#aside from that I like where it's going so far

[what-even-is-thiss]

Hello I know almost nothing about assassins creed but I know a few things about costume design and history so I’m gonna look at all the assassins creed box art/default outfits of the various protagonists and take a look at their inspiration, practicality, and rough historical accuracy.

I’m gonna go in chronological order by time period just to be an ass about it

Alexios and Kassandra, Greece, 400s-ish BC

They put boobs on Kassandra’s version which immediately puts them on my shit list. That makes the armor easier to pierce because it gives blades a convenient slide towards the center of your chest.

Those concerns aside though, I haven’t really seen an armored torso piece with this exact design but the historical inspiration is clearly there. I’ve got no real issue with the Spartan helmet.

They’ve got a belt for a purse but no purse. And normally I wouldn’t criticize that because they could be keeping their weapons there but they’ve got an embarrassment of belts here. They’re also wearing red which is a fairly expensive color compared to yellow or blue or something but whatever it does look pretty cool

Looks pretty good, has the period vibe even if it’s not accurate, and is relatively appropriate attire for a soldier for hire, if a bit flashy. 8/10 broken spears

Bayek, Egypt, 49 BC

No offense but I think that this man saw into the future and witnessed both a hot topic circa 2008 and a 20th century orientalist depiction of the Middle East and tried to recreate both of them with what he had lying around.

So the collar thing seems to be based on actual Egyptian armor but it looks leather instead of metal. I don’t know what his weird menstruation skirt is supposed to be or why he’s wearing pants. During this point in Ptolemaic Egypt I’m not sure anyone would’ve even heard of pants unless they’d heard stories from the far north.

As far as practicality goes I mean he’s guarded from the sun I suppose. He’s got gloves for handling his eagle. I can’t tell what his clothes are made out of. If they’re made of cotton or linen he might stay cool but if some of that is leather like I think it is he’s not gonna be comfortable in there.

I would criticize all of those belts again but at this point I think they might be holding his outfit together. I don’t wanna dignify this one with a rating.

Basim Ibn Ishaq, Baghdad, Abbasid Caliphate, 800s AD

So the armor I mostly don’t have a problem with. It’s a bit short but it’s clearly based on actual period designs so I’ll let it go. Even if it does commit the sin of too many belts.

The assassin outfit… confuses me. Makes me conflicted. So around that time there were a lot of different colors and patterns available for fabric however he’s gotta keep with the white outfit aesthetic. I get it. He’s also got a cute pop of blue in there. His outfit is flowy and loose fitting and will keep out the sun. That fits the time period vibe.

However this guy would still stick out like a sore thumb. First of all, random armor pieces. Second of all, too many belts. Third of all, there were so many things you could’ve done with turbans in this setting? And veils? There was and is still a style of wearing a turban where you leave part of it hanging off the side or back and so many things could’ve been done with that to cleverly and mysteriously obscure his face.

There’s potential here but I do deeply wish that potential had actually been used. 3/10 houses of wisdom

Eivor, Norway & England, late 800s AD.

This protagonist comes in both boy and girl flavor and for once the outfits match. I appreciate that.

This person also has an actual purse to go with their embarrassment of belts and the underlying tunic and pants at least have the general vibe of being period accurate.

As for their armor though, they either aren’t wearing any or they have some secret chainmail under their tunic. And those random bracers that don’t look particularly Viking.

Their little fur cape there would probably be warm but also wouldn’t function great as a cape. Or as a blanket.

Weirdly historically accurate but also not accurate at all. Kinda extra. Kinda like it though. Looks warm. 9/10 ravens

Ezio, Italy and Ottoman Empire, 1400s AD

This is the og guy. Weirdly enough unlike many of his successors he doesn’t actually have an unreasonable amount of belts.

What I will say in favor of this outfit is that the color and metalworking isn’t improbable for his time period. I mean they had the technology.

Everything else about it though? Uuuhhh idk where they got any of this. Collars in that style weren’t really much of a thing yet, that belt is huge, and hoods would’ve been more likely to be separate garments from the rest of your clothing. This guy looks badass this is a very compelling design but nothing about this dude screams renaissance Italy. If his goal is to remain hidden he’s going to have a very tough time. 6/10 da vinki paintings.

I’ve reached the image limit. I will finish this list in a later reblog.

[flixpii]

Too Much, Not Enough

| fem!reader x remmick

word count : 12.6k

A/N: first, i'd like to thank my wonderful boo thang @iceemochaa for this idea. everyone go give her a kiss. i'd also want to thank some fellow people from the server for very horny-fest ideas: @crxw1ey @itsaaudraw @remmicks-salvation @madkingcrowley

ALSO this is in lowercase because i typed it on my phone (default lowercase squad) and i was already so far in that i didn't feel like going back to capitalize everything

synopsis : he catches you one night—drinking from you as you try to get away. but suddenly, something shifts in him; he starts to feel strange, aroused to the point that you can feel him pressing against your backside. a couple of nights pass before he shows up again—only this time, he’s not after blood. he’s hoping you’ll help him release all the pent-up sexual frustration he’s been carrying.

warnings !! (MDNI 18+) : unprotected sex (p in v), drool/spit, overstimulation, handjob, oral (f receiving), fingering, very soft dom remmick, virginity taking (both?), dream sex

----

blearing, white-hot pain shoots through the side of your neck, and a gasp tears through your throat. it is so sudden—so sudden, and you barely have time to understand how you ended up how you did. 

he had grabbed you, holding you so close to him—his arms wrapped around your waist, holding you upright while his tongue licked lazily up your neck. 

“shh…don’t cry. it’ll be alright.”

he had murmured against your ear, breath hot and dripping with thirst. 

it was a cruel thing.

cruel in the way it stole breath before you could even scream, in the way it mocked the simplicity of your night—how only minutes earlier, your hands had been warm, reaching for the last pair of drawers on the line, the wind tugging gently at your nightgown like a teasing friend. you had only stepped off the porch. just a few steps. just to gather what was yours.

and then he was there.

the roughness of his grip was so sudden, so wrong, it split the air like a crack of thunder. your body flinched on instinct, mind fumbling to catch up to the moment—was this real? did you know this man? were you dreaming? but the pain blooming beneath his fingers on your arm told you otherwise. told you this wasn’t the kind of nightmare you could wake from.

you had opened your mouth to say something—anything, but no words could escape before his teeth—no—fangs punctured your neck. 

his rough tongue darts quickly, his mouth slurping as your blood—warm and tangy—leaks down your neck from where his mouth hadn’t been quick enough to catch. the splatter of it spills onto your cotton nightgown.

a movement—sudden, but clear, spills from him. more so, from the space where he is pressed up against you. a stuttering breath passes through your lips at the contact.

he’s flushed up against you, and aside from the blearing pain flying through your body, you feel him pressing into your bottom.

he ruts against you, chasing the friction provided. he lets out a sound—a whine, you assume through the mind fog. 

a heat flushes through you—sudden, unprovoked, and sickening. it crawls beneath your skin like a fever you didn’t ask for, one that sets your nerves on fire in all the wrong ways. shame follows fast behind it, swallowing you whole. it pulses in your fingertips, clenches in your gut, coats your teeth like bitterness.

you hate that you feel it.

hate that your body reacts at all.

because the pain—sharp, raw, burning—should’ve been enough. but somehow, it’s the shame that lingers heavier. shame that makes you feel small. shame that makes your skin feel too tight. shame that makes you wish you could disappear, not because of what’s happening, but because some awful part of you believes you’re supposed to bear it.

the suction of his mouth grows sharper for just a second—you swear he’s going to drain you. just before he can, you feel his head snap back, the crimson fluid he just stole from you dripping down his chin, coating his cheeks.

“oh….oh.”

your head slowly turns, and you spot his eyebrows furrowing as he glances down to the space—or the lack of—between you.

he seems confused as his eyes scan the way he fits against you—firm and hard, like instinct. like muscle remembering what the mind had long tried to forget. Like something inside of him is remembering something he had buried and traded for the concept of survival. 

his mouth opens with a smack, before it slowly forms into an ‘o’.

you’re sure he’s about to say something when suddenly, he presses forward, flushing his chest to your back, ripping a gasp from your throat.

“i…i don’t think this is ‘posed to happen’”

his breath ghosts over your ruined neck, and the confusion falls from his lips.

a groan, low and abrupt, passes through his blood-stained lips. it’s a sound that doesn’t belong to hunger or pleasure—it’s uncertainty. reluctance. it rumbles like a warning he doesn’t understand himself, and it sends a jolt through your body, sharp as a spark beneath the skin. your breath catches. you’re not sure if it’s fear or revulsion or some terrible, trembling mix of both.

your eyes flit back to the porch—to the basket where your clothes lay, spilled and crumpled in the dirt. a shirt hangs over the edge like it’s reaching for you. the sight guts you.

you had dropped it when he grabbed you.

your arms had been full of ordinary things.

of clean linen, still warm from the sun.

and all you want now—achingly, desperately—is to return to it.

“please,” your voice comes out with a breath—choking up in your throat, “…let me go.”

he pauses. 

the arm around your waist tightens and it causes a soft gasp to sound from your throat. 

“why you wan’ me to let you go?”

his nose pokes into the bite mark on your neck, eliciting a wince from you. the question comes out a bit uncertain—like he’s confused as to why you want to leave him like this.

“you don’t feel this,” he punctuates his word with a rut against you. “you can’t leave me like this.”

the tone in his voice is desperate—needy even, causes you to freeze.

confusion laced with desire falls from his mouth. his rough, hot tongue darts out to lick at your neck once more. 

a sound of disgust slips through your mouth—sharp and guttural, rising before you can stop it. it’s instinct, raw and trembling, the only thing you have left to give.

he pauses.

just for a breath. just long enough for the air between you to shift.

then he pulls back—confused, maybe stunned—and that retreat is all you need. you don’t think. there’s no space for thought. only a surge of heat.

you ram your head back, hard into his chin. bone meets bone. the crack echoes inside your skull like a church bell rung wrong.

a grunt tears through his lips, and his hold falters.

you move. not gracefully, not cleanly—

just fast. just desperate.

you push forward, wrenching yourself out of his arms. your feet slam against the cold grass, slick with dew, and the ground tilts underneath you. your vision veers sideways, spinning from blood-loss, from panic, from the weight of everything all at once.

“s-stop! you can’t leave me like this.”

his voice rings out behind you—desperate, yearning, maybe even startled—but it feels distant, like it’s echoing from underwater. you don’t dare look back. the only thing you see is the porch rising in front of you like salvation.

your legs nearly give out as you reach the steps, but you launch yourself upward, stumbling and scrambling until your body crashes against the door with a dull, aching thud. pain flares along your shoulder, but you don’t stop. you brace for the worst—for the hard slap of wood refusing you, for the cruel slam of a locked world.

but you’d left it cracked.

you don’t even remember doing it, but thank god you had.

your body falls forward, toppling past the frame in a blur of heat and breath and blind panic. the wooden floor meets you with a thud, and for a heartbeat, you just lie there—half-sprawled, half-curled, heart pounding against the floorboards like it’s trying to get free of your chest.

past the threshold.

inside.

safe.

the door was still splayed open, and you could hear the heavy boots of him pacing on the worn wood of your porch, but you didn’t care. didn’t care how or why he couldn’t just walk in and take you right back out.

no. you didn’t think that far, and as the weight of the blood-loss settles over your body like a wet blanket, your eyes roll to the back of your head. 

——————

it had been a week. 

a week since you had stepped outside your house at night. 

that morning—when the light finally broke across your floorboards like a quiet apology—you woke with your head pounding and your mouth dry as cotton. every part of your body felt sore, like you’d been wrung out and left in the sun too long.

he was nowhere to be seen.

no shadow. no sound. no sign he’d ever been there at all.

but you knew better.

you didn’t step outside. not even once.

you stayed inside your home, locked behind the door like it was the only thing keeping the world from splitting open again. a strip of cloth was pressed against your neck, stained from the wound that throbbed beneath it. the ache pulsed steady with your heartbeat—a quiet, cruel reminder.

your fingers stayed curled around the handle of a kitchen knife, white-knuckled and still trembling, long after the sun had crept across the room. even when your hand went numb, you didn’t let go.

he didn’t return that day. or the next.

you didn’t want to worry, but a part of you still clung to the idea that he was out there, waiting. waiting for you to slip up so that he could grab you once more.

by the third day, you decided to continue on with your life. stepping outside onto the porch with your breath held in your throat.

he wasn’t there. 

the sun beat down heavily across your home, and the clothes line danced with the wing—rustling gently.

that night, you dreamt. 

your body jolted with each thrust, already caught in the storm, and his voice—ragged and wild—only pulled you deeper under.

“say it… s-say my name!”

it came out in a near-snarl, not cruel, but desperate. like the sound of a man barely holding himself together, trying to find something to anchor to as he pounded into you with reckless, trembling need.

but your voice—

it wouldn’t come.

your mouth opened, but nothing formed, just broken gasps and choked cries, your face still buried in the pillow, now damp with sweat and spit. your throat ached with moans you hadn’t meant to make. you were unraveling, bit by bit, your body pulsing around him, clenching tight as the pressure in your belly twisted into something unstoppable.

his hand on your clit didn’t let up. if anything, it grew more deliberate—ruthless in its rhythm. his thumb swirled over you, hot and slick, heavy and rough as your hips twitched uncontrollably. every nerve in your body was alight, the sound of his groans behind you nearly as dizzying as the slaps of skin and the bed frame straining beneath the force of him.

his cock throbbed inside you, each stroke deep and hurried now, dragging against your swollen walls like he was trying to carve his name into you from the inside out. the sound of it—wet, sharp, filthy—filled the room like a song that only your bodies knew how to sing.

and then it happened.

your body locked.

your toes curled.

and your lungs emptied.

a sharp cry tore from you—his name half-formed, almost there—as your climax hit, sudden and all-consuming. your vision blurred as your body convulsed, waves crashing through you so hard you nearly forgot where you were.

he let out a strangled groan behind you, his hips jerking erratically, chasing your release with his own. his cock twitched deep inside, and with a hoarse, broken sound, he spilled into you—warmth flooding you, filling you, marking you.

he rode it out, his body pressing down on yours, hand still moving, dragging the orgasm from you until it left you limp and shaking beneath him.

your fingers finally released the sheets, trembling, and you gasped into the pillow like it was the first breath you’d taken in years.

your mind blanked.

you woke with a startle—your body jerking, breath caught sharp in your throat like you’d been yanked from the depths of something unspeakable. heat flooded you, thick and sudden, pooling beneath your skin as if you were still there, still lost in it.

your chest rose and fell too fast, lungs aching from how hard they worked to steady you. your hands clutched the sheets without realizing, the fabric damp beneath your palms. your mind, still fogged with fragments, tried to twist back into itself—tried to make sense of what was real and what had only felt that way.

your thighs rubbed together—and you felt it.

a wet, sticky warmth clinging to the soft skin between them. slick and unmistakable. your breath hitched as the realization hit you, and a wave of shame surged through your chest so suddenly, you flinched.

“fuck…” you whispered under your breath.

your fingers curled tightly into the fabric of your nightgown, bunching it against your stomach as if the pressure alone could make the feeling go away. like you could press the memory down, flatten it, bury it under cotton and guilt.

your mind spun, trying to make sense of why him.

why that.

you didn’t understand why you dreamt of him in such a scandalous, filthy way—why his hands, his mouth, his body had felt so real.

why your own body responded like it wanted it.

like it remembered.

your face burned.

hot and clammy to the touch, even in the cool quiet of your room.

you squeezed your thighs together, trying to contain the pulsing ache that hadn’t yet faded. it sat there, low and heavy in your gut, begging to be soothed. your fingers twitched at your side, and for a split second, you almost let them drift lower.

but you stopped yourself.

you clenched your jaw and shut your eyes tight, pressing your legs together like a seal. like that would hold back the memory of his name falling from your lips, the feel of him stretching you open, the sound of skin slapping and breathless groans in your ear.

————

by the end of the week, you felt as though he was truly gone for good.

the silence had settled again, not like a threat this time, but like dust returning to undisturbed corners. no voice behind you, no shadow in the tree line, no sudden breath against your neck. just the wind. the sun. the familiar creak of the porch beneath your steps.

it didn’t take long before you slipped back into the rhythm of your days—those quiet, outdoor chores that had always grounded you. you began hanging clothes again, your fingers brushing the warm fabric, sunlight catching the edges of the sheets like a blessing.

in the back of your home, you knelt beside your small herb garden, pressing your fingers into the dirt like it could anchor you. rosemary. sage. thyme. they greeted you like old friends, unaware of what you’d endured. or maybe they knew—and simply chose not to ask.

the peace didn’t last long.

on the sixth night, he returned.

you’re taking the clothes down that had been drying all day—like you had before, when he first got you. 

a crack sounds behind you.

sharp. sudden. too close.

your body jerks, instincts sharper than thought, and your head whips around—fists clenched tight around the soft fabric of a freshly-dried gown. your heart lurches upward, caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat.

your body knows before your mind.

knows the rhythm of danger. the hum beneath the skin.

and without a thought, your feet begin to move—gravel crunching beneath them as you pull yourself toward the front door like safety is just inches away.

