#but for me it's my niche fic wips

[fluffypotatey]

sometimes you do gotta be your own cheerleader for the things you love. it's exhausting, yes, and can feel lonely, but it's so worth it

[yeyinde]

LEASH CALLED YOU

PUPPY (RUINER) x F!Reader | 18+ Good dogs get rewards, and Puppy thinks you are the best prize to be found in this hovel. So, he takes you.

WARNINGS: smut | P-in-V, rough sex; D/s undertones; VERY HEAVY DUBCON!!; slight breathplay. female gendered anatomy. implied/referenced human trafficking, sex work. canon typical violence. implied threat of violence. loss of agency. obsessive behaviour. this is basically playing house with a psychopath who decides you're his. and he pretty much killed half the city and the guy who was kinda a god. or a king. or something. so like, what are you gonna do? say no? Pff. WORD COUNT: 7,4k imagine writing like, 7k for Some Guy after seeing one (1) gifset of him.

He finds you in South Rengkok.

Nestled amongst a conglomerate of seedy, black market shops in the red light district, you gaze out at the sea of people from a vaulted window in a seamy bordello. A voyeuristic view into the coquettish bedroom they placed you in—red satin sheets and pink, heart-shaped pillows. All dolled up and pretty. 

The harsh light cuts shadows under your eyes and frames you in a heavy, oversaturated glow. You look like you're bathing in red. In blood.

The sight makes something curdle in his stomach. He isn't sure why. There's not much of a difference between you and the other workers—all locked up tight; enticing passersby to join in on the garish body auction set to take place soon—but where they see the dollar signs in this, dancing and swaying their hips, pressing their palms flat against the window plane and fluttering their lashes, all lovely and coy, at the men who press back, you sit. Motionless. A little doll.

You don't belong here, he thinks. You're something much too soft and fine, like silk in his hands, and much too delicate to be in this part of town that stinks like wet, oxidising metal and saltpetre.

The slip of your black, lacy kimono barely covers your skin. He tracks it. The shadows, the dips. The curves. His eyes fix on the protrusion of your collarbones beneath the moody fabric, pushed to the side, and hanging off your shoulder in what, he guesses, is meant to be enticing. Kittenish.

They dolled you up to skirt this line between sultry vixen and twee innocence. The sight of it does something to his guts. Has them rolling over each other in tandem with each heavy thud of his heart. It's the way you look that catches his attention, sure, but more than that, it's the look in your eyes.

They glow under the neon smear, hazy and drifting far away, turned inward. Lost.

And then you look up. Catch his gaze through the glass. 

There's a moment when everything inside of him dims, quiets. Thoughts, missions. Reason, purpose. It falls under a thick blanket of whisper-soft snow. It's just him—something, nothing—and you. This little cosm of his own making. 

You make a motion, then, as if to entice him inside but you hesitate, staring back at him instead. He knows the LED screen on his mask is doing something funny, voicing the thoughts he can't say, because your lips quirk slightly at the corners—bemusement, maybe; he's never been good at reading people—but then HER is husking out orders in his head, all biting witticism, and acerbic humour. 

Later, Puppy, comes the clandestine whisper—hot oil down his nape—and he catches the warbled curiosity as it trickles through. Good Puppy’s get rewards. But there's work to do. 

Work. Yes, work. 

His helmet flashes. He catches the red flicker on the smeared reflection of the window. Garish red. Kill, kill, kill. 

You see it, and you flinch. 

Good, is the sudden thought. Good. 

Puppy isn't sure about much—not anymore, and maybe not ever—but he knows this: he likes the way your eyes widen. Fear, undoubtedly. Round and doe-eyed as you take in the horrible words scribbled in neon. 

Fright, dread. It looks good on you. 

Pretty, pretty, pretty.

His hands shake. He thinks about how you'd feel under him. How he'd feel inside of you. And—

Purpose, he thinks. Purpose. 

There's an emptiness inside of his heart. A hole left over from the remains of LITTLE BROTHER. The dream, the reason, turned into a ghost. Shrapnel in his chest.

He doesn't blame HER for his absence. For the machinations, the schemes. It all led somewhere in the end, even if that place was here. Alone. Stuck, now, with a gaping wound in his chest. 

But—

Not for long, maybe. 

It'll be an awkward fit—BROTHER was this unknowable, untouchable shadow that lingered in his peripheral vision; a driving force keeping him moving. The space carved inside Puppy for him feels like a cavernous chasm. You're so slight, so small, in comparison to that gaping void, that he wonders if you'll be enough to quench the hunger that brims up from those depths. Rapacious. Wanting. 

It's different, of course. You are real. BROTHER was—

Not. 

He satiated himself on artificial dreams and empty memories. Those spectral, hallucinatory feelings of desperation to save his younger brother carried him to the very end. 

But BROTHER was always chimerical. 

You are something he can touch. Have. Keep.

He sees the flash of uncertainty etched into the painted lines of your face as you look around the cesspit you've fallen into, and he knows that you, too, could be that for him. Purpose. Purpose. Purpose. 

(His, his, HIS.)

The people wandering around, perusing the shops, stop and stare at you. At this little wisp, all shaken and terrified, and in need of saving. Needing him—

His hand clenches around the pipe. 

You're too good for their eyes. For this place. 

He'll kill them all, and come for you. 

The room that houses his new target is in a penthouse on the better side of the city. Vaulted ceilings. Golden chandeliers. Crystalline glass in a mosaic of iridescent pastel. It looks blemishless, clean, in comparison to the hovel that is South Rengkok. It scrapes against the chalky insides of his skull as he slinks forward, and emerges from the shadows.

He makes his way through the levels, one by one, until all that remains behind him is a river of blood and a breadcrumb trail of dead bodies. Boss’ finest. It's all mostly just—

Cleanup. 

A necessary evil, HER calls it, and so, he sees it through. 

When he gets to the top, he hears noises. High-pitched, elongated. A sharp grunt. 

He finds his target sitting down on a sprawling chaise, knees notched apart. A woman sits in his lap, hands pressed against his chest. 

Both of them are naked. Their clothes are in a messy pile by the door. 

Puppy watches for a moment. Enthralled, almost, by the sharp juxtaposition their bodies make, and then—

Confusion. 

She looks just like you. 

His meaty hands are tight around her waist, jerking her down with each sloppy cant of his wide hips. Dwarfing her frame in his bearish paws. She mewls into the room, the reecho of her synthetic moans daggers into his temple. 

The pipe in his hand jerks with the rough spasm of his fingers. 

Puppy doesn't care much for killing. Doesn't care much for anything at all, really, except for HER, BROTHER. The mission. His objectives. 

Cold, they call him. Unfeeling. 

He thinks, suddenly, of Wizard. About something he'd said back when Puppy didn't have a name. 

You're—heh, you're a killing machine! It must feel so good, you know? To kill.

It doesn't. He feels nothing at all. Neither pity, nor guilt. Regret is an abstract concept in his mind; intangible. Unreachable. 

He's—

Ambivalent, HER once supplied. You feel nothing, Puppy, because you are nothing. 

Yes. Yes, he thinks. And yet—

There's a strange heat in his veins. A caustic feeling welling deep inside of his guts at the sight of them coupling. His hands on her body is an affront. An insult.

It makes him angry. Furious. 

He'll kill him, he'll—

(Go, Puppy!)

In the man's hands, she looks soft. Delicate. Breakable. 

Yes, so breakable. So—

She moans, then, and he jerks his chin up, catching her reflection in the marble pillar. 

Ah, he thinks. Ah. 

She isn't you. 

He gets to work. 

The success of his mission has HER offering a bleak congratulations in the back of his head. Job well done. He takes it all in, feeling a distinct thrum in his bones that is usually absent following his massacres. Its place, in the hollow gaps of his ribs, is strange. Foreign. 

Excitement, he finds. How peculiar. 

It offsets the adrenaline rush, the lingering anger coursing through his veins. Killing the Target, his companion who was entirely too similar to you, leaves him feeling satiated and starved at the same time. A paradoxical sensation that shouldn't exist together, but somehow found a way, a home, within the slurry of his chest.

He wants to find you. Has this pulsing need in the back of his head to make sure that the woman he killed wasn't really you. But you are contralateral to his current mission. His objective.

Almost pityingly, the route HER generates takes him right past you: a tantalising tease.

Puppy isn't sure what to call this. Madness, perhaps. Don't be stupid, Puppy, comes the choppy, mechanical whir in the back of his head. You are—human, after all. 

