#but I figured I should mention it in the tags

[comatosebunny09]

carpe noctem [ climax ] | sylus

— summary: sylus drags you onto a mission with him for old time’s sake. and you slide into familiarity, almost like there isn’t a wedge in the form of a beautiful young hunter driving you apart. — cw: explicit sexual content, reader is not mc, reader implied to be femme, assassin!reader, mentions of blood, profanity, mentions of pedophilia, mentions of human trafficking, minor character death, men with guns, reader has a shitty past, self-destructive behavior, reader doing her assassin duties, a little romance sprinkled in between, mdni — notes: inspired by mr. & mrs. smith. thank you so much for reading, lovely! [ part 1 | part 2 | part 3 ] — now playing: cariño - the marías — obligatory tags: @withering-dream @an-ever-angry-bi @midiplier @abbylee0710 @picnicthegarden @karespocketboyfriends @chrissy26 @delulusimps @glamouroki @midiplier @celestemcbrim @everywherenothere @ari-shipping-stuff @beewilko @alexhenituse @nim-rose @moonlight-inthe-sea @sunnyf4lls @himiko-omikami @inkonparchment @sillyfreakfanparty @regandoesthings @im-in-different-universe @ravensheart18 @alyyylog @corvid007 (sorry if i missed anyone.)

He wanted to make love. You wanted to fuck.

He wanted you, all tender and pliant beneath him, his name hinged in your throat. He wanted to worship you, to uncover the erogenous zones of your body piece by piece, and to expose you like forgotten treasure buried deep beneath rotting ruins. 

But you reasoned you didn’t have time. You were in a hurry—a hurry for what, exactly, you couldn’t pinpoint. 

Perhaps you were rushing to feel something, in a hurry to please and to feel useful as you tore his shirt from his shoulders, his body rigid and searing between the thick of your thighs. Pleasing is all you know, serving embedded in your chemical makeup, no room to pursue your own desires. 

Your mouths came together so abruptly that your teeth clashed. The counter of his kitchen island was glacial and tacky beneath your thighs. You’d barely divested yourself of your coat before you drew him into an ardent dance of tongues, his abs twitching beneath the artful crawl of your fingers. You tugged at the give of his pants, quietly yet vehemently demanding he take them off. He drew back, wild-eyed and hair mussed, eyes drowsy with want.

“We should slow down,” he sighed, hot and open-mouthed where your shoulder met neck. Blistered down to your collarbone where he nipped, hands roosted on your hips, thumbs soothingly cruising over juts of bone. 

It made you sick, his tenderness. You weren’t glass and didn’t deserve to be handled like it. 

You chuckled something husky and bitter, tossing your thoughts to the wolves. Your fingers raked through his hair. Grabbing the scruff of his neck, you brought his mouth back to yours, trapping any further words of protest in his throat. 

You didn’t want to think. Didn’t want complications. Just wanted to be driven by sensation, tucking your inhibitions into the darkest hulls of your mind. 

You’re a bit of a masochist. You enjoy punishing yourself for misdeeds you’ve constructed in your mind—having feelings for your boss, secretly envying your friend. Your use is slowly running its course, and you’ll one day be thrown to the wayside. 

You figure you don’t deserve kindness. Sensitivity. You don’t deserve a slow love, the steady creep of an orgasm bubbling in your stomach, invoked by the sluggish grind of hips, words of affirmation whispered like the sweetest supplication into your ear.

No.

You deserve to be used, lusted after. You’ve spent most of your adult life with that mentality, your past having engraved that under your skin. You’ve been a weapon for as long as you can remember. A tool. Loveless. Which is why, when the gentleman who’d frequented Lux wanted to take his time with you, you declined, opting for something more ragged and intense. 

He took you hard and rough on his counter at your behest. Left you open, bare, laughing, battling to get your breath under control. You stayed the night to humor him. Let him hold you as he stroked the sweetest compliments of all with ghostly fingers into your skin as the stars in the sky gave way to the gentle spill of sun rays. 

You crept out of his arms and apartment once he sank below the misty shawl of sleep. He’d inquire about your whereabouts later—ask why you didn’t stay. You rarely did. Tonight, you felt weak. 

You’d ignore him until you next needed him. When the urge to forget sunk its talons into your chest, curling around your heart and squeezing. 

You had a mission to prepare for. Sylus’ name lit up your notifications, cryptic as ever with minimal words. You’d deal with your feelings later. 

There was work to be done.

Besides, you didn’t even remember his name. 

How could you face him when you’d uttered someone else’s name while he was deep inside you?

—

You pay for your escapades in the form of pretty petals of blue and green blooming on your neck the following night. Bite marks. 

You rub at the raw skin for the nth time, a hiss forced through grit teeth. Maybe he was a little too rough. Concealer works wonders, coupled with your glamor. Still doesn’t take away the sting, but you suppose the pain is your punishment for being weak.

You stretch, yawning. Shift until the leather of the car’s backseat squeaks. You sense his eyes on you in your periphery, boring down to the marrow. The fine hairs littering your body stand on end. You maneuver again, leant against the door, cheek propped on your knuckles. 

You try to focus on the scenery unfolding beyond the car’s windshield. Powdery stars spilled over a deep violet canvas. The red glare of brake lights every so often as you approach another vehicle. Try to focus on the driver’s fingers readjusting on the steering wheel, on the fixed hum of the engine, and how it intermingles with the gentle bumps on the road. Home in on your breathing and the thunderous drum of your heart. He’s been watching you like this since you eased into the car—Sylus. 

You get this creeping suspicion he wants to say something. Like he knows all your secrets, having perused through them like they’re the yellowed pages of a book. Nah. He wouldn’t know what kind of night you had. He wouldn’t care. You’re a grown woman, capable of making your own mistakes and reaping the repercussions of them. He has other things on his mind—other people. 

Another yawn escapes you. You curse yourself for not grabbing coffee on your way out. Too busy pouring yourself into your dress, painting your face with makeup, and meticulously tucking your weapons away. 

“Long day?” says Sylus. You jolt the slightest bit at the grit of his voice. How it breaks up the silence and sets your stomach alight with dragonflies. Fabric shifts. His exhale is weighted beside you, thigh brushing yours as he spreads his legs, so very big in comparison to the backseat. 

You force a smile, smoothing out the wrinkles of your dress. “You could say that.”

You feel the shift in his gaze. There’s a whisper of bitterness in his tone when he next speaks. “Maybe you should spend less time pursuing your hobbies at night and more time sleeping.”

This time, you do turn. Cut your eyes to him, mouth tugged up with confusion. His expression reads passivity. Mouth scrawled into a rigid line, scarlet eyes fixed to yours, unrelenting. Something’s off about him tonight. You sensed it in the brevity of his call when he phoned you to outline your mission—you’d be accompanying him tonight to a banquet. A glittering, amenable doll on his arm, smiling pretty like murder wasn’t rotting your mind. You’d lure your target away to be snuffed out like a candle’s flame. Slip out without drawing suspicion, and the world would be rid of another shit stain. 

He quirks a brow, wordlessly challenging you. No customary smirk comes this time. Just the air weighted with something tense. Your throat clicks when you swallow. You opt for obliviousness, laughing it off despite the gnarling feeling in your gut worming its way up your throat. Despite every synapse in your brain screaming for you to fire back. You’re reading too much into things. He’s being his usual, detached self, and not because he knows you were up to no good last night.

Right?

“Maybe I should.” 

The tendons in Sylus’ neck pull, jaw tensing. For a moment, he looks like he wants to keep prodding. But he instead averts his gaze when the driver chimes in, announcing you’ve arrived at your destination. 

The venue’s tawny spotlights dance over the windshield as the car crawls to a stop. People donned in expensive formalwear line the sidewalk, animatedly chatting as they await entry. You take some time to admire the historic, art deco architecture before your door opens, the crisp evening air spilling in and fanning over your skin. 

You look up when Sylus offers you his arm. His expression softens considerably, contrasting the wet cat he was moments ago. There’s a hint of a smile twitching his lips. He almost looks boyish, and you can’t help taking him in. He’s dressed to the nines, tucked in a three-piece tux, bow tie meticulously tied, hair swept up into a pretty, alabaster coif.

Your lips spasm. You peel yourself from the seat, gathering up the trail of your dress. Twine your arm with his, allowing him to shepherd you through the throng of people. It almost feels like old times, their voices petering to a hush when they catch sight of you. They part like a school of fish as the pair of you make your way up the steps leading to the venue’s doors.

“Stay frosty,” you joke to dispel your nerves, standing before the heavy, double doors, waiting for the attendees to open them. 

Sylus snorts, his arm flexing beneath the possessive clutch of your fingers. He pinches the bridge of his nose. And the exasperation in his voice makes your eyes crinkle with mirth. “Please, never say that again.”

