#does anyone else get a screaming in their brain & it feels like it’s clawing at the walls

[icarusredwings]

Thinking about old Worst Wolverine being called by each of the X men individually after they have a falling out because Logan injured a child very badly to the point the only reason they didn't die is because another classmates healing abilities all while he just... walked away.

Well- ran.. away... leaving a child to die. He's tried to explain thousands of times that he blacked out, that he didn't remember doing any of this. He tries to say that maybe it was someone else, that mystique did this shit all the time in his universe.

"Yeah, well!? This isn't your universe! Because the REAL Logan would never do this.." Scott screams at him as Logan leaves the Mansion for the last time. He doesn't come back. He didn't even get to tell his Xkits goodbye. It got to the point where Laura dropped out, taking Gabby with her, wanting nothing to do with the school anymore.

So now, here he is. In Maine, an old fisherman, part-time hunter, and the only people he lets around him have healing factors.

He lives with Wade, who still- by the way- doesn't have any grey hairs (maybe because hes bald but- yk)

One night, while Logan is out, making himself feel useful by feeding the small town they're in, providing for more poor families, feeding their children's hungry mouths and asking nothing in return but respect. (It gets to the point that the children cheer when they see Logan, wanting to hug him, but he growls at them to get off, too afraid of hurting them) Wade finally awnsers the ringing phone.

"What." There's vemon in his tone, but soon his eyes widden, and he frowns.

Walking outside he stands there a moment, knowing Logan can hear him.

He ignores him, looking at the fish, litsening, his breathing slowing as he skewers some with his claws. Its not exactly spear fishing but- close.

"What?" His voice is almost annoyed, as if knowing what his long time Husband was about to ask him.

"Logan.."

"No."

"Logan-"

He shakes his head. "Don't care."

"...She's missing."

He pauses, turning after scraping the dead fish into a bucket. "Who's missing?"

"There's a little girl missing."

"So?"

"Logan!"

"I'm not helping them, Wade. That's final." He growls.

For a moment, Wade frowns, but he didn't learn to obey thy husband like the bible said.

He never did.

"Logan, there's a 6 year old out there. All alone. Cold. Probably going to be eaten by wolves!" He shouts from the back porch, knowing his place enough to stay here and not come near his fish. Even after all these years, Logan was still finicky over his food. "And all because some old fart won't help her!"

The silence thickened as Logan thought about it, the hero side of his brain yelling 'We'll find her!' And the hurt old part of him saying 'That's not my buisness.'

".. You find her then." He compromises.

"I can't! And if anyone knows those Canadian woods, it's you! You said you knew those forests like the back of your hand!" Wade protests. "If I could smell someone through miles of freezing snow, I would. But I can't. So here I am, asking The Wolverine to go do what he does best."

He grunts, glaring. "And that is?"

"Helping a little girl get back to her mommy..." Wade says, knowing that he was sold. He knew he was sold the moment he told him to do it himself. "She doesn't have much time, Logan." He sighs, putting a cherry on top.

The greyed man huffed, grumbling under his breath for a moment. "Who will stay here with the dog?"

"Gabby can! She loves gabs." Gott'em.

"What about Laura? Why can't she find her?"

Shit.

"Logan, Laura has barley been in those woods. You've lived in them for years. So. What will it be. Pull up your panties and go save a little girls life? Or do it anyway when our baby girl gets lost too?"

Logan scoffs, disappointed. "..She wouldn't get lost.."

"She would if the scent kept being blown away.."

Wade adds, seeing the 'god damn it, he's right.' look on the old mans brow.

He lets out a large sigh. "...I don't want any help."

"Oh well too fucking bad bucko, I'm gonna go pack my snow suit!"

"No! I mean... I don’t want any help from THEM.."

"No promises. I'm not letting poor Susie die just because you have a grudge. Now put your fish in the freezer and lets go! They're coming to pick us up-"

"I ain't flying!!" Logan snarls, watching as his lover ran off, having a deep feeling that he would be in the air shortly..

[scream-cam]

anyone else feeling very

[inoreuct]

*drums my fingers on the table* so… weretiger zoro angst, anyone? (happy ending tho bcs. always happy endings) [cw: slight gore]

Zoro is on the hunt. There is something in the back of his brain snarling protect them, protect them, chase it down—

“—arimo!”

He’s so hungry. Hell, he doesn’t even need to chase— His prey is right there in front of him, fresh blood racing through its veins as its tiny heart works overtime. He can taste its fear at the back of his throat, and he bares his fangs in a grin; the poor thing screams, a sharp, high keen of terror as it scrambles backwards, and Zoro pounces. 

“—arimo!”

He is kind enough to give it a quick death. Its throat rips out easily, trachea crushing between his jaws as he slits its torso open with his blades. Blood sprays across his body. Why hadn’t he shifted? He spits out a mouthful of bone and cartilage, pierces his fangs through a forearm and yanks, feels something pop and hears a wet tear. This would be so much easier with his claws—

“Zoro!”

Oh. His human is calling for him. 

Sanji looks scared. Why, though? He drops the arm in his mouth, lets it hit the deck with a wet splat as he croons a soothing apology at not replying sooner. Gore is sticky beneath his boots as he stalks forward and he holds in a growl of irritation, nimbly avoiding the guts strewn across the wooden planks. 

Rumbling his reassurance does nothing. Sanji still looks vaguely afraid, and so Zoro tries again; safe, he purrs, and the tip of his tail does not swish through the blood puddled on the ground like it’s supposed to. He cannot feel it at all. 

The cook doesn’t budge. Zoro can smell his apprehension, his nerves, the slight sour tang of fear that makes him want to go hunt down whatever’s causing it and make it hurt. He smells it on the rest of his crew, too, and he doesn’t get it. The threat is gone, no? He senses no danger. Scanning their surroundings on the enemy boat yields no answers; all the men around them are still very, very dead. Zoro had made sure of that, so what was the problem? They should be back on the Sunny right now, sitting in the galley debriefing and having dinner—

Something clicks into place in the recesses of his mind, and dread starts to prickle through his body. 

He had been so… He’d almost eaten—

Oh, no. 

Zoro tries to shift the shape of his soul and fails. He does not feel his body changing. His shadow is, has been, in the shape of a man’s, and the blood on his skin suddenly feels disgusting. 

In the span of a moment he becomes hyper-aware of it all, pouring down his front, dripping off his chin, salty-sweet-metallic on his tongue. He turns to the side and spits multiple times, tries to get the cloying taste out of his throat as he raises a hand before realising that it, too, is coated in red. Zoro almost retches as he swallows instinctively, nausea slamming into him in a wave so strong that his stomach churns. He tastes bile. He’s thankful for it— It’s better than blood. 

Anything is better than blood. 

“Zoro?”

His head snaps around so fast that something cricks in his neck. His eyes are saucer-wide. Sanji takes a step forward and he is rooted to the spot, frozen statue-still; he is sure his heart stops beating for a second. Fitting. He knows he should step back— Knows now that he had been the threat, and yet he cannot move. 

“Let’s just… go back to the ship, how about that?” Sanji says tentatively, wincing as he kicks aside something that looks like a liver to put his foot down again, and he’s so close. Too close. “Let me—”

“No,” Zoro rasps, and God, fuck, he sounds like a fucking death rattle and he wants to claw his own voice box out of his fool mouth. The cook’s expression is a twist between desperation and something else, something that makes Zoro want to gag and cry and scream. Sanji should never look like that and it’s because of him. “No,” he tries again, quieter. He looks away. He doesn’t think he can stand looking into those blue, blue eyes. “It’s my mess, I’ll clean up.” Sanji makes a noise like he’s about to protest, and Zoro pierces through his own heart as he turns his back. “Alone.”

A beat of silence, and then Sanji is walking away. His crew is walking away. Zoro stands, surrounded by bodies he’d ripped apart, and thinks that perhaps this is how everybody that has ever been under his claws had felt. 

And that’s that. 

*

The following days are hell. He breathes in and everything he smells is wrong; anxiety, worry, an undercurrent of tentativeness that makes him throw himself into his training with renewed fervour. He is torn between the urge to bare his throat, show his belly and prove to his crew that they will never come to any harm from him, and the pride that insists he will not go against his nature to make himself more palatable for anybody else. 

He is all fang and claw and wickedly sharp teeth. He is a predator by nature, given humanity and a mortal form. This is the shape of his soul.

But they are his family. His nakama. And sitting here on the floor of the crow’s nest after running every kata he knows countless times, Zoro feels painfully, inexplicably sad. It is unfamiliar; he doesn't really do regrets, but it reminds him that at least some part of him is still human.

He lost control. He doesn’t do that, either. He never does that. But he did, and now none of his nakama can look him in the eye. 

Somebody climbs up the ladder, and his nostrils flare.

“Zoro?” Chopper asks, peeking his head up, and the swordsman immediately tries to look like he’d been busy, which… is ridiculous. He is sitting on the floor and moping. The sigh that whooshes from his lungs is defeated.

“Hm?” he prompts, when the tiny reindeer doesn’t say anything else.

Chopper climbs up fully, rubbing his hooves together. “I’ve checked everybody over except you.” 

Zoro can see the way he takes a fortifying breath and walks closer with a purpose. He stretches out his legs and allows Chopper to do as he wishes. 

“…We’re all worried about you,” the reindeer says after a while, staring intently into Zoro’s eye and testing his pupillary reflex. 

The swordsman gives a non-committal hum. “Scared of me, you mean.”

“No!”

Zoro jumps when a hoof whacks him across the forehead. “Wh—?!”

“We’re scared for you!” Chopper scolds, sounding dangerously close to tears. His distress turns Zoro’s stomach. “Do you know how scary it was to see you like that?! And then! You haven’t eaten in three days, and you probably haven’t slept, either, have you? Sanji’s been trying not to push because he knows you’re upset, but he’s been pacing a hole into the galley floor and chain-smoking like—”

“Wait,” Zoro interrupts. Replays that chunk of speech in his head. “You just said it was scary to see me like that.”

“Because we didn’t know what happened to you!” Chopper cries, huffing shakily. “And the look on your face when you realised—”

Zoro’s back bumps into the bench as Chopper grabs him in a hug, arms around his neck. His breath catches in his chest.

“Don’t do that again,” Chopper says firmly, shoving Zoro’s shoulder for good measure as he pulls back. “You seem okay, at least physically. Any pain?”

“No.”

“Any trouble shifting?”

“Haven’t tried.”

The doctor makes a noise, a cross between displeasure and something softer. “Well, try soon. Can Sanji come and see you?”

“…Yeah.”

“Okay.” Chopper stands, giving Zoro one last look. “For the sake of our cook’s lung capacity, come down to dinner.” 

Zoro sucks down a breath and holds it until it burns. He smells worry-care-care-anxiety-care and pats a hand over Chopper’s hat. “Alright.”

He sits back against the bench as their tiny doctor leaves, and within a minute someone is climbing up again. Sanji stands, silhouetted by the late-afternoon light. Zoro’s chest aches.

“Marimo,” the cook says evenly, and Zoro resists the urge to scent the air.

“Swirly-brow,” he returns, neutral. Testing the waters. “Heard you missed me.”

Sanji is silent, and Zoro’s heart gives a sickening squeeze. Has he overstepped already? He opens his mouth to say something, anything, and nearly jumps when he ends up with a lapful of gangly limbs, his spine pressed hard into sanded wood.

There are hands on his face, in his hair, lightly callused and holding him in place as Sanji kisses him like he’s got a point to prove. Zoro freezes up at first, because even in his human form his teeth are sharp and he doesn’t know what he will do if he draws Sanji’s blood. Maybe run away to live out the rest of his life in well-deserved exile. 

But then he smells salt, and something wet smears against his cheek, and Sanji’s lashes are clumped with tears as he pulls back and there is a slender finger jabbing hard into his sternum. 

“Don’t you ever,” Sanji hisses, poking him again for emphasis, “do that shit to me again, you fucking bastard.” 

He smells like bitter fatigue, acrid worry sharpened with anger and underneath all of it— love, lemon-bright and so goddamn sweet that it coats Zoro’s tongue like honey, wipes every memory of red iron and rust from his mind. “I’m sorry,” he breathes, eyes roving over Sanji’s face; the curled ends of his brows, the long lashes, the high cheekbones and strong nose and a sharp cupid’s bow, so familiar he could trace it in his sleep. “I thought you— wouldn’t want to see me.”

