ours do.

[sebbiesolace]

"Oh, hello- Questions from Topside?"

[He chuckled, smiling and clasping his hands together.

"Well, I suppose I'm obligated to respond, yes?"

DOOR:UNLOCKED

RULES AND REFERENCES BELOW.

Sisterblog to @corrupted-head-quarters(DEAD)

THIS IS A SEBASTIAN SOLACE ASK BLOG! IN THIS BLOG:

MINORS ARE NOT ALLOWED. IF YOU ARE BELOW 18, THIS SPACE IS NOT FOR YOU. THERE ARE PLENTY OF SEBASTIAN BLOGS THAT ARE FOR YOU.

THERE IS A COPIOUS AMOUNT OF BLOOD, GUTS, AND GORE. EMETOPHOBIA, SELF HARM, SUICIDAL TENDENCIES, AND THE LIKE ARE ALSO DISCUSSED. IF ANY OF THESE UPSET YOU, DO NOT INTERACT. YOU MATTER MORE THEN SOME BLOG ON THE INTERNET.

Sebastian is going to be a mix of hateful and incredibly gentle here. He's afraid. He does not care about you. He just doesn't want to be alone.

I RESPOND TO ANYTHING THAT INTERESTS ME

CHARACTERS FROM PRESSURE, CANON AND OC, ARE ALLOWED TO INTERACT

OTHER SEBASTIANS ARE ALLOWED TO INTERACT!

DNI IF YOU'RE A RACIST, A TRANSPHOBE, A HOMOPHOBE, OR GENERALLY AN ASSHOLE.

I WAS MARRIED TO BILL CIPHER AND HE WAS SHOT IN FRONT OF ME

REFERENCE IMAGE:

[NO POSTBREACH REF..... SORRY NOT SORRY]

WHITELIST(people who i have cleared age with)

@a-ch40ticart1st

@pastelshark123

@voice-o-fallacy

@birbisanon

@who-u-calling-pinhead

@hunyoarora01

@huhwhuhs

@expendable-kai

@thevoidisback

@preciouspinkpup

@theexpendable

[lucozadehulahoop]

A Question of Time (Astarion x f!reader/tav) part 3/?

Chapter summary: Astarion makes his choice, but his actions don't go unnoticed. Call it divine intervention.

A.N: Big thank you for the massive love on this! I've only been posting this fic for three days and the response has been overwhelming! I appreciate every single comment and it really keeps me motivated. The tag list will be posted below the cut because it's getting a bit long ahh.

Tags and T.W.:pre-bg3!Astarion, slave!Astarion, mentions of torture and abuse, demi-goddess!tav, eventual NSFW (minors stay away kindly, thank you darlings)

warning for this chapter: seggsual sention (eh more just dorks being dorks)

part 1 part 2 part 4

"Astarion, favored soul, I send you my own flesh and blood to remove you from harm, yet you do not take your chance to flee..." An ethereal voice sang to Astarion as he tried to make sense of his own surroundings.

Slowly he began to recognize the cemetery, the tombstones, his own grave... how had he ended up back there?

The moon shined brightly down on him, and slowly the origin of that voice materialized itself right in front of him.

Astarion may have not been a believer, but he could recognize a goddess when he saw one. Much like in her many popular depictions, Sehanine wore what resembled a black silk gown, the very fabric that created the shadows she was a patron of. Her hair was black and white, her skin deep blue like the ocean, and her eyes the shape of twin moons. Many were the elves who worshiped 'the Moonweaver ' dutifully.

Sehanine was also the only diety criminals and tricksters seemed to cling to. A favor from the patron of illusions and misdirection could make the difference between the success or failure of a deed carried out under the cover of night.

But she was not only the goddess those who worked in secrecy and trickery often asked for a blessing from. Love was the biggest blessing tied to her name, and many cursed her for being the protector of lovers who steeled away for a tryst in the night.

"Do not be afraid, Pale One." She smiled at him eerily. "I appear to you now to give you guidance. I am sure by now you recognize me, even though on this plane I have come to be known to many as Selùne in these times, but you have been alive since the days of the old creed..."

"Y-yes--" Astarion stammered, never once having thought he'd be entertaining a conversation with a diety.

"I know you have not once believed in anything that was not material, and I am not here to test your faith, little vampire. I have been guiding your journey through this world ever since you began to display all of those qualities that are so dear to me... the Moon has been your close ally in all of your deeds..." The goddess proclaimed. "I look out for my own, but now... you go against my design to deliver you from your wretched master. Why is it so?"

It was quite a hefty amount of information to take in all at once. Not to mention preposterous. Guidance? Protection? If Astarion had been so favored by the gods, why in the seven hells had he been crushed underneath Cazador's heel for two hundred years?

The anger didn't take long to boil up inside of him. "No. No, forgive me, your holiness, but there has to be some kind of mistake here." Astarion sneered. "I think you've got the wrong Astarion, because this one has been attacked by the Gur, turned into a vampire, and subjected to two centuries of torture at the hands of a maniac!"

