#and maybe everything is not so black and white

[keferon]

Eh okay so. My brain is absolutely cooked so you will probably just have to ignore the linguistic fuckups

Jazz and Prowl learning to communicate because language barrier is a thing >:D

Previous part

Jazz sometimes thinks that somewhere along his career path he lost the bar separating normal from...well...everything else.

After all he's seen, heard about, and done, he's not sure exactly how to measure what's weird and what's normal. He has..the general idea.

His own. And it's so convoluted and fucked up that he'd rather jump into a volcano than try to explain it to anyone else. Jazz thinks the little colorful aliens around him are weird as hell. He thinks they sound weird, he thinks they look weird, and he thinks he must be going crazy.

And then this big black and white robot catches his eye and Jazz's first thought is not "what the fuck??"

His first thought is

"Thank God! Someone's normal!"

Whoever this guy is, he sounds like he knows what he's doing. And most importantly, he looks just like Jazz. Well, not exactly. But close enough. After all, Jazz knows that his organization wasn't the only mech maker on the entire planet. Other countries were making Mechs too, and Jazz hadn't seen even half of them.

But he can recognize a giant robot when he sees one, okay?

The thought that another mech could be an alien doesn't even enter his mind.

So used to the constant presence of huge piloted robots around him, he looks at this one and clings to its appearance as something familiar and easily explainable. His brain says, we know how this works. There's a robot and inside the robot there's another person. It's the way it's always been. The sky is blue, the grass is green and the robots are human-piloted. It's that simple.

The guy takes him to the far corner of the room and says something. Jazz…doesn't understand..

The mech's face contorts in a surprisingly believable display of concentration. How...who built this robot? How could they make it frown?

He hears something else being said to him but again can't understand a word. Why won't this pilot get out of the mech to talk to him? Jazz doesn't have his communication frequency but surely they could at least shake hands. There must be some reason. Maybe something wrong with the air? Is it dangerous to be outside? This guy should know better, he's been here longer than Jazz, it seems.

(Damn it, whose idea was it to make a mech with a face, it's so distracting)

He rushes to activate the external speakers, because he and this guy obviously speak different languages, but it never hurts to try, right?

"So uh, I don't think you can understand English?"

Mech frowns again, trying to pick up on something familiar in a language that's apparently new to him. But finds nothing. Jazz lowers his horns sadly.

Oh well. Fuck. As if being stuck in an unknown place with unknown creatures wasn't enough, he can't even talk to anyone! How is he supposed to get out of here? Which way should he even go?

The mech waves his hand to get his attention and then pulls out a tablet and a stylus from..where ?

Jazz somehow manages to overlook the fact that the tablet is made to fit the mech's size. His head is still feels a bit…off..after that portal thingie.

"Charades it is then."

____________________

An hour and a half later, Jazz finds himself staring intensely at the screen in front of him with a surprisingly neatly drawn chart on it.

"So uh. Motion."

The other guy nods and starts drawing a walking mech. Then something that looks like a very unusual car. Then a submarine. Jazz gets a little lost looking at how skillful he is with the stylus.

Honestly, he's a good artist!

The guy points to the sketch of a walking mech and says

" Motion."

Then points to the drawing of a car driving and the columns of the chart.

"Motion-rotation" he points to the car again.

That must mean "driving" huh? Jazz nods understandingly.

Mech moves his finger to the submarine.

"Motion-Water."

Ah, it must mean swimming. Jazz nods once more, feeling like a wind-up dummy repeating the same motion a dozen times.

The mech makes a quiet humming noise and then points to the chart

"Motion. Sky."

And then gives Jazz the stylus?

Uh, what is he... Oh, he wants Jazz to figure out what it means.

"Motion" and "sky," right?

Jazz takes the stylus? Pencil? Thingie.. and very carefully draws out a crooked scribble of something only remotely resembling an airplane. The mech arches an eyebrow and looks like he wants to laugh.

Jazz shrugs awkwardly and tries to add windows to the airplane, but ends up making it look more like a severely fucked up caterpillar.

Mech snorts.

Jazz kicks him in the leg.

The airplane begs for a merciful death.

Jazz didn't really expect to get into a language class but he has to admit that whatever language he's learning now is a surprisingly easy one. It only took the other dude half an hour to show him the basic concept and from there it became a game of associations.

There were simple definitions. Like size, quantity, speed, emotion and so on.

There were signs that automatically turned the whole sentence into a question or a statement.

There were modifiers that Jazz defined in his head as positive and negative.

Positive speed - fast.

Positive size - large.

Positive direction - forward.

Positive time - future.

There were also basic words for senses, emotions and whatnot, also with modifiers.

Mouth-positive - to speak

Brain-positive - to think, but negative-brain-do-positive - to learn.

Huh.

And it's so neatly organized that Jazz wondered if this language was designed specifically to be easy to learn.

Let's see....

Mouth - positive, effort - negative.

"Easy to speak."

The guy nods contentedly and starts talking back, while pointing to the appropriate columns of the chart to make it easier for Jazz to understand.

"Creation-positive. Purpose. Person-negative-knowledge. memory-positive-effort-negative."

Jazz frowns, concentrating on his finger.

Oh. Created. For those who don't know it. Easy to learn.

He was right. The whole thing is waaaay too awkward to write poetry but learning it is a delight.

Jazz leans over the chart.

All right, well, let's see.

“Name. You. Question?”

The other guy smiles and pokes at the chart

"Me.Motion-sound-negative.Negative-eyes-positive-someone."

Walk quietly. searching?… Sneaking?

Oh, it's not "to sneak" it's "to prowl"

"Prowl" nods affirmatively. Jazz smiles at him and looks at the chart again. Okay. How to say “music”?..

“word-knowledge-negative.”

He stops to make a gesture with his hands, as if playing an invisible piano while humming a tune.

Prowl nods

“Sound-positive-positive-hearing.”

Jazz chuckles

“A whole two positives eh? Okay then. Uh. You don't look like you listen to jazz....so..”

“Me. Name. Sound-positive-positive-listening.”

Prowl raises his eyebrows. (Jazz is jealous, he wishes he had eyebrows too.)

“You're a musician?"

Jazz quickly shakes his head while simultaneously muting the outside speakers to a barely audible level and turning on one of the songs on his playlist.

Prowl twitches in surprise when he hears the melody.

Jazz waits for the intro to finish playing and then points to himself

“Creation-negative..uh..Sound-positive-positive-hearing. Jazz. This...”

He pats himself lightly on the chest.

"..is me. Jazz."

Prowl straightens up slightly

“Oh, you're not a musician, you're the music.”

Jazz nods cheerfully

“Yes yes!”

“Jaaz?”

“No no. Jazz.”

“Ah. Jazz?”

“That's right.”

Prowl draws a portal on the screen.

“You teleported here. What happened?”

Jazz hangs back, trying to construct an answer in his head. Good thing Prowl seems to have infinite patience

“So, I uh. What was 'fight'? Movement-pain-positive? I fought these things...”

He takes the tablet from Prowl and draws a crooked blot with a bunch of tentacles on it. Then thinks for a bit and adds big teeth and a lot of eyes. He's not really sure how to draw those eyes properly, so he just scatters them randomly around the monster area.

Prowl doesn't seem to be that amused by Jazz's drawings anymore, in fact, he suddenly becomes very somber.

“Quintessons.”

He pokes at the monster

“Name-Quintessons. Number-question.”

How many?

Jazz scratches the back of his head

“So uh...a lot?....number-positive-positive-positive-positive-positi...you get the idea.”

To be convincing, he dramatically spreads his arms out to the sides depicting something very large.

Prowl looks alarmed.

And unconvinced.

“How did you survive?”

Jazz laughs pretentiously

“Ask them how they survived.”

Prowl makes the “you can't be serious” face. Jazz isn't quite sure what exactly is confusing him. Mechs are designed to kill Quintessons, aren't they? Judging by his movements, this pilot must be damn good at controlling his mech, and that kind of guys usually fight on the front lines.

He decides to put that thought aside for later. There are more important things right now, like...oh shit, where is he even going??

Jazz leans over the chart again

“Uh. Right. Question-we-move-up-place” Man, how to specify... “Knowledge-negative?”

Prowl, linguistic gods bless him, understands him and starts gesturing over the chart in response

Okay. Ah. I-move-up. Planet-creation-positive.

'I'm heading home' or 'my home planet'.”

Jazz instantly perks up.

“Oh that's great, I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to go there too.”

Prowl is speaking in a language he's unfamiliar with, so he's definitely from another country, but hey, who cares as long as it's on Earth, right? He just needs to get there and he'll find his own way from there.

He watches the space debris flicker by outside the window. Even the stars are unfamiliar, Jazz can't find any constellations he knows.

One of the little purple creatures says something and Prowl steps aside to chat with them. Jazz leans back and settles into a more or less stable position. Then does the same thing, but with his real, human body. Hell, his head still feels really fucking weird after that teleportation.

He opens the comm channel and just listens to the static for a couple minutes in the faint hope that the engineering department will find a way to contact him.

Nothing.

He sighs.

“1061 on the com. In case there's any way you can hear me...ah shit. You guys won't believe what happened...”

[gingersxng]

Midnight Work

Pairing: f!reader x Yunho

Genre: smut 18+

Notes: employee reader, boss Yunho, sub!reader, rough dom!yunho, bigdick!yunho, office sex, unprotected sex (DONT), Yunho uses reader, Yunho calls reader (slut, whore, kitten, good girl), back shots, breeding kink, cumcumcum, jerking off, throat fucking, Yunho is horny!! May have forgotten something!

Words: 541 (I’m sorry this is so short and rushed)

You were bent over the desk watching your boss taking you from behind, his thick cock stretched your walls out to the max. His pace was fast and rough, one hand held onto your lower back and the other one was around your neck. Yunhos eyes were mostly focused on your entrance, he loved watching how well you swallowed his cock, he fucked you so good that your eyes rolled back in your head.

It all went by so fast, it all began with a late night at the office, you were the only employee left and your boss Jeong Yunho had you working overtime. He said you had a lot of paperwork to finish before you could head home. At around midnight when you’d finally finished it, you went to give the papers to your boss who waited for you patiently… and now 1:25am you were here, having him fucking your brains out on his work desk. You always thought he hated you cause he always treated you like a bag of garbage, but maybe you were wrong.

