#and not enough on sinks or armor to keep it in the fight

[yandere-wishes]

✮⋆˙Red Hood and The Big Bad Wolf ˙⋆✮

⭒⌒★ Yandere! Jason Todd x Reader ★⌒⭒

゜。♡ 𝓕𝓪𝓲𝓻𝔂 𝓣𝓪𝓵𝓮 𝓐𝓤 ♡ ｡ ゜

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

*ੈ✩‧₊ Thinking about how similar Red Hood is to Little Red Riding Hood, not just in name but also in practice. At their core, they are both things, red things, that survive. Reborn from the lugubre maws of death, forced to live another day, carrying baskets weaved of anguish and instability.

*ੈ✩‧₊ Jason keeps the old picture book tucked in his jacket pocket. He can't quite remember where he found the fickle thing. Can't remember why he chose such an evanescent tale to cling to.

*ੈ✩‧₊ Or maybe he does, maybe he knows exactly why he runs his fingers over his inside pocket after every fight, just to make sure the eccentric fable is still in place. Maybe it's because he understands Red Riding Hood. Knows what she's been through, what it feels like to have your innocence stripped like skin being torn from bones. To be killed and revived all in the same breath. Maybe it's because he wants to know what happens next. What happens when Little Red learns to breathe again? He wants to ask her, beg her to tell him. To be the solution to all his problems.

*ੈ✩‧₊ "How do you swallow the trauma? What do you do with the phantom pain of your heart's reanimation? How do you make the darkness go away? Did you come back the same?

*ੈ✩‧₊ There is only one thing that makes them differ. One fundamental little thing...

*ੈ✩‧₊ Jason doesn't mind the wolf. Pretty pup prowling about. He blames it on his upbringing. He'd been taught to fall in love with such wicked things. From as early as he can remember he's watched bats chase cats across gargoyle-littered rooftops. Watched pretty girls throw themselves at bleached killers. That's why he's quick to be enarmed with the new villain terrorizing the Gotham streets. The girl in a wolf mask, planting bombs in jewelry stores and biting off her victim's ears.

*ੈ✩‧₊ There is nothing scary about the big bad wolf, Red Hood thinks, as he re-reads the page where the wolf and girl meet. Why fear pain when you've been to the end of the road? Why fear something when you're acquainted with its ending?

*ੈ✩‧₊ "Shouldn't wolves only come out when there's a full moon?" He swings in from the skyline, ironclad military boots lodging into your stomach pushing you back into a glass display case. "That's werewolves you idiot" you mumble out of breath, glass shards pocking at your spine. The ticking of your newest explosive rings melodically through the air. He's quick to cut the wires, to defuse your toy without a second thought. Professional you think bitterly as you pounce on his back looking for an opening of flesh to sink your teeth into.

*ੈ✩‧₊ The thing they don't tell you about dying is that you always come back wrong. Primordially, spiritually, the person who closes their eyes, is never the same one who opens them again.

But Red Riding Hood was lucky, her story ended before she realized that dreadful thing. Jason has to deal with it every day, the reverberating scars, the colorless world that fractures and breaks should he let his mind wander astray. The fact that his heart only ever truly beats when he sees the fluffy ears of your cowl and that damn bloodthirsty smirk.

*ੈ✩‧₊ Yandere!Jason Todd who's only brave enough to call it love after you stake a knife through his heart. The bulletproof vest and armor keep the damage away, but he can see the murderous intent shimmering in your eyes. It's only then that he pulls you down by the back of your neck. Lips to lips, a messy clash of anathema and apprehension. Your teeth gnaw at his lips while his tongue composes ballads on the roof of your mouth.

*ੈ✩‧₊ He wonders if Little Red ever went back for the wolf. If she ever dares kiss him with all the pain and anguish she has left in her body. Nicking her tongue on his razor-sharp teeth. Guiding his claws to ghost over her frail body. He wonders if the wolf can even hurt her. There's so little left that can hurt you when you've already felt the end.

*ੈ✩‧₊ He knows you stalk him, follow him even during the day. Sometimes he pulls you into the back alleyway. Knife at your throat as he soaks up your ethereal face. Mask on, mask off. In the end, you'd have found out anyway. His hands squeeze at your hips, needing the flesh, leaving his essence over your body. His lips danced over the back of your neck, biting tenderly at the apex of your shoulder.

*ੈ✩‧₊ You seem to like it when his knife cuts deep. When his punches crack bone. When his boots crush you into the pavement. You throw your head back and laugh, witty little threats spilling from your mouth. So this is love he thinks as your claws rake over his biceps ripping the muscle like ribbons, rummaging through the blood and tissue in search of bone. "Poor little puppy" he mocks "looking for a bone to chew on". "Shut up you tomato-looking freak" you scream as his teeth sink into your jaw, crunching of bone.

*ੈ✩‧₊ He thinks you look gorgeous when you're irritated, he thinks you're beautiful when your bloodthirst seeps through the anger. He bites back a moan as your knee nests into his gut.

*ੈ✩‧₊ Did Little Red ever talk to her mother again? Or did she hold a grudge, haunted by her betrayal of sending her into the woods unarmed, heartbroken that she never came looking for her? Jason's thoughts pound inside his head, picture-book illustrations flash before him of Little Red pushing her mother away, of tears streaming down her face, screaming, screaming, screaming. He hisses as his lacerations burn. Hand suspended, pushing down the urge to knock on his father's door. Bruce would know what to do...he always knows what to do. It's such a childish notion, he clings to. Even now, even after he was killed and left un-avenged Jason still wholeheartedly believes in the notion that Daddy will fix everything...He's halfway to the entrance gate when Bruce alls after him, cadence thick with grief and ache. Jason doesn't turn back, he runs and runs and runs.

*ੈ✩‧₊ Yandere!Jason who crashes through your apartment window. Pushes you back onto the bed and lies next to you as you squirm and scream. He wraps his arms protectively around your waist and nuzzles into the crux of your neck. Mumbling Little Red Riding Hood's tale until you fall asleep. "How did You know I love the story?" you ask, the next morning to the empty half of your bed. Last night's tremulous dread still laying heavy on your corpse.

*ੈ✩‧₊ Yandere!Jason who lays on his window seal, watching as the sun pokes through Granny Red's face. It's funny isn't it, in such a twisted way didn't he also die in his grandfather's house? Only to be reborn while he watched? Didn't the same thing happen to Little Red?

*ੈ✩‧₊ That night Jason dream he's was walking through the grass, headed for the forest behind Wayne manner. He's trapped inside his jejune body, the body of a boy wonder. Clutching a basket with a crowbar inside as dread dances in his stomach. His old red cape taut around his neck, suffocating, skin-tight. He's forgotten how to breathe, puerile fear of those ghoulish old trees clawing at his body. Through the dimness, through lose rays that escape the moon's greed he's able to spot you. Weaving through the bushes and trees, stalking closer and closer. He doesn't know whether to meet you halfway or retreat. Frozen like a robin being pounced on by a sickly smiling cat. His eyes meet yours, right before you attack.

*ੈ✩‧₊ Yandere!Jason who misses you, when he doesn't catch you on patrol, of course, he misses you, it's hard not to miss a broken bone. Hard to feel the sting of your wounds and forget who put them there.

*ੈ✩‧₊ Yandere!Jason finally realizes that he just can't bear to be away from you. This love, this mania, it's all for you. He needs you. He's got you corned, the end of a chase. You smile, all teeth and games, "You're pretty when sulk" you whisper, tracing claws up his chest, digging into the space between each ridge. "Oh really? How can you tell when I got this helmet on?" You laugh, coy and flirtish "I just do" you shrug. Pulling his helmet up, lips ghosting over his in a mockery of a kiss. Jason pushes forward, entraping your lips against his. Lost in intimacy he's quick to grab you, to drag you back to his apartment, to lock the doors and throw away the key. To keep the big bad wolf where she belongs, right next to Little Red Riding Hood.

   

🎀I feel like every Batson deserves a villainess to fall in love with. Let's call this one WolfWoman. TBH I feel like I want to write more for her in the future.