“Fucking bullshit,” Sanji spits, his face crumpling, and he goes easily when Zoro coaxes him to his chest. “Do you know how long I spent worrying about whether or not you were okay?” 

“I know,” Zoro soothes, and his heart is beating so fast that his ribs hurt. “I’m alright.” 

“Well, I’m not,” Sanji announces, digging his knee up into Zoro’s side with a vengeance until he gets a wheeze. “You owe me three packs of cigs. You owe the whole crew an apology. Luffy’s damn near lost his appetite; even Nami won’t so much as insult me when I try and get a rise out of her.”

Sanji’s glaring at him with the force of the sun, fierce and beautiful and golden-bright, but the dark circles beneath his eyes make guilt drag razor-thin talons across Zoro’s stomach. “You shouldn’t smoke so much,” he says softly, brows furrowing as he cards Sanji’s bangs out of his face and cups his cheek. 

“You shouldn’t go berserk and then isolate yourself without considering the fact that your crew would be worried sick about you,” the cook fires back without missing a beat. He leans into Zoro’s touch anyway, and Zoro smooths a thumb into the hollow between his bridge and brow.

“Weren’t you scared?”

“More— unsettled, maybe. Marimo,” Sanji’s throat bobs, eyes flickering over Zoro’s face. “Your eyes were slits. Like you were expecting to get attacked. We didn’t know how to talk to you without you panicking and running away.”

“I do not run—” he begins, scowling, and then shuts his mouth. What has he been doing these past three days, if not running away? “I think…” He digs deep into the memory, lays everything out in his head and ah. 

That man had crept up in Sanji’s blind spot, a wickedly long knife in his hand, and Zoro hadn’t thought. Hadn’t planned, just jumped. “He was gonna get to you,” he mutters, forcing himself to hold Sanji’s gaze even as the cook frowns. “I’m sorry, cook. I lost control. It won’t happen again.” 

The words are clunky and unfamiliar in his mouth. He’d almost eaten a man in his human form. That had to have looked all kinds of fucked up; he really didn’t blame his crew if they—

“Oi,” Sanji scoffs, flicking him in the forehead. “Are you always so distracted even with pretty people in your lap?” 

Zoro huffs through his nose. “Oh, I’m sorry, princess. Just contemplating how I nearly ate someone.”

The cook’s mouth twitches. “There are a great many jokes I can make about that, but I’ll save them for later. You’re a tiger, marimo. You were just protecting us. We really can’t hold it against you.”

“…You’re not scared of me,” he murmurs one last time, because he has to be sure.

“I’m not,” Sanji confirms easily, rubbing his thumb over the shell of Zoro’s ear, dragging through his earrings and making them tinkle like wind chimes. “Come down and the rest of them won’t be, either.”

Something in him gives. Shifts, releases, crumbles in his chest like a little collapsible galaxy as he pulls the cook down for another kiss. He feels Sanji’s tongue trace over the points of his teeth, utterly fearless— It steals the breath right from his lungs, this blatant, unwavering trust that he’s been allowed to hold cupped in his battle-rough palms. He gathers flaxen hair into his hand so that he can look the cook in both eyes, blue as the sky at high noon and crystal clear. Sanji leans into his chest with a ragged exhale and Zoro slides one palm up to the nape of his neck, one over his ribs, if only to feel him breathe, and the words slip out. “I love you.”

He doesn’t know why it feels like he’s never said them before. They must have crossed his tongue hundreds of times by now, his mind a hundredfold more. He loves Sanji, he knows; it aches under his ribs, next to his heart, woven into his soul. He loves his crew, he knows; he gives them leeway he would allow nobody else, and refuses to accept that he needs their affection as much as they want his. 

But it feels new. Every single time, it feels brand-new. Like a freshly-minted coin that never tarnishes, pure, solid gold— So he lets himself be greedy and leaves his fingerprints all over it, goes to sleep with it tucked in his fist like a child holding on to a dream. “I love you,” he whispers into Sanji’s hair, and he feels the cook shift in his arms, feels the same words shaped against his throat, teeth to bone, fingers around his heart.

He purrs the words subsonic, over and over even when his crew cannot hear. He will put them out into the world until his nakama know and he will think them a thousand times more. 

But for now, they have an hour left till dinner. Sanji is breathing slowly, his arms tucked against Zoro’s chest. The lines of worry between his brows are smoothed out.

Zoro thinks he’ll take a nap. 

[ahtae]

a little sugar

warnings: sugardaddy!nanami, oral, mentions of penetration

being Nanami's sugar baby and coming home to a bouquet of roses larger than you are, sitting on the counter next to your new chanel bag you've been asking him for. How can he deny you? His special princess. How can he deny you when you suck him in so good, squelching and crying on his cock?

Nanami who spoils you whenever you say so. Denying that he's wrapped around your finger but shoving his black card in your cleavage every time he picks you up for a shopping spree.

Nanami who will send you a thousand dollar to get your nails done, telling you what color (he loves coffin french tips). When you tell him that your nails don't even cost half of that, he tells you that it's his sugar tax <3

Sugar daddy Nanami who gets a tad jealous seeing you with other men. How your pretty white teeth gleam in a smile. He shouldn't be, he knows he just pays your bills. But does that boy know how he makes you scream? Does he know how he wraps your hair around his fist and pounds so deep into you you can't even breathe? He snickers, he'd like to see his face while he pounds into you better than he ever could.

Nanami who buys you the pink iPhone, claiming he saw you oogling it on tiktok. When you ask what you're to do with your old phone, he tells you that your not to contact anyone else on this phone but him. and only him.

Nanami who always let's you finish twice before he puts his cock in you. "First on my mouth then on my fingers, princess, need to feel you everywhere."

Nanami who starts fucking you in missionary instead of doggy, cupping your neck and chin, forcing your dumb fucked out brain to look at him as he pounds into you.

Nanami who now lets you sleepover after a night of rough sex, greeting you with the image of his muscular, claw-marked back. "Sweet thing why don't you get back in bed, hm? I'll bring your coffee to you."

Nanami who kisses your forehead when he brings your breakfast to you, a diamond incrusted bracelet waiting for you. Telling you how good you are to him as he laces your hair with more sweet kisses, thicker and more tender than normal.

Nanami who takes you to Fendi right afterwards, practically buying out the entire store. When you ask him why he's being extra sweet today, he tells you your look extra sweet for him, pulling you in close and breathing into the crook of your neck.

Nanami who comforts you when you break up with your boyfriend. "How could he hurt my sweet girl?" He coos, running gentle fingers through your hair, eyes caressing your body. His calloused hands envelop yours, open your car door, and lead you straight to your favorite massage place<3 treating you to an entire self-care day because you deserve it.

Nanami who only eats you out that night, tongue driving languid circles on your clit, lapping and sucking on your swollen bud, drinking up your whines and moans<3

Nanami who spoils you so rotten you forget all about your ex. Buying you anything your heart desires: an entire new wardrobe of clothes, a new car (for you drive to brunch with the girlies when he's busy with work), and a new puppy for the two of you to raise.