You slide into familiarity thereafter, almost like there wasn’t a wedge in the form of a beautiful young hunter driven between you.

—

She said something curious to you when you arrived at the airport earlier—Ms. Hunter. You had the time to spare. You wanted to ask why she requested you drive her instead of Sylus. But you didn’t push it, figuring she had her reasons. Maybe she didn’t have the energy for his nagging, his fretting. She should be so lucky. 

She’d be gone for a couple of weeks, swept up in the grueling task of protecting researchers in the mountains from Wanderers. A part of you felt sorry for her. Worried. But she was a big girl. If she could smack Sylus around in Kitty Cards, she could dodge a few teeth and claws, no problem. 

“Need help?” you asked over your shoulder, the SUV’s engine humming idly at the airport’s drop-off point. 

She smiled at you from the backseat. “I got it!” She chirped as she fetched her oversized suitcase from the floor. 

She rounded the vehicle, bowing to your level at the window. Up close, her smile looked more mischievous than usual. Smile lines bracketed her honey-dipped eyes as she murmured, “Be nice to Sylus. He’s trying, ya know?” 

You pinned her with a quizzical look, your mouth working around a retort. She left before you could get a word out. You watched her slip through the crowd of travelers milling about before she was out of sight, leaving you to mull over what the hell that meant.

—

It starts to make sense as time passes what she meant. 

When you’ve gorged yourself on conversation and champagne, nestled between politicians, CEOs, socialites, and people of the like. Fickle, spewing gossip you can’t be bothered to keep up with. 

Sylus rarely leaves your side, only slipping away to chat up old colleagues or to procure you more bubbly. Always has a hand, scorching and possessive, at the small of your back, or an arm slung about your waist, drawing you into the safety his body exudes. He doesn’t correct anyone when they address you as his, giving you a subdued, amused look when you work your mouth into amending them.

You titter shyly, toying with your necklace. Maybe this is a part of your cover—pretending to be his significant other, all pretty and docile at his side. You won’t complain. It’s nice being this close, feeling wanted, and being envied in a different way. Not for your body, but for the man wrapped so willingly around your finger. 

It’s felt like ages since you’ve last done a gig together, so you’ll enjoy his attention, even if it’s all a ploy, while you can.

The evening slides by in a blur of twinkling chandeliers and laughter. 

Sylus draws you into a dance, and the pair of you are swallowed up by the mass of swaying couples and the string orchestra. Your cheeks ache with a smile, your limbs and inhibitions loosened by the champagne. He holds you to him as you waltz, his body rigid and devastating against yours, languorous fingers curled around your nape. He hasn’t stopped smiling, a boyish dimple cratering his cheek. Hasn’t released you from the scarlet stir of his eyes since, and you smoosh your face against pectoral muscle, hiding the warmth splotching your cheeks.  

His heart thrums something steady beneath your ear. Beneath the expensive pleat of his tux. Breaths even, his bewitching scent furling in your chest like smoke. You let him lead you about the glittering marble tiles of the dance floor, feeling like you’re in a dream. Perhaps it’s the bubbly that’s got you toddling through a dreamlike fog, but a fraction of you starts to think, just for a second, you’re more than a cover, and your boss isn’t so detached, shoving you to the back burner in favor of someone else. 

Your breath is sharp when he suddenly peels away, expertly twirling you. You laugh as your dress flutters around your ankles, nearly tripping you up. He dips you as the music dampens, the beautiful scenery tilting and blurring. Swathed in the tawny, dim lighting of the banquet hall, you make out his features, something akin to affection loosening his expression, and the smile slips from your face. 

The world fades away, and only the pair of you seem to exist in this moment. He pulls you closer until your vision fills with red, fringed by dark, wispy lashes sweeping over cheeks mottled pink. His lips purse as his gaze slides to your mouth, breath stirring your baby hairs. You hold your breath as he eases in, appearing like he’ll kiss you, and you’re stricken by something hot. Your mouths but a hairsbreadth apart, he whispers something that makes your heart sink to your feet.

“It’s showtime.”

The magic of the moment falls away as he steadies you. A pout worms its way onto your face as Sylus tangles your fingers together, a chuckle swelling in his chest. He leads you back to your table, still holding your hand, even long after you’ve returned to your seats.

—

Nikolai is easy to manipulate. To bend to your will. Of course, he is. All men are if you know how to approach them. 

It helps that your glamor erases a few years off your face, giving you the appearance of a young woman barely experiencing the world. His favorite. It only takes you fluttering your lashes, laughing pretty, and flattering him to get him to take you back to his hotel room.

On the surface, he’s a passive, middle-aged man who looks like he wouldn’t harm a fly. But beneath that facade, he’s a scourge waiting to be wiped out. He’s as despicable as everyone else you’ve bumped off, auctioning off girls to nefarious men under the guise of selling “harmless little dolls.” Moonlighting as a franchise owner, using his stores as a ruse to smuggle young girls through the channels of the underworld. 

You take that personally, having once been on the auctioning floor yourself. Memories of a past painted red flood your mind, and it makes your stomach churn with disgust. You were lucky then, having been turned into a murderous tool rather than a fucktoy. So, it makes sense why Sylus was so eager to get you on this mission. Like he knew you’d take pleasure in watching Nikolai’s life drain from his eyes, his blood caked up under your nails. 

Your smile twitches, threatening to screw up into a grimace as you walk at Nikolai’s side, arm in arm. He’s red-faced and cheery, having gorged himself on champagne and merriment at the banquet. You would’ve snuffed him out if four bodyguards didn’t flank you. Not like you can’t take them, but you’d rather complete your mission as quietly as possible without rousing suspicion.

You just have to keep up the act long enough to isolate him so you can make your move. He’s been ruffling Onychinus’ feathers, claiming to be in cahoots with its notorious leader. Sylus, of course, doesn’t like that, not wanting to be associated with the likes of him. This is where you come into play, his ever-faithful watchdog, ready to kill at the drop of a hat.

Nikolai ushers you into his hotel room, where three more guards stand in good form in the living area. You acknowledge them with a seductive smile, allowing one to frisk you. Your smile grows tenfold when he finds nothing, clearing his throat and straightening his tie as if he’s fallen prey to your charm. Someone should be fired.

Nikolai leads you into his room thereafter, the double doors shutting and locking with finality. You offer him a massage, to which the portly man happily accepts, stripping down to his boxers and plopping onto the king-sized bed. He has a thing for pretty, young girls barely scraping the surface of legality. You’ll see to it he’s ushered into the afterlife by one.

Your hair waterfalls from its updo, warm as it spills onto your shoulders when you pull your hairpin free. You ruck up your gown, climbing over his body to roost yourself on his backside, legs bracketing either side of his waist, heels digging waning moons into your thighs. You’re sultry as you ensnare him in small talk, fingers kneading over layers of fat and muscle. Nikolai hums appreciatively, seemingly thrilled to have your company. Just the way you want him.

Your fingers tip-toe up his spine, thumbs smoothing over the notches of bone there. He exhales beneath your ministrations, remarking how magical your hands are. You huff a laugh as your fingers curl around his jaw, the opposing set burying themselves in his hair. 

“Massaging isn’t the only thing my hands are good at.”

With a fluent twitch of your wrists, his neck snaps, the sound barely heard above the gentle croon of the jazz music he queued up beforehand, accompanied by the exhale of a life dying out like a flame. 

You pull his eyelids down, easing off his lifeless body. Stare at his corpse with a faraway look in your eyes, smoothing some hair away from his face. Like he’s a sacrifice to the little girl inside, screaming for revenge. You straighten your dress when the bedroom doors rattle, Nikolai’s men frantically calling his name. Shit. Maybe you weren’t as meticulous as you thought. 

Quickly, you survey your surroundings for a way out. Spot the sliding doors leading to the balcony, and you dart between them, the wispy curtains grazing over your fevered skin. A wintry kiss of wind greets you as you lean over the rail, hair ruffling, and you take in the bokeh of lights glittering on the street below. 

You’re at least eight stories from the ground, so jumping is out of the question. You could very well fight your way out, but Nikolai’s guards are heavily armed. There’s no guarantee you’ll make it out of the fray unscathed. 

You lean back against the rail, adrenaline spuming through you, watching the bedroom doors pulse as his guards kick and shove against them. Fuck! Tugging a knife from the garter belt tucked beneath the slit of your dress, you prepare for a fight, body taut, nerves flaring. 