“wait.”

you hate how you stop.

how the sound of his voice roots you in place.

there’s something in it—something cracked open. desperate. searching.

and for some godawful reason, it reaches you.

your feet freeze.

your head turns, slow and reluctant, toward the right.

and there he is.

dressed in dark pants, suspenders hanging loose like they’d been tugged too hard, too fast. a pale blue button-up clings to his frame, sleeves rolled, top buttons torn clean open. it might’ve once looked neat. now it clings to him like second skin—filthy, sweat-soaked, streaked in places with grime and something far worse.

blood.

so much of it.

his brown hair is tousled and damp, the front sticking to his forehead in matted curls. and beneath the fabric, the white of a wife-beater peeks out—though it’s barely white anymore. more a rusted red, like someone had tried to scrub the stain but it refused to fade. a thin gold chain glints against his collarbone, catching the moonlight like it doesn’t realize it’s resting on a monster.

your eyes widen.

your breath catches.

you take a step back. your heel digs into the dirt. and still, your gaze is fixed on him—on the smear of blood across his cheeks, dried and flaking at the edges, like war paint. it trails down his throat, painting the lines of his neck, seeping into the cotton of his shirt. it looks fresh.

his mouth opens as he takes a step forward.

you take a step back—slow, deliberate, your heel skimming the earth like you’re testing the ground beneath you, unsure if it will hold.

“i ain’t goin’ to hurt you.”

his voice is soft. too soft. like he’s trying to fold himself into something harmless, like he doesn’t still have blood on his face, like he didn’t tear through you once already. it’s a tone that might’ve calmed you in another life. in this one, it makes your stomach turn.

your fingers clutch the dress tighter, knuckles paling with the strain. you can feel the seams of the fabric pressing into your skin, grounding you, even as your body begs to run.

you want—desperately, urgently—to look back. to see how many steps remain between you and the safety of your door. but you don’t dare move. not even your eyes. not when he’s watching you like that. not when you know how quick he can close the space between you.

even the smallest glance away might invite him forward.

“you hurt me before.”

the words fall from your lips before you’re ready. soft. strange. unfamiliar.

the sound of your own voice jars you. it doesn’t sound angry. it doesn’t even sound afraid. it sounds… disoriented. like the memory has begun to blur around the edges, melting into something that doesn’t make sense anymore. like you’re not certain if it happened the way you remember. if it happened at all.

and that terrifies you more than anything.

because you know what he did.

your body still remembers, even if your voice has started to forget.

your mind flits back to the dream—the dream that had you gasping for air once you’d awaken. 

it’s strange. 

here, in front of you, was the man—the beast—who had held your life in the palm of his hand, threatening death with a final pull of your blood into his mouth. 

and now, all you could think about was the way he rubbed against you—like the feeling was both foreign and enticing to him. 

he lets out a strained laugh.

“yeah. you’re right about that, b-but, i ain’t goin’ to do that again. 

“how can i trust you?”

your voice is more certain this time around, and your hands fall to your sides, still holding the dress in your hand as your chest moves with your breaths.

the wind sweeps between you.

he takes another step forward and you mirror by taking another step backward.

his arms lift, elbows jutting out wide as his hands settle on top of his head. his fingers thread through his messy hair, gripping at the roots like he’s trying to hold something inside from breaking loose.

then comes the sound.

low, cracked—something between a groan and a whine.

“please… why is this happenin’ to me?”

his voice trembles at the edges, and for a moment, it almost sounds like grief. like confusion twisted into something uglier. and that unsettles you even more. because this isn’t remorse. this isn’t shame. it’s self-pity—sharp and misplaced.

you blink, heart rattling in your chest.

you have no idea what he’s talking about.

and the not knowing—it’s beginning to twist in your gut, cold and tight.

he starts pacing, erratic and restless, but still a good distance off. far enough that you can breathe. far enough that you don’t yet have to run.

“i’ve been runnin’ ‘round everywhere,” he mutters, almost to himself, his voice thick with something that borders on frustration. “drainin’ folks left an’ right…”

he pauses, his body stiffening.

“but i ain’t do this with them.”

his arms drop heavily to his sides, and then one hand presses flat against his pants—lower. against himself.

your breath stutters.

the gesture is crude, almost unconscious, like his body is betraying him, like he doesn’t know what to do with what he’s feeling. and that’s what makes it worse. not the motion itself, but the fact that he’s unraveling—right there in front of you.

and you’re the one he’s unraveling over.

you take a step backward, slow and cautious, and the snap of a small branch beneath your foot cuts through the quiet like a shot.

he stops.

his head turns toward you—slow, deliberate, like he already knows exactly where you are. his eyes lock onto yours, and something in your chest flinches. not from fear. not entirely.

no, it’s something else.

something low and stirring, unwelcome but real, curling hot in your belly beneath the weight of his gaze. it shames you the moment it blooms, but it doesn’t leave. it sits there, twisting—because the look in his eyes isn’t hungry for blood. not right now.

he looks torn.

like a man fraying at the seams.

like something inside him is breaking open under the weight of a need he doesn’t understand—had forgotten was possible. a craving that wasn’t sharp teeth and crimson thirst, but touch. closeness. something unbearably human.

he takes a step forward.

you don’t move.

“help me…” he breathes, voice cracking as if the words pain him. “i won’t hurt you. just help me feel better. yeah?”

he inches closer, each step careful, almost reverent, until he’s within arm’s reach. and now, this close, you can see it all—his chest heaving, the tension in his shoulders, the way his pants strain from how tightly he’s wound. how unbearably pent up he is.

your eyes flick down. just for a second.

your cheeks flush hot, instant and humiliating, and you curse yourself silently—clenching your jaw as if that alone could rewind the moment. your body had again. as if it hadn’t learned.

he doesn’t let you answer.

he takes another step forward, slow and deliberate, like he’s afraid any hesitation might send him unraveling again.

your empty hand flies up on instinct, palm raised between you like a barrier made of sheer will.

“stop,” you say.

but your voice—god, your voice—comes out too soft, too unsure, trembling on the edges. it betrays you, just like your body does.

he doesn’t stop.

he keeps moving until your hand meets his chest, firm and burning beneath your touch. his skin is hot through the thin fabric, and the moment you make contact, a sound spills from him—deep and broken. a groan laced with something softer, needier. a whine.

his head dips slightly, his breath brushing your skin.

“see?” he murmurs, voice thick, ragged. “see what you’re doin’ to me?”

it takes every ounce of strength to keep your gaze on his, to hold steady beneath the weight of him. but the tension in his body, the ragged rise of his chest, the way he looks at you like you’re both his torment and salvation—it all pulls your eyes downward.

just for a second.

just long enough to see his hand again, pressing against himself, slow and deliberate.

resuming what he had started.

and your breath stutters.

“stop. i don’t know you.”

your voice is firmer this time, but there’s a crack running through it.

a hairline fracture of fear, of confusion, of something far more complicated than either.

his eyes stay locked on yours, wild and pleading.

“remmick,” he breathes.

“what?”

you blink. it comes out before you can process it.

“my name,” he says again, faster this time. “remmick.”

he says it like it means something. like it should unlock something in you.

he pauses, as if waiting for it to take hold, and then looks up—right into your eyes.

“say it. please.”

your hand is still on his chest, trembling now, caught between pushing him away and holding him there. your lips part, hesitating, uncertain. but the sound slips out anyway.

“remmick.”

that’s all it takes.

his body shifts—subtle but unmistakable—as if the word pierced straight through him. he leans forward, just slightly, like he’s being drawn into you by gravity itself. one of his hands lifts, and he presses yours harder against his chest, like he needs to feel it. like he needs proof that you said it. that it’s real.

a soft moan escapes him, low and shivering, the sound pulled from somewhere deep. it curls around you like smoke—dangerous, intimate, and far too close.

a sensation shoots through you—sharp and strange—sparking low in your belly and crawling up your spine like a current. your body shudders, betraying you before you can make sense of it. you suck in a breath through parted lips, and that’s when you catch it.

he’s close.

so close, you can smell him.

not just blood, though that’s there—metallic, sharp, and thick like it clings to him from the inside out. not just dirt either, though earth clings to his clothes, the scent of sweat and soil mingling on his skin. there’s something else. something older. colder. something that reminds you of decay, of things buried and forgotten. it lingers in the air around him like a warning.

your voice trembles as it slips past your lips, low and unsure.

“if…”

you pause, swallowing hard as your thoughts struggle to take shape.

“if i help you… will you let me live?”

your eyes dart away from his, just for a second.

you don’t mean to. but holding his gaze for too long feels like surrendering.

remmick pauses.

it’s slight—barely a beat—but you feel it in your bones.

“i was always plannin’ on keepin’ you,” he murmurs, and something about the way he says it makes your stomach twist. “couldn’t do that if you’re dead.”

his voice has changed. not just the words—his whole way of speaking. the southern drawl softens, thins out, and something else bleeds through. a different cadence. older. maybe even his real voice. it startles you, but you can’t quite place why. it sounds less put-on. more him.

he studies your face—eyes flicking across your features like he’s trying to read a language only he remembers.

then, a slow smile curves his lips. not smug. not cruel.

curious. certain.

“tell me you feel it too.”

you want to say no.

you want to recoil, to push him away, to scream that this is wrong, that none of this makes sense, that nothing about him feels safe.

but your body—traitorous, aching, alive—gives you away.

because as you look at him, at the hunger and confusion tangled in his expression, something warm begins to spread through you again.

you gather the courage to turn from him, your eyes flicking toward the back door—your door. the one that had always meant safety, the one you weren’t sure would feel that way ever again.

“i can’t let you in.”

the words leave your mouth like something sacred. like a boundary you hope he might honor.

his smile deepens, slow and knowing.

“i know, darlin’,” he says, voice like worn velvet. “you’re not stupid.”

the way he says it isn’t mocking. it almost sounds like admiration. like he means it.

you glance back at him, chest tight, and exhale a shaky breath. your hand softens against his chest, settling there beneath the warmth of his palm—no longer resisting. not quite yielding. something in between.

“okay.”

you barely get the word out before the world shifts.

suddenly, you’re in his arms—lifted with startling ease, pressed tightly against his chest like you belong there. a shocked gasp rips from your throat, your arms instinctively grabbing hold of whatever they can, unsure whether to brace or cling.

his feet move fast, sure, and then the cool slam of the outside world hits you again—your back porch beneath you, the creak of old wood under his boots.

your feet touch down onto the dirty boards, but you barely feel them.

your back hits the wall of your house, and his chest meets yours.

you’re trapped—surrounded by the scent of him, the warmth of him, the tension that radiates off his body in waves. the wall behind you is cool and hard, but his body in front of you burns like fever. he’s close. too close. and yet somehow not close enough for him.

something in him shifts—slow, subtle. like the current inside him changes direction and he doesn’t know how to follow it. you feel it in the way his body stills, then trembles slightly, pressed so tight against you that every breath he takes stutters against your chest.

you can feel him—hard and insistent—pressing into your thigh through the worn fabric of his pants. the weight of it, the heat, the way it pulses with no rhythm but his rising need.

he seems… lost.

remmick’s eyes flicker, wild and unsure, and when you meet them, there’s something desperate there. not hunger like before—but confusion. like his body remembered something his mind didn’t. like he had no idea what to do with this kind of ache.

you search his gaze, trying to find a map inside him. something that tells you what he wants. what he expects. but there’s nothing clear. only the trembling look of a man who doesn’t remember how to feel without violence.

then he lets out a groan—low and helpless—as his hips push forward, grinding against your thigh with a need he doesn’t seem to know how to contain.

your body jerks in surprise.

a sharp breath tears from your lips as the movement drags heat through you, low and dizzying. it coils in your belly, thick and sudden.

you hadn’t meant to respond.

but now that you have, you can’t pretend not to feel it.

“do something, please.”

his voice breaks apart as he speaks, breath coming in fast, shallow bursts. he begs through it—through the way his hips keep chasing the friction, rutting against your thigh like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

you swallow hard, nerves tangled with something warmer, something you don’t want to name. your fingers twitch where they rest, and you shake your head, barely able to speak.

“i–i don’t know what to do,” you confess, voice thin with uncertainty.

and it’s true.

you’d never been with a man like this—never one so far gone, so undone, so completely at the mercy of his own body. and even if you had… you never learned how to give this kind of touch. never learned how to bring pleasure to anyone other than yourself, never thought you’d have to.

but something about the way he presses into you, so frantic and confused, stirs a reluctant kind of empathy in you—mixed with fear, with heat, with a strange pull you can’t understand.

your gaze drops.

his hips are still moving, slow but desperate, grinding into your leg like he needs more and doesn’t know how to ask for it. something about it makes your breath catch.

almost without thinking, your hand moves down—hesitant, shaking—and you press your palm gently against him, through the fabric of his pants.

he freezes.

utterly.

and then a sound tears out of him—a moan, raw and broken, rising from the pit of his throat like it surprised even him.

his body shudders under your touch, rigid with restraint, but trembling like he’s seconds from falling apart. your hand stills where it rests, the heat of him burning through the cloth and into your skin.

your palm presses down harder, instinct guiding your movements more than experience. and that’s when you truly feel him—solid, straining beneath the fabric, the heat of him radiating through your skin like a fever. the bulge stretches wide beneath your touch, filling your entire hand, every inch of him throbbing with need you can’t begin to comprehend.

he lets out a choked breath, and then his hand shoots down—larger, rougher—covering yours. he presses it harder against himself, hips stuttering like he’s chasing something that keeps slipping just out of reach.

“it’s not enough,” he pants, voice cracking as his brows draw together, his face twisted in a mix of agony and need.

you feel your face burn at the words—at the implication of what “enough” might mean. your breath falters, throat tight, but your hand doesn’t move away.

instead, your fingers twitch.

they curl slightly, without thinking, just enough to grip.

the reaction is immediate.

he winces—a shudder running through his body like a jolt of lightning—and his mouth parts with a sound that’s somewhere between pain and pleasure.

“don’t stop.”

his voice is strained—hoarse, almost fragile beneath the weight of his own desire. like stopping would shatter him entirely.

your mind flickers back, unbidden, to the dream from a few nights ago. the one that clung to your skin even after waking. in it, he had been so sure of himself—so commanding, so in control. his hands had known where to touch, his mouth had known what to say, and you had given yourself over without question. there had been no trembling. no hesitation. only heat.

but this—this trembling, panting version of him pressed against you now—this was the opposite.

and yet it didn’t cool the fire in you.

it stoked it.

your heart pounds harder, your face flushing hot as the realization settles deep: he hadn’t felt this in a long time. maybe ever. the touch, the friction, the aching pleasure that left him shaking in your hand—it was unfamiliar to him. and yet he clung to it like it was the only thing keeping him whole.

and you… you were the one giving it to him.

there’s power in that. not the kind that demands or dominates—but the kind that hums quietly under the skin. the kind that says he needs you. not just for blood. not just for survival.

but for this.

and that truth alone makes your breath catch, your thighs press closer, the warmth between them blooming hotter, heavier.

you tighten your grip just slightly—just enough to feel him shudder again.

his breaths come out ragged now—uneven, trembling, like every second that passes without release is too much for him to bear. his hand stays pressed over yours, holding you there, grounding himself in the heat and pressure of your palm.

“take ’em off.”

your voice is steadier this time. firmer.

and it surprises even you.

not because of the words, but because of the confidence. the realization blooming slowly but surely in your chest—that you hold him. literally. completely. his need is cradled in your hand, and his body responds like it’s never known this kind of touch before.

remmick glances down, eyes locking onto the way both of y’all’s hands are still cupping him. and something flickers across his face—raw, unfiltered desire.

he doesn’t speak. doesn’t hesitate.

he scrambles, fingers fumbling at his belt, unbuckling in rushed, uneven motions like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind if he takes too long. the sound of metal scraping against metal, the zip of fabric—it’s frantic, loud in the quiet space between you.

you watch the way his hands move—desperate and clumsy���and when you glance up, your breath catches.

drool.

thick, glistening, slowly spilling from the corner of his mouth. it stretches into a line, gleaming in the light, trailing from his parted lips as if his body is unraveling faster than he can control it. his jaw hangs slack with need, his eyes half-lidded and glazed.

then his pants fall open, and your hand moves without thought—slipping beneath the waistband of his underwear to grasp him fully.

he gasps—loud and shuddering—and his hips buck the slightest inch forward, as if chasing the warmth of your palm. in that same instant, the line of drool falls, landing wet and hot on your wrist, sliding down over your skin like a mark.

the feeling of his drool sliding warm over your wrist sends a jolt through your body—strange, electric, exciting in a way you can’t fully explain. your thighs press together instinctively, the heat between them building with every breath he takes.

he’s heavy in your hand.

hot. stiff. pulsing with need.

his body leans forward, barely held up by the tension in his muscles. his head tips back, exposing the column of his throat, jaw slack as he pants through parted lips. he’s a mess in your hand—completely undone, breathless and sweating, helpless to anything but the touch you’re giving him.

but your strokes falter.

he’s slick with sweat, and it’s more of a struggle than you expected. your hand catches slightly with each movement, and you glance back up at his mouth, remembering the way that thick drool had spilled from his lips.

you pull your hand from his pants.

at the loss of contact, he stutters—broken and breathless.

