#but that would make it either too good or too wordy

[kactosophile]

Magic the Gathering card based off of a Jerma bit day 6

[liloinkoink]

do you wanna try your luck at the wild life session 5 trivia questions?

well now you can! i gathered all the questions we came up with into a pair of google forms so that you guys can try your hand at the same trivia questions the CCs did!

quizmaster's questions from session 5

we tried to have a good amount of questions for every player and season. we also tried to include only questions we thought at least one person would remember the answer to, especially things we'd seen them bring up recently in their own videos or streams, or big moments that would appear in fanart/animatics that we thought they'd be more likely to remember from seeing in those. we also aimed to include silly questions/answers, or questions/answers we thought people would find entertaining. we wanted players to be able to go to each other and ask each other for help on questions they didnt know the answer to!

but wait! there's more! we also have a form for all the questions which didn't make the cut!

rejected questions

the rejected questions didn't make it due to either being too difficult/niche or being something we did not think any creators would remember, being about a player we already had too many questions for in order to make room for questions about other players, being "stat" or number questions (i.e., "how many times did X die of Y cause?"), having too many names involved in the question or answer (making it hard for players to know who to ask for help), the questions just being wordy, or not being particularly entertaining. fair warning, the rejected questions also were not all fact checked as well as the actual episode questions were, as they didn't go into the actual session

originally our questions were a bit more difficult (we had a lot of questions we didn't necessarily think anyone would remember the answer to), but we were asked to tone it down and have mercy after the unexpectedly high amount of snail carnage (hence why the forms are jokingly names "easy version" and "hard version")

anyway, huge thanks to the rest of the trivia team, @cherrifire, @xmaruu11, @hopepetal, @applestruda, @ink-ghoul, and @cocoabats !!! working with all of you was super fun! and thanks so much to Grian for trusting us with this! this whole thing was a super cool experience and i'm thrilled with how much everyone likes the questions!

[hrryshoney]

soon you will be mine, but i want you now

A/N: the picture? i’m just a sleaze, sorry! yeah this is part 2 to my previous matty fic! again, i apologize for any switching perspectives. lmk if i’m bad at writing smut.. honest reviews pls!

warnings: smut, literally sex lmao. idiots in love, are they gonna fuck while he’s sick? …sorry, but it wasn’t that bad in the first place! the drama queen likes to play it up. very wordy. bad writing..?😕

You and Matty were friends. Best friends. Well, maybe more than that now. Because you didn’t know any friends who did this with each other, best or not.

Matty’s lips were on yours. Moving firmly against one another. You were in a daze, it seems, because you don’t know how or when you began straddling his lap. Or maybe he put you there? Either way.

He was kissing you with such fervor that it made your whole body hot. He bit down on your lip, and you let out a truly pathetic gasp. This gave him an opening, and he slipped his tongue in your mouth. You could feel his smile against your lips.

Matty Healy was going to drive you insane, if he hadn’t already.

You pulled back and put your hands on his chest, breathing heavily. “Need air, Matty. Jesus, you got the lungs of a swimmer or some shit?” You move your neck back farther.

His lips chase yours. He pants, “Just got a lot of practice.” He attaches his lips to your neck. “Wanna practice on you, now.” You feel his teeth sink in, a little above your collarbone. His mouth sucks on the spot.

“You’re- you’re gonna leave a mark.” Your sentence is finished off with a half whimper/half pant. He’s really affecting you. Who knew suppressing emotions for your best friend would lead to tension filled foreplay?

“Mhm, good. Show ‘em all.” He licks over the spot he just sucked. “Can’t wait to see the mark, been wanting you like this for too long.” This is a Matty you’ve never seen before. Eyes dark, ravenous. His hair is messy atop his head, his chest is rising and falling rapidly. You think you want to become accustomed to this Matty.

“You have?” It’s a genuine question, although a stupid one. He just gave you a hickey and you’re asking if he wants you? Maybe it’s an ego thing, but you just want confirmation. You’ve been pining after him for far too long, and now that you have him.. it’s safe to say you want to keep him.

“You’re an oblivious little thing. I’ve always fancied you. Thought for sure ya noticed. Doesn’t matter, though. Have ya now.” Matty continues his assault on your neck, moving lower and lower now. The neck of his your oversized tee is moving lower with each kiss. “Can I take this off you, darling?” His eyes search yours for consent.

You barely get to finish your nod as he yanks the shirt over your head. You had forgone a bra today. Thinking you were only taking care of Matty, and that the tee covered your nipples, you didn’t see the point. Now though, on Matty’s lap, you feel all too exposed.

His eyes are glued to your chest, hands resting on your waist and squeezing the skin every so often. That look in his eyes is going to kill you. But what really does it is the small fuck me that’s whispered under his breath. Your hips give an involuntary roll against his own.

Your whimper makes him look up, you roll your hips again. Matty’s groan sounds too good coming out of his mouth. He tightens his hold on your hips. “Stop moving, yeah? Gonna be a good girl tonight and listen to me?”

Now that, you were not expecting. The moan that rips from your chest is something new. That was uncharted territory, something your old flings had never dabbled into. You didn’t think you were getting dirty talk with Matty. Oh, you were terribly wrong.

“Matty, shit. Please, yes, I’m good.” You didn’t know you had a big submissive side inside of you, but Matty is definitely bringing it out. He rolls his hips up into yours, but his hands restrain you from doing the same.

“Awe, you’re adorable, aren’t you? Just wanna be my good girl? That’s alright, love. You will be.” The snicker that comes along with his smirk is another thing you’re not accustomed to. The condescending tone. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t like it.

He picks you up from his lap and lays you back on the bed, into his previous spot. Matty had forgone a shirt, something about how hot he was with the ‘fever’. He was only in some sweats, and he looked good. You were aware of your best friends body, but seeing it this way was something else. His muscles and tattoos made your mouth water.

“Eyes are up here, babe.” He laughs at your awed state. His fingers are gilding up and down your leg, toying with the hem of your shorts. “I can take these off?” He asks for confirmation again, ever the gentleman. You nod.

“No, words. Use your words, please.” He smiles, he really is sick, you think.

“Yes, Matty, please.” Your hips buck up as he fiddles with the hem. Goosebumps have risen on your thigh from his touch.

“Good manners too, aren’t you sweet?” He grabs the waistband of your shorts and begins to pull them down. Slowly. Hauntingly slow. He knows what he’s doing, and you hate it.

You’re left in just your light blue underwear, you think it’s only fair if he strips too. “Can you take your pants off, please? Then we’ll be even.”

He simply does as he’s told, and tugs the gray sweatpants down his leg. He kicks them off to somewhere in the room, but your eyes are glued to his briefs.

Without giving you too much time to ogle, his mouth is glued to your chest. Kissing and touching your breasts. “Feel what you do to me?”

He pushed his bulge into your leg as he continues kissing your chest. “Got me so fuckin’ hard from nothing, like a bloody teenager. You always make me this hard.” He groans into your breast.

“Oh, Matty.” Your response is weak, but it’s the only coherent thing that will come out of your mouth.

“Yeah, love when you say my name. Would fuck my fist and think about ya. Moaning, making those pretty noises for me.” You gasp at that, you didn’t think he thought about you in that way.

You knew you’d done it before, but you would never tell. Those nights where you were aching, and desperately needed relief. Where you would slide your hand between your thighs and pretend it was Matty’s. You never knew the feeling was reciprocated.

“Taste so fucking good. Need a real taste. Can I, love? Can I eat ya?” You knew what he was asking, but you were apprehensive. Every time a guy went down on you, you never came. It was nothing personal, you guessed it just wasn’t your cup of tea.

“Yeah, you- you can, Matty. But if I don’t come, don’t feel some way. Never come when guys eat me out.” You shrugged, though you feel your body ignite from the way he looked at you.

“Shame. Guess they weren’t doin’ it right, darling.” He moves down your body and plants kisses on your stomach as he does so. He keeps going when he reaches the waistband of your panties. He kisses you over them.

Matty sits back on his knees and sees the prominent wet spot on your underwear. He puts his thumb atop it and pushes. You gasp, “Fuck, Matty!” clearly not ready for the stimulation.

“All that for me?” And though it’s a rhetorical question, you still nod. “So nice and wet, perfect for me.” He gives you mercy and slides your panties down your legs.

He’s at the edge of the bed now, just laying and staring at your pussy. You almost close your legs out of humiliation, but his strong hands rest on your thighs to pry them open. “Don’t run from me, darling. It’s really a sin to hide this pretty cunt. Really a shame no one’s taken care of her properly.” He runs his finger up your slit, collecting your wetness and pressing on your clit.

Your face heats from his vulgar words, and you let out a whine. Your hands cover your face. “Matty… please.”

“Aw, c’mon. Don’t be shy, ‘m just being honest.” His face gets close to your pussy and you feel his breath against it. The whine you let out is music to his ears. Matty licks a thick stripe, and you let out a guttural moan.

His tongue is all over in the best way possible. He’s sucking on your clit and it’s making you see stars. Your hands fly to his hair and you tug. “Mm, sorry. Don’t wanna hurt ya, just feels good.” You rub his head after your apology.

He speaks, and the vibrations against your cunt are sending you over the edge. “Tug all you want, don’t mind.” You let out a loud moan, and he laughs.

He moves his hand from holding your thigh and sticks one finger in your hole, continuing to suck your clit. Your hips buck from the internal stimulation. His finger moving in and out of you, and his lips around your clit is.. very pleasant, to say the least. Even more so when he adds a second finger.

You let out a sigh of pleasure. Matty curls his fingers. His are so big, yours just don’t compare. 2 of his feels like 3 of yours. He detached his lips from your clit and lays his tongue flat on it. You feel a jolt through your body, the pressure is building.

“Oh! Hm, Matty, I’m-‘m gonna…” You pant out and close your eyes tight, preparing for your orgasm. But it doesn’t come. You don’t cum. That’s because Matty has ceased all movements, moved away from your pussy entirely and is staring at you with a smile on his face.

“Matty! What the fuck, I was just about to cum. Are you serious?” You’re looking at him and pouting, a crease in your brow. He thinks you look positively adorable.

“Terribly sorry, darling.” He pouts back in faux sympathy. “But if you’re gonna cum, it’ll be ‘round my cock, yeah?” He moves to slide his briefs down his legs.

I feel myself nodding absentmindedly. Agreeing, or ready to agree with him. Ready to be compliant for him. And when he takes off his briefs… it really is a sight to see.

Matty’s cock is pretty. Of course it is, just like everything else about Matty. And right now, the tip is red and leaking pre-cum. He’s hard, long and thick. You can see veins popping out, it looks like it hurts.

Your mouth moves before you have chance to think about what your saying, “Want me to suck you off?” and your eyes widen as the words spill out.

“Jesus, what am I gonna do with you?” He asks, and smiles as he looks down at you. Kneeling on the bed, now. Slotted between your thighs. Almost where you need him. “Not today, darling. But thank you for the offer, ‘m sure your mouth feels amazing.”

‘Not today’, the phrase gives you even more hope that this is not a one off thing. That you and your best friend will progress together, and this isn’t just a hookup that will be brushed under the rug.

“I’m gonna go slow, okay? Tell me what you like and what you don’t.” He grabs onto your hands, and it all feels so tender. You’re glad Matty’s in your life.

When he thrusts in, you can’t hold the moan. He can’t hold his either. Matty’s noises are heaven sent. He sounds so good. Gravelly and whiny, but domineering. And with your whining in the back, it all sounds like the perfect soundtrack.

“You- you’re so big, Matty. Don’t know how it fits.” If you were in your right mindset, you would never inflate his ego like this. You know it’s big enough as it is. Oh, well. At least he’s endowed enough to back it up.

His smirk says enough. “Yeah? Filling you up good? This tight cunt? So good f’me. Perfect, like you were made for me.” He continues to pull in and out of you at an unrelenting pattern.

“Oh, God! Mhm, right there, please.” You can’t do much of anything else than cry out for him.

“Not God, just me.” He grins as he keeps thrusting into you, the sound of skin slapping fills the room. “You feel so fucking good, Y/N.” His mouth is right by your ear, you feel feral.

You clench around him. Hearing him pant your name is just the cherry on top. You feel the pressure building again. “Matty, so so close. Please.” Your whimpers and pleas don’t fall on deaf ears. Especially not when Matty brings his thumb around to press on your clit.

“Oh, Matty! Yes, yes please!”

“That’s right. My fucking girl. C’mon, be good for me. Cum. Cum all over my cock, angel. You can do it.”

All you can do is yell Matty’s name. You finally feel that release. Your vision goes white and Matty brings his hand to rest loosely on your neck. He’s still pounding into you, and you’re getting very overstimulated very fast.

“Fuck, you’re so fucking hot. So good for me, whole time. My good little girl, I’m close, shit.” Matty is groaning and panting in your ear, his pace never wavering. You think he has too much stamina. Then, you think that’s a good thing, a really good thing.

“Matty, please. Cum for me, please.” And you don’t care how pathetic you sound, begging for him to finish. You need him that bad.

“Where- where do ya want it?”

You don’t even have to think, “In-inside me, on the pill. Please, cum inside me?”

And Matty’s guttural groan is worth it. “Fuck, gonna be the death of me. Cum inside ya, fill you up real nice. That’s what you want, right babe?”

You nod your head so much that it could fall off your shoulders, and Matty’s thrusts are slowing down. You feel his dick twitch inside of you. You feel his cum dripping down your thighs. Matty pulls out, and you know you’re gonna be sore tomorrow morning.

He’s just staring between your legs, and then, “So pretty, should keep you like this all the time.” he takes two fingers and shoves them inside of you, pushing his cum back in.

Your back arches off the bed, “Fuck me, Matty.”

He collapses into the spot next to me, and pulls me into his chest. “Already did that one, love.” We both let out a giggle.

You two lay there in comfortable silence for a couple moments. His arm is around your body, fingers drawing circles on your bicep. Your hand falls to his chest, tracing his tattoos.

You figure you have to break the silence first. “So… can I be incredibly cliche with the ‘what are we?’ line, or do I need new material?”

Matty let’s out a loud laugh at that. He plants a kiss to the top of your forehead. “Y/N, honestly I’ve liked you for the better half of 8 years. If you want to be my girlfriend, then I’d be happy to be your boyfriend.” The words boyfriend and girlfriend make you giddy. You feel like a schoolgirl on her first date.

“‘Course I’d be your girlfriend, Matty. Don’t know if you could tell, but I’ve liked you too. Obviously.” You giggle a little. There’s a light and airy feeling in your chest. This is good.

“Mhm, take you out on a proper date after this. Dinner, movie, wherever you want to go. Whatever you want to do. Suppose I did it out of order. Fucked ya first, then wooing you on a date, yeah?” Matty chuckles a little, rubbing your arm. You laugh, too.

“You woo me everyday, Matty.”

“Careful, flattery gets you everywhere with me. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You smile. Matty smiles. You’re both glowing with happiness. This time, you lean in.