Just when you’ve resolved to get your hands dirty, something feathery touches your bare shoulder. Gentle and curious in its embrace, and you whip your head around to its source. You’re met with a smoky tendril, speckled with claret orbs of energy, swirling ominously before you. You peer over the railing, a familiar shock of white blurring into frame. There’s no mistaking the upward cant of his lips, and the crinkle of scarlet-spun eyes from this height. He motions to you with two fingers from the sidewalk, wordlessly beseeching you to come down.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you mutter, a nervous expression stretching your features. Heights have never been your forte, but you suppose beggars can’t be choosers. “Fuck it,” you relent, gathering some courage and climbing onto the rail. 

Nikolai’s men finally break through, and as they dart in, spraying the room in a hail of bullets upon seeing Nikolai’s corpse, you fall into the feathery cradle of Sylus’ Evol, a yip ripped from your throat. 

You float to the ground like a feather, falling into Sylus’ arms. He looks down at you with something unguarded shining in his eyes, using his Evol as a shield when Nikolai’s men shoot at the pair of you.

You lose yourself in the moment. Your lips part, lids heavy with something you can’t quite place. 

“Took you long enough,” you chide to dispel the tension brewing between you, trying to catch your breath.

“I’ll be more punctual next time,” Sylus answers with a chuckle, voice rumbling against your body as he casually walks away from the scene, refusing to put you down, even long after he’s warped you to safety. 

rising action | masterlist

[sincerelyriize]

cotton candy | p.wb

“so we just have sex to solve all our problems”

💿now playing: cotton candy by yungblud

❯ summary: Your boyfriend, Wonbin, is so fucking stubborn that he never knows when, how or why he should apologise. Good thing he’s good at hot, sweaty make-up sex though.

❯ pairings: wonbin x fem!reader

❯ genre: established relationship, angst, smut

❯ words: 1.3k

❯ tags: 18+ minors dni!, swearing, make-up sex, pretty arguing for like a second, wonbin is insufferably stubborn, mention of marking, unprotected sex, lowkey a toxic dynamic oops

an: this fic has absolutely nothing to do with cotton candy, or the song really lol, i was just inspired by this one lyric.

Park Wonbin is stubborn—but not as stubborn as you.

He never thought he’d meet someone who could rival him in that department, let alone end up dating them. It’s a mess, really. Maybe even toxic. Because while he loves every single part of you, when the two of you argue, it’s like fire meeting fire.

It gets nasty. Personal. Downright vicious. Honestly, your friends can’t figure out how you’ve lasted this long—especially since neither of you ever wants to be the first to back down. Apologising? Yeah, no.

Wonbin doesn’t apologise.

But this time, he really should.

It started the same, always does, over something petty like the dishes, or jealousy or when he works long hours and forgets to schedule you in but always seems to have time for the boys. That last one was oddly specific because it’s the exact reason you’ve been screaming at each other in his apartment for the past twenty minutes.

You’d jabbed at his chest with your finger and he’d swatted it away. The fury in his eyes lit aflame, and you weren’t sure you saw an end in sight.

But then he said it.

“If you don’t like it, you can leave.”

That was the end. Because stubborn might as well have been your middle name, and you were ready to make good on his threat—if only his apartment wasn’t so far from yours.

“Fine, I’ll be gone first thing in the morning.”

“Fine,” he spat.

Without another word, you turned on your heel and stormed off to the bedroom, your footsteps heavy with anger. You didn’t bother slamming the door—too cliché—but the sharp click of it shutting was enough to drive your point home.

You busied yourself with grabbing whatever you’d brought over—a spare set of clothes, your charger, a few toiletries—but the more you moved around the room, the more frustrated you became. Your hands shook as you stuffed items into your bag, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from yelling.

Yelling would give him too much satisfaction, and satisfaction was the last thing you wanted to give him right now.

You throw yourself onto the bed, glaring up at the ceiling. The covers feel cold, they always do when he’s not there to cuddle you asleep, not that you’d want that right now, you’d technically just broken up—maybe—ugh, you don’t know. He’s too complicated to work out.

Instead, you curl up on your side, the pillow barely softening the tension in your neck. And sleep doesn’t come easily—your mind replays every word, every jab, and that final, infuriating sentence: “If you don’t like it, you can leave.”

Asshole.

Hours pass, the silence of the apartment punctuated only by the occasional creak of the floorboards and the low hum of the city outside. Your phone screen glares at you from the nightstand, but you ignore it. You weren’t about to scroll through social media for comfort—not tonight.

The doorknob turns with a faint click, and the door opens just enough for him to slip inside. The soft rustle of his clothes and the weight of his footsteps tell you exactly who it is.

You don’t move. Don’t look. Just stay still, pretending to be asleep.

And then the bed dips—but it’s not like you can be mad—this is his house, his room, his bed.

Just…why did he have to be so goddamn stubborn? You’re not going to apologise. You’ve done nothing wrong.

And like you said, Wonbin doesn’t apologise either.

Well…not verbally, at least.

Because within minutes, the shift in the mattress goes from tentative to deliberate. His hand slides across your waist, pulling you flush against him, and before you can even protest, he’s pressing into you—pinning you to the bed, his actions saying everything his pride won’t.

Because when Wonbin knows he’s wrong, he’s bad with words. Instead his body moves against yours, wordlessly pleading for forgiveness the only way he knows how—telling you he regrets what he did.

This is the exact reason he doesn’t apologise. Why should he when he can just fuck you silly and make up?

It’s always from the back after you fight, and you’ve come to understand that it’s because Wonbin doesn’t want to look into your eyes and see any lingering hurt. He's not supposed to be the one that hurts you, he hates it actually.

His hands wrap around your wrists, smashing your palms against the mattress as his slender frame rubs against your back, allowing you to feel every inch of his hot, sweat-soaked skin as he thrusts.

His face finds his favourite place, buried in your nape, because there’s something so possessive about it; and he needs to mark it because he doesn’t want you to leave. He might have said it, yes, but he didn’t mean it. You have to know he didn't mean it.

Your nails dig into the sheets as he licks and sucks, leaving his signature purple love bites across your flesh. You practically mewel into the pillow you’re chewing on when he dips between your shoulder blades and marks there too.

He’s really drilling it home, and you can feel all of the passion and love he has for you poured into his fucking, but it’s almost not enough.

It’s too easy. He’s too easy to forgive considering he hasn’t muttered the word ‘sorry’ since you met him.

But as you turn around to try and even attempt to reprimand him, one look at the crimson tint on his pale complexion and the heavy lidded haze on his eyes has you clenching around his cock. And then the fucker had to go and whimper, the sound so faint and vunberable it was impossible to be mad at him.

“Binnie—” you moan, arching your back to give him a better angle, pushing yourself into his fervent rutting.

Your head rolls against your shoulders, tilting back, needing a better look of him. His unruly black hair damp and sticking to his own face, his lip chewed from biting down. He nuzzles close to your cheek, panting and grunting in your ear and it becomes your undoing.

“Baby, kiss me…” you plead with him for just a little taste, your lips parted, jaw hanging slack and your eyes dazed.

You can’t believe you’re the one begging him right now.

Instead of answering you, Wonbin only grunts and nests his face into your neck, where he kisses and sucks and nibbles on your pulse point as his hips slap against your ass in rapid, needy thrust. He keeps uttering your name, whining it in between his ragged breaths, squeezing both of your wrists until your fingers are tingling.

You can tell that he’s right on the edge, chasing his elusive high deep into your cunt, his sensitive tip twitching and throbbing as it daubs at your inner nerves. Your stomach knots up.

“Oh, fuck, Bin—!”

Wonbin wraps a gentle fist around your neck and guides your face back into the pillows, shushing you breathlessly as he does so. You know why— you’re so damn loud when he fucks you like this, and Wonbin is a jealous man. Your moans are his to hear—not his lousy neighbour who he has seen checking you out a couple of times.

That could start another argument on its own.

As you both settle, your body trembling with aftershocks and his twitching needily, you feel him pull out with a long, shaking moan. Your body reacts, missing the feel of him. You roll onto your back, panting whilst staring at the ceiling and he sits back on his knees.

You look at him and manage a small smile, though his face remains clouded with a frown. His eyes flicker to yours for a moment before darting away. You sigh, already knowing what this means—you’ll have to be the one to speak first.

“Baby, c’mere,” you say softly, opening your arms.

It’s all the invitation he needs. Without a word, he slides into your hold, his movements almost hesitant as he rests his head against your chest. He avoids your gaze, even as your fingers thread gently through his damp hair.

“It’s okay,” you murmur, your voice tender and low. “I forgive you. I love you.”

Maybe Park Wonbin was as stubborn as you.

[universalzones]

"Your concern is understandable Vector, though we must remain as calm as possible given the situation. Cool heads must prevail." Blaze was sure it was easier said then done, though given everything that's happening worrying and panicking will do them little good and could even make the situation worse. The feline would offer to go look, though Rowan did have a point. She was needed her for when they called President Thawne back.