Sehanine smiled down at him once more, almost as if Astarion's lament was something to be amused by. "It is not up to me to explain the trials and tribulations of mortal life, dear one... If I directly interfered with the lives of every being I wished to influence in a constant manner, then other gods would want the same and war would surely break out amongst us. I would not come to you if I did not fear great peril on the horizon. Your Master, Cazador Szaar, has joined a league with dark, dangerous forces... forces that are enemies to myself and other entities that keep the balance between good and-"

Astarion scoffed. "I fail to see, how any of this is my concern."

The goddess's eyes became pitch black and her form started to warp into something far more sinister. "Count yourself lucky I consider your quick wit as a quality, but do not make the mistake of disrespecting me again, vampire spawn." She threatened in a booming voice. "You will be turned into a sacrificial lamb to your Master's ascension to near-godliness if you do not flee now, underneath my daughter's protection."

Astarion was silent for a very long while. In fact, he could not tell how much time had passed before she finally spoke again, her voice once again gentle.

"I will not have one of my own be involved in this abomination of a rite. In fact, I will make sure Tav stops this event from coming to pass so that she may meet her destiny."

Astarion couldn't stop himself from speaking his mind once again, even at the cost of being punished by the divine. "Meet her destiny? Surely... surely you must know how powerful Cazador is. I mean, I've seen what your darling daughter can do, but she doesn't seem to have a single mean bone in her body and you might risk losing her-"

"Tav must die for Cazador and the rest of the evil he's created to be eradicated for good." Was the goddess's simply put answer.

"But... she's your daughter." Astarion failed to understand until it finally clicked in his head. "You---you set her up like a lamb for slaughter. This is why she couldn't keep away from me? Because you made her come to my rescue every time? And now she's... Hells, she's getting rid of Cazador for you and dying in the process because you can't look bad in front of your god pals? What happened to looking out for your own?"

"I may have brought her into this world, but she is not one of my own." The Moonweaver clarified." Too sweet, too good-natured. The only thing I can truly recognize is her beauty. But no, I have not spoken to her, ever. I thought it best she did not know the pain of who she truly is, nor how she will meet her end. I simply know how and when it will come to pass. Yet, it was quite surprising to see how deeply attuned to your pain she is... and in the grand scheme of things it drew her like a moth to a flame, right into Cazador's grasp..."

Astarion began to feel violently ill, and he couldn't understand why. "Wait, what do you mean, what are you talking about---"

"Oh hush now, don't tell me you care for her? I would find that hard to believe..." She grinned, her very nature compelled to be intrigued by displays of affection, especially when they bloomed in the most unlikely of circumstances."However, I must go now, little vampling. But do not worry, Tav will be remembered, I will personally make sure to immortalize her in the stars for her valiant sacrifice."

"No!" Astarion cried out as he thrashed on the floor, suddenly regaining consciousness underneath Tav's tear-brimmed eyes.

She had been trying desperately to bring the pale elf back to consciousness after he'd dropped to the ground unexpectedly, his red eyes rolled to the back of his head and his body wracked by convulsions.

"Astarion!" She shook him a little more for good measure. "Astarion stay with me!" Tav let out a little sob, never having come across a physical ailment she hadn't been able to cure.

"Hells below..." Astarion cursed, slowly managing to sit up as he caught up with what had just happened.

Tav was quite a sight for a creature who hardly ever seemed to be affected by anything. Tear-stained cheeks, her hands twisting in the fabric of her dress. Astarion couldn't recall the last time someone had ever displayed worry over him. And now that he knew the truth about so many things, he didn't deem himself worthy of it. "Cheer up, sweet, I'm alright." He couldn't help but say, pinching her nose softly between his curled fingers.

"Alright?!" Tav barked at him, huffing and shooing his hand away. "You dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes and then you started convulsing!" She accused as if Astarion had done so on purpose. "You were completely unresponsive for almost half of an hour! How often does this happen for you to think it's alright?"

Astarion could think of a million things to say. A close encounter with Tav's dear old mom being the explanation at the forefront of his mind. But the implications of that conversation having undeniably taken place (considering it hadn't been just some weird dream as he'd liked to have hoped) were too painful to consider. He should have been thinking about the fact that Cazador planned to sacrifice him. He should have been burning with rage at the mere thought of his death aiding his captor on the path to becoming god-like.

Instead, all he could do was laugh, enjoying the way it riled up Tav even more. "Like a what? Darling, I must say my likeliness has been compared to many things in my lifetime, but a sack of potatoes has certainly never made the list..."

"Oh well, then may I suggest that 'obtuse ass' also be included?" She retorted, getting in his face as she was completely unamused by the way he was belittling her concern.