[agbpaints]

A convo @novusimperialis and @is-the-battlemech-cool-or-not were having in the notes of my post on how the CapCon are doing reminded me of an old bugbear I had with a Tex video

[neckromantics]

We don't talk enough about how absolutely devastating and romantic and hot the idea is that Astarion would know the scent of your blood anywhere.

How quickly he would notice when you've even the slightest of nics? When, no matter how focused on anything else he might be at the time, he always comes to check it out?

You'll be peeling a piece of apple with your pocket knife when it slips in your grip. The sharp edge of the blade slices a shallow cut into the meat of your thumb, and you inhale sharply through your nose even though it barely hurts at all. Instinct has you sucking your injured digit into your mouth with a soft curse– the sweet juice of the fruit you were snacking on quickly overpowered by the metallic twang of blood.

You nearly jump out of your skin when he appears over you not a moment later. He makes some offhand comment about how careless you are. Takes hold of your injured hand and tuts like he intends to tease, but he isn't fooling anyone.

He stands so close, jaw ticking as he clenches his teeth, a tension in his shoulders that tells you he's doing everything in his power to keep composure. Your blood calls to him like a moth to a flame, and as funny as you find it in the moment, you don't have the heart to tease him for it. It's actually kind of endearing.

He'd only get quicker in noticing as time passes.

Especially after you've been traveling together for a few years, and he's come to know your scent better than his own. Which only makes sense considering how often he's got his nose pressed to some part of you. (He thinks you smell good.)

At this point, when you get injured in battle, he often catches the fragrance before you've even processed that you've been hit.

He'd suck in a sharp breath through his teeth– a hiss so loud that it catches your attention just enough for you to spare him a glance as you fight.

It's all you need to see just how blown his pupils are from where you're standing, mostly because his gaze is laser locked onto you to second you search for him. His movements turn faster. Deadlier, as he scans the field before you. Determined. Hungry. Angry. He's searching for the sorry wretch that dared to get the best of you– that dared spill even a drop of his beloved's precious blood upon the soil.

You've already taken them down, of course. Poor sap might have gotten a good dig in at your shoulder, but ultimately didn't stand a chance once he properly pissed you off.

Astarion's eyes go heavy.

Half-lidded in that special way of his and only darkening further as he appraises you. You can practically feel it as he follows the line of your throat, zeroes in on your pulse point for a moment, before settling to watch the warm crimson that's beginning to soak into the sleeve of your tunic.

You see a bit of concern in those eyes, but then he sees your smile and– A flash of hot, honeyed desire catches you by surprise.

You suddenly can't tell if it's just the blood loss making you woozy or if he's about to make you swoon like a maiden from an old romance novel. You try (and fail) to keep a straight face when he sinks his dagger into his final opponent's neck without so much as a glance their way.

There's a splash of red against pale white skin, and a lifeless body dropping to the grass by his feet. Your heart stutters in your chest, and he all but moans in response to the sound of it. A mere four paces and he's on you– hands and teeth and tongue exploring every inch of your exposed skin, ripping open parts of your armor to gain better access, like you're not stood in a field of gore and ruin and freshly spilled blood.

You cling to him like a lifeline.

Before he drags you away to camp– to a warm tent and a soft bedroll where he can have his way with you for as long as you and your mortal body will allow him– he has you down a potion of healing or two.

And it's a good thing one of you has a Lesser Restoration spell handy somehow, cause you're most definitely gonna need it.

[rin-solo]

Finally, I am happy to present to you my ...

EPIC: THE MUSICAL | ACT I [Character Design project]

I have been working on these for a long time and I am very happy with how these turned out. I am a huge fan of visual character design and I simply needed to do a full lineup.

Act II will follow shortly (it is all done except for Ithaca Saga, which I will add as soon as it drops.) Please enjoy, and read below for some thoughts and background on some of my design choices!

TROY | CYCLOPS ft. Odysseus, Athena, Eurylochus, and Polites

With Odysseus, I really wanted to emphasize his free spirit in this era and mark him as Athena's warrior, so I gave him a special belt and some armbands that represent her (this was inspired by some of @mircsy's work). He also has heterochromia; his left eye is green, representing his cunning, wisdom, and spirit; his right eye is gray, representing his ruthlessness and warrior side.

I simply love Athena in purple/gold. Her mask is a symbol of her invulnerability and comes off only during "My Goodbye" when Odysseus tells her that she's alone. Her cape can also transform into wings, and her eyes are actually golden without the mask.

I had to give Eurylochus his large anime sword (it's just as heavy as it looks but he likes it that way because that means no one besides him is strong enough to wield it ... I imagine Eurylochus can bench press at least Odysseus' and Polites' weights combined. He and Polites are also wearing variants of Odysseus' armor, indicating that they belong to the same army.

Listen, I can vibe with Eurylochus' giant sword but I draw the line at Polites with glasses, sorry. He still gets the hairband, of course. He's also dressed more casually, and without a weapon, because of his pacifistic outlook. He's the physically weakest among the trio by far but also still an inch taller than Odysseus (it's fine, Odysseus is still like 5'10, his friends are just all so freaking tall...)

OCEAN ft. Aeolus, Poseidon, and Odysseus

Not gonna lie, I LOVED designing Aeolus' outfit. She's playful and mischievous and loves to hang out in the clouds all day; her outfit is probably made out of clouds let's be real. Also yes, her image on the windbag moves to make cheeky faces.

Poseidon I cannot imagine without tentacles anymore thanks to @gigizetz's "Ruthlessness", idk it just fits him so well. He definitely got all dressed up to go and sink Odysseus' fleet that day, he has a reputation, you know? And he just likes the shiny gold and accessories; the ocean is full of them so why wouldn't he?

Edit: I actually updated this design somewhat significantly; if you're interested in the current one, check here! He still has a tentacle/monster form, but it's not his only one.

Since breaking up with Athena, Odysseus lost her belt and armbands. He's still wearing her brooch because he couldn't bring himself to fully throw that away as well yet. Polites' hairband around his wrist reminds him of what he's fighting for and what to live by ... for now (Poseidon is about to ruin this man's whole career...)

CIRCE | UNDERWORLD ft. Circe, Hermes, and Tiresias

I wanted to give Circe the "witch" vibe while putting a Greek spin on it and I actually adore her design. She seems both immortally youthful (something I aim for with all my god designs) and motherly. There she was, gathering some herbs when a bunch of strangers crash onto her island ... Oh well, at least this man was a good man this time.

Hermes is kind of just Hermes. I wanted to keep him shaded, a bit impish, and definitely up to no good. He's wearing the contrasting colors on purpose, by the way. And yes, his hat can fly on its own ... But for it to do that he'd have to actually be willing to show his face which he seldom does unless he really trusts you.

Tiresias is a soul, so he has the same kind of ageless youth as all my gods (something that goes for souls of dead people too, since I like to think they get to appear at whatever age they want after death.) He's looking a bit regal since he's a prophet, so I imagine regarded highly, even in the Underworld. Instead of the blindfold, his hood covers his face, adorned with a symbolic eye to identify him and his skill.

***

Well, that's it for ACT I, friends, I hope you liked these! I will upload ACT II asap. Please comment and/or tell me your thoughts about my designs! And feel free to ask any questions you may have! I would love to talk more about these.

[diamonddaze01]

hi tara! if the prompt already hasnt been asked for, can i request 86 "Please just leave." with mingyu? thank you <3333 reading all the drabbles now hahahah

silence, at its loudest

pairing: mingyu x reader | wc: 1.1k prompt: "Please just leave." au: chef!mingyu | warnings: angst! and tears a/n: TIYA HELLO! thank you for this req it was so sad to write but i hope you love <3

The apartment was suffocatingly quiet for a fight. No music playing in the background, no rain against the windows to soften the edges of your words—just silence, heavy and dense, pressing against your chest, making it hard to breathe. Mingyu stood in the center of the living room, his coat still damp from the storm outside, water dripping from the fabric, leaving a faint puddle at his feet. His tall frame seemed out of place here, as if it didn’t belong in this small space, weighed down by the tension between you both.