Rowan looked at Espio upon asking to tag along. "I'll be honest, I'm not the best team player, even if I try to be. Besides, you guys were undercover and investigating Clutch, right? That means if they decided to push that The Restoration did anything shady you can easily check them with everything you know. Not to mention it's best not to spread thin again." The lemur figured going solo was best at the moment. "Not to mention traveling the Shadow Void is tricky, and taking the time to explain wouldn't be ideal."

"Thankfully it seems that was the only damage done, though I have no way of actually checking if Jewel was over there when the piece fell. With the servers down no data was stored so all recording data is stored on the camera's themselves." Belle was in the dark, though could only hope that Jewel was safe and okay. Hopefully the beetle was able to take cover and remain safe.

"More power to my niece, though I think I'm good. Besides, speed won't do much in trying to get around a bunch of rubble." Rowan would then whistle, a shadow moving up to the wall and opening a portal to the Shadow Void. "I'll hopefully be back before the call." With that the lemur went over and stepped it as it closed up behind him.

===========================================================

"A piece of the airship fell and fucked shit up, I get it." Surge didn't need such a long and detailed explanation, though at least she knew where Jewel was. The tenrec did remember she still had a comm link to the Diamond Cutters, though should she use it? No, everything was crazy enough, and she should be able to handle this solo.

"Did I fucking stutter? I said get to the infirmary as there's no way you're lifting me in your condition. I may not look that heavy, though my muscles are completely metal so I'm way heavier than I look. Besides, I might have a way to get past all this rubble." Surge would walk over to the rubble, tossing a small piece of lightning which seemed to be drawn into it by something. "There's a ton of metal. If I surf it like I would an electrical grid I should be able to get through." The tenrec was leaving out the danger of if there wasn't any metal to bounce off of she could get stuck if she can't bounce back.

The big croc just felt responsible for Jewel, and having lost her it bothered him. Worse Charmy wasn't answering his phone either, which further worried him. The kid might have been mostly grown up now but, he was still like his own. He cared for that brat no matter how often they argued and fought. Him not picking up in a crisis like this? It wasn't like him and he was overly concerned about him. So maybe he snapped and got the wrong idea but still... he was worried and it showed.

" sorry... I'm just worried bout both of them that's all... "

Espio however approached Rowan as he was preparing to leave. The Shinobi looking rather stern, and focused and a hard one to read. It was well known that Espio saw himself as a sort of protector or guardian and a bit more of a practical sort. Some falsely believed he was dating Vector, though they were close that was not the case.

" Rowan wasn't it? I'd like to go with you, I won't do much good here and i'd rather be in the field. "

Of all the warriors present Espio was probably the most skilled fighter there outside of Blaze. In terms of raw martial skill he might even out perform both Sonic and Blaze. On the one hand he did wish to watch Rowan's back, on the other he had a personal stake in finding Charmy.

" I'd guess when the big wisp pushed back on the air ship some of the plating must have been dislodged. Was anyone in that prison? We might need to send a team to check it over and dig out any survivors..."

" heh ya sure ya don't want a lift? Tangle sure seems to enjoy when i cart her around... she doesn't even vomit anymore! i call that progress! "

==============================================

The Bee buzzed his wings checking his arm and realizing it was just dislocated. He gripped his arm tight as Surge ran up to him and gave her a little look of one moment. Before jammed his shoulder into the building! With a loud POP his shoulder went back into place just like Espio taught him!

" HO!!!! like rainbows and gum drops! "

He finally slid down the wall to just rest a second as Surge pulled up and tugged off his helmet and checked the dent. His short black hair falling down over his face somewhat. he was thankful for his natural tolerance to pain a perk of being a Bee.

" I ain't really to important right now! i as set on a super important mission! big V said to me, keep the Director safe! and i was totally doing that! but ya know she's quicker then she looks... for a beetle! She tells me she wants to make sure the prison is clear in case the worst happens--- and then the sky fell down and hit me on my noggin... "

He held up his helmet with the massive dent in it. Very likely it saved him from being killed, and Vector was always making fun of it!

" I think ... the roof collapsed and... i dunno the rest is fuzzy... but she could be hurt or worse! we gotta tell someone or something... "

The bee stood up and dusted himself off and rolled his still messed up shoulder. Despite his injuries the kid seemed to be made of stern stuff. He was pushing on despite all of it and even smiled as if it were no big deal!

" Na, infirmay can wait! you need a way over that debris right? Well my wings still work... i can get ya over the obstacles! i've had way worse then this just training with uncle espio! so i'll be fine! "

[benkeibear]

⛧°。 ⋆༺ 𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄 ༻⋆。 °⛧

𝑆𝘩𝑒'𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑎𝑐𝑖𝑑 𝑛𝑜𝑟 𝑎𝑙𝑘𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑒, 𝑐𝑎𝑢𝑔𝘩𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑡𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑏𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑤𝘩𝑖𝑡𝑒 - 𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑒𝑖𝑡𝘩𝑒𝑟 𝑑𝑎𝑦 𝑜𝑟 𝑛𝑖𝑔𝘩𝑡

𝐼𝑓 𝑎𝑛𝑦𝑡𝘩𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑠𝘩𝑒'𝑠 𝑎𝑛 𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑐𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡. 𝐸𝑖𝑡𝘩𝑒𝑟 𝑏𝑜𝑟𝑛 𝑖𝑛 𝘩𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝑜𝑟 𝘩𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑡 - 𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑒𝑖𝑡𝘩𝑒𝑟 𝑤𝑎𝑦 ���'𝑚 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑖𝑡

༺ synopsis: After getting saved from a, what you assumed to be, cannibal, you are left with no choice but to tag along with your savior and his companions. You might learn their names but their conversations cause more questions to arise... and what do they mean with "you're not a bloodsucker yet"???

༺ characters: Yuuji Itadori, Nanami Kento, Satoru Gojo

༺ reader: female | AFAB

༺ wc: 3050

༺ cw: mentions of cannibalism and vampires, Y/N used once to introduce yourself, broken bones and injuries

༺ notes: chapter 2 is finally here and you get to know your companions that you'll stick with for some time - or at least until you figure out how to get back

MASTERLIST // Taglist

<- Previous Chapter // -> Next chapter (coming soon)

“What are you waiting for? Run!” The blonde man called out to you quite angrily, snapping you out of the shell shock, but your legs barely carried you, letting you stumble away from the scene…

⛧°。 ⋆༺ ————— ༻⋆。 °⛧

It felt like the world around you crumbled apart to dust and the trees slowly fell apart into their singular atoms as you ran, legs numb but carrying you steady so you may escape whatever you just encountered. To be quite honest, you didn't want to have anything to do with it, your head was hurting just thinking about that creep who wanted to quite literally take a bite out of you.

As your mind raced with far too many thoughts, your eyesight betrayed you and the world started to become a haze of blurred colors and black dots clouding your vision. The heavy beating of your heart was once again all you could hear when your ears seemingly shut themselves off to the world around you. Run he said… but where to? What am I supposed to do in the middle of a forest unknown to me? Your thoughts were slowly turning darker and you wondered just where the beautiful lights at the lake and its path disappeared to, making you wonder just where exactly you were.

Just as you were about to bend over to catch a breath, the frantic running straining your stamina, you ran into a figure once again. Your heart stopped beating for a moment when you collided with a warm body, terrified that the creep from before got to you once again.

Before you tumbled to the ground ass first, he caught you by your upper arm. Your eyes were shut tight as you braced yourself for a harsh impact with the ground beneath, but it never came - instead you felt a warm hand holding you by your biceps. The grip was tight, but nowhere near painful and it felt so comfortably warm.

“Now, now, little lady. You should watch where you walk next time. You could have run into trouble headfirst!” He exclaimed amused and made sure you were standing steady before letting go of you again. His white hair seemed to glow underneath the moonlight and his blue eyes were eyeing you like a piece of meat he was about to devour at his dinner table.

“My boyfriend is right behind me! Don't you dare take a bite out of me too, you pervert!” You spat a lie, trying to sound brave, but it only made the man in front of you laugh, earning a disapproving noise from the smaller male standing a little further to the side. You didn't even notice him until then.

“You'll only scare her off! Can't you smell Nanamin on her?” He asked the white haired man and moved a step closer to you, which prompted you to take a step backwards.

The strawberry blonde man held his hands up in defense, his eyes softening when he saw just how frightened you really were - rightfully so. You were in the middle of a forest surrounded by men.

“I won't hurt you… But you should put this on,” he slowly took off his cloak and held it out to you, his arm extended towards you as far as possible so you wouldn't have to get too close.