The way it's said by HER has his hackles rising, but he doesn't have enough insight on the topic to pursue the strange cadence any further.

Indulge. You earned it.

Your face flashes before him—different, this time. Gone is the thick gold on the crease of your eyelids, the heavy red on your lips. You're barefaced. Gaunt. Your complexion reminds him of the bruised blue of the sky above. Midnight. Iridescent rainbows in an oil spill.

He wants to touch you. His hands shake. 

A series of numbers flicker at the bottom. The price, he surmises, for you. 

An auction. Right.

Tonight, HER supplies. He feels the clinical amusement in the back of his head. Oh, but Puppy—

To offset the generosity, HER pulls up the amount he carries on him. Cruel. Mocking. It's compared and contrasted. The difference is staggering. He can't afford you. Doesn't even come close to the asking price.

(Couldn't even afford the entrance fee.)

Sorry, Puppy—

The mechanised warble is pushed down before it can start.

That's fine, he reasons, dismissing it all. Dismissing HER.

He has no intention of paying for what's rightfully his, anyway. 

The bordello—boasting some strange mix between classic geisha-sensualism and modern sex appeal (and somehow missing the mark for both)—appears closed for the night.

A fallacy, of course, as everyone is just inside. Squirrelled away with cheap vodka, cigars. Waiting their turn to cash in their victory tokens. 

He looks at your window, shutters closed with a looping scrawl on neon pink that says be back soon~!, and makes his approach. 

There's no plan for this. Not that he's ever really had any to begin with—most of what he does is driven by an endless need to fulfil someone else's objective through the brutal physicality he wields—but he makes an effort to go stealthier than usual. 

He doesn't want to risk triggering a failsafe that will keep him away from you any longer than he needs to be. 

Not that it matters—

These lowlives—some assemblage of Creeps, local gangsters, and general nobodies—are mere nuisances in the face of his ice-cold ire. His rage. Tearing through them is nothing. The fight they put up is flimsy. Tissue paper defences.  He supposes they never really anticipated him showing up to reap his dues at an event that has been advertised for several weeks now (how he missed your face on those gaudy billboards hanging above the taverns in the red light district, he'll never know). A high-class event, they snicker from behind the thin doorways.

Politicians gambling away public funds to buy pretty prizes. Gangsters, pimps, all looking to pocket more flesh for their own abattoirs. 

Killing them is insubstantial to this cleanup mission, he knows, but there's a thrum of vindictiveness that roars through his chest when they squeal, begging for forgiveness that they must know won't come. 

(He's barely merciful on a good day.)

HER is a cheerleader in his ear, egging him on. Go, Puppy! Get your prize, Puppy! and he lets it fuel himself forward until he's covered in viscera and gore—a jaw bone breaks off, tacks on to the lip of his boot; blood drenches the sleeves of his leather jacket, stains his collar—and surrounded by pulpy, broken bodies. Alone. 

It's quiet, now. The only sound is his heavy, ragged breath muffled by the mask covering his head. The harsh thud of his pulse cottons his ears, blotting out everything except the heady rush of blood raging in his veins. 

HER watches with an alien sense of amusement that prickles in the back of his head. Wrongness permeates from their mirth as they take in the carnage spread out amongst the halls. 

It all means nothing to him. A means to an end. 

Nothing to them, either. To HER. This is a game.

The wet end of the pipe drags against the herringbone floor in a metallic squeal done to announce his presence from anyone unlucky enough to survive the brutal apathy of his initial assault. He hears nothing. Just the grind of rusting metal on wood. Porous. Hollow. 

It all ends in a muted bloodbath. A bloodied trail of bodies leads right to your door. 

Untouched, despite the garish horror painting the walls in rotting red. Congealed blood blackened under the thin oxygen in the room. 

There's no movement from within, but he knows you're here. Can feel you through the wood. Catch the rabbiting of your heart. Your gasping breath. 

With the hand not clutching the pipe, he reaches for the handle, turns. Locked. He expected it. You must have propped something up against the knob during the first onslaught of his fury. Smart. 

But it's not enough to keep him out. 

He pries open the door to your room with one hand, shattering the flimsy back of the vanity stool you jimmied beneath the handle. Cute. Resourceful. His heart pounds in his chest. He can't wait to have you. 

Go, Puppy!

He takes a moment to shut the door behind him—no escape—before he slowly swivels his head toward you. Taking you in. 

(Finally.)

You stare at him with that same look on your face as before. Terror, he reasons, and tries to piece it together on the men who looked at him as he cracked skulls open with the blunt end of his pipe, tore jugulars out with his bare hand. Fear, he thinks. They look at him with fear. Loathing. 

But you're missing that one. There's no hatred on your face, no curses spat out even when he stalks forward with the same steady gait as always, the bloody end of his pipe leaving a macabre breadcrumb trail for anyone to follow. 

There's a sea of dead bodies behind him. Businessmen. Lowlives. Commonfolk. The other girls. It didn't matter. 

They were in the way. 

All of them. 

(The man, too, who came to collect you like a prize winner at a seedy casino. His head, in particular, is rendered into nothing but a pulpy mess of grey matter, tissue, blood, and bone.) 

He thinks you might cry, but you don't. You stare. Owlish. Wary. Between the thick, brick wall—your cage—and him, there's nowhere for you to run. He slows at that, coming to a stop several paces away. Watching you back. Assessing. Calculating.

You're nervous. Shaken. He's under no disillusionment that you hadn’t heard the screams just outside of your door. Heard the thuds. The cracking of skulls. The breaking of bones. A bloodbath only several paces away. A massacre. Scary enough to you that it made you try to save yourself, to lock whatever it was that stalked the halls from getting to you. 

How terrified you must have been. 

Puppy doesn't feel much for anyone. Maybe the odd moment of sympathy for the inhabitants of his city, the ones who beg and plead for his help with the things they can't control, can't fight back against. He extends small mercies where he sees fit. 

But for some odd, unfathomable reason, he has the sudden inkling to reach out. Pity. You're so pitiful to him. Poor thing. You poor, poor—

In a moment of pure absurdity, the words: are you good? flash across the curved plain of his mask, and you make a noise somewhere between a yelp and snort. Mangled in the back of your throat. 

“Does it matter?” 

And, oh—

Your voice does something to him. Turns his insides liquid. He's melting, he thinks. Burning up and turning to a heap of molten ore by your feet. 

He tries to reign himself back in, forcing himself to focus. Focus. Puppy ponders your question for a moment before ultimately deciding that it doesn't. 

(Or, rather, it does; but maybe not in the way you'd want it to.)

In the end, he gives you a shrug. Banal. Dismissive. It makes your brows furrow. A valley forms between them. Irritation bleeds through the flat apathy you forged. 

There's a scoff. He thinks you look prettier like this—a feral, hissing cat. He wants you beneath him, clawing at his chest. Spitting curses in his name. 

(Wants to try to tame you. Wants to fail.)

“Of course,” you hiss, hands fisting in the sheer fabric of your kimono. “You're no different from anyone else, are you?” 

Puppy shakes his head in response. He isn't a good man. He's made of spare parts stitched together to create an amalgamation of likeness to some king he barely even knows. A megalomaniac. A madman. 

In all honesty, there probably isn't much that separates him and the men who vied for your affection, paid for your attention. Threw coins toward an auction just for the possibility of taking you home. 

But there is a difference. 

Puppy will have you. This he is certain of. 

There's nowhere for you to go. This city doesn't want you. Doesn't deserve you. He'll take you with him, chained at the wrist if he has to. Shackled. Caged. 

You are so funny, Puppy, HER intones, amused. A puppy with a puppy. 

Yes, he decides. His puppy. All his. 

He found you first. 

Puppy lets the pipe—drenched in blood, bone; in viscera that makes you recoil sharply with a flinch—fall to the floor with a metallic clang. With his hands free, soaked, he lifts them up, offering his palms to you. 

It's not a peace offering, but he's seen what untamed cats can do when cornered. And while you're no match for his unfathomable physicality, he'd rather you didn't hurt yourself trying to maim him. 

Still—

Mine, mine, mine flashes, lightspeed, across his visor. He gives you a moment to let the words, the meaning sink in. 

—you’re his. With that ironclad notion comes the freedom to do whatever he wants. 

Whenever he wants. 

And then he moves. 

The difference in your size is almost hideous. Grotesque. He towers above you—a looming mountain—and knows that it would take at least three of you side by side to even hope to match the width of him. 