[angeart]

hhau mimic arc rambles - part IV: the inbetween (make the danger feel good)

(~11 k words) // other parts & au masterpost here

there's a bunch of things in this one that might make some people want to skip it. please be aware this tips into suggestive stuff (ok maybe a notch beyond the line, but nothing too explicit). there's certainly intimacy, nudity (that was there all along but now we Pay Attention To It) and more prominent cws would probably be... everything around vex instincts. so mentions of: blood, biting, consensual violence, blood/fear-play, prey-play?? they're deranged. i tried to keep it as tame as possible lol but be aware those are the topics and tones.

in case you skip this one, just know this is when scar and grian start to be truly intimate, and this is when grian gets the mating bite from scar (neither of them are aware that's what it is; there's a whole bunch of bites.) (dEranged.) also, there's more wing touches.

rp based, so wordy. <3 this follows directly after the wing spiral so we're still in the hotspring cave

---

The moment slowly tips into something else as they both lay on the spread-out cloak, fire crackling behind Grian’s back, his still somewhat-damp wing slung gingerly across Scar.

It all drags at Scar’s heartstrings, watching as Grian navigates his way through the maze back to something sensible, something more like himself. Freckles barely show in the flickering light, eyes dark and shiny from recent emotions, a bruised spot on his lip from nervous biting. Grian’s hair falls around him in soft, golden strands, fire painting over them with copper.

“You’re…” Scar stops, almost scared to finish the sentence. It feels like they’ve reached a comfortable silence after what felt like literal hours of agony. But he’s already broken it, so— He tucks his head into Grian’s hand, smothering the words into his palm. “… so beautiful.”

He looks at Grian’s eyes when he says it. No part of his wings, even though he means to include every bit of him. But he needs Grian to know he means it whether the feathers are included or not.

A swell of emotions rushes through Grian at that; he isn’t sure how to react, all he knows is he feels heat and tingling, and it’s so, so very different from the tingling of that numbness from earlier. This is nervous, skittish, warm, present. He feels rooted to the moment, to the softness of Scar’s eyes and his breath against Grian’s palm and—

And he feels like Scar is a hot spring and Grian is floating, melting into it.

“You can’t— You can’t say that,” he sputters, not quite able to pull forth any better quips than something stumbling and lost and irredeemably flustered. “What do you even mean.”

As soon as he says that, he realises those words might be a mistake. He doesn’t want Scar to answer.

Grian’s mind spins for something else to jump to, and he blurts out, ridiculously: “It’s because you washed my hair.” (He doesn’t quite remember that either. He regrets falling asleep so fast, although he can’t deny he slept so well, even if only briefly. He… really needed that.)

“Mm,” Scar mumbles into Grian’s palm again, buzzing his lips there. “No, I thought that before I washed your hair, too.” He was meaning not to say something embarrassing again, but failed completely.

Grian’s mind snags on the way Scar’s words feel against his palm, a riveting, delightful experience that he wishes to relive a million times. His thumb gingerly brushes across the heated skin of Scar’s cheek, but he keeps his palm in place, ready to catch any and all words that might spill out of Scar’s lips. 

“You’re silly and sappy,” Grian accuses, but it sounds so achingly soft and fond.

Scar changes his mind almost instantly about not saying embarrassing things, seeking out more of that softness Grian’s voice holds— that simplicity and affection. He’ll keep saying embarrassing things if he gets that. It’s worth it.

“This is true,” he admits easily. “But I’m also right.”

Craning his neck, Grian leans in to place a kiss against Scar’s face, tender and loving. (He’s weaving all the gratitude into it, all the affection, all the apologies and forgiveness all at once.) “You’re also ridiculous,” he adds, a little bit cheekily, but it again carries no bite, words made of cotton and warmth.

His wing shifts higher, covering their upper torsos and faces, dunking them into more darkness—something that instantly makes Grian sleepy. The fire crackles behind his back, somewhat still keeping up, although definitely in need of more fuel. 

Grian doesn’t want to move.

“Also true.” Scar nods. “Thank you for noticing.” 

There’s an unsaid thank you for so many more things in the way Scar delivers the line so seriously: Thank you for speaking to me. Thank you for shielding us with your wings. Thank you for going along with my shenanigans. 

Thank you for being here. 

Scar wants to fall asleep then and there, unperturbed by the mess of remaining concerns that still plague them, but he tries to be the strong one here. “…I should fuel the fire. Maybe set up a small perimeter so we can both get some sleep?” 

He wants to sleep beside Grian. He doesn’t want to take turns keeping watch.

And isn’t that a wonderful thought? For both of them to be able to sleep at the same time, curled up together by a warm fire?

They don’t get that often.

Grian latches onto that hope, pushing his fatigued body up as he gingerly releases Scar from the cocoony hold of his wing. He offers to help even though his mind still feels a little slow, body a little off; if he can assist Scar and make this happen, then he wants to do it.

Scar gets up reluctantly, but he’s pleasantly surprised how little his muscles protest after the nice soothing bath they received. That’s a rarity. He directs Grian to check up on the fire while he’ll make some walls, promising cuddles at the end of it. 

The idea of that sort of reward makes pushing through their exhaustion and putting in the effort worth it.

Tending the fire isn't a skill they needed on Hermitcraft, but through trial and error, they learned the best ways to distribute fuel materials for the most efficiency and the least smoke. It comes to Grian easily now, automatic, and notably it takes much less time than wall building.

Once satisfied, Grian looks over at Scar, asking if he should help with the wall. After all, the faster they're done, the faster they can cuddle. 

Scar nods, noting he’s sleepy and he might miss spots. A second pair of eyes to check after him would be good, and any help is certainly appreciated, especially since it’s their safety at stake here. He’s using a bit of a hodgepodge arrangement of materials, just doing the minimum to keep mobs out, but it’ll do, as long as they do it properly. 

Grian pushes himself to his feet; his wings feel a little strange, and he can't quite tell why, but he swerves away from thinking about it. His muscles feel weak, wanting to go back to blissful resting, looking forward to sleep. A faint lightheadedness hits him at the first step, but a short pause and a deep breath is enough to chase it away.

He slots himself next to Scar, reaching to take some materials from him. As soon as he's in his orbit, Scar can’t help but reach over and lightly touch him on the waist, pulling him in for a brief, only slightly-awkward kiss. He smiles, toothy and real, before handing off some of his materials, whistling to himself like it didn’t happen as he turns back around.

Grian can't help but adore and crave the easy intimacy; the way he's reached for and tugged and kissed, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He gravitates towards Scar in return, peeking at him and quietly studying his expression as Scar whistles and works.

There isn't terribly much needed to do with the walls, and Grian fixes up his end to the best of his capabilities given his energy level, then makes sure to look over Scar's work as requested, too, making sure they don't miss something due to fatigue. (Mistakes are too costly here. They can’t afford them.)

When they're done, Grian clicks his tongue appraisingly. "It's not a terracotta shack, but it'll do."

Scar snickers, highly amused by the callback. “Yeah, it might actually be uglier. I should put up a sign for any googlies to leave a review.” He slips in behind Grian and kisses the top of his head, wrapping his arms around his waist. “Mmm, warm clothes?”

Grian shifts his wings gently out of the way, but he itches to press himself against Scar, so he clumsily turns around in his loose grip, trying to maintain some space for his feathers as he goes. 

Somehow, now that this is all very intentional, without the mental fog and fresh tears and jumbled cravings, this feels more intimate. Their bare chests are near each other, reverberating with heartbeats and moving with their breaths, and there's so much skin and—

Timidly, Grian's fingers find Scar's waist, a featherlight touch exploring upwards, fingertips counting across the lower ribs.

He leans in and presses a soft kiss to Scar's jaw. "Mm." His head tips and he rests his forehead against the spot he's just kissed. His hand travels higher, across Scar's chest, to his shoulder, mapping out his skin. "Warm clothes," he agrees, even though nothing about his actions suggests that.

Scar shivers at the drawn out touch over his bare skin, ears flicking wildly as his heart stutters in his chest for a moment. Sure, he’s no stranger to walking about without a shirt, but people don’t typically touch— 

He rather likes it when Grian does, however.

Not nearly as bold, Scar settles for tracing small shapes over Grian’s sides, gentle and reverent.  “And warm cuddles,” he adds, also not making any move to do so.

Grian hums at Scar's touch; on nothing but wishful instinct, he moves closer, trying to get deeper into Scar's hold. (He wants Scar's hands to wrap around him. To envelop him fully and properly.) (He wants to be held.) (He wants to be wanted, in a way so wholly different from what this world demands.)

He tips his head and presses a kiss to the side of Scar's throat as his fingertips dance from Scar's shoulders across his collarbone. He likes this. Being able to trace paths across Scar's skin. To, hopefully, provide him with something that can touch him without causing pain and scarring. 

The air is cold on the back of his neck, and he figures Scar is not any better off, without having the extra fluff of feathers shielding his spine. He tucks a small sigh against the hollow of Scar's throat, because he knows he should pull away. He knows they should get dressed. His legs feel weak underneath him, craving a bed. (There's no bed here) 

"Yeah... Yeah. Let's go get some rest."

He's still not moving to make any of it happen.

Scar really doesn’t want Grian to let go of him right now (nor does he want to let go), so he’s glad Grian is yet to make a move to leave. He’s tired and cold and wants to go to sleep, but after the absolute rollercoaster back and forth of emotions, Scar is too attached to this moment of serenity. 

In a spur of stubborn refusal, Scar strengthens his grip and lifts, hoisting Grian up just enough so that maybe he can walk them both over. He pulls the avian tight, letting him secure his balance onto him.

And it’s silly, because they’re really not even that far from the fire— and they still need to separate to put on their clothes. They’re still only in their underwear, which makes Scar’s ears twitch again when it occurs to him.

But it’s worth it.

Just a little more contact.

He needs it so bad.

Grian lets out a delighted chirp in surprise as Scar's hold on him tightens, and then— then he loses contact with the ground. He tips forward, easily trusting Scar with his weight, and he giggles quietly against the crook of Scar's neck. His wings unfurl, instinctively seeking out balance. (He doesn't remember when was the last time they felt free to do this; to give in to instincts.) (He isn't even paying attention to them, not really aware that it is happening.)

Without complaint, he presses himself against Scar, and oh, this is different. This is skin on skin. This is—

“Mhm, off to sleep with us!” Scar cheers as he presses Grian close to his chest.

Grian wraps his arms around Scar's shoulders and stays close, heart hammering against his chest in a way that Scar's surely bound to feel, right against his own ribcage. He coos in a flustered encouragement at Scar's statement. Off to sleep. (He'd go anywhere Scar takes him right now. He'd stay anywhere Scar puts him. He'd be anywhere Scar wants him.)

Maybe the earlier struggle was all worth it if Scar gets to hear those sweet little chirps pressed into his neck and feel Grian’s heartbeat against his own fluttering chest. Past anxieties forgotten, Scar is entirely smitten. He feels warm even though logically he shouldn’t. He hums a jaunty tune while he walks them both back over to the fire, pleased with himself and the entirely unnecessary decision to carry Grian. 

And Grian happily lets himself be carried, even though he could’ve easily taken those four steps himself. He isn’t carried out of necessity (for once). He’s being carried because Scar wants to carry him, wants to hold him, wants to keep him pressed close. It warms Grian, too. It makes him feel cherished and safe.

But he’s always been made of mischief, and he can’t help it. He tips his head, lips brushing over the skin of Scar’s throat, and then he’s baring his teeth, letting them come into the gentlest contact with the skin. (Just to tease.) (Just for the reaction.) (His hold on Scar tightens just in case he’s about to be dropped in response.)

Scar’s legs wobble as he muffles a tiny yelp, but he’s been trained to deal with Grian’s tendency toward menace, so he does manage to stay on his feet and keep his grip. 

If he dips just a little and lightly pinches at Grian’s sides though? Deserved. 

“Youuuu…” Scar warns, attempting to growl even though it comes out purely silly. “You love to tempt fate, don’t you?”

Grian takes a sharp breath and squirms as Scar dips, holding onto him. (Even if Scar did want to drop him, Grian refuses to go easily.) At Scar's light disgruntlement, Grian huffs out a breathless laugh, all of it right against Scar's pulsepoint. His teeth are back on Scar's skin, still gentle, but he does apply a little bit more pressure this time, cheekily. 

"Maybe I do." He sounds entirely too cheerful and unbothered, another quiet laughter broken against Scar's throat.

“Mmmm,” Scar grumbles, holding back a full-body shiver. It’s definitely the chill. Definitely.

In retaliation, Scar takes one large step to finish their path to the fire, then dips Grian even lower, threatening to plop him back down on the cloak. “Then accept your fate, you rascal!” Scar cackles, wriggling his fingers at Grian’s sides to try to get him to forcibly let go and fall the rest of the way down to the floor.

Grian laughs openly now—at Scar's attempts to get him off. At his grumbles. At being called a rascal. He delights in it and stays stubbornly clinging to Scar, wrapping his legs around him for extra security.

"I like to tempt fate, Scar, not accept it," he informs him all too giddily, voice still heavily tinged by laughter. "And you can't get rid of me."

Scar snickers, amused by his new clinging bird accessory. “Ah, I wouldn’t dream of it, but—“ He exaggeratively sways from side to side like he’s trying to shake Grian off (he’s really not). “—pesky birds deserve retribution!”

Grian still holds on, unwilling to lose. He cranes his neck, on his way to the next mayhem. "Well then you're going to have to try harder," he lectures. And he lightly squeezes Scar's earlobe in his teeth. (It's not his fault it was so perfectly within reach.) (It's not his fault he has zero impulse control when he gets pesky.)

Scar opens his mouth to say something in return, but all that comes out is a flustered squeak. His face properly flushes as his ear attempts to flick out of reach. ”Griannn!!” he whines, embarrassment obvious in his tone. He’s released his hands at this point, but Grian’s grip is all too secure. So now his hands wave about in the air pathetically, unable to decide on exactly what retribution is in order for Grian.

Grian laughs, a bright, joyful, unbridled cackle pressed against the sensitive patch of skin directly under Scar's ear. His wings flap lightly (the fire flickers momentarily, sparks sent flying, explosive like Grian's soul) at the loss of Scar's hold as he rebalances himself, but remains clingily wrapped against Scar, not budging. "Yes, Scar?" he hums innocently.

Scar finally settles on some form of revenge, bringing out his claws and trailing a very long drag of his nails up Grian’s spine, careful not to actually scratch— just a graze, just a tickle, just a suggestion. He can’t go too far without risking touching the wings, but he does what he can. Grumbles again in response to the innocent hum from a very not innocent bird. “Menace,” he breathes out, still somewhat dazed.

Grian doesn't even try not to shudder under the graze of Scar's claws; he's sure Scar can feel the way he took in breath, then held it in, too. The uptick of his heart rams against Scar's ribs as Grian presses closer, an instinctual back-arch to the sensation.

He still manages to laugh again, a breathless little thing. "Your menace, though."

And it's surprisingly easy, to give himself over to Scar, in a world where everyone wants to own a part of him.