Nanami who spoils you so dumb on his cock and with his wealth you don't have to worry a singular day in your life

~~~

IM OBSEESSEEEDD AHHH

[hermesserpent-stuff]

based on this post: Link!

@golden-buddle anndddd @honey-minded-hivemind

tw: torture, referenced child abuse, government experiments

Remy stares at the ceiling finger tracing and retracing where he knows that device was implanted what feels like forever ago in the back of his neck. The feeling of it cutting off his ability to move his leg and it shocking him to tears. He can taste the electricity on the back of his teeth even now. Or is that the powers that he had not been allowed to use in weeks? He shivers and finds his face wet. He had not noticed the tears starting to escape him and berates himself. Sabretooth is always wilder when he smelled tears on Remy, refusing to let him get up for food and other necessities. Scrubbing the tears away would not help. 

Some sort of government agency had captured Remy. Captured him and shoved something under his skin that he wants to claw out with blunt fingernails. Victor Creed had come for him. And then the horrid people had dumped something on Creed and blasted away his shreds of humanity, leaving Sabretooth behind. Colonel William Stryker who seems to be running the base wanted Sabretooth as an attack dog, using Remy as his leash. From how Remy understands the situation, Creed is taken off of… whatever pheromones to go out on missions for Colonel Styker, left with just enough humanity to be able to find a target and rip them to shreds before returning. In exchange for a good job, Sabretooth gets another dose of whatever they were using and visual on Remy, with some vents so that he can smell Remy.

Sabretooth used to try to attack guards and scientists and the walls between him and Remy. But even the beast could understand that when he did things that the guards and scientists did not like, Remy got shocked. And Remy’s pain seems to be a great deterrent to doing any misbehavior. Probably has something to do with Sabretooth seeing him as cub, even if it does not seem that the beast recalls much else.

Fight, kill, eat, sleep, and care for cub. That seems to be it. Remy has not had a true conversation with anyone in so long, and he fears he will never be able to talk to Creed again. 

For particularly well-done hunts, Sabretooth gets to come into Remy’s cell to physically scent him and press too close for Remy’s shaky comfort. But the man does not recall how much Remy distrusts physical contact he does not initiate or makes him feel trapped.  Colonel William Stryker loves the fact that Sabretooth grows more vicious and feral when Remy has been ripped away from him. Which they always do in the end. 

The device in his neck pulses and he can feel is nerves arching and wiggling as he looses control of his limbs. He lets out a sob and he can feel his Charm starting to slip from his control. He clings to it tightly and closes his eyes as scientists touch him and take his blood and inject him with something that makes him loopy. They kept drugging him to keep him from blowing things up. Not that he had much at hand to blow up anymore. And if the Charm impacted the scientists and they did things? Well, Remy learned long ago how to lock his brain away from what is happening to him.

But today he keeps his Charm under lock and key.

“Right. He’s good to go. Might need to get some hair and spit samples later after we test this set of blood samples. Let the feral in.”

Remy whimpers at the last words and he can hear snickering from the gaurds  that find his reactions amusing. He had heard their laughter the first time Sabretooth had pinned him and Remy had screamed and cried, fighting against a beast that pressed far far to close. 

Remy gets the use of his limbs back and curls into a tight ball as he waits. He hears the doors reopen and the sound of sniffing and growling. Remy takes a deep breath and twists, shifting to lean against the wall as best he can with the dizzying drugs pulsing in his system. He finds his Charm slipping away from his control as he looks at Creed who is crouched and sniffing the air from the other side of the cell. 

“H-hey kitty.”

He whispers out, voice cracking violently. Sabretooth surges forward, tugging him away from the wall and starts licking all the places that needles had been. Sabretooth growls and purrs, holding Remy tight while his sandpaper tongue goes over Remy’s skin. Remy shivers and feels his stomach flip violently at the touch; but he can see the absolute fear in the back of Sabretooth’s eyes. The worry. The pain. Tucked right in there with the violent feralness that has left blood in Sabretooth’s hair and under his nails. Remy takes deep shaky breathes, shoving down the bile in a way that is far too familiar. Sabretooth needs him calm. 

“H-hi. G-good hunt, huh, homme? Your hair’s all… messy.”

Words are hard as he feels his chest protest the feeling of a nose at his neck as Sabretooth pins him to the floor. He slowly raises his hands and gently runs his hands along the man’s sides. 

“Y-you did good. Got back to me! Bein.” 

He is crying. He cannot help it. It is how his body responds to all the different layers of distress that are crushing him with their weight.

Would they ever get out of this hell?

Sabretooth purrs low and sweet and Remy closes his eyes, pretending that he is at home. In their nest with Creed who is asking him about- something, anything. He sobs again and the beast on top of him croons and nuzzles, the attempts to comfort only driving Remy’s mind further into the sickly sweet embrace of the dizziness caused by the drugs. There is a ding that informs them both that there is now food in the cell. Sabretooth presses more firmly into Remy to discourage him from getting up. Remy whimpers and curls his fingers against the feral whose weight is fully on him. There is no escape from Sabretooth like this. 

Maybe he would get used to it. The possessive rages and the pinning to keep Remy from moving around. The nuzzling and purring without asking in all the places that Remy hates. Maybe he… used to it… Maybe…

He finds himself slowly fading into sleep as Sabretooth’s warmth slowly leaches downwards into his bones.

[bananasofthorns]

now that it's all gone

read on ao3

At the end of the day, after Ren and Big B are dead and the smell of smoke hangs heavy in the air even though the fires have mostly gone out, they return to the ruins of The Relation. Something heavy settles in Joel’s throat as they approach, squinting against the setting sun. He spent an entire fucking week on that boat, and it’s just— gone. There’s nothing left except a fraction of the hull, some scattered bits of wood and wool, and scorched grass.

He should’ve known better, really. Should’ve remembered that it’s no use getting attached to anything, not in a world like this.

He’d thought that burning down half of the rest of the server had helped, but suddenly all of his raging emotions are back, filling his chest in a way that makes him think his ribs are going to crack with the weight of them.

A furious, guttural scream tears itself from his throat. Behind him, Etho startles; he ignores it and slams his axe into the only remaining piece of their boat, cleaving it in two. The force of the strike leaves his palms buzzing.

“ Fuck,” he shouts, suddenly breathless. 

He’s on the verge of either screaming until his voice gives out or shattering into a thousand pieces. He needs to kill something, needs to feel blood on his hands because maybe this time it’ll stop them shaking and soothe the ache in his chest— if he wears out his axe enough that the blade goes dull, then maybe he’ll feel okay again. It hasn’t really worked before, but, hey! Third time’s the charm, right? Right?

“Joel.”

He reaches up and tears a half-burned plank from what’s left of the boat. Splinters dig into his palms but he doesn’t care, just squeezes it tighter in his fist until his nails leave gouges in the charcoal.

“ Joel.”

With another scream, he flings it at the world border so hard that he sees the forcefield shiver. He does it again, and again, and again, until the remains of their boat are scattered in the field before them, highlighted in dull gold by the sunset.

“Joel!”

Someone grabs his shoulder. He jumps and spins, axe already rising into a sloppy attack. For a moment, his brain doesn’t register anything more than threat, and he’s a centimeter or two away from chopping off Etho’s head and ending both their lives when a hand, cold and surprisingly strong, catches his wrist.

“Seriously?” Etho asks, eyebrows raised; his tone is incredulous and unamused, but Joel knows him well enough by now to see the alarm hiding in his eyes.

“Shit,” he breathes. “ Shit, Etho, I could’ve killed you! What the heck? Why’d you do that, are you a fucking idiot—?”

“You weren’t listening to me.”

Joel takes a slow, deep breath. He lowers his axe. “...sorry. I just—” He runs his free hand through his hair only to remember a second later that it’s covered in soot. Shit. “Sorry.”

It still feels like there’s fire in his blood and a wild animal in his chest, trying to claw its way out of his ribs and up his throat. If it were anyone else in front of him, they’d be dead.

“...Did you wanna talk about it?” Etho asks, awkward. He’s still holding Joel’s wrist; the freezing points of his fingertips serve to quiet some of the inferno raging in his head.

He scoffs. “What is there to say? I’m fucking pissed, Etho. I spent an entire bloody week on this ship, only to have it burn down in less than an hour! This always happens and I never learn!”

His voice rises until he’s shouting again, staring up at Etho’s ever-impassive face and wondering why it’s so easy for him to act like he doesn’t care.

“Well. Even so. It was nice while it lasted,” he says quietly, like it means something, and apparently Joel’s body takes that as its cue to stop the adrenaline keeping him on his feet.

Etho yelps when he all but collapses onto his knees, dragging Etho down with him since he’s still holding onto his wrist. With an annoyed groan, he tosses his axe aside - careful to not hit either of them on the way - and flops back to lie on the grass. 

“Dude,” Etho laughs, finally letting go. 

Joel flexes his hand. “Sorry. Kind of tired myself out, there.”

“You think?”

“Shut up.”

His anger has faded, leaving a bone-deep exhaustion that makes him want nothing more than to pass out for a week. Unfortunately, that’s not going to happen, but it’s a nice thought. He lies there for a moment longer before sitting up, adjusting so that he and Etho are side by side.

This is something that’s different from every other time he’s experienced this: he’s got a partner this time. They’ll get through it together or die trying, but Joel really hopes it doesn’t end up being the latter, because he wants to win.

He glances at Etho out of the corner of his eye. Part of him wants to say thank you, but he feels like that would be weird. He wouldn’t know how to put it into words, anyway. He’s never been good with stuff like that.

“Did you know that your hands are absolutely fucking freezing?” he asks instead.

Etho laughs. “Oh, are they? Are you sure?”

Joel isn’t fast enough to dodge the hand he rests on the back of his neck. He shouts, then shoves Etho away.

“Oh, you jerk!”

It’s twilight. They’re both laughing, sitting on the grass a few feet away from their burnt-out husk of a boat. Joel still kind of wants to kill someone, but he’s exhausted and knows he needs to rest. There will be time for revenge later.

For now, with Etho by his side, he can wait.

[sajirah]

Come Away O Human Child

Part Two

This started out as a fun little problematic one-shot that I was supposed to get out of my system in 3k words or less and instead it’s turned into a three parter because it just kept getting longer and longer. Whoops. I was just going to post a really long Part Two, but @rosanna-writer convinced me to split it in half. So you're getting one more chapter after this (unless I really go off the rails and add even more scenes).

Additional Trigger Warnings for this fic: Ritual Sacrifice and Suicidal Ideation/Thoughts

As always, this fic is for the lovely @whatishowedyouinthedark who loves nothing more than to root on every unhinged, problematic thought you have. Now everyone go tell her how hot she is.

Part One can be read on AO3 or here.

Part Two can be read on AO3 or below the cut. Enjoy.

-o0o-

He started bringing her…visitors.

No, not visitors.

Sacrifices.

The first time it happened, she hadn’t understood what was going on.

He arrived as he did every night, with an arrogant grin, smug in the knowledge that she had once again failed to escape him. Though, this time, he didn’t come alone. A beautiful woman had arrived with him. All alabaster skin and large doe-like eyes that stared so obsequiously up at her as she kneeled at Feyre’s feet.

She blinked, confused. He had never brought anyone else into his home. Not that she was aware of anyway. He seemed more than content to hoard her all to himself. Selfishly. And possessively.

“Umm…hello?” Feyre had said, baffled.

The woman had just bowed her head reverently. “I am honored, High Lady, to give you this gift.”

She didn’t even have the chance to ask what gift that was before Rhys was pressing a knife into Feyre’s hands. There was no warning. No time to understand what was happening before she felt those now oh so familiar claws close in around her brain and force her hand to slash forward.

Crimson splashed from the woman’s neck like spilled wine.

Feyre could only watch in horror as her body, still held fast by those mental talons, was made to lean forward and lick that blood straight from the source as the woman twitched and gasped in her death throes. The taste of iron coated her tongue.

Then Rhys gathered her up in his arms, cooing at her like a child that had gotten a gold star.

“Good. Very good. You did so well.”

He dipped his fingers into the pool of blood on the floor, completely unconcerned with the dying woman, before painting strange glyphs onto her skin.

“There,” he kissed her on the forehead, a strangely sweet gesture in the aftermath of such horror. “Now, how about some cake? I had the cooks make your favorite.”

And so it would go.

Every day, she scoured the palace for an escape. And every night, after she failed, he would bring her a fresh victim.

They were always gracious. The fervent light of worship in their eyes when she sank the knife into their necks. These were not unwilling sacrifices. They were volunteers.

It didn’t make it any easier.

Only once did she ever ask him why he made her do this.

“To make you strong,” he had told her, fingers stroking lovingly over her cheeks.

She hadn’t known what to make of that at the time. Like so many of his words and actions, they were alien to her.

Feyre certainly didn’t feel strong. If anything, she felt ready to shatter at any moment. Willing or not, she was not made for murder. For watching the lifeblood drain out of her victims before lapping it up like wine. There was only so much trauma she could endure.

But the sacrifices kept coming.

And all she could do was persist.

-o0o-

Every day was the same.

Wake up alone. Upturn every inch of the palace for an escape. Scream in frustration when she inevitably failed as the sun set. Be made to commit yet another ritual sacrifice. And then become Rhysand’s plaything until dawn.

The endless routine of hope, failure, and then despair was beginning to get to her.

Feyre didn’t even know how long she’d been here anymore. She’d tried scratching lines into the wall but Rhysand must’ve noticed because one morning she’d awoken to find them gone. Now any time she tried to scratch another into the wall it would be gone the following day.