His hands, too, dwarf you. 

It curls something noxious inside of his guts. A poison-soaked miasma that subsumes in his bloodstream, pulses in the base of his spine. A hunger. A heat. You're so small in comparison to him. So delicate. He could break you in two, shatter every bone in your body. 

And there's not much you could ever hope to do to stop it. 

He shudders at the thought, and knows he likes it more than he should. 

Later, though. Soon. He wants your hands on his skin. Wants to see you come to terms with the vastitude of him, and watch as the realisation that you are well and truly his sinks in. 

He reaches out, palms upward, and waits. 

It doesn't take long. 

(Well-trained, is the hiss. He ignores it, lest he claw his own skin off.)

You flick a scathing glare in his direction first, caustic and hateful, but you bend to his whims without a word. You touch him hesitantly, running the soft pads of your fingers over the metal of his hand, feeling the bumps. The groves in his circuitry. 

Everyone so far has tried to chisel in his head. Galvanise him down into a mindless toy (HER makes a noise, he ignores it), but you seem to avoid his head. Touching the places on his arms not smeared with blood or gun oil, running down the thick wires in his artificial arm. The veins on his real one. The hair dusting his knuckles. 

Then you spot the blood caked, dried and blackened, under his nails, and you recoil slightly. Pulling back. Dropping to his chest. 

His breath whirs out in a deep tremble when you shiver at the muscles—hard iron, brass—that hums under your palms. It's tentative. Soft, almost. Exploratory as you navigate the newness of his body and this strange situation you've found yourself in. 

There's a fractured look on your face that he can't quite place when you slide the cup of your hand over his beating heart. 

(Surprise, maybe. You must have thought him a machine.)

You stay there for a moment, quiet. Pensive. Gaze inward as you mull something over, something he can't fathom, can't ascertain. 

“You…” your voice comes out on a stilted breath after a brief silence. “You killed them all.”

It's not really a question. He grunts his affirmative, anyway, and reaches out to settle his hands on your hips. You jump when he touches you. Tense and angry in his arms, but you let him pull you in close. Are almost docile when he tucks his chin against your crown, lets his hands slide to the small of your back. 

You make no move to pull away. He lets that notion marinate in the back of his head, bending reality to suit his whims when he decides that you must not want to. He hugs you tighter, nuzzling the top of your head when you shudder. 

He's not sure where you're going with this particular line of thought. Doesn't, entirely, see why it matters much. Everyone is dead except him, you. The only two breathing in this disgusting bordello that reeks of thick, spicy incense and myrrh to hide the scent of sweat, stale cigarettes, and sex. Something plastic. Synthetic. Lubricant, he imagines. Latex. 

Knowing that you spent an insurmountable time in this cesspool has anger spiking inside of him once more, but it's quelled, immediately, when remembers what the other men who lurked in these dilapidated corners look like now. Viscera, tissue, and bones are now all painting the cheap panelled walls in a deep maroon splatter. 

(He'll burn it all down before he leaves tomorrow.)

He keeps you close, shackled. A parody of a lover's embrace. 

Your hand drifts up, a slow crawl to the base of his neck. Puppy lifts his chin. The bright red question mark shading the room in an ethereal neon glow. 

“You killed them,” you repeat, knuckles grazing the over-sensitive skin where his mask melds to flesh. “But you didn't kill me. Why?”

He feels the press against his jugular. A soft ache in his throat. It doesn't hurt, but he knows you want it to. 

Puppy's puppy has fangs. 

Puppy reaches up, snatching your wrist in his mechanical hand. Feels, instantly, the grind of delicate bone under harsh, unyielding metal. 

You don't flinch. 

“Why?” 

Under the harsh edges of your anger, your feigned indifference, he catches sight of the look that drew him to you in the first place. Absolute despondency. A vacancy in the hollow of your eyes. Misery, maybe. 

If he were someone else, he might have felt pity for you. Ripped from the arms of whatever birthed you into existence, thrown into this disgusting hovel, and now—

A pet for a pet. 

Kept. Chained. 

Puppy will keep you forever. He knows this just as sure as he knows his heart pulses in his chest. The sun rises. Falls. He'll take you with him, wherever he goes.

You're his. 

A fine consolation prize you've found for yourself, HER quips, and he's content to ignore it for now. Their amusement is clinical, a kittenish scratch in the back of his head. 

But he does agree. You're a fine prize, aren't you? His little treasure found in a trash heap. 

His, his, his

all his, all his, all his—

(You look at the promises, the answers, flickering across the surface of his visor, and shudder—)

Puppy doesn't say anything when you lead him by the wrist to sit on your bed, simply opting to follow along with your demands for now. It's cute, he finds, the way you try to bully him around even when your hands shake, knees tremble. 

He rests his forearms on his thighs, letting his hands dangle in the space between his spread knees—the picture of ease; the manufactured torpor of predator—and he waits. Watching, rapturously, as you flit in front of him. All soft and pensive as you look him over. Taking stock of the blood on his leather jacket. The stains on his pants. The flat surface of his mask, broken only by the protrusion of his nose. 

Boss was a megalomaniac. A narcissist. Knowing that he's made in his image, his likeness (spare parts; a fractured failsafe), he can only assume you like what you see when you look at these scraps that make him whole. 

Whatever you find, it shades the appraising glance in a hue of calculative decision—suddenly firm, now: wily. 

“Okay,” you say, and bring your hands to the sash holding the sheer kimono in place. “I'll be yours—” his hands twitch; reaching for you already. You dance out of the way from his grasping knuckles with a scoff. “Only if you're mine, too.”

If he had a mouth, he might have grinned. 

You seem content to take the lead after a noncommittal response to your demand of shared ownership (the idea alone of which has him thickening in his slacks), placing your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself before swinging your thigh over his lap, taking (what he hopes becomes) your rightful seat. 

It places your barely covered centre right against his prominent bulge, sending an electric buzz down the base of his spine. The look when you feel him throb against you is equally as scathing as it is feverish, and nearly comes undone at your glare alone, panting harshly against your collarbones. 

“Down boy,” you murmur silkily before dropping your cunt right over him. 

Whiteout. Static. He sees nothing but blurry slashes of red, red, red—

His hands are bruising on your waist, and he's not sure if he's pulling you closer to him or pushing him away. Maybe both. Tugging, tugging, until he can feel the red-hot heat of you burning through the fabric of his trousers.

You can't kiss him so you pepper sweet, soft kisses against the column of his throat, teeth nipping the seam where metal meets flesh. Marking the column of his pale throat up with the brand of your claim. Your ownership. 

A collar in red, black, yellow, and blue—

He doesn't have a mouth to claim you back, but his hands punch your flesh until it's pressed harshly against bone. Bursting blood vessels under your skin. It puddles there. He runs his fingers against the pool of blood that softens your skin, and understands, then, why the sting in his neck feels so fucking good. 

He feels consumed. In a tailspin. You grind against him, and he sees stars. 

Puppy can't think when you do that, and you seem to know this because you don't stop rolling your hips over his straining cock, pinched tight in his slacks. It's too much. 

He wants you. Wants you. Wants you. 

You pull back, and huff at the projection on his face. 

“You're impatient,” you say, but you're slipping your hand inside the waistband of his pants in spite of your exasperation, fingers dancing over the soft skin of his groin. 

It feels molten when you touch the base of his cock with your knuckle. Just a nudge. Just a press. He thinks he could come undone like this. Just like this. With your hands on him. Soft, dewy skin. 

But he wants you pinned under him, taking him. Has thought about nothing except your knees spread, thighs open. Pussy bare to him. Full of him. Nothing but him. Him, him. It made him ache. Burn. A low grade fever in his guts at the enticing image of you beneath him. Pretty lips open, moaning. Eyes wide, doeish. 

“You’re too—”

You start to say something, but he can't take this anymore. It's too soft. Too gentle. He wants you bent over. Wants to be inside of you already. 

And so, he follows through. 

You make a noise in the back of your throat when he gets his hands on the underside of your knees, and unceremoniously tips you back onto the velveteen sheets. The flimsy silk of your kimono spreads, unveiling the softness of your body. Your bare breasts, nipples pebbling under his stare. 

With it haloed around you in an inky black spill over your arms, leaking from beneath your body, he thinks you look ethereal. Unreal. Otherworldly. 