“why?”

your face flushes, warmth rising all the way to your ears at what you’re about to ask.

“spit in my hand.”

his eyebrows pull together—not from refusal, but from the sharp spike of desire and confusion. his mouth parts slowly, and then he obeys, cheeks hollowing as he draws the drool forward.

his tongue slips out, mouth wide and willing, and thick strings of spit fall heavily into your waiting palm.

you watch it.

watch how it glistens, how it coats your skin, warm and obscene and intimate.

your hand stills for a beat as you take in the weight of the moment—how close he is, how his body is giving you what you need to bring him pleasure.

then, slowly, you lower your hand again.

your fingers wrap around him, slick now, and the difference is instant. your strokes glide smoother, faster, and his body reacts with shudders and gasps. his hips twitch and his head falls forward, forehead nearly brushing yours.

a ragged moan rips from him, and his hand slams against the wall beside your head, bracing himself—because now he’s truly falling apart.

“s–shit!”

it rips from his throat, a sharp groan laced with more than just surprise. there’s something else in it—something raw, starved. hunger, yes, but not just for release. for you. for more of your touch, your attention, your hand wrapped around him like it was meant to be there.

you move with growing confidence now, dragging your hand up his length until you can tug him fully out of his pants.

he winces as the cool air brushes over his flushed skin, a tremor running through him at the sudden contrast. the heat of his body meets the cold of the world, and he shivers—but doesn’t stop you. not even close.

you see him fully now.

hard and flushed, the tip red and glistening, a thick vein running the length of him like a path carved straight to your hand. pre-cum beads at the head, already smeared down his shaft from where your palm had moved over him before, mixing now with the slick sheen of drool still coating your fingers.

your fist wraps around him again, deliberate and slow, and the combined wetness allows you to stroke him with ease. the sound is soft, wet, and rhythmic—his breaths syncing to the motion like he can’t help it.

his body bows slightly, every muscle tensing, like he’s trying not to collapse from the overwhelming pleasure you’re building in him.

he tenses beneath your hand, muscles locking as your strokes grow faster, more assured. his body is trembling now—not from fear, but from how close he is to falling apart completely.

another thick line of drool slips from the corner of his mouth, trailing slowly down his chin. you watch it for a moment, caught in the daze of his unraveling, until your eyes lift—drawn instinctively to his face.

and then you gasp.

his eyes are open.

not fully, but enough.

cast downward, glazed over with pleasure. but just enough to catch it.

a glint. a glow.

red.

dark, pulsing, unnatural—like embers caught in the low light. your breath hitches in your throat as you stare at it, transfixed, and then—almost like he knows—he slams them shut, a sharp whine escaping him.

“aah… wait,” he pants, his voice trembling. “something’s happening…”

you know exactly what.

you feel it in the way he twitches in your hand, in the pulsing warmth building at your palm, in the desperation threaded into every sound that falls from him.

so you don’t stop.

you go faster. tighter. focused.

his hips jerk forward, chasing the friction like he can’t help it, and a strangled moan breaks from his throat. his whole body hunches over you, trembling, until his forehead comes to rest against your shoulder, breath hot and ragged against your skin.

“please,” he gasps—voice small now, breathless—as his head turns just slightly, his mouth nearly brushing your neck.

you smell it.

blood.

copper-sweet and heavy on his breath.

then a deep, guttural sound tears up from his chest—a growl soaked in something ancient, primal—but it breaks halfway through, collapsing into something softer. weaker. almost… pathetic.

and then he tenses, hard.

his whole body locking, shaking in your grasp as he finally lets go—spilling into your hand and across the front of your nightgown in hot, thick pulses.

there’s a moment of silence.

thick, heavy.

the only sound is his breathing—hot and uneven—ghosting over your neck, brushing the skin there with every exhale like he’s still tethered to you by need alone.

your hand remains around him, even as he begins to soften, your fingers still slick and warm. only once he’s completely spent do you slowly pull your hand away in one long, fluid drag. the motion makes him flinch, a gasp slipping through his lips at the sudden overstimulation. his hips twitch, but he doesn’t speak.

he stays still, suspended in the hush between you, before his head tilts up. there’s something open in his expression—tender, maybe. something you’re not ready for. his lips move closer, and you know before it happens what he’s trying to do.

he wants to kiss you.

your head turns, just slightly. your eyes soften, but the word comes quiet.

firm.

“no.”

it’s barely louder than a breath, but it lands like a weight between you.

his eyes close slowly, and he leans his forehead back against your shoulder—not angry. just… quiet.

your legs are still pressed together, thighs tense, breath held. your nightgown clings damp against your stomach, the fabric sticking to your skin where he’d spilled across it. the reality of it hums through you, the scent, the heat, the knowledge that you let it happen. that you made it happen.

then you feel it.

his nose against your neck.

the slow inhale.

he’s smelling you.

your body stiffens.

for a second, terror scrapes at your spine. you think—maybe he lied. maybe this is the moment. maybe he’s going to sink his teeth into your throat and finish what started a few days ago. your heart races.

but he doesn’t bite.

instead, he pulls back slightly, brows furrowed, nostrils flaring as he sniffs the air—curious. drawn.

you follow his gaze.

he leans in again, closer this time, his softening length pressing faintly against your stomach, dragging heat across your skin through the nightgown. and then, his voice—low and hoarse—scratches its way up.

“what’s that smell?”

your stomach tightens.

you hear it—that hunger tucked just beneath the question. not for blood this time. something else. something that makes your skin tingle with anticipation and shame.

his hands move slowly, tracing the shape of your waist, until they settle at your hips—gripping them gently, but firmly enough that you feel the intent behind it.

your brow creases in confusion… until his eyes drop.

you follow the look.

and then it hits you.

you know exactly what he’s asking about.

because while you were focused on him—while your hand moved over him, while you whispered his name and watched him fall apart—the warmth between your thighs had bloomed into something undeniable. your panties are soaked. clingy. shamefully damp against your skin.

your face burns hot as the realization settles.

he smells you.

remmick’s eyes slowly rise to meet yours, and what you see there sends a ripple through your chest—hunger, thick and molten, pulsing just beneath the surface. another line of drool spills from the corner of his mouth, thicker this time, stretching as he breathes through it.

his hand moves—slow, sure—and drags down, curling behind your thigh. then, without warning, he lifts. your leg rises with the motion, guided by his strength, and your breath catches.

a gasp slips from your lips as your hands press instinctively against his chest, trying to ground yourself, maybe even push him back—but your limbs are shaking.

“what are you doing?” you stammer, voice barely stable as you feel his hand slide higher. it skids up your thigh, rough fingertips brushing hot skin, slipping under your nightgown like they’ve done it a hundred times before.

“you’re leaking,” he says, simply.

like it’s an observation. a fact.

like it’s not the most shameful, intimate thing he could’ve said aloud.

drool slips over his chin, unbothered by the mess he’s making, by the mess you’re in.

your body burns. flushed and twitching beneath his touch, thighs trembling around the hand that now glides so easily against your damp skin. his fingers drag through the heat gathered between your legs, and your hips jolt, a quiet sound caught in the back of your throat.

his mouth hovers just beside your cheek now, voice ragged and breath thick.

“let me taste ya,” he says.

almost pleads.

and there’s something so raw, so utterly stripped of pride in the way he says it—like he’s not asking just to take, but because he needs it. like the ache inside him will never fade unless you let him have this one thing.

you turn your head slightly, breath hitching as you meet his eyes—his mouth still hovering beside your cheek, so close you can feel the heat of his breath skating across your skin.

“i…” you begin, voice quiet and uncertain, “i ain’t never had that done before.”

he lets out a groan—deep, throaty, almost pained.

it vibrates against you like a confession.

“let me do it,” he murmurs, eyes dark and pleading. “please. show me where you like to be licked.”

the words make your heart stutter, but before you can even respond, you feel it—his fingers pressing firmly against your clothed heat, dragging slow and deliberate along the soaked fabric.

“remmick—!”

your voice breaks, sharp and startled, rising without your permission.

your face floods with shame, your body trembling at the sound that just tore from your throat. but desire drowns it out, thick and surging—because the pressure feels too good to ignore, and his touch is reverent, not cruel.

he pulls his head back, just enough to look you in the eyes.

and he waits.

there’s no smirk, no demand. just remmick, gaze burning into you with raw need, silently asking for something he doesn’t know how to take without permission.

you stare at him for a long, aching second—heart racing, chest heaving—before you nod.

slow.

shy.

but real.

that’s all he needs.

he sinks lower, descending to his knees with a hunger in his movements, yet careful—like you’re something sacred. both his hands slide along your legs, settling at the backs of your thighs, his thumbs rubbing gently into your skin as he looks up at you from below.

his face is flushed, his hair damp with sweat and clinging to his forehead, his lips parted and still shiny from where drool had spilled earlier.

“tell me what to do,” he groans, voice rough with restraint, with admiration.

his mouth is inches away.

but he won’t move until you tell him how.

your body is burning now.

inside and out.

the sound of his voice asking to be guided—tell me what to do—echoes through you, wrapping around your spine and sending a shiver up your back. no one’s ever asked that of you before. not like that. not with that kind of hunger barely held back by restraint.

when you glance down at him again, you find his eyes already on you. waiting. not impatient. not demanding. eager. wide, dark, full of wanting—but still waiting. like you’re the only one who can give him permission to breathe.

“use your fingers,” you say softly.

your voice wavers, shaky at the edges, but it doesn’t matter.

he hears you.

he obeys.

you catch the way the corners of his lips twitch upward—just for a moment—before one of his hands slides up, lifting your thigh gently and settling it over his shoulder. the stretch of it opens you, exposes you, and you gasp as the new position presses your nightgown higher.

then, his other hand moves—slowly, reverently—until his fingers are back at your panties. they’re soaked now, clinging to you, and you can feel every brush of his knuckles against the sensitive skin there.

his eyes flick up to yours again—checking. asking.

and then he slips a finger past the damp fabric, the tip curling just inside you.

your breath stutters in your chest, a sound catching in your throat that you didn’t mean to let out. he watches you. his gaze never leaves your face.

and then—

with a sudden tug, he rips your panties clean.

the sound is loud, sharp in the silence—the tear of fabric quick and final—and the cold air hits you immediately.

your body tenses, thighs quivering around him as the sudden exposure leaves you breathless. every nerve is awake now, burning, aware of the way his hands hold you open, how the cool air contrasts against the heat pooling between your legs.

you’re bare to him.

and he’s still kneeling.

still looking at you like you’re holy.

you let out a soft pant, your breath catching as you feel his finger slowly trail up the inside of your thigh. his touch is warm—rough in texture, but gentle in pressure—and your skin tingles beneath it. his movements are slow, careful, like he’s learning your body inch by inch.

he stops just at your entrance.

he doesn’t go further right away.

he lingers there—testing. waiting. seeing how you react to the nearness, the quiet promise of what comes next.

then, without warning, he slides a finger in.

his middle finger—long, thick—and the stretch of it makes your walls flutter around him.

a low moan tumbles from your lips, your head tipping back slightly as your muscles clench. it’s more than just the intrusion—it’s the heat of him, the weight of that single finger inside you, the way it already fills more than you expected.

your hand reaches down, gripping the hem of your nightgown tightly, bunching the fabric against your stomach as if anchoring yourself to the moment.

he draws his finger back out—slowly, deliberately—and then pushes it back in with a soft, wet sound that makes your cheeks burn. your body clenches around him again at the sensation, and the lewdness of it, the intimacy of being this bare and open, sends another wave of warmth washing over your skin.

he breathes in through his nose, like he’s memorizing the scent of your arousal, and you can feel him growing more confident in the way his finger curls just slightly on the next thrust.

the thrusts of his finger continue—steady, slow at first, then building into a rhythm that leaves your legs weak. each movement sinks in with purpose, the tip curling ever so slightly, brushing against a place inside you that makes your hips twitch.

your walls clench around him, instinctive and aching.

“you’re so warm,” he pants, voice husky with awe, like he’s never felt anything like this before.

you glance down—eyes glazed, breath uneven—and see his free hand working at himself again. his fingers wrap around his cock, now slowly thickening with each stroke. the sight makes your stomach flutter, your lips parting as another moan slips from your mouth, uncontained and needy.

your mind is fogged with sensation—his hand inside you, his hand on himself, both moving in tandem like some unholy harmony of want. your body is no longer your own. it belongs to the rhythm, the heat, the burn of it all.

then you feel it.

another finger at your entrance.

his ring finger this time—thicker than the first. he eases it in beside the other, stretching you slowly.

you wince. not from pain exactly, but from the sudden fullness.

you’d touched yourself before, sure. but your fingers had never felt like this.

his are longer. rougher. firmer.

they reach deeper.

your walls stretch to accommodate him, muscles fluttering as both fingers begin to pump in and out of you. slick sounds fill the air—soft, obscene—and every time he curls them just right, you whimper.

meanwhile, his other hand strokes himself in slow, languid motions, the pad of his thumb brushing over the tip. he groans aloud, the sound low and wrecked, spilling from his throat like it’s being pulled out of him.

and all of it—his fingers inside you, his pleasure building in front of you—pulls you deeper under.

he starts to move closer.

you can feel it in the way his breath warms your skin, see it in the way his shoulders shift, the subtle rise of his body as he inches toward you like gravity’s pulling him into place.

a low growl rumbles in his throat as he presses his face in, and when the bridge of his nose brushes against that sensitive bud, you tense—hard. a full-body shudder rolls through you, your breath catching sharp in your chest.

then suddenly—his fingers leave you.

you gasp at the loss, clenching around nothing, your body pulsing with the need to be filled again, to feel something.

“let me eat you, baby,” he pleads, voice raw, mouth just a breath away.

his words hit you deep—both filthy and tender, desperate and reverent.

you hesitate.

not from fear.

but from the overwhelming weight of it. the way your body is already responding without needing to be told.

then, you nod.

he doesn’t look up.

but he must feel it—through the way your thigh tenses over his shoulder, through the way your hips shift just the slightest bit forward, offering yourself.

he takes that as his answer.

his mouth descends, and you feel it—his tongue drawing a slow, deliberate line between your folds, tasting you for the first time. your back arches off the wall, sharp and sudden, your thigh slipping, and he readjusts it with one hand, holding you steady with a strength that borders on possessive.

then he licks again.

this time deeper, firmer—and a moan tears from his mouth. the sound vibrates directly into you, and your head falls back with a strangled cry.

“you’re so sweet,” he breathes.

then he presses a soft, almost reverent kiss to your entrance—like a promise—before his tongue pushes inside of you.

you cry out, the stretch of it unfamiliar and overwhelming, but so, so good. his tongue thrusts harshly, rhythm building fast, and every movement sends you spiraling, moan after moan clawing out of your throat as your body writhes against the wall.

your hand flies down instinctively, fingers diving into his hair, clutching at the thick strands. you don’t even realize how hard you’re holding on until you feel him groan again, deeper this time.

and then—his mouth rises, lips closing around that bud.

he sucks.

you break.

completely overwhelmed, shaking with the intensity of it, clenching around nothing but air and the feeling of him devouring you.

your head flies back, colliding with the wall behind you with a dull thud, but you hardly feel it. the pleasure ripping through you overshadows everything else. your free hand reaches up, grasping at your hair, tugging gently—desperate for anything to ground yourself as his mouth continues to assault your core with relentless devotion.