You were perched on the couch, arms crossed tightly, a defensive shield you knew wouldn’t protect you from the pain of this conversation. You wanted to retreat into the softness of the cushions, to sink away from him, but you couldn’t move. You couldn’t look away, even as your chest tightened and the cold of the room seeped deeper into your skin.

“I don’t even understand what I did wrong!” His voice cracked, frustration and confusion lacing his words. He ran a hand through his damp hair, as if trying to shake the tension out of his mind. “I—I’m here, aren’t I? Why is that never enough for you?”

Your breath hitched, your heart pounding in your throat, but you didn’t back down. You couldn’t. The words you’d been holding back for so long finally broke free, raw and cutting. “It’s not just about you being here, Mingyu. It’s when you decide to show up. You don’t get to keep ignoring me until I’ve hit my limit, then think you can fix everything by standing in my living room and saying you care.”

He took a step forward, but his eyes were desperate, pleading for some sign that you still cared, that there was something left of the person he used to know. “I don’t understand. I’ve been working—working to build something, something for us! And when I’m finally here, you still—”

“You’re always working, Mingyu!” Your voice cracked under the weight of the frustration that had been building for months, maybe longer. “When was the last time you didn’t have your phone on you? When was the last time you didn’t cancel on me because ‘the restaurant’s short-staffed,’ or you just need to finish one last thing?” Your breath came out in short, shaky bursts. “You didn’t even call me back when you knew it was my birthday. That’s what hurts the most.”

The words hit him like a blow, a quick intake of air following the realization. His expression faltered, the first cracks appearing in his armor. “I... I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Yeah, you didn’t mean to,” you interrupted, voice soft but heavy with disappointment. “But it keeps happening, Mingyu. You keep doing it. You keep saying it’s not intentional, and then you walk through the door like everything’s fine, like you haven’t been neglecting me for weeks.”

He froze. The tension between you thickened, hanging in the air like smoke that wouldn’t dissipate. “I wasn’t ignoring you, okay? I was just trying to... I thought you’d understand. I thought you’d—”

“No, you didn’t think, Mingyu. You assumed,” you said, bitterness seeping into every syllable. “You assumed I’d be fine with it. You assumed I’d be okay with the empty promises, the unreturned messages, the way you disappear whenever things get hard. But I’m not fine. And I’m so tired of pretending that I am.”

His hands shook as he stepped toward you again, his voice breaking with a softness you hadn’t heard in months. “I’m sorry. I know I screwed up. But I’m here now. Let me make it right. I’ll... I’ll stay. I’ll be here for you. I’ll make things better.”

You shook your head, stepping back, distancing yourself both physically and emotionally. “That’s the problem, Mingyu. You think that just showing up, just being here in front of me, is enough to make everything better. But it’s not. It’s too late for that. I can’t just pretend like everything’s okay when it’s not.”

His eyes softened, and for a moment, the boy you fell for peeked through the cracks. The one who used to wait outside your office just to walk you home, who stayed up late to hear every mundane detail of your day, who never left you wondering where he was or if he cared. That version of him felt like a distant memory now, buried beneath layers of missed calls, broken promises, and unspoken words.

You could see it in his face—the hurt, the regret—but the distance between you both felt too wide to cross anymore. “Please... Don’t do this,” he whispered, stepping closer, his voice raw with emotion. “I need you. I need us.”

You swallowed, your throat tight with the weight of everything you wanted to say but couldn’t. “I can’t keep waiting for you to care when you decide it’s convenient for you, Mingyu. I can’t keep putting myself through this. I can’t keep pretending that it’s enough just because you’re here when it suits you.”

The silence stretched between you both, suffocating and heavy. His hand reached out, fingers trembling as if he wanted to hold you, to make things right, but he stopped himself. He knew, deep down, that it was too late. That the bridge between you had already collapsed, one small misstep at a time, until there was nothing left to salvage.

“Please just leave,” you said quietly, the words slipping from your lips like they didn’t even belong to you. They were heavy, final, like the last breath of something you once held dear.

His breath hitched, his chest tightening, but you didn’t look away. You couldn’t look away from the wreckage that was left between you both, and you knew that leaving now was the only way to preserve whatever was left of yourself.

He stood frozen, his hand still on the doorknob, his body shaking like he was fighting to say something, anything, to change the course of what was happening. But the words wouldn’t come. There was nothing left to say. The silence stretched until it became deafening.

With one last look, he stepped out, the door closing softly behind him. You stood there, motionless, listening to the sound of his footsteps fade away into the distance, swallowed by the rain and the night.

The apartment was cold now, emptier than it had ever been, the silence louder than any argument. And when you finally exhaled, it was like the breath you’d been holding for so long had escaped—too late, but finally out.

But the ache in your chest remained.

send me an ask for my drabble game!

[revelboo]

It’s already out on digital! Instant purchase 🤣 I know what I’m doing on my birthday Saturday- rewatching this and assembling TF models

It Had to Be You Pt 7

TFO Megatron x Reader

• Grip tightening as his servos tremble with the exertion of mass displacement, it’s almost like a gift when you stop trying to shove him away. When your breathing hitches and you relax that tiny bit against him. Submitting to his touch and resting your cheek against his chest. Internal systems rumbling, he runs his servos through your hair and down to cup your nape. Those little hands still on him, but not pushing weakly at him. Not clinging to him the way he’s gripping you, either. Venting raggedly, he just enjoys this victory.

• That unwanted feeling of rightness spills through you in a warm wave. Coaxing you to just give in to whatever this is and stop fighting so hard. And you want to even as you hate yourself for it. Don’t want being held like this to feel achingly like coming home. For your fingers to itch to reach up and smooth the furrow you can just see under the severe angle of his helm, because that impulse is dangerous. That familiarity.

• Servos delving into your hair, tangling there to keep you from trying to pull away, he feels a tension he’s carried for so long it’s just become a part of him easing just a bit. Soon enough, you’ll snap out of your surprise and start fighting him again, but for now everything feels right. And, truth be told, he does enjoy watching you struggle. Seeing those eyes flashing with anger at him. So small, but fierce despite knowing you can’t win. Despite knowing you belong to him.

• He doesn’t have a heartbeat, but there’s a steady thrum inside him that you can feel like a sweet, ache deep in your own bones where you’re pressed against him. The hand pressed to his chassis shifts, fingers sliding up toward the center of his chest. Seeking out that sensation pulling at you. And his free hand seizes your wrist before you can get close, his grip firm but surprisingly gentle. Still enough to snap you out of whatever that was. Your eyes dart up to his and you’re snared again in the red stare. He’s not angry, though. This expression you haven’t seen before, but it’s hungry and it sparks through you.

• He slides a servo against the palm of that soft hand, his hide still humming from the feel of your fingers gliding over him. Exploring. It’s too intimate. Doing things to his spark that are alarming and intoxicating. Like wonder what those little hands would feel like roaming all over him. If you’re that soft everywhere. You tug at your trapped wrist, face reddening as your eyes drop and he uses those servos tangled in your hair to force your head back. Hearing the startled noise that more surprise than actual discomfort as your lips part. Dangerous, obscene things run through his processor and the servos on your wrist tighten. Just a taste can’t hurt. Just a touch to put an end to this madness. This obsession.

• You can’t pull away with his hand fisted in your hair and panic and heat both trip through you. Wanting to get away. Needing more. His mouth claims yours, warm living, malleable metal moving against yours in a kiss. And your wrist is free as that other arm curls around you to keep you pinned to him. His glossa slides against the seam of your mouth, demanding you yield to him. Submit. It’s the feel of that big hand sliding down to cup your butt and press you more firmly to him, hips pinned to his that makes you gasp so he can take advantage. This isn’t a kiss, it’s a domination. A conquest. Especially as he rocks himself against you and you sink your fingers into the seams of his armor, arching into his warm frame.

Previous Next

[moodymisty]

Author’s note: This entire idea belongs to @bispecsual , who snapped my ass like Thanos with it at 3am. My eyes might’ve been burning, but I saw the light with this message.