The slip covering your pussy is barely in the way. He can see dewy lips peeking out from the sliver of black nestled across your slit, wet and red. Red. Red—

“P–Puppy—!” You yelp when he tugs his trousers down with one hand, the other keeping your leg up, pinched tight on the underside of your knee. Spread open. Nearly bare. 

He presses the heel of your foot where his neck meets shoulder, keeping it in place with a soft pat to your calf, before dropping his hand down to join the other in ripping the thin scrap of fabric keeping you from him. He's graced with another yelp, but it isn't in pain or distress, and he ignores it outright. 

Mindless, it seems, in this pursuit to be inside of you as quickly as possible. 

Your panties—if they could even be considered such a thing—are pushed deep into his back pocket. Saved for later. 

And then he turns back to you. Spread open. Waiting and willing under him. The sight of you like this steals his breath from his lungs. Sparks embers in his guts that smoulder, billowing smoke through the hollow of his chest. 

He tastes ash in the back of his throat. Wishes, suddenly, that he could quench it on the slick, hot taste of you—

Gripping himself in one hand, he presses the blunt head of his cock against your slit, glistening from your wetness in the jaundiced glow of the moody light above your head. He's glad he didn't cut the power to this shithole because the way you quiver beneath him as he rubs between your folds is nothing short of mesmerising. 

You're wet. Soaked. All for him, even if you keep hissing out that this is just a bodily reaction to stimulus, don't be so full of yourself, you psychopath—

His hand drops. The flat side of his thumb pressed against your clit. You arch so prettily when he touches you like this, knees shaking, eyes fluttering. He presses harder, makes small circles against your sensitive flesh that have you whimpering. Whining. 

“No more, no more, no more—”

He can feel the molten centre of you flutter around his weeping tip. Silken, inviting. He wants more. Knows that you want it just as bad, too. 

Impatient now, he lifts his fingers from your clit, and wraps it tight around your thigh, gaining leverage before he slowly, agonizingly, begins to presses inside—just the tip, the first inch—but the way you wrap around him (all tight, wet silk) makes his mind grow fuzzy around the edges. Electricity rockets down his spine. 

He thinks he blacks out for a second, short-circuiting at the white-hot pleasure of being inside of you, because when his eyes focus, he's pushed all the way inside, trembling above you. 

You're whining his name with tears dripping down your temples, legs quivering around him, and he wonders if this is that version of heaven, the real one, he'd read about once. 

It's too much. Not enough. He rolls back on his hunches to see the way you swallow him down to the base. Pulled taut, and far too pretty for what he's doing to you. Poor, pitiful thing. He'll ruin you, he's sure. Mess you up so badly, no one else would ever be able to touch you without thinking of him. Only him.

It's a thought that sends a thrill down his spine, and he rolls his hips just to watch you squirm. Builds up a sickeningly sweet momentum as he forces your body to acclimate to his girth, to the unyielding stretch of his cock. You're too tight around him, and he worries that the taut stretch might be too much for you, but it's passing. Temporal. He knows he doesn't really care. You'll take it all. All of him. 

Nothing will tear him away from this pretty cunt of yours. 

It flicks against a long dormant part inside of his hindbrain, and he pants for it. Chasing this feeling, this high. 

The slow crawl within you isn't enough to satiate himself. His belly rumbles. His throat burns. 

Puppy gives you no warning before he snaps his hips into you as hard as he can. 

Your wet cries start the beginning notes of his new ascension, and he pounds into you harder. Faster. He fucks you like he's starved for it. Aching. Desperate. Belatedly, he thinks about your pleasure, about bringing you to the same highs the tight clutch of your pussy is bringing him, but he can't focus. Can't think. It's mindless, this lust. Turns him inside out and makes him greedy. Selfish. 

He wants, wants—

Never, in all of his insignificant life, has he ever wanted something as much as this. As you. Pressed beneath him, mewling out his name as he forces himself inside of you, as deep as he can reach—

(and then deeper still because Puppy wants to crawl inside of you; want to nestle against your heart, tucked under the bracket of your ribs and with the way he fucks into you like this, bed whining in protest with each furious, sloppy snap of his hips, he just might make that dream a reality—)

—and fuck. Fuck. 

Somewhere in the tangled web of his thoughts, all white-noise, static pleasure, he can hear HER utter things in secret under the heavy pants of his ragged breath (things like, you deserve this, Puppy; good boy, Puppy; treat your toy—kindly—Puppy), and it spurns him on. Makes him ache to drive those mechanised whispers out of his head, filling the space they leave behind with the sweet echo of your voice in ear. 

Scream. For. Me flashes across the visor in bloody red, and he sees when it registers in your glossy, wet-eyed stare. Cuts through the haze of sex, the lashings of fear that still curl in the shaded valleys when you look at him, and digs its talons into tissue, bisecting the chemical slurry turning your thoughts to mush. There's a moment of clarity. Brief, ephemeral, because he's pressing in as deep as he can once more, grinding against some spot inside of you that makes your eyes roll, and your head drop. 

My

Name

It flashes again, and finally—

Your pretty mouth drops open, spittle running down the corners as you struggle to keep up with his frantic, feverish pace, but nothing comes out—nothing he wants to hear, at least. Please, you beg, and he feels the plea like a punch to his gut. 

You're so pretty when you beg. 

But that's not what he wants. 

Bad girl

It comes as a warbling flicker. Distorted in his anger. 

You shudder under him, eyes widening when he drops his hands down to your throat, palm swallowing you whole from chin to sternum. For him, it's as gentle as he could be, but you gasp for breath, tears pebbling in the corner of your eyes. Hazy, murky, with fear and pleasure; the warring sensations separated only a hairline fracture, a thin sliver. 

He shifts forward and has you take on more of his weight, stifling more air from your lungs, and making you feel the power flex of his massive body cocooning you entirely. No escape. 

Your hands unfurl from the white-knuckled grip on the sheets, slamming against his shoulders as you try, futilely, to push him away. You're frenzied. Desperate. 

Puppy finds it endlessly charming.

His hand lifts, offering a slight respite that you seize eagerly, greedily, gulping down wet, feverish lungfuls of air. 

“Y–you bastard—”

He likes it when you cuss at him. A feral, hissing cat. He falls over you once more, shadowing you under his bulk, and pistons his hips into the apex of your thighs, feeling the slickness of your cunt drench his groin. 

Angry, spitting thing. And yet—

You're so fucking wet for him. 

You like this. The way he bends you mercilessly to his whims. Folds you in half. 

His hand stays around your throat, feeling each breath and moan that reverberates up his arm. The other drops from your knee, falling to the black, iron headboard that grinds into the wall with each thrust. Centering himself. Gaining more leverage. 

Puppy fucks you like this. Trapped beneath him—a tumulus over you—and unable to do much except take his cock however he decides to give it to you. And give it to you, he does—

(Mercilessly. Pounding you so hard, your breasts jerk, and your eyes flash vividly as you struggle to stay afloat in that equinox of pleasure-pain that rages over you.)

HER says he doesn't have a face, and maybe that's true. It might just be a flat mess of wires sutured to flesh. But

Puppy wants to devour you. Swallow you whole. Wants to taste the sweetness of your cunt on his tongue. Feel your lips on his. He wants to pry apart your chest and suckle from the marrow in your ribs. 

He wants you. 

Wants you. Wants you—

He's not entirely sure if he's human, but he breathes like you. Heaves. Gasps. Can feel the wet, molten clench of your pussy around the thickness of his cock as he spears you open. Pleasure blooms at the base of his spine. Punches through his groin. Bludgeons him. It makes his head feel heavy, fuzzy. Somnolent with the mindless drive ticking in the back that pushes him forward. Makes him want to imbue himself in whatever it was that made you. A pithy god of old. Stardust. 

He wants to remake himself in your image. Spare parts just for you—

How romantic, Puppy. 

“Fuck—!”

Your voice is saccharine in his ear. A velvet gust of smoke curls in the back of his head. 

With his hand around your throat, he feels the words before he hears them. It sends a thrill down his spine—dancing fingers pressing tight to each vertebra as it splits open the ventricles housing his spinal fluid, letting it all leak out into his bloodstream. 

It's ecstasy, maybe. Or the closest thing to it he could ever reach. 

“What are you doing to me?” You slur the words out against his metal cheek, hushed and fractured. Raw. “It feels so—good—oh, Puppy—!”

He shifts his pelvis into the bracket of your thighs. The head of his cock rubbing over that spot inside of you that makes your eyes roll back, and your cunt squeeze him tight. A pretty box wrapped, velveteen, around him. 