It could’ve been months for all she knew.

Time was beginning to lose all meaning. She saw the sun rise and set every day, but the days themselves were beginning to blur. All of them the same environment. The same horrors and frustrations. And the same man.

Mostly, her days were just…boring.

And lonely.

God, she was so lonely.

Rhysand and his fawning nightly sacrifices didn’t count.

Oh, he was there. If anything, she felt like she couldn’t escape the man half the time. And then, even when he was gone, he was a permanent presence at the edge of her mind. Always listening. Always watching. Always chiming in with mocking advice and observations. Not that there was much to watch. It wasn’t like she had much to do in this godforsaken palace besides wander around aimlessly, hoping a door back home would magically reveal itself.

But could one really have proper companionship with one’s kidnapper?

Rhysand certainly seemed to think so.

The one time she’d tried to bring up seeing someone, anyone, other than him, he’d simply smiled down at her with that now familiar condescending smile of his and Feyre had felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

“Now why would you want to do that?”

And, somehow, the words had chilled her to the bone.

She hadn’t asked since.

-o0o-

He treated her body so casually. So familiarly by now.

And, lord help her, she lets him.

She didn’t want to. Sometimes she even tried to resist. But even when he wasn’t taking control of her body like he owned it she still had to wrestle with the pull she felt towards him. That deep-seated need inside herself that told her she can’t live without him. That she needed his touch, his taste, his constant attention just to feel content.

It was infuriating.

Like now.

He was back from wherever he went during his days. Leaning casually against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, an amused expression on that stupidly handsome face.

“Still here I see.”

Feyre wanted to claw his eyes out.

“But you like my eyes,” he crooned as he loped into the room. He moved like a predator.

Danger, that ancient part of her brain, even now, whispered to her as he drew ever closer. Flesh eater.

And yet, because her wires had gotten completely crossed at some point, that thought only brought a flush to her cheeks and slick between her legs.

Clearly there was something wrong with her.

“Or maybe,” Rhysand said. “Your body knows what it truly wants.”

Feyre glared up at him. He was right in front of her now. Towering over her in the chair she had collapsed into after her search had once again proved fruitless.

She was angry.

She was restless.

She wanted to smash something.

“Look at you. All pent up,” he tutted, encircling her wrists with fingers as strong and unyielding as iron shackles. “What do you need hmm?”

Suddenly, in a single, fluid move she was lifted and spun around before being bent unceremoniously over the table. Feyre felt her heart beat a deafening rhythm against the cool wood.

“Is this how you need it today?” He murmured conversationally into her ear even as she felt his hands ruck up her dress.

She never wore anything else these days. Her own clothes had mysteriously disappeared almost the moment she’d awoken in this place and everything else left out for her to wear these days were flimsy gowns and dresses. And no underwear. Probably so nothing would be able to impede his easy access.

Prick.

“If you wanted it all you had to do was ask my darling girl.”

Something hot and hard brushed insistently between her legs and Feyre couldn’t help the gasp that escaped her.

She tried desperately to hold onto her anger. But the moment she felt fingers gently sift through her hair and trap her skull firmly against the wood she felt all the fight leave her in a rush.

“That’s better. You just needed a firm hand that’s all. I’ll always give you what you need.”

She hated him.

And yet, as she felt him tunnel his way inside of her, she knew that wasn’t entirely true. She hated what he had done to her. But she also loved the way he made her feel.

Her skin was fevered. Belly and breasts and face flush against the cool table. She could feel the grain of the wood cut into her cheek as he drove into her with the kind of measured and merciless control that pushed her anger right out of her head.

“Perfect,” he murmured, almost to himself. “My perfect girl. Always so warm and wet. Just for me.”

And, damn him, he was right. She couldn’t help it. There was something about him that just made her body sing.

“Because you were made for me,” he replied to that stray thought before reaching down to slide-slide his fingers over her clitoris. She keened and jerked, the sensation making her writhe on his cock like an animal.

She was beyond words now. She couldn’t have answered him even if she tried. But then, it was clear he didn’t expect her to. This was exactly how he wanted her. Reduced to unintelligible cries and moans and shivers all because of him.

“I want to live inside your cunt,” he rasped sweetly, even as his other hand gripped her neck. Another collar to tie her to him.

What she couldn’t say, but knew to be true, was that she wanted that too. For all his faults. Even after he’d caged her inside this palace she still craved his touch. She never felt more alive, more at peace, than when he was rutting into her and she could just…give in.

“Yes!” He hissed in response to her thoughts. His fingers sped up and she felt herself convulse. Impossibly, it felt like his cock had swollen even more inside of her. The idea of her submitting to him exciting him like nothing else.

Her climax hit hard. A symphony of shudders and moans. Her legs kicked out and her toes curled but there was nowhere for her body to go between the table and the heavy thrust of Rhysand’s hips as he came with a groan.

Afterwards, they both just lay there, curled against the wood like lovers.

“We are lovers my Darling Feyre,” Rhysand said with a laugh.

Feyre was too wrung out and high on the hormones swirling in her brain to refute that claim. How could she when he was still inside her? Instead, she just sighed softly.

“I hate you.”

It was barely more than a whisper.

She felt Rhysand chuckle behind her before kissing her temple so sweetly. So gently. Like she was so very precious.

“Oh my sweet girl,” he crooned lovingly into her hair before lifting her up off the table and into his arms. “I know.”

-o0o-

It doesn’t hit her until later.

Much later.

In hindsight, she should’ve been worried about such a thing from the moment she’d started having sex. And yet, here she was, suddenly panicking over a missed period.

Truthfully, her cycle had always been rather sporadic. After years of poor and infrequent meals and a solid decade of constant stress this was certainly nothing new. But the possibility was still there. After all, she hadn’t exactly been celibate since she’d been here. And she wasn’t completely ignorant. Nesta had been sure to explain where babies came from in very graphic detail when Feyre had come crying to her the first time she’d woken up to blood on her sheets. 

But she couldn’t be pregnant.

She couldn’t.

The very idea filled her with undiluted terror. How was she supposed to take care of a baby during the apocalypse?

You don’t. A traitorous voice whispered at the back of her mind. Because the truth was that she’d need to actually escape first to be able to raise her (hypothetical!) baby in the increasingly barren wasteland that was her home. And thus far her attempts had only resulted in her being made to commit nightly ritual murder and then being fucked so thoroughly she forgot her own name.

In the end though, it didn’t matter. Rhys appeared that evening as he always did, took one look at her, and immediately knew what was wrong.

“Oh my love. You’re not pregnant,” he said soothingly. “I would’ve smelled it.”

Relief flooded through her even as she filed that new factoid away.

“And if I had been?” She voiced tentatively. “What then?”

In an instant, his gaze grew hot and ravenous. She saw then what he envisioned without even needing him to put the image in her head. Her, round with his child. Proud in the knowledge that it was his seed that had made her that way. That it was his child that tied her to him forever.

Feyre shivered.

Not just because the thought terrified her.

But because it didn’t.

Rhys grinned. Teeth flashing white in the dim light.

She hated that. That he saw so easily into the deepest darkest depths of her. The parts she so rarely acknowledged even to herself.

“But those are my favorite parts of you my Darling Feyre,” he crooned, hands threading gently through her hair. “Those hateful little thoughts you think I don’t hear. Your pettiness. Your selfishness. Your shameful need to be touched and loved and told what a good girl you are.”

She listened with sheer horror and shame as he laid bare her every private thought and brought them out into the open so he might examine them with that cruel smile of his.

“I know of that secret part of yourself that you ignore. That deep yearning need for a family who loves you. I can give you that. And you know it. You know I would and that’s what scares you the most.”

It did.

It scared her so much she felt her whole body tremble. She shouldn’t want a baby. Not with anyone. But especially not with her sociopathic kidnapper who had all but chained her to his bed.

Is that something you’re interested in? Rhys’s amused voice asked in her head.

She imagined chaining him to the bed instead in response.

His smile only grew wider.

“That can be arranged,” he drawled.

Feyre’s face went white-hot.

Before she could stop herself an image of his beautiful naked body chained to the bed, her riding him with abandon and torturing him mercilessly the way he had tortured her all this time entered her mind.

Is that what you want my love? Me at your mercy? You only ever had to ask.

Her heart pounded in her chest like a war drum.

“Come my darling,” Rhys said as he took ahold of her hands and pulled her towards the bedroom. “Let me give you what you desire.”

And, damn him, he did.

-o0o-

He was still here.

Normally, Feyre would awaken every morning to Rhysand already gone for the day to…wherever he went, before reappearing just after sunset.

But not today.

Today she had woken to him staring down at her, the sun long risen, and him looking in no hurry to scuttle away any time soon.

“So eager to be rid of me?” he had remarked amusedly when she’d projected that thought a little too loudly.

“Always,” she had sniped back.

But then, even when she got up to dress and grab breakfast…he was still there. Following her delightedly into one of the (many, many) dining rooms to watch her stuff eggs into her mouth.

“Oh don’t mind me Darling,” he said while he slathered a piece of bread with some sort of jam. “By all means, do what you usually do every day. I won’t stop you”

Feyre narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

But, true to his word, he mostly just proceeded to lounge around the palace while she went about her usual (always fruitless) search. At one point she found herself investigating a wall she’d passed dozens of times before, wondering if there were some sort of secret door.

(It was a palace. Surely there was a secret door somewhere…?)

“Of course there are.”

The sound of Rhysand’s voice nearly startled her out of her skin. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been so surprised though. He’d made a habit of following her from room to room, smiling slyly at her efforts as if they were the height of hilarity.

She spun around to see him hovering a foot away, hands in his pockets and looking at her with that trademark stupid grin of his.

Prick.

Feyre eyed him distrustfully. “…And you wouldn’t happen to be willing to share where these secret doors are…would you?”

“They would hardly be secret if I shared their location, now would they?” He said coyly.

She scowled.

“Fuck you.”

His grin widened. “Whenever you want my dear.”

Just to let him know just how much she liked that comment, she grabbed a book from a nearby table and threw it at him. Of course he caught it, the bastard. But at least she felt a little better.

The rest of her search went much the same. He followed her from room to room like an extraordinarily bothersome shadow, all the while making snide comments about her methods while she valiantly did her best to ignore him. For all the good it did her. It was a lot like trying to ignore a particularly needy cat.

(A very, very needy cat)

Only once did he ever interfere.

It was late in the afternoon, nearing sunset when she walked out onto one of the balconies. The same one, in fact, where she had made this disastrous bargain. She stared out at the mountains and trees wistfully, longingly, before her eyes inevitably trailed downwards past the railing.

How far was that drop, she wondered. How long would it take to fall? A minute? Half a minute? She leaned further over the stone balustrade, eyeing the distance critically.

Just how long would it take for her to-

“Too close my love,” Rhys murmured in her ear. “We don’t want you tipping over.”

But even as she felt those strong arms of his reel her back inside, all she could do was stare out over that balcony and wonder.

Maybe she wanted to tip over.

What if…that was the only way out?

[amnevitahwritesstuff]

The fae come to our world to kidnap humanity and Feyre finds herself snatched up like all the others.

Fandom: A Court of Thorns and Roses

Pairing: Feyre/Rhysand

Rating: Explicit

Triggers: Non-Con, Kidnapping, Sexual Coercion, Memory Manipulation

Chapters: 1, 3

AO3 Link

☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾

Part Two

He started bringing her…visitors.

No, not visitors.

Sacrifices.

The first time it happened, she hadn’t understood what was going on.

He arrived as he did every night, with an arrogant grin, smug in the knowledge that she had once again failed to escape him. Though, this time, he didn’t come alone. A beautiful woman had arrived with him. All alabaster skin and large doe-like eyes that stared so obsequiously up at her as she kneeled at Feyre’s feet.

She blinked, confused. He had never brought anyone else into his home. Not that she was aware of anyway. He seemed more than content to hoard her all to himself. Selfishly. And possessively.

“Umm…hello?” Feyre had said, baffled.

The woman had just bowed her head reverently. “I am honored, High Lady, to give you this gift.”

She didn’t even have the chance to ask what gift that was before Rhys was pressing a knife into Feyre’s hands. There was no warning. No time to understand what was happening before she felt those now oh so familiar claws close in around her brain and force her hand to slash forward.

Crimson splashed from the woman’s neck like spilled wine.

Feyre could only watch in horror as her body, still held fast by those mental talons, was made to lean forward and lick that blood straight from the source as the woman twitched and gasped in her death throes. The taste of iron coated her tongue.

Then Rhys gathered her up in his arms, cooing at her like a child that had gotten a gold star.

“Good. Very good. You did so well.”

He dipped his fingers into the pool of blood on the floor, completely unconcerned with the dying woman, before painting strange glyphs onto her skin.

“There,” he kissed her on the forehead, a strangely sweet gesture in the aftermath of such horror. “Now, how about some cake? I had the cooks make your favorite.”

And so it would go.

Every day, she scoured the palace for an escape. And every night, after she failed, he would bring her a fresh victim.