“It’s so big, aah“ you cried out. “Fuck you take my cock like a perfect slut” he grunted as he looked at you, he flashed you a smirk before he returned his gaze to where you were connected. “Mhmm” you moaned. “ I always knew you’d be good for something” he chuckled.

He was so hot with his black untied tie and rolled up sleeves, he was so focused on fucking you, the vein on his neck popped out. “Gonna fuck you full, gonna make you pregnant, oh fuck” Yunho growled, his eyebrows furrowed together and the pace increased. Your sticky juices created white cream around the base of his fat cock, he plunged deeper kissing your cervix.

Yunho grabbed a handful of your hair and lifted you up and pulled out. He spun you around and lifted you up onto the desk, in a quick motion he opened your legs and pushed his dick inside again. Your hand flew up grabbing his dark blue hair, moaning from the pleasure. Yunhos thrusts turned into short and slow hard thrusts making your whole body jump with each motion.

His dark eyes pierced right through your own, you just did your best to keep them open. “From now..on…you’ll be..my personal whore” he said. “Understand kitten?” You nodded and looked down at your stretched pussy, your inner thighs were sticky with precum and you both were almost at the verge of coming.

“I’m gonna get a little bell which I’ll ring in every time I wanna use you”. Only the thought of being his sex toy was sending you over the edge, you came around his cock with a high pitched moan. Yunho fucked you through your orgasm and he soon after shot his thick white cum inside your pussy, he pushed his cock deeper making sure to get everything in you.

He slowly pulled out with a groan, you watched him with hazy eyes as he jerked himself off. He felt some more coming, he helped you off the desk and pushed you down onto your knees.

“Be a good girl and I’ll reward you afterwards..” he whispered and pushed his cock down your throat.

[barnesandbarton]

Bucky nodded. “I know logically that’s true.  Clint has said as much himself.  But - I don’t know.  I just wish I could.  You know?  You’re both so awesome.  I wish I could give you both everything you want.  And it pisses me off that I got away from them and they still have this little bit of control over me.”

After rinsing off, they headed back in and dried off.  Clint put his hearing aids back in and put on some lavender boxershorts.  Bucky put his arm back on and put on a pair of black satin boxers and a white tank top.

Clitn came over to her and tried to help with Lucky.  “Maybe if we just put some towels on his bed.  “Or - I dunno. Do you have a hair dryer?”

Bucky nodded. “Yeah.  It’s getting late,” Bucky said, and winked at her.

“hey,” she spoke softly and shook her head softly. “I don’t mind that you’re not rougher. I wouldn’t have it any other way because it’s with you two. And you both can look at mer and I’ll be ready either way, even if it’s not too rough,” she spoke softly and stroked his cheek. “We both enjoy you simply bossing us around like that either way,” she spoke and smirks before she walked with him.

After they did all rinsed off, Ava got dressed in some shorts and a singlet as she sat down and started drying Lucky the best she could but was constantly attacked with kisses having her laughing and shaking her head. “Jesus,” she spoke and shook her head before she finally looked up and saw the others. “I’m trying to dry him the best I could,” she spoke and nodded softly as she finally gave up and stood up wiping her hands.

“So, heading to bed?” She spoke looking between them.

[quipxotic]

Just consider: a few days ago, while Braius was trying to woo Fearne, she encouraged him to consider asking Ashton to see if they'd be interested in him. So he prepares a painting for them and just when he's finally ready to offer the gift to smooth the way, he rounds the corner to see Fearne and Ashton hugging each other and clearly HAVING A MOMENT.

Now, you and I both know Fearne was probably thinking if Braius broached the question with Ashton, she might be able to get another threesome with two people she found attractive. Or maybe two people she found attractive might have a fun, sexy time with each other. We also know Braius, Mr. Everything Is Either Black Or White, would be the last person in Exandria to agree to a threesome and is likely either incapable or unwilling to allow any relationship to be just casual fun. Still, from Fearne's perspective it's just a little harmless miscommunication, no harm no foul. But from Braius's perspective, after what just happened with Orym and Dorian, what must it look like, especially for someone who is already insecure about his status within the group?

[p0orbaby]

Why Do I Give You the Worst of Me (1)

summary: love and bad decisions collide as you struggle to balance a tour and a relationship that’s spiraling out of control

warnings: 18+ adult themes throughout

a/n: another series i’m hoping i don’t regret committing myself to… not sure how many parts it’ll be, i don’t plan anything

word count: 3.1k

-

You wake up face-first on a sofa that smells like cigarettes, spilled beer, and faintly, vomit. Not yours, you think. The synthetic fabric is scratchy against your cheek, and when you open your eyes, it takes a moment to realise it’s morning—sunlight cutting through the cracked blinds, striping the floor with dusty light. The sofa is mustard yellow, ugly in a deliberate, trying-too-hard-to-be-retro way. It doesn’t belong to you. Nothing in this flat belongs to you.

There’s a girl in the kitchen, humming softly to herself as she pours cereal into a bowl. You don’t know her name, but you know she wears Chanel No. 5 because it’s all you could smell last night when she leaned too close, whispering something you didn’t quite catch. Her hair’s a mess now—like spun gold caught in a tangle of barbed wire—but her makeup is still pristine. She’s the kind who sets her eyeliner with setting spray before going out, even if it’s just to the pub. You admire the commitment, if not the execution.

Your head throbs—a deep, insistent ache behind your eyes that reminds you of last night in bits and pieces: the gig (decent, though the sound guy fucked up your monitor levels), the afterparty (loud, sweaty, a haze of bodies and smoke), the lines of coke on a chipped coffee table, the bartender who kept giving you free shots because he recognised you from that NME interview last month. At some point, someone tried to fight you, though you’re not sure why. You vaguely remember smashing a bottle of tequila against a wall and laughing as glass shards rained down like confetti.

You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling, which is peeling in a way that suggests years of neglect, a building held together more by stubbornness than actual structural integrity. There’s a stain in the corner that looks suspiciously like mould, but you don’t care enough to investigate. The flat isn’t yours, after all. You were invited here by someone whose name escapes you now—a bassist from another band, or maybe it was their girlfriend? They’re gone this morning, anyway, leaving behind only the detritus of a night well-lived: empty bottles, crushed cigarette packets, a single black stiletto abandoned near the door like a fairy-tale gone wrong.

You light a cigarette, despite the pounding in your head and the fact that you’re pretty sure it’s technically illegal to smoke indoors here. The girl in the kitchen glances at you but doesn’t say anything. You’re not sure if she’s annoyed or indifferent; you don’t care. The smoke curls lazily toward the ceiling, and for a moment, you let yourself enjoy the quiet. Mornings like this are rare—where everything is still and soft, where the chaos of your life is temporarily held at bay by the thin walls of someone else’s flat.

Your bass is propped up against the armchair, scratched and battered in a way that tells a story if you care to look closely enough. It’s a Fender Precision, black with a white pickguard, the same model Sid Vicious used to play—not that you’d ever admit that’s why you bought it. The neck has a gouge near the third fret from when you threw it at a sound tech who deserved it (and missed). The strap is leather, worn smooth where it rests on your shoulder, and the bridge still has flecks of blood from the time you played so hard your fingers split open mid-song. You keep meaning to clean it, but you never do.

You check your phone, which is cracked and sticky with something you don’t want to identify. No new messages, except for a text from your drummer that reads: “u alive?” You don’t bother replying.

-

You’ve been in the band for five years now, though it feels longer. It started as a joke—a group of friends fucking around in someone’s garage, trying to see who could play the loudest, the fastest, the most obnoxious. Somewhere along the way, it became serious. There was a DIY EP, recorded in one manic weekend on borrowed gear, and a string of gigs in dingy pubs where the audiences were more interested in drinking than listening. Then came the break—a slot supporting a bigger band, one of those industry darlings who’d already started to hate themselves for selling out. The kind of band that wears matching outfits ironically, even though everyone knows it’s not ironic at all.

Now, you play sold-out shows to crowds who scream your lyrics back at you, though most of them probably couldn’t name your second album. Your face has been on the cover of Kerrang! twice, though you didn’t bother reading the articles. You hate interviews, but you do them anyway because your manager insists. You’re better at the photoshoots—smirking at the camera in a way that suggests you don’t care (you do).

The band is your life, though you wouldn’t call it that. Calling it your life makes it sound like you have some sort of plan, and you don’t. You’re just here, playing gigs and writing songs and doing whatever it takes to keep the wheels from falling off.

Your bandmates are a mixed bag of personalities, each one a walking caricature in their own way. There’s Matt, the drummer, who swears he’s been abducted by aliens and won’t shut up about it. Alex, the lead guitarist, is constantly high and insists on bringing his cat on tour, which you find deeply annoying. And then there’s Holly, the singer, who somehow manages to be both the most chaotic and the most responsible member of the group. She’s the one who organises rehearsals, books the studio time, and keeps you all from self-destructing entirely. You love her for it, even if you’d never say it out loud.

The girl in the kitchen finishes her cereal, rinses the bowl, and leaves without saying goodbye. You watch her go, not because you care but because there’s nothing else to do. When the door slams shut, the flat feels even smaller, like the walls are pressing in on you. You stub out your cigarette, grab your bass, and leave too.

-

Outside, London is already alive, though you wouldn’t call it awake. The streets are sticky from last night—spilled pints and kebab wrappers crushed into the pavement, cigarette butts floating in puddles of something that smells suspiciously like piss. The air has that distinct urban flavour: exhaust fumes mingling with fryer grease and the faint tang of wet concrete. You pull your leather jacket tighter around you, not because it’s cold (it is), but because it completes the look.

The jacket is vintage—or at least you tell people it is. In reality, you bought it at a high-street shop three years ago, and it’s held up surprisingly well, considering the abuse it’s endured. The lining is torn, the cuffs are frayed, and there’s a mysterious stain on the back you can’t quite place. But it’s yours, and it feels like armour. The boots, on the other hand, are real vintage: a pair of Dr Martens from the ‘90s you found in a thrift shop in Brighton. They’re scuffed to hell, and the left one squeaks when you walk, but you refuse to replace them because they’re authentic.

You head toward the Tube station, your bass slung over one shoulder like a soldier carrying a rifle. People stare, but only briefly. In London, no one has the energy to care for long. The morning commuters are a mix of suits and students, their faces blank, their eyes glazed over as they clutch takeaway coffees in one hand and their phones in the other. You feel out of place but also weirdly superior, like you’ve cracked some code they haven’t even realised exists yet.