Scar stops that slow drag of claws, settling somewhere in the middle of Grian’s back and instead tapping them there as he hums out what comes across a bit too much like a low growl. It’s not meant to be threatening— it’s not even meant to come out at all, really— it was supposed to be an exaggerated groan, but it instead comes off as a deeply satisfied confirmation. 

“Mine,” Scar concedes, voice barely a whisper, before remembering they’re meant to be teasing. “… Lucky me.” 

Except he’s still not kidding.

And yet despite the fondness with which Scar means it, there's an instant swell of something ugly in Grian at the words lucky me, a razor-edged impulse to make Scar regret those words, to show him just how wrong he is— but he swallows it all down, in a moment of uncharacteristic quiet after all the giggling. He presses himself closer to Scar, takes a deep breath, tries to claw his way back to that pesky playfulness from just seconds ago.

Instead of more teasing, he tips into tenderness. His hold loosens, and he presses his lips to the side of Scar's neck. 

He isn't sure Scar understands just how his Grian is. 

A breathless half-chuckle leaves him despite himself. And he can't help but ask, quietly, edging shyness. "Does that mean you're mine...?" He's okay with the answer being no. He'll still be Scar's, heart and soul. But... He just wants to know. To hear Scar say it. "My ridiculous person?" These words come easier, softer, more playful.

Scar’s hands shift back to holding Grian, claws fading away into harmlessness. He tries to lean his head back to see him, to look at him as the words fall into place so easily. But Grian doesn't let him pull away, doesn't let him move to see his face; he burrows, hiding himself in the crook of Scar's neck. His wings fold—still loose, instead of what they're used to—feathers slotting over Scar's skin without a hassle. 

Scar doesn’t mind Grian’s insistence on keeping his face pressed close. He likes that as well. In fact, he gives up on dropping Grian down at all and plops himself onto the cloak with Grian still attached. 

“Always,” he replies, voice still low and grainy, but filled to the brim with affection. “Always yes.”

"Always," Grian echoes quietly, and the word leaves his tongue like something precious and fragile.

Feeling sappy, as usual, Scar tacks on, “… Have been for a while.”

Words line themselves up in Grian's mind like poison, things to fight back and argue with, to explain that this is not going to be good for Scar. That he really, really isn’t lucky for this.

He swallows them all down. This isn't about that. This isn't and shouldn't be about that.

Scar is saying something incredibly fond, and Grian shouldn't try to destroy it.

His wings press tighter, feathers still slumped right over Scar's arms. 

"... Can we keep it that way...?" he asks in the end.

“Mm, I’d like to, yes.” Scar nods, teeth clacking as he grows a big grin. He takes one hand to fumble for Grian’s sweater.

"Okay." Grian pauses, and then adds in a soft murmur: "Me too." He feels Scar move, but doesn't process what he's reaching for. Grian just stays clinging to him, placated by Scar's words and his hold.

Scar brings the warm fabric over to their bare skin. It makes him giggle slightly at the heat, because it means at least one of his ideas tonight was good. “Here,” he says as he pushes the sweater in between them for the warmth. “As much as I’d love to offer to help you dress—“ he clicks his teeth again in amusement. “—might be a little difficult.”

Taking the soft, warm fabric, Grian puffs his cheeks in an overdramatic pout. "Don't need help, I know how to dress myself." That being said, he still doesn't let go of his wrap around Scar, even though this isn't the best position for putting clothes on.

“Oh I know, but I like to touch you,” Scar goads, grinning innocently.

Grian's cheeks heat up, the words spurring him enough to pull away just to be able to look at Scar, wide-eyed and flustered. "You wh—"

“Hm?” Scar continues to grin, innocent as ever. He looks over Grian, seeing the red trickle over his cheeks. “Oh I think you heard me, but I can repeat myself if you want?” Now that he has the chance, he leans his face in close to Grian, even completing the act with a goofy wink.

"No!" Grian immediately says as his hands fling up, covering Scar's mouth just in case he'd do it anyway, and oh, it's good that Scar is sitting down and holding Grian, because if they were still up, Grian'd definitely fall. His wings fling out anyway, just in case, gathering his balance. The sweater pools between them, a warm barrier between their chests. "That— You don't have to repeat it," Grian blabbers, red.

Scar kisses the palms that cover his mouth, several times like an attack to free himself from the hand prison. He muffles into them as well in between kisses: “But I want to!”

"Scaaaar," Grian groans, and he releases Scar from his hold, only to bury his own very red and very warm face in his freshly-free palms.

Scar follows those hands despite just being freed, kissing them again now that they cover Grian’s face. “I mean you’re not making a lot of progress putting on your sweater— are you sure you don’t want help?” His hands find their way to Grian’s chest, pressing lightly right in the middle.

Grian's heart positively skips a beat, a tiny squeak leaving him at the offer. He's dissipating, too flustered to really form words. 

He wants to scold Scar again. 

He wants to tell him he's fine, he can dress himself. 

He wants to tell him that, actually, yes, Scar can help, whatever that help would actually mean.

Instead he just grumbles something incoherent and flustered into his palms.

Still feeling playfully devious, Scar slides his hands up Grian’s chest over to his bare arms, grabbing slightly and pulling them upward. His movements are needlessly slow and incredibly drawn-out. “Well it would help if you raised your arms like this…” he teases, far too pleased with himself for the shade of red that’s spreading across Grian’s skin

Grian's palms are still pressed to his face, the angle Scar tugs at slightly awkward, but it doesn't make the explosion of sensations rushing through him any weaker. Scar's touch is so delicate, so slow, Grian can't help but go insane under it. 

He makes more incomprehensible noises into his palms. His arms shiver under Scar's fingertips. The hold of his palms over his face relents a little bit, not because he doesn't want to be hidden anymore, but because everything in him yearns to give in to Scar's guidance, no matter Scar's goals.

Gingerly, the palms leave Grian’s face, his arms lifting the littlest bit. His eyes shine, flooded by some deep, rich and raw—and entirely flustered—emotion. His lips are slightly parted, cheeks flushed— and then his earwings fling to take the spot his hands occupied just a moment ago, hiding him away from Scar's gaze in a flash.

Scar’s entire plan comes to a stumbling halt when he sees Grian’s face. His eyes are shamelessly drawn to Grian’s lips, the way they hang open ever so slightly, framed by reddened cheeks and accented freckles. 

He’s momentarily stunned, enamored by the gorgeous sight before him, but it’s stolen away all too soon. And with the earwings no less, so he can’t exactly pry them off. 

He decides to drag his hands back down to settle in the dip of Grian’s shoulders, no longer fooling either of them into believing this has anything to do with helping. “Hey—“ he starts, unsure of what to say exactly, but gosh does he want to see Grian’s face again. “Don’t hide from me,” he croons, voice low and sultry.

Scar's touch is electrifying, sending sparking signals across Grian's body, something culminating in the pit of his stomach. He's asked not to hide, but his embarrassment only rises, at the implication that revealing himself would mean being plunged straight to being seen, Scar's eyes surely intense and scrutinising.

He whines a little, breathing deeply but shakily against Scar's hands.

And then he shifts the earwings, just a little bit, half-obliding, peeking through the feathers.

Scar is about to complain, insist Grian show his entire face, but this is even cuter and he can hardly handle it. His expression shifts into something softer, adoring. Instead of his drawling voice from before, confident and insistent, Scar speaks timidly, an easy smile spread across his face. “… Hi, pretty.”

Grian huffs against his feathers; his earwings twitch, wanting to go back to shielding him as embarrassment swirls in between his ribs, spreading incessant warmth through his face. 

But he is drawn to Scar, like a damned moth to a flame, and he can't pry his eyes away from the soft fondness in Scar's green ones. "Hi," he returns, voice cracking.

Scar leans down to place a kiss on Grian’s chin where his feathers don’t quite reach. He wants to say so many things, keep showering Grian with compliments, but he spares him. He lingers close to Grian’s lips with a sly smile, eyes flickering up to meet his. “… Your sweater’s gonna get cold.”

With Scar this close, Grian's earwings twitch a little bit more out of the way—not out of unwillingness to brush against Scar, but because— Well. Grian's tightening stomach has something to say about Scar hovering so close to his lips. 

"Don't care." it's hushed, but entirely dismissive. Grian’s eyes roam across Scar's face, returning the favour of lingering at the sight of his lips, taking in the curvature of them, remembering how soft and warm they feel pressed against his skin.

Scar grins when Grian doesn’t take the out, so he doesn’t waste any time capturing those lips from him, desperate and yearning. His fingertips dig into the soft skin directly next to his neck, pulling Grian in as close as he can.

Grian leans in easily, without resistance, meeting Scar back. His earwings fall completely away from his face, his eyes closing. His own hands find their spots on the sides of Scar's face.

Without breaking the kiss, Scar grabs at the sweater and places it next to them and the fire, not necessarily with the idea to keep it warm, but simply so there’s nothing in their way— Scar likes it when their skin brushes together. It’s vulnerable and exciting all at once, something satisfying about baring yourself for someone in a world that would normally punish such foolishness. 

His hands are back on Grian in an instant, and he closes his eyes as he traces over more of that skin, exploring and teasing all the same.

Entranced, Grian hums against Scar's lips. He shifts, tracing kisses from the corner of his mouth down across his cheek and jaw, until he finds his spot right under Scar's ear. One of his hands slides back, fingers dragging over the back of Scar's neck until they reach his hairline and dip in. 

It's tantalising, to be this vulnerable and open. To have his skin, soft and defenceless, right under Scar's fingertips to map and do whatever he pleases with. To trust Scar fully, boundlessly.

He doesn't want to stop.

"Scar." He breathes his name right there, on that sensitive patch of skin that he so adores. Right under Scar’s ear.

Intimacy wraps around them, tiny step by a tiny step and then suddenly all at once. 

They give in, drunkenly following its lead, forgetting all about the world that wants to relentlessly hunt them down, take apart their bodies for nothing more than bloodied trophies that will gather dust. 

Instead, they take each other apart in a completely different way. Entranced by their closeness, their skin heated, they familiarise themselves with a whole new vocal range of sounds that draw out of their throats, exploring what they have to offer. Giving and taking and unravelling.

Somewhere amidst it all, early on in this game they’ve invented for each other, Scar runs into the wall of impulsiveness that buzzes underneath his skin, begging for more. Because Grian is a daring menace, insinuating Scar should put him in his place if he doesn’t like his pesky retaliations. Telling him to do something about it if he finds it unfair, while his wings lift, half-unfolding. 

It’s a gesture made on instinct of Grian’s dazed mind, coaxing him to put his feathers on display in a situation where he feels completely safe and equally completely besides himself. The violet hue, freshly cleaned, dances with various shades in the firelight.

Scar’s eyes are instantly drawn in by the lifting feathers framing Grian, firelight dancing across Grian's skin and wings alike— Scar is so doomed. He feels entranced, so entangled by the myriad of sensations and desires that he almost doesn’t register how his fingers gravitate to the feathers. 

He stops himself quickly, breathing out a wisp of blue, and refocuses on a patch of freckles that spread across Grian’s chest as he processes what he almost did on instinct alone.

He wanted to touch. He wanted to touch so badly. He hasn’t seen Grian’s wings shine so brightly in months, or seen him bare the undersides like that to him ever before. He’s not sure what that means in bird body language, but he was almost certain it was an invitation.

But he would never forgive himself if he messed this moment up.

If he messed that up again. 

(It’s not fair that he can’t unravel Grian the same way Grian can with a nip to his sensitive vex ears. Scar wants to hear what kind of sounds Grian would make if he raked his fingers through his wings. Would it feel as good as Grian’s hands do in his hair? Better?)

Scar shudders, expelling those thoughts before he entirely spirals. The treacherous hand finds its way to Grian’s chest, tracing a pattern into those newly discovered freckles. His eyes flick back up, meeting Grian’s with a complicated expression— it’s one of slight conflict, immense adoration, but more than anything, intense desire. 

“…careful what you wish for there, G,” he says, restrained.

Grian hums, shuddering slightly under the touch of Scar's fingertips mapping out patterns on his skin. A purr-like coo makes it out of his throat, and his wings lift the littlest bit again, positioning themselves so perfectly within reach. 

His head is muddled, thoughts dragged through velvet that so softly covers up rationality and leaves behind something gently ravaging, able to pull the string and let him unknot into a puddle. But even through that, he is able to catch that torn expression Scar has, something not quite right in his eyes, the words almost a warning.

He can't decipher it.

He leans away; his wings stay where they are, half curled around them, a brillaintly violet feathery offering. His hips don't move either; it's just his upper back, making his spine arch. (He wants Scar's claws to rake over that curve—) He's watching Scar carefully, even though the firelight continues dancing across his dark irises in endless, unspooling want. 

"If it's unfair," he says, voice low, quiet, a purring string for Scar to follow. (He's always been good at pressing buttons. At not knowing limits. At trying and testing and teasing.) "Then do something about it," he suggests, because he doesn't know why Scar is looking so horribly conflicted, and he doesn't want this to be unfair; it should be mutual, and he's welcoming Scar to take, to even out the playing field. (He'd even let him tip the scales completely, if that's what Scar wants.) 

Scar does drag his other hand up that curve Grian’s making for him, although with no claws involved. He feels the dip in Grian’s back, that divot where he can rake his fingers over his spine. 

Another breath, another wisp of blue smoke. 

Scar’s claws emerge and he has to actively pull his fingers up to avoid scratching. 

It’s not fair because while Grian can lean into his instincts, use them as a familiar crutch, a display of trust and warmth— Scar’s not nearly so fortunate. Letting his vex urges surface would mean violence and danger and taking and— god Scar wants to take. 

And Grian is egging him on. His fingers twitch with want, tapping their pointed nails against soft, bare skin. If only Grian knew what he was asking for right now…

Scar’s hopelessly pulled along by that alluring string, that low purr that escapes from Grian’s throat. He thinks, dazedly, that maybe Grian does know. 

Especially since the drag of Scar's fingers—that moment of them shifting into claws—makes Grian arch more. Not away from it, but into it, encouraging, needy.

He knows what Scar is. He knows he's made of sharp things, claws that can tear and teeth that can bite.

He doesn't care.

He wants Scar, and he wants all of him, and—

His thoughts are slipping from him, dazed and lost in some deep, raw want that pulls him under. 

“Always a fan of the resistance, huh?” Scar’s tone is rough, not unlike a low, warning growl. 

Grian can’t help but grin, ever so cheeky, mayhem running wild in his veins. Scar was always the first one to witness this part of Grian. Whenever there's a spark of mischief, Grian feels drawn to him, wants him to see it, to catch on fire together with him.

And maybe Scar is. Catching on fire together with Grian. Because the next thing Grian knows, he's pushed back, he's pushed down, and—

He's a fan of resistance, but he gives to this so willingly. His eyes never leave Scar's as he lets Scar's hands dictate the way gravity shifts around him. His thighs remain wrapped around Scar even as his back lowers, wings spreading across the ground. (He spares one mindful thought to shift his wing to avoid the campfire. The feathers flutter, instead, near Scar's skin, wing curved upwards, almost brushing his shoulder.) 

He lays down, and he wonders, does this make it fair?

Or is there more?

