#but then scrapped that halfway through for no fucking reason
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so is there anything about vlad in canon that you actually like???
Yeah, I liked the love-motivated anti-hero direction they seemed to be taking him in season 1 to like mid-season 2, before the writers seemed to completely fucking forget where they had intended to take his character, and therefore shoved him into a generic super villain role that made zero sense for his character and motivation up until that point 🙃🙃🙃
I also will not be arguing about this with anyone; this is just how it comes across to me, personally. I'm not trying to start a debate, just stating how it feels to me.
#Danny Phantom#Vlad Masters#I'm not saying 100% that he was intended to become an anti-hero#I didn't write the show; I can't know that#but that's how he *feels* to me in the earlier seasons before the show went completely off the rails#between his OG motivation being Danny and Maddie joining him WILLINGLY#to the ''I guess that's all anybody needs; a second chance'' in The Ultimate Enemy#it genuinely feels like they were setting him up for redemption and to become an anti-hero#but then scrapped that halfway through for no fucking reason#So I portray him in *that* light#that he is fully able to be redeemed and he could become an anti-hero#I still love Vlad and will take any episode with him that I can get#but his character in season 3 makes no fucking sense to me when compared to how he is in earlier episodes
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A little scrap of inexperienced Simon (my beloved, my baby, I love you) because it stuck to my brain like glue.
Simon, who comes back from deployment, and his anxieties slowly ebb away the moment he sets foot in the house—because there's an extra pair of shoes by the door, an extra set of keys on the shelf.
You're already tucked in by the time he's silently walking in the bedroom, quiet like a mouse, dropping duffle bag and wind jacket on the floor. His clothes follow soon after, and before he even knows it, he's under the bedsheets.
Shower be damned, he'll have plenty of time in the morning.
Naively, he thought sex would be off the table because he is too bloody tired to even concoct the thought—but you look heaven-sent, the first scrap of peace life has given him in ages.
And fuck, you're asleep, but his cock suddenly isn't. He has to get adjusted to that—arousal rearing its head only when you're close enough to smell.
Selfishly, he presses a lingering kiss to your shoulder, hoping it would be enough to gently wake you up—but he should've known better, because you swivel around quicker than his reflexes and elbow him in the face.
Only seconds later, when your ears perk and your eyes peel open, attentive and aware, you recognize the familiar shorn blond hair and the string of curses that leaves his lips, big hands cupping his nose.
Curses and apologies flow down your tongue so anxiously he can't help but drawl a "S'nothin', s'fine," followed by "Been through worse, swear it."
And then you're peppering apologetic kisses all over his cheeks, and he can't help but deflate because, after all, he's had plenty of elbows in his face but not as many lips.
He chuckles, a rough sound that rarely leaves him, and your giggles follow soon after. Until your kisses land on his lips, and he sighs in pure contentment.
It's a slow dance you welcome him home with—tender touches that make his stomach tingle all the way to his scalp. He almost falls asleep, but the feel of your skin on his has his body think otherwise.
Which is why gentle turns urgent, and you comply because, for some reason, you seem to want him as much as he does you.
And then he has you on your back, all wrapped around him, like a bow on a present. Frantically struggles to untie the drawstrings of your sweats, grumbling something about his fingers being too big, to which you reply with a cheeky remark that has his cock twitch in his briefs.
He crashes his mouth onto yours because words aren't his forte, nor are his actions—however, he'd like to try.
But your teeth knock together so hard that Simon feels his skull vibrate. He's disoriented and in pain, and, while not many, he surely doesn't recall any past sexual experiences leaving him this sore before they even began.
As soon as he starts worrying about your well-being, he finds you hysterical, holding your stomach in a laugh that exposes pink-stained teeth. You try and spectacularly fail (several times) to recollect yourself.
He thinks you look beautiful, even if you're struggling to form sentences. But he gathers you don't need words, because you finally pull him down to meet you halfway, and he lands softly this time.
He's cracked your lip, and your tongue tastes of copper, but still you smile. And while once he might have questioned your sanity because you're bleeding and his nose is throbbing, now he sees no wrong in it.
Happiness comes in different boxes, after all. And his own is shaped like you—bleeding lips, hysterics, and all.
#simon ghost riley#simon riley#simon riley x reader#simon ghost riley x reader#ghost x reader#cod#call of duty#cod mw2#I love stupid clumsy sex#I love clumsy simon#like he can't be perfect forever and always#socially awkward blorbo now has girlfriend™️#cod fluff#cod smut#drabble
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Stuck in a Snowstorm (m) | pjm
You don’t know how you ended up here. Stuck with your mortal enemy, Park Jimin, in you car – in a fucking snowstorm.
→ Pairing: Jimin x female reader → AU + genres: enemies to lovers, pwp (very little plot – let me be honest, it’s just pure smut). Humor/crack, smut. → Rating: Mature/explicit/R18 - this is mature/explicit content, so minors, please do not interact. → Word count: 6,1k → Warnings (general) + triggers: Jimin is just a mean jerk and reader is a brat 😂 Lots of banter, crack and anger towards each other. → Warnings (explicit): unprotected sex, dirty talk, orgasm denial/delay, hair pulling, oral (female and male receiving), breasts and nipple play. Also, use of a tie 👀 → Author’s note: This is actually a story that I planned to write all the way back in 2017 – better late than never, right? 😂 I had only made the plot with some outline, so I basically started from scrap. But it had been stuck in my mind since FOREVER and now I just miss Jimin a shit ton, so I made this. I hope you enjoy it! Also, it shouldn’t be taken too seriously, it’s just smut with minimal plot and don’t question the characters bad actions or some minor plot holes 😂 (Also, I did not proofread this, just because). Also, merry Christmas / happy holidays – this is my gift to you wonderful people out there 💜AND are you guys looking forward to Jimin’s ‘Closer than This’ tomorrow???? 💜
If you prefer to read on AO3 you can read it here 😀
[s.masterlist] → this is part of a mini series ‘The Winter Collection’, but it can be read as a stand alone (as can all the installments in the series).
“I can’t believe this…” in disbelief, you mutter, your voice tinged with uncertainty, while you desperately activate the windshield wiper, yearning for even a fleeting glimpse through the thick curtain of falling snow.
“I can,” Jimin declares from his spot beside you in the passenger seat. His playful critique follows swiftly, delivered with a pout and a firm voice, as he shakes his head in mock disbelief, “You're a terrible driver.”
“Am not!” you retort defiantly, your voice cutting through the air, even as your unwavering gaze remains fixed on the snowy expanse ahead.
A curtain of thick snow descends, veiling everything in an opaque white shroud. The road ahead is swallowed by the relentless onslaught, turning visibility into an elusive challenge.
Your hands clench the wheel with a vice-like grip, the strain evident as your knuckles whiten under the pressure. The tension in your entire body is so palpable that it hurts to fucking drive.
Exhaustion weighs on you heavily, a relentless burden, yet the realization hits that you're only halfway to your friends' Christmas party. Two more hours loom ahead, a daunting stretch of time spent in the company of Park Jimin, your sworn enemy.
The decision to share a car ride is a mystery even to yourself; perhaps it was a fleeting concern for the planet, a noble intention to save fuel by consolidating into one vehicle. Yet, as the journey unfolds, the real reasons behind your choice become an enigma.
Regret courses through you like a bitter undercurrent as you ponder the altruistic intentions behind considering the planet and the environment. The thought of advising Jimin to take his own car nags at you, a missed opportunity for a peaceful solo drive. In a self-cursing moment, you rue your own kindness.
“Let me drive; I’m a better driver than you anyway.” Jimin declares with casual confidence, his tone carrying an air of nonchalance.
“Fuck off, Jimin!” you hiss, frustration dripping from your words like venom.
You squint against the relentless assault of heavy snow, the world outside morphing into an indistinct blur as visibility dwindles.
Your pace is deliberate, a cautious dance with the road, but after several minutes, you relent, succumbing to the inevitable by slowing down even further.
“Fine!” you declare, seizing the steering wheel in a determined clench, bringing the car to an abrupt halt.
You pivot your gaze towards Jimin, the words cutting through the tension, “You fucking drive then.”
Shifting the car into park, you unclip your seatbelt with a determined click, swing the door open, and brave the biting embrace of the freezing snowstorm outside.
In synchronized movements, Jimin mirrors your actions, and together, you step out into the frigid air. The two of you converge outside, a silent agreement palpable in the crunch of snow beneath your feet, as you navigate around the car, preparing to swap seats.
“If you crash my car, I’ll kill you.” you menace, venom seeping through your words as you stride past him, positioning yourself in front of the vehicle.
He nonchalantly shrugs his shoulders, a smug satisfaction evident in his demeanor, relishing the fact that you've conceded to let him take the wheel.
Jimin confidently eases his plump figure into the driver's seat, and you avert your gaze (definitely not looking!). With a self-assured demeanor, he expertly adjusts the seat to accommodate his frame.
You attempt to thaw your chilled hands under the blast of hot air from the air conditioner, the sour mood hanging heavy around you as you settle into the passenger seat, donning a visible pout.
“Relax, I’m not gonna crash your precious car,” he teases, the playfulness evident in his voice, just before smoothly shifting the car into gear and forging ahead.
In response, a huff escapes your lips, arms instinctively crossing in a silent declaration of your lingering displeasure.
You surrender to a sense of ease as Jimin takes the wheel, his deliberate pace aligning with caution. It's a mutual understanding — in this snow-laden terrain, slow and steady becomes a shared creed for safety.
The once teasing atmosphere now gives way to palpable tension, the air thick with the weight of swirling snow that has intensified. Jimin, too, struggles visibly against the heavier onslaught, the challenge of navigating through the snow turning the car into a place of shared unease.
Your gaze fixates on Jimin, observing as his fingers clench the steering wheel with a tension mirroring your own, and his shoulders stiffen in sync. A chuckle escapes you, unexpectedly audible, as you notice the ironic similarity between his reaction and your earlier demeanor.
“What’s so funny?” Jimin spits, the tension reverberating unmistakably in his voice, each word a note in the symphony of strained emotions.
“Your driving,” you start to chuckle, the amusement laced with a hint of mischief.
“You're not exactly outclassing my skills,” you declare, sinking into the seat with a self-assured smirk, relishing the satisfaction of your own driving prowess.
“You’re a fucking brat, you know that?” he seethes, the words charged with anger, his gaze sharply turning towards you, locking onto your eyes.
Despite Jimin's cautious speed, the car subtly veers, casting doubt on whether you're still on the road or lost in the oblivion of the thick snow. The blinding white landscape offers no clarity, leaving you uncertain and immersed in a disorienting wintry haze.
“I can’t see fucking shit!” he exclaims, abruptly bringing the car to a halt and cutting the engine in an instant, plunging you both into an eerie silence amid the obscured surroundings.
Your gaze locks onto him, urgency etched across your face. “What are you doing? We've got Seokjin's Christmas party in less than an hour!” The frustration in your voice reverberates, a ticking clock amplifying the stakes of the impending deadline.
“It’s not safe to drive in this freaking snowstorm!” he bellows in response, frustration escalating in his voice, punctuated by the sharp flick of the hazard warning lights, signaling the urgency and danger of the situation.
“I just want to get there already. I'd rather not be stuck with you,” you seethe, teeth gritted, a visible huff escaping in a cloud of anger. The tension hangs heavy, fueled by the biting words that linger in the now frosty air.
“Like I'd willingly be stuck with your sour attitude,” he retorts, his gaze sweeping you from head to toe for some inscrutable reason. “I don't even like you,” he declares, the words loaded with an unspoken tension that hangs in the frosty air between you two.
You gape at him, the bitter truth resonating in the air—an unspoken agreement that neither of you harbors any liking for the other. The animosity between you has solidified into a hostile dynamic, despite the shared circle of friends that consistently throws you together, much to your enduring displeasure.
Jimin exudes an infuriating level of cockiness, ceaselessly pushing your buttons and expertly tapping into the art of annoyance until it feels like your nerves are unraveling at his mere presence.
You'd willingly brave the biting cold rather than endure the prospect of an unpredictable future confined with him inside the car. Fate seems to revel in mocking you, as the car rapidly succumbs to the encroaching chill, each passing minute intensifying the unwelcome cold that now permeates the confined space.
You clutch your arms tightly around your body, desperately running your hands up and down in a futile attempt to gather some warmth. A curse slips from your lips as you question your own sanity—why in the world did you take off your jacket for the drive? Now it's trapped in the damn trunk, and the thought of braving the freezing cold to retrieve it is utterly unappealing.
“Cold?” he chuckles, the sound carrying an edge of amusement that only amplifies the chill sinking into your bones.
You nod your head.
“Well, I’m not giving you my jacket,” he states matter-of-factly, cocooning himself in the evident warmth of his puffer jacket. Damn Park Jimin and his infuriating nonchalance, he's truly a master of being a jerk!