You hop on the Northern line, ignoring the signs that politely request passengers to “refrain from eating or drinking.” You’re not eating or drinking, but you do pull out a cigarette, which is arguably worse. It’s a roll-up, so you convince yourself it doesn’t count. An old woman glares at you, clutching her handbag like she thinks you’re about to mug her. You offer her a crooked smile, which she does not return, and you put the cigarette back in your pocket because she reminds you of your nan.

The train screeches into motion, and you pull out your phone. The lock screen is a photo of your bass, which says a lot about you. There are a few notifications—mostly spam emails and an unread message from Holly: Rehearsal at 2. Don’t be late, dickhead.

You glance at the time. 11:47 a.m. Plenty of time.

-

The rehearsal space is in Camden, a dingy basement that smells of mildew and unwashed socks. The walls are lined with egg cartons painted black in a half-hearted attempt at soundproofing, and the floor is sticky for reasons you’d rather not think about. The room has seen better days—probably in the ‘80s, when it was still a nightclub and not a haven for struggling musicians. There’s a single fluorescent bulb overhead that flickers ominously, and a space heater in the corner that’s never worked.

Holly is already there when you arrive, tuning her guitar with the precision of someone who takes this far more seriously than you do. She’s wearing a denim jacket covered in patches for bands you’ve never heard of, her hair tied back in a messy ponytail. She looks up as you walk in, her expression equal parts exasperation and relief.

“Christ, you smell like an ashtray,” she says, wrinkling her nose.

“It’s called branding,” you reply, dropping your bass onto the floor with a thud.

Matt and Alex show up ten minutes later, looking even worse than you do. Matt has the kind of face that always looks slightly hungover, even when he’s not, and Alex is wearing the same shirt he wore yesterday, now with an impressive new stain across the front.

The rehearsal starts late, as it always does, and quickly descends into chaos. Matt insists on playing a drum solo during every song, despite the fact that no one asked for it. Alex keeps stopping mid-riff to check his phone, claiming he’s “waiting for an important call,” though everyone knows it’s just his dealer. Holly shouts at both of them until her voice cracks, then turns her frustration on you for being “completely fucking useless.” You take it in stride, plucking random notes on your bass and pretending to care.

-

At some point, Holly storms out, leaving the three of you to your own devices. Matt immediately pulls out a joint, which Alex lights with a lighter shaped like a naked woman. You lean back against the wall, your bass resting against your thigh, and watch as they argue over which fast-food place to hit up after rehearsal.

“McDonald’s is closer,” Alex says, taking a drag.

“But KFC’s got the gravy,” Matt counters, waving his arms for emphasis.

“It’s not even real gravy,” Alex snaps.

“None of it’s real,” you interject, flicking ash onto the floor. “We’re all just cogs in the capitalist machine.”

They stare at you for a moment, then go back to arguing.

-

By the time rehearsal ends, it’s dark outside. You pack up your gear, ignoring Holly’s death glare as she reminds you for the millionth time that you need to take this more seriously. You nod, mumble something about “artistic integrity,” and leave before she can yell at you again.

Back on the street, the air is crisp, the kind of cold that bites at your skin and makes you wish you’d brought a scarf. You light another cigarette, even though you’ve already smoked half a pack today, and head toward the pub.

The pub is your sanctuary, a place where time slows down and the only thing that matters is the next round. It’s a dive, the kind of place where the carpet sticks to your shoes and the jukebox is permanently stuck on a rotation of The Clash and The Smiths. You know the bartender by name, though you’re not sure if he knows yours.

You order a pint and settle into a corner booth, your bass case propped up beside you. The first sip is like a warm hug, washing away the stress of the day. You’re halfway through your second pint when you see her.

-

You don’t notice her at first. Not properly. She’s part of the blur—the dim bar lights catching on glasses, the low hum of half-drunken conversation, the vague sense that you’ve been here before even if you haven’t. She’s leaning against the counter, waiting for her drink, and it’s not until the bartender—a man whose name might be Pete but who you’re pretty sure is just “Oi, mate” to everyone who comes in—hands her a gin and tonic that you actually see her.

And it’s a gin and tonic. Not a lager, not a rum and coke, not something ironic like a snakebite or one of those craft beers with names like Hops and Robbers. It’s a G&T, clean and crisp, with a slice of lime balanced on the rim like it’s posing for a stock photo. The glass is crystal clear, and so are her nails—short, practical, painted the sort of soft pink that suggests she doesn’t chew them during stressful moments (unlike you). She takes the drink with both hands, like she’s steadying herself, and there’s something about that—the deliberateness of it—that hooks you.

You tell yourself you’re just looking because she’s there. Because it’s either her or the guy at the next table who’s been droning on about Bitcoin for twenty minutes straight. But it’s more than that. There’s a stillness to her, an odd kind of clarity that doesn’t fit in a place like this, like she’s wandered in from a parallel universe.

She turns slightly, and you catch her profile: sharp nose, strong jawline, cheekbones that could cut glass but probably wouldn’t because she seems far too polite. Her hair is blonde—not platinum, not peroxide, but the kind of natural gold that makes you think of expensive shampoo and childhood summers. It’s tied back loosely, wisps framing her face in a way that seems accidental but probably isn’t.

She’s not wearing makeup. Or maybe she is, but it’s the invisible kind—the kind that takes forty-five minutes to apply but looks like you’ve just rolled out of bed looking flawless. Her jumper is navy, oversized enough to suggest she might have nicked it from someone else’s wardrobe, paired with jeans that sit perfectly at her hips without being skinny. On her feet are white trainers—clean, like freshly ironed bedsheets—Adidas, the classic three stripes in black, laces tied neatly, no fraying ends.

You’re staring. You know you are. But she hasn’t noticed, so it doesn’t count.

The bartender mutters something to her, and she laughs. Not the loud, performative laugh you hear from most people in bars, but something softer, like it’s meant for her and her alone. The sound is so out of place in this dingy pub that it feels almost sacrilegious, like someone’s brought a cathedral choir to sing in a nightclub.

You tell yourself to look away. You don’t.

Instead, you light a cigarette, even though the pub is strictly non-smoking. You do it for the aesthetic, the same way you do most things. There’s a half-empty pint in front of you—lager, flat and warm, probably with someone else’s fingerprints on the glass—but you take a sip anyway, because what else are you going to do?

She turns then, her gaze sweeping the room, and you’re caught like a deer in headlights. For a second, you think she’s looking at you, but she’s not. She’s looking past you, at the dartboard on the wall behind your head. Her expression is curious, like she’s trying to figure out why anyone would bother playing darts in a place like this.

Then her eyes meet yours, and the world tilts.

It’s not love at first sight, not really. Love at first sight is for Disney films and Hallmark cards and people who shop at Waitrose without looking at the prices. This is something else. Recognition, maybe. Like you’ve seen her before in a dream or a half-remembered story someone told you once. Like you’ve spent your whole life waiting for this moment without knowing it.

She holds your gaze for a second longer than is polite. Then she looks away, back at her gin and tonic, and you realise you’ve been holding your breath.

-

You don’t approach her right away. That would be too obvious, too predictable. Instead, you wait, watching her out of the corner of your eye while pretending to scroll through your phone. It’s a shitty phone, cracked and outdated, but you’ve never bothered upgrading because you secretly enjoy the low expectations it sets. No one looks at you and expects success when your phone screen is held together with Sellotape.

She moves to a table in the corner, near the radiator, and sits down alone. No book, no laptop, no visible excuse to be here other than the gin and tonic in her hand. She sips it slowly, methodically, like she’s savouring it. Like she’s savouring this.

You wonder what her story is.

Is she waiting for someone? A friend, a boyfriend, a clandestine meeting with a lover? Or is she just one of those people who can sit alone in public without feeling like a target? You’ve never understood that kind of confidence—the kind that lets you exist without an audience, without a role to play.

You take another sip of your pint, then decide, fuck it.

You stand, grab your bass (because leaving it behind would feel like abandoning a child), and make your way across the room. Your boots squeak against the sticky floor, and you curse them under your breath. She looks up as you approach, her expression unreadable.

“Mind if I join you?” you ask, gesturing vaguely at the empty chair across from her.

She hesitates, just for a moment, then nods.

“Sure.”

Her voice is soft, but not shy. Measured. Like she’s weighing every word before she says it.

You sit, placing your bass case carefully against the table leg. For a moment, neither of you speaks. You’re not sure what to say, and she seems content to let the silence stretch. It’s not uncomfortable, exactly, but it’s not easy, either.

Finally, she breaks it.

“You’re in a band,” she says, nodding toward the bass. It’s not a question.

You smile. “Yeah. What gave it away?”

She raises an eyebrow, and you realise it’s a stupid question.

“What’s the band called?”

You tell her, and she nods, like she’s vaguely heard of it but couldn’t name a single song.

“I’m Alessia,” she says, holding out her hand. Her grip is firm, her skin warm.

“Nice to meet you,” you reply, and for the first time in a long time, you actually mean it.

[clumsybriar]

Simon “Ghost” Riley X GN! Reader — I’ll Be Home For Christmas

Simon “Ghost” Riley x GN! Reader — I’ll Be Home For Christmas

Notes: if you see any error please feel free to let me know! I made another Gender Neutral for Christmas! (If you see any mistakes with gender for the reader please let me know, I want to make sure I fix it so everyone can enjoy!)

Word count: 1340

Warnings: None!

————————————————————————————

Christmas season was upon you. The wait was no longer needed and the holiday season was in full throttle for many people. But for you it felt like the holidays just weren’t here yet, not without Simon.

It had been months since you last saw Simon. The countdown had been brutal — each day dragging on like a century, filled with empty space and a gnawing ache in your chest. The last words he’d said to you were promises, hollow at the time. But now, somehow, a beacon of hope. Especially for you.

“I’ll be back for Christmas, I swear on it.”

You hadn’t expected it to be easy. Life with Simon Riley had always been an unpredictable blend of intensity and distance, but there was something about it this time that just felt…different.

It could have stemmed from many different things, truly. Like there was something about the way he’d held you the night before he left, the unspoken words in his eyes as he kissed you goodbye at the airport.

Maybe it was just the fact that the holidays made everything feel more…amplified.

Like the empty chair at your dinner table, or the lonely flicker of Christmas lights on the tree.

But today just felt different. Like something magical was truly going to happen like some sort of Christmas miracle. Which is kinda cheesy to think about. But you couldn’t help it, you just felt a flicker of hope. Who would blame you for holding onto that flicker of hope.