He looks up at Scar, his heart wild in his chest but expression calm and endlessly fond. Waiting for the next step. Licking his parted lips, waiting to see what happens, wordlessly inviting Scar to do more. 

Scar’s eyes dart from the wing that curves around them back to Grian’s face when he sees Grian’s tongue slide over his lips. Shamelessly, he finds himself mirroring the motion, green gaze hungry.

"It felt good, you know," Grian murmurs, and it's the quietest thing. (He means the claws. The growls. The way Scar pushes and skirts taking more.) "It all does."

Grian’s words scream at Scar to let go, to let loose and see what it is exactly that he wants so desperately from Grian right now. 

Although he’s pretty sure he knows. 

He plants one hand firmly beside Grian’s head, using it to hold his weight, then uses the other to cup Grian's chin, two claws tilting his head while the others graze across his throat. 

Scar leans in closer, ghosting their lips together. “Still good?” he asks, though his voice seems so far away, like he’s floating astray as his resolve grows ever thinner. Instead of kissing him, Scar ducks down lower, pressing his lips just above Grian’s collarbone, kissing roughly enough to threaten a bruise.

The way Grian succumbs to Scar's touch is so simple. Through all the resistance in his soul, none is reserved for Scar right now; he's surrendered, a willing participant in the fate Scar strings up around them like a sticky, inescapable spiderweb. Grian's baring his neck, not shying from the claws; the most he does is let out a shaky breath, a tingle of promising excitement shooting through him like fireworks. 

He feels lightheaded in the best of ways.

"Good," he confirms, more a coo than a word, but the fraying string of vowels still makes sense.

It’s a dangerous game they’re playing, and they’re both aware of it. And they’re both still choosing to continue hurtling down this path.

The rein Scar has on his vex side demanding he takes more slackens, falls out of his grip at Grian’s goading tug. He lets out a low hum against Grian’s throat before slacking his jaw and biting. His fangs hook into the skin above his collarbone, threatening to break skin, but not quite yet. No blue magic escapes Scar’s mouth this time, only hot and heavy breath in between roughly teething at Grian’s soft skin, reeling at the feeling of blood coursing so close to his fangs. Instead the haze trickles across his irises, eyes flickering blue as he indulges instead of resists.

Grian's head is quickly becoming a mess, but it's a mess in the best of  ways. There's not a smidge of fear under his skin, and oh, isn't that something. It's entirely replaced by craving, by this submissive need to push Scar over the edge and take everything Scar gives him— and, equally, let Scar take everything he wants. 

Intoxicatingly vulnerable, Grian offers no defences, leaving himself wide open, tempting Scar to continue. The pain sparks, but it translates to pleasure; it says good good good, it makes Grian want to press closer to Scar, it makes him want to keep his neck bared, it makes him want to sink his own, dull fingernails into Scar's skin just to let him know that this feels wonderful.

A dizzying thought hits Grian, a hazy wondering if Scar knows Grian is giving him everything, right now. All of himself. Every little bit. He's putting himself completely at Scar's mercy. 

But maybe Scar knows.

Maybe he knows, because when Scar lifts up, looming over Grian, what he chooses to say is mine.

The word reverberates through Grian, shakes something at his core, but it feels warm. It feels tingly and like a precipice, but one he wants to fall over.

Breathless and defenceless, he chirps in affirmation, before he vocalises it in a hoarse half-whisper, and despite the pleased haze that coats every letter, something in his tone is almost daring: "Yours."

Scar loves that little chirp — he loves the confirmation, however daring it may be posed. In fact, he likes that particular detail a lot, because he's happy to oblige.

His fingers trail across the curves and freckles, exploring again now that he can shamelessly stare and watch for Grian's reaction. He meets Grian's gaze, vision still somewhat foggy, and he realizes he needs to say something now before he's too far gone to resist. Because he's slowly losing himself to the boundless desire to consume, whatever that may entail, and his skin is practically sizzling and singing every spot where feathers overlap…

Grian meets Scar's gaze back, equally dazed and indescribably present; a scalding, endless pool of emotions reflected in his eyes, open yet unreadable. He makes soft noises at Scar's touch over the tender skin, fingernails lightly dragging against Scar's back in response, but none of him is running away from this.

He's staying put, an obedient little prey, ready to be consumed.

"Grian," Scar forces out, leaning back in so his breath is felt over Grian’s cheek.

Grian's breath hitches instantly in response, eyes falling shut. His name sounds so sweet yet strained on Scar's lips, and he wants to take it from him, to unshackle those restraints around it.

But Scar's leaning over his cheek, not his lips, and Grian is nothing but obliging, baring his skin, whichever part of it Scar happens to desire.

"Scar," he returns in a hoarse whine, the need to call him back scalding hot in his veins. 

"You're—" Scar’s voice cracks, but it's different than before. It's like he's interrupted by a needy growl, teeth bared. But Scar recollects himself, eyes still blazing, alight with wild magic and yearning. "You're toeing a dangerous line here, y’know..." He's trying to be delicate about it, merely allude to the burst of primal emotion he's fighting to control. "... toying with a vex." He says it like it could just be a joke, a simple tease, but he's so entirely serious about it.

Ah.

There it is.

Grian suddenly understands all the complexity swirling through Scar's expression.

And he takes it without flinching. He hums, bringing one hand up, to brush through Scar's hair, fingertips reaching to the back of Scar's ear, teasing lightly. A featherlight touch.

"I know." 

It's so simple to admit.

His lips are slightly curved. A miniscule grin, something knowing, tender, welcoming.

He cranes his neck, leans in, steals a quick kiss.

"I know, Scar." 

And he's still right here. Still so willing. Still absolutely surrendered. One wing draped over Scar, the rest of him pliantly underneath him, neck tilting to regain its bared position, not a shred of survival instinct left on display.

Scar still swallows hard, nerves alight. He's certain his desire is practically a tangible thing now, magic thrumming across his skin and driving him crazy. 

"If you—" he starts, hoarse, still so very strained, speaking through his teeth as they involuntarily press tightly together. With a shaky breath, he admits it, timid, but determined to be entirely transparent by just how much his instincts are running wild: "I'm gonna want to touch them— you, your wings—" He wants it to be clear it's only because it's a part of Grian that he wants this, and he prays that's coming across, but words are so difficult to form in his dizzying haze. "... so if you don't want that, you need to tell me now."

Before I can't control myself, goes unsaid.

The conflict is so clear now, the way Scar is trying to hold back, for Grian, always for Grian.

Grian thinks maybe he wants Scar to let go. 

Thrill runs across his spine, delving into downy feathers that coat his back, as Scar says the word wings. It's not often Grian hears it on his tongue, with Scar always carefully skirting around it. And what would at other times make him uneasy, now makes Grian perk up—some bird instinct that's taking deep root in him, tangling into myriad of desires. 

Because, yes. Wings. Wings.

The feathers draped over Scar's bare skin move lightly, brushing against him. repositioning. Not leaving that point of contact. Not shying away.

The possibility looms in Grian's mind, something set ablaze at a deep dark precipice, and as he swallows thickly, all he can think of is: want.

Scar needs an answer, and Grian thinks maybe he can give him some. Maybe he can— Maybe they can—

He licks his lips and his fingers tenderly brush through the hair behind Scar's ear, trying to soothe him into this. "I can't promise it'll be okay..." he starts. And it's true. He can't. He's aware he's riddled with countless barely-buried triggers right under his skin (under his feathers—), all of it linked to a horrible terror, always just half a step from dreadfully raw, spiralling panic. But this, this feels different. This feels like maybe he could be something else, too. Like it doesn't have to be that.

He feels it, that glowing, intense desire to give himself over to Scar fully. A prey to a predator, shameless, fearless, unabashed. Untamed, both of them. Wild. 

He tilts his head. Strands of hair shining with shades of gold in the firelight shift, fall across his forehead and out of the way, soft and clean, thanks to Scar's careful, loving hands. 

The pause is there, hovering.

Grian is going to break it.

"But... Scar."

He lifts himself up, reaching for Scar; his hand tugs lightly at Scar's hair to aid him in his movement; his wing presses against Scar's back, too, helping Grian reach Scar's lips. He presses a tender kiss there, affectionate and pleading, and it tips into unbridled craving as he finishes with a flick of tongue and a gentle bite of his teeth.

"Make the danger feel good," he whispers, a half-purr half-growl tucked against the corner of Scar's mouth, breath hovering over the bitten spot on Scar's lip. 

And then Grian's hand falls away from Scar's hair. All of him falls away, as he lets himself lie back down, his gaze flickering with warmth and desire in the hot, glowing light of the firelight. He's putting himself here willingly, underneath Scar, defenceless, skin bared, chest lifting up with breaths as his heart hammers against his ribs.

"And then you can touch," he finishes hoarsely, so very quietly. Soft and inviting, equally as hopeful as it's needy, his eyes never leaving Scar's.

And it's still so very different, a craving driving him insane—he wanted Scar's claws on his feathers not too long ago, but that was for destruction, and this— this isn't that. This is something completely different, miles away from whatever that spiral from before was; something that leaves Grian's throat dry, warmth pooling in the pit of his stomach. 

He's playing with fire, and he fully intends to let it burn him. To consume him. He yearns desperately for this kind of intimacy, for Scar, Scar, Scar, for things to be something else for a moment. (Hands in his feathers and teeth on his skin and him amidst it all, willing, pliant, giving.)

Make the danger feel good, echoes throughout Scar's increasingly emptying mind— he's slipping further, those words are driving him wild. He blinks several times, trying to process the roundabout permission he's been granted, the chance to try if only he can fulfill the promise of pleasure amidst danger. He hopes to clear his vision, lift the haze for a moment to provide a coherent response, but each blink only serves to hide the swirl of vibrant blue that dances across his eyes, glowing brighter each time he opens them.

Grian watches, patient and silent, lips parted in invitation, as Scar processes what he's just said. He sees the brightness of his eyes, the blue wisps that dance around. He knows how fraying and thin Scar's self control is.

He wants it to snap.

Scar opens his mouth, but no words come out, just a needy, shaken huff before he's leaning down and devouring, barely even a kiss, more of an open drag of teeth that's pressed into Grian's mouth, nonsensical and demanding.

There are claws and fangs and a bright blue fog swirling around the both of them, fighting against the vibrance of the firelight and winning.

Despite the initial apprehension, it’s a wonder to Scar how he ever doubted himself, because of course he wouldn’t irreparably hurt Grian— protecting him is as ingrained in his instincts as anything else. It’s a spiral of both sides of his vex urges— to please and to devour— a dizzying mesh, a thrilling fusion of desires. 

They let themselves slip into this. Into controlled violence and hovering threats, into claws and fangs and blood, into nails dug into skin and bodies pressed close. Into danger that feels mindbogglingly good, stripping them of sanity as they keep, all too willingly, sinking deeper and deeper.

(Listen they’re little freaks they definitely should’ve negotiated a safe word before this all went down.) 

"Mmm." Grian groans, a drawn out sound. There’s a fresh bite wound at the side of his neck that throbs, overcome with sensations as the tender, broken skin meets air and Scar's mouth, the fresh, warm blood smeared around in the process. 

Deliriously, he tips his head to the side, eyes closed and hands trembling, giving that whole side of his throat to Scar. (He'd give him anything now. Anything.) 

Scar grins, teeth bared and lips slightly smeared with blood, when Grian cranes his neck even more, allowing for even further abuse. He presses in close again, kissing the spot using his wicked little smile. "You'd really give in so easily?" he murmurs against the bruised skin, tone as crackly as it is velvety, a contradictory blend. His words are playful, but his voice drops as he adds, pensive: "... only for me I'd hope."

There's a small spur at the words, a reminder that Grian's soul should be made of resisting, stitched through with endless, mischievous fights. And yet it leads nowhere, a dead end against Scar's breath at his throat, the velvety rumble of his voice. 

Grian whines, nonsensically, fingers weakly pawing at Scar's back without any real intention to sink in for now. His wing brushes over Scar again, a restless little motion of soft feathers, vulnerable prize caressing a vicious predator.

"For you," he echoes on a whine, barely remembering how to speak. And then he adds, laying himself bare and pliant, stripping all the defences and pressing control solely into Scar's palms (into his claws, into his teeth—): "Anything for you."

Scar practically keens at the admission, the surrender and for a second his voice is incredibly lucid as he lets out a quiet and almost incredulous, "gosh," words interlaced with a small chuckle. 

The chuckle anchors all of Grian's attention for a searing moment, a different kind of delight rushing wildly through him, curving his lips heedlessly into a triumphant smile. Knowing he's making Scar feel things tastes like victory, like a reward in itself, and he wants to gloat, taking it in, before he throws himself off the precipice and gives Scar more of himself, to exacerbate that, to make Scar tip into this  fall with him.

There's a more gentle, fond and intrigued touch down one of Grian's sides, a little less claw as Scar drags down his bare chest, but the tether snaps again as Scar licks over his lips, still hungry for more. The touch grows more purposeful and intense as he maps out his prey, testing the skin, seeking something. 

He spots whatever it is in the center of Grian's chest, the dip of his ribcage, something vulnerable and alive as he feels the rush of blood and a battered heartbeat under his fingertips. His claws tap there eagerly as his grin once again grows toothy and wild, presenting his expression to Grian and drinking in the sight of his own.

Grian shudders under the touch Scar traces across his chest, something soft and exploratory. Grian can feel his breath stutter against those fingertips, wonders how Scar feels about that; but his answer is right here, as his gaze meets Scar's at the attention-calling tap of his fingers. 

Breathlessly, Grian takes in Scar's grin, and oh, he's in trouble. His heart beats wildly against his ribs, somewhere under Scar's claws, as his eyes hang on Scar. Grian's irises are glowing with reflected blue, gaze as intense as it is hazed, vulnerability fighting with desire. His neck still throbs. The rush of urgent craving is ceaseless, drumming through his veins. 

With a pang of ache that travels all the way down to pool below his stomach, Grian leans up, not minding that there are claws in the way on his chest, reaching to press the smallest brush of his lips against Scar in an almost-kiss, reverent puff of breath tingling in its wake.

"Yours," he murmurs, pushing Scar on.

Scar has to reel in his claws so as not to break skin when Grian moves— that's his job to do— and he purrs lowly against Grian's lips, smile turning devilish when Grian's speaks, the word music to his happily-flicking ears. 

As pleased as he is by the gesture, he pushes Grian right back down where he belongs. 

With a tantalising, toothy smile Grian obeys without struggle, cooing in encouragement, a praise, an affirmation that Scar's doing what he should here.

There's a searing awareness of their roles tearing a path through him—something about Scar's ability to tear him apart at the slightest whim; something about his own helplessness; something about how he's essentially pinned down. The flush of dizzying, quivery pleasure he feels at the thought is disintegrating all of his rationality, rendering him into an all too willing prisoner of any and all of Scar's cravings.

Scar’s claws drag down Grian’s chest, enough to mark but not to break skin. He's toying with the idea, letting the thought of drawing blood dance across his mind, set something ablaze in his eyes. (But he shouldn't— not here— not too much…)

Grian shudders; his rapid breaths tremble right underneath all that sharpness, his fluttering heartbeat rabbity beyond a cage of ribs that suddenly feel all too brittle, paper-thin, a protection that means nothing if Scar decides he doesn't want it there.