There's friction in the pit of his stomach. Tension in his groin. It pulls taut, feels heavy. 

He's close. So, so close—

You seem to realise this, too, your eyes growing wide once more as he twitches inside of you, pressed deep. Cockhead nudging into your seal. 

“No, no—”

Despite your protests, your body is tightening up, quivering under him. 

He takes it as an invitation.

Puppy's hips stutter to a slow grind as he hits the apex of his pleasure, cock throbbing, spitting his release, deep inside of you. 

Around him, beneath him, you tremble. Shake. He can feel the tremors of your own hastily reached climax when you squeeze his cock tight in a vice, undulating pulses that seem to rocket from the sensitive nerve endings around him all the way to his brainstem. 

It's good. Too good. 

He doesn't have any other ambition right now outside of burying himself inside of you over and over again. 

He wonders how deep his spare parts go for a belated second, how much of himself was forged in Boss’ likeness, but dismisses it immediately. It's unimportant to him. 

“You're awful,” you gasp sweetly in his ear. “Terrible. A terrible man—” And fuck. He wants to ruin you again.

Puppy pulls you close, pawing at you until you're situated in his arms. Manoeuvred around like a little doll. He finds you precious, really. So malleable. So soft. He presses you flat to the lumpy mattress and folds himself over you. Thick thigh strewn over your hip, pinning you down. An arm tucked under your nape, bent at the elbow to curl over your shoulder, fingers brushing your collarbones. Shackled.

This is new. Foreign. He's never felt this before—all soft edges; sickeningly sweet. Unable to help himself, he bears his weight down, arching above you. Staring, openly and unabashedly. Drinking you in. 

He wants to crawl inside of you. Worm his way to the place where you burn. 

You're stiff in his arms. Silent. 

But that's fine. That's okay. He'll melt you eventually. Make you understand that Puppy is yours now, silly. All yours. And you're—

All his. 

Just like you wanted. 

He owns you. And in turn, is owned by you. 

It's fitting, he finds, considering all his miserable existence was spent handing his leash off to whoever grabbed it quick enough. Their hands were rough. Indelicate. He takes your hand in his, knuckles bleached white from the quivering fist you've rolled them into, and pries your fingers loose. Threads his between the gaps before you can swat him away. 

He can feel your pulse like this, pressed palm to palm. A precious little thing. So fleeting. A hummingbird in an ivory cage. 

Poor thing. 

“What—what are you going to do?” You rasp, voice hoarse from the grip he had on your neck. The sound of it—gritty sand, smoke—makes him shiver. He likes it, he finds. Wonders if you'll sound the same if he scraped your throat raw with the tips of his fingers. 

His cock. 

You huff when you feel him twitch against your hipbone—cock tacky from his cum, your wet cunt—but make no move to pull away. 

He purrs. 

Keep you, is projected and you suck in a sharp breath like you'd expected that. Then, he adds a heart. A red one. Mine. 

“I'm not yours. I'm not anyone's—” he doesn't bother correcting you. You'll learn soon enough. “And you don't even know me. Why do you even want this? I could be a liability. I could kill you in your sleep—”

Could, not should, he notes, fondly. 

Hahahaha passes by and you let out an aggrieved snarl at the sight. “You're so fucking horrible—!”

He nods in response, and presses the jut of his nose to your sweat-slicked hairline. Breathes you in. Amber. Humus. Loam. You smell like ozone. The streets after a heavy rainstorm. 

You smell good. Like home. 

“Do you even like me? Or am I just something to fuck?” is whispered so softly into the air that he might have missed it if he hadn't been trying to suffuse atoms. 

He hears the fragility in your voice. The paper-thin foundation holding you aloft. 

In all honesty, he doesn't know what he feels for you. It's all—

Abstract, perhaps. Grainy smears of feelings, sensation, all roiled around inside of him. Intangible. 

He just knows he wants you. Has wanted you since he first saw you, sitting all pretty in a glass cage. Untouchable to anyone except the highest bidder in your upcoming auction. 

(Spare parts. A pretty bird in a cage.)

What a pair you make. 

He likes that, though. The way you fill this barren hole in his chest. Pilliating the listlessness that rolls like a marble inside of him. In turn, he wants to do the same. To stuff you full of him. So full, there's room for nothing else. No one else. 

There are flickers of life buried deep within you that he longs to dredge up. He thinks you'd be beautiful with your hands wrapped around his pipe (disgusting, Puppy), and that, for him, is enough. 

He's sure one day you'll feel the same. 

Until then—

His fingers tighten around yours and you wince at the pressure before gasping when the metal gears in his joints begin locking in place. Stiffening. Shackled to him, now, until he decides to release you. 

Goodnight flashes. He sees the words reflected in the glossy canyons of your eyes. Smeared red bleeding into the dawning realisation that you are his. 

And no one else's. 

There's no escape. 

[tomaturtles]

IT'S KAWOSHIN DAY!!! As well as the last day of Kawoshin Week :') It's been such a blast, gonna miss it when it's over

Kawoshin Week Day 7: Cuddling/domestic fluff! + Sleepover and Spinoffs (again)! Based on the Campus Apocalypse sleepover chapter ☺️

[its-all-papaya]

Ooo what’s omega lando about? Only if you wanna share!

need to be asleep ten minutes ago but answering one ask as a treat to myself for surviving 11-hour workday + performance check-in.

omega lando is just. smut. eventually i think i will write a proper world build-y a/b/o bc i'm fascinated by the mundane and societal aspects of dynamics, but this is not that fic. this is smut with a lot of internal monologue on the side.

here, since i have no earthly idea when i'll finish the last 1/10th of this and get it on the ol' ao3:

"There you go," Oscar murmurs at his temple, "that's so good, Lando. You're so good." It sends a shiver all through him - would even without the hand Oscar's shoved up the back of his t-shirt, scratching his long fucking fingernails over the nobs of Lando's spine. Fingernails are mostly an omega thing. If Lando’d not been able to smell Oscar across the fucking paddock before they were even teammates, he’d have thought- "Hey," Oscar's eyes are soft and round when Lando finally unglues his face from the side of his neck. The skin there is sweaty from the contact, and Lando's cheek sticks a little as they separate. "Can you tell me what's wrong?" Lando swallows once, twice. Oscar's scent is so strong he can taste it in the back of his throat. The feel of it dredges up locked-up memories of Oscar's wrist between Lando's teeth while he cried and cried on Oscar's knot, raw and weak and helpless. "You're being so good for me, sweetheart, just one more." Lando shakes again, but it's not exactly the same. It's twisty - the usual anxious shame he doesn't even understand why he ever feels all tangled up with something else, too. Something that gets stronger when Oscar’s hand pauses elbow-deep under his top, fingers just shy of Lando’s nape.

[lesbians4armand]

ITS WIP WEDNESDAY MY LOVES so have some siren lesbian devils minion with siren!armande and butch sailor dani

[ghxst-bird]

The curse rubs a hand down Junpei’s back, along the curve of his spine, feeling the prominent ridges and the way the soul strains towards him, seeking release from its mortal coil.

The boy’s eyes are as dull as his soul as he looks up at Mahito, rage and desperation churning together, transfiguring itself into a an amalgamation of resentful emotion intense enough it could give birth to a new curse altogether.

His mother is breathing heavily on the bed beside them, her face pinched in slumber. The residual pain of being torn in half and sown back together again a memory that will not quickly fade from her mind. If she survives the night at all. Mahito has never bothered to put a body and its soul back into the correct order before, so he doesn’t know what to expect.

— sneak peek of an upcoming fix-it

[habibisagi]

[nostalgia-tblr]

WIP Wednesday

Gonna use WIP Wednesday to throw a bit of the not-Ottoman-Empire not-thorki fic at tumblr and see if anyone else finds it at all interesting/appealing (pls tell me whether to finish this or to pretend I never even thought of it):

Farbauti tells Loki tales of his siblings, all of the things she remembers about them as children and all of the strengths and weaknesses she has gleaned from weary travellers in the years since. Loki sharpens the blade of his favourite dagger as she rambles on, idling in the heat from the fire in the hearth and only half-listening to her words. His mother notes how his attention wanders and she tells him, sharply, “This is information that will save your life one day. This is how I’m going to win you your throne.” Loki nods, apparently contrite, and drags the whetstone along the length of the knife. “I’m listening, Mother. I always listen.” “To me?” “To everything,” he answers, just as she wants him to. Farbauti continues; “The one you must be most careful of is Thor. You were only small when he left the palace, and he wasn’t much more than a boy himself, but he takes after his mother. Which means that he would slit her throat if he saw any advantage in it. Perhaps he already has.” She laughs at that, loud and scornful. Loki does, in fact, remember Thor. He remembers golden hair and easy laughter. He remembers the two of them playing together, dodging behind pillars in a game of chasing and hiding. He remembers, quite clearly (too clearly, perhaps; this part might be a later invention of his own imagination), that the game ended with both of their mothers scowling.