“Can't even manage a simple act of kindness,” you mutter with disdain, the words escaping in a sharp hiss, a low and almost grumbling tone, accompanied by a dismissive eye roll.
“What's that?” he asks, a smirk playing on his lips, relishing the snug warmth of his jacket while you shiver in the cold.
“Fuck you, Park!” you shout directly in his face, your words laced with frustration. Instead of a retort, he just chuckles, the sound taking on a manic edge that lingers in the frosty air, leaving an unsettling resonance to your heated exchange.
An indeterminate amount of time slips away, lost in the relentless snowfall that shows no sign of relenting. Frustration building, you reach for your phone and decide to text Seokjin, realizing that this damn snow isn't planning on letting up anytime soon.
You [15.42]: Stuck in a snowstorm with fucking Park Jimin. I don’t know when we’ll arrive 🙄
Jin [15.48]: Just stay safe 😂
Fuck Seokjin! You’re convinced that he’s somewhere enjoying a good laugh at your misfortune.
A surge of realization hits you like a bolt of inspiration—there's a blanket tucked away in the backseat. Swiftly moving up, you make your way to the center console.
“What’re you doing?” Jimin questions, his curiosity evident in the quirk of his eyebrow as you navigate over the center console, leaving him bewildered by your sudden, mysterious movements.
“There's a blanket back here,” you announce triumphantly, finally laying hands on the sought-after comfort. With a satisfying plop into the seat, you tug the blanket snugly over your cold body, a gesture that transforms the atmosphere within the car from chilly discomfort to a brief oasis of warmth.
After a few contemplative minutes, Jimin breaks the silence with a question that hangs in the air, “Mind if I join you?”
Your mouth falls agape, and your eyes widen in astonishment at his unexpected question. Collecting yourself, you respond with a hint of sarcasm, “You weren't keen on sharing your jacket with me. What makes you think I'd be willing to share my blanket with you?” The tension between you and Jimin escalates with each word, hanging palpably in the cold air.
Without a pause for your response, he defies the silence, navigating over the center console with the same determined crawl you had exhibited moments before. The unspoken tension between you both amplifies, turning the confined space into an arena of silent rivalry.
Seated beside you, he makes a grab for the blanket cocooning your shivering form. Resolute, you refuse to surrender it, your hands engaging in a tug of war with him.
“Share, you brat,” he hisses with a mix of irritation and amusement, his determination evident in the forceful tug at the blanket.
“No!” you hiss back defiantly, the word laced with a stubborn refusal as you hold your ground.
With a forceful yank, he wrenches the blanket from your grasp, and in the struggle, he ends up with it draped across his lap. The victorious outcome of the skirmish leaves a charged atmosphere between you and Jimin, the warmth of the blanket now a coveted prize in his possession.
A triumphant smirk plays on his lips as he envelops himself in the captured blanket. His eyes lock onto your moping expression before descending further, a mischievous gleam indicating that his victory goes beyond the simple conquest of the blanket.
“I can totally see your nipples,” he chuckles.
You glance down, and sure enough, your nipples stand out against the satin material of your dress. Swiftly, you react, pressing your hands over your breasts in a sudden move to conceal their visibility.
“Why the fuck are you look at my tits?” you yell at him, your frustration audible, but he merely chuckles in response.
“You must really be freezing, huh?” he observes, and you simply nod in agreement, a silent acknowledgment of the biting cold that permeates the confined space.
“I can warm you up,” he suggests with a playful wink, both eyes and eyebrows conspiring in unison. The underlying implication of his words hangs in the air, and you instantly grasp the nature of his playful proposition.
“I'm not that desperate, Park,” you scoff with a hint of disgust, the rejection laced with a prideful undertone. In response, he simply chuckles, finding amusement in your candid dismissal.
Following his suggestive remark, an electric charge seems to surge through the atmosphere in the car. Your mind involuntarily races, envisioning the prospect of warming up next to him, his hands tracing every contour of your body, his di—
Stop. You admonish yourself sternly, a mental command to cease the vivid thoughts involving him. He's your enemy, you remind yourself, emphasizing the intense dislike you harbor for Park Jimin. The internal conflict heightens, the struggle between attraction and animosity weaving a complex web within your mind.
His chuckle resonates beside you, a sound that grates on your nerves. Irritation mounts, and you sharply turn your head towards him, your annoyance evident in the flicker of your gaze.
“Need help?” he inquires, his gaze suddenly deepening, the darkness in his eyes unveiling a subtle intensity that lingers in the air.
“With what?” you spit back at him, the confusion evident in your tone.
“You're grinding against the seat,” he bluntly points out, his gaze fixed on your crotch. You glance down, discovering your unconscious movement against the fabric of the seat. A sudden realization dawns, and an expletive slips from your lips.
A wave of discomfort washes over you, an intense desire to squirm and disappear into the ground, engulfed by the embarrassment that now saturates the air. The profound sense of shame hangs heavy, making the moment so excruciatingly humiliating.
You inhale sharply, drawing in a breath that seems to shudder through you, and with a deliberate move, you roll your hips once more.
“No…” you murmur, the word escaping with a shaky uncertainty that even your own ears can detect.
Jimin scoots closer to you, the warmth radiating from his body sending sparks that seem to dance through yours.
He leans into you, his mouth dangerously close to your ear, and in a breathy whisper, he offers, “I can help you with that.”
His words alone send a jolt through your body, a sudden tightening that ignites a fiery sensation. Damn it. The internal conflict and desire entwine, creating a tumultuous storm within you in the presence of him. It's undeniable—your entire being yearns for the touch you never thought you'd crave.
His warm hand finds its way to your thigh, and a low moan escapes your lips at the contact. Fuck.
His hand ventures down to the hem of your dress, grabbing and pulling it back to expose more of your thighs. A shiver runs down your spine as the cold air embraces your newly exposed skin, and a hiss escapes your lips. However, the sensation is quickly replaced by a different kind of warmth as his hand cups your clothed core. A breathless expletive escapes your lips, leaving your mind in a blissful blank state.
Instantly, you feel the warmth of his hand intimately against you, and your head falls back against the seat involuntarily. A soft gasp escapes your lips as you respond to the touch, unable to resist rolling your hips into the sensation.
“You’re needy,” he breathes against your ear, the words carrying a provocative weight that reverberates through you.
His warm breath sends a cascade of shivers down your spine, clouding your thoughts in a haze of desire. The desire for release intensifies, eclipsing any reservations you may have about seeking it from your mortal enemy.
“Shut up and just touch me,” you utter in frustration, the words punctuated by the deliberate grind of your hips into his hand, a desperate quest for any kind of friction. You're acutely aware of the desperation seeping through your actions, but at this moment, you don’t give a fuck.
And touch you he does. His fingers begin to rub your clit over the fabric of your panties, and you don't hold back your moans.
Your hips gyrate, a rhythmic dance in pursuit of your impending orgasm. The sensation builds rapidly, a cascade of pleasure on the brink. The question lingers in your mind—why does your body respond so eagerly to his touch?
He tugs your panties to the side, his touch on your clit eliciting a gasp of pleasure from your lips. The warmth of his fingers against your skin amplifies the sensation, and you're already soaked.
“You're so wet already,” he chuckles against your ear, his lips teasingly grazing your skin. The desire to retaliate surges within you, but then, with a sudden and deliberate movement, one of his fingers enters your pussy, stealing your breath away.
He skillfully fingers you with one finger, the motion of his wrist simultaneously stroking against your clit, creating a sensation that's nothing short of delicious. The desire for more intensifies, an insatiable craving building within you.
“More,” you breathe, your voice escaping chapped and laden with a raw, lustful edge.
Jimin adds one more digit, and you relish in the precision with which he finds your soft spot, hitting it perfectly.
“Are you gonna come on my fingers?” he whispers in your ear, the suggestive question sending an instant jolt through your body, a yearning for more.
A throaty moan escapes your lips as you willingly spread your legs wider, granting him more space.
He deftly introduces a third finger into you, and you feel yourself losing control, swept away by the overwhelming pleasure. It's already so good—how is he so skilled with his fingers?
The way he skillfully uses his fingers inside you while simultaneously rubbing your clit with his wrist propels you relentlessly toward the precipice of climax. The knot in your stomach tightens, and you're on the verge of that intoxicating release.
“Jimin, fuck. I'm gonna come soon,” you pant, the urgency in your voice underscored by the rhythmic grind of your pussy against his hand.
He accelerates the pace of his fingers inside you, bringing you to the brink, but just as your body teeters on the edge of release, he abruptly withdraws his fingers and hand altogether.
His fingers and hand vanish, leaving you hanging on the precipice of your orgasm. The abrupt absence intensifies the frustration and desire you feel surge through your body. Fuck!
Your legs tremble beneath you, and a frustrated hiss escapes your lips as you pant for breath.
“You didn't want to share the blanket,” he spews, a self-satisfied smirk playing on his lips as he revels in your evident frustration.
You're on the verge of tears, overwhelmed with anger. The desperate desire for release compounds the emotional turmoil within you. The audacity of him! The frustration boils over, cementing Jimin as nothing short of a fucking jerk in your mind.
“I'm not letting you come unless you beg for it,” he adds in a smug voice, a smirk playing on his lips as he purposefully puts some distance between you.
You can't believe him. The brink of pleasure was within reach—just a few more rubs and you would have unraveled on his fingers. The yearning is palpable, a frustrating ache that intensifies with each passing moment.
You growl at him, caught in a heated internal debate about whether to plead with him or not.
Your pussy clenches around emptiness, a visceral reminder of your desperation.
“Please, Jimin. Please let me come,” you implore, locking eyes with him and turning your body toward him. The desperation in your gaze is palpable. Almost inadvertently, you press your chest closer, your stiff nipples drawing his gaze downward.
He licks his lips teasingly, a wicked glint in his eyes, before seizing your hips and drawing you irresistibly toward him. With a swift yet controlled motion, he manipulates your body, guiding you to lie on the seat. As you settle into the unexpected position, he chuckles at the genuine confusion etched across your face.
“Because you asked so nicely,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with sarcasm, and in a bold move, he shoves your dress up to your stomach. With swift precision, he snatches your panties, sliding them down your legs. “I'll give you what you want.”
He discards your panties with a deliberate flick, his focus unwavering as he plunges down to your throbbing pussy. There's no hesitation; he immediately delves into licking at your folds and clit with a hunger that matches your own.
Your body instinctively arches off the length of the seat, a wave of pleasure coursing through you. It feels unbelievably good. In the heat of the moment, your hands find his hair, fingers gripping and pulling at the strands, eliciting a guttural groan from him.
Your muscles tighten, and the echoes of the previous orgasm, forcefully ripped from you, return with an intensity that feels tenfold. Each breath is a furious pant as he continues to lap at your folds, the relentless pleasure building and intertwining with your gasps.
Then, with a skillful touch, he adds a finger to your clit, rubbing it in tantalizing circles. Your senses heighten, and just as you succumb to the pleasure, he skillfully continues to ravish your entrance with his tongue.
“Jimin!” you scream his name, a raw and unrestrained cry escaping your lips as you reach the peak of ecstasy on his tongue. Your body tightens, toes curling, and you involuntarily hitch your heels against his legs. In the throes of pleasure, your vision blurs, and you fight for air.
He chuckles, a throaty sound that reverberates in the aftermath of your high. Not giving you a moment to fully come down, he skillfully inserts two of his fingers inside you, drawing a hiss from your lips at the touch—your body rendered oversensitive.
He extends his fingers, proudly displaying them, glistening with your intimate juices. A wicked glint in his eyes, he issues a command, “Clean them.”
You meet his gaze defiantly, a spark of challenge in your eyes, before obediently rising to carry out his command. Taking hold of his hand, you sensually draw his slick digits into your mouth, swirling your tongue around them like a provocative dance. Your eyes lock onto his, witnessing the raw desire in his gaze as you release his fingers with an audible ‘pop’.
“I hate you,” you declare, breathless, the words carrying a mixture of frustration and desire. His response is a low chuckle, his perceptive gaze catching the teasing glint in your eyes.
He leans back, a provocative smirk playing on his lips, and starts palming himself through his dress pants. Your eyes involuntarily follow the movement of his hands, and a jolt of desire courses through you as you realize he's already rock hard. The unmistakable bulge strains against his pants, a visual testament to the arousal simmering between you two.
“I can help you with that,” you purr, a sultry promise lingering in your eyes, eager to reciprocate the pleasure.
He chuckles, a mischievous glint in his eyes, and smoothly turns his body to fully face you. With a teasing smirk, he unzips his pants, skillfully pulling down both his trousers and underwear enough to liberate his hardened dick.