And still, Grian pulls up no protections.

He’s a willing participant in this bloody abuse, letting Scar claw and bite, lost to the deliriousness of the sensations it brings. Like sea dragging him under, beckoning him to let it happen. 

And at some point down the line, soft feathers of Grian’s earwing brush across the back of Scar's hand that’s cupping his face. Grian wants him to know how much he's at his mercy, and how much he wants to be at his mercy.

Scar extends his fingers, no longer curling around Grian's cheeks, now experimentally carding through the feathers of the earwing that's been offered. He almost doesn't consciously register his decision to do so, he just feels something soft and knows he wants to touch, to claim, to pull, but no— No, he won’t. 

He is not going to harm Grian. Not like that.

He has other ways of claiming him after all. 

And while Scar might only be dazedly, barely aware of the shift and touch of his hand, it shoots across Grian's senses—the fingers burrowing into the soft feathers of his earwings.

It's got nothing with a conscious decision; Grian’s body is controlled by a nonsense of instincts, and they dictate him to go limp, drawing a low, soft sound of out him. His earwing twitches, at first away, then towards the touch, giving itself over just like the rest of him.

Scar feels the moment the earwing gives into him, and he's instantly thrilled, sliding the longer feathers in between his fingers and releasing a low purr. His other hand does the same, mirroring the touch on the other side. 

The earwing touches are enough to drive Grian insane, triggering something in him that's been dormant for too long, drawing out a spillage of pleading bird noises out of him. His wing that was lying sprawled across the ground lifts somewhat, curves, just to show off the feathers; they glisten with brilliant shades, reached both by blue wisps of magic and the warm glow of the campfire.

Scar shifts to more gentleness over the bruises, then reverently kisses the tips of Grian’s feathers, a soft little gesture he’s never been allowed to offer. His claws trace circles over the indents of his latest bite, and he leans to kiss and lightly suck on it, dazed from the taste of blood on his tongue.

And then he notices the wings.

The beautiful, multicolored span outlined by his own spectral glow— a breathtaking sight. Scar’s eyes dilate as they lock onto the delicate hues that are normally so hidden away. They shine, freshly-cleaned, and although perhaps the method wasn’t preferable, Scar still feels his soul catch fire with the knowledge that he was the one to wash them. He’s the reason they sparkle right now and simultaneously the reason they’re on full display. 

His eyes are wide and eager, scanning the feathers and grinning wide at the sight— his expression a mixture of ravenous and adoring. 

Almost brainlessly, Scar mutters a string of nonsensical phrases under his breath: ”mine, pretty, my pretty bird, so good, so good—“ before leaning down and properly kissing Grian, the words still slurred against their lips. 

At the string of praises and possessive words, Grian coos, equally as incoherent. His wing stretches a bit higher, delighted, feathers shining against the multicoloured glow. The muscles ache, unused to the motion, but it feels good, something in him tingling and telling him that this is right. The vulnerable underside of the wing is there, perfectly within reach, not trying to hide or tuck away, a state they haven't been able to achieve once in this world before this moment.

Grian's gaze snags at Scar's grin, at that expression that tells him Scar's treading the thought of devouring him whole. It tugs at his guts, tightens his stomach, sends his breath out of rhythm, but none of it feels bad. He revels in it, shivers and sinks into it, the feeling ultimately warm, slinking around him like a spiderweb, making him hold still, dazed and unaware of the imminent danger.

"Yours, yours, good, yes, all yours," he echoes back at Scar, words half-coos, melting into the kiss. He hums against Scar's lips, a pleased, needy little noise. His hands travel higher up Scar's back and press, tugging at him, telling him he wants him right here, over himself. 

When the kiss breaks, he follows, nipping at Scar's lips, trying to elicit something more yet again, playing into Scar's instincts in a way that seems deliberate, but is just a hazed jumble of incomprehensible cravings, something deep and richly yearning that doesn't take no for an answer. 

Grian refuses to let Scar retreat in the slightest, and it’s that utter willingness and provocation that’s keeping Scar just barely tethered to reality— because surely his prey shouldn’t be this pliant. Shouldn’t be urging him on.

Because Grian isn’t his prey, nor or his meal—

But isn’t he? 

Once again, Scar’s head spins, dizzied as the line between mate and prey becomes muddled in his vex brain. And somehow through it all comes laughter of all things because— because this started with a bath and now Grian is underneath him trilling and begging to be manhandled. It’s borderline absurd and the sheer irrationality of both their behavior right now results in a sudden, throaty chuckle emerging from Scar as he teases Grian’s lips with his teeth. 

It’s almost silly, but more than anything, it’s electrifying, thrilling, exciting. There’s blood smeared over Scar’s fingers, and yet he’s having fun. 

Scar's laughter sends a wave of warmth through Grian, so very different from the scorching heat of everything else. It's a sound he basks in, slotting it somewhere next to his wildly beating heart, treasured amidst the inferno that ravages the rest of his body. He hums quietly against it, reveling in the way the sounds merge, even as it tips into a whine at the tease of Scar's teeth on Grian's lips.

With struggling clarity, Scar continues to giggle, although it morphs into an alluring purr. “Always said no one can have ‘em—” Scar’s hands frame Grian’s face, tucking his earwings over his cheeks. “—well what if I want them?” A careful drag of claws through those tiny feathers and heavy breath over Grian’s lips. “What if I want you?”

Grian’s breath hitches, noises falling silent for a moment as Scar's claws lightly rake across his feathers, tucking the soft fluff of the earwings against Grian's cheeks. Grian's gaze holds onto his, dark and intense, and his throat bobs as he swallows emptily. 

He feels dizzy, like he's going insane. His brain bounces the sharp thought of danger against his feathers, but he's holding still for Scar, expression hot and adoring and desiring. It feels explosive, like sparks of a live wire, and he wants it, all of it, a tinge of fear crashing into safety of this being Scar, the trust at the dazed awareness that he's in good hands, and he wants those hands to be clawed and at his skin—at his feathers. 

A part of Grian’s brain that's made of pure instinct trills in happy victory, telling him this is what he wanted, that he succeeded—he showed off his feathers and his mate now wants him. It's intoxicating, a jumbled mess of agreements thrashing underneath Grian's tongue while he fights to figure out how to express any of them. 

In the end, he coos, a small whine pressed against Scar's hovering lips. His earwings twitch, sending a spike of sensation though him as that creates a gentle drag against Scar's claws, eliciting a tiny mewl from his throat. 

And through it all, he's still here, still not running.

When he finds his voice, it's equally soft and pleading; it sounds like gentle affection and like deep craving, all at once. It's showing boundless love to the beast while tempting it to devour him. "You can have," he murmurs, low and hoarse. "You can have me." All of me.

Scar feels as if he could howl with excitement and triumph, but instead what comes out is a hushed purr, a rumbly thing pressed right up against the corner of Grian’s lips. 

“Won’t hurt,” he whispers, in spite of all the damage he’s already wrought. But even in a haze of delirious bloodlust, Scar still draws the line there. He doesn’t want to harm Grian’s wings. He has no intention of breaking those gorgeous feathers or of taking them for himself. He doesn’t need to. He has Grian, all of Grian, and all Scar wants to do is to admire his lovely possessions.

To give them the love they deserve. 

To give Grian the love he absolutely deserves.

Scar tucks a promise against the corner of Grian's lips, and Grian quietly coos back. A hushed, I know, tender and loving and trusting. 

There’s still slight hesitation in Scar’s movements, months of ingrained resistance still fighting his every motion, but Scar’s hand finally leaves Grian’s cheek and those soft, tiny feathers to embrace the real prize. Dozens of greedy hands have tried and yet Scar— fangs and claws bared— is being offered them willingly. His lips curl in satisfaction.

Grian hums quietly at Scar's hesitation, hands tracing light patterns into the skin of Scar's back. Mapping out all the scarred tissue there, the edges of which he's seen many many times, memorised, and now they unfurl under his fingertips. His to touch. His, his, his. 

He's going to be gentle with Scar's wounds, like he is with Grian's wings.

— and then his thoughts dissipate, his breath hitching shakily, as Scar's hand makes contact with his wing. A confusing onslaught of feelings rushes through him, and he both wants to look and doesn't want to see it. Some deep-rooted part of him tells him that he should be scared, that this should be dangerous, but the rest of him pushes against it, whispering soft and pliant I know, I know, I know. 

He wants Scar's hand right where it is, and more. He wants—

Claws sink in between the feathers harmlessly as Scar trails his fingers down their length, positively entranced by this allowance. There’s a soft hum of appreciation, of reassurance, and Scar’s other hand stays, just as content with raking his claws through Grian’s hair.

Grian shudders, his emotions a tangle that tips into pleasure as Scar's clawed fingers drag across the tender underside of his wings, caressing the feathers that have been untouched for months. He tips his head into Scar's other hand that's tangled in his hair, nuzzling as a spillage of coos makes it out, a nonsensical string that is very, very far from distressed. 

He takes one deep breath, that's meant to be steadying but instead quivers all the way through, and he pushes his wing into Scar's touch.

Eager to get access to every bit of what’s just been offered to him, Scar drags Grian up, settling him once again in his lap. His other hand snakes around Grian’s waist, searching for a spot he was never allowed to touch, travelling to the base of Grian’s wings, claws running over the smaller feathers. He sinks his fingers into their length, revelling the softness in contrast to all his sharp edges.

And Grian is doomed. So completely, utterly doomed.

He shudders in the best of ways, the coo that makes it past his lips vibrating with it as his back arches and wings blissfully push into the touch. The hands in his feathers are driving him crazy. He's pressing himself against Scar, a babble of purring, whiny, defenceless bird noises spilling out of him unbidden, any semblance of self control left.

Neither of them wants to stop here.

And so they don’t. 

[there’s somehow 10k more rp words to this debauchery. just use your imagination we now fade to black <33]

[wings-of-ink]

Ask Guidelines

For the sake of streamlining my inbox, please follow the guidelines below when submitting Asks. I appreciate all your questions, but I simply find that I lack enough free time to spend with them. Some weeks are busier than others for my inbox, but I personally feel it's a bit unfair to those of you who may be waiting a long time for a response. Plus, I do need some "me" time now and again, no matter how much I love sailing around on here.

The biggest and most important thing:  Reaction/Response-style Asks need to be paired down. These are lots of fun for all of us, but they take up a majority of the time I spend on the inbox. When you submit a request like this, please specify your top 2 (max of 3) characters (ROs, side characters, etc…) you want to know the answer for. If you do not specify, I will pick for you based on how quickly I can answer. I'll note, that if you are curious about both parents in GC, I will count them as 1 "person" so you don't have to choose between daddies.

Please do not submit multiple Asks with the same question for the other characters. This will just eat up my time, and I do not want to delete them, but I will have to.

If your question has been asked before, I will try to find a link to it for you (most of these I have tracked in a document). I haven't yet put together an FAQ since I really don't get a ton or repeats for the same questions. One day, I may make a searchable document with them.

Comments and error reports are still very much welcome. If you by chance do not want a response posted, please simply let me know if that is what you prefer. I generally like to post at least a little response to these for you, but if that makes you uncomfortable, please let me know in the Ask.

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Try to space out your Asks in general. If you have, say, 3 or more questions, I would appreciate it if you could give me a buffer of time to respond. A good rule of thumb would be to wait until you get your first question answered, and then you submit your 2nd question and so on. This will also help you gauge how full my inbox is (or how much time I have to spare). Much of the time, I try to answer Asks in the order they are received. The only exception to that is if I get ones that I either need to think on a bit or the answer will take me a while to write.

NSFW Asks are totally okay with me. There is not much outside of my comfort-zone. If something is too far, in my opinion, for a public response - I will simply delete it and pop a courtesy post out to try and signal to you that it is one I cannot answer.

I was hoping to avoid placing any rules on my inbox, but I never anticipated this many followers or that anyone would have quite so many questions or comments for my work. This is to ensure that I keep myself controlled more-so than any of you. I have so much fun chatting with you and answering questions, that the IF writing and planning ends up delayed. Since that's why we're here, I need most of my free time to go to the IF(s) and any extras.

I will make updates to this post as needed. There will be a link to at the very end of the Pinned Post too. If the inbox gets a bit crazy or is too much to juggle during crunch times, I will continue to pause it during those so I can catch up.

Thank you and take care, everyone! ^_^

~Lunan

[ponds-of-ink]

The Certified Pond Analysis of Scraptrap Voicelines

Because I haven’t talked about this rabbit’s voice lines as much as I should.

Buckle up. This is gonna get wordy.

-

So, going in the order of this video, we have:

“I always come back!”

The most quoted Afton line. And understandably so. This is the man at his most triumphant, even with his.. questionable suit-repair choices. The emphasis on “always” as well as the moderately louder volume really sells that confident air Springtrap continues to have in FNAF AR. Though, as we’ll soon see, this is not the only emotion he feels as Scraptrap.

(Also, before we continue: This gives me the first point on the “I can hear the smile in his voice” scoreboard. It’s a surprise tool that should help us later.)

”Bittersweet, but fitting”

…And by “later”, I apparently mean now.

There may be a smirk at the end, but it’s not a strong one. The overall line read is much more reserved here. Maybe even somber, if I’m inferring correctly. The choice of words is interesting here too. Whoever’s the owner of the Pizza Sim building, he may not be as fond of jumpscaring them as one would think…

”What a deceptive calling! I knew it was a lie the moment I heard it— Obviously, but it is intriguing nonetheless…”

Ah, yes. The big monologue post-Salvage. Couple of things I noticed here that aren’t debatable lore implications:

(1) Man’s rushing through that second half for some reason. Don’t know if that was an editing error, an intentional line read, or Scraptrap trying to.. reason with himself? Sound smarter than he thinks he is? I dunno, something about the pacing is off here.

(2) Oh, hey, first line with a “snake hiss”! This isn’t a consistent trait with his lines, but it’s a key feature that I use to differentiate Springtrap and Scraptrap during voice impressions.

(3) This man puts so much emphasis on words sometimes. So much so that I can not only hear the smile near the end, but I can also feel the eye roll during “deceptive”. And PJ Heywood never voice acted before FNAF apparently? H u h.

Anyway, moving on before I start implying that Scrap-Trap might’ve been lured in by a newspaper or something…

“Fascinating! What they have become…”

Another point to the “I can hear the smile” board. We’re on three points now; three and a half if you count “Bittersweet”.

This one I’ve already brought up before, but the abridged analysis is: This guy (unlike Glitch-Trap in that one Security Breach trailer) actually compliments his.. uh.. teammates? Workmates? ..Just realized that the relationship dynamic between the Salvage Gang doesn’t have an official term. Bummer.

That aside, it’s genuinely interesting that he doesn’t diss them at all. You think he would given his reputation, but no. He just has this twisted sense of “oh wow they’re so cool”.