[ringofdoubt]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Spread the self-love ❤️

<3 <3 <3 ty <3 <3 <3

I'll keep this to dragon age fics since we're on the dragon age sideblog here

Out of the Game - After years serving as a Grey Warden in Orlais, Loghain is reassigned to the Free Marches under Warden Stroud. Which is why, in a small Starkhaven tavern, the Hero of River Dane found himself sitting down to drink with a Chevalier. 1.6k

This was the first fic of mine that made it out of the google docs and onto ao3. It's the only thing about Loghain and Stroud being wardens together that I've posted (so far) but oh boy are my headcanons / scraps of my multichapter fic elaborate.

2. Dignity - Vivienne grieves for Bastien and struggles to find the right words to inform his family of his death. Josephine helps her. 1.1k

This is my take on Vivienne and Josephine's friendship. I just think those two would understand each other very well.

3. A Beginner's Guide to Orlesian Etiquette - If the Inquisitor is going to survive at the Winter Palace, he is going to need a crash course in all things Orlesian.

“My dear, you’re from Ostwick – the height of your culture involves chasing a large wheel of sweaty cheese down a hill.”

The Inquisitor grinned, “I won that once.”

Vivienne did not look impressed. 1.2k

Look, I think this is funny and maybe that's enough haha. It's me imagining my Inquisitor Adaar preparing for Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts.

4. Campfire - On the road to Redcliffe, Warden Tabris and Loghain drink together in camp. Tabris has a question about the Night Elves. 2.1k

This is just a long conversation between my Warden Tabris and Warden Loghain before the end of Origins.

and finally my beloved WIP that I WILL finish one day...

5. A Blind Eye - Niall’s quiet life in Kinloch Hold depends on ignoring a lot of what the other mages get up to - then he receives a strange invitation from Senior Enchanter Uldred and realises just how much about the tower he's been overlooking. 48.2k (so far)

Yeah so remember Niall, the guy whose body you get the Litany of Adralla off during the mage tower questline in Origins? For some reason I wrote all this about him haha.

This is from Niall's PoV but its really an exploration of what Uldred (and Jowan and Anders) were up to in the run-up to Uldred's rebellion. Aka exactly how Niall ended up with the Litany.

[supercantaloupe]

ao3 stats game

tagged by @malcolm-f-tucker, ty!!

Rules: Give us the links to your wonderful words with the most hits, most kudos, most comments, most bookmarks, most words, and fewest words.

expect this to be skewed towards d20 bc while i haven't written much for that in a while it is easily the biggest fandom i've written anything for

Most hits: The Disappearance of Adaine Abernant - dimension 20 (fantasy high), 2,637 hits

Most kudos: ^, 193 kudos

Most comments: Extra Credit - dimension 20 (fantasy high), 73 comments

Most bookmarks: ^, 54 bookmarks

Most words: Starlight - oklahoma!, currently sitting at 34,091 words.

Fewest words: The Symphony of Hadestown - hadesotwn, 191 words. my first posted fic ever! look at her, she's so tiny, lol. my next shortest clocks in at exactly 400 words longer; even when i'm trying to be brief i tend to go on a bit, haha

i shall tag @tragedyposting @theresa-of-liechtenstein @kingfisherkink @grasslandgirl and @druid-for-hire! idk who else of my mutuals really uses ao3 at all so i'll just leave it there lol

[eikichi-supremacy]

realizing you can't read the super awesome concept because you haven't finished writing it yet

[andillwriteyouatragedy]

oops haha! i spent the last couple of hours writing an outline.....

uhh!! even if progress was slow?? would you all be interested in a multi-chaptered modern au fic featuring fake relationships, espionage, hurt/comfort, secrets, and falling in love?? bc i might write it??

you have to stop me from outlining and starting a multi-chapter modern au ofmd fic or something bad will happen

[gnomewithalaptop]

Batfam Time Travel Fic Recs

Because @clarenceislazy requested it on my last fic rec compilation, here's a list of my favorite DCU time travel fics! They're all pretty Batfam-centric, but eh niche is niche what can you do

Damian fics:

A Good Place by LemonadeGarden - Damian gets sent back in time to a Batman who's never had a Robin. Very sweet, very fun.

The Rule Stands by Engineerd - After Dick's death, Damian has to deal with a time-displaced ten-year-old Dick Grayson. Love a good Dick and Damian bonding moment, PLUS this gets a happy ending <3

to stay in one place by Jezebunny - Injustice!Universe Nightwing!Damian time-travels/dimension-jumps to a timeline where Dick Grayson is still alive and his counterpart is still Robin. Ugh this is so angsty -- I have an unreasonable amount of love for Injustice Damian

looking for the shapes in the silence by popsunner - In a world where Dick died on the job, Damian falls through a hole in reality where Dick is still alive and finds that some things don't fit the way they used to. SUCH an amazing representation of complex grief -- literally every time I read it, I cry

Steph fics:

time slip by almondrose - A mistake in time leads to six Robins meeting. Honestly, this one is kinda cracky, and only barely qualifies as Steph-centric, but I still like it a lot

and we'll never be the same by almondrose - Steph and Tim go on a road trip to figure out the post-universal-reboot anomalies. This is more of a post timey-wimey-bullshit fic than a real time travel fic, BUT I think it's real cute regardless

Tim fics:

Tractors by lieu42 - Ooh this one is honestly so so fun! In a reimagined universe where DC's heroes operate out of the UK, Red Robin Tim finds himself right back in the year before everything went to hell. He has a duty to get back to his correct timeline so he can find Bruce, but with Bart and Kon still alive, there's a part of him that doesn't want to leave. Literally SO well written and trippy as hell -- this fic deals a lot with addiction, drug use, and grief, so definitely go into it forewarned. TimKon

not for very much longer by CreamOfTomatoSoup - ugh what CAN'T I say about this fic, apart from the fact that it's one of my favorite time loop fics of all time. Post Cult of Dionysus Bernard Dowd finds himself reliving the worst day of his life -- the day Darla got shot. Featuring identity porn, Steph as Robin, Original-Personality!Bernard, the grief of a childhood you can never return to, and the weirdness of having to interact with your significant other when he's currently a sixteen year old who doesn't know he likes dudes. Don't look at the incomplete warning -- it's not abandoned, just a wip, and I legitimately cannot recommend this fic enough. This fic made me read War Games. This fic made me a Darla Aquista stan. This fic made me ship timbern. Please read this fic.

Jason fics:

The View From Jade by lowflyingfruit - Jason Todd accidentally travels back to before Bruce took Dick in. I feel like this is on every time travel rec list, but what can I say: I'm a basic bitch

Two Dead Birds by InsaneTrollLogic - Jason Todd wakes up in the middle of his Mob Boss Era and immediately decides to rewrite his own history. This is very funky fresh of him, just in my personal opinion.

Dick fics:

So It Goes by 60sec400 - Bruce from Dick's Robin era receives a troubling call from Nightwing. Be warned -- this fic is angsty as hell. Implied major character death. Don't look at the incomplete warning -- it's a lie (the author has specified they intended it to work as a oneshot)

In This Or Any Other Universe by wildsofmarch - Dick-as-Batman ends up in Battinson-era Gotham. Again, I think this counts more towards the Dimension Travel pile than the strict Time Travel variety, but I'm still putting it here because I enjoy the hell out of it

a million dreams by CaptainOzone - In the seconds between the trapeze line snapping and their bodies hitting the ground, John and Mary Grayson find themselves transported twenty years into the future. SO GOOD I honestly can't stand it.