His cock springs free, defiantly brushing against the bottom of his loosened tie, a sight that's undeniably tantalizing. Perfectly sculpted, it's veiny and slightly flushed at the tip, mirroring the allure of every inch of him. A surge of conflicting emotions overwhelms you – the hate, the desire, the acknowledgment of his undeniable appeal. You despise how effortlessly good-looking he is, from the tousled blonde locks to those lips you now crave to taste.
However, your gaze returns to his dick, noting its average size but with a satisfying girth that catches your attention. A subtle hint of anticipation flickers in your eyes, and your tongue instinctively darts out to moisten your lips.
“Then get to work,” he pants, a breathy command, as he sensually spreads his legs, creating an inviting space for you.
You descend eagerly, ensuring your mouth is generously coated with saliva before you engulf him, starting with just the tip.
He hisses the moment your lips meet his dick, his head instinctively colliding with the window behind him, an involuntary exclamation escaping, “Ah, fuck.”
You engulf more of him, your mouth descending entirely, and the sound of his primal moan reverberates in response. You add a sultry hum, a note of satisfaction coursing through you.
You initiate a slow, deliberate pace, skillfully sucking him off, and anything beyond your mouth's capacity, you sensually stroke with your hand.
His hands seek out your hair, effortlessly capturing the neatly arranged high ponytail that he grasps with a possessive confidence.
You revel in the subtle tension, accelerating your descent on him with a newfound urgency. Your tongue skillfully traces intricate patterns, dancing across his tip and the sensitive folds of his frenulum.
He moans in ecstasy as you withdraw with a satisfying ‘pop,’ only to treat the head of his throbbing dick like a tempting lollipop, your tongue swirling around it with deliberate sensuality.
As you glance up at him, he appears utterly lost in the moment. His eyes, once vibrant, are now dilated orbs of desire, his parted lips releasing audible breaths. The state of bliss enveloping him transforms his features into a breathtaking display of vulnerability and beauty.
You envelop him once more, relishing the subtle tremor that courses through him, a tangible response to the sensations you're skillfully orchestrating with your lips and tongue.
He yanks you away from him, his voice a raw whisper laden with desire, “I want to fuck you.”
You prop yourself up, captivated by the transformation before you. The usual arrogant Park Jimin is replaced by this vulnerable, needy version, and against your better judgment, a desperate craving for him builds inside you. You ache for him to consume you entirely.
A mischievous smirk plays on your lips as you echo his earlier taunts, “Beg for it,” you challenge, aware of the palpable tension between you, a shared desire pulsating in the charged air.
A low, throaty chuckle escapes him as his fingers glide through the tousled strands of his blonde hair, a mixture of frustration and amusement dancing in his eyes. “You’re really a fucking brat,” he hisses, a smirk playing on his lips.
He sits up, a subtle smirk playing on his lips as he sheds his open jacket, the confined warmth of the car now turning uncomfortably sweltering. You can't help but acknowledge the irony; at least you're not freezing anymore, which, after all, was the primary objective of this unexpected detour, wasn't it?
“Please let me fuck you,” his plea hangs in the air, a desperate echo of your own request, and you can't help but chuckle, slowly crawling closer to him.
“Turn around, let me straddle you. Leaning against the headrest will give us more space,” you suggest, and he shifts in an instant, his arousal evident in the casual sway of his dick with each movement.
Then you confidently straddle him, your hand instinctively reaching for his dick, guiding him to align perfectly with your eager entrance.
Before you lower yourself onto him, you sensually trail his dick through your wetness, relishing in the intimate friction. A moan escapes your lips as you then descend onto his lap in one smooth, sultry motion.
The exquisite stretch sends a shiver down your spine, and he effortlessly glides in, eliciting a breathless ‘Fuck!’ from your lips.
As your hands find their place on his shoulders for support, his eyes, now hooded, follow your every movement as you begin to ride him with a rhythm that echoes the passion pulsing between you.
You pant furiously, your breath hot against his face. The sensation of him inside you is nothing short of heavenly, an electrifying connection that feels as if every contour of him aligns perfectly with every curve of your pussy.
“Ah,” ecstasy courses through you with each fervent bounce on his throbbing length, a harmonious rhythm of pleasure escaping your lips in breathless gasps.
“You’re so tight,” his ragged breaths synchronize with the rhythmic clench of your walls, his hands anchoring to your hips, adding an electrifying intensity to each blissful plunge into your velvet warmth.
Between gasps, you manage to growl, “Fuck. I hate you,” only to be met with his deep, throaty chuckle as he continues the relentless rhythm of his thrusts, each one a tumultuous clash of conflicting desires.
Amidst heavy breaths, he accuses, “I know you're lying,” his words punctuated by the rhythmic tempo of his panting. Undeterred, he leans in for a searing kiss, his lips caressing yours with a softness akin to pillows. Your defenses crumble as you melt into his touch, tongues colliding in a fervent dance that defies the lingering tension.
“Why is it that you feel so damn good?” you gasp, interrupting the kiss only to plunge back into its intoxicating depths. Each moment spent in his embrace feels like a surrender to a passionate whirlwind. His every thrust reverberates through you, sending electrifying shivers down your spine, an exquisite dance of pleasure and desire that you find impossible to resist.
“Perhaps I should prolong your climax, just as you did to me?” you purr with a mischievous smirk playing on your lips, resurrecting the playful brat within you.
He chuckles, his hands leaving the curve of your hips to gracefully undo his tie at his neck. Your gaze fixates on him, observing each deliberate move as he frees himself from the constriction of the tie, all while you continue to ride him with an unabashed hunger.
“You really are a fucking brat,” he mutters, the corners of his lips quirking into a sly smile as he pulls off his tie. “Now, shut up,” he commands, silencing any potential retorts by expertly stuffing the tie into your open, protesting mouth.
You yield to the makeshift gag, sinking your teeth into the fabric, muffling the symphony of your own desperate moans.
A smirk plays on his lips as his hands reclaim your hips, commanding, “Now take it like the fucking brat that you are.”
His movements become a relentless rhythm, thrusting deep inside you. All you can do is cling to his shoulders, swept away by the force of his desire.
Ecstasy courses through you, and you can't help but moan into the fabric of his tie. It feels too damn good to contain.
His voice drips with satisfaction as he senses your walls tightening around him, and a smug grin plays on his lips. “You like that, huh?”
A guttural moan escapes your lips in response, the crescendo of pleasure building, and you sense the impending climax drawing near.
“Fuck yourself on my dick,” his command hangs in the air, thick with desire, as his hands abandon your hips, embarking on a journey down your back. With a swift motion, he unzips your dress, letting it cascade down your shoulders.
Your naked breasts dances to the rhythm of his powerful thrusts, an erotic ballet of passion and desire.
“Fuck. You’re not wearing a bra, just like I thought,” his eyes widen in delighted surprise, a devilish grin playing on his lips. His hands eagerly exploring the contours of your exposed tits.
His words hang in the air, sending a shiver down your spine. “Your tits are beautiful,” he murmurs, his fingers tracing delicate patterns around your stiffened nipples. Your body reacts instinctively, a primal moan escaping through the tie as desire courses through you.
Every grind and movement becomes a challenge as he expertly tweaks and pulls at your nipples, sending waves of pleasure and distraction through your body. You fight to maintain a rhythm, desperately trying to pleasure yourself on his dick amidst the electrifying sensations dancing across your chest.
As your walls clench around him, a whirlwind of sensations floods your body, signaling that the peak of pleasure is just a breath away. Every nerve is on edge, and the anticipation of an imminent climax tingles through you, a storm about to erupt.
As he skillfully massages your tits, he breathlessly teases, “You’re gonna come, aren’t you?” his words send shivers down your spine, intensifying the pleasure that's building within you.
With a fervent nod, you surrender to the sensations, your muffled moans echoing through the tie as pleasure courses through every inch of your being.
As he plunges into you, he urges you with a guttural command, “Cream my cock, brat.” The raw desire in his voice fuels the intensity of your connection, igniting a blaze of passion.
Overwhelmed by desire, his dick finding every exquisite spot within you, you unleash a guttural moan, your pleasure echoing into the fabric of the tie as you climax on his pulsating cock.
Jimin's fingers twist around your hardened nipples, sending electric shocks of ecstasy through your body. A guttural exclamation escapes your lips, muffled by the tie, as pleasure courses through every fiber of your being.
He pounds into you relentlessly, the rhythm building towards an intense climax. His hands firmly grip your hips, fingers digging into your flesh as he desperately seeks his own release.
He reaches the peak of ecstasy, his body shuddering with the force of his release as he spills into the warmth of your pussy.
Heaving for breath, the silence between you two speaks volumes, a shared understanding lingering in the air as you descend from the euphoric heights of your climaxes.
Collapsing onto his chest, you revel in the soothing aftermath, liberated from the restraint of his tie. As his body relaxes within you, the intimacy lingers, a tangible connection forged in the heat of passion.
His lips graze your neck with a gentle touch, igniting a cascade of thoughts about the significance behind this tender gesture.
As laughter fills the air, shattering the lingering tension, your attention shifts to the foggy windows and the oppressive heaviness in the car, making each breath a deliberate act.
As you hastily redress, Jimin slips into his jacket and steps out of the car, retrieving your coat from the trunk. With a gentle handoff, he passes it to you, and you quickly slip into its comforting warmth.
“Thank you,” your gratitude escapes in a hushed whisper, laden with a touch of bewilderment. The encounter, while undeniably electrifying, leaves you grappling with conflicting emotions. It's Park Jimin, your sworn adversary, and the intensity of the shared moment hangs between you, a paradox of pleasure and rivalry.
“You’re welcome,” his response carries a self-assured smirk, echoing the lingering traces of the shared intimacy. As he confidently returns to the driver's seat, you mirror his actions, settling into the passenger's seat, both enveloped in a charged silence that speaks volumes.
The snowfall has eased, no longer as relentless as before. A subtle nostalgia creeps in as you reflect on his desire to keep you warm. The gentle flakes now fall, leaving you yearning for the lingering warmth of his touch.
As he revs the engine to life, a gust of chilly air sweeps through the car, causing you to emit an involuntary grunt. His chuckle fills the cabin, accompanied by a smirk and a teasing wink. “I can warm you up anytime,”
You shoot him a moping gaze, wondering if he has a knack for deciphering your thoughts. Can he sense the magnetic pull, the unspoken attraction that mirrors your own inner turmoil?
You return his smile, a silent agreement resonating between you as he steers the car forward, setting the wheels and unspoken possibilities in motion.
Three hours fashionably late, you finally arrive at Seokjin's Christmas party. The distant hum of music greets you as you step out of the car, signaling that the celebration is already in full swing.
As you rap your knuckles against the door, you steal a glance at Jimin who's busy adjusting his attire. His fingers deftly tighten the knot of his tie, and his pants get a quick, inconspicuous tug into place.
As Seokjin swings the door open, a tantalizing waft of mouthwatering aromas envelops your senses, instantly sparking a smile on your face.
Seokjin's laughter echoes as he playfully accuses, “You fucked Jimin!” and your jaw drops in disbelief to the floor.