…Come to think of it, has he directly dissed somebody in the games specifically? I’m not even sure if the “Deceptive Calling” monologue or the AR Springtrap lines count. AR Springtrap tends to boast about himself more than put the player down and Scraptrap was having an ‘I’m smarter than that lol” moment.

If I’m right, then I think I may have found a proper difference between a pretend Mimic Afton and the real one. Huh.

“How can I resist a promise such as this?”

Getting back to the main topic, we’ve got a return for the snake hiss and the emphasis on certain words. Also, add another point to “I can hear the smile”— Except it’s more of a smug grin than a bizarre, wide-eyed look of wonder.

Not sure what that promise is post-jumpscare, but I do know that this has a chance to play during the office sections. So the promise is either Henry’s lure or seeing his son Mike one last time. I dunno, dude, it’s all vague to me.

”That was easier than I thought it would be…”

AKA The line that makes me wonder “Dude, you good?”

No seriously. The quick halt in-between the second and third word. The sudden choke that happens at the end. Like his voice just properly broke for the first time in ages. The overall somberness of it all. There is literally no smile here and I’ve checked. There may even be tears starting to well up, but I obviously can’t be sure.

It’s even implied that he thought he’d had a tougher time fighting the owner! He actually assumed he wouldn’t win this easily!

Something about this feels.. unnerving. He’s not supposed to sound this upset. At least, not usually. So what, pray tell, is going on with this voice line?? Why was this the take Scott used??

“You may not recognize me at first, but I assure you: It’s still me”

Well, that’s one more point for the “I can hear the smile” board. Also, I believe this is confirmation of that ‘Springtrap switched suits after FNAF 3’ theory? That’s what it sounds like, at least?

But, hey, at least Scrap-Trap is canonically aware of the sudden shift in appearance. Let’s hope his potential FNAF World 2 version isn’t as nervous about it as I assume FNAF 6 him would be… If he had access to the internet, of course.

Also, for the one person who may or may not care about this: He’s using contractions here. I think it’s been established that he only uses these at certain times, but I can’t remember where exactly I read that analysis. Anyway, he’s unafraid about “slipping up” at this point.

One more thing…

Compared to AR Springtrap, Scraptrap is much more.. casual in tone, if that’s the best way to put it. Much more low energy, though his antics are anything but.

Like, yes, he’s still coming for you if you keep letting ads play on your computer. But maybe he’ll let you live for a few seconds longer just so you could turn the ad off? He’s not in a rush, as far as I can tell.

Maybe that’s another reason why my brain jumps to Scraptrap more than Springtrap. If he wasn’t tied to this “attacking the guard” business, he could probably chill for a second and give advice on paperwork. Wouldn’t last for long, of course, but at least one could potentially die knowing that you drank coffee with a much more business-savvy Spring Bonnie… Grungy though he looks. Springtrap, on the other hand, wouldn’t give you the time of day.

TL;DR:

PJ Heywood put more nuance into this guy than even I was expecting. Big round of applause, genuinely.

[manic-sapphic]

here it comes.. another spop rant on moments i see as mirrored~

~~very sorry but i bet most of you know what to expect from me by now.. i can't stop the spop thoughts. and tbh, i don't wanna lolol <3

**ok adding this note here after typing out what was meant (as usual ofc) to be a rant, sure, but not to the extent of the length it became (they just grow up fast; such proud, so shame) so if anyone just wants the main idea i managed to succinctly make clear at the very end of all this wordy rambling across various tangents tryna make the same fckin points lmao, just scroll on down lol :)

so a mirror actually reflects reality, except flipped on its vertical axis, right? so the reflection is the same image, but if you look hard enough, you realize it's really an inversion of the original.

that's kinda how i feel about what adora says to catra in the sword pt 2 vs save the cat --

- when adora takes catra's hand after already plainly stating that she's "not going home" and says to her, "come with me, you don't have to go back there..." -

- this is all happening after adora tried to sneak out in the middle of the night w/o even telling catra, who only found out cause she happened to either be awake or wake up when she left~

- and upon catching up w adora and hearing her intentions, catra immediately is like "ok cool, let's go," even sounds kinda stoked on the idea- unsurprising since she fckin hates being in the fright zone. but adora quickly shuts it down, cause she "doesn't want her getting in trouble on my (adora's) behalf"

- but then pivots to asking her to just "cover for her till she gets back," saying she'll be back before anyone knows she's gone. and tbh, the way catra's jaw kinda drops slightly as she watches adora run off, ignoring her whispered calls after her, breaks my fucking heart. you can tell she's legit terrified at the idea of being left there in the fright zone w/o adora, even if it's just for a night.

~~(and tbh, adora ignoring catra's hushed calls after her as she runs off is way too similar for me to s5 when catra, invisible w melog but def still within earshot, ignores adora when she cries out her name at the end of failsafe [and every time i hear it, i can't help imagining how much it must've broke catra in half to keep going after she hears adora do that] 💔 my heart can't handle this shit fuuuu)~~

- and then adora doesn't come back the next day. catra had no clue where she was, but still must've thought that if she hadn't come back yet, there had to be a good reason for it - and she tries to refuse shadow weaver's command for her to find adora and bring her back - only to, once again, be abused by sw's magic and threatened if she doesn't comply (so much for not "getting in trouble on my [adora's] behalf")

- so she sets off w a team of soldiers to where sw already knows she is, finds adora, and assumes from the situation that she was taken prisoner by rebels. only to have adora tell her she's found out the horde is evil (which catra justifiably said "duh" to, and was prob pretty hurt to hear adora only figured out after spending a day or two w some rebels; total strangers to catra and adora atm vs the majority of her life spent as catra's best friend; i get the feeling catra thought her and adora were on the same page about that already, since adora had been the sole witness to the worst ways catra herself was treated in the horde since their childhood. [we don't know that yet, but once you do, hindsight's 20/20 bb] )

- so when adora says to her, "come with me, you don't have to go back there -" i can understand how to catra, that must have felt like an afterthought. an offer adora was only extending cause catra had sought her out and found adora herself - rendering it impossible for catra to ever know for sure or not if adora would have come back to try n get her to go w her if she hadn't been forced to find adora in the first place.

- and once we learn later in the season just how close these two were and for how long - and, especially, that the source of the exact words catra says to adora in s1e2 - "because, it doesn't matter what they do, the two of us look out for each other" was adora herself to catra as kids when the promise was first made - well. looking back at that episode and the near instantaneous fission that occurred between them - i would think it would become easier to see how that might happen from catra's pov.

- particularly after she's attacked by adora's new rebel companions and ends up watching some intensely powerful, previously unseen princess decimate their entire squadron - before turning back into adora. who she had just had that whole conversation w only minutes ago. and adora never once bothered to mention the discovery of this new truth about herself to her lifelong best friend. catra just had to watch it happen.

--- OKAY so, i know i ranted toooo much already about that first bit, so i'll try n keep what i see as the reflection of this experience brief as i can (i'ma be so bad at it tho; bet) ---

- in save the cat, adora chooses to go back for catra in spite of what a huge risk it is for her, for everyone who's willing to sneak onto prime's ship w her, and by extension, the rest of the rebellion/etheria/aaannd possibly the entire universe if they fuck it up and can't get back out

*(not-so-quick aside i just gotta make tho to give props af to glimmer for being down for this btw; she's the only one who knows what even just being in prime's presence can feel like; she just barely escaped his clutches but is willing to go right back for catra after what that bitch did for her; she's even willing to be the one who has to walk the ship alone, [i mean tbh, somebody had to babysit entrapta lolol] attempting to find her way back to the holding cells where she was so recently held herself, tryna find catra- so i just gotta give a lil 👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼 for glimmer y'all)

- but ofc, prime had a nice lil surprise for adora up his sleeve, and brings out chipped catra. forcing them to fight, and very quickly taking the opportunity to let adora know - he doesn't gaf how much catra gets hurt in this fight. and catra can't gaf, no matter how much pain she's being forced to cause herself.

- from the instance early on when adora manages to get catra in a hold that renders her unable to really move much - adora says what, if you ask me, might've made all the difference in the beginning if she'd thought to say it this way:

"i am not leaving without you."

- then catra strains against her hold for another second or two before her head kinda falls and her ears droop (tbh, i always get the sense there's a tiny bit of the real catra reacting to adora saying that to her in those physical responses- just due to their history)

- but then the arm twist. omfg dude - it kinda seems like she was straight up forced by prime to dislocate her shoulder just to get out of the hold - which would explain how horrified adora is when it happens - cause not a single sound or indicator of the pain felt ever escapes catra. even as she goes on fighting, despite the fact that attempting even the slightest motion w an arm that's been dislocated is known to be extremely painful.

...fuck well - true to form, i set out to try n be somewhat brief & succinct; i rlly hoped to keep my thoughts at a somewhat endurable level lol. i should prob stop thinking i'm even capable of it at this point lmao; i just can't stfu lolol rants are my way. sorry bout that fr <3

~~but i did cover my main point, hidden above in all the garble and ramble and twists and turns of my train of thought -

---there's a big difference between:

- hearing "come with me" and not only perceiving it as a slight & an afterthought; but also feeling totally robbed of hope for any kind of confidence that they ever would have come back for you in the first place-

- and having someone be willing to throw caution to the wind cause they want to literally come back for you and tell you they're not leaving without you.

<3

[populousgraph]

I'M SO MOTIVATED TODAY!

This is my other Toppat oc, Carter. (This might also get wordy lol)

Carter is a bit of a lovable dumbass in the way that I can best describe as a comical relief. He's pretty laid back and doesn't like when things get too serious. He's decent at his hiest jobs, but he's no professional. This is because he's a bit clumsy, which is also why he doesn't get put on important missions as much.

Carter was raised with his twin brother, Carson. (I'll get into him later)

At a young age, he always felt out of place. He was a troublemaker and was constantly getting himself disciplined by the people around him. It was also obvious that his parents favored his brother over him. Oh, the pain of being compared to your sibling, especially as twins.

I guess after so many years of trying to be a good person and live up to his brother, he got tired of trying. (He definitely had an emo phase as a teen, lmao). He occasionally would steal small things and pick fights with other people. (Whether or not he won the fights is debatable...)

Eventually him and his brother had a huge argument and fell apart. He lost contact with his twin and parents and had no one to turn to.

That is until a certain Clan shows up :3

Now I don't know how I want Carter to join the clan, and I have a few ideas with him assisting the clan or asking to join, I'm not sure. Either way, he does join eventually and becomes a part of their silly crime family.

What are his relationships with other Toppat members?

I'll tell ya! (This part is longer than Devin's because I don't get into Carter's role in ItA. You're not missing much anyway. He plays a bigger role in CtM)

Devin:

These two are pretty much best friends, and they're super chaotic when they work together. Their combined brain cells cancel each other out, which makes them kinda stupid to be around. When Carter is in trouble, Devin is usually right there with a stupid idea to get him out of it. They usually go on minor heists together.

CatHat (my friend's oc):

Carter manages to piss CatHat off so bad that simply being around him irritates him. They don't interact much, but since they're both friends with Devin, they gotta tolerate each other.

Reginald:

They don't talk much (obviously). But Carter does respect him and does his best not to mess up around him. They have bonded over sharing a similar style but not much else.

Right Hand Man:

They almost NEVER talk. Which makes sense since Right keeps to himself, and Carter is very intimidated by just the thought of the guy.

Carson Miller:

Carter's twin brother that he lost contact with a long time ago. He misses him sometimes, but he doesn't have time to dwell on it. They used to be super close when they were little.

Anyway, thanks for sticking around and reading all this 😅. As a thanks, I give you a cookie 🍪

[ihaveforgortoomany]

More translation changes for Prologue Ch. Invisible pirate

This is gonna be a bit more in depth cause there's alot:

Also, that's her bike in her insight 2 right? (I don't have Regulus)

(Below I will put the image with the new lines and the original line below it)

(og) - "Victory blessed by England" (yea "Rule Britannia" is the better translation)

(og) - "she's not here again today? I'll take this motorbike if she doesn't show up"

Im guessing the change is to make it clearer that it's Regulus' bike they are referring to.

(og) - "bugger" is changed to "louse" (either one is fine but ok)

(og) - "Who are you?" (More suspicion on Vertin I think)

(og) - "Be quiet. Don't get caught! Take your chances around that cafe!"

(og) - "so yummy!" (She's also humming more here as well)

(og) - "The optical arcane skill to be invisible ... I now understand"

This is clarifying that this is Regulus's innate arcane skill to create optical illusions, not a random or standard one arcanists use (like Marcus' reading skill for example is unique to her)

(og) - "Who spilt my tea?"

(You know it would be funnier if she said cuppa instead but I digress)

(og) - "Your Foundation is just an authority working with governments"

Its singular, it makes more sense for Regulus to assume that the Foundation was working with the British Government in particular. Why assume the Foundation was working with multiple?

(I ran out of picture space lol) the last line is just:

"You'll know where I am, no matter where I go"

(og) - "my location will be exposed anywhere, anytime"

This is clarifying that registry with the Foundation means the Foundation can track her movements specifically.

Summary - Alot of the changes have been to clarify points about the story without being too wordy, changing phrases that sound awkward and overall I think the changes have been good.

[villainessprefect]

~Tell It to My Heart~

title: Colors of an Apple

Prompt #8: Dancing together while one person falls, the other lands on top of them and the fallen one laughs. The other confesses.

Epel x gn!reader

Read on AO3

Pomefiore's ballroom is a grand yet private stage. It can hold many students although its magnificence shines when smaller groups are present. There's more room and more freedom for those to practice when a crowd isn't present. And it feels more personal when it's just two.

Like you and Epel, for example.

While you are no stranger to the dorm or this room, it feels different without the SDC group. Even if the competition has long passed, you have hardly stepped foot in here since then. With your role as the manager over, so was your time in this part of the dorm. You nearly forgot how imposing it felt just to stand in here.

"Sorry for draggin' ya out here," Epel lets out a huff.

"It's okay. We were supposed to hang out today anyway," you reassure him. You tilt your head to watch as he fiddles with the speakers.

"I know, but we coulda been doing somethin' better."

For a moment, he considers just leaving and escaping this damned dorm on a blastcycle. As simple as that may sound, it's not. With Rook keeping an all-knowing eye on him, breaking free would be impossible. So, he has no choice but to bend to Vil's whims and do as he commands.

This week, the housewarden seemed intense on getting Epel back into dancing. Something about posture and keeping up appearances and knowing the basics so he doesn't make a fool of himself or whatever. All the first year knows is that he has to learn the waltz and show his skills off to Vil before being granted some freedom. Or move onto the next course of beautiful torture that Epel can't wrap his head around.

Surprisingly, Vil grants him a choice of partner. He does have duties to attend to, so he allows Epel to choose someone to practice with while he's out. Of course, he expects the best from both him and his chosen partner, but that's something he leaves out, more so because he knows that you would give it your all regardless of Vil's watchful eyes or not.

You were his first and only choice for a partner. He couldn't tell if it was due to the burning feeling in his chest or the fact that you were one of the only decent people in this school. Sure, you're a little odd, but he knows that he can trust you. You wouldn't make fun of him for being forced to learn a cliche dance nor run to his housewarden if he tried to run off. If he slipped into his real self, you wouldn't laugh at him either. You're definitely strange but in a welcoming way.