“remmick…”

his name falls from your lips in a moan, soft and broken, like a prayer caught halfway through a plea.

he doesn’t stop.

his tongue licks, flicks, drags through your folds, then closes around your clit again, sucking it into the heat of his mouth with rhythm that borders on sinful. the sounds he makes—low, guttural moans and hungry grunts—vibrate directly into you, sending fresh waves of sensation surging through your thighs, your belly, your spine.

he’s pumping himself with the same desperation, his hand moving fast and slick over his length, the sounds of it mixing with the wet noise of his mouth working between your legs. and every time he moans into you, you feel it—feel it everywhere.

then he shifts.

the hand that had been resting firm on your thigh over his shoulder suddenly moves. it slides down—strong and sure—until his fingers press into the flesh of your inner thigh, right beside your entrance. and then he pulls—gently but firmly, opening you wider for him.

a soft gasp slips from your mouth at the stretch, the exposure. you feel so bare, so utterly open. his tongue immediately returns, working deeper now that you’re spread wider for him, and it feels devastating—like you might come apart entirely just from the way he holds you open and tastes you like he’s starving.

your eyes squeeze shut as a stuttering moan tears its way out of your throat—uncontrolled, raw. your fingers twist tighter in his hair, clutching at the only thing tethering you to the earth as his mouth continues to work you open and undone.

and then—

something shifts.

a feeling. strange. unfamiliar.

it starts low in your belly—tight, electric, and rising fast. it coils, curls, builds like pressure behind a dam, and you don’t know what it is, only that it’s coming hard and fast and you don’t know how to stop it.

your breath hitches.

panic flutters in your chest.

your eyes snap open, wide with the sudden fear of losing control, and your body tenses as if to brace for impact.

and then—

it hits.

a violent, blinding explosion rocks through your body.

your mouth opens, but no sound comes at first—just the air being pulled from your lungs as your release rips through you.

your eyes roll back, vision swimming, and your legs nearly buckle beneath the weight of it. your thighs twitch, body quivering uncontrollably as your climax washes over you like a crashing wave you were never prepared for.

but remmick doesn’t let you fall.

his hands grip you steady, firm and reverent, holding you together even as you come apart in his mouth. he moans into you, greedy and satisfied, lapping up every drop of your release like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted—like it’s the only thing that’s ever mattered.

you tremble above him, caught in the aftershocks, completely undone.

when he finally pulls back, his cheeks and chin are drenched—slick with you, shining in the low light. his mouth parts slightly as he breathes, dazed and wild, and you can still feel the ghost of his tongue between your thighs. you’re still catching your breath when he moves again—this time, pulling you gently down with him.

your back meets the wood floor of your porch with a soft thud, the cool surface a harsh contrast to the heat blooming in your skin. before you can process it fully, he’s leaning over you, body caging yours in, his cock already hard again, flushed and leaking at the tip. the sight of him above you, thick and heavy, makes your breath stutter.

you barely have time to react before you feel him—his tip brushing against your entrance, slicking over sensitive skin, nudging.

you snap out of it instantly.

your hands press to his chest.

“w-wait! stop!”

his body stills.

he freezes above you, panting, chest heaving as he stares down at you. the desperation in his eyes is immediate—sharp and pleading—but he doesn’t move. instead, you feel his fingers tighten around the bunched fabric of your nightgown, clinging to it like an anchor.

your mind is racing.

he wanted to go this far.

he was going to go this far.

and you—god, your face burns even hotter as the thought settles—you’d never done this before.

not with anyone.

not like this.

and the fear coils tight in your belly.

“i won’t hurt you.”

his voice comes soft.

echoing what he said earlier.

but it lands differently now—closer to a promise.

you look up at him, searching.

his hand on your hip is strong, grounding, and though he grips you tight, there’s no force in it. only restraint.

you search his eyes for anything that might read as a lie, some shadow of cruelty or indifference—but there’s nothing. only tension. only waiting.

so you nod.

his gaze softens, and the hand holding your gown lowers, moving between your bodies. he grips himself, lining up carefully, guiding the head of his cock back to your entrance.

you inhale, slow and deep, trying to ready yourself.

then—he meets your eyes.

and begins to push in.

your jaw clenches hard as the stretch begins. the pressure is immediate, unfamiliar, so much. he’s thick—thicker than anything you’ve ever felt before—and your walls struggle to accommodate him.

“s-slowly…” you manage to stutter, breath caught in your throat.

he nods, sweat beading at his brow, his own face twisted with the effort of going slow—of not losing himself completely in the heat and tightness of you. your walls clench around him, instinctively, and he groans low in his chest.

inch by inch, he presses deeper, until—

you feel a pinch. sharp.

not enough to cry out, but enough to make you tense again.

your hand flies down, gripping the wrist on your hip.

“wait!”

he halts immediately, eyes flying up to yours.

“almost there…” he moans, voice strained. “i’m almost there.”

his hand tightens, holding himself still—waiting for you to give him more.

and when you finally nod—heart hammering—he moves again.

he pulls out slowly, carefully, then pushes back in with more urgency this time. the stretch returns, but this time the pain dulls quickly, fading into something else. something thicker. warmer.

his hand plants beside your head, fingers splaying against the wooden floor for balance, and he pushes the rest of the way in until he bottoms out inside you.

you both still.

your bodies tangled, your breath ragged, your skin burning where it touches his. and for a long, pulsing moment—there’s nothing else.

just the sound of panting.

just the feel of him inside you.

just the overwhelming, terrifying intimacy of being this connected

slowly, but surely, he pulls out—just an inch, just enough to make you feel the loss—before pushing back in with a deep, guttural groan. the sound of it vibrates through your chest, and your own moan answers his as your hand flies up, gripping the wrist of the hand planted beside your head.

your grip is so tight your knuckles turn white.

“aah… yea…” he stutters out, breath shaking as his hips roll forward again, his thrusts slow but deliberate, each one more assured than the last.

the drag of his cock inside you leaves your body stuttering—your breath catching in broken gasps, your thighs trembling with every deep, slow stroke. he’s thick. so thick. every movement stretches you wide, your walls struggling to take him and clenching around him with a mind of their own.

he groans—mouth falling open in something pathetic, raw, aching—and the sound shoots straight through you. the hand on your hip tightens, guiding your body with each thrust, steadying you, grounding himself in your warmth.

your walls flutter around him, and he sees stars behind his eyes.

every time you clench, it’s like heaven and hell collide inside him.

your back begins to slide against the porch beneath you, the wood warm and rough, dragging lightly at your nightgown as his thrusts gain rhythm. the pace builds—not fast, but firm, deeper. every push rocks your body just enough to knock the breath from your lungs.

the sound of skin meeting skin fills the air now—wet, rhythmic, desperate.

his grunts are low in his chest, slipping out between clenched teeth.

your eyes open slowly, jaw slack, mouth parting as choked moans tumble past your lips.

and then—

you see it.

his mouth hangs open, panting, and in the haze of your half-lidded gaze, something catches the light. not just teeth. fangs.

sharp. monstrous.

inhuman.

you let out a sharp gasp as his hands suddenly move—grasping the backs of your thighs with a strength that steals your breath. he drags you toward him with ease, your slick skin sliding across the wooden porch until your thighs rest on his, legs spread and trembling as he settles into the new angle.

once you’re in place, his hands return to your hips—strong, possessive—and without pause, he begins pounding into you again.

but now, it’s different.

his rhythm grows more erratic, more primal. he groans through gritted teeth, fangs fully bared now, glistening with spit as his mouth hangs open in pleasure-drunk awe.

he finds that spot inside you again—

and again.

and again.

each thrust is a strike of lightning behind your eyes, drawing stars out of thin air, making your body convulse in helpless rhythm beneath him. you try to say his name, to moan it into the thick air between you—but all that escapes is garbled, slurred noise. syllables tangled in pleasure too strong to form words.

you don’t notice it at first—

the way his fingers change.

the grip on your waist grows tighter, rougher.

his nails stretch, curling longer, sharper, claws forming in real time as his body reacts to you. to this. to everything he’s holding back.

he groans through clenched fangs, jaw twitching with restraint. it takes everything in him not to pierce your skin. not to lose himself to what he is.

your hands reach down, fumbling for the hem of your nightgown, wanting it off, wanting to feel the air, feel him. remmick sees the motion, and something feral flashes in his eyes as he helps you—tearing the gown up and over your head.

it now lays beneath your upper back, your spine pressing into the fabric as your body arches.

the cold air hits your bare skin and a shiver runs through you. your breasts bounce with each thrust, each impact sending them upward and down in hypnotic rhythm.

remmick lets out a guttural sound—desperate and overwhelmed all at once—as drool escapes the corner of his mouth and spills messily across your stomach. you gasp at the sudden warmth of it, the contrast between cold air and wet heat making you twitch.

then his hand moves again.

he lowers it between your legs, and suddenly he’s rubbing your bud—rough and unrelenting. the pad of his thumb swirls over it in frantic circles, careful not to scratch you, using just enough pressure to send another bolt of pleasure through your spine.

you cry out, louder this time, your back arching as your body tenses up around him.

his other hand rises, large and trembling, and cups one of your breasts, kneading it with a kind of reverence that’s quickly undone by the bite of his claws. one scratches just slightly—a soft sting blooming across your skin—and instead of pulling back, you moan louder.

the pain only sharpens the pleasure.

and remmick…

he watches you fall apart like he’s witnessing something sacred.

and he’s the one dragging every sound, every shiver, every tremble out of you.

you’re losing yourself.

your vision blurs at the edges, body flushed and trembling, unable to hold on to anything solid—except him. your hand reaches blindly, desperate to touch, to anchor yourself in something, someone. your fingers find it—the chain. that gold chain around his neck, damp with sweat and heat.

you loop your fingers through it, gripping tight.

the moment you do, his body responds—his thrusts picking up speed, harder now, deeper. his hips crash against yours with ferocity, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing across the porch. each thrust sends his balls slapping against your ass, adding to the filthy rhythm of it all.

“l–look at you…” he pants, voice breathless and broken, eyes wild as he stares down at where you’re joined. “so beautiful… and speared on me…”

your head falls back, jaw slack as he slams into you again—rough, desperate. his thumb is still on your bud, circling fast and tight, and the pressure spirals out of control.

you feel it.

again.

rising.

but this time, you don’t panic.

you welcome it.

your walls flutter, then clamp down hard around him, squeezing his cock in perfect rhythm with your unraveling. your moans tear from your throat, raw and choked, as your body convulses beneath him.

remmick chokes on a moan of his own, hips stuttering as you clench around him. but he doesn’t stop. not for a second.

he pounds through it—thrusting through your orgasm, keeping the rhythm alive, drawing it out until you can’t tell where the high ends and the overstimulation begins.

the sounds are obscene.

each time he pulls out, it’s wet and loud, a slick drag that makes your stomach tighten—and then he slams back in, deeper, filling you again with a moan.

your walls twitch, overly sensitive now, and a sharp little wave of discomfort flares in the middle of the lingering heat. it stings, but not enough to stop. not when he keeps going like that. not when your body can’t decide if it wants to push him away or pull him deeper.

your grip on his chain tightens.

remmick moans—loud and broken—as the gold links dig into his neck, and still, he doesn’t stop.

his hips drive into yours with punishing need, his chest brushing yours with every thrust, and you realize—

he’s not just trying to fuck you.

he’s trying to stay inside you.

to live there.

to lose himself in the place where you melt around him.

and it’s becoming too much.

your body is trembling, wrung out and burning, nerves raw from how he keeps moving inside you—deep, relentless, nonstop. the sensitivity spikes, each thrust dragging along your pulsing walls like fire and silk, sending you over the edge and right back again before you’ve even caught your breath.

your mouth opens in a soundless moan, your legs twitching, body locked in that unbearable space between pleasure and pain.

remmick groans above you—deep, rough sounds torn straight from his chest. they rumble through his body and into yours, and you feel the way he’s struggling. holding back. holding in.

his fangs flash as his lips part again, saliva stringing between them as he pants like an animal. he’s trying—truly trying—not to sink them back into your neck. not to bite down and mark you like instinct is screaming at him to do.

you see it in the way his head tilts, the way his mouth hovers near your throat before he jerks back again, forcing himself to focus.

your hands are full now—

one clutching his gold chain so tightly the links dig into your fingers,

the other gripping his wrist, fingernails pressed to his skin, grounding yourself as your body thrashes beneath his.

you whine, high-pitched and breathless, overwhelmed as your thighs threaten to close, but his grip on your hips is unyielding.

his eyes glow—deep, dark red—and when he looks down at you, it’s through that glowing haze of instinct and want and near-unraveling. his jaw clenches hard, fangs bared as he fights the shift overtaking him.

then he tenses.

you feel it—

in the way his rhythm falters,

in the way his thrusts grow sloppy, uncontrolled, missing that sweet spot as his hips jerk with no pattern.

he’s close.

he hunches forward, his whole body curling in on itself, and a loud, broken groan tears from his chest as he spills inside you—hot and thick, pulsing with each wave of release.

you moan, long and soft, as you feel him flood you—coating your walls in warmth as his hips keep moving, fucking his orgasm into you.

he pounds through it, chest heaving, sweat dripping onto your skin. the mixture of you both—slick and steady—drips down from where he stretches you open, forming a glistening ring around the base of him each time he pulls back.

“remmick—!”

his name bursts from your lips, sharp and breathless, as your thighs snap tight around his waist, trying to anchor yourself to him—to anything.

your entire body trembles beneath him, and you feel like you might fall apart again, even though there’s nothing left in you but the aftershocks.

“i k-know, baby…” he groans, voice low and shaking, still thrusting inside you. his movements are uncoordinated now, sloppy and feverish, driven more by need than rhythm. his hips jerk like he’s chasing the last of it, like he doesn’t want to let go of the feeling of being inside you.

your eyes squeeze shut, and your fingers finally release their grip on his chain, the gold slipping from between your knuckles.

you trade it for flesh.

your now-free hand reaches up to grab his other wrist, mirroring your other hand—holding him completely. your body, your breath, your trembling form says stay.

his breathing stutters again, another broken groan ripping through him as he thrusts deep—hard—like something inside him is unraveling one last time.

at this point, you feel it—

the steady leak of your shared pleasure slipping out of you, warm and wet, trailing down your thighs and pooling on the floorboards beneath you. the sounds between you are slick and endless—every movement, every shift punctuated by the lewd, messy wetness of it all.

then he pulls back—just slightly—to look.

his eyes drop to where his cock still moves in and out of you, glazed with the evidence of everything you gave him. you feel his stare deepen, and you swear he’s ascending—his lips parted, eyes wide, breath stolen by the sight of you stretched around him, milking every last wave of his orgasm.

his hips slow.

slow again.

until they still.

his chest rises and falls, frantic and wild, then slower, steadier—as he begins to return to himself.

he looks up.

eyes searching yours.

his mouth opens, like he wants to say something. like he needs to.

but nothing comes out.

instead, he leans down.

his lips hover just above yours, breath brushing your mouth, waiting—asking. not like before, when you turned your face away. this time, he lingers.

and this time, you don’t pull back.

you tilt your chin just slightly, and your lips meet his in a kiss.

slow. warm. breathless.

not demanding. not frantic.

just real.

and in that quiet moment, with him still inside you, your bodies still joined in the mess of it all, he kisses you like it means something. like he’s trying to remember what it feels like to be human again.

[theliving-radio]

So I’m in the middle of doing an angst Big Brother ask, and I got hit with such a good idea series I wanna do with Sylus.

So I just wore vomited all over my docs and here’s what I have:

Imagine:

You are… well used to be one of Sylus top assistants. Always helping with the boring paperwork and calls to help close in deals with his employers or employees.

The reason why you are no longer his assistant is because he found out you had feelings for him. Not just platonic feelings, nope. But deep love, the type where if he was to walk through death's door you would follow.

Sylus didn’t want that, and certainly not from you. He believed it would cause you to be distracted, and it would, since he has Ms Hunter to occupy his time now. His attention is always on her and her alone, making you envy her and get lost in your own head.

So he lets you go, but still pays you until you find a comfortable job.

You didn’t want to stay in the N109 Zone, knowing that he would still be around, so you try and make a life in Linkon, working as a Cashier at a convenience store. Pay isn’t well, but it gets by, and you and some old high school friends are in a punk rock band that play on the weekends.

Now imagine:

You get a knock on your front door, a few days from performing. It’s nearly 3 in the morning and you groggily go to open it up. There, you see your old boss…

But with longer hair, horns, and a tail… clutching a large egg close to him.

“You… I found you.”

What???

Now you have this man that looks like your boss stuck in your apartment who is telling you that you were his mate from a different universe, a different time and place.

You don’t believe in any of this, telling “Sylus” to stop messing with you. He didn’t want you around! You left! Don’t toy with your emotions!

Hearing you say all these negative things makes “Sylus” upset. Why would he not want you? You're his mate. You're his everything.

You had enough of this and called Luke and Kieran to come pick up their boss because he’s clearly on drugs or something. But when you do, you hear Sylus in the background.

“Whatever nonsense you're trying to pull, cut it out.” And the phone hangs up. Followed by a next message from Luke apologizing for their boss ending the call.

When you look over at “Sylus”, he’s on your couch making a small little seat for the egg he was carrying.

Who the hell is this guy? And why do you feel a connection towards him?

Now imagine:

On a far planet, in a different time, different space, different universe, there was an injured dragon. He was fighting for his life from the people that call him a monster, a demon, a fiend.

Just when he thought he was going to die in the deep depths of the forest, he swore he saw an angel approach him with such worry before everything went black.