"Do you spend a lot of time thinking about the shape of my backside?" Astarion tilted his head closer too, meaning to snap back at Tav, but instantly realizing his words had come out quite a bit softer than intended.

"I-I don't see how that's relevant..." Tav whispered, mimicking his tone as her pupils turned into the size of saucers.

"You're the one who brought it up..." Astarion shrugged, as he had a very private laugh within himself at Tav's expense. She was so gullible, he could have eaten her up.

"No! You have misunderstood me. Please, I apologize if I have made you feel--" Tav was in the middle of expressing a sincere apology when she realized Astarion could no longer contain the amusement he was having at her expense. "You are despicable!" She huffed, doing a poor attempt at shoving at his chest before getting herself back up on her feet.

Astarion chose to admire her a few seconds more from where he was sitting on the ground. "Now that, my darling... is something I've definitely been called before."

Tav crossed her arms over her chest as she adamantly checked on his capability to stand back up on his feet again. "How will you know it won't happen again?" She asked him seriously, referring to the episode that had just transpired.

"No, I'm pretty sure I'll get called 'despicable' again for days to come." Astarion attempted to avoid the question.

"I meant you fainting!" Tav insisted.

"I've... got a pretty good idea of what I need to do to stop it from happening again." Running away from this hellhole, and leaving you here none the wiser, so I don't get any more friendly reminders from your mother, Astarion thought to himself as he swallowed down a knot in his throat. He looked out the window and recognized the familiar hues of light. The day was coming and he wasn't going to be able to leave until it was over.

Astarion needed to get his affairs in order and rest. Staying simply wasn't an option.

Not to mention, he was practically starving.

His gaze began to linger extensively on Tav as she stared into the fireplace.

"You've been up all night, darling---" Astarion snapped out of his reverie and began to fret as he started closing all the window panes, making sure not a single ray of light would be able to break through. "Surely, surely it would be good for you to get some rest, no? In your room that is --- far, far away from me, I mean- I have tasks to do now. Servants are terribly, terribly busy people, you see---" He continued to ramble as he not so subtly nudged Tav out of his room, guiding her to the door. "I must get to my work-"

"But you are clearly unwell! You're the one who must rest, Astarion. You're even paler than usual-" Tav protested, turning into his arms to look up at him in defiance once more.

"May the gods help me -- no, actually let's leave them out of this -- must you stick your pretty little nose in everything I do? I can take care of myself and I'm not the helpless little critter you seem to think you've stumbled upon-" Astarion had intended on pushing Tav out of the room, but all he was doing in actuality was bringing her closer to his body.

"Well, you've certainly given me plenty of proof on that front haven't you?" Tav spat and twisted her hands in his worn-out shirt.

Just like that, they were back to arguing again, except this time it wasn't amusing for either of them.

"Proof? Is that what you want?" Astarion asked her, losing his last nerve to hunger and exhaustion.

The curtain fell, and Tav looked back into the face of a vampire.

---

A.N: hehe, oh how I like to tease you so. Okay real talk, this is now an ongoing fic. Truly, you guys have given me so much love, and I'm overwhelmed. I'm really enjoying writing this story and I thank you all for joining the ride. stay tuned for part 4!

This story is also on Ao3 btw, for the people who prefer reading it there.

tag list (if you want to be added to the tag list, just let me know!): @d0nutkaky0in @i-just-want-to-sleep-97 @omggiannarosa @dead-giirl-walking @warbwarts @mrsfullbuster500 @uwomina @iyaesakura @cheeslyy @dragon-kazansky @bambamwolf87 @chibi-chi @orsomethingelseentirely @davenswitcher @adequate-superstar @ophelias-flowerss @tragedybunny @yaimlight @the-golden-ouroboros @candyladycry @babygirlbrainrot @mariposakitten @blobs-away @biganddrunkunicorn @astarionmisc @the-garbage-central @raviolixxx

[frostironfudge]

You Said I Was Your Favourite - Ari Levinson

Summary: You're taken from Ari. He's promised you many things but when his eyes don't meet yours and his present words begin to make you doubt his past promises. Will you go back to him?

Paring: Mafia!Ari Levinson x Female!Reader

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, angst, mentions of past self harm, scars of self harm mentioned, reader is clean since 3 months, canon level violence, reader kidnapped, swearing, guns, blood, injury, protective ari, smut, p in v, dirty talk, fluff, past is in italics, hurt/comfort, fluff/smut, nicknames: metuka (meaning sweetheart).

A.N.: honestly the lyric 'you drew stars around my scars, but now i'm bleeding' cardigan by taylor swift, was circling around my head for the most part writing this fic. this is sort of a self indulgent fic, plus Mr. Levinson just reminds me of this comforting bear, i adore him. wrote this amidst a writing block so it may not be top notch but i adore it.

Dividers: @firefly-graphics || Word Count: 4.1k

Main Masterlist || AO3

Burning gunmetal and rust, a leaking pipe of water. Rough, uneven ground digs into your skin. Your gaze searches the dark room, vision field limited at the angle your head is twisted upon. 