#jimin x reader#jimin fanfic#jimin fanfiction#bts jimin fanfic#jimin fic#jimin smut#park jimin x reader#bts jimin x reader#jimin x you#jimin x y/n#jimin x oc#pjm smut#pjm x you#pjm x reader#park jimin#park jimin fanfic#park jimin imagines#park jimin smut#bts smut#bangtan smut#bts fanfiction#bts fanfic#bangtan fanfic#bangtan x reader#bangtan fic
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TW!!! — blood, scarring and mild body horror ahead 🥲
benny’s turn!
before i start i wanna clarify i hesitated a bit on posting this because lovely mutual @vor-leser just posted his benny interpretation (go look at it and follow him btw), and idk if we like mind melded or smth but our human benny’s are super similar LOL. i damn near scrapped the whole thing out of fear someone would get mad at me but i Would Not be able to start over and get this done ever so this is as good as we’re gonna get. 😭 my apologies niko love u /p
this has been like a full 7 days in the making 😭😭 the art block that i felt coming on while doing ellen and ted hit me like an optimus prime sized semi truck this week along with a depressive episode so i definitely appreciate that happening and i am not upset about it at all! /s i’m totally good so don’t worry or anything /gen, mental health is just weird and i also wanted to explain the gap in my posts 😔
i do not know how to feel about this drawing if i’m so fr with you; i’m proud of myself for AM-ified benny cause i think i got the slowly rotting from the inside out primal freak energy down pretty good, but on the other hand this feels kinda empty?? i usually have a lot more commentary squished in here but i think my brain’s a little fried 🤦♂️ i love drawing me some beautiful buff men though so drawing normal ben was familiar territory. however his wack ass haircut i gave him is his punishment for being a PRICK!!! go sit in the corner and think about ur actions benjamin.
like ted n the rest of the sillies i’m not straying too far from canon with his personality, he’s an ass and a murderer and a hella smart dickhead who desperately needs to be punished by the universe (thank you for that one AM). hot take i did not like his “redemption arc” in his game scenario and i don’t think with how he was throughout the entirety of his life (and also throughout the game, main example his inner dialogue) he would actually go out of his way to help the kid because he means it??? n prove he changed to the guys he killed cause he means it??? i dunno maybe AM torturing him made him have a main character “omg i’ve been in the wrong this whole time!!1” moment like the game suggests i’m just not buying it 💀 i’m sure it’s just cause bennys scenario couldn’t be too long and they couldn’t fully flesh him out which i won’t fault the game makers for. i’m a steven universe fan, i know what time constrictions can do to a plot and redemption arc 😭 looking at you white diamond…
his wife n kids are up top and they’re kinda neat to me— i was considering the hc that part of the reason manya (his canon wife) left him is because she realized she was a lesbian which would be funny as fuck considering benny’s also One Of Them Queers 😭. i think during the brief times he was home and able to parent his daughters they got really scared and tired of him, one because he’s just a very threatening powerful and overbearing man, but also because i feel like he would’ve been on their ASS about everything. grades, extracurriculars, friends, wardrobe, this guy was micromanaging his family to an annoying extreme (ofc because of his perfectionist complex). he probably loved manya and the kids in his own weird way, but it was more contractual to him than any real personal relationship. maybe he inherited that from his own parents?? i doubt he ever talked to them after he moved out.
that’s about the end of my thoughts on this fucker. 🥲 funny storyyyy i just remembered i have laundry to finish so im gonna go do that, lord help me. thank you for reading all this if you did!!!!! we’re over halfway through so who do yall want next? wanna save AM or nimdok for last? i’ll see u guys later :]]]
#benny ihnmaims#ihnmaims#i have no mouth and i must scream#digital art#sorry if the blood looks strange it’s been a while since my creepypasta prime and i’ve lowkey forgotten#that and the tears too eventually i’ll rework my way of drawing them#ok goodnight honk shoooo mimimimimi#WAIT NO MY LAUNDRY
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Sorry for sending so many asks about psf, I’m having a really strong re-hyperfixation lol. Just wanted to ask how much the main cast and storyline has changed from its roots of plushdela, like what storylines were scrapped, what the original outline of plushdela was and how it differs from the current storyline, etc.
OH YEAH ITS LIKE. CRAZY DIFFERENT it’s always been constantly evolving, so i’ll outline 3 different stages:
og plushdela: like i’m talking FIRST concept. and i’m gonna be using the old names when i talk abt this bc i don’t want to associate it with the current cast. cesar was just going to fucking kill everyone in increasingly horrible ways and it was going to be entirely from his pov.
like halfway through pre-reboot: decided people got too attached to the cast and had to write a new plot. pretty much just involved them driving to the tech shop for supplies, then going to the toystore to take down toymaker, with varying results (this was back when it had 3 potential endings)
current psf script: chapter one will consist of two sides, A and B. the first to highlight theo and cassie’s day-to-day life and plushies and the parts of being human that they miss and how they’ve adapted to the change (plus my brother’s oc minnie making an appearance, then immediately going missing LMAO). the second is a stark contrast, starting with sharkie taking out a plushie target right away. that’ll go into depth on their lives and the work they do and the mental toll it takes on them + how plushies’ existence impacted the trajectories of both their lives. they only come into contact with theo later due to will having a medical emergency, so the og attack never happens. theo finds out they’re bounty hunters from sharkie and relays this to will later, and asks if they’re the ones behind the disappearance of minnie, to which will is like No hunters never come around here, all the towns are dead so nobody places any bounties, it couldn’t have been them or any other hunters. he also mentions that he’s looking for his mom so theo is like Hey what is we looked for them together! and sharkie & cass are both like Absolutely Not but will & theo have made up their minds so
okay i’m stopping there i just realised im rambling beyond reason. point being i have made plans to include a lot of other side characters and plot lines that derail the main cast. i think you guys are gonna love nathan and his gang
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Something's Gotta Give (Aries x Reader)
My Masterlist
After a rough run through the Big Bend tunnel, Aries helps you with your wounds and unexpectedly finds something he wasn't supposed to
(WARNINGS) - graphically described self harm wounds - depressing themes - basic game type violence mentioned
there's a void for Aries fanfic out there and I aim to change that, one 3 am written fic at a time
he's such a good and complex character, lovehimsomuch
was gonna make this one longer but gave up on that idea. might make a part two, idk yet
thank you so much for reading! hope you enjoy! reblogs and comments much appreciated!
Banners by @strangergraphics
It had been a rough run through Big Bend, the brahmin barely making it through alive along with the three of you. Rudy had taken a couple of hits, a few bites, and a few scratches along with getting grazed by a few stray bullets, but you and Aries had taken the brunt of the attacks. The only reason everyone, including both brahmin, got out alive was because halfway through the tunnel you had instructed Rudy to keep moving with the Brahmin while you and Aries kept the Blood Eagles occupied, meaning that every single raider and their mongrel were focused on the two of you.
Now the two of you were in a tent set out with cots for the guards and traders while Rudy was outside looking after the Brahmin. Vinny had closed the tent flaps behind you two so you could look after your wounds in private.
“Lemme see your stomach,” Aries said as you sat down on a cot.
“Why can’t we deal with your arm first?” You counter-offered. He pulled out a medicine bag from under one of the other cots.
“My arm’ll be fine. Somethin' important could’ve been hit in your torso. Lemme see.” He sat down on the cot across from you and you realized there was no arguing to do here, he was always stubborn when it came to your well-being.
Aries went to pull off your shirt but stopped when you winced in pain. The drying blood made the material stick to your skin like glue. He fished out a container of clean water and a semi-clean-looking rag from the medical kit.
“Can you lay down for me?” He asked and you did so, moving carefully so you didn’t stretch any wounds open more. He wet the rag and used it to gently wipe away any crusted blood that he could get at, peeling your shirt up as he went until the entire cut was exposed, one long thin angry red line from a Blood Eagle’s switchblade. It ran almost the entire width of your stomach and it covered the entire area in a dark crimson.
“Doesn’t look like it needs stitches, but I’m no doctor. Best I can do is clean it up and bandage it so you don’t bleed out on me.” Aries was mostly talking to himself, he didn’t wait for a response before pouring a new liquid on the scrap cloth and wiping the wound.
“Fuck!” You yelled. You guessed the liquid was some kind of alcohol from the way it burned so badly. You wanted to push away his hand, yell for him to stop, but you knew it was better in the long run if he kept at it. The last thing you wanted was an infection. Aries seemed unfazed by your scream, until he took one of your hands in his free hand, giving it a light squeeze, his way of silently reassuring you that everything was gonna be alright.
The burning sensation was so strong that everything was a haze until Aries put his hand behind your back and helped you sit back up. White gauze was wrapped around your torso, already being stained slightly pink as the cut began to slow its bleeding.
He left you sitting up on your cot while he stripped off his shirt, revealing scars, both new and old, that littered his small frame. The majority of them were clustered around his neck and upper chest, and you assumed they continued up onto his face, trophies from his failed attempt of reprogramming a certain assaultron.
The newest one added to his collection was from a Blood Eagle’s mongrel, it had caught him from behind and sunk its teeth into Aries’s forearm, near his elbow. You watched as he held his arm out over the edge of the cot and poured the alcohol over the puncture wounds. Even with his mask on you could still tell he was biting his lip to hold back a scream. The whole sight looked extremely painful and seeing him in so much pain made you wince. He tried to wrap the now heavily disinfected area in a piece of cloth, but it was difficult when he only had one hand to work with.
“Here, let me.” You reached forward, moving to grab the makeshift bandage from his hand.
“I got it.” He muttered under his breath. But both of you knew he couldn’t do it by himself, despite his stubbornness. So you took the two ends of the cloth from him, gently wrapping it around his arm and tucking it in itself so it didn’t unravel. Unbeknownst to you, Aries stared at the bloodstained wrist of your shirt while he waited for you to finish.
“Did that bastard with the blade knick you in the wrist too?” He asked. The word “wrist” made you jump and you instinctively pulled your arms close to your chest. The action didn’t go unnoticed by Aries, but you played it off as if you hadn’t been startled by a single word.
“No...no. He didn’t. That’s...old blood. Yeah. Must’ve been wearing this shirt while out hunting and forgot to wash the sleeves.” You looked down at the material that covered your wrists and forearms. One sleeve end was almost completely stained a dark red while the other just had some small spots of red polka dotting the sleeve. “It’s not important anyway,” you tried to change the subject, “How’s your arm? Your leg? Your back?” You mentally went down the list of where you had seen Aries take a hit during the fight.
“They’re fine. Promise. Can I have a look at your wrists? Please?” Aries held out his hands. You were hesitant, not only because of the secret you were hiding but because you had a feeling that he had figured it out himself already.
“Aries...I…” you looked down at your feet. Was there a way out of this conversation, or had the cards been revealed and your secret was up?
“I won’t be upset. I swear.” He told you as if he could read your mind and knew you were worried. You breathed in a shaky breath and sighed, placing the wrist with the blood-stained sleeve into his hands.
He softly ran his finger over your palm before taking ahold of the sleeve and pulling it down your arm, tearing up the dried blood that caked your skin as the material was removed. You wouldn't dare to look, turning your head to the side and staring at the wall of the tent.
Aries stopped when the majority of your forearm was exposed. The sight made his stomach churn. What should have been soft, maybe slightly scarred, semi-clean skin was instead a messy blur of red, pink, brown, and purple. Scars, both old and new, littered every area of skin on your forearm until there was little undamaged skin left. Some scars were old, the thin and thick lines worn over with pink, blending in the new flesh with the old, but some were newer, the angry red lines surrounded by spots of purple and brown as they tried to close up and heal.
But a few were a bright angry red, freshly dried blood caking the area in a dark crimson. The slits were fairly large and deep enough that they formed a crack in your skin.
“When was the last time?” Aries asked, holding your wrists firmly. He didn’t sound angry, but his voice was still stern. You wanted to answer, but the words got caught in your throat. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. “Y/n.” This time he was a little louder, and a little firmer. The dam behind your eyes cracked and your walls came tumbling down.
“Earlier. Before the run through the tunnel.” You blurted out, hot tears pouring down your face. “I’m sorry. Please...please don’t be mad.” Your gazes met and for the first time since the two of you met, you didn’t want to be anywhere near Aries.
But he wasn’t mad. He didn’t yell or belittle you. Instead, he let go of your wrists and cupped your face in his hands, using his thumbs to wipe away your tears.
“You can’t be doin' this anymore sweetheart.” He said, his voice now soft and cooing. You sniffled.
“I’m sorry...I didn’t think it would become an issue...I just…” you lost your words again, unsure of how to explain everything. Instead, you looked at him, and even though he was wearing a mask, somehow you could tell that he knew exactly how you felt.
“I don’t want to lose you, okay? Not after everything that’s happened. I can’t. And maybe it’s selfish to think that, but I don’t care. You mean too much to me.” Aries sounded scared, and a part of you hated yourself for scaring the one person you loved the most. Especially when he was already so traumatized from everything else that had happened to him.
“Aries...I…” your voice cracked, ending your sentence short. You took the time to think before trying to speak again. You knew trying to stop would be hard, you had been hurting yourself to cope with the world for as long as you could remember, but would it be easier with Aries right by your side? Then again, the thought of Aries having to deal with something bad happening to you made your insides churn.
“I’m not saying you have to stop overnight. I know a habit like this takes time to break.” He looked down for a moment, running his fingers over his left wrist remorsefully. You peeked a glance and saw that he had had the same problem as you, albeit many, many years ago. White scars lined his skin near and around his wrist, but they were so old and healed over that you wouldn’t be able to tell they were even there if you weren’t looking closely. Aries knew exactly how you were feeling.
“...you’ll help?” You asked quietly, still unsure about the whole thing.
“Of course. You can always count on me.” He told you. His words made a smile tug at your lips.
The two of you were quiet as he found some old cloth to use as gauze and wrapped your wrists. He was unusually gentle like if he tugged or pulled too hard he would break you like glass. Dusk fell soon enough and, after finding something to eat, the two of you fell asleep in each other’s arms. Your heart seemed to beat a little calmer than usual and you fell asleep with ease.
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Downspiral--A Eclipse AU Sky one shot
-------------------------November 8th, 1943------------------------------
-------------------------Pacific Theater------------------------------------
Sky gritted his teeth in concentration, jerking the yoke of his fighter plane forward. A myriad of alarms shouted demise from the view of his fractured canopy, smoke trailing his battered wings.
There’d be no landing this bird, not softly anyway. The brakes were the first system to go when the guardian’s laser hit, along with the rest of the empennage. Controlling its speed was an impossibility now, leaving Sky as the lucky(and not very grateful) pilot of a forever accelerating one-way carriage to hell.