Relationships: unnamed Lamenter/Gn!Reader

Warnings: You could say it’s a lilllll lewd, Blood/vampire kink stuff, Bruising

He looks so large even without his armor. He’s managed to find a moment of time to spend with you now that his round of duty is over, though he had to wake you up to do it. You don’t mind, but you can tell in his face that there’s something gnawing at him.

“You’re hungry,” You suddenly blurt out, looking up at him. He looks at you and his eyebrows raise with surprise, but he doesn’t deny it. He looks away briefly when you offer yourself once again.

“I’ve waited longer, I won’t so soon after the last time.”

You shift under the blankets to look more towards him.

“You don’t have to wait, it’s fine.”

He’s beating himself up in his head, you can tell. Berating his lack of restraint. You know from experience he fights it until he’s right at the edge of the cliff, and only then does he dare to ask. But you feel fine, and helping him is the least you can do. The Lamenters have done so much for you; He’s done so much for you.

“I’m fine. If you need it, take it.”

It seems the battle in his mind only concludes with your gentle insistence, and he moves closer to you. You watch as he slowly crawls onto the bed and his hand presses down by your shoulder. His gaze is intense and you can’t help but look away, exposing your neck at the same time.

He can see the little marks where he bit the last time, on their last few days of healing. As he leans in his hot breath brushes over them, as does his lips. He hesitates for a moment, and you think he might pull away, before he finally sinks his teeth in right below your ear.

The blanket shifts up your bare legs to your hips as your legs kick, landing just below your underwear. His knee presses down between your thighs precariously close to their apex.

His teeth shift in your neck and your fingers tighten on his shoulder from the twinge of pain, but his weight holds your upper body completely still. He doesn’t want you to move even an inch and risk hurting you.

You swear you can hear his hearts, his tongue lapping against your neck and wiping away the tiny beads of blood before he moves to bite again at your collarbone.

It tastes incredible. He’s been starving, his last mission ran him ragged, in his armor for 2 weeks with barely any rest, and your blood is like the finest wine. He’s never tasted wine, but he supposes must taste incredible, as your tone of voice had implied.

His eyes want to close, he wants to get lost in its but he knows he has to stop. It’s still so soon after the last time he bit you, he know he can only take enough to satisfy him for now. So that gnawing can finally get shoved to the back of his mind just for a little while.

You’ve already been so generous, he doesn’t want to wear it out. To take advantage of your rare kindness. He pulls away sees the bruising wounds of your neck, as he glances down at your inner thigh. He sees the fading marks of bites there, where he thought they’d cause you less pain. It caused something else however, and he vows not to do so again unless he can fulfill you afterwards.

He slowly lowers again until his head lays against your chest. Your fingers wrap in the short, messy chop of his hair. Your eyes are closed, but you still talk to him.

“I’m fine,” You whisper, knowing why he’s doing this. The assurance that you’re still alive and well. That he didn’t go too far this time. But sometimes you wonder if he’s becoming unhealthily attached to you. He depends on you in a way oddly enough; With his curse gnawing at him like a never-ending sickness. He’s implied before that his superiors might do something about it if he can’t keep it under control. If this saves him, then you’ll do whatever you can to protect him mentally while he physically protects you.

Because you’re the only thing that cures him; Your blood satiates the hunger and your presence makes him feel alive. The warmth of your skin against his own. The sound of your heartbeat fills him with relief that you’re fine, he didn’t lose himself for a moment.

“How can I repay you for your kindness?” He speaks quietly. You laugh.

“You don’t have to do anything.” He leans close to you and you can feel his nose barely brush against your own.

“I should. There are not many who would willingly give their blood to feed the Red Thirst.” You smile and your hand lands on the scarred skin of his arm.

“I don’t mind, as long as it’s you.”

A brief moment crosses his mind at the idea of another Lamenter biting your neck- of being this close to you. His hand clenches just a bit before he swallows that feeling of rage and leans just that little bit closer to you, pressing his lips to yours.

You lean into him, ignoring the ache in your neck and tasting iron on his lips.

[animezinglife]

Girl Dad Cassian Headcanons

Cassian is the classic dad in which the response to, "Your daughter got in a fight today," is, "Did she win?" Nesta pretends to be annoyed, but is secretly proud to learn that their daughter did in fact win the fight. Cassian calls her on it.

Elain comments on how beautiful and intricate her young niece's braided hairstyle is and tells Nesta she had no idea she could braid hair like that. Nesta tries not to laugh and tells her she didn't do it. Elain's and Feyre's eyes both drift to Cassian and realization sinks in. They're more than a little impressed.

Naturally, one of the few things Cassian's daughters won't have a say in is learning how to defend themselves. He and Nesta both believe it's a necessity, but he makes it fun and lets his daughters "win" a lot to build their confidence. As important as that is, though, he takes his girls' tea parties every bit as seriously as their self-defense training. The tiara he wears at them might as well be his at this point.

Nesta teaches her girls to dance, but always tries to make it fun for the girls instead of a tool for them to wield later in life. Cassian is the ideal dance partner, though that mostly consists of him picking them up and spinning them around until they're cackling and borderline puking. He also learns the females' dance steps and demonstrates them complete with leaps to get the girls laughing so hard they're crying.

The eldest goes through a major attitude phase where any time they walk somewhere in Velaris, she struts up ahead of her family. Cassian copies her so precisely that Nesta has to stop and cover her mouth to keep from wheezing.

When it's time for either daughter to learn to fly, Cassian shows up grinning and fully prepared: wearing full Illyrian armor and giving her a tiny set of her own, a helmet, and their world's equivalent of a neon safety vest. His daughter is mortified, which is exactly what he was going for. Nesta thinks it's kind of sweet though because she realizes he's actually nervous about it.

Nesta loves to read bedtime stories to her girls, but Cassian takes it to another level when it's his turn and both acts them out and does funny voices. This annoys Nesta at first since it has the opposite effect and instead has the girls laughing and not sleeping, but she realizes the memories he's building with them are worth it.

Nesta is constantly worried she's not being a good enough mom, and while she's not perfect (no one is), Cassian listens to her concerns and reassures her that she's doing a wonderful job. He likes to bring up a lot of situations Nesta doesn't always see on her own: like her daughters soaking up everything she does like a sponge, how the eldest in particular tries to copy her in everything she does, and how strong, confident, and safe their daughters feel.

Their youngest daughter is a bit more like Aunt Elain in her interests, and it's her idea to bake Nesta a birthday cake. Cassian and the girls get to work, and although he secretly recruited Elain to share a recipe with them, the cake looks concerning and Cassian somehow ends up with flour all over his face. While it's not pretty, it tastes fantastic, and Nesta's heart is full as she kisses her girls and brushes the flour from Cassian's face.

He is genuinely the sweetest dad with the goofiest sense of humor. He's fair and occasionally embarrassing (on purpose), and the girls grow up never feeling like they aren't loved by both of their parents.

[icyblogs]

god bless u for the 141/fallout post i’ve been going feral thinking about a fallout au where simon is a pre-war ghoul who fought in the great war and still wears his power armor to hide that fact 🙏🙏 better yet even simon/reader fallout au where they were married before the bombs fell, and being a military wife she was lucky enough to get a space in a vault but ended up in cryo-freeze while he became a ghoul and they meet again 200 years later

Fallout!AU Ghoul!Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader WC: 1.2K words Note: Hi anon! I had to do a little research about how exactly ghouls and cryo-freeze functioned, sorry for getting back to you so late! (does it still functionally make sense no but shh its fine) Anyways, I hope you enjoy! (:

Ghost who was already in the process of becoming a ghoul before the Great War! Already a renowned soldier; one of which was elected for a new experimental drug. For the sake of humanity he was told, after all, doing this will guarantee a spot in the vaults for him and his precious little wife! Doesn’t he want you to be safe? Though he might not have necessarily agreed with the means, don’t the rewards outweigh the consequences? Doesn’t he want to live out the rest of his days in peace with you? For a good vault- wanting the best for you. 