They were always gracious. The fervent light of worship in their eyes when she sank the knife into their necks. These were not unwilling sacrifices. They were volunteers.

It didn’t make it any easier.

Only once did she ever ask him why he made her do this.

“To make you strong,” he had told her, fingers stroking lovingly over her cheeks.

She hadn’t known what to make of that at the time. Like so many of his words and actions, they were alien to her.

Feyre certainly didn’t feel strong. If anything, she felt ready to shatter at any moment. Willing or not, she was not made for murder. For watching the lifeblood drain out of her victims before lapping it up like wine. There was only so much trauma she could endure.

But the sacrifices kept coming.

And all she could do was persist.

☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾

Every day was the same.

Wake up alone. Upturn every inch of the palace for an escape. Scream in frustration when she inevitably failed as the sun set. Be made to commit yet another ritual sacrifice. And then become Rhysand’s plaything until dawn.

The endless routine of hope, failure, and then despair was beginning to get to her.

Feyre didn’t even know how long she’d been here anymore. She’d tried scratching lines into the wall but Rhysand must’ve noticed because one morning she’d awoken to find them gone. Now any time she tried to scratch another into the wall it would be gone the following day.

It could’ve been months for all she knew.

Time was beginning to lose all meaning. She saw the sun rise and set every day, but the days themselves were beginning to blur. All of them the same environment. The same horrors and frustrations. And the same man.

Mostly, her days were just…boring.

And lonely.

God, she was so lonely.

Rhysand and his fawning nightly sacrifices didn’t count.

Oh, he was there. If anything, she felt like she couldn’t escape the man half the time. And then, even when he was gone, he was a permanent presence at the edge of her mind. Always listening. Always watching. Always chiming in with mocking advice and observations. Not that there was much to watch. It wasn’t like she had much to do in this godforsaken palace besides wander around aimlessly, hoping a door back home would magically reveal itself.

But could one really have proper companionship with one’s kidnapper?

Rhysand certainly seemed to think so.

The one time she’d tried to bring up seeing someone, anyone, other than him, he’d simply smiled down at her with that now familiar condescending smile of his and Feyre had felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

“Now why would you want to do that?”

And, somehow, the words had chilled her to the bone.

She hadn’t asked since.

☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾

He treated her body so casually. So familiarly by now.

And, lord help her, she lets him.

She didn’t want to. Sometimes she even tried to resist. But even when he wasn’t taking control of her body like he owned it she still had to wrestle with the pull she felt towards him. That deep-seated need inside herself that told her she can’t live without him. That she needed his touch, his taste, his constant attention just to feel content.

It was infuriating.

Like now.

He was back from wherever he went during his days. Leaning casually against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, an amused expression on that stupidly handsome face.

“Still here I see.”

Feyre wanted to claw his eyes out.

“But you like my eyes,” he crooned as he loped into the room. He moved like a predator.

Danger, that ancient part of her brain, even now, whispered to her as he drew ever closer. Flesh eater.

And yet, because her wires had gotten completely crossed at some point, that thought only brought a flush to her cheeks and slick between her legs.

Clearly there was something wrong with her.

“Or maybe,” Rhysand said. “Your body knows what it truly wants.”

Feyre glared up at him. He was right in front of her now. Towering over her in the chair she had collapsed into after her search had once again proved fruitless.

She was angry.

She was restless.

She wanted to smash something.

“Look at you. All pent up,” he tutted, encircling her wrists with fingers as strong and unyielding as iron shackles. “What do you need hmm?”

Suddenly, in a single, fluid move she was lifted and spun around before being bent unceremoniously over the table. Feyre felt her heart beat a deafening rhythm against the cool wood.

“Is this how you need it today?” He murmured conversationally into her ear even as she felt his hands ruck up her dress.

She never wore anything else these days. Her own clothes had mysteriously disappeared almost the moment she’d awoken in this place and everything else left out for her to wear these days were flimsy gowns and dresses. And no underwear. Probably so nothing would be able to impede his easy access.

Prick.

“If you wanted it all you had to do was ask my darling girl.”

Something hot and hard brushed insistently between her legs and Feyre couldn’t help the gasp that escaped her.

She tried desperately to hold onto her anger. But the moment she felt fingers gently sift through her hair and trap her skull firmly against the wood she felt all the fight leave her in a rush.

“That’s better. You just needed a firm hand that’s all. I’ll always give you what you need.”

She hated him.

And yet, as she felt him tunnel his way inside of her, she knew that wasn’t entirely true. She hated what he had done to her. But she also loved the way he made her feel.

Her skin was fevered. Belly and breasts and face flush against the cool table. She could feel the grain of the wood cut into her cheek as he drove into her with the kind of measured and merciless control that pushed her anger right out of her head.

“Perfect,” he murmured, almost to himself. “My perfect girl. Always so warm and wet. Just for me.”

And, damn him, he was right. She couldn’t help it. There was something about him that just made her body sing.

“Because you were made for me,” he replied to that stray thought before reaching down to slide-slide his fingers over her clitoris. She keened and jerked, the sensation making her writhe on his cock like an animal.

She was beyond words now. She couldn’t have answered him even if she tried. But then, it was clear he didn’t expect her to. This was exactly how he wanted her. Reduced to unintelligible cries and moans and shivers all because of him.

“I want to live inside your cunt,” he rasped sweetly, even as his other hand gripped her neck. Another collar to tie her to him.

What she couldn’t say, but knew to be true, was that she wanted that too. For all his faults. Even after he’d caged her inside this palace she still craved his touch. She never felt more alive, more at peace, than when he was rutting into her and she could just…give in.

“Yes!” He hissed in response to her thoughts. His fingers sped up and she felt herself convulse. Impossibly, it felt like his cock had swollen even more inside of her. The idea of her submitting to him exciting him like nothing else.

Her climax hit hard. A symphony of shudders and moans. Her legs kicked out and her toes curled but there was nowhere for her body to go between the table and the heavy thrust of Rhysand’s hips as he came with a groan.

Afterwards, they both just lay there, curled against the wood like lovers.

“We are lovers my Darling Feyre,” Rhysand said with a laugh.

Feyre was too wrung out and high on the hormones swirling in her brain to refute that claim. How could she when he was still inside her? Instead, she just sighed softly.

“I hate you.”

It was barely more than a whisper.

She felt Rhysand chuckle behind her before kissing her temple so sweetly. So gently. Like she was so very precious.

“Oh my sweet girl,” he crooned lovingly into her hair before lifting her up off the table and into his arms. “I know.”

☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾

It doesn’t hit her until later.

Much later.

In hindsight, she should’ve been worried about such a thing from the moment she’d started having sex. And yet, here she was, suddenly panicking over a missed period.

Truthfully, her cycle had always been rather sporadic. After years of poor and infrequent meals and a solid decade of constant stress this was certainly nothing new. But the possibility was still there. After all, she hadn’t exactly been celibate since she’d been here. And she wasn’t completely ignorant. Nesta had been sure to explain where babies came from in very graphic detail when Feyre had come crying to her the first time she’d woken up to blood on her sheets. 

But she couldn’t be pregnant.

She couldn’t.

The very idea filled her with undiluted terror. How was she supposed to take care of a baby during the apocalypse?

You don’t. A traitorous voice whispered at the back of her mind. Because the truth was that she’d need to actually escape first to be able to raise her (hypothetical!) baby in the increasingly barren wasteland that was her home. And thus far her attempts had only resulted in her being made to commit nightly ritual murder and then being fucked so thoroughly she forgot her own name.

In the end though, it didn’t matter. Rhys appeared that evening as he always did, took one look at her, and immediately knew what was wrong.

“Oh my love. You’re not pregnant,” he said soothingly. “I would’ve smelled it.”

Relief flooded through her even as she filed that new factoid away.

“And if I had been?” She voiced tentatively. “What then?”

In an instant, his gaze grew hot and ravenous. She saw then what he envisioned without even needing him to put the image in her head. Her, round with his child. Proud in the knowledge that it was his seed that had made her that way. That it was his child that tied her to him forever.

Feyre shivered.

Not just because the thought terrified her.

But because it didn’t.

Rhys grinned. Teeth flashing white in the dim light.

She hated that. That he saw so easily into the deepest darkest depths of her. The parts she so rarely acknowledged even to herself.

“But those are my favorite parts of you my Darling Feyre,” he crooned, hands threading gently through her hair. “Those hateful little thoughts you think I don’t hear. Your pettiness. Your selfishness. Your shameful need to be touched and loved and told what a good girl you are.”

She listened with sheer horror and shame as he laid bare her every private thought and brought them out into the open so he might examine them with that cruel smile of his.

“I know of that secret part of yourself that you ignore. That deep yearning need for a family who loves you. I can give you that. And you know it. You know I would and that’s what scares you the most.”

It did.

It scared her so much she felt her whole body tremble. She shouldn’t want a baby. Not with anyone. But especially not with her sociopathic kidnapper who had all but chained her to his bed.

Is that something you’re interested in? Rhys’s amused voice asked in her head.

She imagined chaining him to the bed instead in response.

His smile only grew wider.

“That can be arranged,” he drawled.

Feyre’s face went white-hot.

Before she could stop herself an image of his beautiful naked body chained to the bed, her riding him with abandon and torturing him mercilessly the way he had tortured her all this time entered her mind.

Is that what you want my love? Me at your mercy? You only ever had to ask.

Her heart pounded in her chest like a war drum.

“Come my darling,” Rhys said as he took ahold of her hands and pulled her towards the bedroom. “Let me give you what you desire.”

And, damn him, he did.

☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾

He was still here.

Normally, Feyre would awaken every morning to Rhysand already gone for the day to…wherever he went, before reappearing just after sunset.

But not today.

Today she had woken to him staring down at her, the sun long risen, and him looking in no hurry to scuttle away any time soon.

“So eager to be rid of me?” he had remarked amusedly when she’d projected that thought a little too loudly.

“Always,” she had sniped back.

But then, even when she got up to dress and grab breakfast…he was still there. Following her delightedly into one of the (many, many) dining rooms to watch her stuff eggs into her mouth.

“Oh don’t mind me Darling,” he said while he slathered a piece of bread with some sort of jam. “By all means, do what you usually do every day. I won’t stop you”

Feyre narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

But, true to his word, he mostly just proceeded to lounge around the palace while she went about her usual (always fruitless) search. At one point she found herself investigating a wall she’d passed dozens of times before, wondering if there were some sort of secret door.

(It was a palace. Surely there was a secret door somewhere…?)

“Of course there are.”

The sound of Rhysand’s voice nearly startled her out of her skin. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been so surprised though. He’d made a habit of following her from room to room, smiling slyly at her efforts as if they were the height of hilarity.

She spun around to see him hovering a foot away, hands in his pockets and looking at her with that trademark stupid grin of his.

Prick.

Feyre eyed him distrustfully. “…And you wouldn’t happen to be willing to share where these secret doors are…would you?”

“They would hardly be secret if I shared their location, now would they?” He said coyly.

She scowled.

“Fuck you.”

His grin widened. “Whenever you want my dear.”

Just to let him know just how much she liked that comment, she grabbed a book from a nearby table and threw it at him. Of course he caught it, the bastard. But at least she felt a little better.

The rest of her search went much the same. He followed her from room to room like an extraordinarily bothersome shadow, all the while making snide comments about her methods while she valiantly did her best to ignore him. For all the good it did her. It was a lot like trying to ignore a particularly needy cat.

(A very, very needy cat)

Only once did he ever interfere.

It was late in the afternoon, nearing sunset when she walked out onto one of the balconies. The same one, in fact, where she had made this disastrous bargain. She stared out at the mountains and trees wistfully, longingly, before her eyes inevitably trailed downwards past the railing.

How far was that drop, she wondered. How long would it take to fall? A minute? Half a minute? She leaned further over the stone balustrade, eyeing the distance critically.

Just how long would it take for her to-

“Too close my love,” Rhys murmured in her ear. “We don’t want you tipping over.”

But even as she felt those strong arms of his reel her back inside, all she could do was stare out over that balcony and wonder.

Maybe she wanted to tip over.

What if…that was the only way out?

[heranubis]

LAST HOUSE IN THE BAYOU: Infernal Alex Keller mini-series ◇ chapter III. FIREWEED ◇ img cred ◇

◇ CONTENT WARNINGS: alex bites out of aggression and wound is vaguely described being treated

- ◇ - ◇ - ◇ - ◇ - ◇ - ◇ - ◇ - ◇ - ◇ - ◇ -

The dreams and long, sleepless nights continue as time slowly crawls by. Weeks into months as you work on bringing life back into the old house. The demon torments anyone who tries to offer help - hiding tools, making screams far off in the bayou, even the shadows move like something evil and ugly. But you are not deterred - and simply take up the jobs yourself.