The radio at his right sparked and flickered to life, incoherent static bubbling through charred wires and melted steel.
“Canary-O-...Canary One, Can you read me?”
Sky recognized the voice immediately; It was his captain, his ship’s captain that is.
“I read you command,” Sky said casually, like he was on any other mission, and not riding a miles long death spiral over the pacific. He thought it lucky that he’d regained his memories days before, given the fact that he’d be most likely disobeying orders if his captain contacted him for the reason he presumed.
“The order to retreat was signaled, all airborne pilots need to fall bac-”
Sky put his right hand on the throttle, cranking the level forward; a hurricane's worth of wind blasting into his goggles.
“I’m sorry sir, but I’m not doing that,” Sky said, unphased by the rapidly increasing g-forces of his chaotic descent.
“Oh yes the hell you are, petty officer. Some rat-fuck brass eagle and a beehive of metal flies wipes out half the fleet in an afternoon, and you think NOW is the time to start disobeying orders?” The captain screamed, his bafflement turned volatility evident.
“I do, actually,” Sky curtly replied. It didn’t bother him much, the idea of provoking the wrath of the military, and he reported to a higher authority anyway; whom he hoped he’d see again, if he survived this aerial bonfire.
The Captain, barely restraining his frustration, reacted as one might expect to hearing his best pilot casually go awol, in the heat of battle no less--
“Petty Officer, I am ORDERING you to turn back. You have five seconds to do so before I decide to take your cute little joke seriously, and order you blown halfway to hell.”
Sky scoffed, breathing unsteadily as plume-ing smoke flushed through the cockpit’s damaged windshield, “I’m...ha...touched you think me so important, sir. But I’m trying to focus here, so please shut up and let me fly.”
“Who the fuc-WHO THE FUCK do you think you are? You are disobeying a DIRECT ORDER; DON’T THINK I WON’T HAVE YOU SHO-”
Sky slammed his hand into the crackling speakers, disabling them, “This conversation’s over.”
As skilled as Sky was in the air; even he needed some piece of mind to do his job right.
He let the speed acclimate over his spiraling craft, the cranked throttle working its pistoned engine to the limits. He’d dropped out of the main area of devastation, the graveyard of falling tonnage where both the American and Japanese forces had been ambushed by Vah Medoh’s Guardian escort.
The fleet of propeller-mounted constructs swarmed the airspace, blotting out clouds and sunlight; more than worthy of protecting their prize. They numbered in the hundreds, maybe thousands at a generous estimate. Their numbers alone were enough to overwhelm any standing airforce, nevermind the lasers that boiled hotter than the surface of the sun.
Sky knew that there was a snowflake's chance in hell that he was going to catch up to Vah Medoh, in the state his plane was in. He’d worry about the flying war machine later--after he landed his soon-to-be pile of scrap metal.
It was a task easier said than done, Sky was finding. Fighting in the square center of the world’s largest ocean left his hands tied.
He did have an escape plan, if one could call it that.
North of his current, fiery heading was a thin wafer of land, two miles long at best. A paltry forest lined its inland paradise, surrounded by beaches of jagged stone and untouched nature.
For most pilots, trying to land across such a makeshift, unwelcoming strip would be an effort in self-destructive fatality. A recipe for an explosion of shrapnel and blood; the makings of a grim cautionary tale.
Sky was not most pilots.
Landing would be the easy part; in that Sky was confident. It was the trio of guardians patrolling the island that worried him; an all airborne attache, separated from the main fleet, and primed to blast him to kingdom come at a moment’s notice.
He’d known of their presence before his dive to scrape the waves, deciding regardless to follow through with his daredevil scheme. It’d been apart of the reason he was so dead-set on his forward acceleration--faster targets tended to be harder to hit.
He was flying the glass cannon of glass cannons; the slightest touch of a guardian’s laser beam an instant game over for him and his rumbling coffin on wings. Playing to his strengths, however few, would be essential to his survival.
That, and some out of the box thinking.
Sky had dropped in red-hot over the ocean waters, falling like a man made comet from the stars--riding his fighter a dangerous half-thousand feet or so above the surface. At his current, bone-rattling velocity, he’d reach weapons range in under a minute. Times like this made him thankful he was born and raised on skyloft; letting him shrug off g-forces that’d stop a human’s heart stone-cold dead.
The enemy horizon filled Sky’s cockpit in a moment’s blink; his craft racing toward the unsuspecting guardians like a goddess-thrown thunderbolt. They were spread thin across the island, a unit of one and a team of two patrolling to northern and southern ends respectively.
Sky went for the former, jostling his control stick back to raise his altitude, quickly matching that of his target. He breathed in deep, steeled nerves unshaken by the raging fires growing behind his seat.
Neutralizing a Guardian, according to his brother’s account, was a simple process when it came down to the mechanics. Its central eyepiece, the pulsating blue spiral at the bottom stalk of an aerial guardian’s chassis, doubled as its main cannon and only onboard optic.
Applying sufficient force to the shared hardpoint would, in theory, temporarily overlord both systems--disarming and blinding it simultaneously. An achilles heel of staggering proportions, something that Sky’s comparatively primitive weapons could easily exploit.
Pressing down on the control trigger to his wing mounted guns; Sky exhaled out as streams of cascading lead and destruction spat from his left and right. He clicked them on in the crucial seconds before collision, letting loose his full arsenal at as close as point-blank realistically possible.
The armor-piercing, high caliber ammunition tore through the immobilized guardian, shredding it’s ancient metals and circuity with the ease of a buzzsaw cutting up flesh.
Sky pushed further still, the smoking shrapnel and crackling debris flying past him in seconds; swooping wide around the island’s western side, aggressively fighting his half-responding controls--the metals of his cockpit quivering in unsteady unison.
“Come on..come on...stay with me here,” Sky said, mumbling under his breath, “only a few minutes longer.”
The plane turned to it’s side, committing hard to it’s broad arc; thin lines of blinking scarlet dotted across it’s wings--signaling greater damages to come.
Sky’s vision panned out, following the trailing reticles to their sources; finding the remaining guardians fast on his tail, primed to kill.
“And looks like the guests have finally arrived,” Sky said, thinking aloud.
The burning aircraft snapped from it’s exposed position, leveling it’s flight and moving between the paths of the ensuing energy blasts--avoiding contact by inches. Sky let the attacks pass, beginning a rapid ascent the moment after, the thrill of a thousand falls pumping his heart like an adrenalized sledgehammer.
The pair that followed Sky split into two roles, aiming to entrap him. He understood their strategy almost instantly, watching one guardian follow his steep climb, and another follow at a distance--leading its shots ahead of his predicted flight path.
Sky flew erratically, reacting to each timed strike with a knee jerk turn or roll seconds before impact, a playfully insulting dance through the smoldering air. He spat proudly in the face of the reaper.
However impressive his aerial acrobatics were, Sky knew that it was a bandaid fix to a gaping bullet-wound of a problem. Neither he nor his fighter could do this forever. He’d eventually slip up and suffer the consequences, or his deteriorating ride would fail and result in the same.
Landing as initially planned wasn’t an option anymore, it was becoming clearer and clearer that the only way his bird was touching the ground again was by gravity alone.
So he climbed.
Sky pressed his machine to the limits, rising steeply into the clouds. He’d increased the curvature of his trajectory until his flight path was nearly wholly vertical, the guardian in pursuit coming close on his quivering tail; it’s blinking reticle dead-set on leaving Sky as an airborne cremation.
The chase breached the heavens and gleaming sun, the amber horizon reflecting patterns of infinite rays off each machine’s chassy--manned and unmanned. Sky pressed the bulk of his strength into the jittering controls of his cockpit, geysers of broiling steam screaming from its torn gaps. The ship was tearing itself apart by the seams, velocity and injury mixing together in a fireball cocktail of catastrophe--Sky’s cue to leave, in other words.
Holding onto the windowless ridge of his canopy, Sky peered at the space directly below, the sight of the advancing guardian affirming his plan; it’s cannon mere moments from firing. He rushed to his instruments, speeding through its systems--and shutting down them all--effectively turning his ship into little more than a nine thousand pound paperweight.
It was a win for both sides, really. The Guardians got to clear the airspace, and Sky got a golden ticket to freefall--on top of not dying no less! Now that’s a bargain, a steal some might even say.
That’s what Sky thought, at least. He was unreasonably calm about the whole affair, eager to plummet through ozone once again. So eager he didn’t bother to bring his parachute, only his beloved sword and shield. He had an escape plan, and it sure as hell didn’t include letting an oversized sailcloth make him a sitting duck.
Sky hit the air running, finding his footing among the clouds and the setting sun almost instantly--like an angel being sent back to the heavens. It was like he’d never left, traversing the world among the stars as natural as he did the one below. He extended his hands to be level with his eyes, bending his knees--subconsciously arching himself against the wind’s pressure.
He’d left in a dash, faster than the guardian chasing him could process. The fleeting image of the pilot bailing not registering, as the airborne sheikah tank continued towards a head-on collision with the burning fighter plane; its beam cannon well into the process of firing.
The resulting shockwave rattled the air, the force hitting Sky’s back like a moblin punch, propelling him downwards. He shut his jaw tight, the taste of copper surging from his winded throat, the suffering mitigated by the visage of falling debris; comprised of charred steel and gears alike.
That was two down, and one sorry machine to go.
The remaining guardian, the supporting barrage from before, had a red dot on Sky the moment it’d realized he left his craft. A fast-ish response; good enough to handle most skydiving, sword-wielding maniacs, however many of those there happened to be. Its algorithms anticipated and prepared responses based on logical assumptions, predicting the opponent’s most sensible move and aiming to best counter it.
A key flaw in that thought process, as one might expect, was that it struggled to adapt to something truly stupid, a tactic so reckless that even a machine built for wave combat was left puzzled for answers. The type of bold, headstrong zeal that made it default to its base targeting mechanisms, throwing all advanced computing methods out the window and into a burning trash fire.
The type of bold, headstrong zeal that, to the bane of countless servants of demise and Ganon, was championed by the hero’s spirit. Sky’s landing strategy being the current example. He’d glided forward, giving each laser a wide berth in his swinging descent, choosing to fall closer to the Guardian.
He’d holstered the master sword, putting his head and chest behind his down-facing shield, his determination burning hotter than suns. The lasers increased in frequency, lines of calculating energy missing the hero upon each attempt, the cannon firing faster as Sky inched nearer.
Sky reached into his equipment, not more than a thousand feet from landing directly on the Guardian’s spinning propellers. He pulled forth a clawed, chain-loaded mechanism into his right hand, it’s ordained bronze and ivory reflecting the dimming sunlight.
Seconds away from contact, Sky readied his shield to the guardian; It’s cannon seething energy, it’s cerulean pupil ablaze and overloaded. It was now or never, the final tipping point of many to decide the battle’s climatic conclusion.
Rippling lightning on it’s edges, the juiced-up laser bit jaws of scalpel precision through the skin of reality; gouging wounds of jagged white bleeding in it’s wake. It drilled into the goddess shield, the god-like thunder popping molecules and devouring matter in voracious hunger.
The force of the attack was immense, a malignant battering ram of bone snapping hatred. Sky was spared from it’s carnage, the idol of his goddess rewarding his faith--protecting him entirely against the forces of darkness. He pressed his strength, what remained, into his left arm; moving the shield in the initial stages of the impact--deflecting the projectile back to it’s creator.
Unable to avoid the parry, the Guardian was forced to swallow it’s own medicine. An eruption of smoke and whining electronics layered the space separating it and Sky. Not that it stopped Sky, who’d already reached out his clawshot, aiming square at the burning machine.
The clawshot hit, finding home in the lower region of the guardian; sinking into the darkened sight of it’s disabled cannon. Sky clicked it’s return button, snaking himself into the suffocating cloud, navigating with ease. He made contact in seconds, pocketing his grappling device once he’d gotten ahold.
The time for gadgets has passed. Fi would guide him home, as she always had.
Brilliant light pierced the chaos, a beacon of hope and justice held righteous. The master sword dissipated smoke and doubts alike, humming softly in her master’s grasp. Sky held tight to her, climbing himself to the top of the guardian with his sparehand--a difficult task given the turbulent spiral it’d adopted.
Reaching the top, it wasn’t hard to see the reasons why.
It’d been left a shell of it’s former architecture, the explosion blowing craters in the roof of it’s inscribed carapace. One of it’s propellers had been blasted clean off, and another was bleeding sapphire flame in unsteady rotations. That left a single fully functioning propulsion mechanism, and little ability to repair it.
Which, to Sky’s credit, was his intended outcome.
He shakily hung to the guardian’s roof, his foot digging for leverage in bundles of exposed circuitry and gears. He reached into his equipment again, the golden hilt of his scarlet whip soon revealing itself.