The next thing he knew when he woke up was the soft comforts under him. His body was aching, covered in bandages so he wouldn’t bleed out. He looks around the room and spotted a very tired girl reading a book, when she looks up where he was resting, she’s surprised at first but then full on smiles.

The girl sets the book down and approaches him, but the beast spreads his wings out in a threatening manner, hoping to scare her off. It doesn't matter if she brought him into her shelter and healed him, it could all be a trick.

When he questions who she is, and where he’s at, she moves her hands. She kept motioning for something, but soon stopped when it seemed like something dawned on her. She seemed embarrassed as she then pointed to her mouth, and made an X with her hands.

She cannot speak. A mute.

That didn’t help him in his case.

He watches as the girl goes back to her sitting spot and brings him a small tray. Slabs of meat and berries were laid perfectly on a plate.

This… this had to be a trap. All his life he’s been cursed at, tossed aside for what he is. A beast, a monster. Were you not aware of such a thing? You had to have known what he was, yet you looked at him with care.

He found out he was resting in your bed, and that you were trying to do your best to communicate with him with hand signals and shapes. Each time you got closer to him he tried to threaten you, but all you did was give him a disapproving look each time he moved and he would flinch in pain.

Eventually he lets you get closer to him so you can change out his bandages. Your touch was gentle, soft, full of care… the dragon didn’t know what to feel about it. But he knows that once he fully heals, he will leave immediately.

He learns that you weren’t the only one living here. He only got to know this info when your older sister walks in and asks if you were hungry. She spots him on your bed and practically screams for your guy's father.

You try to get her to calm down the best you can, signing to her that he was a friend… but he didn’t know that.

When your father comes in with his axe in hand, you practically try your best to shield the dragon with your body.

“Honey, get away from that beast!”

You only shook your head in defiance and spread your arms out wider.

The dragon was in pure awe as you were going against your fathers wishes just to protect him. He watched as you signed to your father and each time you did he would argue back. The beast looked at your hands the whole time as you “spoke”, trying to make sense of certain things.

Eventually your father let up and said that the dragon can stay until he is fully healed.

When your sister and father left, you turned to him and smiled. He didn’t know how to feel about his new situation.

Over time he is able to leave your bed and walk around the house, having to duck every time he wants to pass through a doorway due to his horns. A few times his tail would knock into some of the furniture and you would go ahead and straighten it out again.

Your grandmother also lived with you. The dragon got to meet her one evening when she was in the kitchen making a hearty stew. She didn’t scream or panic when she saw him. The old lady only held up a spoon to him and asked if it needed more seasoning.

Time passes and the dragon is healed, but not completely. While he stayed, yours and his relationship started to grow into something more. Even with your family, he begins to welcome him with open arms.

You even get to teach him sign language

Eventually, the dragon mentions he will have to leave. He is fully healed after all. He was not expecting you to cry and ask him to stay. It broke his heart.

But he leaves anyway, and you are heart broken.

But not for long.

The dragon comes back, but not empty handed. He presented a beautiful gem to you, one of his most treasured possessions in his hoard. He hands it to you, and apologizes for leaving without explaining anything. Or that the gem was not of a ring to place upon your finger. But you did not care about it at all.

You punched his chest several times, they were weak and you only cried even more. You thought he left you, but he didn’t. The beast only chuckles at your weak attack and draws you in a kiss.

Years pass and he lives with you and your family. It took some time for him to warm up to your father with him, but eventually they got along. The old man isn't getting any younger and so the dragon is more than helpful when it comes to any heavy lifting or cutting up wood.

Your sister went to him when they felt like they didn’t feel right being called a “girl”. They wanted to be a boy. And the dragon accepted him, and helped him confess to the family. It was a celebration. A “rebirth” is what your grandmother calls it.

Your grandmother is the one to teach you sign language, and the beast picked up on it quickly. Apparently your grandfather became deaf over the years before passing. He and your grandmother picked up on sign language early on so it would be easier.

The first sign he did with you was pointing towards you and saying “My treasure”. He panicked when you just stood there and started crying.

Two years pass and you give birth… to an egg.

You were pregnant for nine months and were finally ready to meet your baby. But everyone was in shock when a dragon egg came out of you instead. Though that shock didn’t last long when your family just turned to Sylus and nodded. Completely understandable why there is a dragon egg.

They all learned that it takes a lot of care, and for a year and a half for the egg to finally hatch. Everyone was in a n uproar about it. But it also didn’t last long, because all they did was just look at Sylus and nodded once again. Understanding that yes, dragon.

Though, the domestic bliss came crashing down when someone outed the dragon. A person from the nearby village who saw him fly overhead from his old cave to pick up some gold from his hoard. He just wanted to give it to his family so they could buy something nice while in town.

Knights stormed the forest, and demanded where the beast was hidden. Nobody gave them any answers, and so they took you. You. The one that allowed themselves to be defiled by a fiend and spawn a demon.

You were taken to the village square where you were made an example, a burning at the stake. Your family screamed for you while you released silent screams in the fire. Everyone cursed you for allowing yourself to be touched by a creature like him.

Your family never did give the location where the dragon was at. For he was part of the family. And they too were doomed.

When the dragon returned, he saw what had happened to his family, to his loved ones. To his mate. He was now alone with the unhatched egg, and a burned down cabin.

With desperation, he looks for the sorceresses in hopes to bring back his family, and his mate.

When he finds her, she’s not surprised to find her in an old tower. She leads the dragon into her abode and says she can not bring his family back… but she can locate their souls.

Souls can never die, and so where they go is in a different place, in a different time, in a different universe.

“I can bring you to where your mate is located, it will take some time… and I will warn you, when you meet her, she won’t be like you remember her. She might be different, act different, live a different life… but her soul is still the same. She will not recognize you, but a familiarity will fall over her.”

“There is just one issue that I seem to find… there is a soul there that is similar to yours.”

“Has he claimed her?”

“No. He is bound by another.”

The dragon clutches the egg close to him as the sorceress begins her spell, sending the dragon off to where his family is located. Where his mate is.

So imagine:

The dragon has finally made it to your world. He found you during one of your concerts. You were a singer, and hearing your voice for the first time felt like a blessing.

In your other life you told him if you had a voice you would want to be loud, to sing out to the heavens. And seeing you now, you got your wish.

He’s proud of you, he’s happy. And though you don’t recognize him, and see him as a stranger, he sees your hesitation and the spark of familiarity in your eyes when you look at him.

When you ask for his name, he rumbles out to you.

“Stayrus? That’s your name?”

“Yes, but you may call me Skye”

I just needed to share this here and hopefully when I’m done with some of my writing I’m already doing I can get to this on a later date! I just wanted to share what I have so far in my brain!

Anyway byyyyeeee~

[pokemonshelterstories]

Hello! I'm a trainer from Unova, and I recently, (somewhat impulsively), caught a Sewaddle. Currently, my only other pokemon is a Snivy. I've never had personal pokemon before (so forgive me for some probably poor trainer choices here), but we've had some family pets, so I know about the whole introducing the Pokemon to each other and getting them adjusted kind of things. I've done my best with my limited experience (and a lingering childhood fear of pokemon), and the two of them seem chill, but.. my Sewaddle keeps trying to chew Snivy's leaves? Snivy doesn't seem hurt so far, just disgruntled and annoyed, but I am worried. Is there some kind of diet or something I can put Snivy on to maybe make him less.. appealing?? And any suggestions for what kind of leaves I should be getting Sewaddle, if his favorite is apparently Snivy Tail??

(In all honesty, I'm considering just releasing Sewaddle altogether. (I prefer electric types anyway). As much as that might be another hasty choice, I don't think I fully considered the complications of having my grass starter AND a bug type that's known for Chewing Grass And Leaves when I caught Sewaddle (which is 100% my bad). I'm sure managing it is doable, I just feel fairly unqualified to do so with my Very Limited Pokemon Experience. I hesitate to release Sewaddle though because I'm worried I accidentally interrupted it's Natural Development or whatever, and releasing it randomly after altering it's life like that would probably be. bad? Even if I release it right back where I found it? Admittedly, I've only had Sewaddle for a couple weeks at most, so it probably wouldn't be THAT impacted by it, but I'm not sure. If I go this route I'd rather release it sooner rather than later to reduce any harm done, regardless.)

Any suggestions, if you're willing to give them?

immediately releasing a pokemon back into the area you found it is usually safe to do. a couple weeks' time isn't so long that sewaddle wouldn't be able to adjust back to wild life, especially given that sewaddle don't typically have to worry about finding food to the extent other pokemon would. if you release him back onto a food source in the area you found him, he'll be okay aside from a little stress.

given that he was an impulse capture and you aren't prepared for his care, let alone for managing his relationship with your snivy, i think releasing him is your best choice. you don't really get a choice in whether or not a sewaddle evolves into its next stage the way you do with other pokemon, and swadloon need a very calm and gentle approach to thrive. if his only teammate is annoyed at him (which snivy has every right to be), that's going to be kind of tough. it would be less stressful for all parties involved to release him.

it sounds like you've learned a good lesson from this. going forward, if you have an idea of what kind of pokemon you'd like to raise, start researching now! unova has some great resources available to beginning trainers, including a robust library and a trainers' school. even just talking to pokemon center staff for direction on places to find more info is a great place to start. catching a new pokemon should always be an informed decision!

[justsomerandomdemon]

I'VE BEEN WONDERING ABOUT THIS FOR A BIT SINCE YOU MENTIONED THE IDEA OF YANDERE!KRIS NOT TOO LONG AGO

In what kind of way are you thinking about implanting that into the Kris and player concepts if you were to add it in? Is it in the usual way of "I don't want anyone else to have you", or in the "I don't want anyone else to be the cause of your downfall, because that should be something that I bring upon you because of all the hell you've put me through" and they're so. Possessive in a way where they're driven by so much hate (and possibly yearning if its a heavy enemies to friends/lovers slow burn) it's almost border-lining toxicity and overall unhealthy relationship balance (if you squint hard enough)?

Seriously can't wait to see what else you have in store for Kris and the Player (if you plan on continuing it / doing more things for it), and I love your art and can't wait to see more down the road 😋!!!

Ehehehe I'm so glad other people are interested in the idea also ty!!

So far I'm still just in the brainstorming area, I've got ideas of how i want it to go in a way but yk it's still to be seen

You've got elements of it right with the idea of Kris wanting to be the main one to bring them down bc yeaaaah. They're not very happy with what they doing😭

But also an idea is the fact that the two are forced together by whatever reason is sort of like soulmates/soulbonded (literally), neither really wanted to be but who can they complain to asides from each other. So unfortunately for them they do have to at least tolerate each other at first. (I don't wanna say too much just in case bc I'm still figuring out the exact dynamics)

(Added abit more to one of the sketches that will be the cover art placeholder until I'm not lazy enough to clean it up)

Might post a drabble for the prologue later on... maybe

[fanghur]

Considering what (likely) happened to Summer, I think it's possible she learned it, but for largely obvious reasons (ie it hadn't happened yet), Summer missed the foil aspect and just saw tragic backstory.

Just rewatched all scenes that mentioned Summer, and Qrow said she was "a brat" when he and Ruby talk during the Licensing party in Atlas. This is the closest thing to a criticism about Summer so far, unless you count Raven thinking she's "too nice".

So, proposed theory, Summer learned about possible-team-SALM and missed the actual emotional beat for Salem. Confronts Salem herself, by herself. Salem gets offended because where does this brat get off trying to manipulate her into not avenging her long-dead friends and allies that were brave enough to face literal gods that took them, took her beloved, took her mortality-

Before I start writing an entire fanfic in a theory post, I'm just gonna condense it. Salem gets big-mad because How Dare, especially since Summer clearly doesn't care for teammates by coming alone, and intentionally or not (since Grimm stuff reacts to Emotion) covers and "converts" Summer into a Grimm. Could be an agent of Salem, could be Summer's just this painful husk of a Huntress that suffers in Salem's dungeon.

All because Summer found out, and assumed she was Salem's heroic foil because of hubris and savior complex.

Aside from fleshing out aspects of Summer and Salem that go against their respective narrations thus far, it would cement Summer as being far different from Ruby who just wanted to be "a normal girl with normal knees" that stood against Salem because someone has to, not because she's a Silver Eye Warrior or Great Huntress.

I'm curious about why you'd think Summer would, and be able to use, the Crown over the Lamp. Unless Oz hid the only relic in a way that didn't require the Fall Maiden, since I think age wise it would be whoever was before Amber. Seems like a lot of unknowns compared to Raven being Spring, and the Lamp having 2/3 questions when Ruby et al get to it.

Okay so here’s a REAL fun little theory extrapolating from all the parallels we’ve been seeing more and more of between Ruby and Salem:

As I’ve said elsewhere, at this point I’m pretty confident that Salem is Ruby’s true, ultimate villainous counterpart/foil, in the sense that Salem represents the ‘fallen hero’ version of Ruby. That underneath all the bias, propaganda, outright lies and general unreliable narration that the God of Light fed to Ozma, we’re going to find out that Salem was effectively the Ruby of her time. Uniting all of humanity in a war against a seemingly insurmountable foe who threatened them with destruction.

So if Salem was the Ruby Rose of her time, what if she ALSO had her own parallels to Weiss, Blake and Yang? What if she had her own TEAM?

What if during her journeys in the wake of losing Ozma the second time (or even the first time), Salem gained three companions whom she grew to befriend, bond with and perhaps even love, platonically or otherwise. The first and closest of the countless friends, allies and followers that Salem would assemble and unite in her battles against the gods.

The three closest friends that Salem would LOSE when the God of Light decided that his creations turning against him meant they lost their ‘deserving to exist privileges’.

I mean for one, we see Salem specifically having three main members of her inner circle.

Like we’ve always assumed the repeated use of groups of four people traces back to Salem’s and Oz’s four daughters, but what if it goes back even further? What if the original huntress team was SALEM and her three closest compatriots?

Now if you’re wondering ‘If these people were so important, why didn’t we see them in Jinn’s vision?’, well two things:

One; because Ruby asked Jinn “What is Ozpin hiding from us?”, so I’m willing to bet that Jinn’s vision only represented the extent of what OZ knows and believes. And let’s not forget that he just so happened to be DEAD for 99.999% of Salem’s whole conflict with the gods, baring those collective ten or so seconds where he was being repeatedly revived and unrevived by Dark and Light. And it’s pretty clear that ALL of Oz’s information on what happened while he was dead came second hand from Light, or at least the vast majority of what he actually BELIEVES.

Especially when we consider that Salem’s account of what happened is summed up in five seconds as ‘She said the gods were to blame for everything but she was TOTALLY lying. Now don’t read anything more into that.’ And considering GoL’s whole spiel about Salem ‘manipulating’ everyone, it makes sense that he would omit things like her having actually loyal friends and allies. Or maybe Light simply couldn’t be arsed to care or remember anything that specific about the puny, ungrateful creations that dared to defy him.

And Two; I think even in Jinn’s unreliable-narration-laden vision, we actually DO have some potential candidates. Remember those three prominent leaders we see Salem recruiting to her cause?

A European-style monarch with blue eyes and flanked with blue banners.

An East-Asian styled queen with a flower motif.

And a buff warlord with a prominent gold and brown color scheme in both his clothing and surroundings.

Sure it’s not much, but I think it’s just enough to for these three to be potential narrative parallels to Weiss, Blake and Yang. And that is ESPECIALLY when we consider just how much of Salem’s story was omitted from Jinn’s vision. That what we’ve seen so far is just the extremely generalized, summarized, propagandized, skewed-in-favor-of-the-god-of-light-ized version. If/When we get a big ‘once more, with clarity’ look at Salem’s story, it might turn out that these three seemingly generic rulers were MUCH different and potentially have much more notable parallels to Weiss, Blake and Yang, just like Salem has to Ruby.

[erikawrites13]

"Fast Tracks and Hidden Truths" " - “Crossing the Line”

Part 2

So you know- "English is not my first language. I have dyslexia. Let me know what you think about it, please."

Young Sebastian Vettel x journalist (reader) Enemies to Lovers and Slow Burn

Part 1 here --> Part 1

The rain was relentless sheets of cold water pounding down on the Silverstone paddock, turning everything slick and slippery.

You pulled your jacket tighter against the chill and glanced at your watch. The afternoon press conference was running late, and Sebastian was nowhere in sight.

The Red Bull garage was chaos soaked team members scrambling to cover equipment, voices rising above the storm. You spotted him finally. Sebastian, helmet off, hair plastered to his forehead, pacing back and forth under a tiny awning, his face stormier than the weather itself.

You stepped closer, hoping for a quick comment before the press session. But as you opened your mouth, a sharp, irritated shout cut through the noise.

“Oi! Get away from the car!”

A mechanic’s voice barked from just behind you. You turned to see one of the Red Bull crew waving you off with obvious annoyance. “This area’s restricted during setups. Sorry.”