Many days are spent with you on your knees ripping up old carpets and humming along to your old radio as he stands in the doorway, his hooves clicking as he shifts his weight. You still don't have a name for him, nor does he have yours. He growls and hisses and speaks in a language that hurts whenever you try to call him anything other than 'demon'. You gave up shortly after the first nose bleed.

The next project is perhaps the most tedious and annoying. You decide to repaint the walls before installing new flooring - and every time you decide on a color, the nightmares start up again. Still you as a child, still those sharp claws digging into your shoulders. But the old woman doesn't save you again - you simply stand in the hallway with him behind you until morning arrives and the sun saves you from his touch. When you decide on a soft shade of blue, his grip doesn't seem as tight.

- ◇ -

You decide on carpet - picking a soft gray that pairs well with the blue on the walls; it also masks the sound of his hooves, gives your brain a moment to forget he's there and watching. He's not as hostile as he was in the beginning, and you think perhaps it's time mellowing out his temper - or maybe he finally realized you're not going anywhere.

And then... you have another dream. This one is different from the others, it feels like something you're not meant to see, but your eyes won't open.

It's a battlefield, and there's a gun in your hands - but this body is not your own. "Alex" you hear a voice call, and your head involuntarily turns to greet it. "Cmon, man - we can't save them. We have to go!" You don't know who they are, or who this Alex is, but you know the words hurt him. It feels like knives shoved between the ribs and twisted with an anger no man should possess. It hurts and it burns and you feel like you're dying.

Everything moves fast and slow, a blur and crystal clear. There's pain in your left leg and then suddenly... you don't feel anything. Your eyes open and you're looking directly at the demon as he leans over you on your bed. His clawed hands braced on either side of your head, his knees pressed tightly against your hips and his tail swaying angrily. His lips curl back in a snarl as he glares down at you.

"Stay out of my head. Or else" he growls - and then, in the blink of an eye, he's gone and you're alone in the bed.

- ◇ -

The demon doesn't disturb you for the rest of the month, but you see him in doorways and shadows. He never stays long enough for you to get a good look, but you know he's there. You almost... feel bad for him. Clearly he'd been through something traumatic as a human, and maybe it was that anger that kept him bound to this world. Privately, in the safety of your mind, you call him Alex. And you think the wallpaper matched his eyes almost perfectly.

- ◇ -

Making peace with the demon is far harder than you could even begin to imagine. The whiskey bottle you had hung in the soul tree for him constantly shatters, and yet you always find one to replace it. It's almost a daily ritual, changing out the bottles and silently hoping this one lasts longer than the others - but it never does.

You leave out sweets and desserts for him. Bottles of strawberry jam, a pile of honeysuckle blooms, even a spare bottle of moonshine you'd found tucked away in the cupboard. It seems this type of offering is accepted - as you find a ghost orchid resting on your pillow the next time you lay down for sleep. He doesn't stomp as often, nor does his tail lash so violently. He almost seems... demure, tamed.

- ◇ -

The first time you call him Alex is when things truly reach their peak - he bites you. Right on your shoulder, you feel his sharp teeth break skin and the smell of blood in the air and then he's gone. You're too busy tending to the wound to notice how he slinks into the bathroom behind you and places clawed hands on the sink, trapping you between his arms. "Don't call me that" he says - his voice soft and gruff; he hasn't truly spoken since that one time you'd told him to get out.

"It's your name, isn't it? Alex?" you mumble softly, tenderly wiping the blood from the bitemark, ignoring how his eyes burn into you. "Nobody's called me that for a long time" he whispers, his tail curling tightly around your leg, his head almost hesitantly nestling against the back of your head. "A thing like me doesn't deserve a name"

You pause at that, and make eye contact with him through the mirror. His eyes are the same blue as the walls that surround you - and he looks tired. But this is a tired no sleep can fix, this is the exhaustion of existance.

"I'm not human anymore. Don't call me that" he hisses again, his eyes now hard and pupils sharp - slitted like a crocodiles. "I don't want you here - why won't you just leave?! Like everyone else - just go! Get out!" he practically snarls, his voice inhuman and otherly as his words seem to claw down to your bones.

You look at him through the mirror - and you see the hurt, the fear. Turning around, you look down and finally notice why his hoofbeats sound off. Just below the knee, his left leg is metallic and skeletal - he notices your stare and shifts his body to remove it from your sight. His tail whips and he disappears, the smell of sulfur strong enough to make your eyes water.

- ◇ -

The next time you walk outside, the whiskey bottle in the soul tree is on the ground - perfectly intact, as if someone had cut it free. You kneel down and pick it up, glancing back at the other bottles, and you notice something. All of the other bottles have slips of paper in them - names written down with words of love and warmth scrawled across. Aged by the elements yet remaining - you know what to do now.

Brown glass shines dully in the sun, held up by a thick cord and deep in the belly of the bottle lays a paper with a name carefully inked.

Alex.

[fetabathwater]

Alone midnight and skin for ms lamby lamb my lov <33

prompts here!

alone: How does your OC deal with loneliness? Have they ever been completely alone before? How do they act when there’s no one around to see them?

Loneliness to Jennifer is like an itch. It's not enough to call it a phantom limb, even though that has increased exponentially since the vote, but loneliness as a child was her purposely standing in the middle of the house and screaming until someone came running. It was the outbursts in class and the clawing for attention, only to rebuff it as she hit her teens and thought she was above it all. Loneliness crawls all over her brain and down her spine and it eats away at her, because Jen never really had her parents, and her grandmother passed, and her grandfather sits in his chair or in the garden, just waiting away each day. Her other half is gone, through actions of her own too, and yeah, Jen can stand in a room and feel the separation, because she doesn't want to go through the motions again. Noise isn't enough to scare the loneliness away, when no one else has her in their eyesight. Lights are on, tv blaring, music playing, and Jen's fingers do itch to start taking something a bit heavier to ease it all away.

midnight: What keeps your OC up at night? Do they have nightmares? Fears? Anxieties? What do they do in the small hours of the morning when they should be sleeping?

Thinking and re-thinking and replaying the fight. In her mind, she's got variations of the vote running, sometimes hard enough that she convinces herself that is real. Her phone keeps her up, hovering over Seven's number, and no matter how many times she throws it to the other side of the room, she still gets out of bed, picks it up, rinse and repeat. Jen's nightmares about no longer being palatable. About never being enough. All the sites say their voices work better apart, but Jen sees how expendable she is, because what if she stops appealing? What if the band doesn't need her anymore? Kicking out a singer never stopped anyone before, historically. Those small hours of the morning are the worst, when she's on her phone and the independent journal sites and the odd vid dedicated to breaking down what happened. Jen tells herself if she doesn't stay on top of this, then the worst will happen - but she also knows that's bullshit.

skin: How comfortable is your OC in their skin? Do they grapple with anything that lives inside them—a beast, a curse, a failure, a monster? How do they face the smallest, weakest, most horrible version of themself? Are they able to acknowledge it at all?

Jennifer stands in front of the mirror and feels like she's a marionette and the one pulling her own strings. The curse she bears is the word 'palatable'. It was an offhand comment, a reason for her to stay lead, but something in the way she was already so broken after the vote ate that word up, as if it was glue to keep her together. Palatable. Easy to digest, pleasant, constant. Just as easy to replace for something better. Jen dyes her hair and brushes her teeth, does her makeup and puts on the clothes but she doesn't recognise herself, really. She should cover the tattoo, remove it, burn it off, anything, to sell the image that the band wants. They can't have someone who is walking a very fine line, right? What would that say? She's still stamped, even though that ended swiftly, all those years ago. Reinvented herself into the star that would appeal; Jen digs her nails into the skin around the tattoo. Half-moons, as if she might be able to take it off herself, because having it still there means that Jennifer Lamb, duet partner, carried by her former everything, still exists - and she can't face that any time soon.

(and when she saw that Seven still had her initials, her carefully constructed everything ached, as if who she was might still be alive, and not this version of herself she's trying so hard to be)

[thefoxintheautumnforest]

Pain

What does pain mean to you?

See pain to me doesn’t mean just one thing it’s too complex to be just one thing. Pain is the only constant in my life, pain for me is like the one memory you wish you could forget. It’s the thought that crosses your mind at random times and makes you wish you could just jump out of your body and be someone else. 

Pain is my constant.

I share every aspect of my being with pain my mental, my physical and my emotional all are infested with pain. I wake up because of the pain not because I wanted to see tomorrow. 

I get out of bed because the pain makes it hard to stay in any position for long and If I’m not sleeping why should I as a technically functioning adult be in bed? That’s not productive and If I’m not being productive then how can I get anyone to see exactly how much pain I’m in? Though I can’t let anyone know that I’m in pain because then I’m lazy and weak. 

The worst is the phantom pain that no one can see and even if they did they’d just write it off as “not that bad” or “just in my head” seriously with all the advancements in mental health awareness I’m still stunned that people still don’t realize that the brain can turn your mental and emotional pain into physical.

This phantom pain feels like I’m trapped in a small cage and no matter what I do I can’t seem to get out even though I know exactly how to. My body tenses and I have this overwhelming need to scream until my throat is so raw that I cough up blood. It’s all in vain though because not only can’t anyone hear my chest crushing screams I can’t seem to get myself to actually scream that scream that so desperately scratches at my inside trying to claw it’s way out.

It’s stuck in there so instead I’m left choking on a lump of pain and grief.

The cuts I make in my skin on the bad days only serve to lessen the built up pressure but the relief never lasts long and I just add to the pain. 

Death doesn’t feel like a release for me cause I’ve been there before and I feel as though I wasted my chance to go to somewhere good where the pain is not. 

Now I just feel dread I feel so much now since then and It’s crushing me knowing what will happen. I’m not afraid of death and dying I’m scared the pain won’t stop and will just follow me.

I don’t think I’ll ever be without pain we are just two sides of the same coin and I’ve resigned myself to this fact If I can’t stop it then at the very least I can cope with it in some way.

What does pain me to you? 

[affectionatecorpse]

Does anyone else who's ever had a near death experience just... sit up and think about it sometimes?

Thinking about how much you've been through despite the odds?

Wondering if you really had died, and this is your life flashing before your eyes, as something that's already happened, playing as a distant memory?

Or do you wonder if you aren't alive fully, living as a zombie or a ghost, without even realising it?

I think about it sometimes. A lot, actually. Every time that scar on my head itches, or aches. It's something I don't talk about a lot, not with other people. I don't know why. I feel almost ashamed of it. I guess because I'm unsure if I was supposed to survive? So now if I do anything the slightest bit wrong, my brain resorts to saying I'm wasting my chance at survival.

I don't talk about it much. But I kinda want to. If you don't like gorey details, stop reading now.

It happened when I was just a kid. I think I was about 7 or 8. I remember because that same year, I got a dog, and considered 8 to be my lucky number because of it.

Things were just so... normal. Too normal, I'd argue. I was at my dad's house, 500 miles from home. Usually my dad would pay attention to me for the first few hours, but once the luxury wore off, he'd tell me to go and entertain myself while he went to play Skyrim, or a Sonic game.

I'd spend all day by myself, getting yelled at by my dad if I bothered him, and getting yelled at by my grandparents if I bothered them while they were watching Only Fools and Horses. This was just my normal. It sounds like a tragedy, but it wasn't. This was routine.

It was night time. My nan was cooking in the kitchen, my grandad was yelling at the football game on TV, and my dad was upstairs on his computer. I was so, so bored. I sat by the window and wished, just wished they'd pay attention to me. I wished to end my boredom, to end the neglect, and feel like my family cared for me.

After this wish, I got spooked by a hallucination. I've suffered from psychosis my whole life. This was part of my normal. But this vision was something else entirely. I could feel it. A cold, dead hand, leaving the shadows, clawing into my chest, trying to grab my heart.

I screamed and ran like any rational kid would. I was 8, of course I did. I ran. I tripped. Dyspraxia is my curse. I had caught my foot on the rug, and fallen.

And smashed my head on the solid, cold, stone wall.

It wasn't cold for long. I remember that pain, that agonising pain, so well. The hotness of my blood coating my face, and the wall, and the floor, and my favourite butterfly shirt. It was gushing everywhere. I could feel myself getting dizzier. I could barely hear my nan's screaming, my ears were ringing so loud. Everything was muffled and dead, like they weren't talking at all, just murmuring like in their sleep. My vision was blurred and colourless, like the brightness and joy had been sucked out of the world.

Yet I felt absolutely nothing. I felt the agonising pain, but that was it. I felt no fear, nor sadness. I just felt tired. Like I'd just woken up from a nap. Time felt like a thick jelly. I can't remember much else, because I'd lost too much blood by that point. But I got my wish.

I woke up a few days later. At least I think I did. I can't remember if I'd woken up at all before then. This was just where my memories picked up. I remember trying to look for my mother, and being met with tension all down my head. Not pain, but numbness, and tension, like my hair was pulled back into a too tight ponytail.

Somehow even then, I didn't know if I was alive or not. I never figured that out. Even when I got older.