These tests, these experiments.. would end up taking a toll eventually. Too late for you to ever see of course. Well, by the time the great war actually starts, it’s far too late to see the effects of it at all. The experiments required him to stay on base- very seldom ever actually seeing you. “Just a few more weeks.” You were constantly told, and of course full heartedly you’d believe him. Why would he have any reason to lie? So when the first bomb drops.. And then the next. It was no surprise when you were forced to go into a vault without your husband, so scared. All alone without him. ):  

The experiments therefore spiraled, the results becoming null, nothing necessarily coming from them- too many variables being added. And with the radiation from all the bombs well.. He was no longer a ghost but a ghoul. 

He’d be similar to ‘The Ghoul’ in the show in my opinion! Fighting his way through the wasteland, killing, maiming- adapting. Becoming the monster that was always sort of lingering beneath the skin, going back to baser instincts. Everything he did was for his vows. For you. See, I'd imagine that he would wear a power-suit at first, especially when his skin starts to sort of stretch and shrivel, like a burn— eye sockets sinking, nose concaving. If he had found you, he didn’t want you to see what he was becoming; his humanity unraveling faster than he could keep the spool pulled taut. 

Though.. the first year passes. Then the first decade. A century. Two. 

Eventually time slows to a lull; without direction nor guidance. Always sort of be bordering on turning feral, one mishap away from just totally snapping. Enough for life itself to become a constant loop of just sort of.. apathy. Life wasn’t kind enough to people like him, never allowing anything good to stay in their lives. So why would it in this hellscape as well? Going through this so-called life like it was nothing more than a hindrance. Traveling through the land, taking on dead man’s jobs; not caring for the consequences at this point. Because what really was the point without you by his side? Never forming attachments, after all, why bother? He’d outlive them anyway.

Throughout the years, settlements pop up left and right- factions forming, most dying out faster than he could blink. These days, vaults come to the surface- trying to rebuild, kind to any poor soul or raider that they come across, like sheep walking right into the maws of a wolf. Then.. a new community sprouts up. 

Groups of thousands coming up to the surface, building a town- starting a new life. It really wasn’t anything new; Ghost had seen it and experienced it before. Would be a year or two at most of having a bed, having a steady access to food and drink- the meals always tasted like ash, if he thinks hard enough he might’ve remembered how your cooking tasted. He could blink and he was back in his home, watching you sway to some music on the radio, donned in a frilly apron, and you’d turn around and he could swear he could smell what you had in your hands. His imagination always ended up the same way; his eyes would eventually lead up to where your face was; blurry and being forgotten- he’d startle back to the reality at hand, mood darkening. 

So this new community. It wasn’t really a question of whether he was to make his way there, if not to stay for a brief moment of peace then to swindle them out of some supplies. Because at the end of the day they were vaulters. Nothing in the grand scheme of things: would probably die to some raiders anyway. They were always so eager to please, to see the good in people, and they were just so welcoming and hospitable. 

And then he saw.. you. 

The dreams, his imagination- the fog seemed to clear the moment he saw you again; even from a distance.. It was just how he had remembered you- his wife. You look like you haven't aged a day, donned in a blue clad jumpsuit. Simon watches with a dry mouth as you provide a kind smile to one of the people next to you, nodding your head as the pair of you attempt to cultivate the soil. He sees the way you jolt when the man’s hand brushes over your own as if he had shocked you- and his own eyes narrow at the sight, staring unblinkingly as if he might miss something. 

A mirage, it was easy to think. A trick of the light even- the radiation boiling his brain enough to fuck with his head, to give him some twisted hope about something that should not be possible. You.. should be dead. Long gone and yet- why were you in front of him? A phantom? Another way to mock him?

The more he looked he knew it was not the case. He could hear your voice- the cadence, all sounding just as how he's remembered it for the last eon. It made him wonder however- why were you smiling? Why.. were you laughing? He wasn’t with you- so why did you seem so happy then? 

There was something about a corpse yearning for someone full of life even still; for someone who was unburdened by centuries of an unforgiving and cruel world. He felt like Icarus, wanting to get closer; to see if he would melt if he got too close to the warmth. He’d be willing to burn if it meant that you were within reach again. His left hand felt heavy as he flexed it to try and release some tension, gold band digging into his skin. And with how sweet you looked, it only made his teeth ache and fingers twitch over the handle of his gun, longing to be with only you. Would your skin be as soft as he remembered? His throat felt dry, taking a step forward, aching to herd you back to where you belonged. Would your body still sing for him, even as your husband has turned into a monster, even as the stench of death and rot seems to follow him everywhere he goes? 

Would you still remember him? ..Did that matter at this point? He’s never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

After all, in sickness and in health, until death do us part. 

[soupandsorcery]

“I don’t hate the word boyfriend,” Rune says, picking up the thread of a days old conversation like the response has just come to him. And okay…it’s possible that it has, but that’s just for him to know. “It just makes me feel like a teenager with a crush.” 

Addam smiles, metal fingers curling around Rune’s ankle where it’s slung into his lap. “Am I to understand then, Hero,” he says, amusement and that teasing fondness making his voice deeper than usual. “That you would not have had a crush on me when you were a teenager?” 

Before Rune can finish being flustered by Addam’s tone, Brand is snorting from his place in the armchair across the room. 

“Hey. Shut up,” Rune says, and points at him for emphasis. 

Brand, predictably, ignores him. “He absolutely would have had a fucking crush on you back then. You would have come over with your smile and your accent and your dimples, and this one would have swooned all over his fucking self. All I would have heard for weeks was ‘did you see the way he looked at me, Brand? Do you think he likes me, Brand?’ Worse, I would have had to feel him crushing on you through the bond because his control was shit as a teenager. Fucking embarrassing.” 

“That’s offensive,” Rune replies. 

“Truth hurts,” Brand shoots back, shrugging a shoulder. 

Addam’s still grinning, showing off the very dimples in question, and Rune doesn’t think he can be blamed for the way his whole torso goes a little gooey at the sight. Teenage Rune would’ve had good taste, at least, if Brand’s right. Which he isn’t. Mostly.

“That’s the second time you’ve mentioned my dimples in such a complimentary way, Brandon,” Addam says. “I’m flattered. And even moreso that you think they would have been enough to send Rune swooning into your arms.” 

Brand rolls his eyes. “It’s not the compliment you think it is, Saint Nicholas. You flash those things all the time when you want to get your way. That’s where Quinn gets it from. And Rune’s just weak to that pretty boy shit.” 

“You can’t be mean to me,” Rune complains. “I’m still recovering. I had an ordeal.” 

“Oh now you’re recovering. This morning when I caught you trying to sneak down to the beach without having breakfast it was ‘fuck off, Brand, I’m fine’.” 

“That was then.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

The two of them have a familiar stare down: Rune makes a pitiful face that he knows will just make Brand laugh at him, and Brand tries to keep his expression as flat as he can make it. The waves of good humor echo through the bond from both ends though, and Rune’s heart is very full. 

“I like the two of you like this,” Addam says after a bit. “It is always intriguing to see you in a fight, working together and reading each other's minds, but I much prefer when your odd version of telepathy can be applied this way.” 

“What, Brand using our sacred, special bond to bully me? Are you condoning this?” Rune asks, pretending to be outraged. “You’re supposed to be defending my honor, Addam. That’s sort of your job as my fiance and literal knight in shining armor.” 

“And if I thought your honor was in danger, I would certainly leap to your defense,” Addam replies evenly.

Brand laughs at that, and Rune folds his arms, lips turning down into an exaggerated pout. 

“Do you want to know what I think?” Addam continues, glancing at the pair of them. “I think that perhaps Rune would not have been the only one who was weak to ‘that pretty boy shit’, as Brand so colorfully put it. I think that if I worked at it, I could have had you both.” 

It’s an Addam level mic drop as he slides out from under Rune’s legs and makes a show of stretching. His arms reach overhead, and he pushes up onto his toes so his muscles pull into one tight line. A few inches of that lovely tanned skin flash as Addam’s shirt rides up, then disappear when he sinks back to his feet with a content sigh. He drops a kiss to the top of Rune’s head, puts a hand on Brand’s shoulder, and then makes his exit from the room. 