People always said miracles happen on Christmas and you hoped just this once, it would happen. Even if it was on Christmas Eve.

You found yourself standing in front of your front door, staring at the snow falling softly outside. The world felt quiet, calm, and still. In your opinion it was too still. You glanced at the clock for the fifth time in the last hour and you could just tell the hands in the clock seemed to mock you, ticking by at a pace that made the seconds feel like years.

Your attention was quickly drawn away though, when suddenly a car door slammed. It was then followed by the unmistakable sound of boots crunching through the snow. Something you had heard often when Simon was coming home in the winter. Though he wasn’t grumbling or complaining like he usually did.

You knew he hated winter, the cold wasn’t his favorite. He hated how it set deep into his bones, sometimes making him feel like he couldn’t warm up. He dealt with it though because deep down you knew he liked to have a white Christmas.

The crunching of snow got closer. Your heart skipped a beat. You couldn’t help it but to step closer toward the door, breath catching in your throat. Your hand reached forward for the doorknob and when you opened it, there he was…

Simon.

His face was partially obscured by the shadow of his balaclava, but you’d recognize that broad frame and those piercing brown eyes anywhere. His tactical gear was gone, replaced by a simple black hoodie and faded jeans. His duffel bag hung over one shoulder, snowflakes settling on his mask and on his shoulders decorating him for the vast winter wonderland.

For a long moment, neither of you said anything. He just stood there, looking at you like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to believe you were real. If you were being honest you felt the same and maybe wondered if you had too much eggnog in your system.

You were the first to move, closing the distance between you in an instant. Without a word, you wrapped your arms around him, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. His scent, that familiar mix of sweat, leather, and something uniquely him, filled your senses.

“Thought you weren’t coming,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

Simon’s arms tightened around you, his usual stoicism giving way to something raw. “Had to make sure I did,” he replied, his voice low and gravelly. “Couldn’t miss this… couldn’t miss you. Plus I’m pretty sure I promised you I’d be home.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hand coming to rest against his jaw. His eyes flickered down to your lips before returning to your gaze, something soft and vulnerable lingering there — a look you’d rarely seen from him.

“Been waiting for you,” you said, your thumb brushing over the area where his scar was located on his cheek, the mark you’d kissed so many times in the past. Now it was still covered in that balaclava he loved so much. “I thought I’d go crazy without you.”

He let out a breath, his hand coming up to cup your face gently. “I know. I’m sorry.”

You shook your head, smiling despite the ache in your chest. “Don’t apologize, Simon. Just… just be here. Be with me.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. The world outside might have been freezing, but here, in this moment, it felt like time had stopped entirely — just the two of you, finally reunited after what felt like an eternity apart.

“You got the tree up,” Simon said, glancing over your shoulder at the twinkling lights and the ornaments hanging from the branches.

You smiled sheepishly. “I tried. Thought I’d have someone to help me decorate it, but…” you trailed off, your voice thick with unspoken words.

Simon’s lips quirked into a faint smile. “Yeah, I get it.” He gently lifted his balaclava above his nose as you could see his red lips which were surely chapped due to the weather and his mask.

He leaned forward, pressing a slow, tender kiss to your lips. It was the kind of kiss that made everything else in the world fade away, leaving nothing but the feeling of him — your Simon — finally home. His lips were warm against yours, his touch grounding you in ways words could never explain.

When he pulled back, he took your hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Merry Christmas,” he whispered, his voice barely above a breath.

You laughed softly, pulling him inside. “Merry Christmas, big guy. You almost missed it,” you teased, “but I guess you made it just in the nick of time.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” He raised an eyebrow, a rare glimmer of mischief flashing in his eyes. “That’s all that matters.”

You smiled and closed the door behind him, then turned back to him, finally feeling like the holiday season had begun. Christmas had never meant much to you before — not without him. But now, with Simon standing here, his presence filling the room with something warmer than the heat from the fireplace, everything felt right.

You let go of his hand only for a moment to grab something from the kitchen. “I made dinner,” you said, glancing back over your shoulder. “You hungry? If I know you the answer is yes.”

Simon chuckled, crossing his arms as he leaned against the doorframe. “Maybe…yes.” He gave you a teasing look, one that made your heart flutter. “I am starving.”

“Figured as much, they don’t feed you enough do they?” you shot back with a grin. “They’re starving you, all my hard work of feeding you well has gone down the drain.”

Simon’s expression softened, and for a long moment, you both stood there, the weight of everything that had happened — the long deployments, the fears, the missed moments — evaporating in the warmth of the room. He was home with you.

“Yeah, look at me,” he teased, his voice full of something you couldn’t quite place, but it was good. “Skin and bone, not fluffy and cuddly.”

And as the night carried on, you and Simon settled together on the couch, the tree lights casting a soft glow over the room. The world outside seemed so far away, and for the first time in a long time, there was peace.

This Christmas, you had everything you needed. Simon, home where he belonged.

[mrgrimreaper1]

Dude this is sick, reminds me of this cool different Undertale multiverse idea I've made one day.

[this whole Multiverse happens like, years down the line, pretty much a time skip AU causing error and ink to be much stronger for some reason, there's a reason why I scrapped it a lot of the story is me making a scenario in my head and struggling to explain why it happens the way it does.]

In it error sans finally managed to end ink, and once he does it he regrets it later on because of the boredom that come from no one on his level to really attempt to fight back against him destroying things, and since there was no one making Another AU protector for so long, he needed to slow down on destroying the AU's because of [reasons that don't really make any sense for his canon character to do, because he would probably destroy them all regardless of how he would feel about it afterwards, which is why I've made this a completely different multiverse altogether AND scrapped it.]

Because in this MV (MultiVerse) he would die of absolute boredom if he actually destroyed everything in one swoop, so he needed to balance destroying things and then wait for creators to create more anomalies for him to destroy, which he finds really annoying, so in his absolute bored out of his mind state, he makes the choice to create something himself.

A replacement for ink that could rival him and force creators to work overtime and make more anomalies for him to destroy, he takes a pen and paper and sketches a sans design heavily based on ink, which is why this version of "ink" is named "sketch!sans" with nicknames like "sketchy, sketched, sketchup." [Ketchup joke, made by either classic sans or fresh sans, haven't really chosen who did it, could be any Sans', really.]

Then to bring this character to life error after a while of trying he would get really frustrated, because he doesn't know how to do it, making him throw the drawing away.

Causing it to fall down to the bottom of ink's doodle sphere where the remains of the destroyed AU's remained or something causing sketch sans to actually be created...

[...This only works here because I reworked what happens once you destroy an au, in this multiverse once you destroy an AU, the Portal to said AU in the doodle sphere turns into magic ink and it remains at the bottom of the doodle sphere for the rest of eternity, but thanks to how many AU's we're destroyed they accumulated and mixed together, making a huge mess.]

Thanks to the ink being mixed together this version of ink sans would come out with a lot defects, he would come out of the ink "colorless" or just "black, white and grey." Being straight up a blank Canvas, a husk of what the real ink is supposed to be, so a lot of his emotions were muddled and he didn't act like what you'd expect ink to act like...

...Causing sketch sans to be very insecure? Maybe, his whole character arc that I've had planned for him is him trying to live up to error's expectations and straight up trying his damnest to act like ink would, causing a lot of identity crisis's until he met the star Sanses and they explain to him why he simply can't get his whole attempt to imitate ink right, so they introduce him to the vials ink used to act the way he did, then sketch would start going after said vials to act more like ink, as he kept finding and drinking more of these vials he would slowly and surely becoming a lot more like ink and he would regain his colors with each vial, with error constantly encouraging this to make him keep going and get the real ink back, thanks to error's inability to care for sketch's whole identity crisis causing sketch to reach his breaking point when he meets Cross!Sans and his whole thing and experience with identity crisis's and making him realize how abusive this relationship with error is, causing him to either cut ties with error or just become his own person and completely ignore error's wishes, and just deal with him without the pressure of having to act like ink, or whatever, I don't have a proper ending to it.

It was nice getting this off my chest and head.

ERROR!INK (ASYNC SANS)

ok so, finally came with a full idea of this character:D an error version of ink. i'll be listing some facts and clarifications about him to prevent any kind of confusion, just under the cut!

i wanted to write his entire backstory on here but it ended up being a little too much longer than i expected so maybe i'll make a comic about it- or no (wheheh). but basically everything started when he also tore his soul but appeared in the anti-void instead of a normal void that would eventually become his doodle sphere

now, his design choices

he's wearing the first ever clothes he used in His Story comic

his eyes colors were chosen thanks to their inverts, those specific magenta and blue are the opposites of green and yellow, the first colors he experienced in his original story

the marks on his body are white to represent the meaning of the few white garments in his original design: "The white layer underneath says how he attempts to hide who he is, but his emptiness sometimes shines through."

his "tattoos" are no longer illegible when he turns into an error, they become common binary codes (the font used for these is Note This, ink's official font)

the red (magenta) eye is on the right side to somehow symbolize the blood his "scar" would cause

there is no yellow on his clothes to show how secretive he is, as he constantly hides half his face in his scarf

personality traits and extra facts!

as said before he is someone incredibly reserved, mostly because while being in his 5 senses he is afraid of his self without his doses of paints and tries to not attract attention

nonetheless, he likes being around people, he would probably travel across universes to hang out hidden in crowded places

the "specific situations" mentioned on the first part of the sheet refer, for the most part, to self-defense. but there may be other situations where he simply creates stuff that people ask for from time to time

compared to his original counterpart, he will take much longer to drain as he'll rarely use his powers

if he talks for too much time he'll glitch for an instant and forget everything he was saying. that is one of the reason he doesn't enjoy talking so much

when he's in the doodle sphere he often has momentary traumatic hallucinations, so he tries to leave that place as quickly as possible

these previously mentioned hallucinations also happen in panic situations or as a sign that the ingested paints are no longer effective

okie dokie i think that's all for now<3 if anything comes to my mind later or anytime i'll try to post it or smth! hope you like it🫶

ink sans by @/comyet

[lemon-russ]

In my late night writing stupor I; 1) used the wrong dividers on the morty fic, I reopened it aghast to see that vague circle shape was not death gaurd but black legion. Please disregard. And 2) I forgot to tag @squishyowl for it 😭

I REGRET NOTHING ELSE

There were discussions. I now am expanding the Otome Cage Morty fic to have Lore because I'm insane and I GUESS it's getting me to write again so. We roll with it.