The overhead light flickers with an inconsistent buzz. You groan when you feel yourself being propped up to your knees. 

“Stupid bitch.” The man sneers, grip tightening on your hair, twisting harshly. Your clothes stick to you, uncomfortably so. Sweat and you fear some amount of blood might be the reason. 

The door is kicked open, heavy footsteps each around the room. You can’t look up fully due to the grip on your head. 

However recognising that cologne is easy, and the way your heart soars even in this most horrible situation. You know it’s him—Ari. 

Another whimper is coaxed out of you, your head tilted further the warm barrel of the gun touches your jaw. 

Ari’s gaze is cold, not the warm blue waters that you love to sink into, none of the fiery blaze present with which he would trace your form. 

“I see you made it.” The man chuckles, tapping your jaw with the gun, “Here I thought apart from your long gone wife no one held your affections.” He laments. 

Ari’s jaw tightens, lips pressed into a thin line. It is then you realise he isn’t sparing you a glance. His gaze is on the man only. 

“What no words? I have your girl.” The man scoffs, Ari just shrugs. 

“You should really fact check, Parson.” Ari tuts, retrieving the pack of cigarettes he carries and lights one. 

One puff, then a second one. 

He scratches the side of his mouth with his thumb. Eyes everywhere else but on your form. 

You swallow, your heart trying to convince your mind this is a dream. You were sleeping. 

You had gone out, the mall? Yes. 

Picking up a dress for dinner with Ari. 

You must have gotten tired and fallen asleep. 

This is just a dream. 

Ari would never let his gaze stray from you. He would never ignore you. 

“So if I shoot her, you won’t be sad or mad?” Parson’s voice sounds full of doubt. 

“Oh I would be, but it is because you killed an innocent person, not because she means anything to me. You have the wrong woman.” Ari takes another drag of the cigarette. It burns bright then turns to ash. 

You feel tears brim your eyes, a wicked smirk on Ari’s face. 

“Oh, did you think more?” He speaks in a mocking tone. You feel your heart crack. 

Please be a dream. Your heart screams, wails in your chest. Your gaze shifts down, lips pressed together tightly not to let the sob break free. 

“But, but I saw the two of you, your hand on her face. She’s in l-love with y-you.” Parson stammers, his clear upperhand being undermined. 

“Half of the female population pines for a minute of my affection.” Ari drops the cigarette, stepping upon it with the heel of his boot.

“You should have had more women in here.” He gives a dry chuckle. 

“There isn’t anyone apart from you, Metuka.” Ari whispers against your forehead, “After a long time my heart has thawed, waiting to place itself onto your palms.”

You stay silent, your heart hammering in your chest. 

“Bear.” Your throat tightens, “I, I have feelings for you too.” You admit, “I thought, I thought you wouldn’t—,” 

“Oh but I do, Metuka.” He smiles, the kind that melts your heart. He pulls you into his arms, engulfing you in his bear hug. You nuzzle closer into the crook of his neck. 

You blink tears at the memory. 

“I’ve seen you kiss her.” Parson still argues. 

Ari clicks his tongue, clearly irritated. 

Ari’s lips find yours, he walks in after his work day. You gave him your apartment key. A squeal leaves you when he lifts you up, arms wrapping around your waist pulling you flush against his broad chest. 

Deep rumbling laughter fills the small kitchen. You tilt your head back looking up at him. He then brushes his lips against yours, your hand moves to tangle with his soft hair. A few of the strands tickling your cheek.  

The kiss turns bruising, you tug on his hair, he groans into your mouth, hands tightening around you. Keeping you to him. 

“You’re mine, Metuka, as I am yours.” He promises. 

“Parson, you’re wasting my fucking time.” Ari roars, anger coursing through his voice. You close your eyes. 

“So you won’t care if I hurt her?” Parson smirks, watching the man in front of him closely. He taps the gun to your forehead. 

“No one will lay a finger upon you, Metuka.” Ari promises as you’re laying with your head in his lap. 

“Ari, nothing will happen to me.” You look up at him, his palm brushing over your head pauses, eyes harbour a moment of worry. 

You grasp the hand that is on your abdomen, bringing it to your lips you kiss his palm. The callouses memorised by you. Your thumb traces over them. 

“You will always protect me, I know.” You assure him. 

“I don’t want you to get hurt because of what I do. Ever.” There is a furrow between his brows. 

“Bear.” You try to get him to smile at the nickname, he doesn’t, you frown. 

“Metuka,” Ari struggles with verbalising, you sit up, effortlessly he makes you sit facing him, “I will protect you till my last breath.” 

“Bear, don’t, say that.” Your hands cup his face, stroking over his beard. 

“There is only you, I only harbour you in my heart.” Blue eyes study you as you take in his words, your skin heats. 