Rune and Brand sit in silence for a full minute once he’s gone, gaping in the direction he went. They turn to look at each other at the same time. 

“What the fuck was that?” Brand demands. 

“This is your fault for bringing his dimples into this,” Rune replies, sliding down the couch so he can put his head on the arm rest. “Everybody knows naming something gives it power.” 

“Shut the fuck up.” 

Rune can only sigh and wonder at his attraction to men obsessed with having the last word.

[cat-mentality]

It happens at night.

When darkness falls and the moon is not enough to illuminate the world, when the stars dim and the monsters are at their most active.

It happens at night.

They are not silent.

Why would they be?

You hear the laughter first. Always the laughter.

The screams and the laughter mixing together in a cacophony that sends shivers down everyone's spines, the sound grating at their ears.

They are not silent.

Knowing they are coming doesn't mean anything.

Their weapons are rudimentary, not a single enchanted item but the ones they took from previous corpses. Their armor does very little to protect their body but it doesn't matter, they welcome death as a blessing, hug her as an old friend.

They come, as a group.

Always a group.

They destroy the lights first, always. Bathed in darkness, like their senses have gotten intimately familiar with it.

A flash of colorful wings, cracked with dirt and blood and debris, and she laughs and laughs as she descends upon you with a stolen knife. She laughs and laughs as they strike her back, as they kill her, she is still laughing when she comes back and attacks again with her bare hands. Blood coats her whole body and she bathes on it.

Eyes that flash in the darkness, pools of blue consumed by madness, eyes that stared at the void and smiled at it. He smiles with blood red lips as he cuts you with a knife made of bone, he smiles as he licks the blood of the blade looking you in the eyes, a challenge, a plea. He smiles as he tears out pieces of the bodies, as he offers it to his companions like offerings. You never thought monsters could be so beautiful.

A flash of corrupted green, static that cuts the air, whispering things you cannot understand, that you cannot make sense off. He follows, without rest, he tears himself apart as long as it keeps you going and going and going, you blink and suddenly you are alone in the middle of nowhere, he smiles, twisted, eyes poison green. The static consumes you.

A sword you never see coming. A moment you are watching your surroundings, ready for an attack, expecting it because you know you are stronger, knowing that victory is promised to you. It doesn't matter, you don't see the blade until it is sticking from your body, gone in the blink of an eye searching for a new victim to sink into. You never see who is holding it.

A flash of ink black wings, in the darkness of the night you can't even see the spots where feathers do not grow anymore. Before you see the wings you can always feel them approaching, a chill down your spine, the air growing colder and colder, mist surrounding you, heavy, oppressing, the smell of blood and candles mixing together. Your death is an offering, a sacrifice. Blood for the Blood God. A soul for the Goddess of Death.

Eyes that stalk you in the darkness, unblinking, challenging you. He laughs and laughs in good nature as he invites you to kill him, as he begs for a reason to feel something, you can swear that sometimes even as his lips spread into the biggest grin you ever saw tears glisten into his golden eyes, his skin glowing, blessed with the un-death. You kill him over and over and over again. It doesn't matter. You cannot kill what was never truly alive in the first place.

A voice, soft in the darkness of the night, singing. Songs of mirth and joy, some in a foreign language most do not speak but those who do recognize the silly little lyrics, she sings and she kills you, she sings as you kill her, she invites you to join her over and over again, coming back like a lamb waiting to be made sacrifice, grinning, asking you why do you care? Why do you fight? You shiver once more as you sink your sword into her knowing she will be back and you still wouldn't have an answer to her question.

They die.

Over and over and over and over and over.

An unending circle of death and resurrection, of blood and pain and screams and laughter and madness.

They don't care.

They come back with the night, they bring darkness, they bring death like a second skin, they laugh and they laugh as they kill and as they die.

This is not Purgatory, they will crackle with blood dripping from their mouths, this is Hell.

Why do you care, they ask with genuine curiosity as you sink diamond blades into unprotected flesh, Why do you care.

Join us, they chant as they disappear into the shadows as the sun threatens to appear, join us, join us, join us.

We will wait for you, the last words spoken before they are gone, when you realize, we will be waiting for you.

You don't relax even when you can't hear their laughter and screams anymore, when you can't feel the madness spreading, consuming.

They will come when the night returns.

They always do.

[astarionsilverbough]

Usually, Halsin finds how excessively messy battle is to be a nuisance. Stoic though he seems in the aftermath, the tacky, cloying nature of blood drying on skin makes his teeth itch - never mind the stench of it, overwhelmingly metallic and musky in a way that makes his eyes water like he’s about to sneeze.

So, understandably, Halsin usually finds the excessive messiness of a fight to be incredibly inconvenient.

Until, of course -

“You know,” Astarion muses as he prowls lazily towards Halsin in the direct aftermath of a nasty tussle with a group of truly ambitious bandits, “when it’s not from goblins, you do make all that gore look so very good, darling.”

The world narrows as Halsin’s focus zeroes in on the sway of Astarion’s lean hips. He’s always so beautiful, his little dawnstar, but Silvanus preserve him - there is nothing quite like an Astarion fresh from a fight. He’s damp with sweat and mist, snowy hair gleaming, that single perfect curl bobbing low over his brow, and there’s an edge to his smirk that sets fire to the primal instinct inside Halsin’s belly.

A low, pleased rumble echoes through his chest as Astarion slides his hands over it and tips his chin up for the rain-slick kiss Halsin bows to give him. The vampire chuckles against his lips, fangs glancing off Halsin’s tongue. Clever fingers sink into his damp hair and the gentle tug Astarion gives him sends lightning down his spine. Growling, he frames Astarion’s slim waist in big hands and holds.

There is no finer armor to keep him safe.

“Nothing,” Shadowheart says, sounding utterly bewildered as she gestures vaguely at the pair entangled in front of the gods and everyone in the middle of a dozen corpses, “nothing dissuades them.”

“I don’t know why this still shocks you,” Wyll says as he stoops to wipe his blade on a dead bandit’s jerkin, “remember what they were like after we defeated Thorm?”

“Oh, yeah,” hum both Shadowheart and Karlach, who look judgmental and misty eyed, respectively.

And as narrow as his world has become - as narrow as the set of Astarion’s hips, to be exact - Halsin still hears enough to say, “no wicked god could stand between us,” and Astarion coos.

“Eugh,” Shadowheart says. Karlach elbows her.

Usually, Halsin is about as disgusted as the former Sharran in the wake of a bloodbath - until, of course, Astarion, who looks at him now like he’s set to devour him and continues to be the exception to every rule.

[mandos-mind-trick]

Kinktober Day 27 - DP In Two Holes

Summary: Crosshair takes you up on your offer. 

Pairing: Wrecker x reader x Crosshair (absolutely no clonecest)

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, unprotected sex, threesome, double penetration, anal sex, rough sex, Wrecker is a big boy with a big cock, spanking briefly, fingering, spit as lube, absolutely no clonecest, a little bit of aftercare

A/N: Sequel to Big Boy. Suggest reading that first since this one is going to pick up literally right where that one left off.

MASTERLIST

You lift your head at the drawling voice, turning just enough to spot Crosshair standing just inside the door. You wonder how long he’s been there, not having heard the door open at any point in the last hour. 

“Asshole.” You roll your eyes as Wrecker strokes his cock back to hardness, flipping your skirt back up to reveal your ass. “Either shut up or join us.” 

Crosshair steps down the stairs, slowly and dramatically as he starts undoing his armor. “Don’t mind if I do.” 

Wrecker smirks, thick fingers dragging through your damp folds. You grind against his hand, still soaked and wet after your last orgasm. Hands tug your skirt up higher, before sliding over the curve of your ass. You press your hips back into Crosshair’s hands as he looms behind you, taking you in. 

“Are you gonna stand there, or are you going to fuck my ass?” You say, looking over your shoulder at him. 

His eyes narrow as they snap to your face. “Mouthy little thing, aren’t you?” 