Cautiously you took one step towards the young man and snatched his cloak as if he would change his mind about the generous offer. It was an, what you would consider oldschool, dark grey cloak made out of felted wool to keep out the wind and rain. With trembling hands you wrapped the piece around your freezing body and relished in the warmth it still kept from being worn by the man in front of you. Only the smell was displeasing - wet dog.

“What were you doing out here anyway? Especially in that… less than appropriate gown?” The white haired man asked as he looked at his friend interacting with you, his head cocked to the side in a curious manner.

“And all by your own,” the strawberry blonde man added, sounding more concerned than accusatory, but you still took offense by it. They were right, though - what were you doing out here anyway?

“I-” you started, but your mouth opened and closed again like a fish on land. Should you tell the truth or try to give them a convincing lie?

“To be quite frank, I don't know what I was doing either,” you mumbled defeated, which caused the younger man's face to fall, looking even more concerned for you now.

“and the gown? If one can even call that…” The white haired man judged your lack of clothes once again. Wearing only an oversized sweater wasn't appropriate nor wise and you knew that, but it's not like you planned on taking a swim or getting chased through the woods by a perverted cannibal.

“We can question her at the village,” a voice from behind startled you, almost causing you to hide behind the man who lent you his cloak.

The blonde man who saved you from said creep was back and despite his clothes having a tear at his arm, soaked with blood, he looked well put together and not even slightly disheveled.

Both men agreed with him, not even questioning him for a single second and he didn't acknowledge you further, only staring you down sternly. His gaze screamed do not argue. You will come with us now and as much as you wanted to tell him to shove it, you decided it's best to tag along for now. After all, he saved you and his two companions were perhaps a little rude, but they were showing no signs of wanting to murder, violate, or eat you, so you deemed them safe - you would still sleep with one eye open, though.

The blonde man walked on without any more words exchanged and the other two followed, expecting you to walk alongside them as well, which you did. Trying your best to keep up, you made sure to stay at least one step behind the small group, out of respect, uncertainty, or whatever told you it's best to keep them at arm's length.

Your position behind the small group gave you enough time to observe them, their features, their clothes and mostly their conversations - which barely made sense to you, so you gave up on that soon. The strawberry blonde haired man, however, caught your eye, one arm carefully cradled to his chest most of the walk until he pointed at something with it once. Without realizing it, a small gasp left your mouth at the sight: His arm was bent at a weird angle, blood sticking to his beige linen shirt that was torn below the elbow, the rest of the sleeve used as a makeshift bandage. Cautiously you walked up to him.

“If you hand me a first aid kit, I could bandage it up until we get to the nearest hospital,” you offer friendly, although carefully. His expression crunches up for a moment as if you're talking a foreign language.

“A first aid what? And we’re not going towards that… Hospital you've mentioned. We go home,” he pointed out, seemingly confused by your sentence. It took you off guard, but you shook your head, refusing to back down.

“A doctor needs to see this… your arm is broken!” You protest and gesture to his arm. Your conversation now caught the attention of the other two men, given that you raised your voice.

“A healer?” The white haired man questioned, which only made you sigh.

“A doctor, a healer. Whatever you call it, but his arm is broken!” You were truly outraged at how they didn't seem to care about it, not even the poor guy himself seemed very fazed.

“Oh that? It's an old wound, it will be healed in no time,” he reassured you, but it only caused more question marks to appear over your head. The wound was old? The blood was freshly dried and it looked no older than two, maybe three, hours.

“He will see a healer once we’re back at our castle. He will be fine soon,” the blonde man said stoically without even looking back to where the three of you were having a heated discussion about seeing a doctor.

The injured man gave you a small smile and nodded, knowing that he had already said too much, but he hoped that the other man's words would help you feel more at ease.

His steps slowed down to match your pace and he studied your face for a moment, your eyes flickering nervously under his intense gaze.

“My name is Yuuji, I don't think I've introduced myself appropriately yet,” he rubbed the back of his neck in a sheepish manner while he gave you a charming grin.

You tried to give the strawberry blonde man a genuine smile, but the corners of your mouth barely managed to move upwards.

“Nice to meet you, Yuuji. I’m Y/N,” you introduced yourself, not quite knowing if offering a hand is appropriate given that he's hurt and using his other arm to steady the injured one.

The white haired man repeated your name a few times, giving it a lot of pronunciations and butchering it before rolling it on his tongue a few more times.

“What a beautiful name for such a beautiful lady. My name is Satoru, but I'm sure you'll be screaming it soon,” he winked at you as he walked backwards. Both his arms were up as he rested his hands against the back of his head, but his words made you shudder, unsure if it was with disgust or cringe.

“Don't pay him any mind, he tries to flirt with everything that has a pulse.” Yuuji apologized for his companion, cringing at his words as well.

Satoru gently pushed Yuuji in a playful manner and the two men engaged in playful banter while you tried to catch up with your savior.

“May I ask your name…sir?” You asked quite shy, unsure if you should address him as sir or more casually, but he seemed well respected by the other two.

“Kento. Kento Nanami," he replied cold and looked at you out of the corner of his eye.

“The sir is unnecessary. I’m not that old yet.” He seemed to feel your uncertainty and for a single second, a small smile made its way onto his lips.

You simply nod to the newly acquired information, figuring that he caught your name from the previous conversation since he seemed to follow it in silence.

“Once we’re back, I will make sure the maids dress you properly,” he looked down at you with a certain disdain, the corners of his mouth dropping as if he was disgusted.

“You're dressed even less decently than a lady working at the alehouse,” he added, which caused you to frown, pulling the cloak of Yuuji around you tighter.

“I’m not- I was simply out on a stroll because-” you protested, but he swiftly cut you off before you could try to explain your situation.

“I do not care. All I know is that a woman coming out of this very lake only means trouble,” he shut you down quite harshly, waving his hand in a dismissive manner.

If Nanami was quite honest, he didn't want you anywhere near him or his companions, but he could never live with himself if he wouldn't have helped you. It was almost as natural as breathing to him, putting his own life at risk if it meant being able to save others who were less fortunate than him. It was different with you, though, he considered leaving you to be sucked dry like a raisin after seeing that other man's reaction to you - and now your talks of doctors, kits and hospitals - Nanami was certain that you weren't from around here and that only meant bad news.

“Maybe it's not like that!” Yuuji quipped in unprompted and it made no sense to you - maybe it's not like what?

By now you were as sure as one can be that there's something going on that all three of them are hiding from you and you were unsure if you wanted to know just what it was. Deciding it's best to let them have their secrets for now, you didn't question what exactly the young man meant.

“Then she's your responsibility. Take care of her,” Nanami barked back the order, making you feel like you're some sort of unwanted pet that Yuuji gathered from the street.

“I can take great care of myself, thanks,” you grumbled and fell back again, no longer wanting to have a conversation with the blonde man since you were such a huge bother in his life.

Only a few seconds later, Yuuji was back at your side and gave you a small smile, hoping you're not too hurt by Nanami's words, he can be harsh sometimes, but he means well.

“I know you can take care of yourself, but if anything happens, I won't hesitate to help you, okay?” He asked carefully, gauging your reaction, but when you nodded at him, his smile grew in size.

A comfortable silence fell amongst the four of you as you walked on for what felt like an eternity - and it must have been quite a few hours, given that the sun had begun to rise and illuminated the forest in a soft glow of orange hues, which allowed you to see more clearly. At this point you weren't sure how far you had wandered from the castle, although it slowly dawned on you that returning there anytime soon was not in your cards. Sighing to yourself, you looked back towards the way you came from, silently mourning your old life as you mentally prepared yourself for whatever the path ahead of you had in store - as the unwanted pet, companion, or whatever you were to the three men who saved you from that pesky cannibal just mere hours ago.

At one point your legs were stinging from the cold morning air, the cloak only doing so much to keep the cold out of your drenched clothes and you were able to feel the cold slowly sinking into your skin and deep into your bones. It delicately wrapped itself around each limb, traveling through your entire body like a whisper, slowing your heartbeat and dulling your senses. Your breath looked like a frosty mist with each exhale in front of you, blending into the thin layer of fog that surrounded you and without noticing it, your body became suspended in a tranquil stillness - unable to move much further as it slowed down your system.

“Hey, get up. It's not far anymore." Yuuji’s voice sounded concerned, although distant, as you looked at him with half lidded eyes.

The cold spread through your torso and your lungs felt as if they were cast in a layer of ice, frozen from the inside.

With some strength, you shake your head and look at him, reminding him of a fawn that is yet to take its first steps. Utterly helpless.

“Come here. I'll carry you,” he mumbled and crouched down in front of you, expecting you to climb onto his back.

“Your arm…” Your protest was weak, but he simply dismissed your concern as he hoisted you onto his back himself.