You frowned. “I’m just trying to get close for an interview.”

The mechanic scoffed. “We don’t need distractions. You journalists think you own the place.”

Before you could reply, Sebastian whipped his head around, his eyes landing on you.

“Look who’s still hanging around,” he said with that trademark smirk — but today, the edge in his voice was sharper, more warning than teasing.

You met his gaze, unwavering. “Someone’s got to keep you honest, right?”

His smirk faltered for the briefest moment, replaced by a hard gleam. “You’re walking a thin line, Y/L/N.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Since when do you care about my safety?”

He stepped closer, voice low enough that only you could hear over the rain. “I don’t. I care about people who get in my way.”

A flash of lightning split the sky, illuminating his face a flicker of something almost vulnerable beneath the bravado.

You swallowed the lump in your throat but pushed on, leaning closer so your voice was barely above the storm’s roar. “Tell me, Vettel, do you ever get tired of being everyone’s favorite punching bag? Or do you secretly enjoy it?”

He stared at you like you’d thrown down a gauntlet.

“Maybe I enjoy making people like you work harder,” he said, eyes twinkling with challenge.

You smirked back. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time, he didn’t have a snarky comeback. Instead, Sebastian glanced away, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Maybe… you’re not as insufferable as I thought.”

You almost laughed. Almost.

Some time later

Just then, a sudden commotion erupted near the pit lane, slicing through the usual background noise of engines humming and crews bustling about. You turned sharply, your eyes locking onto one of the other journalists a rival from a competing magazine who had made no secret of her disdain for your work. She was trying to sneak a photo inside a restricted area, camera raised with a determined glint, when a Red Bull mechanic stepped in, his expression grim as he shoved her roughly aside.

“She’s breaking the rules!” one of the nearby crew members muttered, but the shove seemed far more than a simple warning.

Without thinking, fueled by a mix of indignation and professional solidarity, you stepped forward. Your voice cut sharply through the murmur of the crowd. “Hey! That’s not fair! She’s a journalist too! You can’t just push her around like that!”

For a heartbeat, everything seemed to freeze the rain tapping steadily on the asphalt, the murmur of the crowd hushed into silence, the mechanic’s jaw clenched tightly. Then, from the corner of your eye, you saw Sebastian glance over. His usually composed face darkened instantly, his eyes narrowing as they locked onto you.

“Careful where you stick your nose,” he muttered, voice low and dangerous, meant only for you. “Don’t want you getting hurt.”

There was no mistaking the warning hidden beneath those words, but beneath the cold threat was something else — a challenge, a test. Your eyes met his, and in that charged moment, the air between you was thick with unspoken tension, electric and suffocating. Neither of you willing to break eye contact, neither of you willing to back down.

Suddenly, the PR handler appeared, pushing through the crowd with brisk urgency. His voice cut through the tension like a whip as he barked orders for Sebastian to move along time to get back to the schedule, away from distractions. Sebastian glanced at you one last time, his look unreadable equal parts dare, warning, and something else you couldn’t quite place before turning sharply on his heel and disappearing into the maze of paddock tents.

The rain kept falling, cold and relentless, drumming against your jacket and soaking into your skin. But despite the chill in the air, your heartbeat was loud, pounding like a war drum in your chest, drowning out the patter of the rain and the distant hum of the track.

In that instant, everything shifted. The fragile truce, the polite professionalism it all cracked and crumbled. What had once been a game of scoops and deadlines was now deeply, undeniably personal.

And with that, the real race had just begun.

[breakmeoff]

Track 10│Last Dance

part ten of MADE (attie’s version)

featuring: dong youngbae (taeyang) warnings: none, just self-reflection, acceptance and growth word count: 1.5k synopsis: youngbae couldn't help but mourn the loss of the relationship with his first love. finally at a stage where he has moved on and can appreciate the good times for what they were, he recognizes that self-love is far more important and there is hope in his future. note: this is my version of bigbang's "last dance," focusing more on letting go of what's behind you to move forward with life. i am so thankful that attie asked me to join her collaboration event, and i hope i do tae the justice he deserves. in this au he is still an idol, but never married or a father. thank you for reading!

Masterlist

“Where the hell is it…” Youngbae mumbled to himself, digging through his closet.  He was usually so meticulous, everything typically having its own designated place, so the fact that he couldn’t find his shoe organizer travel bag was unlike him.  Silently cursing himself for waiting until late the night before his early morning flight, he started pulling things off of shelves in a frantic manner.

That’s when he saw it.  The box.  The old shoe box he had shoved back onto a top shelf in the corner behind a pile of sweaters where he hoped he’d never find it again.

Taking a deep breath, he reached for the box and took it off the shelf.  Cradling it in his left hand, he used his other to wipe off the thin layer of dust that had collected on top of it, revealing the small piece of masking tape with your name on it.  It had been more than a year and a half since he last saw the box, let alone touched it.

Youngbae moved across his bedroom from his closet and sat down on the bench at the foot of his bed.  Shifting his body, he placed the shoebox down beside him and cautiously lifted the lid.  

A small, sad grin presented itself on his lips when he saw the first item - the horribly ugly hot pink rubber ducky he’d once won for you at a carnival game.  It was more of a consolation prize that the attendant gave him after many pathetic attempts, but you had sworn up and down it was the best thing you’d ever received.  

Youngbae always hated the thing, but you refused to part with it and left it in its ‘place of honor’, proudly perched on the edge of the large soaking bathtub in his apartment.  Lifting the rubber toy, he gave it a squeeze and it let out a slow, obnoxious, mocking squeak.  

Setting it aside, he picked up a small handful of cards with an old photo sitting on top.  Holding it up between two fingers, he longingly examined the image - two young lovers without a care in the world.  It was a selfie you had printed out and framed, claiming it was your favorite because of the way Youngbae was looking at you.  You were smiling brightly at the camera, and he was unable to take his eyes off of you.  

A lump caught in his throat as he looked more carefully at the image.  It truly was a perfect metaphor for their relationship.  You were always so cheerful and full of joy, and Youngbae smiled when you smiled.  He laughed when you laughed.  Cried when you cried.  He constantly looked to you for guidance on how he should feel.  It took him a year of self-doubt, self-loathing, and therapy to finally realize that there was no wonder why the relationship ended.

Youngbae had loved you like the air he breathed, but somewhere along your six years together, he’d forgotten who he was outside of the anxious, immature, clumsy, kid he was when he first met you.  When you finally pulled the plug, he was devastated.  He clung to memories like they were a dream, refusing to let the world move on.  Youngbae was sure that he could just convince you to change your mind if you would give him just one last chance, or even one last dance.

That last opportunity never came.  He was heartbroken, lost, and aimless.  Youngbae blamed himself for everything that went wrong, and had convinced himself that you had left him because he was unworthy of your love.

He isolated himself for much too long, wallowing in his quiet emptiness, letting the shadows of happy memories keep himself suspended in the space between what used to be, and the harsh reality of what actually was.

Closing his eyes for a moment, he took a deep breath and held it, focusing on his mindfulness techniques he’d become proficient with.  No longer letting the bad feelings consume him, he actively tried to practice the lessons he had learned, maintaining a routine of meditation and self-reflection that had given him the peace of mind he’d so desperately sought after. 

Youngbae was proud of the steps he had taken to love himself again, and remind himself that he was a complete person without you. It was a constant struggle and work in progress, but for the first time in a long time, he was content with the man he had become and the life he had chosen for himself.

Placing the photo face down on the bench beside him, he shuffled through the few birthday and anniversary cards you’d given to him throughout the years, and skimmed over the personalized notes inside.  Instead of letting grief overcome him, he could now read your words with a knowing smile, recognizing he’d been grateful for that love, and no longer needed it to survive.

Sifting more through the box, he smirked when finding your favorite old t-shirt of his; once white and now slightly yellowed with overuse and frequent washings, and of a band you once saw together during the early times.  The piece of clothing was tattered, had a few small holes along the hemline, and yet you always refused to let him get rid of it.  

Next was a simple, black pen with a hotel logo on it.  Clicking the retractable tip open and closed a few times, Youngbae thought fondly about your first trip away together, and how the weather had promised to be sunny and warm, but you were caught in the middle of a three day rainstorm and barely left the room.  

Youngbae looked through the other items with a small smile, but lingered when his fingers grazed the small black velvet box that you’d never gotten to see.  Picking it up carefully, he cracked open the lid and peered down to the simple golden band that rested neatly inside.  His mother had given him the ring years ago, hoping one day he could gift it to you.  

When his parents first got together and married, they had very little money and this ring was all that his father could afford at the time.  As the years went on and the family became more established, his father upgraded the ring to a brilliant diamond, something that they could both be proud of.  While his mother always loved her new ring and hadn't ever taken it off since, she’d always held a special fondness for her first, and hoped that the symbolism could hold true for Youngbae and you.

Closing the lid to the box, Youngbae held it tightly in his hand, and closed his eyes, sitting in gratitude that he had never given it to you.  Not that he hadn’t wanted to, but that it was still something deeply personal to him that he could hold on to for the right time, and the right person.

Placing the ring box on the edge of the bed behind him, he then gathered up all of the other items that were hidden inside the shoebox and placed them back inside the cardboard container.  Taking one last look at the contents, he nodded his head briefly and put the lid back on, sealing the trinkets and memories away for good.  

Standing up, Youngbae walked confidently into his kitchen, and pulled open the drawer to the trash can where he gently placed the shoe box.  Before closing the drawer again, he pressed two fingers to his lips, and then touched them to the box lid, right on top of your name in tape.  Then, quietly, closed the drawer and walked back into his bedroom.

Less than thirty seconds later back in his closet, he found the travel shoe organizer he had been searching for.  Shortly thereafter, his packing was complete, he showered, and went to bed, falling asleep quicker and more peacefully than he had in a very long time.

The next morning, Youngbae was at the airport, one earbud in and scrolling his phone aimlessly while he waited for his coffee order at a kiosk near his gate.  The barista mumbled out a name, and he lifted his head, recognizing his drink was ready and he took a step forward to grab it.  Just as he went for it though, a young woman stepped up beside him and also reached for the same paper cup.  

Looking up to her face, his breath caught when he saw how pretty she was, and a light flush crept across his cheeks as she spoke.  “I think that’s mine…” she said softly, laughing at the awkward moment.  

“Oh… I-I’m sorry, I thought I heard her say Youngbae,” he stammered, a stupid grin plastered over his face.  

She twisted the paper cup around to reveal the name written on the side.  “Close… it’s Young-ae.”  

Chuckling softly, he nodded his head in realization at the mix-up, and took a small step back, letting the young woman take her beverage.  “My apologies.”

“No apologies needed… at least my day got started by a run-in with a cute guy.”  She replied, lifting her cup to take a sip and offered him a small wink of her eye before she turned around and walked away.

Youngbae couldn’t stop himself from watching her leave. 

Not just because she was attractive, but because for the first time in a long time, his heart skipped a beat.  And it reminded him that in finding himself again, and finally letting you go, that there was hope in the future that someone out there could remind him what it was like to truly smile.

writers: @namsgyu @mashtatosworld @gds-daisy @gdinthehouseee @ldydeath @eru-vande @emmiesoverthemoon @breakmeoff @makeitworse

readers: @seungttttop @keiraryan @moontabi @mintandmuse @steponupbabe @heartubeatusalon @thanosspills @aizshallnotbefound @burningheartdetective @ttturnitup

my tags: @angel-writes-here @idkimobsessed @queenofdumbfuckery @mfcherry @downingmorphine @pixie-felix @d3kstar @lveegsoi @ebnabi @nebugalaxy @babystay724 @mmarusa @imagine-all-the-imagines @erisuna @beabidoobee @hanniesbubuwife @bbykaixx @riri53 @jinniesgirl @alx-wyjsr @skzswife @hwangjoanna @stephanieeeyang @minnysproutgriffinteddy @jqtsblyth @magicshuhua @loveesiren @szonyix6277 @seungttttop

[wisterianightmare]

Here’s a question American LADS fandom: does Caleb have a regional accent? Or is his intonation about roles?

Firstly, this isn’t a bid to learn anything personal about the VA. I have zero desire to find out the VA’s identity, and am not suggesting that we should be looking. We shouldn’t. We know why.

Disclaimer aside, I recently had a “Oneshot Day” (this is where I’m feeling low and marathon my favorite stand alone tv episodes across all of the shows I’ve come to love), and during which I watched S4E10 of Buffy the Vampire Slayer: “Hush.” This episode features a character, Riley (played by Marc Blucas) and admittedly it’s been a few years since I’ve seen it. The moment Riley spoke though my brain immediately went, “Wait - why does he kinda sound like Caleb?”

So now I’m wondering all about Caleb’s speech patterns. Riley’s character is midwestern (and I am not - so I didn’t clock this myself), so is that what I’m hearing? Is his sometimes cheesy word choice and family-friendly redirection actually a bunch of regional colloquialisms? Or am I identifying two characters who are both a couple of years older than their respective LI’s and are attempting to maintain comfortable distance to seem safe and non-threatening? Both of these characters are trapped within their assigned roles - roles that have a level of romantic taboo associated with them - so I’m not sure this is a far stretch of the imagination.

Trying to think of solid examples as to why I’m confused:

Riley can come off as “corn-fed and a bit hokey:” both things other Buffy characters have referred to him as verbatim. He’s very conscious of his word choice and aims for mild terms (ex: “courting” instead of “dating” - which results in eye rolls from his friends). His phrasing is always as innocent and innocuous as possible. Calls himself a “Joe-regular” kind of guy. Rarely curses. Has “masculine diva” moments that mirrors Caleb’s snark perfectly. Loves to speak in a pout to supplement the puppy dog eyes. His voice is NOT the same as Caleb’s, but his intonation and phrasing are scary similar.

Caleb’s dialogue is painstakingly crafted to reflect someone deeply in love with MC, but unwilling to cross any lines that would redefine the relationship outside of what MC is comfortable and happy with (something Riley’s character is also conscious of as both Buffy’s TA and a secret military monster hunter often working against her). Caleb actually says this explicitly in one of the Tender Moments and references it vaguely in Exclusive Aftertaste. We see this in his word choice: he speaks more like an older male family member or friend of the family to reflect that role, and it’s definitely intentional. He doesn’t say: “what’s going on in that pretty head of yours,” he says “your little noggin’ ” - things like that. He maintains two primary tones of voice for MC: the teasing, reminiscing voice and the soft, reassuring voice. Riley maintains the exact. same. tones. when speaking to Buffy. They even share the same “I know you’re stubborn, but so am I” voice. Eerie.

Even when Caleb takes the opportunity to flirt with MC, a lot of that flirtation is based in the fact that she’s still safe with him. He goes out of his way to echo it. “Go, on, I’ll wait (for you to decide),” and “So if you need to call for Caleb, go ahead. Do it.” His voice drops with the flirtation, then raises again as he brushes past it and plays it off. And since it’s easy to pinpoint his motivations (similarly to Riley’s motives to skew toward professionalism - his role), I’m struggling to understand whether or not these features of their voices reflect those motivations… or if they’re simply regional nuances.

[vintagerpg]

Did you know that Julian Cope (of Teardrop Explodes and countless solo albums) has an abiding interest in archeology and spent eight years writing a book cataloging major neolithic sites in Britain? It’s called The Modern Antiquarian (1998) and as is so often the case with these sorts of things, it’s impressively massive. He spent an additional six years on a follow-up that catalogs similar sites on the European continent called The Megalithic European (2004). Together, you’re looking at 900+ pages of essays, photos, maps and on-site observations.

I’m not sure what to make of Cope’s big picture musings in the essays. I don’t know nearly enough about research into neolithic practices to be able comment, honestly, but two things kept popping into my head while I was reading them. First, I’m always a little wary of arguments that remind me of Margaret Murray’s thesis in The Witch-Cult in Western Europe (basically, that there was a unified fertility cult suppressed by Christianity as witchcraft) because there is really no proof of such a thing, even though it makes for damn good fiction. Cope kinda reminds me of Murray. Second, there’s this bit in one of Alan Garner’s essays in The Voice that Thunders where he points out that while we can say things like “Stonehenge works as an astronomical tool” with great certainty, we can’t actually say that the ancients used it as such; without a written record, its impossible to prove, and that creates an incredible tension between lack of certainty and self-evident plausibility. A lot of stuff can go wrong in the gap there. (I should probably note that I adore Garner, but also often find him worthy of skeptical bafflement periodically as well).

Anyway, setting aside Cope’s theories, you still have a massive gazetteer of neolithic sites, complete with all the information you need to visit them, whether in person, or, like me thus far, from your armchair. I can’t stress how wonderful this is, to have all this information in one place and to have its incredible variety photographed so thoroughly. I doubt there is anything quite like The Modern Antiquarian out there and, if there is, let me know, because I want a copy.