Sky slung his arm forward, circling his whip tight around the center shaft of the damaged rotor. It barely avoided the blades, the tilted angle of flight leaving it spare from injury--and allowed Sky the stability for decent footing standing atop the guardian, not at fear of being blown off.
Still, that did little to stop or slowthe incoming crash; a cursory glance would make it seem like he’d just traded one suicide boat for another. Sky only hoped that the opposite was true, otherwise this entire effort would be in vain, and the world he vowed to protect would be less defended for it.
It’d be a tragedy of multiple degrees, spinning gears in a heartbreaking clockwork of guilt. And it’d stay as a possibility, a future that wouldn’t come, for so Sky sweared it.
He hadn’t died a martyr yet, and by the grace of hylia, he wasn’t going to start now.
Sky rose the master sword above his head, swaying under the rapidly changing heights. He closed his eyes for a second, a precious infinity of connection between him and the powers that he forever served, and the people he protected.
He let his will go onto his blades, and his blades onto the heavens, or their remnants. She answered his call, as she had countless times before, the vestiges of his love’s divinity whispering cascading adoration across the essence of Sky’s soul.
Thunder struck down onto the blade of evil’s bane, warm benevolence radiating from it’s cerulean shine. Sky let the sword absorb the energy, choosing then to drive it deep below his feet; an ocean of power and awe surging within the guardian, cleansing the corruption and rejuvenating it’s salvageable systems.
The Guardian whirred to life, as best as the circumstances allowed anyway; the mauve malignant replaced by backdrops of blinding white. It didn’t adjust itself upright, seemingly aware that Sky was aboard. It spoke in unintelligible garbles, in a language Sky had no understanding of.
It kept on it’s trajectory, spinning it’s damaged rotor faster as to compensate for the speeding descent. Sky held onto his whip like one would the reins of a horse, having sheathed the master sword in a desperate two-handed attempt to steer the now hylia serving machine away from the treeline.
An effort that was, in the end, only partially successful. The guardian’s meteoric drop had hovered precariously above the island jungle, the blades of it’s rotors shredding the stray branch of leaf that reached to it’s height. Inevitably though, it dropped lower and lower to the surface, brushing against increasingly denser and harder fauna.
The Guardian’s solution? Open fire on everything in it’s path.
Sky recoiled, due both to the physics of being a crashtest dummy on a makeshift shiekah rodeo, and at hearing the buzzing, broken sound of the guardian’s main cannon recharging in full. A main cannon that, this time around, wielded the cosmic divine as it’s power source.
Blistering might spat from the unsteady machine, a singular line of searing light cleaving molten-hot mayhem through the forest; an erratic light show of fatal consequences. The pathway before Sky was little more than fuel for the newborn forest fire, the unintentional consequences of his gambit more than evident in the carnage.
There was a light at the end of the tunnel, however, as the beachside clearing of the island grew larger in view. The guardian barely a few feet above the earth, running over charred bark and flaming stumps like a bull in a china shop. Sky dug his foot into it’s metal, hoping to ride his rollercoaster to the end.
The island had other plans.
A boulder, to be more specific.
Hidden by foliage and dug into the sand, the several ton rock laid at the edge of the forest, and was unshaken by the goddess powered robot. The collision with it’s frontside had been the final nail in the coffin for Sky’s ride--and the reason he was currently shaking sand out of his ears.
It’d launched him a dozen feet in the air, ragdolling across the beach like the other wreckage, though he was significantly less worse for wear. Unlike the other crashees, HE was still in one piece.
Sky continued rolling, his leather jacket and cap doing well to prevent the sand from completely flooding his clothes. It took five minutes, five minutes of tumbling limbs and groaning regret for the universe to take some sense of pity on him and stop his fall.
Despite how loud his spine was screaming for him to sit down, Sky found that recovery was faster than he’d thought. Getting to his feet was a reward in itself, more than any punishment that his body tried tempering it with.
Sky looked down at himself, ruffled and disheveled, his legs and arms coated with blemishes and burns. His brother had once told him that scars were hallmarks of victory, if that were true, then Sky’s stunt had earned the hero rounds of roaring applause. It didn’t bother him, not really, himself was the last thing Sky was concerned about--didn’t even make the top five.
Getting a way off this rock was his main concern, maybe finding one of his brothers, either or at this point. That being said--with no ship, no radio, and being deserted on an island in the middle of nowhere; finding an escape would take some creativity.
A problem for another day, another night perhaps too. He’d just spent his working afternoon losing his job and making death for theirs, energized was not the word to describe himself after that.
Right now, he’d appreciate his survival for what it was; a victory.
And that was enough.
I made this due to the wonderful art(as seen above) my friend @ikaishere made of Ace Pilot Sky! Go check them out, they're wonderful!
#linkeduniverse#linked universe#oneshot#fanfic#eclipse au#short fic#linked universe fanfic#lu sky#ace pilot sky#ww2 sky#haven't posted in a while#been writing just forget to post here#eclipse au sky#lu au#action#kovac fic#linkeduniverse au#linked universe au#linkeduniverse sky
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Writerblr Creator questionnaire
Thank you @the-ellia-west and @the-golden-comet for the tag!
also sorry for my semi-haiatus, my Laptop fucking imploded in japan and its taken so long to get my new one. I didn't really feel like doing tags and such on my phone, so. Ill be more active again heron out.
How long have you had your writing tumblr/writeblr? a fast and loose estimate is fine!
uh. like January or Febuary pf 2024.
What led you to create it?
This one -> @angst-is-love-angst-is-life convinced me to make a tumblr and I was like "writblr? A) thats a funny ass name and B) SIGN ME THE FUCK UP-"
What’s your favourite thing about the writeblr community?
That no one is going to judge me if i suddenly disappear for like a month/don't post stuff
What’s one thing you’d like your mutuals to know about you?
Just because i dont interact with your tag doesn't mean i dont want to do them, it means that I WAS doing them and then i forgot
Is there anything you’d like to see more of on your dash?
Moar of the same, i suppose.
Which wips or writing projects are you noodling about, lately?
(noodling?) Sunset, mostly. lots of background stuff like history, religions, culture... yeah.
How long have you been working on them?
Sunset? seven months. shit, its halfway through the year. White candy is about the same, and Frontline is like a month old WIP.
Do you remember what inspired them/what got you started?
For Sunset, I had a old WIP that i had way back when and i wasnt satisfied with the character or the story, or anything really. so I tore it down, scrapped it, and started a new one.
White Candy was just a kind of spontaneous, "hey, i want to write something i havent tried before".
Frontline stemmed from a odd Monday desire to write Sci-fi.
How much time, in your best estimation, do you spend thinking about them?
I think about Sunset all the time. Frontline and White Candy probably get like two hours a day, each.
When someone asks the dreaded, “what do you write about,” question, what do you usually say?
A Fantasy action romance.
Name any characters you created. side characters, protagonists, antagonists, characters who’ve never been written, the first original abomination you ever pulled from your ass; whomever you’d like!
I'm actually not quite sure how to answer this question, but. the First OC I made was Enju(延珠, roughly translates to Lady Pearl or Delicate Pearl, depending on how you read it). She was the main character in my first WIP and she was a Mage and part of a party of six.
Who’s the most unhinged?
out of all of my OC's, probably Camellia.
Who comes the most naturally for you to write?
Tira.
Do you ever cringe at them?
Alittle, occasionally.
How much control do you feel you have over your characters?
Complete, probably. if they write themselves, they write themselves to my vision.
Do you enjoy people asking questions about your characters? and do you have a preferred means of receiving said questions?
Oh yes. put it in my Ask box. I'll answer them as best i can, the more specific the question the better tho(sometimes i stress about not answering the question y'all ask the way you wanted)
What makes you want to follow another writeblr account?
a good and open-minded attitude.
what makes you decide against following?
Generally people who are angry. I have no reason to talk to angry people, and I have nothing to fear from them.
NP tags: @ominous-feychild @agirlandherquill @the-letterbox-archives
Sorry if I tagged you and you already did this; I haven't been keeping up with my tags in a while(due to my laptop imploding, as mentioned before)
#writing#writeblr#writers on tumblr#writers of tumblr#creative writing#writerscommunity#writers#tag games
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iiiiiiiit's your fave, dropping in with a ridiculous number of questions for you to answer! 5, 6, 11, 12, 15, 16, 20
Hello my beloved!
5. What is an image/set of images that you’re particularly proud of?
I'm not really sure what this question is asking...sorry
6. Idea that you always wanted to write but could never make work?
Honestly, there's nothing that I haven't thought of that I haven't written. If I think it, I write it. And if something is fighting me, I either put it aside until it works itself out or I scrap it and redo it, like my fic Monster Like Me (I worked on this god damn fic for over almost a month...my one shots have never taken this long before...but it's also one I'm really proud of so I guess all the work I put in paid off)
11. If I’m showing off just one of your pieces to someone, which one should it be?
You better show this fucker off -> 恨君不似江楼月 | Killer and Healer
It's my baby and I love her and I need to get back to working on her because the 3 anniversary is coming up and I need to have the next couple of chapters done!
But honestly, you could should any of my fics off and I would be honored
12. What WIPs do you have going now? Are you excited about them?
Now that I've finished Monster Like Me, I can get back to working on my other wips 恨君不似江楼月 | Killer and Healer (I'm about halfway through ep. 26 of 37), CSI: Jing City (we're on the last case), KeixYaku: Abunai Aibou, Oil and Water (we're on the second to last case), 药剂师日记 | The Apothecary Diaries (and we've got a few more cases to go with this one). I'm excited for all of them! I've also got a few more wips in my folders (Friendline, Junchun Hero x Villain, Vampire Doctor x Boxer (Mignon au), and 2 S.C.I. Hero x Villain aus) but those aren't to be touched until one of the other wips are finished.
15. Does font matter to you when you’re writing a draft?
Nope. I usually use Helvetica for fic and Times New Roman for headcanons. I'm also slowly learning that if I have an idea to just start writing it out instead outlining it because outlining it for some reason fucks with my head and the flow (which was the problem with Monster Like Me)
16. 3 favorite comments ever received on fanfic.
From @clawbehavior on my fic The City of Angels & Demons
She's not even in the fandom but I love receiving comments from her
From @evil-moonlight on my fic Our Dining Table
I love receiving literal book report comments, you don't even understand
From hellenatz on my fic 恨君不似江楼月 | Killer and Healer
I love getting comments from people who are new to Killer and Healer and who find my fic/fics and comment. Warms my fucking heart man
20. Go nuts, and talk about writing
I'mma be honest, I'm real tired after spending a few hours with my best friend eating sushi, talking, walking around/window shopping, and getting sea salt matcha lattes so my brain can't really like...talk about writing but like...I love writing and my writing friends and I love talking to y'all and hearing the shit that y'all are working on and just...yeah. I love being friends with other writers. Sorry if you wanted to hear about my fics but my brain is like nah
Fic writing questions! | send me asks
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Past Curfew
(This is a little excerpt between two of my characters that happened between scenes in an rp my girlfriend and me are doing. It might not make full sense out of context but I thought I would share it anyway)
Scenes of her teenage self sneaking in after curfew played in Arang's head as she quietly unlocked the front door of her apartment, desperately hoping that her girlfriend had already gone to sleep and wouldn't see the state she was in. But just as her guardian had always been there to deliver her a stern talking-to her then, Sephina awaited her in the living room despite the late hour.
For a moment Arang hesitated, considering running off and finding somewhere else to stay tonight or lurking in the shadows and trying to get to the bathroom to tend her wounds before her girlfriend could catch her. Unfortunately for her, before she could decide on a new plan of action, the angel girl's halo twitched and she looked up just in time to see Arang silently enter the doorway.
"It's about time! Do you know how long I waited for y- what the fuck happened to you babe?!"
Sephina didn't even have time to finish being mad at Arang before her eyes landed onto the mess of an arm the demon-wolf was clutching at her side. "It's nothing, just got into a bit of a scrap-" "A BIT of a scrap? Your arm looks like it's barely hanging on by the tendons!"
It wasn't *that* bad, Arang mumbled as her angel girlfriend rushed over to her to take a closer look. The 'little scrap' Arang had been in during her night job had lead to her left arm being halfway severed near where it met her shoulder. But only halfway.
"It's fine, it'll heal in a few days, it takes a lot more than that-- kill me..."
Arang's words trailed off towards the end as Sephina fixed her with a glare. Her unnaturally red eyes normally gleamed like beautiful rubies, but Arang swore they turned to flames when the angel got mad at something. Sephina was dragging Arang to the living room now, grabbing a handful of medical supplies on the way.
"I'm well aware of that! Just as I'm aware of the multitude of other non-death horrible things that could happen to you! In case you weren't aware, I don't exactly like seeing my girlfriend horribly wounded and in pain either!"