With every step Yuuji took, you melted further into his back, slumping against him as your head rested upon his shoulders. Your limbs went numb and unresponsive, but his body heat provided a great comfort as the first snowflakes started to fall from the gloomy sky, navigating their fall through the few trees that surrounded you - you were almost out of the forest and an open field was ahead of you. The grass wore a thin layer of morning dew that Jack Frost himself must have placed there, every little drop looking like a small diamond as the cold weather slowly froze the world around you.

In the depths of your slumber, you see a woman whose heart was missing as she walks a path that inevitably leads to nothing but flames scorching high enough to reach the horizon above. You can feel the air thicken as she continues her path, but the weight of her love wraps around you like a warm blanket when she smiles softly at a shadowed figure. Who was she?

“Don't follow me,” you hear her voice loud and clear when it was just a whisper as she stepped into the flames that loomed at the end of the path - not a single sign of remorse on her face as her burning body sinks into the arms of the shadowed figure until she is nothing but dust.

When your eyes flutter open, you hope to see your fiancé lying next to you, that all of this was just a bad dream - yet the sorrow of watching this woman turn to ashes clung to your mind as if it's a fresh memory.

Once your eyes adjusted to the light, a pair of bright blue eyes looked right back at you, a grin forming on his lips as well… And were those… fingers in your mouth?

Out of pure shock, you clamp your jaw shut, biting the white haired man in the process, who quickly cradled his now bleeding finger to his chest before licking at the bleeding wound like a hurt kitten.

“Feisty one, aren't ya?” Satoru asked amused as he chuckled. He didn't seem to be mad at you for biting him, surely he would have done the same if the roles were reversed.

“Feisty but not one of them… yet,” he further announced with a huge grin to Nanami, who sat at the table just a few steps away from the quite uncomfortable bed you were laid on.

“Not one of them? Yet?” You questioned worried, your eyes darting back and forth between both men until the door burst open to reveal Yuuji trotting inside with some bread and a glass of water.

“Not a pesky bloodsucker!” He explained thrilled as if this was the most natural thing to announce. Not a... bloodsucker?

Networks: @pixelcafe-network @interstellar-inn @houseofsolisoccasum

[thievinghippo]

First line/page WIP meme

Tagged by @aldisobey and figured why not? This fic is called 'a tangled funeral pyre' and will focus on the consequences of Rook attempting the lichdom rites forty years after the events of the game. This first section is a flashback

Tagging anyone else who wants to join in! I would love to see the cool stuff you're all writing! :D

#

“She’s keeping something from me.”

“Emmrich…”

Emmrich can only drop his head at the disappointment he hears in Myrna’s voice. Which is the last thing he wants to hear during their monthly tea. For almost twenty years now, since the defeat of the elven gods, they’ve met for tea in Myrna’s apartments in the upper levels of the Necropolis.

“Rook is allowed secrets, of course,” Emmrich says, staring at his hands. It’s not as if he doesn’t have any secrets himself. They are not his, though, but those of the Necropolis. Things that only the liches are allowed to know. “But in almost twenty years, she’s never deliberately hid something from me.”

The last few days… Her aura is different, somehow. There’s a nervousness he hasn’t seen from her before, not even before Teardrop Island. Something is clearly worrying her and the fact that she hasn’t confided in him breaks the heart he no longer has. All he wants is to be a source of comfort to her for the mortal years she has left.

“Have you considered inquiring about the change?” Myrna asks. She takes a sip of tea then places it down carefully on the saucer. “I will admit, I did sense some sort of distraction within Rook when we went to the theatre the other night.”

“And it was such a good production of The Tyrant of Minrathous,” Emmrich muses, thinking about the one of the many plays, songs, and novels that have been created about their adventures defeating the elven gods all those years ago.

“Speaking of that night, did I notice correctly that you’ve aged your glamour slightly?”

Emmrich tightens his grip on his cup of tea. While he hasn’t drank anything since lichdom, if the cup is hot enough, he can actually feel the warmth in his bones. Somehow, that warmth is a small comfort that he’s treasured, considering he’s lost so many others.

“Only five or so years. Rook believes that I should just let her catch up to my glamour. Maybe someday.” A day he refuses to let himself think about. He never allows himself to dwell on the fact that each day is one less he has with her.

“Why not have your glamour match her age? Truly, I was surprised you did not when you first crafted one.”

“Oh I very much considered doing just that,” Emmrich says, thinking back to those nights when he debated on his glamour, even when so many other pressing duties awaited. “If I recall, I believe I decided on changing my age would be cheating.”

Myrna simply tilts her head and takes another sip of team. “Cheating?”

If Emmrich still had an eyebrow to raise, he would raise one now. “My dear Myrna, I know Vorgoth would have mentioned the conversations we had about my insecurity regarding my age and my relationship with Rook.”

To her credit, she nods instead of trying to deny it. Vorgoth really is the worst gossip in all of the Necropolis. “I might remember hearing a thing or two.”

It’s that moment Emmrich senses something deep within the Necropolis. A sudden tremor that only a lich would have the ability to sense. He places his teacup onto the table and focuses. He looks to the beating pulse of the Necropolis itself and feels a pull.

“Myrna, please accept my apologies, but I am being called to a pressing matter.” 

Emmrich stands and focuses his energy, trying to see exactly where he is meant to go. The uncreatively named Lich Hall, down in the deepest recesses of the Necropolis. Where only the four unliving lich lords have access.

Four lich lords and any member of the Mourn Watch who has discovered the first step of the journey to lichdom.

Suddenly he can look back at Rook’s aura with perfect clarity.

[gossippool]

firstly, let's address your tags and the things you've said in your reply.

i've already talked about this--and the issue of drawing style--in my other reblogs. also, "there's the twink behaviour (because twink is a behavioural stereotype, too)" i'm sorry but did you miss my point completely? yes it is a behavioural stereotype. that is what i'm saying. it's the fact that the original and only definition for twink is purely about physical characteristics, but by association of feminine mannerisms to some heteronormative stereotype of women having slender figures, effeminate behaviour has become synonymous with the word "twink". and also the heteronormative stereotype of a more feminine person having to be with a more masculine man. THAT IS EXACTLY WHAT I'M CALLING OUT. because it is a harmful assumption to make. because it's reductive and homophobic and misogynistic. half of what you're even saying--he's drawn more muscular next to slimmer characters in team ups, and smaller when he's "submissive"--that is all part of this point i'm making.

the point is that there shouldn't be this type of division. and like i said in another reblog, official art is not immune to this, so they should not be the foundation on which we work off of. why do artists draw characters smaller when they're in a, as you say, submissive role? or when they're paired up with more traditionally masculine characters???? i feel like i'm repeating myself here

and you bringing up power is exactly what i mean by implicit bias. the fact that you associate being a "twink" with being weaker and being attracted to people who are more powerful, especially in these scenarios where actual superpowers come into play and so can't be equated to each other?? shiklah is an Actual Monster btw, she could kill a million muscular men in a second. so i don't know what argument you're trying to make here.

secondly, i said in my original tags that if you can find me a comic that draws wade consistently twinkish throughout even ONE issue i would rescind my statement. and since you kindly gave me examples, let's do this one at a time.

1. the decoy (2010), which is a single issue comic. this is how he looks in the rest of the comic:

2. deadpool (2012), the good, the bad and the ugly run. the artist is declan shalvey. here are panels from the same issue:

3. cable & deadpool (2004) #34. the penciller is reilly brown. here are panels from this issue, from the same page even.

4. the rollerblading panel is from deadpool (2008) by daniel way, famously the worst deadpool run in existence with terrible writing. this is from issue 15, penciller paco medina. here are panels from this exact issue:

so yeah i don't want to argue about this anymore because i feel like my point has been misconstrued. kay and i did elaborate on all this in the reblogs where i covered pretty much all the points i mentioned here

no one's gonna stop you from making wade a twink but just know that it has never been canon ever, and also maybe think about why you want him to be a twink so bad. is it just because he acts more effeminate and so you think he should have the stereotypical body to match? are there implicit biases and assumptions forced on your labelling of people as twinks? is it just because you want him to be more personally appealing to you? <3

[midnightbears]

✿ duskbound, afterlight.

#STARRING: cybertronian femme reader & other characters.

#TAGS: trauma. mentions of suicide and sh tendencies. sadness. feelings catching up to reader

#NOTES: none i can think about. not a very action-y chapter, it's y/n-centered. enjoy!

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | part seven

Vaportrail visited you sometimes.

Not physically, because that was impossible. She was, hopefully, somewhere within the whereabouts of Cybertropolis and as far away as possible from Kaon and all its terrible danger. You hoped some compassionate bot had taken her in. Deep down, you knew that she was better off without you. The thought of her smiling in a place far from you filled you with a sort of solace; her chances of a brighter future seemed much greater when separated from your own tumultuous existence.