Crystal blue eyes glance your way. His gaze lingers on you as you begin to stretch. While you may not have been on stage for the SDC, the warmups were drilled into your head just like the rest.

Maybe dancing wouldn't be so bad after all. He does get to be with you, dance with you. He does have to kinda teach you too, but today is just the basics. It's easy enough and he won't bark at you as Vil does to him.

"Alright. The song is going to be on loop so we can just keep on going. Pick up wherever we leave off and all that."

He doesn't sound enthusiastic and his lack of excitement doesn't fit with the music that begins to fill the room. Yet, it still pushes him towards you. Epel takes your right hand with his left. His right hand is placed against your back and you put your left hand on his shoulder. Space is kept in between you both and he can't tell if that's a good or bad thing.

"I'm ready whenever you are," you chirp, unlike him you're filled with zest. Perhaps it's a little infectious. He can feel his heart begin to drum against his chest. He can't back out now and look like a shy, dainty little thing. Even if this is some prissy and proper dance, he'll commit to it.

Epel takes in a breath and recalls what Vil has taught him. He repeats it to you, although in a less wordy way. He instructs you on the steps and how it's one foot first and then the other until you get the hang of it. You have to move in a 'box' for this dance.

Starting off is relatively easy. One step. Pause. Another step. Pause. Repeat. You pick up on it fairly quickly and he's glad. This lesson won't be taking all afternoon at this rate!

There's just one thing that irks him a little. And that's your height. It doesn't normally bother him and you're not that much taller, but when it comes to this, he feels inadequate. If he's supposed to be the lead and does cool things with you, how can he when he's shorter than you? If he swings you around or does some fancy dip, can he even hold you? Would you even trust a small, weak thing like him?

He hates that feeling bubbling in his chest. He wants to be cool for you. And he wants to ignore the voice of his housewarden scolding him in his mind for getting wrapped up in roles again. He just wants to be manly, damn it.

Those seething feelings begin to pile up more and more. The repetitive movements aren't helping with his growing temper. If only this was more exciting, more fun.

Epel is about to ask if you're enjoying this or if you're bored like him, but he doesn't need to when he catches your eyes. They sparkle with such determination that it's hard to believe that these lessons were for him and not you. You're lost in the dance, muttering out the timing to help as you continue to move. While you have a lovely gaze, Epel wants to see it break into something better.

"Wana go a bit faster?"

"Huh?"

Epel sneers, his true colors showing as he frees himself from his quiet persona. His grip on you tightens, he closes the gap between you both and quickens the pace. The tempo is lost, but he doesn't care. Now you're both dancing outside of the box and going at a racing pace. He likes that you can keep up with him and the fact that you're smiling and trying to hold back a laugh.

Now comes the cool part.

The videos make it look so easy and he's certain that he can pull it off. If he can, then he can rub it in Vil's face after impressing you. All he has to do is dip you, hold you steady, and let you bask in his glory.

Unfortunately, that does not happen. Lost in his hype, he takes a misstep. His feet collide and he does dip you, just a little too much and unintentionally. A squeak escapes from you and your hold tightens. Epel does his best to save you before you fall, but instead, you bring him down with you.

Colliding with the ground isn't pleasant nor is the extra weight pressing down on you. You wince and groan in pain. You're pretty sure nothing too serious was injured, maybe a little bruise, but nothing major. As you try to shake off the pain, you look to Epel. He's hovering over you, hands resting beside your shoulders almost as if he were pinning you down.

"Are you okay?" He asks.

You blink and stare up at him. Somehow, in the depths of your mind, you find this scene quite funny. The entirety that led up to it too. It just felt so...natural. Just like Epel to do this. Even more so with the weird mix of worry and sparkle that shone in his eyes. He finally had fun even if it all ended up like this.

So, you laugh.

And as you laugh, Epel is caught off guard. The sound of your voice echoing throughout the room wasn't something he expected to hear today. It's charming and makes his heart beat even faster. He's always loved the sound of it and knowing he was the cause makes him proud.

While he's not one to dwell in the spirit of his dorm, at this moment he'd say that you're the most beautiful thing in this world. Your smile, your laughter, your everything.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Sorry about that." Your laughter dies down but giggles still linger. It disappears once your eyes meet with his. And as you try to catch your breath, you find it to be stolen away. Lips press onto yours with the taste of apples. He doesn't keep your breath for long though.

"You're really beautiful," he mumbles, cheeks burning. He does his best to keep a confident stare on you but even you can tell that he's nervous.

"Th-Thank you," you gulp, unsure of what to do now. Your heart is racing a mile a minute, your mind is unable to process what's going on. So much has happened and it's hard to believe this isn't a dream. "Do you...want to keep dancing? Or..."

"I'd rather just see ya smile again." And perhaps steal another kiss too. At this rate, he might just do it again.

[cheemscakecat]

Missing in Action 7

Chapter 7: Dream Team

Scout doesn’t like the fact that he misses his old man.

TW: Angst

Jeremy was surrounded by his rabid brothers. Frankie, Arthur, Henry and Jonas were all showing off how much better their civilian jobs were, and their wives, and their reading skills. He kept getting long-winded, wordy diplomas and essays shoved in his face and making it hard to breathe. They also would not stop loudly ranting about the stock market and how expensive their weddings were.

Pete, Kevin and Danny were pushing and shoving through the never ending paper and nerd arms, tryin to act like real ****; but he wasn’t paying much attention to them. He was payin real close attention to the fact that they were pressing in on him with their bodies and papers, makin it real Claus-try-fo’-bick. He couldn’t get out of the sweaty ring of siblings who were sucking up all the air just to say how much better they were than him. He was gonna suffocate at this rate.

There was a loud rumbling earthquake, and everyone’s feet lifted off the ground for a second. Then it happened again and again. His brothers scrambled away, which gave him time to breathe, but he wasn’t ready to avoid whatever was makin the earthquakes.

A big pair of fancy shoes -belongin to a giant that was towering up so high you couldn’t see his face- stopped a couple hundred feet in front of him. His brothers did nothing to help him, squawking over their precious paper trophies.

The giant’s big leather gloved hand reached down and pinched the back of Jeremy’s shirt between his pointer finger and thumb, and pulled him up into the air. He was set down in the giant’s other hand, which was cupped a little to keep him from fallin. The first hand also got cupped, in case one wasn’t enough.

The big hands lifted him higher and higher until he was face to face with Spy, who was really freakin big for some reason. Hell, if his brothers had the guts to try and scale one of his legs, it’d probably take them 2 days to reach one of his knees. Assuming they knew anything about rock climbing.

He was being held like… not an egg, people don’t hold eggs like they’re valuable. Maybe like… if Ma or Pauling got shrunk down, and he didn’t want em to get squished? Either way, big Spy started to walk away from the annoying brothers, and Jeremy could breathe pretty well even that high up.

Suddenly he was a little baby again, who had clearly been cryin for a hot minute, because there was snot dripping down his face. Spy plopped down in an armchair and wiped the baby snot off him with a tissue. Then he grabbed a baby blanket and wrapped Jeremy up in it.

It was warm and comfortable, made even better by the fact that he was held up to Spy’s shoulder and small enough to lay his head down in the crook of his neck. He curled up there, not paying any attention to the cigarette smoke smell or his loud toddler brothers running around the living room.

And then he woke up.

It was the second night in a row where he had a stupid dream about Spy being good. This one wasn’t even a memory, and Scout still remembered it in every little detail.

He hated the fact that he kept having these dreams. Spy left him and Ma behind for 20 years, stuck with his annoying gang-rat brothers and the kids at school that loved to boast about their dads. He spent 7 years not telling him the truth. And he was going to let them hang in Teufort without telling him for another 6 months.

And he was gone. Again. After promising he’d be back like a dirty liar. Spy didn’t deserve these rose-tinted dreams. If it was so easy for him to not care about Jeremy after all that, he should stop caring too.

Why’d he have’ta keep caring?

Dream Spy had carried him way better than Saxton Hale. Hale slung him like a cheap bag of potatoes and let him flop around as he galloped through the jungle. Scout felt his hard muscular arm digging into his stomach and almost threw up. And then, he got smacked around like a baseball bat.

But dream Spy wasn’t real, was he? Real Spy left him alone in the jungle like a coward, and Hale grabbed him from there.

Jeremy got up fast and shoved his clothes on. He stalked off towards the training room so he could punch something and stop thinking about it.

He remembered the ride back from the crappy Yeti theme park. Spy sat his stuck up *** right next to him like he didn’t turn invisible and leave him to go through all that.

The door was locked.

Scout was all beat up from being slammed into the Yeti like he wasn’t a human, hitting straight muscle at full force. Medic had patched him up some, but had to focus on Soldier because getting your spine snapped in half was a way bigger issue. His head was pounding and he felt sore all over.

The door was locked.

Spy tapped him on the shoulder, and made sure he was watching. Then he pulled his arm out, balled his hand into a hard fist, and punched himself square in his big nose. Spy’s head snapped against the back of his chair from the force of the blow, and he got a wicked bloody nose out of it.

Stop it.

Scout could hear himself stupidly getting concerned over Spy being hurt. Askin why he did that like it wasn’t a distraction.

Why is this **** door locked?!

“That’s for leaving you with Mr Hale. I’dve let you hit me, but you aren’t at full strength right now.”

“LIAR! It’s an act! It’s all an act with you!” Jeremy slammed his fist into the hard metal training room door and plunked his head against it. He cried out angrily.

“Scout? ‘Re you alright lad?” Demoman was starin at him, and all ready for fight too, since he was suited up with his bombs and safety pads. He must have made it sound like an emergency or somethin.

“Oh hey! Yeah, I uh… sorry.” Demo looked concerned. “‘Eard you had a bad phone call yesterday. The new Spy wouldn’t tell us exactly who it was but eh.. he said not to let ‘em Bostonian guys call ye again.”

Word had spread that fast? Well, new Spy had threatened his brothers with the scarier teammates existing. It made sense he’d want the others on board with what he said.

“Yeah, I um.. I got some crappy brothers. Always stressin Ma.. I think they stole her phone to make that call actually.” Demoman did a double take. “Them Boston brats were yer brothers? Spy said they were right cruel wit ye..” Scout tried to shrug.

“Well, those three are the worst of em.. The gang members. They think they’re real ****, acting like that n makin Ma worry… Y’know?” Truth be told, Jeremy never imagined he’d be sharing this stuff with his teammates; but now that some of the cat was out of the bag, he didn’t seem to have it in him to be secretive.

”Well, me ‘n the rest o’ the team’ ll keep an eye out for ‘nother call like that. None o us want ye to get mocked by losers again. Medic actually volunteered to scare em off if they try another stunt.”

Medic was up in arms about it?! Scout expected Demoman, Engineer and maybe Heavy to be cool with threatening his brothers, but Medic? He felt.. relieved in a way. Even though he knew the team wouldn't fire him now.

————————

None of the teammates were happy about some losers making fun of Scout for not having a dad, but by far the worst reaction came from Medic. He was seething with rage and everyone could see the bloodlust in his eyes. Heavy and Engineer hastily took him to MedBay to calm him down with the doves. Younger Spy looked terrified that he might have sent death on those clowns on the first warning.

Dr Ludvig knew a great deal about loss. He was from Europe after all, the land torn apart by two World Wars. The land of the Lost Generation. He also knew a great deal about his teammates.

Those spoiled American brats didn’t care to know about others and their loss. Not if they knew Scout and still chose to mock his father’s absence. Mikhal had lost his father to the Soviet Regime, had to raise his family. He was better at hiding it, but his rage burned against those boys too. Even if Scout didn’t know it, Spy would not have left him behind again. Heavy’s father wouldn’t have left if he could help it.

Sniper and Demoman’s foster parents wouldn’t have left them if they could help it. Sniper’s wouldn't have wished for him to meet his birth parents if they had known how scummy they were. Demoman’s foster parents wouldn’t have wished his alcoholism or strange, toxic family traditions on him.

Soldier was raised by feral raccoons from the time he was very small to the age of 7. Nobody knew who his parents were; if they’d died tragically or dumped him in the woods. The Americans tried to civilize him and were never very successful at it. It was something he didn’t speak about, but Medic had been curious about why he was not allowed in the military and had an iron stomach.

And then there was war. And the regimes. War that killed young men before they could become fathers, regimes that killed young and old for petty and hateful reasons.

In WWII, Medic targeted the important party members and not their underlings, for a very good reason. Many were brainwashed or pretending to be for their own and their family’s safety. He only wished starvation on the people in charge of the secret death camps, not the random foot soldiers who died as prisoners of war. In America more of them were taken care of well and allowed to live peacefully, in Europe they were not. Not fed well. Never to go home. Hell, Berlin was split down the middle.

The anger Ludvig felt against the three boys from Boston was close to his anger with Classic Team. There was a difference between being forced to be hateful and choosing it of your own free will. He didn’t hate the BLU teams they fought here; that Spy head would have been mutilated if he did. He stayed a mercenary because he knew he was insane and not fit to treat civilians.

But Scout’s enemies were hateful to civilians and their so-called friend by choice. And he hated them for it.

———————-

Antoine made a decision. He felt depression and lowness, but so did the team Scout. The team was missing a Spy and he felt their worry. So as much as he didn’t feel happy, he would pretend. He remembered better times and the silly things he used to do in battle. Today’s battle was too soon after his arrival for him to join; the Admin had not been alerted to him by the desert team.

But Scout -who had hurt his hand punching the locked training room door- and the scary Medic could get their frustrations out in the fight today. And he would be there to play the cheerful one and lighten the mood of the desert team.

Even if it killed him.

[vidavalor]

I just happened upon your blog (right terminology?) and I’m learning a lot. One thing that startled me was your referring to Crowley and Aziraphale’s love (sex) life as a matter of course, something seemingly everyone but me knew about. I was blown away and really wanted it to be true. After all, they’ve had to do without so much—openness, safety, the expectation of future togetherness. It would too unfair if they had to do without physical consummation too. What’s the deal with this? How do we know it’s so? What’s the history? Please enlighten me. Have you written posts about this? I’d love to read them. Thanks

Hello! Thanks for the ask. Nice to meet you. I call it a blog because I'm old and don't know the cool terms but we can call it whatever lol. I have no idea re: how many people who view the show and are able to see that Crowley & Aziraphale are more than friends (because, believe it or not, that concept still shocks some lol) who think that they're already lovers. I do think I'm sort of in the minority, maybe, even if there are a bunch of people who think that they're already a thing. When scrolling through the Ineffable Husbands tag on here, I tend to see a lot more posts that suggest that they aren't lovers and that 2.06 was their first kiss. (Let's hope that it's not lol.)