[blackwall-my-tiny-husband]

Tarot Tuesday

Rules: Take inspiration from the drawn card to write a short fic, scene, art, doodle, whatever inspires you. You have the whole week to the following Tuesday. Feel free to tag friends!

This Week's Card (6/10/25): Five of Swords

[Woven Path Tarot] Keywords: Conflict, betrayal, deceit Imagery: Pyrrhic victory, post-battle, looming threat

Thank you for the tag @woundedsoul12 I’m not great at writing arguments but I really wanted to try (and I wanted to do something for @viagoweek day 2 for this as well) was going to keep it short but it got away from me a little

About 1.4K words

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Flowering vines growing in loops and climbing lines decorated the banister where Zalan sat. Or hid may have been a better term. It was a storage room high up in the de Riva house and the fledgling twirled a bloom between his fingers, a pensive look on his face.

Viago was looking for him, he wasn’t sure why his mentor wanted him but he had a feeling it was for nothing good. It was never for anything good these days. For only being sixteen Zalan felt he was already a master at reading the Crow that took him in, and the man was more angry than not any time he’d spot his younger charge. Zalan could never do anything right no matter how he tried.

Even just earlier he’d been sparring with Gemma, who was about his age and skill level when Viago had stopped them mid fight and told Zalan to go do endurance training instead. The anger had washed over him but he’d left as instructed, but instead of training had scaled the building up to his spot among the blooming morning glories.

And he knew he’d be found sooner or later, that he’d have to face whatever punishment his mentor doled out but for now his anger boiled. Gemma was a fine fighter, sure. He remembered when he was still young and she’d arrived and the two had grown up together. She was quiet and determined, but he didn’t think she was a better fighter than himself. He would have won that match so why did Viago feel the need to stop it.

Petals crumpled in his fist as he crushed the flower in his hands and then still angry he threw the bloom aside letting it fall the several stories to the ground. Bitter resentment was welling in him even as he tried to push it down. Was it because Viago had seen the two in one of the common rooms several days ago? Zalan had kissed her after she’d told him he was cute, coy and teasing. Was his mentor afraid he was going easy in training now just because of that? He resisted the urge to yank another blossom off the vine, to just rip at the vine to destroy something.

The window shutters being pulled open behind him startled him and he wobbled on his perch, throwing his hands out to grasp the banister and steady himself. Turning to glare at whoever had opened the door he was surprised not to see his mentor but Gemma smirking at him. The scowl faded and he grinned, brightening up at her appearance.

“You know if you’re trying to hide being on the outside of the building facing the streets isn’t the smartest place to choose.” She teased, clasping her hands behind her back and rocking back on her heels. Zalan thought she was cute like that, she looked happy here not the intense empty gaze she sported during training.

“Maybe I just was waiting for you.” He joked back with an overly nonchalant shrug and a bright smile. Gemma laughed at him and walked closer, leaning out the window to look over him at the view.

“Brave of you to sit this far up, I’d be far too scared to sit out here.” She told him shaking her head in amusement. Zalan caught the glint in her eyes and he beckoned her up, patting the railing beside him,

“Come sit with me then, I’ll keep you from falling.” It was a boast that somewhere in his brain he wasn’t a hundred percent sure he could back up, he was strong enough but to pull a full human if she slipped would be a struggle. But he was sure he could do it. Sure enough that Gemma was smiling and leaned her body on the windowsill bringing her close to Zalan’s where he’d twisted inwards to talk to her. She was staring at his lips and he leaned in too, eyes starting to droop closed for the kiss he was expecting.

Lips pressed against his sending a tingle through him that for one second he enjoyed before the tingle intensified into a burn and he felt the unmistakable pain of a dagger pressing into his chest. His eyes snapped open again and saw Gemma, no longer smiling, stabbing an ornate dagger into him. She almost looked frustrated that he had broken the kiss so soon and with barely any expression change she shoved Zalan with all her might. He could feel his body begin to tip and he flailed his arms, the appendages already going numb from the poison that he knew was on his lips and could almost guess was on the knife as well.

His mind had blanked, the events not clicking into place and he could only stare at her.

Zalan watched the door to the storage room behind her burst open and Viago was running in, anger clear on his face. Somewhere in his brain he wanted to laugh, of course Viago looked angry at him, somehow he’d messed everything up. Again. But the talon grabbed Gemma by arm and yanked her away throwing the small girl to the ground and lunging forward to grab at Zalan, fingers brushing his armor and almost missing but catching on a boot and suddenly he wasn’t falling he was dangling, head smacking into the wall but he wasn’t being splattered over the ground so he couldn’t complain. The fledgling wasn’t actually sure he could complain if he wanted to, his tongue felt heavy and he heard the sounds of scuffling before the grunt of Viago hoisting him back up and dumping him onto the floor in a heap.

One of the older crows must have been behind Viago when his mentor had burst into the room because they were dragging Gemma away. He couldn’t tell if she was dead or just unconscious but he was too busy laying on the ground fighting through the poisons to care.

Viago grabbed him by the shirt and yanked him close to yell at him, anger clear in his voice.

“What did you think you were doing Zalan!” His voice was raised and the fledgling felt anger of his own roiling up out of him.

“What did I do? Why are you here? Why was Gemma trying to kill me?” He was speaking through clenched teeth, glare equally as intense as Viago’s

“You never listen to me! If you’d listened and gone to endurance training like I instructed-“ He cut himself off, anger getting the better of him but Zalan only felt his own rage surge.

“You knew?! You knew she was going to do this and you didn’t tell me?” He tried to shove Viago’s hands away but his arms were still weak from whatever he’d been dosed with.

“She was showing signs of a traitor for weeks Zalan, I’m sorry you were too enthralled with her to see it.” He wasn’t quite yelling anymore but he was shaking Zalan with every sentence.

“Then why even stop her? You just love telling me how I’m not good enough, keep saying I don’t deserve to be a crow. Why not just let her get rid of the problem?” He spat bitterly, arms still useless.

“I am not wasting all the time and effort I’ve spent training you just because you’re being an idiot!”

“Oh yes all your precious time and effort, can’t have that it’ll look bad for your house if too many of us die right? You don’t care about us, about me, you only care about what the other talons think right?”

“Yes it would look bad for my house if I let too many of my charges be fools and die on me. And so, I will not let you waste all that time and effort.” He glared but wasn’t yelling anymore and with a sharp look he ripped the dagger out and pressed a towel from the shelves nearby to his chest. And with little struggle, picked up Zalan and tossed him over his shoulder,. “We’ll get you patched up and you can sit in your room until the poisons work their way out of your system.”

Zalan was woozy from being tossed around and the poisons and kept his mouth clamped firmly shut though he did briefly think about throwing up on Viago, out of spite but choose to stay silent and let his anger slowly start to burn itself out. Maybe he’d barf in one of Viago’s shoes later, if the poisons really made him feel that bad, that would show him.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

(I hope I really channeled that teenage vibe here for him lol)

Gently no pressure tagging: @davrinsleftpectoral @jukkaricity @kabsey @pixiedurango @chaosherald @hedwigoprah @draco-illius-noctis

[mikodrawnnarratives]

starting my full replay of deltarune and I just finished replaying the first chapter and I kinda want to blab thoughts on what the specifics of the player's control might be as far as we know

some spoilers for chapter 3 and 4? (i probably missed stuff in those chapters to help with this discussion tho. so. take that for what you will) (mainly showing screenshots from ch 1)

I'm wondering if it's divided on who controls what

So like:

Player: While our soul is possessing Frisk, we obviously control all of their movements and what they interact with. We choose between options when a question is presented to us.

Kris: They get back control when they remove us, but they are weaker/have less stamina, and maybe have other effects. I'm guessing that since we've seen them walk both slow and fast without the player that walking slow (like in ch 1 and 2) that preserves more energy. And seeing that if we spend too long trying to get to Dess's guitar in Chapter 4, they actually can get so tired from trying to wack us that they have to take a long breather.

Outside of when they've removed us tho, it's less clear? So, they can control how they SAY things after we choose an option yeah? They can still manage to control how they come off like, they won't let us make them say "Of Course Not" they'll change it to "Of Course." Instead of serious "I'll join" to Berdly, it's incredulous iirc.

Aside from that I think they have a bit more control after we interact with something since I remember times in the game where once we initiate, they are able to move and talk to a certain amount. Like, we make the choice "It's okay not to smile" they then hug Ralsei. They step in to protect Susie (in a cutscene i believe?) in chapter 1. In general I think once there is a cutscene they regain more control.

I think where it's a bit less clear is Who narrates the text you get when you interact with something and Who gives the dialogue options. I think it's a situation where BOTH the player and Kris have influence here.

Because simultaneously we have moments where the choices are aware we have (most likely) played undertale with first Sans interaction, and we make kris act like they haven't seen a card they've WROTE in before. But there are also moments that HAD to have been influenced by Kris since they give us insight into what WE can't see, what WE couldn't have known before.

Namely times when we are in Noelle's house in chapter 4 and Kris hints at previous times in their childhood that we wouldn't have been privy to otherwise.They may or may not have climbed one of the smaller tree decorations. The bigger tree by the piano in the kitchen is described to look very climbable. Like, that might be it or there may be more since a lot of times it IS other characters that give us that context, but I'm kinda thinking outloud.

tho maybe the Sans example could be waved away through like. Y'know when someone acts like they know you and you don't want to be rude because what if you just forgot who they are so you go along with it?

With the moss it's like. First time it's a choice that I think is influenced by the flavor text from Kris's emotions

Then in future chapters it isn't a choice it is just what happens after you interact with it

idr if there were moss moments in chapter 3 or 4

I also remember that in chapter 1 if you go into Toriel's room you can choose to smell the markers or not, and after that in future chapters you don't have a choice. Once you interact with it Kris decides to smell them without your input.

Also we know Kris is a weird kid and some interacting moments don't give us the choice not to be weird lol like. KRis influence

doesn't really fit into this but still gonna add it here

one of those moments where Kris seemingly takes away control to make a choice

there is very very very likely more in chapters that aren't immediately fresh on my mind to prove where our influence ends and where Kris's begins. Like, I think there is stuff in chapter 3 for this since I think there was a scene where controls reference Kris vs player but I don't know for sure

[devilry-revelry]

Rest Male Orc x Female Human

//

Nothing but fluff.

//

“Ah. You’re… Thor?”

The sage-green skin at his cheeks darkened. “Thorg’izog.”

//

The orc standing at her door was, in a word, massive. Gargantuan in another. When Kayla had first opened the door to greet her guest she was looking right into the orc’s big chest, and then she looked up, up, up into his brown, downcast eyes. If he didn’t look so nervous, with his slumped posture and his shoulders tucked inward, he would be a formidable creature with harsh tusks, and stern brows. Though she was completely taken aback by the orc’s presence, Kayla put on her friendliest smile and greeted him. 

“Hi, can I help you?”

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His big hands clenched into fists at his sides in a rhythmic pulse. There was a blatant reluctance to meet her gaze, but he replied. 

“I, uh…��� his voice was hoarse, low and quiet. Gentle. He was nearly whispering, as if he was afraid his voice would carry too far down the hallway of the complex. It somehow made him seem small. Smaller than his hunched stance tried to make him. “I have a 3PM appointment?”

Kayla blinked her surprise, peering up at him with barely hidden scrutiny. It wasn’t so much that she had any aversion to working with a magick client, but she didn’t recall the incoming appointment paperwork specifying that her client was anything other than human. And those disclosure forms were important. Depending on the type, there were certain safety precautions, more documents to protect the worker. A regular ol’ human didn’t have to worry about accidentally turning someone into stone, or accidentally setting the drapes on fire with a sneeze.

“Ah. You’re… Thor?”

The sage-green skin at his cheeks darkened. “Thorg’izog.”

Kayla laughed good naturedly as she said, “Well, that explains it! Come on in.” An orc wouldn’t present any real trouble. The only trouble it would cause was shifting the sleeping pallet around, because she had most definitely prepared for a human. She opened the door wide, and stepped aside. Thor ducked his head down even further, and stepped past the threshold. He was rather quiet on his feet, despite his massive size and burly footwear. “You’ll have to forgive me for just a moment. I thought I was prepared, but…” 

She trailed off as she guided him to the main room. 

The primary living space in the small studio apartment appeared to be prepared for some sort of sleep over. The velvet couch and quaint coffee table had been wedged against the walls, and the entirety of the floor was smothered with pillows and blankets. Kayla had thought the set up would be more than sufficient, but now knowing how big “Thor” was, she realized that she would have to maybe move her coffee table and couch to comfortably accommodate his bulk. 

“Oh,” he said, quiet and guilty when he caught on to her predicament. “I’m sorry. Here, just tell me where to move it.” And he did. Before Kayla could even contemplate how big of a pain it was going to be to move the couch, Thor heaved the thing up from the ground.

Kayla knew that orcs were strong. There were plenty of tv programs featuring their displays of strength and ferocity. Seeing it on television was one thing, seeing it in person was another matter entirely. And while it wasn’t like moving some furniture was some great feat of strength, it was the control that she found most astonishing. The way he lifted the couch and then carefully relocated it with barely a sound. Kayla couldn’t help but study his form right until he turned back towards her. 

“Look at you. You didn’t even break a sweat!” She said, already pulling some spare pillows and blankets out of the coat closet near the front door. As she made adjustments to their pallet, Kayla did a quick review of what she had read from his client form. 

“You’re here… for a nap, right?”

As far as hustles went, being a professional cuddler was a breeze. The company she worked with provided a space to work out of, and they footed the bill for the daily laundry to keep bedding fresh. Once the customer was vetted and got approval, they were free to pick who they wanted to book an appointment with – or the website would assign a client to someone at random if there wasn’t a selected preference. Sessions were very strictly G-rated, and could range between a meal and some conversation, an actual cuddle session, or naps. 

“Yeah. If that’s alright. I haven’t been sleeping well.”

Kayla’s smile softened. Poor guy. She went about drawing the black-out curtains so they weren’t drowning in mid-day sun. As the room darkened, a couple of dark-activated lights flicked on - wavering in the mimicry of candle light. 

“Do you want it to be quiet, or is there any music or white noise you’d prefer?.”

Thor unzipped the sweatshirt he wore, slowly peeling it off. He was clad in a simple t-shirt, showing off tattooed black sleeves on both arms that grew lighter as it neared his wrists. In that moment, the tattoos seemed out of place when compared to his quietly nervous disposition. 

“Rain. Thunder…”

“My favorite,” Kayla replied honestly. A couple moments on her phone, and the sound of rain and growling thunder was rolling through the room, playing on a couple of small bluetooth speakers that were hidden among a couple of potted plants hanging from the ceiling. She set a timer while she was at it. She set the alarm to sound 10 minutes before their session was done, so Thor could wake up with a little less haste. “Well, if you’d like to get comfortable?”

“Right,” he rasped. His big boots were kicked off next, and then he dropped to his knees and crawled into the palette of plush pillows and blankets. He gathered a couple of pillows and pushed them under his head so he could rest on his side. How did someone his size seem so vulnerable? 

“Where would you like me? Unless you want me to just be around?”

Thorg'izog lifted his arm, inviting Kayla into the curve of his body. She crawled in next to him, allowing Thor to gently guide her head to his bicep. The other arm coiled around her waist. His bulk spooned up against her smaller figure and Kayla was surprised with how utterly at ease she felt. She anticipated a couple dregs of anxiety, but there were none to be found. 

“Is this okay?” he asked. The whole of him seemed to vibrate when he spoke, even when he was speaking so softly. 

“Mmhmm,” Kayla hummed, just as softly. “How about you? Comfortable?”

He hummed quietly in turn, the sound of rain and thunder filling the room. 

“Perfect.”

Thorg'izog drifted off quickly, his breaths coming in steady puffs against the crown of her head. Typically during this sort of downtime, Kayla would treat herself with reading a book on her phone, or reviewing the mass of to-do lists she had scattered in her head, but she found herself relaxing into Thor’s hold, enjoying the way he nuzzled closer even in his sleep. Poor guy was probably a little touch-starved if he was seeking out nap time with strangers. She smoothed her palm over his arm, and closed her eyes. 

/

Kayla woke to gentle fingers carding through the lengths of her hair. While that was typically the sort of services that Kayla would offer, there were some clients who liked the little bit of control it offered. Caring and tending to someone versus being cared for. She shifted slowly, being mindful of her limbs as she granted herself a slow stretch. She was turned towards him now. Thor was on his back, with her head resting on his shoulder. Her arm was wrapped around his torso, a leg hooked over one of his. 

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” she sighed, willing away the gentle burning of embarrassment she felt in her cheeks. How unprofessional of her. 

“Seems like we both needed a nap,” came the quiet, rumbling response. He continued to pet through her hair, occasionally scraping his nails against her scalp. It was soothing, and wonderful, and it threatened to pull her under once more. 