Sephina spoke harshly as she treated Arang's wounds, clearly upset with how skilled she'd gotten at the process.
"What if you got hurt so badly you couldn't even make it home? What if you lost control and hurt someone while you were out there? What if you got captured and tortured and I never saw you again?" Arang cringed. This was the part she hated the most, the reason she'd tried to avoid this encounter. The guilt. "None of that is going to happen.." "You don't know that! Fuck, with how often stuff like this happens it almost seems like..." Sephina exclaimed harshly as she finished tying one of the several bandages she'd grabbed. Arang went silent, feeling some of the pent-up aggression from her unfinished battle from early rising back to the surface.
"Seems like what?"
Her words came out harsher than she meant for them to, almost as a growl rather than a question. Sephina was taken aback by this, wings anxiously flapping behind her before her gaze settled back into a glare.
"Like you want something to happen. Like you're just waiting for a job to go wrong and kill you for real-" Arang started to say something but bit her lip to silence herself before she could get the words out. She could see the tears brimming in Sephina's eyes. She was genuinely afraid- she probably had been since Arang had failed to make it home in time.
"Babe, that's not... That's not true. I'm sorry." The demon reached her still-functional hand for her lover's cheek but the angel batted her arm away.
"If it's not then quit taking these stupid jobs already. Stop making me sit alone at night and imagine all the scenarios where you never come back through that door."
Arang winced. Now Sephina was crying for real. Fuck.
"It's not that easy baby..." Sephina's face scrunched up in anger as tears continued to trek down her cheeks, only to relax a moment later. Her expression was almost mournful as she shook her head.
"No, nothing's ever that easy with you is it? Why do I even bother, getting so worked up when there's nothing I can do?"
Dread sunk into a pit in Arang's stomach as she struggled to find the words to placate her girlfriend. She couldn't just stop working, Sephina had to realize that right? And there wasn't a lot of alternatives for... for someone like her. This was something she had to do. But it still pained her to upset her girlfriend this much...
Sephina cleaned up the rest of Arang's wounds in quiet as neither of them could find the words to keep the conversation going. The largest wound wasn't something that could really be treated simply but Sephina gave it her best shot, and by the time she was done it was well past 2AM.
"Babe I'm sorry. Can we talk..."
Arang tried to call out to Sephina as the latter started to clean up the absurd amount of medical supplies she'd gotten out.
"Not tonight. Let's just go to bed. I'm tired and I have to be up in a few hours."
Sephina was curt, not even meeting Arang's eyes as she spoke, and by the time the demon managed to follow her back to their bedroom she'd already collapsed into the bed with the covers pulled over herself. With a final sigh of defeat, Arang turned the lights off and lowered herself into bed facing the other way from her girlfriend.
No matter how exhausted she felt, sleep never found her for long that night.
#empty spaces#microfiction#writing#my ocs#arang schütze#sephina fairheart#i tried to make it mostly make sense even without context#angst#cw: gore#but just like a little
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are the twins romantic? I canon twin touya extremely romantic like wine and dine reader for every special occasion and twin dabi tries cause he wants to be romantic :( our baby
EEE HEHE anon!!! bringing the twins back to the forefront!!! <33 great question!
you’ve pretty much hit it right on the head. i feel like this is touched upon throughout a good chuck of my twins asks in general (especially in this one about their love languages and how they each like to celebrate!) but touya is smooth and suave and dabi is so not. dabi is all rough edges and razor glares, even when he’s desperately trying not to be. dabi is, unfortunately, inherently coarse, as if his soul was born bristly. as such, romance and intimacy are extremely difficult and challenging for him.
that doesn’t mean he’s fully incapable of it, though. dabi’s good at shmoozing others and when he really tries, he can turn on the charm his brother so effortlessly exudes and use it as a tool to his advantage. but this doesn’t work when he’s terrified, when he has to actually be vulnerable, when there isn’t necessarily a selfish, personal gain involved for him.
dabi ends up being unintentionally romantic. quietly romantic. he’s an artist, so his romances end up being sentimental; he takes you with him somewhere to paint the night sky or a pretty landscape (he doesn’t even tell you where he’s taking you initially, just grabbing you by the wrist and dragging you towards his car after you confirm that you are currently free) and swears that he didn’t pack those extra paint brushes + canvases for you; you’re just lucky he happened to have them in his car, and don’t you dare waste his paint!
he makes you playlists randomly, texts them to you without a word of explanation, but is always sure to leave a scrap of paper on your desk, torn from a notebook, detailing why each song reminds him of you, written crookedly in his spiky handwriting. he comes home with rare editions of your favourite old records that he stumbles upon at the thrift store he likes to frequent, or vintage pieces from your favourite high end designers that he thinks you might like, always shoving them at you without holding your gaze and threatening that you better fucking like it, it cost him a fortune.
whenever he tries to be romantic, it always ends up coming out wooden and shaky, tongue tripping over his words or brain short-circuiting halfway through a sentence, overwhelmed by intense, foreign emotion. it frustrates him, especially since all this bullshit comes so easily to touya, and his fury only makes it all worse. it can be calmed with a gentle touch and a few soft words, acknowledging how hard he’s trying without explicitly calling him out.
touya is extremely romantic, almost to the point where it borders on romcom cliche. like i said in the asks i linked you to, he loves to spoil you absolutely fucking rotten, and he finds a deep satisfaction in planning ornate, extravagant events for just the two of you, complete with several new sets of outrageously expensive lingerie (which, yes, he fully expects you to ‘model’ for him later that night), the finest dining experiences, and whatever the heck else you want to do (spas, tours, activities, etc). touya goes above and beyond for actual special occasions (like we are talking full vacations here, stuffed with luxurious gifts and insane amounts of food/desserts), and he’s incredibly skilled in finding flimsy reasons to spoil you or celebrate
#i love them so much :(#i miss them a lot!!!!!!!!!#thank you for this ask anon it was a joy to answer <3#i hope you're having a fab day!!!#stay safe n enjoy ur weekend!#inky.twins#todoroki twins dabi and touya#inky.bb#clari gets mail
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[Visible only to anons and non-muses.]
The night had been quiet so far. They had taken care of the dogs and then themselves before tucking themselves into the small bed for the night. It was hardly much but it was what they had been making due with for the last few weeks.
Hopefully for many more weeks to come as well.
Edwin shifted in the bed, curled up beside Henry, his eyes opening drowsily. He blinked a couple of times before shifting again, recognizing that he had woken himself up once again. It was not an uncommon experience, but still a tedious one.
Careful to not accidentally stir Henry, he turned on his side and stuffed his wrist underneath his own side of the pillow to prior it up under his chin.
Soon enough, he began to drift off again.
…
It was equally short-lived as soon enough he began to find himself drowsily waking back up, unable to quite recall if he had even fallen asleep in the first place or if he had merely just stopped thinking for a little while there. Either way, it was almost peaceful.
He kept his eyes closed, figuring that he would slip back into sleep soon enough.
… Then he heard a soft noise.
It was quiet, sounding like the gentle scrapping of a claw or fingernail against wood…
For a few moments, he placed the blame on one of the dogs potentially twitching in their sleep. It wouldn’t be a first.
… Even still, it gave him a somewhat uneasy feeling…
—And almost as if taunting the thought just as it occurred, a single long scratch could be heard followed by a click, as if someone were dragging a nail across the door before opening it unceremoniously.
He tried to snap his head back in the opposite direction towards the door but—
…
He couldn’t. He couldn’t move at all.
… Henry wasn’t reacting. He could still hear their quiet breathing beside him. Even the fucking dogs weren’t reacting.
Slowly, footsteps crept closer to the bed, slowly at about halfway across the room — Edwin already imagining how whoever it was would be creeping just past the dogs by that point — before coming to a stop at the far end of the bed. At the side by Henry.
…
He still couldn’t fucking move. He couldn’t fucking turn and look at whoever it was. He couldn’t see them. He couldn’t see if they had some kind of weapon. He couldn’t fucking do anything but imagine what they might be holding or preparing to do.
The bed softly creaked, as if someone were sitting down. He could feel it watching him.
The logical side of his mind would have tried to reason with him all of the signs by this point… He couldn’t move… He couldn’t speak to alert the dogs… He technically hadn’t even felt the bed shift from someone supposedly ‘sitting down’ beside them both…
… The logical side of his mind wasn’t working right though. All that was going through his mind right now was sheer fucking panic.
…
Then he heard another soft creak, as if it was leaning closer to them…
After a few moments, there was only silence as Edwin tried to force himself to twitch a finger or cry out for the dogs to wake up and snap them both out of this hell or for somebody to come help them or-
“Why do you bother with trying,” A voice — a familiar voice — whispered beside him, close and almost deafeningly loud. “I’m not going to make it out of this.”
The logical side of his mind doesn’t even stand a chance as he finally feels his hand twitch as he regains his movement and voice, his entire body then sharply twisting as he kicks and cries out at something that was never even there.
#a tool of their trade#tales from the shelves#tw sleep paralysis#[visible only to anons and non-muses]#[was going to schedule but I’ll just post anyways]
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ok bc u asked me about charles religious fic i have to ask you about prayers / triangles it’s only fair
this fic's title is actually shamelessly yoinked from the deftones song ... it's a not-so-sweet oscar/logan fic i started writing on a whim after the sentence "Every time without fail, Logan prays after they have sex." came to me in a vision. and then i somehow ended up with 660-ish words?
it's about trying to find the adrenaline and the buzz of winning in other places than on track when you can't achieve it ... it's also loosely based on the song's lyrics (particularly "There's a new strange godless demon awake inside me / There's a force divine terrorizing the angels I keep / While we dream / Prayers, laid on the line / You will never be free, you will never be free"). the ending is NOT happy as you can imagine. it's written from Oscar's pov so trying to make this Logan's religious guilt and subtle internalized homophobia transpire is a nice exercise.
i sort of dislike the tone of it (feels too dark to be realistic—but also we're on rpf territory, so i don't think realism ought to be that much of an issue...). however. i AM proud of it and rereading it fills me with a lot of confidence regarding my writing style. So.
Very long excerpt under the cut...
The first lesson—and the most important one, it seems—that Oscar learns upon entering Formula One is that they all have quirks, legends of the sport and rookies alike.
He likes to call them that—quirks, an inconspicuous name for something that's more like makeshift band-aids slapped over weeping wounds, worsened a thousand times by the phantom-taste of champagne. Some of them chase the thrill off-track, jumping off of planes or seeking it in the form of liquid fire tucked into a dirty syringe, crushed into a thin powder. When the itch comes, inevitable, Oscar thinks about picking up smoking, a lesser evil. Somewhere halfway through the season, he starts hooking up with Logan instead.
He's not sure how they come to this. The idea takes root at the back of his brain when it becomes clear that all he'll ever fight for is scraps at the back of the field, meaning about seven races in. He's far from a defeatist, but the truth is so cruelly clear it's impossible to ignore: he may push himself as far as he wants, the car will only ever yield so much power.
[...]
All in all, much like any other thing he could have chosen to do, having sex with Logan is a terrible idea. They constantly tiptoe right around the lines of too much and not enough, afflicted with the remnants of what they used to be before. Oscar doesn't like to think about it; tenderness tends to seep in easily late at night, when it's only them two—and part of the reason why this works so well is that it feels like he's not supposed to have it.
[...]
Every time without fail, Logan prays after they have sex.
It's a new thing. Oscar doesn't comment on it. They used to be simpler—sinless, he supposes. Besides, that Logan, of all people, gets his fix on something so dirty he needs to repent feels delightfully ironic. On that ground, at least, Oscar has the upper hand; nothing in his search for a fix come close to the quiet desperation with which Logan moans his name and clings to his shoulders when Oscar fucks him, like it's something he needs so badly not even God can dissuade him.
#Rambling a lot here ...#me vs. basing my fics on songs. Sorry!!!!!#i might post it when im done even though im not entirely satisfied with like. tone & characterization ...#because i like the way i wrote it a lot#ask game#writing tag#812
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I woke up this morning going, “OMG, it’s almost Sunday and I have nothing ready to post!” Eh, my sense of time is skewed. Monday is my Friday. But I still might not have anything by Sunday.
My options:
- Just don’t post this week (no)
- Focus on one thing and try to finish it (does not sound like something I would do)
- Split the last chapter of Caffeine Blues and just post the first part (short?)
- Start posting something new (maybe it’s time for vampires)
I also went looking through my scrap pile and found something I might un-abandon.
“I want a pet.”
“Of course,” Hermann agrees, and immediately begins running his fingers through Newton’s hair.
“That’s not what I—mmmmmmmm…” Predictably, he melts. Never once in all the years they’ve known each other have Hermann’s hands in Newton’s hair failed to elicit this reaction.