“I love you, Ari.” Your words light him up, he rewards you with the prized grin that belongs only to you. 

“Parson, I was told you have a negotiation for business.” Ari taps his foot, your eyes drop from his face, “I didn’t realise you’d rather discuss the women I fuck.” 

The words are cruel, they make you question everything over the past six months. 

Your brain mocks your heart, you almost don’t feel the blade sinking into your forearm. When you refocus, you see the torn sleeve, Parson’s smile drops when Ari doesn’t show a shred of care. 

“Let's try the other hand.” Parson moves, gripping your left hand. You panic. 

“No.” You whisper, you hadn’t let Ari see your arms, favouring full sleeves. Not letting him take off your shirt when things got intimate during heavy make outs. 

You were waiting for the damn scars to fade. You try to pry your hand away. 

Ari’s hands freeze under your shirt. The way you tensed had him pause. He retracts his hands and pulls his mouth away from your neck. 

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, attempting to shift away. Your hands grasp his shoulders urging him to stay. 

“Ari, Ari let me explain—,”

“You just have to say no, Metuka. It all stops. I don’t want an explanation.” He shakes his head. 

“I’m, no I want to do this, kissing you making out, I just, I’m not comfortable taking my top off yet.” Your skin heats, you gaze down at his half exposed chest. The hypocrisy makes you wince. 

“Do you want my hands to explore beneath?” He questions, you nod. 

“So the shirt is not off but I can try to touch your very pretty boobs.” He just laughs when you lightly smack his chest. Grasping your palm he brings your fingers to his lips. Placing soft kisses upon them as his beard tickles. 

You giggle, Ari adores you. 

His palms then cup your cheeks, “Whenever you’re ready, we’ll take it further okay? I’m very happy making out as though we’re horny teenagers.” 

That earns him another smack. 

His deep laugh rumbles through your chest. 

You try to shift away, Parson points his gun at Ari. 

“He may feel nothing but I know you do, even if you’re nothing to him. Do you want him dead?” He chuckles darkly when your eyes shift from the gun to the towering man. 

Ari still doesn’t meet your gaze, you don’t understand. Till this morning it was as if you were his world. Now he looks at you as if you’re nothing to him.  

“Please don’t hurt him.” You look up at Parson. He only smiles, lowering the gun. Harshly grabbing your forearm you cry out, then bite down on your tongue to stop the whimpers. 

Parson pushes the sleeve back harshly, the knife ready but then he pauses, seeing the lines strewn across your skin. 

“Of course, big bad mafia man, Ari Levinson would never want someone broken.” Parson shakes his head with laughter bubbling past his tongue. 

Ari finally moves his gaze on you, you’re looking down, biting back sniffles. The sight of your forearm though, sends his heart plummeting. 

How had he not figured it out? 

Why hadn’t you told him? 

Is this why you didn’t want to show him all of you? 

Why had he not asked you more often if you were doing alright?

How selfish and blind had he been towards you?

How long has this been going on?

Guilt fills him. 

“No one would want someone this broken.” The disgust in Parson’s voice wraps around your mind, the scars ache beckoning you towards them yet again. 

“I know.” Your voice is so small, you don’t look up. You don’t want Ari to see you this way. He wouldn’t care either way. You blink away the tears, it only makes them brim over. 

“Parson, you have ten seconds to step away from her.” Ari warns through gritted teeth. 

The man scoffs, “You’re without a weapon. You’re in no position to—,” 

The mobster reaches into his jacket, retrieving a gun. 

“H-how did you get that past my guards?” Parson sutters at the ammunition reveal. 

“Oh, your guards? Did I say I came in here unprepared?” Ari chuckles darkly. 

Parson presses the gun to your forehead, again. 

“I won’t hesitate.” He warns. 

“Nor will I.” Ari declares, “Close your eyes for me, Metuka.”

You look up at him, he finally meets your gaze. You close your eyes. 

You hear the click, there is the echo of a shot fired followed by a clattering. You cover your ears. The gun no longer pressed to your forehead. 

“Metuka.” 

Warmth wraps around you, the scent of musk and jasmine surrounds you. Ari. You’re pressed to his chest. You want to cry, bury yourself in him. 

You’re about to give in, take the comfort that belongs to you. Then you pause, you tense up. 

Pushing at him, no, no, he wasn’t yours, he promised and everything Ari just admitted to, he doesn’t, he never said it and you know why, now. 

“I’m sorry, I had to lie. Metuka, I’m so sorry, I should have been there with you. I sent you off alone like a fool.” He stumbles over his words, 

“I promised you and I broke it, I couldn’t protect you, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry about whatever I said, I had to make him question his plan. I’m so sorry. Please talk to me, Matuka.” He pleads, large hands running up and down your shaking form. 

You stay quiet, cheek pressed to the exposed flesh of his chest. His habit of having the top two buttons of his shirts unbuttoned was something you always found yourself drawn towards. Findinding your cheek pressed against it, hearing his breath and heart beating. 