PREQUEL TO THIS

Mortarion x F!Reader (Pt. 0)

CW: None for this specific thing. Many for the linked one. Many for the future of whatever this is.

TAGS (If you guys do not want to be tagged in whatever this is lmk 💀): @sleepyfan-blog @undeaddream @scriberye @lisikk @moodymisty (<- except you, you get no rest /j)

Your hoe hits the dirt with a soft thud, the thick warm air of sowing season opressing your lungs. You sigh and lean on the tool, wiping sweat from your brow as it threatens to sting your eyes.

Same as it ever is, you have been tilling the field for three days straight in preparation to sow the grains that will feed you another long winter. Your back aches, your arms tire, but worst of all is the humidity as your lungs try to wring oxygen from the air.

Your sister calls your name, and you ignore her a moment, catching your breath. But the next call is sharp and panicked. You turn to look for your sister, but are stopped dead when you see the sky.

Your life, until this moment, has been a cycle of doldrum. Wake up, feed the animals, feed yourself and your sister, do whatever seasonal chores were required of you. Today that was till and turn soil, sometimes it is irrigate the crops, sometimes harvest, maybe darn your garments or weave.

Nothing in your life so far could prepare your brain to process what it currently was desperately trying to parse into your synapses.

A… thing. A building? A construct of some sort, hangs in the hazy sky. Sat there like a cloud, but sharp and pointed and menacing. Whatever it is, it screams predator.

You fall backwards into the softened soil, primal fear gripping your heart. Everything you know screams “wrong, danger, flee” as smaller constructs fall away from the main one, like the large flying insects you chased off of growing season crops.

An alien noise, deep and bone rattling, approaches from the sky behind you. You scramble around to see another small construct coming right for your field, kicking up dirt and debris. You have to cover your ears to muffle the painful thudding sounds it makes.

It settles onto the ground, and mercifully it stops screaming. You wonder if it is hunting, should you run? Where is your sister? You need to find safety from these beasts-

The belly of the thing cracks open and falls to the soil, shaking the ground, and you freeze again.

Something human shaped, but wrong and hard and large, steps out with a heavy thud onto the ramp. It’s terrible face is partially made of metallic plates, with two cylinders that belch thick gasses as it breathes. It seems to be wearing clothes- you think you see human eyes under a hood- but you can’t begin to guess which parts are shell or exoskeleton and which are clothing.

It does have eyes, you realize as the cloudy green things lock onto you. Have you been staring this whole time? You need to run, your body screams, run, run, run-

It makes a noise that sounds like speech at you, and points. It’s… trying to communicate? It barks the clipped noise again and snaps its fingers at you.

Your baffled mind reels, overwhelmed by the onslaught of new information. You point at yourself.

“M- me….?” You squeak out to it.

It thuds across your field, heavy shelled body sinking into your freshly tilled dirt, ruining several days of effort, before coming to a stop in front of where you sit. It peels back its upper skin- Oh, it was a hood- to reveal shockingly human adjacent features. Shoulder length silver hair, pale and cloudy green eyes, and ashen white skin marred with cracks and scars.

It speaks at you again, the sound mechanical and muffled by its gaseous breath. The smell from its cylinders is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced, acrid and sharp and foul, and you recoil from it as its attempt at speech spits the smoke at you.

The being- person?- hesitates, and sighs. To your horror, it hooks its thumbs under the metal plates of its face and pries them away, revealing a human-ish lower face. Its cheeks are gaunt, and its mouth cracked in a sickly way, but at least it is now human looking enough for your brain to process what you are talking to.

A man. Almost.

He starts speaking again, but is overcome with a coughing fit. He turns away, coughing a sickly rattling sound out, and instinctively you clamber to your feet and step towards him. Is the air foul to him? You’re sure this massive man, already a foot in the grave if you’d ever seen it, is about to keel over right in your field. He holds up a hand to stop you, and retches something vile into the dirt.

You grimace. Not because of the sick, you were plenty familiar with disease and the death rattle of a creature’s last breaths, the poor thing, but whatever he is producing actually sizzles when it hits the dirt, and you’re pretty sure you’re going to have to dig up the soil this man touches when he finally dies. That’s going to be a lot. He is REALLY big.

Surprisingly, he catches his breath, and surprising more, when he turns back to you, his pallor is slightly healthier. He takes a deep breath, rolls back his shoulders, and speaks again, much more clearly. Unfortunately, it is gibberish.

“I… don’t understand…” you say, shuffling on your feet.

He tilts his head as you speak, then nods. “Ah, you do not speak gothic here. That is fine, I think I know this language too.” He responds, his voice deep and raspy. “Tell me little peasant, who are your rulers?”

You frown. “I… rulers…?”

He rolls his eyes, “Yes, do you have that? Is there a person who makes the rules you all follow? Someone who runs your country or whatever you have here?” He says, gesturing around you.

“I…. no? We all just live our lives, farming mostly….” you say, starting to feel lightheaded. This shelled man came out of a flying beast and now is asking if you had, what, a parent?

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his scarred nose. “That makes things less convenient.” He grumbles.

Suddenly he is scruffing you by the back of your tunic, and you yelp in surprise. You hear your sister scream and run away, calling for the neighbors down the way. The massive man holds you up so you are face to face with him as you squirm and grab at the cold hard hand.

“I am here to bring this planet back to the rule of my Father, The Emperor of mankind. And you-” he stops to cough into his shoulder, “-Are going to tell me what I ask for without argument.” He said between wheezes.

You fight through the confusion and anarchy in your mind to think about the situation you are in as logically as possible. A giant man from the sky in a screaming beast, who speaks your tongue, wants to own your land- what is a planet- and has you grasped in one hand like a stray kitten. And apparently he intends to bring you along as he does whatever it is he is doing for his father, who, presumably, is another large and strange man who could crush you in his fist like a locust.

You could fight, scream, run. Hide until your sister returns with help, hope this man is too sickly to give chase for long. There is a side door to the root cellar, if you could get out of his hands in time maybe….

“Okay.” You squeak out.

He raises a brow. “Okay?” He asks.

You nod quickly. “Okay.”

A very, very faint smile cracks across his weathers face. “….Okay.”

[creatingblackcharacters]

Maybe it's just me, but does it feel like some people are just constantly walking on eggshells whenever they send you an ask? Like, being overly apologetic for everything and constantly putting a bunch of qualifiers before anything they say? I get kind of weirded out by it, cause i mean, you're a person! And you're offering to have these discussions and answer their questions! They shouldn't be afraid to talk to you. I don't know if it ties into how some White people try so hard not to be racist that they try too hard and go the other way into overbearing apologies and self-shaming whenever they talk to a Black person, but it's a little concerning nonetheless. You seem so chill and engaging to talk to, so I don't think people should be scared to ask you questions that you've repeatedly stated you are open to answering. Regardless, this is from the perspective of someone who doesn't personally know you OR anyone else who's sent you an ask, so I could be completely off-base here. What's your perspective?

I see what you mean. It can be a bit awkward at times, but it's not really something I feel the need to put extra effort into. Tbh, I'd rather people come in over apologetic reaching for politeness than rude ASF. I can deal with all the sorries, that's (hopefully) in good faith, but when I get asks that basically go "hey Google, what is ___" or send me imperatives, that's when I'm like hmm kay lol. At least drop a hi lmao

But yeah I think the only time someone "should" feel guilt hitting me up is if the thing they're asking me could possibly be found in the lessons I've written. It does bother me; read, hurt my feelings and mild annoyance; when people ask me things without even consulting the resources via the lessons I've taken months to compile. Like if I did all that and you couldn't find it, that's fair! Especially because I don't know everything and can't answer every question. But please look 😅 I work very hard on those.

[megan0013]

soulmate au wherein you start to see color as soon as you make eye contact with your soulmate, but lose the ability when they die

which is why gabriel is adamant emilie is still alive and savable because if she were really dead his vision would have reverted back to grayscale and he can still tell the difference between orchid and amethyst at a glance, thank you very much

fast forward to hawkmoth’s defeat at the hands of the heroes and ladybug’s confirmation that there’s nothing they can do for emilie and that she is, in fact, dead. but that doesn’t make sense because gabriel can still see colors - can still see the blue sky the morning of her funeral, and the pink dress he’d chosen for her to be buried in, and the green grass as her casket descends into the ground

life goes on and the color never fades -

not like those few times it had when he still wore the miraculous

those had been some of the worst nights of his life. when the color of his son’s hair had lost its golden hue and his assistant’s bright blue eyes looked grey (the fact those nights always coincided with nathalie’s weakest never crossed his mind, nor did the way everything around him seemed brighter whenever she took a deep, fortifying breath)

- and then one day adrien asks nathalie if she can see color, why isn’t she with her soulmate?

“i don’t know who they are.”

“how can you not know?!”

“there were a lot of people around when it happened.” she shrugs and then, at adrien’s incredulous expression, elaborates, “i was on a school trip to the musée d’orsay. one second everything was in black and white, and the next i could see color. it happened so fast i don’t even know if he realized it was me he was looking at. and by the time i’d gotten over my shock the teachers were herding us onto the next activity.”

“do you remember anything about him?”

“the details are fuzzy now, but he was older than me by a few years. and he was very tall.” she pauses, thinking. “and his hair was cut short, but dyed bright red.”

adrien’s eyes narrow. “is that why you have a red streak in your hair?”

nathalie smiles and tilts her head. “you know, adrien, i never really thought about it like that. but maybe.”

“how long ago was this?”

adrien and nathalie both turn at the sound of gabriel’s sudden question, completely unaware of how intently he’d been listening to their conversation since the mentioning of the station

“i’d just turned fourteen.”

gabriel calculates the timing in his head, frown deepening as nathalie and adrien turn to a different topic

a few days later an increasingly agitated gabriel bites the bullet and calls amélie, who reluctantly admits that, no, gabriel was not actually emilie’s soulmate and that, apparently, she had known her soulmate for years before she’d met him but couldn’t stand the boy and had jumped at the chance to be gabriel’s soulmate when he’d mistaken her for his

furious, he slams down the phone and goes to find the old photo albums stashed in the back of his closet

and there, on the second page of a scrapbook emilie had made him for their six-month anniversary, in the background of the very first selfie he’d taken with emilie was a gangly, pale girl with a heart-shaped face and familiar bright blue eyes

gabriel’s heart stutters to a stop, eyes flicking from the bright red buzz cut he’d very briefly sported to emilie’s radiant smile and back to the teenage version of nathalie

nathalie

his soulmate

[whumpsoda]

Oh please write a snippet of Florence being put on the drip, knowing that his mind is being wiped and there's nothing he can do about it

@oliversrarebooks

Masterlist

Man do I hate him <3

cw: pet whump, box boy universe/bbu adjacent, institutionalized slavery, wru facility, drugging, impending doom

——————

This was the end.