You smirk. “Only to those that deserve it.” 

You yelp as Crosshair’s hand smacks against your ass sharply, the sound of his skin meeting yours loud in the room. A satisfied smirk lifts his own lips, his hand massaging the stinging skin. 

“At least I know how to shut you up.” He says, his fingers sliding down between your legs.

He drags his fingers through your folds, gathering your wetness on them. You grip Wrecker’s shoulders as Crosshair’s fingers prod your asshole, pressing against the tight ring of muscle. You try and relax as his finger pushes into you, your body trying to fight the sudden intrusion. 

Wrecker’s hands drag up and down your thighs as Crosshair works his fingers into you, spreading you open so you can take his cock. “That’s it, mesh’la.” He says, soothing you, his lips brushing your forehead as you cling to his broad shoulders. 

Wrecker’s fingers prod at your pussy, two thick digits pressing into you to keep you spread open for his cock. You clamp down around both of them, making them groan. You rock slightly against Wrecker’s hand, working Crosshair’s fingers in and out of your ass. Your eyes roll back at the feeling of being filled from both sides, and you don’t even have their cocks inside you yet. 

“Kriff,” You breathe, pressing yourself closer to Wrecker’s body. 

“Put your cock in her, Wrecker.” Crosshair hisses. 

Wrecker smirks, slipping his fingers from your pussy and wrapping them around his thick cock. 

He drags the head through your folds before pressing it against your opening. You shudder, fighting the urge to clamp around him as he presses into you, stretching you still despite the fact he had just been inside you. Your legs shake as you sink yourself down onto him, Crosshair’s hand moving to hold your shoulder as he can most likely feel Wrecker’s cock spreading you open. 

You find yourself suddenly shoved against Wrecker’s chest, Crosshair’s hand on the back of your neck. Your ass is forced outward from this position, your body gaping open around Wrecker’s cock as Crosshair withdraws his fingers. You hear him spit moments before his cock is prodding your tight ass, the head pushing against your tight ring of muscle. 

You sink your teeth into Wrecker’s shoulder as Crosshair pushes into you, the stretch intense despite his preparation. It’s not unlike how it feels when you first take Wrecker, the painful burning stretch as your body fights to adjust. You whimper as he presses further into you, making you feel even fuller as he joins Wrecker inside you. 

Crosshair lets out a quiet breath as he pushes against Wrecker inside you, his fingers tightening around the back of your neck. “Tight little thing.” He grunts, rocking his hips so he sinks deeper and deeper into you. 

Your legs are shaking by the time they’re both seated inside you, your body stretched open and full around both of them. It’s unlike anything you’ve felt before, your hands clinging to Wrecker’s blacks. His front is still damp from your explosive release, and you don’t doubt he’s going to be absolutely soaked by the time you’re done. 

Wrecker’s hands grip your thighs as Crosshair begins thrusting harder into you, the force of his thrusts bouncing you on Wrecker’s cock. Wrecker guides your movements, pushing you down to meet Crosshair’s movements and drawing you back up. You let yourself go, letting them manipulate and use your body as they fuck you, Wrecker moaning deeply in your ear.

You squeeze around them, earning a groan from both of them as you grip them tightly. You’re trembling, the pleasure almost overwhelming as they continue to fuck you, Crosshair’s thrusts almost brutal as he chases his high. He pulls your body back, changing the angle of their cocks inside you. You nearly scream, both of them reaching parts of you, you didn’t think were possible. 

You’re cumming again, soaking Wrecker and clamping down almost painfully on them both. Crosshair lets out a deep growl as his hips jerk, slamming against your ass as he cums inside you. Your whole body is shaking, the only thing keeping you upright is their hold on you. You’re making unintelligible noises, stars dancing behind your eyes as Crosshair lets your body go, slipping his cock from your ass. 

Wrecker pulls you against his chest, his cock still hard inside you. He smooths his hands over your back, letting you come down from your high again. You can feel Crosshair’s cum leaking out of your ass, the feeling downright filthy as you sit on Wrecker’s cock. 

You whimper against Wrecker’s shoulder, rocking your hips with uneven jerks. His hands enclose your waist, guiding your small movements. He kisses the side of your head, trailing gentle kisses across your face and neck. You hear the door to the ‘fresher slide closed, Crosshair leaving you both. He got what he came for, what you offered. 

Wrecker continues to guide your movements, deep, breathy groans leaving his lips. You want him to cum, even as your body quickly numbs with overstimulation. You’re so desperate for him to cum, for him to fill you too. 

He cums with a groan, twitching inside you as he fills you with his cum. He groans deeply, burying his face in his neck, his breaths puffing against your sweaty skin. He pulls you off his cock as soon as he’s done, settling you more comfortably in his lap. 

“Good job.” He praises you, kissing your face softly. “Good girl.” 

A smile tugs at your lips as you rest your head on his shoulder, letting him ease you down from your intense orgasms. “Thank you, Wrecker.”  He lets out a quiet chuckle. “No, thank you, mesh’la.”

Ragu list:

@kaminocasey @rosechi @mxkyrie @bobaprint @star-trekker-0013 @padawancat97 @bamfahsoka @rain-on-kamino @thrawnspetgoose @lune-de-miel-au-paradis @wolffegirlsunite @dukeoftheblackstar @starrylothcat @sev-on-kamino @freesia-writes @anxiouspineapple99 @wings-and-beskar @dystopicjumpsuit @littlemissmanga @madameminor @eris-k @clio3kantarella @moonlightwarriorqueen @sleepingsun501 @originalcollectionartistry @maddiedrmr @idontgetanysleep @sinfulsalutations @clonemedickix @523rdrebel @deejadabbles @starqueensthings @multi-fan-dom-madness @wizardofrozz @mythical-illustrator @sunshinesdaydream @mooncommlink @lickylickylicky @sweetheartsnips @commanderblood @crosshairlovebot @ghostperson69 @jediknightjana @jedi-hawkins @dalu-grantkylo @cw80831

[evolutionsvoid]

When hunting the great seas for blubber, meat and oil, there are a variety of species that whalers are eager to spot. Massive flabby beasts that are sure to fill their holds with valuable materials to be sold back on shore, and perhaps ones with some extra meat on them so that the crew can be spared of gut steaks for a few nights. You can certainly tell when one of these favored creatures are sighted, as the voices that ring out from the nest up high are filled with excitement, which soon spreads through the entire crew. They rush to their stations and ready the ship for the hunt, eager to sink their ivory harpoons into that valuable flesh. However, the vast oceans house many beasts and monsters, and there is no telling what leviathan will rear its head during a voyage. Some are sought for, others ignored, while others fill the hearts of the sea folk with dread. And in some rare cases, it can be a bit of both. This can be seen in the Harpoon Leviathans, whose presence typically creates hesitation in the most hardiest of whaling crews, as they wonder if the chance for a big payout is worth the risk of sinking to the bottom of the ocean. 

Harpoon Leviathans are sea monsters whose very image speaks of their deadliness and ferocity. When one wants to depict the dangers of the ocean in scrimshaw, you will commonly see one of these horned beasts carved into the ivory. They are certainly a sight to behold, armored scales running down their bodies, maws filled with sharp tooth and tusk, and of course that massive spike jutting from their heads. This great horn is sharp and serrated, perfect for piercing prey and causing a ton of damage going in and out. This ivory spike is connected to a muscular socket in their skull, which allows it to pivot and rotate according to the situation. Said situation is the gutting of other leviathans, using this weapon to slash open hides and pierce thick blubber. Harpoon Leviathans feed upon whales, porpoise and great serpents, going after organs to ensure a fatal wound. Prey is detected through their snout covered in vibrissae, and their sharp eye sight helps them zero in on large silhouettes. They make sure to strike fast and hit crucial weak points, and then leisurely follow the wounded beast til it bleeds out. Since they fight large leviathans like themselves, they are aggressive and determined, even more so when another beast tries to steal their kill. Their armored plating not only helps survive a hunt, but to help defend themselves from scavengers and ensuing feeding frenzies that wish to benefit from their hard work. Thus, Harpoon Leviathans are quick to anger and quick to throw down, and that massive horn is more than capable of backing up this ferocity.