My skull had received massive damage. It had cracked. The nurse told me they superglued it back together, but once I got older, I figured I had a minor surgery. My head had to be sewn back together, from the top down to the back. The scar is still there. I feel it sometimes when I'm thinking. Sometimes if I poke it wrong, I get dizzy. It aches and itches constantly. It won't let me forget it's there.

I should've died. I've heard that ever since. People either told me I was lucky, or that they wished I hadn't survived, depending on context. My parents have said both at some point. It's the only thing they really have in common.

I don't know if I love or hate it. I laugh at calling it a lobotomy with my friends. I sob into my pillow about why I had to endure it. I sit motionless in the shower, staring at the wall, wondering if it was my wish that had caused this. Or if my hallucination was my warning.

[beautifulnightmareconnoisseur]

Literally just dumping this on here Cuz I can't really talk to anyone about it yet and almost everywhere I could put it would have someone I know able to see it and I just can't handle keeping it to only me right now.

I got into a fight with my mom today which tbh was probably coming for a while but I still hate it and I can't stop thinking about it. Don't worry about my safety or anything, we got the anger part mostly sorted I think and I don't normally live with her or anything. We have just spent the week together in her hometown, just the two of us, and we go home tomorrow (thank goodness).

She asked my opinion on something in a medical related article that was basically an acknowledgement that sex and gender aren't the same but that the article was using gendered terms in the context of bio sex. She doesn't understand why it's a thing, the whole why does it have to be my problem argument basically. I am a firm believer that for things like that, if it doesn't make sense to you it isn't meant for you, and that's OK. Just ignore it and move on. To me, a nonbinary person who is constantly misgendered in everyday life, including in a medical setting, that kind of thing is just a nice little bit of acknowledgment that puts the part of my brain that get really uncomfortable being referred to incorrectly at ease.

To be somewhat short, it kind of blew up into why can't trans people just be trans quietly on her side, and trans people deserve to be acknowledged just like everyone else on mine. I apparently implied at some point that I understood her perspective (or something similar, I'm honestly not sure) which set off a part of her brain that hates being told how she feels. That's fine, I didn't mean to set it off and she can't control the feeling it creates, but it just got worse and worse.

I tried to disengage pretty early on, because I get passionate, then angry, then mean when I feel like I'm not being heard, and I knew this conversation would cause that. But I felt like I couldn't escape the conversation (which she apologized for later) and it just continued until my physical signs of stress kicked up. When I get too stressed and overwhelmed, especially in an argument, I start to panic. I start crying, breathing gets harder, and I start scratching at my skin violently (never been so thankful for my short af nails). I said I had to stop the conversation and go, and got up to get some space, and she blew up at me. I blew up back, because I was already at the end of my capacity, and it devolved into screaming.

I spaced out for a while after that. I think I had a panic attack or meltdown or something, Cuz I kind of remember sitting in a corner, on the phone with my fiance, clawing at my throat and arms Cuz I couldn't breathe. Mom says she told me to get out, which I apparently was going to do, but I asked to pack my shit (sounds like me tbh) which confused the hell out of her. I don't think she expected me to actually leave, but I think I was going to, and just walk to the nearby winco until I could figure out what to do next. I'm about 16 hours from home by car so it would have been a task.

I ended up sitting in a closet until I felt OK again, and I texted her to say sorry after a bit. I don't know if I should have reached out first, tbh, Cuz I tried to end the conversation before it got that bad, then I tried to leave at the start of my meltdown, and she asked me for my opinion and I offered it. But i don't know that she would have had the strength to do it, and one of her biggest fears is ruining her relationships (hence why this is being shared here, where no one either of us know will see it, and its lacking my less sour thoughts on the situation).

Anyways it's just making it hard for me to sleep. She said something about misgendering during the screaming bit, but I don't know what because I kinda wasn't mentally there anymore. I don't know if it was referring to me, or herself, or something else. I tried to give her the chance to bring it up after, but she didn't, and no way in hell was I gonna push.

My brain just won't leave it alone. It's hard. And I'm just so tired.

[the-bi-space-ace]

Oh I’d love to add my thoughts. I sure do love to yap. Hunter has been hard for me to enjoy, always has been, and I'll admit that there have been times I’ve had to force myself to write him into a scene. I was especially hard on him after the end of S2, I think. I wasn't having a fun time writing him and I definitely vibe more with characters like Echo or Rex or Crosshair. However, I've had a lot more fun writing Hunter and have connected with him more as a character within the past year.

Everything @floundrickthewayfarer said applies to how I see and characterize Hunter so I want to offer and expand on just a few things that make him a more interesting character for me to write.

When I write Hunter he is protective, non-confrontational, pessimistic, and refuses to admit when he is wrong or has wronged someone. He's got a strong will but he's also willing to listen. He will change his mind if pushed but he won't admit acceptance of it. It's an interesting thing to play with - this idea of flexibility under strict personal rules.

Hunter: 'No we absolutely should not do this and here is why.' Anyone else: 'Here's why it's actually the thing we should be doing and I need you to agree and support this otherwise I will do it without you.' Hunter: '.... fuck it, fine.'

I use this template a lot when writing him. Especially when writing him as an Echo counterpart. It's a lot of fun to give Echo some push back and him only to grow stronger in his convictions. As we can tell from my long fics, I love a good disagreement. Hunter is a great option to push back against Echo's fierceness. His perspective is different, and he offers resistance that is needed. Times are tough, things are complicated, and his focus is making sure they get out alive not saving anyone else. I think the way to frame it so I enjoy writing it is usually about making sure it's about lack of action not lack of empathy. He's not unfeeling, far from it, but he won't stick his neck out for anyone unless he is personally connected to them. He won't let his squad stick their necks out without him either. He may not want to do it but he won't go kicking and screaming he'll just sigh and glare and grumble, maybe even make snippy comments about it if he's really pissed. He knows his loved ones well enough to know when they will do it without him if he refuses to help and that is not something he'll allow. If they're walking into fire and certain death he's walking with them, you can't stop him. He loves and respects Echo, the same way Echo loves and respects Hunter, and disagreeing or hurting each other does not make that go away. I enjoy trying to write within that space. Let them have their perspectives, feelings, let them snip at each other, but allow them to still care about each other. (I've written an entire post about this exact thing that I've never posted)

Hunter can't admit when he has wronged someone, or, at least, he really doesn't want to. Allowing Hunter to have this trait allows space for conflict which, for me, is fun to write. He won't discuss his internal feelings with anyone else, preferring to go it alone, which leaves him without outside perspective if no one confronts him. This is what makes my brain go all buzzy about him. Sticking him up against Crosshair, who can be spiteful and cutting and hit right where it hurts, a man who begs to be heard and won't let you get the last word, someone who won't be ignored, is just soooooo exciting to write. Hunter won't throw too many punches but he'll try to brush things aside so he doesn't have to ever look it in the face. I love making these two butt heads. There's love there, of course there is, but they have very different responses when they feel hurt by someone else. Hunter ignores it, of course he does. He's a let's just move on why are we even still talking about this, kind of guy. But Crosshair is going to force a confrontation. He'll argue, he'll claw and complain and bite. He says something cutting, hits first thinks later. Hunter will take a beating before he starts throwing low blows. I love making Hunter ignore it. Can't be having interpersonal issues if he just pretends they don't exist, right? There's a desperation to both sides. They want the same thing, at the end of the day - to have each other back - but they disagree about how to make that happen.

The last thing I want to touch on is how much I love when Hunter makes fun of the other batchers. We really only saw it in TCW but I am endlessly entertained by how playful this man can be. I use it a lot, mainly bc I tend to like writing that so much it hurts, but I do think that attribute is somewhere in there. He teases his squadmates, is a certified Frat Bro, and literally brings a knife to a blaster fight WHAT THE HELL, HUNTER???? I love that. You reckless grump. In tense situations that trait seems to disappear but I like to make it come out when he's more relaxed. Yes, he's stoic and grumbly and all of that stuff but if he's relaxed??? He's just as bad as the rest of the batch. I like to find what will allow him to relax and let that side of himself out and then run with it. It's nice to see him get the chance, even if I've put him through loads of angst to get there. I think it helps me to just make him a little silly. Everyone is a little silly sometimes, so what would let Hunter be silly? Ya know?!?

As a parting gift I would like to offer you my favorite things about Hunter that are technically head canons but are canon to me:

Is not smooth at all and all of the batch tease him about it. Mr. Fights With A Knife trips over his own feet and is miserable at small talk. Can do flips and shit but spills his caf down his front.

Sleeps with a mask over his eyes. It has little fake eyes printed on it.

My all time favorite Hunter headcanon which is that if one of the batch sits next to him he will immediately start playing with their hair or rubbing their back or anything to absentmindedly be present even if they don't chat.

Has a favorite knife. No one else is allowed to touch it. He shaves with it sometimes.

Knows when someone gets out of bed because it wakes him up. He waits until they're back in bed before he'll fall asleep again.

Sometimes just says things about his enhancements (real or made up) to freak the rest of the squad out. He thinks he's funny. Hunter: 'Yeah, I knew it was you because of the sound of your heartbeat.' Echo: 'oh okay, that makes sens- YOU CAN HEAR OUR HEARTBEATS?!?' Hunter: 'You smell different. Hold on, let me smell you I need to know why you smell different.' Crosshair: 'NO! Hunter, enough, I can't take this anymore stop smelling me, it's so weird!'

Runs warm as fuck and if it's cold in the Marauder and Wrecker is already taken as a personal heater (bc that man is warm and big and you will NOT freeze while cuddling Wrecker) he's got at least one other person in his bed sucking up his body heat if not two. Sighs but lets it happen even if they always shove their cold feet onto him and complain about him snoring.

This has gotten very very long but I hope this helped even a little bit. Writing Hunter is a lot more fun for me now than it was when I was trying to write in 2022 and 2023 and *gestures to everything above* is certainly a part of it.

not trying to ruffle feathers here, but i honestly think i would like hunter way more if he wasn’t just “hot sergeant dad” in fandom. like the other batch members i think have a more balanced amount of fandom that thinks they’re hot and fandom that discusses their character, if that makes sense?

every time i see a hunter appreciation post about his leadership, his character arc, or his struggles in raising a kid, it still eventually turns into how hot that apparently makes him lol. i think if there were more… nuance? (idk how to say that without sounding pretentious lol) then id be able to appreciate his story more.

idk, something about him or the way popular fandom presents him just makes him really boring/flat as a character to me

again, if you think he’s hot, great!! genuinely happy for you, i think my problem is just that i’m an aroace lesbian who tends to dislike the popular interpretation of characters lol

(yes this is a plea for u to convince me he’s actually interesting plsplspls i want to like writing him bsjshdkdl)

[onecanonlife]

In which Tommy has a nightmare, and enderwalk!Ranboo is of the opinion that grass blocks make everything better.

(word count: 1,413)

----------

Tommy jolts out of a nightmare that he doesn’t want to remember, and a few seconds later, finds himself hyperventilating outside on the grass.

It’s not on, is what it is. He hardly asked for this, for these awful dreams and this inability to sleep for more than a few hours at a time at best, for this creeping certainty that Dream is breaking out, is going to come for him, and that it’s only a matter of time before something awful happens. He didn’t ask for any of this, but he has it, and he’s not moving out of his house, because that would feel like a concession, but on nights like these he wakes up and the dirt walls press in around him and he can’t breathe, and it is completely and utterly the worst.

So. Outside. Grass. Hyperventilating.

Calming himself down is old hat, by now. He figured out how to do it a long time ago, around the time when he realized that there wasn’t going to be anyone holding his hand anymore, that he was well and truly on his own, without a friend in the world. Other than—but no, he doesn’t go there. He knows better, now, even though his brain still tries to play tricks on him sometimes, tries to convince him that Dream is the only one who actually has his best interests at heart.

The point is, he knows how to do this. He’s used to it. And frankly, he’s glad that he is, glad that he can do this on his own, because he doesn’t want anyone else around him when he’s like this. Doesn’t want anyone else to see, doesn’t want anyone else to know that this happens, doesn’t want anyone else to be able to point at him and go, look, the great TommyInnit brought low.

So when he regulates his breaths and swipes the tears from his face and unclenches his fingers knuckle by knuckle, he looks up and most definitely does not expect anyone to be crouched in front of him. When he sees that there is, he scrabbles backward and lets out an incredibly manly scream, and he doesn’t think he can be blamed for it, because what the fuck?

“Holy shit,” he wheezes, “holy shit, you can’t just—” And has to stop, because it’s not just any weird crouching person. It’s his fucking—what’s the word for when a very irritating and terrible person marries your best friend? What’s the title for that? Annoyance-in-law?