He could now say that he had experienced how it felt to contemplate death, not that he could never really tell anyone, now could he? That was basically what it was, the death of his mind. The death of a person, the person he was, brain turned to the mush that was a pet’s.

He swallowed, shaking. He wasn’t supposed to be shaking, never before would he have ever been fucking shaking, yet he couldn’t stop himself.

There was a muzzle covering a majority of his face, padded and black to match the mitts tied around his hands, to keep him from biting. Or maybe from screaming. Maybe both.

He was restrained to a table, similar to one in a doctors office, but - and of course - fucking white. He’d never really thought that much about it as a handler, when his life didn’t revolve around it - the white walls, white lights, white shirts, white uniforms - but goddammit everything was white. It made him sick to his stomach, a burning throb that seeped into his head.

This whole room was the same - white tile, white walls, white furniture, white cabinets - save for the metal machinery that provided no solace.

An itch blossomed in his outgrown, frizzy curls, one he couldn’t move to reach, forcing him to rub his head to the surface of the table. Making him look like the animal they would turn him into.

A snap in his face, catching his attention. Like a dog. “You ready? Or are you gonna struggle like you always do, even to your last moments?” Handler - God no, Everett - chuckled, stood right beside him.

His last moments. How laughable was it that he was spending them tied down to a table about to be plugged into the same substance he’d put so many boxies’ through? How fucking funny would he have found that if it was someone else on the table instead of him?

He wanted to sock Everett right in the face. He would’ve, if not for the restraints. Still, he struggled - banging, kicking weakly, snarling wildly - face beating red as Everett began to laugh.

“Isn’t that just a sight?” Everett leaned over his trainee, grinning with that stupid look on his face. A growl rolled out from under the muzzle, muffled and nearly unheard. “Man, I’m so excited, you have no idea. I’m so done with your antics.”

Anger fired up a flame in his chest, binding over his lungs as his cheeks boiled. With a clunk his fists fell to the table, over and over again in the attempt to make as much of a ruckus as he could. Anything to irritate his captors more than he already had. Anything to bring him any semblance of satisfaction.

“Hrgh-!” His eyes practically burst from their sockets as electricity exploded around his kneck, a squeal crackling from his throat as the shock seemed to stretch on and on.

Before, Everett would have thought the sight was the funniest thing he’d ever seen. Now he sat their straight faced, looking as bored as if he was any other trainee. “Don’t make me use the shock collar, ‘065, you know it’s already gotten old.”

The muzzle did it’s very best to constrict his hoarse, shallow breathing, the edge scratching over the skin of his throat. Everett patted his shoulder, comforting if not for the circumstances, calling his attention back.

“Don’t you worry one bit, ‘065. Everything’ll be a-okay once you’re off the drip. You’ll see.” Everett couldn’t even put in the effort to hide his smirk, one he so very much to wipe right off. “You want me to hold your hand?”

Everett was taunting him. Taunting him. Like they did to trainees together, except this time he was the trainee.

What would he even be after this? As a real trainee, head knocked empty?

A boxie. He’d be a braindead, obedient little boxie.

He’d have an owner, someone whose every word he would hang from, drooling to serve them.

His stomach churned, bile bubbling up with heat from his belly. He was going to puke just thinking about it.

What a joke.

The click of the door, steps parading the edge of the room. The doctor had arrived, the same one he’d worked with several times previously on other boxies. This time though, that doctor would be working on him.

“You guys ready to get this party started?” Everett asked - hands on his lap in an anticipatory stance - giddy almost, to no response.

The doctor was on the other side of his table then - he’d never cared to remember her name - audibly flicking switches, turning knobs.

“And we’re on.” Everett sneered, plopping himself into a white, plastic chair across the room. The perfect view, staring straight at him.

This was-

This was it.

He could feel his lungs growing and depleting, breath sucked in and out faster and faster every nearing second. The muzzle wasn’t doing him any good, only furthering his struggle for air.

He gripped to the walls of the table as best he could with mitts around his hands, wriggling weaker and weaker against the restraints with every passing moment. The drip was already getting to him, quicker and quicker.

He shrieked, quieter than expected but still a decent sound. The doctor was unmoved, Everett giggling from his seat.

How dare they.

How fucking dare they.

He was a person, not a boxie. He wasn’t like them. He was someone who had a family, friends, a real fucking future ahead of him, one they swiped away just like that. One that, this time, he couldn’t see any way to get back.

He couldn’t struggle. His limbs were numb, falling limp as something dead, and he couldn’t do anything to stop it. What could he have?

The air was hot in his mouth, sweat dribbling over his top lip and onto his bottom. Already he felt himself drifting, like he was floating almost, unable to grab back on.

Maybe-

If he could just-

If he-

he…

His head filled up with a sensation of suffocatingly air, as if going in for surgery. He caught Everett flash him a small, glittering wave. “See ya soon, ——,”

Only white, hearing fading out to a buzz.

Only white, thoughts washing into the abyss.

Only white, vision clearing to a stinging brightness.

Only white, memories flushed to emptiness in the blink of his eye.

Wiped.

——————

Masterlist

Taglist - @softvampirewhump @ivymyers @taterswhump @octopus-reactivated @tippytappytyping

@distracted-obsessions @starfields08000 @bitchaknso @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @scoundrelwithboba

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@whump-till-ya-jump

If anyone wants to be removed or added to the taglist, please let me know! :)

[mattsmiddlepartt]

When words collide.

Warnings: arguing, cursing, angst, fluff if you squint, idk anymore.

Matt × !reader

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

The kitchen was dimly lit, the soft glow from the overhead light casting sharp shadows. Matt leaned against the counter, arms crossed, his jaw clenched so tightly you could see the muscle twitching. You stood across from him, matching his tension, your arms stiff at your sides.

“I just don’t fucking get it,” Matt said, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “Why the hell didn’t you just tell me?”

“Because I knew how you’d react!” you shot back, your voice trembling slightly.

“Oh, so now it’s my fault?” he snapped, his brown eyes narrowing. “Classic. Blame me for your bullshit!”

You huffed, running a hand through your hair in frustration. “I didn’t lie, Matt. I just... didn’t tell you right away. There’s a fucking difference.”

“Bullshit!” he spat, his voice rising. “If you’re hiding something, it’s a lie, plain and simple.”

Your throat tightened as his words hit, sharp and unforgiving. “Goddammit, Matt, why do you always have to be so black-and-white about everything? Not everything is some huge fucking betrayal!”

He pushed off the counter, pacing now, his hands tugging at his hoodie strings. “You went behind my back,” he said, his voice lower but no less cutting. “You made a decision that affects both of us, and you didn’t think I deserved to know?”

“It wasn’t your fucking decision to make!” you fired back, your anger bubbling over. “Not everything in my life has to revolve around you, Matt!”

That made him stop. He turned to you, his face twisting into something you’d never seen before. Hurt. Real, raw hurt.

“Wow,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “That’s how you see me? Some... controlling asshole who needs to know everything?”

You froze, your anger dissolving into regret as his words sank in. “Matt, I didn’t mean—”

“No, you fucking did,” he interrupted, his tone bitter now. “And you know what? Maybe you’re right. Maybe I do try too hard to be involved. But it’s only because I fucking care, okay? Because I actually give a damn about us. But if that’s too much for you…”

He trailed off, looking away as his chest rose and fell with uneven breaths.

“Matt,” you said softly, stepping toward him, but he shook his head, holding up a hand.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “I need a fucking minute. I can’t… I just can’t do this right now.”

You watched as he turned and walked out of the kitchen, his footsteps heavy as they disappeared down the hallway. The silence he left behind was deafening.

And all you could do was stand there, staring at the empty space where he’d been, wondering how something so small had spiraled into something so goddamn big.

____

Matt sighed, his shoulders slumping as he pushed off the desk. Slowly, he crossed the room until he was standing right in front of you. He stared at you for a moment, his eyes softer now, though the frustration still lingered.

“I hate this,” he muttered, his voice quieter.

You blinked up at him, confused. “Hate what?”

“Fighting with you,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “It’s exhausting. And... it fucking sucks, okay?”

You felt your chest tighten, guilt wrapping around your heart. “I hate it too,” you said softly. “I hate that I make you feel like this. I just—” You paused, struggling to find the right words. “I’m sorry, Matt. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “You’re such a pain in my ass, you know that?”

A small smile tugged at your lips despite everything. “Yeah, well, you’re not exactly a walk in the park either, Sturniolo.”

That earned a faint chuckle from him, the tension in the room easing just a little.

For a second, the two of you just stood there, neither sure what to say. Then, with a sigh, Matt reached out, his hands resting on your shoulders. “I’m sorry too,” he said, his voice genuine. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. I just... I hate feeling like I’m not enough for you to trust me.”

Your heart ached at his words. Without thinking, you stepped closer, wrapping your arms around his waist and burying your face in his chest. “You are enough,” you said softly, your voice muffled against his hoodie. “I promise, Matt. I just... I’m a mess sometimes, okay? But you’re the one thing I’m always sure about.”

His arms tightened around you, his chin resting on top of your head. “You’re so fucking annoying,” he muttered, but there was no heat in his words—only the warmth of someone who cared too much to stay mad.

You laughed, pulling back just enough to look up at him. “And yet, you’re still here.”

He smirked, his hand coming up to gently cup your cheek. “Yeah, well, someone’s gotta keep you in line.”

You rolled your eyes but leaned into his touch, your smile soft. “Thanks for putting up with me.”

“Always,” he said, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead.

And just like that, the fight was behind you. Because no matter how messy things got, you both knew that at the end of the day, you’d choose each other—again and again.

Tags!🌬

@chasekeithh @sophiabirlemm @delilahsturniolo @chrisfavoritewhore

Angst idea from!: @stvrnioloslvt ♡

First divider from!: @bernardsbendystraws I think!

[negativepeanuthoarder]

A Prison Of Fear

Awesamdude & Sapnap

5.6k words

Teen and Up Audiences

No Archive Warnings Apply :)

Cold, endlessly cold - everything down here is cold - fingers are placed on Sam's face and his chin is slowly tilted up, so he can meet the eyes of the Head Warden. He doesn't know what he was expecting, if he was expecting at least a little warmth or comfort or reassurance. Maybe someone here is happy to see him home?