If you think I missed a fic you love (or if you've written any yourself and want to self-plug), feel free to drop a link in the reblogs! Especially if you know of any that center around Steph, Cass, or Duke -- istg I've scrolled through fifteen pages of the AO3 Time Travel tag, and I've found like maybe two fics that center around any of them. It's honestly a little ridiculous

[dreamerdeity]

𝐊𝐄𝐈𝐑𝐀'𝐒 𝐅𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓: 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐏𝐒

a/n: Really happy to be back on tumblr! College apps have been kicking my ass but it's getting better. Don't be shy to request a matchup, a fic, or a wip for Gaza! I'm also very sorry @tinysoulmentality for not including moodboards I had no time 😭

❁ཻུ۪۪♡ word count: 2k

Keira's Fundraising Event

███▒▒▒▒▒▒ 𝐍𝐨𝐰 𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠. . . @tinysoulmentality 's character matchup

Hi! Id like to request a matchup for jjk, bllk and aot. Im mexican and being connected to my culture is very important to me. I love reading dc comics and watching old slasher/horror movies. My favorite color is purple and my favorite holiday/time of year of Halloween. When it comes to relationships, the most important thing to me is being with someone that I know i can be myself with and that I dont have to worry about their loyalty towards me. Here are my donations and pls lmk if theres any other info you need !!!💜💜

𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐉𝐉𝐊 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇: 𝐈𝐍𝐎 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐌𝐀

Ino is an interesting little guy. He’s cute, but to say he has game would be like saying that cats can fly (handsome loser :3). When he first met you, he had to do a little double take because hold on a minute. Who’s that pretty lady? He casually walks up to you and blurts out a “You’re not from around here, are you?” ft. nervous voice crack that he manages to play off somehow. The question definitely elicits a few mental eye rolls from you. Typical male-tries-to-hit-on-foreign-girl one-liner, but he makes it… work? Maybe it’s the nervous flush on his cheeks, or the hand that sheepishly rubs at the back of his neck, or the bright smile he musters up to mask the nerves. 

I like to think that Ino is a very cosmopolitan person. It’s not really that he’s traveled all around the world, but more so that he has varied likes and interests spanning many different cultures. He likes to listen to old-school hip-hop and reggaeton. He’s into Italian and Turkish dramas. He sleeps well at night knowing there’s an Indian restaurant and another Mexican one down the block that can curb his cravings for butter chicken and quesadillas. 

So, it’s no surprise that he’s quick to grab a throw pillow and get comfortable on the couch whenever you talk about your Mexican heritage. He doesn’t know much about Mexico apart from the fact that the food goes extremely hard, so he’s always enthusiastic to learn more about the other aspects that characterize your country and its people. 

He also tries to learn some Spanish to “surprise” you but then it’s literally just a “¡Buenos días!” enunciated really badly. There’s a proud smile on his face every time he greets you good morning in your mother tongue though, and it’s very endearing, to say the least. 

To add onto his culture vulture, cosmopolitan vibes, I think he’s also really into movies. The type to just drop a niche movie reference every two seconds and frown deeply when no one gets it. 

Watching horror movies with him is interesting because for some reason he thinks that abruptly grabbing your shoulders mid-movie and growling menacingly would jump-scare you into oblivion, but you’re used to the genre so all it does is make you eye him narrowingly, unimpressed, ready to tell him off for interrupting a very crucial plot development. 

For whatever reason, Ino gives me major horror-enjoyer vibes. He likes analog horror and you’re lucky Halloween is your favorite time of year because it’s his too! Watching The Prowler (i just really like this movie lol) under the blankets with warm, freshly-made popcorn and a pretty lady in his arms? Yeah, count him in. 

One last thing, sorry to be the one to say this, but Ino is definitely the “can you draw me” person whenever he sees your sketchbook or art in general. It’s all in good nature, and he wouldn’t mind it if you say no, but if you do draw or paint him, let’s just say that that drawing will be in his wallet for the rest of his life. Sometimes he’d just randomly pull it out when someone brings you up and proudly hold it up to his company like “Uhuh, my girl drew this. Yup.” 

𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐁𝐋𝐋𝐊 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇: 𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐈 𝐇𝐘𝐎𝐌𝐀

I think that, unlike Ino, Chigiri used to be less “out there” in the world in his youth and kept more to himself in terms of being an experiencer of cultural diffusion; It was how he was brought up. But after going pro and meeting many people, traveling to many different places etc, he’s been exposed to the world on a greater scale. That’s how he finds himself meeting you one day at a party. He was charming. Need I say more tbh? That hair, that gentlemanliness, that whole aura surrounding him is hard to resist. He knew just how to sweet-talk but actually meant every word he said. 

Chigiri is one wealthy man, let’s be honest. Pro footballer?  Mbappe in another font? Yeah. I think he genuinely enjoys spoiling and lavishing you with gifts if that’s your thing. 

He loves hearing you talk about your heritage and if you don’t live in Mexico, I feel like if you were to even remotely express that you’re kind of missing your country he’d immediately be like, “Then let’s book a 2 week stay and you can show me all those things you were telling me about.” No biggie. 

Would also rent out the entirety of Playa Sisal in advance because you mentioned (once. 1 [one] time. ) that you were looking forward to taking a dip come the vacation. 

I think that there’s this stigma surrounding footballers and how they’re a bunch of players who sleep around but don’t commit. While that may have some merit, Chigiri is different. Like, have you seen him? Not to mention that he has a sister. 

I feel like he values loyalty and genuine companionship as much as you do, and should you ever feel yourself questioning where you stand within his life, or whether he’s trustworthy, he would be so quick to reassure you and make you feel heard, basically quelling the doubts before they even surface. (Communicative king). 

On the note of communicative king, he’s very good at praise and voicing his appreciation. The sort to genuinely encourage your creative hobbies and praise you for any work you create. He would literally not mind building a home art studio for you to promote your love for art and writing. Like, “Oh, I saw you painting the other day and you didn’t look very comfortable at your desk. Thought I’d make you a little art corner,” he’d say as he sheepishly shows you the “art corner” in question which looks more like a state of the art professional studio. 

I think Chigiri himself is a very artistic person beneath the surface. He just gives off that vibe quite a bit. Picnics where you guys sit at the park and paint the scenery together? So him. 

Would post your art on social media (if you consent ofc!) to his 5 million+ followers and bring you business if you ever decide to open commissions. 

In terms of entertainment, Chigiri is the type to be so clueless when it comes to media because he just doesn’t have the time. Like you were shocked when he told you he never watched Star Wars. Sir, what do you mean?? 

It became your job to educate him on the vast world of entertainment, namely movies. He doesn’t really care what you pick as long as you’re happy. So when he’s got some free time on his hands, he’ll binge horror or DC/Marvel movies with you and even try to analyze the plot as it’s happening (don’t kill him please he’s just trying to show he’s interested). 

Would buy you merch of your favorite movies and get giddy when you wear it/decorate your room with it etc.

Lastly, I think Chigiri would sulk in the corner if you insist he let you dye his hair purple since it’s your favorite color, but he literally can’t say no to you, so eventually he yields reluctantly but shockingly, once all is said and done, he figures out he actually really like how purple looks on him. 

𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐀𝐎𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇: 𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐈 𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐍

I’m gunna be honest. I think it just makes sense for Levi to like you because black cat x orange cat trope?? Him and Hange? Him and the Eren gang in general? Yeah. 

Going by your mbti, I imagine you’re not very extroverted, and I think that’s something that genuinely makes Levi let out a sigh of relief sometimes. 

*glance at each other* You: “wanna leave this party?” Him: “You read my mind.”

If loyalty were a person, it would be this man. He shows it in the small things, I’d say: Leaving you short messages before he leaves for work every morning, bringing you things that remind him of you, etc. I feel like that would be his way of saying “I’ve got eyes for you only/I’m always thinking about you and you alone”. 

Levi is such a meanie on the surface and I find it kind of hilarious. Like, I think you guys would complete each other's snark and sarcasm and people would not know whether you two are joking or not meanwhile yall are just trying to bite back giggles. 

If I’m being honest, Levi doesn’t strike me as a very creative person. He seems more of a STEM sort of guy if we think of him in a modern au, so he doesn’t pay much mind to the arts as a field. 

That’s not to say he isn’t supportive of your creative endeavors of course. You know when parents have no idea how a sport you play works but they still passionately cheer at your games regardless? Yeah, that’s Levi with your art, writing, etc. It’s all impressive to him even if you don’t think so and he’ll make sure you know that. 

“I love this poem you wrote. You could be famous if you took this up professionally,” he’d say even if there was like a single sentence on the page. 

Would be the type to send you anything art or writing related he gets on his fyp like “yup, she’s definitely gonna love this/find it helpful”. 