In any case, it’s Ranboo.

“What,” he says, “the shit are you doing?”

Ranboo makes a sound that is not words at all. In fact, it sounds very similar to an enderman vwoop, which, alright, the guy’s half enderman, that checks out. Except, his eyes are also purple, and he looks rather taller than he normally does, even crouching down, so something is weird here. Something is very, very weird.

“Fuck off,” he says. “Go and, go and raise your shitty child or something. Sing ‘im a lullaby. Go on.”

He makes shooing noises with his hands, like one might do to a dog, or a persistent crow. Ranboo tilts his head very slowly, like a complete fucking weirdo, and then rises in one fluid motion, and goes walking off somewhere. Tommy stares after him, because he hadn’t really expected that to work. But alright, he’ll take it.

“That’s right,” he mutters. “Just fucking, fucking leave, go on.” He stares down at the grass, running a shaking hand through his hair. He is, maybe, not quite as recovered as he’d like. He’s usually not, after the initial panic, usually can’t make himself relax until the sun has crested the horizon and the sky has begun to lighten. He’s ruined for sleep tonight, that’s for sure.

But it’s alright. It’s alright, he’s used to it. He can do it. He can do this. He’s a big fucking man, and he can survive on a few hours of sleep a night, and he can avoid looking at himself in the mirror and remembering another face, eyebags just as dark, hair just as wild, eyes only slightly more desperate. He doesn’t have to remember things. Not if he doesn’t want to. He’s great at not remembering things, him.

Footsteps. He jerks, looks up again, and Ranboo is standing over him, and why is he so fucking tall?

Ranboo makes another vwooping sound. And then a little trill, almost like a bird, if a bird gargled gravel and then turned into an eldritch monstrosity. He crouches again, and then holds out his hands, and there is something in them, something that he is offering him, and—

Tommy squints. It’s a grass block.

“What am I supposed to do with that?” he asks.

Ranboo vwoops.

“Could you just stop being so fucking weird?” he demands. “For five minutes? I don’t think that’s too much to ask, really. God, you’re just. The worst.”

Ranboo shifts a bit closer, still holding out the grass block. Like he wants him to take it.

“I’m not taking your stupid block,” Tommy says, and accepts it.

Ranboo vwoops.

“Why would you even—” he says, burrowing his fingers into the dirt. A bit of it crumbles to the ground. He doesn’t understand how endermen manage to do this, keep these blocks in perfect shape, grass and all. “Why would you even give me this? What are you trying to pull on me, eh? It won’t work. You can’t pull the wool over my eyes, pal. You’re up to something. Why are your eyes all purple?”

Ranboo vwoops.

And then—Tommy remembers something. Something he wasn’t particularly trying to remember, and usually, that’s not such a great thing, but it’s not so bad this time. Because this memory is from just a couple of weeks ago, in Snowchester, one of those times that he was trying to hang out with Tubbo, but Ranboo was just there and wouldn’t leave, and Tubbo wouldn’t make him leave, so Tommy spent the entire time being vaguely pissed off. And he was trying not to pay attention to Ranboo, really, he was, except he remembers him saying something about how he gets anxious, and how holding blocks of things and putting them down places helps him. At the time, he made a point of not acknowledging him, because Tommy’s not an idiot. He knew what he was trying to do, and he didn’t appreciate it.

But—

He stares at the block in his hands. And then back at Ranboo.

He wants to be angry, at the idea, at the presumption, because who the fuck does Ranboo think he is, trying to patronize him like this? But Ranboo keeps up his soft warbles, and he finds his eyes filling with tears instead.

“Are you,” he says, and his voice is not choked, it’s not, “are you trying to help me?”

Ranboo vwoops. Chirps. And then reaches out, slowly enough that Tommy doesn’t feel the urge to flinch, and runs gentle clawed fingers through his hair.

“Oh,” Tommy says. And doesn’t lean into the touch. He doesn’t. But if, hypothetically, he does, that’s between him and Prime on high. Or at least, it would be, if all his muscles didn’t go lax a few seconds later, and if he didn’t accidentally on purpose tip forward against Ranboo’s chest.

The dirt slips through his fingers. But that’s alright, because one of Ranboo’s arms wraps around him, and the other keeps carding through his hair, like Wilbur used to do when they were younger and things were better and they were two halves of a whole rather than puzzle pieces that got bent out of shape. The way his head is, he can feel vibrations running though Ranboo’s chest, like the purr of a cat, and it’s going to lull him to sleep if he’s not careful.

He can’t let that happen. He has more dignity than that.

Except he’s very tired. And Ranboo is clearly—sleepwalking, or something. Not all there in the head at the moment. So maybe he won’t remember this in the morning, if Tommy makes sure to wake up first. And that would be alright.

“You’re still terrible,” he mumbles, but the words are slurred, and Ranboo’s arms are very warm and comforting, and he’s drifting. He can feel it.

So he lets himself. Ranboo’s warbles follow him into sleep, and he dreams of stars.

[wallflowerimagines]

Hi! I looove your posts! Thank you so much for sharing your writing!

I was wondering… could you maybe write about the Four Lords with a shy S/O that gets bold and defensive when someone insults the lords? or calls them names? And the Lord’s reaction to the S/O acting different? Dk if im explaining myself >.<

Again! Love your work! Have a great day!

We stan protective partners on this blog!!

Warnings: uh...insults? They're pretty over the top😅 Also swearing.

Alcina Dimitrescu

Honestly, Alcina is more than able to defend herself.

She's got a tongue like a viper, and the thickest skin imaginable. If you really want to hurt her feelings, you have to be someone whom she already respects to a certain degree, or she won't even be phased.

Still, when she leaves a room, there's always some idiot that thinks it's a smart idea to talk shit.

Maybe it's a maid, maybe it's a guest in the Castle, but either way you're not having it.

"God, you're annoying." There was a pause before they opened their mouth again, and you rolled your eyes. "No please, by all means, continue to share your lack of taste with the rest of us."

You disassemble this dumbass, starting small with comments about their personality (trying to keep it classy), but escalating the more they choose to double down on the comments.

Alcina comes back into the room to find you practically screaming at this asshole.

"Look, all you have accomplished here today is revealing that you are a fundamental disappointment on every possible level. My life is worse now that I've heard you open your mouth, you disrespectful, shit licking worm fucker."

Alcina is stunned. You do not give off "aggressive guard dog" vibes at all, yet here you are defending her tooth and nail. While she had seen brief moments of your inner strength and protective streak (mostly towards her daughters) she just...never thought you would do the same for her.

It's not because she doesn't trust you or love you! But nobody has ever done something like this for her before? Ever? She's never had anyone try to protect her--not physically, and not even verbally. She's been so independent for so long that it's... Strange to see you support her so openly.

She doesn't need you to do this for her, she doesn't even expect it, but you do it anyway for no other reason than the fact that you love her. You want people to give her the respect she deserves.

I'm going to be real here: Alcina has never been closer to swooning before in her life. You're overcoming your shyness because you believe in her so much-- it's not a gesture meant to be romantic, but Alcina can't help but see this as a massive statement of your commitment to her.

Seriously. This is such a massive thing for her that if proposals weren't already on her mind, she is mentally picking out a ring for you the minute this happens.

Then, of course, she glides into the room, kisses you until you're breathless and babbling, and smirks at the unfortunate peon who thought they could get away with insulting House Dimitrescu.

She's in such a good mood that she's considering going easy on the idiot. Maybe removing their tongue would be enough of a warning?

Donna Dimitrescu

You don't really know how it's possible but apparently some people don't like Donna Beneviento? Some people think she's scary and unpleasant????

Wild. Can't imagine what that's like.

The two of you are honestly the sweetest, most toothrottingly adorable couple-- blushing when you hold each other's hands, sneaking glances at each other across rooms, giving each other kisses and forgetting whatever was on your mind...

Honestly, anybody who's critical of your relationship with your girlfriend is just a hater. Fuckers can pound sand😤

Still, you are pretty shy, so it takes a lot for you to defend yourself if someone comments about you. It can take a lot of courage to stand up against rude remarks, and sometimes it's easier to walk away.

Defending Donna, on the other hand?

The minute someone even thinks about dismissing her, you are ready to throw hands.

"My lovely girlfriend already said no, meaning you're either deaf or too stupid to pick up on simple social cues," you purse your lips and give the rude and pushy Villager a patronizing once over. "You and your opinion are equally useless. Get the fuck away from us."

Donna blinks.

She... Was not expecting this??? At all?? You're so nice! You always tell her about your attempts to avoid confrontation! What's going on??? How did you get the guts to say what she's always wanted to say?

Meanwhile, Angie is LIVING.

The little doll chimes in to assist you with the verbal homicide, working as a tag team to absolutely murder this moron. She's half partner, half hype man, and is so excited to do this with you. Normally, she has to protect Donna all by herself, but she's relieved and reassured that you stepped in first.

'USELESS IS TOO NICE, THOUGH! THAT IMPLIES THEY AREN'T A POINTLESS, RANCID, LONELY FREAK. THEY LOOK LIKE THEY CRY WHEN THEY MASTURBATE.'

You high five Angie, still glaring daggers at the unfortunate villager.

The two of you continue to ream into the villager, while Donna hovers nearby.

As surprised as she is, she's also grateful. She's only really ever had Angie to help shield her from insults and disrespect (and occasionally inducing horrifying hallucinations that make people claw off their own skin), but having you in her corner makes her feel safe.

Not to get totally sappy, but you're like her knight in shining armor in a lot of ways. And the fact you two are so similar is really motivating-- She wants to one day be confident enough to return the favor. Until then, she's happy to watch her two favorite people have fun insulting some stranger ❤️

Salvatore Moreau

With you being so shy, Salvatore is surprised how often he takes the lead in your relationship.

He's not normally all that outgoing, but you seem to bring out a side of him that's very protective. Whenever you have a bad day he wants to bundle you up and keep you safe from the world.

If he so much as holds your hand you start stuttering and avert your gaze. It creates a feedback loop where you both get flustered, but Moreau has never felt steadier. Despite your shyness, you make sure he knows how much you love him.

You're sweet as pie and twice as kind--Salvatore is the luckiest man in the world, nobody can convince him otherwise 💕💕

So it comes as a total shock that when a passing fisherman spits in your path and calls him a freak, your entire demeanor does a 180.

Your posture straightens and you look the villager dead in the eye, "I don't believe anyone asked your opinion."

Salvatore: 😳

This is not the time, and he totally knows it, but, uh, something about your tone??? Really does it for him???

While he's attempting to process why exactly he's starting to short circuit, you proceed to verbally shred this person to bits with clinical efficiency-- nothing is off limits.

They might try to defend themselves, but it's useless. You do not let up.

"Ugly? Monster? Bitch your teeth are throwing gang signs, don't throw stones from your shining glass house."

You insult their appearance, what they're holding, their smell-- you get so fucking mean that you might even make them cry.

Moreau is just lost right now, trying hard to figure out how exactly you were able to gain all of this confidence so quickly.

He's not upset! In fact he's very flattered! But, he also doesn't want you to get into a fight with some unimportant stranger. (After all, if they so much as throw a punch, they're straight up dead. Moreau is a patient man, but he's not that patient. You do not hurt his partner and live to tell the tale.)

He may a healer but...

Eventually he steps between you and the fisherman in an attempt to deescalate the situation, but you just kiss him on the cheek and step around him, determined to make your point.

Blushing hard, Moreau lets you do what you want. What can he say? Fish man likes himself a protective partner 💞

Karl Heisenberg

Magnet Man is not the most social guy to begin with, so any opportunities you have to stick up for him are already pretty slim.

He mostly knows you as the shy, sweet, easily flustered partner that lets out a cute squeak every time he sneaks up to hug you from behind.

Karl's honestly happy just to spend time with you all alone in the Factory. It's not the best or healthiest mindset, but he'd be perfectly content to only ever see you for the rest of his life. Spending time with anybody else feels like a boring waste in comparison.

But occasionally, you do head out into town with him. Heisenberg wants you to be safe so he doesn't do it often, but running errands with you is a weakness of his. It's domestic in a way that he's never experienced before.

He likes it ❤️

What he does not like is the shopkeeper starting to give their opinions on the quality of your relationship with him.

Most insults Karl will let slide because he doesn't particularly care. However if anyone makes a comment on how scared (shy) you look around him, how you must be being threatened into being with him, how poorly Lord Heisenberg is treating you...he won't stand for it.

But before his fingers can even twitch towards his hammer, you snap.

"You're clearly the blindest cocksucker I've ever met--so wipe the cum out of eyes and mind your own fucking business."

Karl does a double take.

He's heard you curse before, but quietly. The words coming out of your mouth are WILD right now, he has NEVER seen you so angry. You're defending him with the aggression of a wild animal, and it's simultaneously HILARIOUS, but for some reason he's also getting a warm fuzzy feeling in his chest?

He doesn't need you to protect him like this, but seeing you blatantly argue how much you love and cherish him in public reassures him in a way he didn't know he needed.

Still, hearing you call the shopkeeper "shit for brains" is the funniest thing that's happened in years.

Heisenberg starts laughing, and the more you shout at the idiot, the harder he laughs. Is it weird how hard he wants to kiss you right now?

Eventually, he just has to drag you away, cackling as you continue to shout insults at the unfortunate shopkeep. There's got to be an alley around here for some good old fashioned privacy 💕