There's none of that in the Head Warden's eyes - just bright white pupils and a black sclera, like Sam's own. His eyes are as cold as everything else in Pandora is. Frozen and cold and miserable but in a steady, plodding sort of way, like a horse who does not want to pull a cart but does so anyway.

"This one's ours," The Head Warden says to the avians holding Sam. "We'll deal with him."

- - - -

What happened after the rebellion got captured :3

Reblogs are ALWAYS appreciated even if you don't read the fic! :D @sapnapstummy @mahikamihan @sketchehm @cleofast300 @rat-rosemary :3

[abiteofhoney]

The Vampire and The Devilspawn

3036 words | Chapter Navigation

Chapter 4

Magdalena wakes in a gasp, the instinct to fight for her safety pulling her out of the lull of sleep. She sits up where she’d been lying on the floor, and something heavy pulls at her neck, the dread-inducing sound of chains rattling as she moves. Panicked, she reaches up to grab at the collar, but touching it only drives the metal prongs deeper into her neck, not yet piercing her skin, but threatening it, and it hurts enough to get her to stop touching it. From the pronged collar runs a thick chain, snaking across the floor to where it’s bolted on the wall behind her.

Looking around, she finds that she’s in a nearly empty, concrete room. A metal door is set into the wall directly across from her, but nothing else. No windows. No other way in or out. 

Her legs ache as she maneuvers to her knees, her joints creaking and popping, and acutely aware of how she moves with the chain and collar. She feels too weak to stand up on her feet so she stays on her knees and eyes the door across from her. The chain doesn’t look nearly long enough for her to reach the door, so escape is not an option unless she can get the collar or chains off.

Magdalena turns towards the wall behind her, scooting until she’s directly in front of the bolted hook holding her chains to the wall. Even though it strains her stiff hips, she puts both feet on the wall on either side of the hook, and then grabs the chains and yanks with all of her might. A few puffs of dust cloud the air, but it otherwise doesn’t give. So she tries again. And again, and again, and again, until she’s sweating and she can hardly feel her arms. 

Defeated, she lets the chains fall and lies down where she is, trying her best to keep from crying through her frustrations. 

“Giving up already?” a taunting voice calls through the door, which opens a moment later. 

Magdalena sits right back up, turning so that her back is to the wall,  not to the black-eyed man walking into the room. He smiles at her, flashing a smile of pearly whites – too white and too straight to look natural. They shine too brightly in the dim room, only one single bulb hanging from a wire overhead. 

“Fuck you,” she spits at the cherry-skinned man. 

“There’s that fight. I like watching you fight, Mags. Thought you almost gave up on us there for a bit, but we fixed that, didn’t we! You can’t go dying on us now, and besides, you’re going to look adorable with fangs.” 

Fangs. 

She has some, doesn’t she? 

She runs her tongue over her teeth. Everything feels in place, her canines poking into her tongue, but there are no fangs. She remembers having some, biting those devilspawn with them, and she gets an odd sinking feeling like she might actually … miss them. 

They were so fun to bite with. The blood she drew tasted so good. 

She snarls at him, but he only laughs. “Oh, Mags, stop it. You just look ridiculous. Maybe you’ll be a bit more menacing once those fangs come in.” He ventures a few steps closer, and Magdalena wonders if she has enough slack in her chain to reach him. 

She studies him where he stands, struggling to see him in the dim lighting. He’s dressed in all black with dark red skin and eyes as black as a moonless night. That’s about all she can see of him, the shadows across his face obscuring any noticeable features. All she needs to see are those empty black eyes for her anger to spike anyway. 

“Fuck. You,” she repeats through clenched teeth, wanting nothing more than to rip into his flesh. 

Her wish is partially granted when he pulls a small blade out of his pocket and rolls up one of his sleeves. A wicked smile curls his lips as he drags the blade across his forearm. Her focus immediately zones in on the blood that bubbles to the surface as it assaults her senses even from across the room. 

On instinct, she lurches for it, fingers just scraping his skin as she’s yanked back by the collar. With a cry of pain, she falls to the floor, grabbing at the pronged collar as it digs into her throat. 

But when she touches her neck, there’s nothing. Her fingernails only find skin. Fighting for breath, Magdalena sits up, eyes wide as she looks around the bedroom. 

The bedroom. 

The events of the past day flash through her mind as she remembers where she is and realizes that what felt so real a moment ago was only a dream. Maybe a memory. 

The pain felt so real. The scent of his blood still lingers in her senses. 

Her hunger is definitely real. Her tongue finds her fangs right where they should be, sharp and ready to sink into flesh. 

She trembles from head to toe, using the wall to lean on so she can stand, the pain in her stomach near unbearable. She stumbles first to the door closest to her, but a strike runs through the center of her forehead like a jolt of lightning and Anzurin’s words echo around her skull: If you feel like you have to bite someone, you bite me. 

Her feet carry her towards the bathroom door instead. Numbly, she shuffles through the bathroom and into Anzurin’s room, keeping as silent as she possibly can. She walks slow and soft enough that her steps don’t make a single noise, and she opens the door handle with impeccable caution. The hinges don’t even squeak as she pushes it open. 

Anzurin’s bedroom, in the dark, seems to be mostly the same as her own, his bed positioned right where hers was, and he is peacefully asleep on it, his face towards her. Running her tongue over her flesh-hungry fangs, she sneaks right up to the edge of his bed, taking a moment to stare down at him and make sure she hasn’t woken him up. She studies his face, watching to see if his eyes open, but her focus doesn’t stay there, trailing down to his neck instead. Her tongue screams for another taste of his blood. 

Magdalena drops down to her knees and reaches out for him, but her hands only hover. Her mouth pools with saliva, her breaths shallow as she leans forward, sniffing. He smells so delicious. He tasted even better, and she feels like she’s starving once again. 

She sinks back on her heels when Anzurin moves, turning onto his back as he throws his arm over his eyes. The thin silk sheet over him gets pushed down to his waist when he turns, leaving exposed his bare torso, so much skin she could bite. 

Quickly but quietly, Magdalena hurries around to the other side of the bed and climbs onto the mattress carefully enough as to not wake him, making it all the way to his side on her hands and knees. To test how deep he’s sleeping, she reaches out, running her pointer finger down his arm where it lies on the bed. 

He doesn’t stir as she drags her finger from elbow to wrist, so she takes it a step further, sinking down into a fetal position so that her mouth is only a breath’s width from his arm. 

Then she bites him. 

Softly, she sinks her fangs into his meaty bicep and tries to keep from moaning as his blood touches her tongue. So sweet, so warm and delicious and filling. As his blood floods her throat, a memory touches her, a flash of what might have been her human life. A memory of sitting next to a roaring fire, ash and smoke filling the air with the sweet scent of marshmallows and chocolate, warmth and comfort in the gentle air of night. It’s more of a feeling than a taste, a comfort of something familiar and joyful. 

He stirs, grumbling something incoherent, but doesn’t quite wake, so she keeps drinking. She swallows mouthful after mouthful of blood, grateful for the warmth of it that fills the freezing hole in her stomach. Not even taking every drop of Herra’s blood satisfied her as much as his does. 

Losing herself in the taste of him, she sinks her teeth in further, grabbing his arm to hold it tight to her mouth. 

But then it’s brought to an abrupt end by a hand wrapping around her throat, shoving her back onto the bed. Magdalena blinks and Anzurin is directly above her, rage in his eyes as he glares down at her and snaps, “What the fuck are you doing?” 

Magdalena swallows the blood in her mouth, struggling to do so with his hand tight around her neck. “Hungry,” she gasps, more an airless rasp. 

“You have no right to come in here and bite me,” he seethes. “Don’t ever –” 

“But you said,” she cries. “You said to bite you.” 

Anzurin grumbles low in his throat. “I did not tell you to come into my room and bite me while I’m sleeping. That’s not okay, Magdalena.” He finally releases her, climbing off of the bed to head into the bathroom, saying over his shoulder, “At least you were gentler this time. Still a bit too rough, but better.” 

She sits up but stays where she is on the bed, licking every inch of the inside of her mouth for whatever blood still lingers. She sits there until Anzurin’s head pokes back through the doorway, peering at her curiously. “Well, are you coming?” She scrambles off of the bed and into the bathroom with him and as soon as she rounds the corner, he says, “I told you that when you’re hungry, I’ll feed you, but you have to ask me first, Magdalena. You can’t just sneak into my bed and bite me. One, that’s my personal space. Two, it’s dangerous to wake me up like that; I could have hurt you. And three, I don’t want to get blood on my sheets and things.” 

She stands by the door while Anzurin cleans off his arm, the wounds from her bite already healed, but the spilled blood still clinging to his ruby skin. It seems like such a waste to watch it run down the drain; she could lick it off of his skin. She’d get every drop, too. 

Briefly, Magdalena notices that the glass she’d previously broken is completely cleaned up off of the floors and vanity counter, though the shattered remains are still on the wall. She wonders who cleaned it; they must have done it while she was sleeping. How long was she sleeping? 

She looks around the room for a clock or something to tell her what time it is, but there’s nothing of the sort, so she asks, “Is it morning?” 

Anzurin shuts off the water and walks past her, back into his room, motioning for her to follow. “No, it’s probably about midday, actually, but it’s still ‘nighttime’.” He puts the words in quotes with his fingers. “You’ve only been asleep for an hour or so.” 

Magdalena nods along like she understands, but she doesn’t. How can it be midday and nighttime at the same time? Not to mention that it feels like she was asleep for a lot longer than an hour. She continues to follow Anzurin, just accepting what he says without asking any questions – not really sure what to ask. 

He leads her to the other side of the bedroom to a small, two-person sofa that sits against the far wall. Anzurin drops into the corner of it, a yawn escaping him as he gestures for her to join him. “Come on, come feed so I can go back to sleep.” 

Magdalena sits by his side, pressed right against him as she stares at his neck, waiting for the go-ahead, but Anzurin shakes his head with a soft chuckle. “No. I’m not letting you drink from my neck until you learn how to bite without tearing. Arm only.” 

She pouts. “I’ll be gentle,” she promises. 

“Prove you can be – on my wrist.” 

She whines, but relents and turns her attention to his offered wrist. Still trembling, whether from her lingering nightmare, or from her hunger, or just her excitement to feed, she grips his arm and sinks her teeth in, digging into his supple skin. 