Though Harpoon Leviathans come off as rage-filled beasts, there is a different side to them. They are very sociable creatures, seeking company with their own kind and even mating for life. The horn that spears prey can also be used as a signal for other Harpoon Leviathans, raising and lowering this horn like one would message with a flag. Social grooming is also a behavior seen in their pods, as individuals take turns cleaning off the bloodied horns of their fellows. When they have young, they are fiercely protective and keep close to them well until they are armed and armored enough to face the world. Harpoon Leviathans are known for good memories, being able to recognize and remember fellow beasts even after years of separation. But this also means they are more than capable of holding a grudge, which is exactly what they will do if one kills their mate or offspring.

Due to their aggression and obvious weaponry, Harpoon Leviathans are a worrisome sight for whaling ships. These beasts are always ready for a fight, be it with an attacker or competition. Unfortunately, these beasts have learned that these odd ship things are a combination of both, hunting both Harpoon Leviathans and their prey. So they are quick to fly into a rage and try to destroy whaling ships that get too close. Their bulk allows them to ram into the boats in an attempt to capsize it, while their armor helps ward off harpoons and blades. The infamous horn can pierce through hulls, but it isn't always easy to remove once stuck in. Some would think this is a good thing, as the beast is now trapped, but they would quickly realize the opposite once it starts panicking and thrashing. Tales enjoy the symbolism in a ship sinking with a drowning Harpoon Leviathan still embedded within it, a tale of two aggressors dying while locked in battle. Obviously, the folk who don't enjoy these stories are often the ones who actually have to live them. The other worry that comes with the sighting of one of these leviathans is the chance that the captain may command them to hunt it. While these beasts are certainly a threat, they are also a lucrative catch. Their meat, oil and blubber is as good as any whale, and it also adds the bonus of hardened scales and a wonderful trophy. Harpoon Leviathan horns are capable of making one rich, and there is no end to buyers eager to add it to their collection. These horns are also important to the sea folk, who often use them for scrimshaw and crafting elaborate shrines and memorials from a single huge spike. They sometimes are even used as weaponry, though too big for a single man. Whaling ships may strap one of these horns to their bow to ram into prey, or construct elaborate devices fueled by explosive whale oil or Yellow Bile to launch a powerful spear into the sides of leviathans. But of course, carrying a horn or killing one of these beasts is sure to enrage another Harpoon Leviathan, who will not stop to destroy the ship responsible. And thus the hunt and fight begins once more. Certainly there is something to be said of these two sides, who are not too different from each other, forever locked in this endless battle.

-----------------------------------------------

"Harpoon Leviathan"

Fall of Ichor needs sea beasts too!

[littlemissvenom0]

Title: Beneath the Shield Wall

The clang of steel echoed across the battlefield, the cold air stinging your skin as you stood amidst the chaos, sword in hand. Warriors clashed all around you, but your focus never wavered from the man watching from his chariot, eyes as sharp as a hawk's. Ivar the Boneless. His gaze bore into you from across the blood-soaked field, his lips curled into a smirk.

You had heard stories of Ivar—of his cruelty, his brilliance, his unpredictability. What the stories failed to mention was the intensity of his presence, the way his eyes seemed to burn right through you. Despite the distance, you felt tethered to him, as if the battle was just a backdrop to the silent exchange between the two of you.

With a grunt, you parried a blow from a warrior who'd managed to break through your line of defense. You dodged swiftly, catching the man off balance, and with one clean strike, he fell. Blood sprayed across your armor, and you wiped it from your brow. When you looked up again, Ivar's smirk had grown.

The battle raged on, but something in the air shifted. The Saxons began to retreat, their forces crumbling under the relentless strength of the Vikings. A cheer went up among your comrades, but your attention was still locked on Ivar. As the fighting slowed, he gestured for his men to bring his chariot forward, right toward you.

Your heart pounded, not from fear, but anticipation.

He approached, his eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and something darker—something you couldn't quite name. His chariot came to a halt mere feet from where you stood, breathing heavily. Up close, his features were even more striking—sharp, calculating, yet undeniably captivating.

"You fight well for a shieldmaiden," he said, his voice low and cutting through the noise around you. "Better than most men I've seen."

You met his gaze, refusing to look away. "I don't fight for your approval, Ivar."

His laugh was deep, but there was an edge to it. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees as he studied you. "No, you don't. But I wonder... would you fight for me?"

His question hung in the air, and though the battlefield was quieting, your heartbeat thundered in your ears. He was testing you, seeing how far you'd bend before you broke.

"I fight for myself," you replied, gripping the hilt of your sword tighter. "Not for kings or legends."

Ivar tilted his head, intrigued. "And what if I offered you something more than that? Something... greater."

Your chest tightened as he spoke, the weight of his words sinking in. Ivar was a master strategist, always thinking three steps ahead. And now, it seemed you were part of his next game.

"What are you offering, Ivar?" You tried to keep your voice steady, though you couldn't deny the pull you felt toward him.

His smirk softened into something almost dangerous, yet alluring. "Power. Glory. My side."

There was a pause as he let his words settle in. His side. The very idea was both terrifying and exhilarating. To stand beside a man like Ivar, to face the world with him… it was a risk, but it was tempting.

"You think I'd follow you so easily?" you challenged, raising an eyebrow.

He shrugged, his smirk never faltering. "I think you're smart enough to see where true power lies. And I think you want it as much as I do."

You stepped closer, so that you were nearly eye level with him as he sat in his chariot. The smell of iron and sweat clung to the both of you, but you barely noticed. All you could see was the challenge in his eyes, the fire that promised more than just conquest. This was about survival, about rising above the chaos and claiming what was yours.

"I'll stand by your side," you said, voice firm, "but only as your equal, not your servant."

His eyes flared with approval, and for a moment, the smirk faded into something far more real. "Then welcome to my world, (Y/N)."

Without another word, he leaned back in his chariot, gesturing for his warriors to pull away. The battle was over, but the war for power had only just begun. And you, it seemed, had just made a pact with the most dangerous man alive.

As he rode away, you watched his retreating form, the taste of something new—something dangerous—on your tongue. You had no idea what the future held, but one thing was certain: standing beside Ivar the Boneless was a choice that would change everything.

And, somehow, you welcomed it.

#ivarthebonelessxreader

[withinkandquill-aa]

Closed starter for @il-mostrc.

———

Anya hadn’t spoken a word since the FBI found her and the other children in the basement level of her father’s home.

Well, that wasn’t quite accurate.

In truth, she had not spoken a useful word since then. Plenty of slurs, swears, and threats had spilled past her lips, knife-sharp even in her child’s voice. All of the children had reacted somewhat differently to the raid that had brought them back into the light, that had reunited most of them with their families, but Anya alone had lashed out against her saviors. She alone had found the outside world far more terrifying than her basement home. She alone had been unable to recognize the heroes from the villains. A sentiment made worse when armored men were forced to restrain her thrashing limbs, to guard themselves from the teeth that sought to sink into their flesh when her weapons of choice were taken from her. Even now, days later, she fights every attempt to help her, unable to believe these strangers have her best interest at heart and unwilling to comply just because they told her pretty lies like ‘you’re safe here’ and ‘no one is going to hurt you.’

Now, she sits silently across from another stranger, wrists twisting against the restraints that kept her from fighting him off too. Muscles pull taut beneath too-pale skin, cheeks tinting pink as her heart speeds at the sight of him. He can ask whatever questions he wants to, he can hurt her however he would like to, but Anya won’t answer. In this, she is determined. She will not betray her father, but not because of some misplaced loyalty. It is only the ever-present threat his wrath that keeps her in line, the promise that he can and will hurt her far worse than anyone in this whole damn place. The scars that adorn her skin, half as plentiful as her freckles, tell that story clearly enough.

And this determination shows in every aspect of her from the stubborn set of her jaw to the glare of her amber eyes. She does not need to speak to communicate this to him and she knows it.