“You said it all so easily.” You whisper. 

“I had to lie.” Ari explains, his hand cupping your face, trying to get you to look at him. 

The wet tears gracing his skin breaking everything within him. 

“Bear?” Your voice is low, sleep ridden. 

He looks up from his files to you. You’re standing in the doorway of his office. 

“Metuka? Why are you awake, is everything alright?” Pushing the chair back he stands, motioning for you to come closer. 

“Bad dream…” you say, making your way to his open arms. 

“Wanna talk about it?” Ari wraps his arms around you, placing a kiss to the top of your head. 

You shake your head, wanting to dismiss the dream. It still gnaws at you. 

“You won’t, you won’t lie to me right?” You whisper the question. 

Ari’s brows furrow, “I’d never—,”

“About the way you feel, you won’t lie right? Saying that you have feelings for me when you actually don’t? If, if you just want sex then we can, you don’t have to lie to wait—,” 

“Metuka.” The pain in that one word makes you pause. 

Ari steps back, hands not leaving your face. 

“I want everything with you okay? I don’t care how long I need to wait. I want you to be comfortable. I know I don’t express myself enough but please know I will never lie to coerce you into bed.” His blue eyes gaze into your own. Slowly you move closer to him again. 

Closing the distance between the two of you. Ari’s hands move to your hips, aiding you in reaching up to him. He bends down, meeting your lips in a soft kiss. A promise. 

When your lips part, as you breathe in you contemplate telling him. 

“You can tell me what is on your mind.” His thumb strokes your cheek. 

“Previous, previous partners have said sweet words and declarations of emotions… just to get into bed and then they leave.” You tell him. 

“Give me the names.” He says so casually. 

“Ari you aren’t going all Mafia Boss on them.” You warn him. 

“They disrespected you, Metuka, they hurt you. Those who hurt you should not get a second chance at life.” He declares. 

There is a pause, “Was your dream about me hurting you?” He hesitates in wanting to know, a fear so deeply ingrained. 

You nod. 

“I wouldn’t ever intentionally hurt you, please know that. I may have to lie or keep some truths half hidden, to protect you from the world I am a part of, I don’t want that tainting you.” Ari admits his worries, your arms wrap around him. 

He seeks refuge in your warmth. 

“I cannot have people use you or hurt you just to get back at me, for things I’ve done.” He continues, “I don’t want you to be caught in the crossfire and I will make sure of it that you don’t ever get hurt.” 

“I’m so sorry.” He says again, you grab at his coat lapels, “I’m going to find who leaked our location—,”

“Ari, it hurts.” You finally register the wound on your forearm, looking at it you frown. 

Then you look down at Ari’s sleeve, his jacket half off, the sleeve of his shirt torn to make a makeshift bandage for your wound. You stare up at him. 

“Metuka, we’ll talk about everything at home. Can you stand?” He watches over you, the protectiveness within him brimming over. 

You wince moving your leg forward. 

“Alright, I’m carrying you.” Ari decides, shifting to your side and in a blink you’re in his arms. 

“Boss.” Lloyd interrupts his step towards the door. 

“Close your eyes.” He whispers softly to you, you bury your head against his chest. Closing your eyes. Breathing in his scent. 

You feel Ari turn, “Keep him alive. I want answers, then I’ll take care of it. Metuka isn’t to be messed with, ever.” There is a dark edge to his voice, a judgement veiled between words. 

Lloyd hums, “Alright, can I be creative with the keeping alive process?”

You don’t hear Ari’s reply, just feel him beginning to move again. 

The distant yell has you know what his reply was to Lloyd. 

Ari doesn’t take you to your apartment, you’re driven up to his estate. The first time you had seen his home post the lunch he took you to for your first date you joked if he was a mafia drug lord. 

You giggle remembering his expression. Ari smiles when he hears the melodic sound. Nerves easing. 

“What’s making you laugh?” He smiles as you meet his gaze with a smile. The dim lighting of the car did not dull the soft shine in his loving gaze. 

“Just your face, when I asked if you’re a mafia drug lord when you brought me here for the first time.” You laugh again, he squeezes your side playfully. 

“I was so scared you’d go running to the hills when I told you.” He admits. His free hand softly traces your left hand. Never over the scars just bordering around them. 

“I wouldn’t, I mean, shady things yeah, but you aren’t in the whole drug thing so…” you trail off, the house comes into view. 

“Come, I’ve got a medic on call.” Ari holds you protectively yet again. 

“I think I can walk—,” you keep quiet at the look he gives you. 

The medic is a sweet woman, she tends to your wounds, the cut isn’t deep for stitches, just a dressing. Her eyes linger on your scarred forearm, she doesn’t broach. You’re thankful for that. 

The other scarpes littered over your form are checked and cleaned. 