“Alright, I can’t keep doing this.” Anzurin – for the last time – fists the hair at the back of her head and yanks, ripping her teeth from his flesh. 

She throws her head back, slamming his hand into the wall so he lets go of her, and snaps for his face, teeth just barely grazing his cheek. “Stop it!” 

Anzurin lifts his hand to the scratch along his cheek - not deep enough to draw blood, but enough to leave a mark. “I needed you to stop biting –” 

“Ask. First,” she hisses through her clenched teeth, rubbing the back of her head to soothe the stinging. “I don’t like it.” 

The hard edge in Anzurin’s gaze softens and the tension leaves his shoulders. “Alright, that’s fair, I apologize. I just –” He sighs, then runs his long forked tongue across his forearm, repairing the damage her teeth did in the blink of an eye. “You have to be gentler, Magdalena. You can’t just keep taking chunks out of me every time you feed, and when you’re out on your own, you can’t tear apart everyone else you drink from.” 

She nods along, seeing sense in what he’s saying. It’s just that her hunger gets so overwhelming that she can’t help herself. And flesh feels so good between her teeth. 

Anzurin leans into her, putting his wrist in front of her mouth once more. “When you bite, Magdalena, only use your fangs. Pierce me once, then take your fangs out, and then you can just drink. Your regular teeth should never touch my skin. 

She frowns, gnashing her teeth. “I like biting. Tearing.” 

“We can find you something else to tear into later, but it’s not going to be me. Bite like I just told you, or don’t feed at all.” 

Too hungry to go without, Magdalena relents and does as told. Only her fangs pierce his wrist, and when she pulls them out, the flow of blood doesn’t feel like enough. It doesn’t flood her throat like she loves, but she draws out as much as she can, gulping it down to soothe the ache in her gut. 

That ache is the most familiar thing around her. The pain of hunger is the only thing she knows, the only constant in the fleeting mess that the last day has been. There’s nothing she remembers about a life before it. 

Finally, the roar starts to settle, and just as her hunger is fizzling out completely, Anzurin murmurs, “Alright, that’s enough for now.” 

She whines, but licks the two puncture wounds and then pulls her mouth away, but she doesn’t yet let go of his arm, pressing her nose into his skin and inhaling as deeply as she can, filling her lungs with the scent of him, the summer sweetness. 

Anzurin chuckles and smoothes his hand over her hair, brushing it back out of her face. “Good enough? Think you can go back to sleep now?” 

Her lips part and she grazes her fangs across his wrist, but she doesn’t bite. He told her to stop, and she promised she’d listen if he asked. “Nn-hng,” she mutters, nodding. Her tongue teases the wounds once more to lap up the blood that’s still drizzling out of him. 

“Not a drop wasted with you, is there?” he teases as he finally pulls his arm out of her grasp. With a quick flick of his forked tongue, he heals the puncture wounds on his wrist, leaving behind not a trace of her bite. 

“Tastes good,” she pouts. “Like s’mores.” 

“S’mores?” he laughs. “Those little marshmallow treats that humans like?” 

She nods, excited that he knows what she’s talking about - that she actually remembers something, anything, about a human life. “Mhm! Sweet, but - but fiery, too. Smoky.” 

“Many have fed from me, but I must say, I don’t think I’ve ever heard that comparison before. At least you like it, hm?”

“My favorite,” she purrs. 

He laughs once more, a bark of a noise. “Not Herra? You drained her.”

She scrunches up her nose, shaking her head. “Too sweet.” If she wasn’t as hungry as she was, she probably wouldn’t have killed Herra. The sweet, flowery taste of her blood would have driven her away sooner if she hadn’t been starving. And her blood wasn’t bad, but just too sweet for her taste. 

“What about Brem’s?” Anzurin asks curiously. 

“Sharp,” she complains. 

His head cocks to the side. “Like, spicy?” 

She shakes her head. “No, sharp.” She thinks about the way it stung her tongue slightly, trying to find a comparison, and finally, she lands on, “Like pineapple.” 

“I’m sure Brem will be interested to learn that he tastes like pineapple. I don’t think anyone’s ever bitten him before; he’s not a mentor so he’s never had to feed anyone.” Anzurin yawns once more. “Alright. If you’re fed, you should go back to your room and go to sleep.” 

She thinks about the dream she had, the reason she woke up so hungry, and shakes her head. She doesn’t want to go back there. She doesn’t want to see that too perfect smile and those empty eyes again. “I don’t want to sleep,” she refuses. 

“Well, I do,” he says, standing. “And you probably should get some more sleep, anyway, so just go back to your room and try.” 

Reluctantly, she does go back to her own room, but she doesn’t even attempt to sleep. In order to stay awake, she plants herself in the middle of the room, standing there with nothing to lean or sit on, staring at the bathroom door to wait until Anzurin is done sleeping. 

~~~~

I don't remember if I told everyone, but book one of this story is only 15 chapters, so we're just a chapter over being 1/5th of the way there!! only eleven more mondays!

taglist!! go to this linked post or let me know if you'd like be added/removed!

@pizzamanstan @leahnardo-da-veggie  @dyrewrites @trippingpossum @possiblyeldritch

@godsmostfuckedupgoblin @jgc-comeundermybridge @shortcircuitthegreat @seastarblue @bloodmoodtrash

@theaistired @korol--reznii @simonnebethel @danimia @written-among-stars

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@annothersummerofsleep @saecarnell @albatris @solaristawrites @the-letterbox-archives

@imonthemoonitsmadeofcheese @threedaysgross @corinneglass @fifis-corner 

[raddagher]

Arcane is over (😭) and I have some criticisms so here are my lists of who Won and who Lost in no particular order

LOST SEASON 2

1. Isha

Literally wasn't even mentioned after she died, like wtf was that

We couldn't have a memorial or anything? Come on

Her sacrifice was ultimately meaningless because Warwick got brought back anyway

2. Sevika

Didn't get a single line through all of Act 3

Where is my wife

At least she didn't die?

3. The entire Undercity, to be honest

Where did the independence thread go

Giving Sevika a council seat wasn't enough

I don't like that so many of them had to fight in Enforcer uniforms, that felt wrong

That was the MAIN CONFLICT for most of the show. It felt so weird to gloss over it at the end

4. Vander/Warwick

Gonna be real I wasn't super crazy about most of his presence here, I don't feel like it actually contributed much to anyone's development, except MAYBE Viktor's

We would not have lost anything if they didn't have the flashback scene with their mom

Super didn't like Jinx's ending as it pertained to him

5. Jinx

Hey I super don't like that every character who had a moment of suicide ideation or attempt ended up dead or "dead"

I don't like the way she "died" it didn't feel earned

I don't feel like the ending she got aligned well with her character at all. She spiraled and then just. stayed at the bottom of the spiral :(

They put a TON of family stuff in act 1 and 2 that didn't get resolution in 3

I think they kinda did my girl dirty I'm sorry

6. Loris

Clearly would have had more of a role if they didn't have to cut him for time

NEITHER WON NOR LOST SEASON 2

1. Vi

I want to say she won because she got to bang her cop girlfriend in a prison cell and the sex scene was good as hell but

She also was just taking massive L's the whole time

Like it never felt like she ever had any real wins other than that and that bummed me out

Didn't get enough time to be a dumbfuck with Jayce :(

Caitlyn

Didn't get enough proper resolution for her wonderful fascist arc

She felt a little dropped in Act 3 as well

Glad she got that Vussy tho, good for her

And I did like the vs Ambessa fight, that was also good

I honestly feel like Viktor and Jayce's romance was written better than her and Vi's, and as a gay woman who is constantly watching mlm relationships get so much more attention, it rubs me the wrong way

WON SEASON 2

1. Viktor (OBVIOUSLY)

The fucked up robot army. The religious imagery. The body horror. His robot alien design is scary as fuck. Absolutely incredible work

Got to be taller and stronger than Jayce hooray

They're canon. That was the gayest shit I've ever seen in my life

I do wish they had spent more time overall fleshing out more of the disability commentary, I feel like it was a little lacking in the end

Nevertheless BEAUTIFUL and HORRIFYING and TRAGIC

2. Jayce

See above

Yeah he also got to be a big hero and got to be resolved really well

Did NOT see his death coming that was crazy

They Magnus 200'd his ass, damn

He chose Viktor over everything I'm emo

They made a heart when they touched their foreheads together fuck OFF

3. Heimerdinger

Literally just living his best life

Love that he didn't tell Ekko he can't die, he just let the poor boy think he got fuckin atomized, king shit, that's hilarious

I would have stayed in that universe too tbh

4. Ambessa

The single tear over Kino. Her love for her children at direct odds with her need for control. Her arc was explored so well

Died a warrior's death at the hands of her brilliant daughter, I know that's how she would have wanted to go

Also was very hot in every scene. Good for her (and good for me)

She just got a lot of love from the writers and I'm very happy to see that effort put into an older Black woman character

5. Mel

Speaking of gorgeous Black women

I was so worried she was going to get dropped but her ending was SO good

Her glow up with the gold is fantastic, she looks amazing in the white hood

Love that they gave her abilities that would inherently change her priorities AND gave her the throne of Noxus, I have high hopes that she'll be prominent in another show in the future

They made her such a powerful badass but still let her be merciful and forgiving. Absolutely amazing. She is the wolf

6. Ekko (?)

On the fence about him

LOVED the au scene. Perfect

And I loved that our boy savior got to be the one that set off the bomb that stopped Viktor

But he was kind of dropped otherwise? Like what happened with his tree?

Generally wish he had more development and screentime in this season

But I'm happy he was so pivotal to the climax

AND I'm happy he got to kiss Powder. He and Jinx would never have worked out

7. Maddie

Haha I never liked you. Get fucked you horrible little bootlicker. Typical cop

8. Singed

How come YOU get everything you want?

Fuck you.

Basically all my criticisms boil down to it feeling rushed overall. It's clear that they intended to have more time, and that breaks my heart. We all know Netflix's reputation for cancelling stuff out of the blue, and I've heard that maybe certain parties were unhappy with the depictions of gay romance and realistic social revolution. Whatever the reasons, I wish they had a third season, because I think they could have solved every problem I have with it. Regardless, it's an incredible work of art and very likely one of if not THE best animated series ever made.

[quetzaly-ameyali]

We as a fandom need to talk about the infantization of Polites and the villainization of Eurylochus