“Did I miss the alarm?”

“No. Not yet.”

“In that case, is there anything else I can do for you?”

Thor growled gently, “I’m quite content as we are.” His hand palmed the back of her head, and then flexed. It was just enough to administer a yummy sort of tension at her roots before he relaxed. 

Kayla smiled dreamily, “Well if you insist.” She scooted just a bit closer, basking in the attention like a hungry cat. “Did you get any rest?”

“I did,” he rasped. The hand abandoned her hair and smoothed over her back. “Thank you for not turning me away. Not mentioning that I’m an orc was… stupid.”  

Kayla canted her head back to peer up at him. She got an eyeful of tusk and soft lips, and hard jaw line. 

“I’d only decline a customer if I felt like I wasn’t safe, and I feel perfectly safe with you.” She didn't ask why; she was sure he had his reasons to lie.

He chortled, “Safe enough to fall asleep.”

“Safe enough to fall asleep,” Kayla echoed with agreement, then pushed herself upright so she could look him in the eye while speaking to him. 

He cut a handsome figure when he wasn’t anxiety ridden and trying to make himself small. Stretched on the pallet of pillows and blankets, a hand tucked under his head, looking relaxed and calm and confident. It was the first time she realized how long his hair was with it sprawled along the bedding. 

“I don’t suppose I can schedule another appointment?” 

“Of course you—“ the alarm sounded, queuing the last few minutes of their time together. She was quick to hit snooze. “Of course you can. If you’d like to make it with me now, we can do that, or you can schedule it when you’re ready.”

[imminentchaos]

before i say goodbye, my star in the sky

Apollo cabin angst my beloved

For @willsolaceweek day two

Link

Will knew that something bad was going to happen.

It wasn't just the smidge of prophecy powers that he had, a pathetic excuse in comparison to what his siblings had, that told him that.

It was all of them, even the littlest campers, no more than eleven or twelve, being told to grab whatever weapons they had, and load up into the vans that the camp used to transport strawberries.

One by one, everyone who hadn't perished so far in the previous battles and missions, climbed in.

The youngest ones looked scared, of course they did, they were being told that they had to go to war. And even the littlest ones, the ten and eleven year olds, knew that there wasn't an insignificant chance that they would be wrapped in a burial shroud in just a few days, if any of them made it home to give them the proper rites at all.

But the oldest ones, well, they looked <em>haunted</em>.

They had the look in their eyes that a soldier did after coming back from a deployment.

Their hands clutched their weapons close, even though there were no monsters around.

And Will knew that it was because of the last battle.

The last big one, anyway. There had been plenty of skirmishes between then and now, but only one recently was enough to traumatize irreparably at least half of the campers.

Will didn't know exactly what went on during that battle. Him, and all the campers around the same age and younger than him, were locked in the infirmary as the battle raged. All that Will knew about was the screams. They were everywhere, piercing and loud. Even inside the infirmary, Will could hear them, the sounds of the dead and dying, mowed down carelessly by monsters and fellow demigods alike. The screams still sometimes kept him up at night.

Will knew nothing of the actual events, only the carnage that followed. Even though he was too young to fight, he wasn't too young to help search for bodies. He had to sift through wreckage and rubble, turning up familiar faces.

That battle was the one where… where Lee died. Lee was the one who corralled all of the young campers into the infirmary, having to put up with the whines of the youngest ones. They all wanted to help, to be brave just like their big siblings. There was none of that sentiment now.

When Lee had them all in the infirmary, and was getting ready to leave, and the last thing he did was kiss Will one last time on the forehead. Will, being naive, and still holding the belief that everyone would come home safe and sound, wiped it off, sticking his tongue out at Lee.

He thought it was gross then.

Now, he would do anything to get one last kiss goodbye.

Everyone lost someone close to them in that battle, whether it be a friend, sibling, or lover.

And now, packed like sardines in an almost nondescript white van, on their way to what might be all of their deaths, everyone knew that the same was going to happen.

Even with the horrors around them, the oldest tried to keep everyone's spirits up.

“Okay everyone, this is going to be nice and quick, alright? Think of it as a field trip, yeah?”

Michael said, his voice carrying none of the usual snark.

“And how about, when we get back to camp, we can all get some ice cream. I bet Michael will even let you have two cones each.”

Diana, one of Will's older sisters, added. Michael and Diana, being the oldest now, with Lee gone, were acting more upbeat than usual, trying to keep the feeling of dread from settling over the van, which was filled with basically the entire Apollo cabin.

They were the biggest cabin at camp, aside from the Hermes one, but that one also had all of the unclaimed, so they had an unfair advantage.

Will loved having so many siblings. It was one of his favorite parts of camp. He was never lonely, and things were never quiet in their cabin. Someone was always talking, or there was music playing.

He had so many older siblings to turn to when things got tough.

And Will was so glad to have them with him now, when all of them were navigating uncertain territory.

As much as their comments were lifting the mood of his youngest siblings, Will knew that Michael, Diana and his other older siblings weren't at ease.

Will had overheard Diana talking nervously with Michael, just before they left.

It was something about a vision that Diana had gotten.

It wasn't uncommon for Diana to get visions of the future, but it was uncommon for them to rattle her.

Or for anything to rattle her at all.

Will knew something bad was going to happen.

So he made sure to hug his siblings extra hard this time.

[fifteenth-entity]

So like... gaster is at least a titan if not the angel, right? (THEORY)

[Note that this post needs major cleaning up, and I will be back to fix it up later, since i have not slept whatsoever, thank you for understanding c: For this reason, if anything is unclear, please don't hesitate to ask me to clarify/elaborate.]

Before I start explaining my thought process, I want to explain why I’m saying titan or angel, and not definitively just one of the two: I’m fairly certain that Gaster is at least a titan. However, due to how present he is in the narrative, and how subservient the titans seem to be, contrasting how vocal the Gaster character seems to be and how active he is, I’m inclined to believe that Gaster is the next possible thing in the hierarchy. (I don’t believe he’s the knight, I think it’s pretty damn certain at this point that the knight is Dess, and while the knight has hints of Gaster-like qualities, most everything that’s roaring related has Gaster-like qualities.)

(Some small credits: I got most of my screenshots from https://www.youtube.com/@mistysparkles and https://www.youtube.com/@ShayyTV , and one screenshot was provided by @sajdd on tumblr, who got it from @/pipislover1997 and @/playcentermd on twitter.)

Another thing I need to note: Some of these things are going to be really far-fetched arguments. This is mostly so that I can get this brainworm out of my head otherwise I will never find peace, and I’m not saying it’s the end-all-be-all answer that will solve the mystery of Deltarune: It’s just a theory after all. Anyway, with those two disclaimers, onto the stuff I have to say.

Please direct your attention to these elements of the titan:

On the right, we have the dark fountain coalescing into a new being that will later become the titan. On the left, we have the grey stone casing that the titan will later watch out of. The grey encasing will be important later, but first, I’d like to point out that the stuff that coalesces into the titan has the same texture as the background in the first cutscene of chapter 1, where someone, commonly assumed to be Gaster, directs us on how to create a vessel.

After that, once the titan starts hatching, we have the following:

First, the hand of the titan, that has a hole with an eye in the middle. Then, once Kris starts climbing on the titan, black and white eyes are revealed to be hiding within the grey cast, eyes that ooze some sort of droopy black liquid. Note how all of the elements of the true titan are black and white (aside from the magic they use.)

The knight can also use their eye as a mouth to laugh. Eyes in general appear in a lot of places in Deltarune; while they don’t appear in the dark worlds themselves, they appear in the in between places, like the area leading up to the pure dark fountain and Tenna’s dark world.

That is a place where I would argue another true darkness is, aside from Ralsei’s kingdom’s fountain. I mean there’s no toy equivalent to them, they seem to just… exist in the dark world.

Now. Where have I seen all that before?

Oh, and by the way, when I say that, I do mean all of that. Gaster is hidden within a grey room, and he is primarily black and white, he is droopy and formless, and his eye and mouth are the same slit, that is only sometimes seeing. (Unrelated by also related, he seems to disappear when Frisk touches him; the only thing that banished the titan was someone with a human soul disturbing its appearance. Gaster and the titan seem to react the same way to light, drawing yet another connection). And given that every single major character that we’ve seen thus far in undertale has in some way been referenced in Deltarune (even down to Muffet), and this is the last ‘major mystery’ of the game that remains, I think it’s pretty safe to assume that this mystery man doesn’t correspond to a general concept, but is an actual representation of a character that does/will appear in Deltarune at some point.

However, you will note that during this entire analysis, I’ve been taking the mystery man sprite as to be the definitive appearance of Gaster, and I think I have some evidence that at least strongly connects the mystery man, the titans, and Gaster all together.

Please remember how the casing hiding inside it the true titans’ form was cast in grey. Note also how before the cast formed completely, we have the same texture as the background in the create your character segment as the game, a vessel which in the files is dubbed “goner body”. Obviously, the goners, who talk about Dr. Gaster, are also cast in grey and disappear very similarly to the mystery man. Note however that when you create this grey body, it is called the “vessel”, and Kris is referenced as being a cage in the prophecy. The one responsible for creating the human vessel, in the same circumstances and processes as the titan was created, is Gaster. This possibly suggests that the gaster followers and the goner kid are a vessel for something, and here I would say that they are a vessel for knowledge, and the way they’re drawn and positioned in the game makes them look and feel very stone-like in disposition.

With all the above, I think it’s difficult to disprove that Gaster is, at least, a titan, but now you might also begin to understand why I’m going so far as to suggest he might be the angel.

First of all, he created the vessel in the first chapter, and the stuff used to create the titan has the same texture. It seems a little unlikely to me that a simple titan that needs this much help to collapse a fraction of the world would be capable of creating a stable vessel from scratch, so I’m inclined to believe that Gaster, in this aspect, is at least some sort of higher power than a titan. Another direct reference to Gaster and the angel stem from the him.png file that was uploaded to deltarune . com all those years ago: 

It’s notable to me how this phrase was specifically written in wingdings, since not only is that font usually immediately correlated to Gaster, but this phrase, without Deltarune as context, is already cryptic as it is - there’s no need to encrypt it further with a font like this, unless you want to hint at a deeper connection between the two concepts.

Gaster is also as far as I remember (please correct me if I’m wrong) the only character so far to directly correlate the dark worlds and the roaring to the angel, information that no one else seems keen on sharing or knows. The last thing I have to prove as a connection comes from the bunker.

Now, there’s three symbols on the lock on the bunker: A pine tree (Noelle, Dess, or Carol), a police badge (Undyne or Asgore), and the delta rune. The delta rune is an emblem comprised of three triangles (one darkner, two lightners), and a sphere with wings above them (the angel). Now, a lot of people attribute the symbol as belonging to Toriel, but I think this connection is tentative at best. The only connection Toriel has to the delta rune is the uniform she wears and the fact that she manages the choir of the school, but the delta rune is generally a symbol of worship everywhere. There are so many characters that are directly tied to the delta rune, like Gerson and Alvin, and so many characters that are only loosely connected to the delta rune. The symbol is absolutely everywhere, and Toriel is not the only one to wear a garment like that.

However, there’s only one character that notes that they have a direct connection to the delta rune. At the very end of the credits of chapter 4, the person speaking to us in chapter 1, aka Gaster, starts talking to us about our progress with the story, before dropping this bombshell of a phrase:

Firstly, to get it out of the way, I think Gaster is one of the potential people being alluded to with the third symbol on the lock (there are more candidates, one of which could be Asriel, but this isn’t about him). However, I will say that it’s a little intense to say that the emblem of an entire religion belongs to you. Unless, of course, you are the reason why the religion exists, and you are the one people worship, and you are depicted on said emblem.

With this in mind, I do have some strong inclinations that Gaster is the angel. Is this a definitive theory? Absolutely not, but I do think it has some really strong foundations. With this in mind, I think if I am to take this theory as “canon’ then I can make a pretty strong case about Kris being something of a Darkner instead of a lightner, but that’s another theory for another day. I never make theories. I am never this passionate about my own theories. Deltarune what have you done to me. Toby Fox I am outside your house, come outside.

[sexisbetteronthemoon]

what do you think about besties allurance? allura hyping lance up for his dates, threatening his bf/gfs (Especially keith) and vice versa.

you tell me, anon. :) take a look at these excerpts from heavy metal heart:

They made their way to Keith's room next where he lent Lance a shirt and some shorts to sleep in.  Lance grabbed his toiletry kit because he never went anywhere without it, and made use of Keith's shower.  When he came out, Keith stared at him for way too long.  Lance paused from where he was rubbing lotion onto his elbows.

“What?” he said.

Keith visibly swallowed, the sound loud in the silent room.

“Nothing,” he said, but his voice was strangled.

Lance began to feel a little self conscious.  His face was covered in cream, his hair was wrapped up in a towel, and he was not exactly wearing the sexiest clothing.  Keith's shirt hung loose on him, and Lance had tied a knot in the back to make it feel a little less so.  And the shorts, well, there was simply no making basketball shorts look good on his skinny legs.  Still, Lance tried his best and had pulled them up high on his waist, tying off the pullstrings into a little bow to keep them up.

His shoulders hunched a little.

Keith had seen him without makeup.  Hell, he had caught Lance as he was coming out of the shower at home.  He figured it was too late to pretend he always looked fabulous and flawless.  But now he was regretting not staying in the bathroom until he was done with his routine and then turning out the lights as he snuck into Keith's bed and covered himself entirely with a blanket.

“Sorry, I know I'm staring,” Keith said.  “I just — you're really beautiful.”

“Thank you.”  Heat filled Lance's cheeks.  He relaxed then, moving over to the bed and squeezing more lotion into his hand.  He set the bottle he was carrying on the bed and set his foot on on the mattress.  He smiled a little, giddy that Keith thought he was beautiful even like this.  And with full confidence, he continued his routine, spreading the lotion onto his leg, rubbing it up his thigh, pushing the leg of the shorts up as far as it would go to get as much skin as he could.  He then got some more lotion to spread it down his calf to his ankle and foot.

He changed legs, and as soon as he was pushing the cloth of the shorts up, Keith rushed into the bathroom, muttering, “Gonna shower.”

The door closed a little more forcefully than Lance believed was necessary, but it was not his house.  He had no say.  He finished up with his lotion and sat down on Keith's bed.  He abruptly remembered to text Allura, finding a few texts from her saying she was home and asking if he had gotten home yet.  Another slid into view as he got to the bottom of the thread.

Allura: Lance, I'm starting 2 worry.  R u not home yet?  Did u fall asleep?

Lance quickly messaged her back.

Lance: sorry!  i’m so sorry!  i got a little distracted.  keith made me sandwiches and then i had to shower and i got out just now.  i was literally JUST reading your messages!

She texted back quite quickly.

Allura: Don't wait so long next time.  I was worried!  I'm glad u're safe!

Another followed.

Allura: Wait, u're @ Keith's?  It's nearly 5.  Won't ur parents b worried?

Lance smiled to himself.

Lance: i cleared it w/my mom.  staying over at keith's tonight and heading home tomorrow.

Allura's reply was an interested pair of eyes.

Lance: i'll tell you about it later.  go to sleep!

Allura: 👀 👀 👀 bet

Lance turned off his phone to conserve battery and set it aside, waiting for Keith to come out.

and much later that morning:

Hunk sent:  I'm so happy you're okay!  Also I'm going to murder you and bury your body in my backyard.  That way, I'll always know where you are.  How dare you worry me like that!

Lance giggled.

Keith emerged from the bathroom, smiling wryly at Lance.

He said, “What's so funny?”

Lance gestured at the phone in his hand.  “Hunk is threatening to bury me in his backyard.”

Keith frowned.

“I thought Hunk was nice,” Keith said.

“Oh, he's joking,” Lance said.  “He's just worried because my snitch sister told him I never went home last night.”

“Oh,” Keith said, coming over and sitting beside him.

Lance switched over to Allura's texts.  Keith went a little rigid.

Allura: WELL???  👀 👀 👀

Lance snorted and sent back:  he can see this.

Allura: 👁️ 👄 👁️ HI, KEITH.  HAVE FUN?

Keith sighed.

“She can't call me directly?” Keith said indignantly.  “You're not a messenger!”

Lance replied exactly that, and Keith's phone rang seconds later.  Keith flicked it open and put it up to his ear.  Lance could hear Allura's tinny voice screeching in Keith's ear, but Keith did not so much as twitch.  He waited until Allura stopped talking.

Then he said, “None of your business,” and snapped his phone shut.

Lance stared at him.  His phone vibrated.  He looked and saw Allura had sent him a message.

Allura: 😭😭😭 He hung up on me, Lance!  Do you see how he is!  Run while you can!

“Hey,” Keith protested.

Lance laughed and leaned over to peck his cheek.

“Don't worry,” Lance said.  “I'm not going anywhere.”