Ari enters the room, holding your favourite blue shirt of his and a pair of leggings you left here. He places them then moves to stand outside the room, waiting for you to change. 

“I want to tell you about, about the scars.” You tell him, his face ashen as he turns. 

“I, I’m sorry I didn’t pay more attention.” He doesn’t know what he should say, you shake your head. 

“I hid them, I, I’m about three months clean now. I wanted them healed before you saw, didn’t want you to think I’m broken.” You quietly admit the last part. 

“Metuka, I could never.” Ari gently grasps your hands, “You aren’t broken, this, this is hard, I just want to support you. The way you need. I don’t want you doing this to yourself ever again, but I know it’s easier said than done. I’m proud of you for being clean for three months. So immensely proud.” He peppers kisses all over your face, his beard tickling you laugh. 

“You never have to hide any part of you from me.” Ari grasps your chin gently, tilting your head back, “I love you. Every part, even the ones you may keep hidden away from me.” 

You stare up at him, the little flecks in his eyes, the sincerity of his words. Your chest tightens. 

“Ari.” You remember to breathe. 

“I love you.” He affirms again.

“Ari.” His name breaks as your voice does, “Ari, I love you too.” 

“Metuka.” His own voice grows heavy with emotion, “No one is in my heart but you, no one holds my heart but you.” 

Your hands move from his chest, up his neck, one cups his face the other runs through his hair. He sighs, basking in the warmth of your touch. 

You reach up, gently tugging him downward. Ari complies with your wish. 

Your lips meet, his hand moves over your back, towards your neck. His lips slightly chapped, bitten in worry, the lingering hint of smoke and the drink he probably took. His tongue moves over your bottom lip, parting your lips. 

Your groan has him push himself closer to you. Your legs around his waist, Ari nips at your bottom lip coaxing another whimper from you. Your fingers tug upon his hair, a deep growl rumbles within his chest. 

You can feel his hardening length against your core, you gasp when his hips move against you. 

“A-ari,” his lips move along your jaw, nipping and humming at the taste of your skin. 

Your clit pulses as he sucks upon the spot beneath your ear. 

“I feel so content.” He hums, tugging on your earlobe, “Having you back in my arms.” His beard brushes over the spot he just etched his mark onto. 

You keen as his bulge twists the fabric of your panties over your clit. Pleasure sparks across your spine. 

“Mine, just as I am yours.” Ari says, biting down on your collar bone. His large form encases you. His lips on every inch of your exposed skin, the little gown coming off, your nipples harden brushing against the fabric of his shirt. 

“Fuck,” you tug on the shirt, he shifts back letting you undo the buttons, his own large hands moving over your sides, eyes darkening. 

“You sure you want this, Metuka?” Ari hisses when your nails scrape over his chest, your lips tracing over his sternum, making way to his nipple tugging on it, his grip tightens on your thighs. 

“I want you, Ari. How much ever you’re willing to give me.” Your lips trace over his neck, to his jaw, then his lips. Hands moving to his pants, he aids you in undoing them. 

His length twitches in your palm, you moan softly feeling the familiar vein on the underside as you trace his length. Ari groans as your thumb circles over his tip collecting the precum and bringing it to your lips. 

Fingers hooking around the band, you raise your hips, Ari gets rid of your panties, discarding them to the side, you shiver as the cool air greets your wet folds. 

Warm fingers have you arch, grinding against them. 

He brings his soaked fingers toward his mouth. You moan when his eyes close as he hums at your taste appreciatively. 

“Ari, please.” You plead, he chuckles. 

“Impatient little sweet girl.” He teases, parting your thighs further, hooking them around his waist, his tip moves against your folds, you want to sigh at the relief of being so close to feeling him. 

It turns into a moan melding with his own groan as your walls take his girth in, chest rising and falling, Ari sinks into you inch by delicious inch. The burning stretch dulling into pleasure as his thumb draws circles onto your clit. 

“Ari, Ari, Ari—,” you choke on your words, his his flush against yours, your walls pulse around him. His lust blown eyes on your pussy. 

“She takes me so well, fuck baby, look at you.” He gazes into your eyes, slowly pulling out halfway then sinking into you again. And again. 

Your jaw slack, he shifts slightly, tip brushing over the spot that has you shuddering in his hold. Ari pushes you down, the angle making him go deeper, your back arched. The sound of skin slapping as his pace becomes relentless. 

“Squeezing me so good, don’t want to let your cock go do you, Metuka?” His mouth latches to your taut nipple, your hand grabs at his hair tugging harshly lips only know to say his name—oh god, oh god, oh god. 

You feel the pleasure build slowly then all at once he has you dancing along the edge. Your legs wrap around him tighter, not letting him go too far. His large hands squeeze at your hips, mouth latching onto the other nipple. His happy trail, rubs against your clit, sending you over. 