I guess I would say that if you are thinking about whether or not they might be, consider that Good Omens shows you most of its story out of chronological order in order to give layered meaning to the stuff you've already seen so, just with that knowledge alone, it would be actually pretty surprising if 2.06 was the first time they'd kissed. In S2 itself, earlier on, there's some heavy suggestion that it's not. If you want to read about when I think that happened, go here and I'll link you one more post at the bottom of this response here:

While I like to read all points of view-- I read a lot of aro ace GO stuff as well, even if I don't necessarily see that in my own interpretations of things-- I have thought they were sleeping together since the first time I watched S1 a few years back and S2 just kinda reinforced that for me. I think that, technically-speaking, there's a path to either they still haven't gotten together or that they're long-time lovers. I say that but honestly... it's more like if they somehow do something that suggests that they're only getting together during/after S3, I think it could kinda work but I honestly don't actually think that's the story they're writing. I'm pretty firmly set on the idea that they've been sleeping together for, uh, a very long time at this point. Someone told me the other day via messages that they would burn my house down if I did not finish a sex meta that I promised people so I best maybe get on that and also potentially call the police lol. (I am both flattered and scared?). So, uh, I'll get that up soon... I wrote a couple of longer metas lately about different eras of their relationship that are replies to recent asks on my blog-- I'd probably recommend the one about what they call each other and coded love confessions in 1941, if you're looking to read about them as a couple that's already a couple (even if they would have an anxiety attack at the word 'couple', as Crowley does in 2.06 lol). Will link it below. I'm very flattered that you and others have asked to read more of what I think and I have gotten asked a lot for more sex-related content so, uh, watch this space, I guess? :)

Make yourself a tea first or plan to come back to it as I'm wordy lol:

[megzscribbleznwordz]

got any nsfw hcs for any of the main ypfigth guys ( gary claude troy satan ) perhaps ? ^_^

OOOOOOOOOhhhhh absolutely! I had so much fun writing these. I gave mostly general ones, if you'd like anything more specific or more for anyone else let me know!

Gary

Gary has a very high sex drive… like, even for Hell standards

Easy to overstimulate and arouse… Like, the smallest most random thing could turn him on out of nowhere. Someone he’s attracted to says hi? Boner. Anybody whispers anything in his ear? Boner. 

Very into teasing, be it being teased or doing the teasing… both finds the banter fun and also manages to be the best at finding what exactly to tease somebody about to get the desired response

Also super into edging, along with overstimulation and post-orgasm torture… pretty much anything that takes advantage of how sensitive he is / his sexual partner is

I think Gary would be a switch, with his decision on being dom/sub purely based on his mood in the moment

Claude

Also very teasing, but with more emphasis on degrading rather than banter. Very yappy to, won’t shut up ever about anything that takes place over the encounter

Claude is a reader… definitely has the biggest collection of raunchy novels. Loves using them as reference for what he does to himself/his partner too, like sexual inspiration

A bit of an underwear thief, very good at hiding it… collects the underwear off whoever he manages to sleep with, uses them to fuel his fantasies and as future jerk off fuel

I can’t explain this one at all but… definitely has a hand fetish. Tends to find himself attracted to people with well kept hands/very dexterous and hand-intensive interests/hobbies

A try-anything-once-even-if-I-don’t-think-I’d-be-into-it type of guy. Even in solo escapades, I feel like he does a lot of sexual introspection and exploration

Troy

Also a bit of an underwear thief, but more terrible at hiding it… weirdly gets off on the fact that he’s bad at it. Part of the arousal for Troy is the fear of getting caught.

Definitely super into anything that scratches his ego, ex. Begging, Overstimulating, Edging all in the Dom sense.

Very wordy as well, about everything pretty much. Be it narrating his actions/intended actions, praising and degrading his sexual partner, groaned out pleasure filled curses, his mouth is always going

Particularly loves blowjobs… I mean LOVES. Gets super into it too, running his hand through his sexual partner’s hair, guiding their head up and down on his cock

Troy is a groaner… also very sensitive! Most anything he either does to himself or has done by other leads to deep, difficult to contain guttural groans.

Satan

Office sex, office sex, office sex! It gives him the biggest power trip ever… Nothing scratches the ego like the feeling of bending some cute thing over his desk, papers spilling over the edges and sliding gently over onto the floor, hearing the footsteps of other demon’s outside the door no doubt unaware of the actions occurring behind it…

The only drawback is that he’s very loud… even when going through his solo sexual exploits. Moans, groans, hisses, curses, the whole nine yards.

Likes for his sexual partners to put on a show for him, if comfortable. Masturbating for him, stripping, wearing lingerie … the whole show is part of it for him.

Satan is super into the possessive sorts of kinks. Collars/leashing, predator/prey role play, anything that makes use of his power and possessive nature

Big fan of foreplay, when the time calls for it. I feel like most of his sexual encounters are quickies so whenever able he loves to take his time and building up the mood a bit

[nothorses]

Hi, Re: your tags about "what does femmes and nb mean"

There was a ttrpg project i applied to despite it saying it was aimed at femmes or femmes and nb people or something of the like, and they added that if you weren't sure you qualified as that, you could apply anyway. I think they were trying to be inclusive of fem aligned nb people, but it obviously wasn't great. I'm told the person who created the project is planning on going into a career for DEI and would be open to correction, but i wasn't sure quite how to approach it or what suggestions to offer to make things clearer

Do you have any thoughts or resources i could look into/send their way?

Yeah, I've noticed this wording from so many people who seem to honestly think it's The Most Inclusive, and like- it's not bad intent. The people I know who say this stuff tend to also readily agree that trans men should be included as well, that cis butches should be included if other cis women are going to be, etc. This is just the wording they've heard, and they don't know enough to evaluate it any further.

As far as thoughts and resources go: I would try asking some questions about who she's trying to include, who she's trying to exclude, and why.

"Women, NBs, and femmes" is wording I heard from someone recently in reference to a program aimed to get certain marginalized people involved in outdoor rec/ed. Her reasoning was that she had felt excluded from that world as a woman; historically, that's absolutely the case, and clearly she understands that cis women are not the people most targeted by gendered gatekeeping of outdoor spaces, either.

So I would ask: what is the exact group (and get wordy about it) that you want to include? Are transmascs a part of it? Binary trans men? What do you understand "femmes" to mean; are you including cis gay femmes?

Who are you trying to exclude, and why? If only cis men should be excluded, let's evaluate that, too: what about men of color? Disabled men? Both of those groups are extremely well-known to be historically excluded from outdoor spaces, and are still far more excluded from those spaces than any cis white abled woman is today.

But maybe your goal is to address gender specifically, because that's what you understand best. That's fair!

Now you need to ask: do you understand gender, or just other cis women? If you're including trans people, why? I would agree it's intuitive, but you should name that reason so you can explain it and work toward your exact goals more intentionally.

Most people would say that the overlap is something like "gender-based oppression", but maybe you want to specify "misogyny" instead. This gives you something to go off of either way! Now you have a through-line, the thing that defines who you are including and why.

From here, I would suggest orienting your project to be clear about that: does it need to be about the labels people use for themselves, or even the identities of the people involved? Or can it be about addressing this issue in this field? Maybe instead of being "for women and femmes", it can be "against misogyny", or "for gender inclusivity".

These phrases aren't inherently excluding particular people, I know- but that's good to evaluate as well. If a cis man joins a group "against misogyny" and is wholly committed to working alongside you in that, how important is it to you that he be excluded from the group? Why? Are those reasons also going to make trans people feel excluded- particularly closeted trans women? How are you going to tell one from the other?

If you're trying to provide specific resources and support to groups who are marginalized in a particular way, maybe you can be providing resources "to people impacted by the misogyny in this field", or "to support gender inclusivity in this field". Maybe you can let the selection of who does or does not get those resources happen in the applications, or the places you seek people out, or the "about" section, or the way you start your meetings.

None of this is an exact instruction or anything; these are suggestions, but mostly they're questions, and people need to get in the habit of asking and answering them. That's what DEI work is!

I also really reccommend this article on "women and femmes"; it explains what "femme" actually means, and the harmful implications behind the idea that masculinity, not cis manhood, is privileged.

This article from Salal Sexual Violence Support Center on why they're changing their language to "marginalized genders", and this follow-up on what they have learned about the deeper changes needed since making that language change, are also really great.

[fastcardotmp3]

Oh would you so kindly expand on your Murray/that plotline™ thoughts? Btw I didn't remember it as a cheating situation but since it's been so long since watching that season i was taking other people's word for it. And yeah i don't think Murray did anything even if it was. like he didn't make them have sex.

I started to type out an answer to this ask, forgot to save it as a draft, and lost all of my thoughts, so apologies if this is a little disjointed but! I will do my best to give my thoughts coherently <3

I really do think the Murray thing is maybe a mischaracterization of his intentions, but also not the thing I care most about when it comes to narratives that deal with Steve/Nancy/Jonathan situation in season 2, because at the end of the day it's just another reframing of the same tired take tbh

I'll stick it under the cut though because I know I can be wordy

There's this, like, company line in this fandom that Steve and Nancy were just two teenagers who hurt each other, which I one hundred percent agree with, only that tends to be the company line everywhere except for the Steve-centric fics that get written about that plotline, which instead seem to frequently make an argument that "Nancy cheated on Steve, was cruel enough to cause long-term emotional damage, and then either is forced to grovel for forgiveness or be shut out of his and his friends' lives forever" which is. Not that. Right?

Fandom cultures at large, not just this one, are more willing to do empathetic, in-depth character analysis of male characters than they are female. This is something we know to be true and this is something that is noticable in how Nancy gets treated by fanon, especially when it comes to her relationship with Steve.

Because here's the thing, we could debate it all day (and I won't, for the record, if anyone's thinking about starting a fight) but for my part, what she did wasn't cheating. From the very first time I watched season 2 when it was released, I always read the Halloween fight and the morning after as a breakup.

HOWEVER, even if Nancy did cheat on Steve? It doesn't warrant the downright malicious Nancy characterizations that often feel ubiquitous to this fandom.

Even if Nancy did cheat, there is a refusal to look at the situation from her point of view, something which even Steve is canonically able to do by the end of season 2 (we'll get to that). Because there's more nuance here to take into account than just Nancy making a choice to specifically hurt or break Steve and there's more nuance here than Steve being incapable of moving on from this breakup.

In fact, if you really look at the choices both of them are making, it has very little to do with each other and everything to do with their own reactions to immense personal trauma and grief. Nancy has spent a year suppressing a mourning she's not allowed to experience out loud, and you expect her not to snap eventually?

Does personal hardship mean cheating is, like, a good thing (if that's the takeaway you're going with from canon)? No. Does it still wildly differ from the cruel and intentionally malicious version of Nancy that shows up in far too much fic? Yeah.

She's a teenage girl whose best friend died in a violent and preventable way at sixteen years old. Nancy tried to fit herself into Steve's coping strategies, tried to let it all go back to normal, and was visibly hurting in the process. She sought out comfort. Understanding. A chance to be heard.

It's a disservice to both of their characters to treat this like there's a "good" and "bad" guy, when the way they handle it in canon, the way Steve comes to terms with it (literally within days he is telling her to go with Jonathan, by the way), is all vitally important to their growth.

When Steve says "I may not be a very good boyfriend" that's not about him being down on himself or having low self worth, it's a moment of growth and self reflection/ awareness for him to acknowledge that in his efforts to make himself feel better, he also hurt Nancy. It's about him no longer being in the same bitter headspace of "what am I apologizing for?" that he was at the start of the season, and having the maturity to see that they don't work as they are at their current mental states, no matter how heartbreaking that may be for him.

And Nancy choosing to go with Jonathan is really just a continuation of everything she was doing in trying to get justice for Barb-- she's choosing to follow her heart after being trapped away from acknowledging it for so long.

In other words, not only does he not have reason to, but Steve doesn't hate Nancy, Steve doesn't hold a lifelong grudge against Nancy, Steve doesn't think Nancy is a cruel and unfeeling bitch, but fic authors sure seem to.

If it were just a handful of fics here or there, I wouldn't be so adamant about it, but it's such an ingrained narrative in this fandom that sometimes I think people have genuinely forgotten the canon context.

Don't strip them of their agency and everything they learn from getting together and falling apart by making Steve less emotionally competent and Nancy more borderline abusive than either of them are.

It's boring and it's sexist and it shouldn't be the norm.

but that's just my 2 and a half cents peace and love anon, hope this answered your question <3

[tinypandacakes]

HIIII i love TK so much and all your writing, but as someone who wants to start writing, are there any tips on how to start? such as how do you end up with really good "show, not tell" descriptions and how did you structure such a good slowburn story without it dragging on? ITS SO GOOD j cant help but ask because a lot of slowburn story drags on but omg i love the pacing of TK, so im just curious how did you structure the story? like each chapter already assigned a part orrrr?

Thank you so much 💕💕 you’re very sweet! I’m no pro by any means, so this is just my opinion/experience and I may ramble a little — but TLDR: my biggest pieces of advice are to read a lot and then write a lot without worrying about if it’s good or not.

More below :p

I’ve written almost 800k words in the last few years, and I’m not thrilled with all of it, especially my earlier stuff. But I’m a better writer after getting it all out, good and bad and “cringe” alike.

Reading is crucial. sometimes I come across things that are SO BEAUTIFULLY WRITTEN that it inspires me to be better too. Metaphors and descriptions that make my chest tingle.

I used to feel a bit jealous like “why can’t I write like this? What’s the point of writing if I can’t do it like that?” But then I started honing in on what I liked about it and why, and it helped me shape my writing too! it’s not about copying their exact phrasing, but examining how that author relayed that emotion or sensation and trying to emulate it in your own style. I jot down descriptors and unique and descriptive usage of verbs i come across to remind myself to look at them again later, and possibly incorporate in my own writing.

As far as “show don’t tell” I usually write a draft and then go back and look where the scene feels a bit barren. Literally sometimes it’s just “könig was cooking breakfast. You walked past him silently. You sat down at the table and looked out the window” on first pass just to get the action/placement beats in. The. focus on the five senses and where it makes sense to add scent or taste or sensation. An itch of a tag at the back of your neck when nervous, noticing a loose thread on someone’s sweater, the click of a dog’s nails on hardwood as it moves from the kitchen to the living room, cooking smells, etc. those little things that you would not think much about in day to day life make fics feel more immersive

For pacing, an outline has really helped me. Just numbered paragraphs on a page with incoherent rambling after. each chapter has certain events I went to happen that progress the story. In that outline, I throw in some of those descriptors or phrasing or verbs that I come across or think of, as a reminder to use them during XYz scene.

I’m a very wordy writer and TK is a slow burn (and people have told me they think it’s too slow, opinions will always differ) but ultimately something happens each chapter that either moves the plot or relationship forward. Ideally both, but it usually doesn’t feel like dragging on if each chapter has a goal in mind. Also a I like each chapter to have a satisfying end or a mini cliffhanger, to either give the reader relief that a little plot arc is wrapped up or anticipate the closing of that arc next chapter.

In the end you have to write the story you want. Slow or fast, flowery prose or more blunt and straightforward language. Smutty or gen-fic. Not everyone will like it, and that’s okay. But if you like it, that will come across to readers. Your passion makes the story come together. people will overlook a lot of things if they sense that behind the words — because they want to feel something, too.

Also this resource by peachesofteal has a bunch of really useful links. I use the eye color one a lot :3