Still, you had no idea why she would come to you in your dreams.

Vaportrail, look at me.

Peculiarly, it was always the same dream. You sat on your old berth, in your old berthroom, in your old satellite. You were facing Vaportrail, sitting on her carrier’s berth, messing with one of the gadgets from Starlight’s toolbox. The sparkling was quiet, never saying a word, unaware of what had happened that very day. Unaware that her carrier was now dead. Buried beneath the ground of the very same satellite she resided in.

Vaportrail, please look at me.

You would try opening your intake to voice what your processor was screaming, but nothing would come out. You so desperately wanted to find the right words, but they were failing you. There was nothing to say. What could you tell little Vaportrail? What could mend her gaping existence that her loving carrier used to fill?

I know you’re upset but look at me.

One of your old comrades had filled you in on what had happened. Turns out, in a fit of rage, the mech Starlight was visiting had smashed her helm against the wall or something like that. 

Don’t just sit there.

She didn’t look at you. Not once. Vaportrail's optics remained fixed on the gadget in her small servos, her movements unrushed, gentle, as though she had all the time in the world to figure out how it worked. A small smile formed on her face as she giggled at it.

Vaportrail, please, I’m sorry.

You tried to move closer, but your frame felt locked in place. The berth beneath you groaned as if protesting your presence, a stark reminder of how long it had been since you last sat there. Every attempt to speak, to call her name, was met with silence—a void where your voice should have been. The weight of the words you wanted to say bore down on your spark, growing heavier with each second.

Look at me.

Finally, her tiny optics flickered up, meeting yours for the briefest of moments. A thousand emotions surged through you—relief, guilt, fear. But her expression was unreadable, her gaze distant, as if she wasn’t genuinely seeing you. Instead, she turned back to the gadget, her movements now faster, more erratic.

VAPORTRAIL, DON’T JUST SIT THERE AND LOOK AT ME.

You wanted to reach out, to hold her close and tell her that you were sorry. Sorry for not being there. Sorry for letting her down. Instead, she opened her intake.

“Why are you here?”

Her voice was soft, almost too quiet to hear, but it struck like a blade to your spark. You swallowed thickly at her words as they collided with you more than any punch that had ever been thrown at you. Her tone wasn’t accusing, just...matter-of-fact. Her optics remained downcast, focused on the device in her servos, as though the weight of her words was too much to bear.

“Vaportrail,” you finally managed, your voice cracked and unfamiliar even to yourself. “I... I—”

“Go back. Leave me alone.” Her voice trembled with a sharp edge as she shook her helm, cutting you off. The disdain in her gaze was piercing, something you would never have suspected the petite femmeling could harbor within her gentle spark. She had always been a beacon of sweetness and patience, never once voicing a complaint. What had happened?

As you watched, her delicate frame began to glitch, the outlines of her figure flickering intermittently like a holographic image losing its clarity. Panic surged through you as you instinctively reached out, desperate to grab hold of her fragile form and pull her back into reality. But your servos passed through her as if she were made of nothing more than mist, dissipating into the air.

This time, she actually recoiled at you, her optics dimming in horror at your futile gesture. Disgust twisted her features, and she flinched away from your outstretched servos, which, despite their strength, held no power over her ephemeral existence. “I don’t want you here! I don’t like you!”

Her words shattered you. You were sure that, from the outside, one would be able to hear the sound of your spark breaking into a million pieces.

“Wait!” you cried out, your voice finally breaking free of whatever had bound it. “Vaportrail, please— I didn’t—”

She looked at you again.

“You let her die. You let it happen.”

And then she was gone.

Usually, your optics would flash open right after she disappeared into your arms, and you would find yourself in your new berth, in your new berthroom. The transition was always jarring, like being ejected from one universe into another. The cold, metallic walls of your quarters seemed to mock the warmth and comfort you had just lost. The dream lingered, stubborn as a phantom, her presence clinging to the edges of your mind like static you couldn’t tune out. You’d reach out reflexively, grasping at nothing, before the crushing realization set in—it was just a dream.

Whenever you awoke from one of these dreams, that urge to bash your helm against the wall reared its ugly head, and you held back the biting compulsion to snap your own spark in half with a jab of your blade. It was a cycle you had grown far too familiar with. The fleeting hope that this time might be different—that maybe you’d wake up somewhere else, someone else—quickly curdled into the same stale despair.

But as much as these thoughts consumed you, there were more immediate threats to face. In spite of your unsettling self-hatred and need for self-flagellation, you had to focus on the gladiatorial pits. Which gladiators would bash your helm or snap your spark today if you crossed them in the arena? The thought was bitterly ironic: why kill yourself alone, when there were others outside who would gladly do the job for you?

Luckily, those horrible thoughts only lasted for about an hour each day. By then, you were fully activated, your systems humming with purpose as you threw yourself into the grind. Routine became your armor, shielding you from the corrosive weight of your emotions. Days blurred as you survived your matches, sparred with either Echo or Bluey, or learned new factors about your fellow gladiators when watching their matches.

You still cried when you were alone. A lot. But at least you were productive. At least you were moving forward, even if it felt like walking in circles in a cage you could never escape.

Nighttime was the only period you allowed your old self to resurface, the self you tried so hard to bury beneath layers of cynicism and cold practicality. In the quiet hours, when the pits fell silent and the lights dimmed, you let the memories flood in. You could see her so neatly: she still stood there with a mining pickaxe, trying to make herself smaller in the shadow of everything around her. Her frame seemed fragile, her servos trembling, but despite it all, she carried a smile on her dermas and a perfectly good spark.

It wasn’t just a smile; it was a lifeline. A promise that things could be better. She had believed that once. And in these moments, you almost dared to believe it too. You would sit in the dim glow of your quarters, the weight of the day pressing on your plating, and let yourself grieve for the person you used to be. It wasn’t a weakness, you told yourself. It was a release. A way to siphon off the pressure before it crushed you entirely. Catharsis.

What a nightmare it is to change.

──────────────────────────────────

The clang of blades reverberated inside the sparring room, the sharp sound echoing off the metallic walls. You sluggishly sprung around his pelts as Bluey’s blade sliced through the air in a fluid arc. His movements were meticulous but uniform, holding back just enough to keep the friendly session from turning into something that could potentially have an impact on either of you bodily-wise. You parried his next swing, the head of your hammer catching his long blade as the impact vibrated up your arm like a jolt of static, and pushed off to create distance.

“You’re pulling your hits again,” Bluey said, optics narrowing as he adjusted his stance. “What’s wrong with you today? Come on. You’re better than this.”

You let out a breath, your grip tightening on the handle of your weapon.

“I’m fine,” you replied, circling him warily. The words felt thin, stretched too tight around the truth.

The truth was, you weren’t better—not today, at least. The dreams had drained you again, leaving you bereft and reeling. You didn’t like how hostile your subconscious turned you toward others and how it influenced you inside the pits. Before, you had never been violent. You didn’t know why you let it out on others, but it was profoundly affecting you. 

But Bluey’s persistence wasn’t as irritating as it would have been from others, had they attempted to talk to you. If anything, it was grounding.

His helm tilted, his expression skeptical. “If by ‘fine’ you mean distracted and half-asleep, then sure.” He lunged, his blade arcing toward your side. You barely managed to block it, the force pushing you back a step. “But last I checked, being distracted gets you killed. So, try again.”

You gritted your denta and surged forward, your hammer swinging wide. Bluey dodged with with an ease that irritated you, twisting to the side and countering with a quick jab that sent you stumbling. He didn’t press the attack, though. Instead, he paused, watching you with an almost brotherly patience.

“Seriously,” he said, lowering his blade slightly. “What’s going on? You’ve been off for days.”

“It’s nothing,” you muttered, your optics flicking to the floor. The harsh lighting inside the room cast long shadows between the two of you, but whereas Bluey’s was small and unassuming, safely tucked underneath him, yours stretched high and twisting, draping the distance between you. Bluey didn’t say anything at first, his silence heavier than any words. When it became clear he wasn’t going to drop it, you sighed, lifting your weapon again. “Just tired, I guess.”

“Right,” Bluey said, “And I’m a bot fresh out of the Well. Look, I’m not trying to pry, but you’re not doing yourself any favors bottling this up.”

“I’m fine,” you said again, more forcefully this time. You swung at him again, hammer crashing against his blade with a satisfying clang. Now, your shadow engulfed him, but he didn’t budge, holding his ground like a fortress.

“Sure you are,” he said, meeting your gaze. “And that’s why you’re fighting like your processor stuck in low gear. Whatever’s going on, it’s eating you alive. Talk to me, or at least do something about it.”