“Herms,” Newton groans, draping himself across his husband like a blanket. They always end up horizontal, on the couch or in the bed, not even because they’re making love but simply because Newton becomes a boneless lump when Hermann pets him.
This time, it’s the couch. Hermann lies back under the comforting warmth and weight of his darling man. Newton noses at his throat just above the shirt collar, humming happily. Hermann continues to run fingers through his hair while his other hand migrates south. Newton is in his usual Saturday afternoon ensemble of sweatpants and a ratty t-shirt, and if it doesn’t quite accentuate his anatomy the way his skinny jeans used to, it does offer easy access, which is more than a fair trade.
Newton has always been an enthusiastic lover. Had they not missed their chance in their twenties, the man likely would have been insatiable; at thirty-five, when they finally straightened out what they had between them, he was almost more than Hermann could handle. (Almost.) Things are different now, but some things never change, and Newton never fails to respond to Hermann’s touch.
Hermann would be happy enough just to be with his Newton on a lovely, lazy Saturday like this one, but Newton is not the only one who is, er…responsive. With Newton’s body warm against his, Hermann feels a pressing need to meet him halfway, so he tips his head back for a kiss.
Newton sighs against his lips, and smiles, and Hermann can’t help but smile back.
He loves him. Now more than ever.
(That’s a rather stupidly sentimental thought. He bloody well ought to love his own husband. But there are times when he’s struck by it, still taken by surprise after all these years.)
“You are so fucking hot, dude,” Newton sighs.
“Ever the romantic.”
“Hey, you want romantic, I can get romantic.” Newton slides his hands up the back of Hermann’s neck. Hermann shivers at the scrape of callused fingers on his bare skin. “You want to take this to the bedroom?” Newton asks. And then, when Hermann doesn’t immediately leap on the suggestion, he adds, “Bathroom?”
“Oh, you are romantic.”
“Bitch, you know I am—”
“Newton.” They’ve talked about this. Hermann simply cannot maintain the proper mood when his husband is calling him a bitch.
“Sorry, babe. Love you, babe.” He arches back away from Hermann. “You know how much I love you? I installed that jacuzzi tub just for you. Like a sexy plumber.”
“Mmm,” Hermann sniffs. He would dearly love for Newton to stop trying to seduce him, and just get on with what he was doing. Hermann is already sufficiently seduced.
“You wanna go try it out?” Newton asks.
“What do you mean, try it out?”
“It’s big enough for two,” Newton says. “I could wash your hair.”
“You are in a mood. All right, then.” They’ve never done it in the bath. He accepts a hand up, but gives Newton a warning squeeze once they’re both standing.
Reasons why this was abandoned:
- Sex 🤷
- I don’t remember what that warning squeeze was for. Hermann, what are you doing?
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"If you stay, I'll make us coffee." Vox being quick to interject because fuck if Alastor was thinking of leaving so quickly. "You can even watch me make it so you'll be sure I don't put anything in it. Just. Stay." - ✧ ˖ ˙ 「 @Qᴜᴇꜱᴛɪᴏɴᴀʙʟᴇᴍᴜꜱᴇꜱ 」 ˙ ˖ ✧
「 ☆ 」 He has to get out of here.
Preferably before his old-pal turned current-enemy turned accidental-lover ( temporary as he knows this mistake will be; HAS to be ) wakes up and has the bright idea of prolonging this annoying little… accident. Yet all Alastor can manage to do is slip out of Vox’s annoyingly-warm arms, before the television demon has stirred from what was no doubt a VERY restful slumber. He had certainly exhausted himself last night, as the aching of Alastor’s marked body can attest. How insulting, bitten by the other Overlord like a scrap of meat thrown to a starving mongrel.
What’s even worse is how pleasant the sting of those bites feel settled into his skin, an animalistic part of Alastor’s brain near-preening at being marked so thoroughly by his mate.
Standing at the side of the bed, back facing the other man— refusing to look at whatever pathetic desperation Vox is likely aiming at him ( he always was so worriedly emotional ) —he pauses in putting on his shirt ( pants already donned: tail on display and showcasing its bright underside ) an arm halfway through the sleeve, before shuffling it over his shoulders. Upper lip twitches at the missing buttons, hands hovering at having no busywork to burden themselves with.
❝ … You owe me a new shirt. ❞
Dryly breaking his silence, he sharply tugs down the garment as if trying to futilely rid it of wrinkles. Hands keep gripping the edge of his shirt, he tensely stands there. Trapped in torturous indecision, he mulls over the best way to save his cracked pride. The only reason it has yet to shatter completely is that Vox clearly is the most outwardly pitiful of the two. Hastily bargaining for Alastor to stay, he could easily leave the television to wallow in his loneliness. To drown in regret and paranoia, wondering whether he made a monumental mistake… Or Alastor could stay, and ensure that Vox KNOWS this.
Make it irrefutably clear that what transpired was a lapse of judgement— no, an act of necessity. Surely someone in business with Valentino would be aware of such things. Would easily believe such a ruse. If he runs, Vox’s imagination devises a narrative and Alastor knows better than to let others attempt to decipher his actions. Not when it MATTERS. Entertaining as theories may be, they’ve been… unflattering, as of late. Best to nip this in the bud before Vox can become even more reckless in his chasing.
God forbid anyone ever finds out about this.
❝ I expect a proper coffee. None of that pre-ground, boiled nonsense. ❞ Glancing over his shoulder at Vox, ear gives a flick as he says in as unaffected a purr he can muster, ❝ I trust you remember what I taught you? Or have you gone so long swallowing swill that you've forgotten all about how to start a morning decently. ❞ If Vox even still owns the Siphon coffee maker Alastor had insisted the other buy once the deer learned of his subpar preparation methods. Let alone the whole beans Alastor used to meticulously grind for them. A less-convenient method than modern machines, but a soothing way to begin ones day. As well as ensure a rich, aromatic cup. Far more vibrant than newer methods could hope to achieve.
Truthfully, due to some of the curses of his cannibalistic form, he can't exactly taste anymore... Not unless it's richness of blood or the tenderness of flesh. But proper coffee is still a nostalgic feeling. A reminder of a life once lived, of his human past as well as the companionship he used to share with Vox. 「 ☆ 」
#burning-fcols#⭒ ˙ ˖ ✧ — ˗ˏˋ ❝ ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ꜰᴜʟʟʏ ᴅʀᴇꜱꜱᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴀ ꜱᴍɪʟᴇ! ❞ ¦ 「 Alastor IC 」#⭒ ˙ ˖ ✧ — ˗ˏˋ ❝ ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ᴀ ᴡʀᴏɴɢ ᴛᴜʀɴ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀᴏꜱꜱʀᴏᴀᴅꜱ ❞ ◌ ᴍᴀɪɴ ¦ 「 Alastor 」#questionablemuses#⭒ ˙ ˖ ✧ — ˗ˏˋ ❝ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ɢᴀᴢᴇ ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀᴢᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴄʀᴀᴄᴋꜱ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴄʀᴇᴇɴ ❞ ¦ 「 Vox 」#♡ ˙ ˖ ✧ — ˗ˏˋ ❝ ᴡᴇ ᴄᴀɴ’ᴛ ʀᴇᴡɪɴᴅ; ᴡᴇ’ᴠᴇ ɢᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏᴏ ꜰᴀʀ ❞ ¦ 「 Vox and Alastor 」#⭒ ˙ ˖ ✧ — ˗ˏˋ ❝ ꜱᴏ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪꜰ ɪ ᴍɪꜱʙᴇʜᴀᴠᴇ? ɪᴛ’ꜱ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏʙᴏᴅʏ ᴄʀᴀᴠᴇꜱ ❞ ¦ 「 Answer 」#⭒ ˙ ˖ ✧ — ˗ˏˋ ❝ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ꜱᴏᴍᴇʙᴏᴅʏ ɢᴏɴᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴡᴀɪᴛ ᴛᴏᴏ ʟᴏɴɢ— ❞ ¦ 「 Queue 」
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OKAY SOMEONE WANTED TO KNOW MORE (And by joves am I happy to tell)
This might be lengthy 🗞 (edit, this is basically just a explained full fic so uh, the prompt is anyone’s)
So basic premise got said before but there’s a few more details to what I would have planned if it were a fic. I am a writer but one that can’t finish work for anything.
So, really just starts out how you would expect, need to do mushroom collecting and both of them were fixed on that duty. To add more confidence WX has the light circuit. So they’re both just wandering, talking about mutual annoyance (mainly the the bots part). When they were both about to leave the mushroom area ant lion antics, pathway is blocked. WX got caught up per say in it, but the damage done manifested much different.
They started falling apart. Not like the usual dislocation of their arm, but more the difficulty keeping themself together. Probably would of gone unnoticed if WX hadn’t sustained damage, both blocking them from easy path home and making things more difficult.
I still don’t know what’s caused this constant logic weakening happening. Either a deep part of the caves not explored or moon fuckery mixed in with them fucking up too. Doesn’t matter. Wa is having a hard time managing to move finding responses were not working as well as they should. Wormwood is panicking like shit, metal friend not doing good, how can I help? Got about halfway through the biome looking for potential entrance to the ruins before WX just... floor. Legs have buckled. They insist with a little rest that everything should be up and running.
And If timing was right it would be night. Well, night night. WX was definitely low on health by this point and ofc they got a roll up, so they get to sleep while wormwood kept watch. Idea... but would they actually appreciate considering how stubborn they were. With enough rationalization seeing as it would theoretically keep WX together for the moment, wormwood did some well wormwood activities, with vines growing around subtly tightening around the main joints.
Wake up mad, but there’s a noticeable difference of actually being stuck back, if not slightly more dumb than usual with a little less control. Blah blah hate organic life even plants blah blah thankyou for letting me move again blah. They got set off again with WX trying to adjust to the new system to work with. Wormwood themself wasn’t doing good, not sanity related, WX may have sustained damage but the sanity aura music still worked chiming in the back. Health wise they were doing good but inside it was feeling wilty. Could just be summer, but like that plant wilt when you they got get enough sun.
If wormwood has normal stomach biology he would of probably puked with the queasy feeling. Anyway. In ruins, and despite everything they’re both doing alright with fighting. During the quarrel the nightmare sword broke, seeing as there was all this nightmare fuel around why not craft another, still like another days trip till they could get back. WX demands wormwood to produced another living log, pretty reasonable request if not a bit rude.
So, that happens, and uh, it’s not growing back. Living tog that was meant to be produced is halfway to rotting, and wormwoods arm isn’t regenerating. Obviously cause for alarm, cause for much much alarm, plant man freaking. WX also worried but not showing it, instead straight to a solution. Walking to a somewhat safe area in the ruins, both empty the bags to look for any useful items. Nothing much, food. WX leaves to go find scraps for an idea, while wormwood just hands tight.
Comes back with general machinery, and a yellow gem, wormy confused. Both spend half a day just building, WX quite enthusiastic to go and mechanically enhance their partner. The vines keeping together their own body has grown more stable, at least movement wasn’t as tricky. Fast leaner. Taping the gem near the base of the ‘hand’ it was ready, and through all this time parts of wormwood were wrapping around trying to attach properly. Both standing up it just hung lifeless but the side, weight proven bothersome.
Not good, even worst was the fact it seemed to be rejecting the body. The leaves and general color of wormwood rotted at a much faster rate, arm wasn’t taking well AT ALL. But, there was some what some control, using the vine he basically could puppet it enough to lift the lantern. So at least it was somewhat working. Both now need medical attention so with no more time to waste they headed back.
Even after leaving the area the feeling stuck. WX still falling apart and wormwood getting worst. Though notably he did feel better now in the natural light. Head back to camp eveyone is like, what the fuck, wormwood medical tent and WX just with Winona. Tried removing the vines and doing the basics, reattaching, oiling, hell even holding together with wires. Only the vines worked, which they had to go bother wormwood for to help applying again. Plant man eventually got better, rot and rest.
Eventually it’s just now a mesh of both having slightly lower mobility, wx getting lunar visions and wormwood getting ear talked off about how this is an ‘upgrade’.
Very VERY late for posting this but I got it done, couldn’t bother to figure out what WX would say so just this.
Image is based off a au idea where like, both of them travel to a sort of the ruins and loose the magic that binds them in reality? Basically WX falling apart much more and wormwood working more normal plant like aka not doing good in the dark.
In the end they need each other’s skill to help them get out. Vines keeping WX in tact and when wormwoods arm didn’t regenerate after living log cut, well there’s a lot of metal lying around. Problem is the metal rejecting the body and the vines are interfering with WX working normally.
I’ll explain more if people want
#this took over a year#I forgot#very sorry#sorry#au#wxwood au#swap au#sorta#I want to redo art but I’m tired#dst#don’t starve#don’t starve together#dst wx78#wormwood dst#art#story#I’ve not edited this so idk if it makes sense#please someone talk to me
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