You cum with a cry of his name, the wet sloshing sounds only increase as you gush around him. His pace doesn’t relent, pushing you further down, he hovers above you. Your leg now over his shoulder. 

His hand wrapped around your throat, stroking over the sweat sheened skin.  

“So pretty this way, one more baby, one more before I fill you up. One more,” he coaxes, you feel him move impossibly deeper. Tip hitting your cervix stars cloud your vision. 

Can’t, I can’t, you think, “Ari,”

“You can and you will.” He growls, pinching your clit you shudder yet again, the pleasure begins to climb, taking over you nerve by nerve. 

“Look at you, so pretty, taking all of me so well, I belong to you my sweetness, all of me, yours, yours to love, yours to hold, yours to claim, yours to fuck.” Ari swears as he feels your walls spasm, your nails dig into his forearms you shudder in his grasp as your orgasm triggers his own. 

Ari moans your name, spilling into you, claiming your walls with his seed. He continues to thrust allowing you both to ride out your orgasms, he watches the mix of the two of you coat a ring at the base of his length. 

“I’m not done with you, Metuka.” He says, softly kissing your forehead. 

You look at him through glassy eyes, aftershocks lingering through you. 

He slowly pulls out, you whimper, then moan when his lips move along your inner thighs, blowing softly over your clit. 

“Ari—,” Your whine cut off when his mouth latches to your cunt. The way his eyes glaze and roll back at your taste, the moan that presses against your folds and clit. You cry out for more of him. 

“I told you I’m not done. Have to have a taste of my pretty pussy.” Is all he says, beard gleaming with your arousal, before his lips latch around your clit again. 

-x-

[sonicasura]

Raising Skully

Some ideas around Kaiju No 8.5 Skully. This includes both versions which will be marked with either a 🌺 for Hoshina or a 🐞 for Kafka. Please enjoy!

Skully can eat normal human food as their baby teeth is sharp enough to chew the stuff but also digest it with no issue. They really like peanut butter, fish, apples and chicken the most. Skully also requires twice the amount of food a normal human child needs. (Rip Kafka's wallet.)

The baby kaiju's biology is quite different from their parent. It's more than just a chubby gecko like tail. Skully converts any waste material into a sludge that they can spit out as a self defense mechanism. Their diet affects how corrosive or sticky the stuff is and at worst can weaken the hardness of even the toughest kaiju hide.

Skully showed this ability once when a spider spooked them. The room was temporarily quarantined afterwards until the sizzling puddle was cleaned up. Both sides might've preferred changing diapers than deal with acidic sludge.

🌺 Whenever Hoshina has to go on missions or leave base, Okonogi is in charge of Skully. The baby is surprising well-behaved in the monitoring room as they sleep or watch her work. Skully however will run out to Hoshina if they sense he's in terrible danger. Or how No. 10 got a sludge bomb to the face.

Skully's fortitude is a 2.8 but will raise to a frightening 7.5 if enraged. They only enter this stage should their respective parent be in grave danger. Horn nubs sharpening, back spines elongating, finally their eyes glowing a hazardous green are signs of 'combat mode' activating. Skully has the ability to enhance those they cling onto and even form a barrier once in 'combat state'. They however fall asleep after 3 minutes from exhaustion.

🐞 Kafka tends to shift into Kaiju form whenever tending to Skully. He's more open to expressing his inhuman instincts such as licking, purring, and chittering back at his whelp. If Reno or Kikoru sees him doing this than they won't say a word.

Skully loves art especially finger painting. Best to keep an eye on them and lock up any materials such as ink. The 3rd Division woke up to all of their walls covered in childish drawings over night.

🌺 Hoshina once mused over the idea of having Skully lead him to his 'mama'. Teaching them the word and pointing at a Kaiju No.8's picture. It was shoved aside by Okonogi who thought it was a little too insane.

Skully aids Hoshina in his fight with No. 10. Trying to clean up the blood off his face by licking it would later grant them the ability to take a human form. (Their saliva has minor healing agents.) A visage that looks like a mix between Hoshina and Kafka.

🐞 The Monster Sweepers help babysit Skully when needed. It usually happens if training ends up being off base or a mission were to happen. They even gotten modified baby clothes and toys for Skully.

Kafka immediately calms in the presence of his whelp. Even the most intense rage will die with a soft chirp from Skully. Don't dare try to harm the baby when Kafka's around or else. (Same goes for Hoshina after awhile.)

First words are said at the two week threshold. Skully will call Kafka 'mama' and Hoshina 'papa' whenever possible. (The former secretly cries in joy.) Skully also calls those they don't like or doesn't trust 'Bada'.

Learns to walk on two feet in a week. (It definitely was recorded.) Skully prefers to roam on all fours and half the reason being they can stick to walls like a gecko better that way. They still remain a very fast mobile disaster either way.

I'll be drawing Skully soon so stay tune for that.

@drmarune @popipopipopipopipo000 @renard-dartigue @discoknack