Your hammer slipped down, the weight of his words sinking deep into your plating. He wasn't wrong. The burden of grieving both for the living and for the dead was murderous. You didn’t meet his optics, focusing instead on the way his servos adjusted their grip on his weapon. Finally, after a long pause, your gaze rose.

“Do you know what got me so angry during my first match?”

Bluey blinked, lowering his blade a fraction.

“No,” he admitted, his tone softer now. “But I’ve been wondering. You looked like you were done for, and then suddenly… it was like a whole different bot out there. I figured it was adrenaline, maybe desperation.”

You nodded. The memory bubbled up, vivid and sharp as ever. “It was. But… not just that.” You hesitated, the words tangling inside your voicebox. Finally, you pushed them out. “I saw someone. In my mind, I mean. A face. My Amica Endura.”

Bluey straightened, his optics fixed on you with a quiet intensity. “Your Amica Endura?”

“Her name was Starlight,” you said, the sound of her name hurting your spark. “She was… everything. The kind of bot who makes you believe in things. In yourself. She was the first to make me feel like I could do anything. That I was worth something. And she’s gone.”

Bluey didn’t interrupt, his silence inviting you to continue. You shifted, your weapon tapping lightly against the floor as you tried to steady yourself. “She was killed. Just like that. By a random mech she was visiting.”

The words felt heavy, each one dragging up memories you had tried so hard to bury. You didn’t realize your servos were trembling until Bluey stepped closer, his frame casting a long shadow over yours. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “That’s... a lot. No one should have to carry that alone.”

You let out a humorless laugh, shifting your weight to lean on your hammer. “It felt like my whole world fell apart. And when I was out there, in the pit, about to lose—about to die—all I could see was her face. How scared she must have felt against someone twice her size, how helpless, and all I could feel was anger.”

Bluey tilted his helm, his optics studying you with an unreadable expression. “So, you fought for her.”

“Yeah,” you said, nodding slowly. “But it’s not just that. I fought because... I was angry. At everything. Angry at the mech who took her from me. Angry at myself for not being there for her. And I guess part of me thought that if I survived, it would mean something. That maybe I could... make up for it, somehow.”

For a moment, there was only the hum of your cooling systems and the faint buzz of the overhead lights, their sterile glow casting muted reflections on the metal floor. Bluey’s optics softened, their vibrant hue a rare source of warmth in the otherwise cold room. Slowly, he stepped closer, his movements unhurried, deliberate, as though afraid to push you too far. His blade lowered entirely, the tip hovering just above the floor.

“That’s a lot to carry,” he said gently, his voice steady but tinged with empathy. “But it doesn’t have to define you. You’ve got strength—real strength. Not just in your servos, but in here.” He tapped his chassis, just over where his spark pulsed with life.

You swallowed hard, your optics fixed on a distant point beyond him. “Sometimes it feels like it’s all I am. Just... anger and regret. I don’t know if fighting here is about survival anymore or if I’m just trying to outrun it.”

Bluey tilted his helm, his optics softening. “You’re not just anger, Y/N. And you’re not alone, no matter how much it might feel like it. You’ve got more strength in you than you realize. And not just the kind that keeps you alive in the pits. You have spirit. Everyone else agrees.”

The sincerity in his voice tugged at something deep within you, pulling your optics back to meet his. For a moment, you saw something there—an unspoken consideration, speechless yet unmistakable, etched into the gentle contours of his expression. He wasn’t just offering encouragement; he was offering solidarity.

The weight of his words settled into your spark, not heavy, but grounding. It wasn’t absolution or a promise that things would be easier, but it was enough to make you believe, even if only for a fleeting moment, that you weren’t completely alone. That maybe, just maybe, there was more to you than the swirling emotions that had become your constant companions.

“I don’t know,” you said finally, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m still figuring it out.”

“And that’s okay,” Bluey said, stepping back into his stance with a slight smirk. “But you’ll figure it out faster if you stop holding back. Now, let’s go again. And this time, try not to make me look like a mech picking on a sparkling.”

Despite yourself, a faint smile tugged at your dermas. “Don’t get too comfortable. I’ve been going easy on you.”

“Sure you have,” he teased, his optics glinting with challenge. “Prove it.”

You raised your weapon, a spark of determination flaring to life in your chassis. As you lunged forward, the weight in your spark didn’t feel quite so heavy anymore.

[wonder-worker]

"As regards women whose monuments depict a livery collar, the traditional supposition which saw ladies as appendages of their husbands should be revised. It may be true that some women did have livery collars depicted on their memorials in right of their husbands, but there are examples of those who were probably awarded a collar for their own royal service [...] Elizabeth Donne, wife of Sir John Donne, is depicted along with her husband wearing a collar of suns and roses with a white lion pendant in Hans Memling’s Donne Triptych. As she was one of Queen Elizabeth Woodville’s gentlewomen, receiving a £10 annuity, it is likely that she received a collar in this capacity. The same can be said of Margaret, wife of Nicholas Gaynesford (d. 1498), whose brass at All Saints’, Carshalton (Surrey), survives. Although her husband has no collar, Margaret is depicted in a ‘choker’ collar of suns and roses. According to the tomb inscription, she served in the households of both Elizabeth Woodville and her daughter Elizabeth of York."

-Matthew Ward, "The Livery Collar in Late Medieval England and Wales: Politics, Identity and Affinity"

[amphibianaday]

day 1421

[guessitrunsinthegenes]

this needs to be said here as well, it's ridiculous that this is happening yet again. they deserve their privacy and that fact does not change with the fact that they have jobs in social media!

[obeyme-lilium]

Visualizing Leviathan while he was in Celestial Realm's Navy vs. Years after he left.

Absolute Noodlefication of a Man.

[lunarharp]

more phoenix wright situations

[saline-coelacanth]

I will forever be so upset that the Ice Chapter didn't give us a Kai VS Ice Emperor fight like come OOOON!

And I'm not even coming at this from an oppo angle. Like yeah, I love oppo, everyone knows that, but it just feels like such a missed opportunity to have Kai have to fight Zane and have him be the one to get him to snap out of it. But no, it has to be Lloyd because he's Lloyd.

And another thing that makes me so upset regarding the missed potential here is the fact that in the Fire Chapter, the big bad villain is Aspheera. And at the end of the Fire Chapter, Zane is the one who defeats her, you know, the master of ice. So then in the Ice Chapter, it would make sense that the one to defeat the big bad would be Kai since he's the master of fire and it would make for good parallels or whatever. But no we don't get that.

At the very least we get that awesome, badass scene where Kai defeats Boreal and saves the others. That scene was amazing, I just with we got a little more from Kai, you know?

[aotgylbs]

we don't talk enough about the drugs taylor put in the very first night

[boilingrain]

There’s something silly to me about Bluestar x Yellowfang

It’s just “yeah Firestar’s moms should date”

Old women with tragic backstories and the very orange boy they separately adopted

[rat-rosemary]

Tommy looks at the forest, the others shuffling anxiously behind him

It has been expanding (well, it was expanding from the first day) but it finally got big enough for someone else to notice he guesses. It only took them three months

He's not quite sure how they made the connection with Dream tho. They're right, but he has no clue how someone who didn't see it would know that Dream is at the center of this

(They probably just assumed. It's almost tradition at this point to blame everything on Dream)

The group of manhunters, about 10-ish people with Sapnap and Quackity in the front, look as prepared for a fight as they could be, their netherite armor shining like beetle wings in the sun

(Except Wilbur, who has nothing but his clothes and his cigarettes)

...if Tommy decides to lead them into the forest he's leading them to their deaths.

The armor is heavy and noisy. It shines obnoxiously in a way that would make it easy to spot on the pale oak even if they did manage to climb into a branch without letting every single creaking in the forest know exactly where they are, and it's too heavy to climb the dark oak trees

No one seems to have any invisibility potions either. He spots healing and regeneration and weakness and instant damage but no invisibility or night vision

He can help them with their search for Dream and by doing so he'll seal their fates.

"Tommy? Ready to go?"

Quackity catches his attention and Tommy turns to him

...he remembers afternoon after afternoon spent trailing after Wilbur as he and Quackity did. Whatever the fuck they were doing. Their weird sex rituals or whatever.

(He remembers watching The One That Bleeds, his wounds never healing as he sobs, crawling out of the blood oak, red roses tangled into his white hair. The burned brand on his back always seems fresh and it makes Tommy want to gag. He hopes that one is Dream's ghost. It seems too cruel for it to be him)

Tommy nods, walking into the forest, the fog welcoming him as an old friend as lillies of the valley grow angrily in-between his curls

He'll warn Tubbo and Fundy about the monsters and the false trees with guts and the flowers and the things that scream. Maybe Sapnap even. The rest of them? It was time for them to get a scare.