This might be an unpopular opinion, but I think Levi is actually a film buff. There, I said it. Something about him strikes me as movie lover. He would be the type to drop a quote from some obscure movie from the 50s with a straight face in the most serious tone ever which makes it even funnier. 

So, when you two have some free time, he loves to watch things with you while cuddling on the couch. he’s the type to read the captions before the characters actually say them and it just spoils the scene for him, and then he’d sulk as if it’s your fault, but it’s cute. 

When you two are watching horror movies, he’s the type to tsk and mutter under his breath complaining about the costumes or about how if he were there he would’ve totally killed that demon in like two seconds.

[the-invisibility-bloke]

fic writer interview

Thanks for the tags, @galaxostars, @microdamage, @shoopsthereitis, and @wolfpants! I love your deep dives, so much of y'all's on my TBR.

How many works do you have on ao3? 40

What is your total wordcount? 468,229

Top 5 stories by kudos: (please don't perceive these, I loathe my old work) now we walk, manie sans delire, Five Times Walter Meets Jesse and One Time He Says Goodbye, don't give me your heart i can't take it, blindsight

Do you respond to comments? Always <3

What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending? ​Hmm how 'bout the Starcest where Reg DIES​ (don't come for me it was by request)

What's the fic you've written with the happiest ending? Most have happy endings (heh), but I think this one's extra sweet bc Teddy's a lil honeybear (which sounds dirtywrong so all the better)

Do you write crossovers? Not unless you count the one in the next question

Have you received hate for a fic? Rarely because I disable guest comments. 😅 The artist and I both got death threats for this blip on the radar, which is especially hilarious because it's hardly my most problematique work. (It also scared the artist out of the fandom, which is. Less hilarious. Fuck antis.)

Do you write smut? With great disdain (my style is ill-suited to action/logistics)

Have you ever had a fic stolen? Reposted but not plagiarized, I’m way too niche to attract that attention 😂

Have you ever had a fic translated? My Breaking Bad fic, randomly enough

Have you ever co-written a fic before? Kinda, or do artist collabs count? Those are the frosting on fandom cake.

What is your all-time favourite ship? A multishipper's nightmare. Gotta be the Sirry > Heddy or Sirry > Drarry > Tedrarry pipeline. Sirius died so Tedrarry could live.

What's a WIP you want to finish but don't think you ever will? ​My Gauntcest... it's all outlined, but I have to go where the hyper fixates

What are your writing strengths? ​Turn of phrase, dialogue​, ​cadence, emotion

What are your writing weaknesses? *cracks knuckles* Plot, action, pacing, versatility (I am not as well read as many of my counterparts because yep I’ll admit it, most tradpub bores me), the balance between ​poetic prose and character voice. I get Artax-swamped in descriptors, I recycle metaphors, I'm a cringey tryhard in the face of transitions, never know if they land and I can't ever leave a sentence bare. I know, I know sometimes you can just say "He walked to the door" but good sir no I cannot.​ I could parse my shortcomings at the dissertation level... oh... oh maybe a ppt... El’s Insecurities: A Treatise.

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in another language? I love the immersiveness and/or hotness, but I’m biased because I usually only run across French and I can muddle through. If you’re unfamiliar with the language it might be hard to follow. (I’ve seen translation footnote links, which, genius, can a tech-savvy gen Z teach me this?)

What's a fandom/ship you haven't written yet but would like to? ​Jalbus. Dralbus. Scarry. Drarry/Scorbus OT4. (Does Draco/Scorpius have a ship name? Scorco and Drapius are… yikes. Malfoycest it is.) Drarry as a two-wheeler and not a tricycle (soon soon soon).

What's your favourite fic you've ever written? ​Passion cools fast for me, but I like my Tedrarry. It got the biggest dose of my wit and sold me on Drarry (which, fail, given I wrote it for a rarepair exchange).

Everyone's already done this, I think? If you haven’t, tag you’re it, @ me. 🩵

[dearunreliablenarrator]

I'm here, queer, and highly likely to disappear*; but here's a very unreliable introduction to this narrator.

Hi, I'm Saturn (for now at least, i think.)

I'm a black 20-something year old writer with a imagination that happens to be active at the wrong times. When I'm not writing, you'll find me struggling through classes and holding my cats in air jail for chewing on my clothes. and you probably thought a college dorm dryer was bad...

I often use music as a progression for my writing, using it to build the personality and lifes of my characters, cause I think you can tell a lot about a person with the type of music they listen to. This goes the same for food, whether they're cooking (or lack thereof), eating (which there'll a lot of and not just food), just for the sake of storytelling. Cause food can tell a story too!

You'll also see the use of Sims4 in these posts, there's nothing better to me than to be able to build my world from the ground up even if it is tedious. I often burnout myself out between both writing and building so its nice to be able to switch between the two! here's a small character visual as a start!

it's also nice to watch my characters evolve real time, they tend to outgrow some things faster than i can keep up.

As a current researching and scrappy practitioner, you will see hints of practical magic(k)/workings/information in my works. Influences from traditionally african american practices will be underlying themes in this world of mine; within my scope of course. How my characters navigate through a world that is both mundane and spiritual is something they'll have to overcome in all aspects; and how they affect future lives and timelines is all hanging on the fading tradition of storytelling.

follow, share, and embrace their stories; because there's only one way to keep them alive.

as for what i write or rather my niche: the unreliable multiverse

genres: (comp) (hist) (queer) romance, urban/southern horror, urban fantasy, and apocalyptic sci-fic.

topics/tropes: religious deconstruction, religious trauma, witchcraft (mundane, practical, scrappy, cultural, A(A)TRs.) anti-racism/racism,politics, social structure,found family, star-crossed lovers, childhood friends to lovers, ancestral/familial secrets, morally-grey protagonists,coming of age, the anti-christ, HEA, small town horror, mental illness/disorders, philosophy.

for some these topics may be a lot, and while i want my writing to be a source of escapism...fiction will always be influenced by reality, and that is something that will be in my writing (just not to the extremes), expect CW and TWs but they will not always be there.

CURRENT WIPs: the big three

Where The River Bends:

Bored of modern romance and her own life, Elaine Brown suffers from being a daydreaming, skeptical, hopeless romantic. In a plead to the Universe to grace her with a new addition to her routine, she finds herself stumbling into spell unlike her very own. Warren Soo has be dreaming of a life where days can feel like a breath of fresh air. When a random chance driven by his choices puts him in the space of unsuspecting Elaine, he can't help but be bewitched by the ease in which her days go by. Together, they navigate the modern world of romance with just the sprinkle of magic.

theme song

tag: #goddamnitsamson

Aletheia:

Sanctum, place of human design created to preserve those who survived the last of nature's destruction. When humanity was suddenly reckoned with the damage of over creation they are forced to pick between two things.

Stay or leave.

For those that had the ability to leave, Sanctum embraced them with open arms; promising a generational haven within their walls. Here, the people are communities; removed from the worries of past plagues and mortal insecurities. But all peace must follow order.

Questioning the world she's grown in , Emilia Porter has wanted to escape the stone boundary of Sanctum. Taking a chance to explore the land beyond, she registers for the Vanguard; the exploration and task forces that protect and serve the lasting stand of humanity.

Now away from the containing hands of those who seek perfection, she must weigh the truths; both tailored and unwritten.

theme song

tag: #findthetruthyouseek

Cherries Under The Sun:

A southern gothic horror that follows Grace Davis even in her dreams. Stuck in a constant cycle of despair, Grace often finds herself living in a loop of a forgotton past, wondering about the should've, would've, and could haves of her life. When her small college town of Marietta is shaken by a rise in missing cases, her hollow world soon becomes a flash of white papers and bloody lines. Now that her daily life of being ignored comes to halt and the lives of those around her are blurring together, they must now find a way to get their world back to normal. Before it is erased altogether.

theme song; intro; taglist

tag: #howsweettheesound

I don't know what else to put here, but that my characters are much like myself. Weird, witchy, creepy, romantic, sensitive,sarcastic, inquisitive (that's a big word for elmo), and a range of clumsy that only a handful of people can enjoy sooo...

IF you've found me or my wips to be interesting, please feel free to follow, ask a question or comment. Thanks for reading all this and from reader to another, create the book you've always wanted to see. Edison out!

i also don't really know how taglist work but if you wanna here's where to keep up! #theunreliableverse

1.* psst...you can find me and (to be)published works here!