#even if its a completely different setting

[cumikering]

Rugby Gaz x reader 4

2.6k | fluff Kyle always had your back (part 1)

You did not expect to fall in love with rugby.

You watched videos of it in your free time, learning the rules and history, and caught professional matches on the telly with Kyle. Come Monday, you’d discuss each match with your classmates.

Some were curious of your abrupt, new-found interest. Some asked, with wiggly brows, if you’ve got something going on with the Kyle Garrick (who was often seen holding your hand) and if he had anything to do with it. You only offered an ambiguous smile.

There was perhaps something going on - you hoped so anyway, but you knew better than to jinx it. Consistency, besides, spoke louder than any promises, and for the first time in a while, a boy did not make you question where you stood.

For the upcoming big match against another top school, you bought yourself your university’s jersey. It set you back in your progress to save for your new bike, but it was worth it.

Unfortunately, it was a match Kyle lost. He couldn’t hide the disappointment in his eyes as he dragged his tired feet to you at the edge of the grandstand, his shoulders sagging.

“You did good, Kyle.” You pulled him into a tight embrace, not caring about the mud and sweat on him. “I always love watching you play.”

He sighed in your arms before giving you a lopsided smile.

Out of your oversized bag, you presented him a bouquet, a stunning arrangement of orchids in the team’s colours.

His face lit up, gaping at you and back at the gift. “I- Wow-“ he blinked- “Thank you so much, love. They’re gorgeous.”

You could tell he meant it, when he kissed your cheeks multiple times (the eager ones with the mwahs) before joining the rest of the team in the locker room, spring in his step. You might have giggled as you watched.

You joined Kyle’s practice once a week, often followed by lunch and a study session together, be it at a cafe or the library. You two might have been from different majors, and despite not being able to help each other, you loved his presence nearby. His quiet hum of concentration, the way his foot brushed against yours under the table, or the way his pinky would rest on yours next to the pile of notes.

It was reassuring, see. He was always calm and collected, radiating warmth. His beautiful smile soothed your frustrations, and these assignments were, more often than not, annoying.

True to his words, he often offered to hang out at yours, or at least somewhere nearby so you wouldn’t feel too bad about him walking you home. Other times, he’d accompany you to the supermarket before cooking with you, helping you carry your shopping.

This boy, Kyle Garrick from Birmingham, didn’t seem to have any idea how terribly kind he was. After you tutored, he’d welcome you to his flat with a fresh, warm meal. Something with colourful veggies, complete with its macro count. You’d never paid nowhere near that much attention to your meals at home, yet there he was saying he wasn’t a good cook with his back to you as he fussed over plating.

His hard work clearly paid off. It was hard to not admire (stare) the results. He was beautiful, that was plain since the second you saw him on the bulletin board, but being in his embrace- hell, even the simple fact that you were in his proximity, in his relaxed state was a pleasure.

The way his carved shoulders moved, and the way his hard thighs flexed- You promised you always looked respectfully! So of course your eyes darted away when he turned to put the two plates on the dining table with a proud grin.

Yet after all the hassle, he’d walk you home - like that chilly Friday night too. As you neared your place, thunder rumbled before it drizzled.

You sprinted into the building before turning to him with a grimace, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“I didn’t realise it was going to rain.” You gazed morosely at the road, the flowing water glinted under the streetlamps. “Sorry,” you muttered.

He gave you one of his perfect smiles again. “S’alright, love. It’s the weekend. I can wait it out.”

He made tea while you showered and got into comfortable clothes. The rain didn’t slow, in fact, with the thickening clouds, it didn’t look like it was going to stop anytime soon.

“I feel terrible, Kyle! If I had a bike you wouldn’t have to keep walking me home.”

“I want to, love.”

“I’ll start looking tomorrow. I’ll have enough by the end of next week.”

“How many times do I have to tell you I don’t mind? Really.” He patted your hair. “I promise.”

You sighed. He was such a kind soul and he was none the wiser.

You suggested a film, and snuggled on the couch. However, the rain against the windows and Kyle’s warm embrace made it hard for you to fight off your sleepiness. When you caught yourself almost dozing off, he held you closer and caressed your hair wordlessly.

It was all it took. You were a goner.

Later, you blinked awake when you sensed movement. You were laying on the couch with him kneeling next to you, tucking you in.

“Kyle?” you muttered, squinting at him.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said, caressing your cheek with a sheepish chuckle. “The rain’s stopped, and I’ve washed the mugs. I was going to head back.”

You sat up and looked past him at the clock. It was after 10. Behind the curtains he’d drawn, the city had gone quiet.

“Sorry to keep you so late,” you rubbed your eye with the back of your hand.

“I enjoyed my time,” he reassured.

You held his gaze for a few more moments. If you looked into those beautiful brown eyes long enough, could he read your mind? You didn’t want him to leave.

“Would you like to stay?”

Despite the dim lighting, you didn’t miss the way his eyes widened. You didn’t know what made you ask, but your heart sank as the words hung.

He held your hand. “I’d love to, if you let me.”

You gave Kyle a toothbrush and lent him your oversized clothes. When he entered your room, the rain had started back up.

You flicked the bedside lamp off. “I guess it was good call you stayed.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly, chewing on his lip as he climbed into bed to join you.

Was he as nervous about this as you were? It made your heart race.

He laid on his back, staring up at the ceiling. “Erm- For the record, I don’t mind taking the couch at all.”

“No.” You leaned in, muttering against his shoulder, “Wanted you to hold me again.”

He stroked your arm, his fingertips feather-light, stuttering your breath. Despite the dark, you felt his eyes on you. Sure, you teased him here and there – and enjoyed it too, but this time you couldn’t hold his gaze.

But you didn’t miss that little sigh. You didn’t have to see to know he was smiling – a skill you picked up the very first time you met.

This bed felt like the lift. With the lights out, it was like the line between this and later didn’t exist. Like you were in a bubble ever expanding, untouchable by the outside world as it melted into the background in puddles of grey. If you closed your eyes long enough, it was as if this didn’t have to end.

You fisted the comforter.

“May I kiss you, love?” he asked, almost a whisper.

Your eyes flew open. Did you hear that right? You’d seen the way he glanced at your lips, and you could only hope he didn’t notice the way you admired his way too often.

It took you a second before cupping his cheek. He let out a steady sigh as he leaned in- thunder boomed.

The both of you jumped, and you might have yelped. Loud. While he let out a laugh, your heart hammered from the scare. You turned your back to him, flustered by the ruined moment. You wanted to scream. You were THAT close.

He scooted closer, patting your head before wrapping an arm around your waist. He nuzzled his face in the crook of your neck. “Sleep well, love.”

“Goodnight, Kyle,” you mumbled.

He smiled against your skin.

Gaz woke to you sleeping soundly on his chest, his arm around you. He smiled at how adorable you looked with your cheek mushed like that.

He thought back to the night before. Did you know how long he’d been wanting to kiss you? That time you brought him the orchids (the same ones he displayed on his nightstand until they dried to a crisp), he didn’t know what it was that tumbled in his chest as he struggled for words. He settled for the flurry of kisses on your face, but oh, he could have dropped to his knees to taste you right there and then.

If only you knew how fast his heart raced when he finally mustered the courage to ask.

He had to be undeniably sure you felt the same, right? Still, the few second that followed were painstaking as his mind reeled with the possibility of a rejection. But of course the bloody thunder had to strike when you leaned in.

The memory made him smile - the way you yelped was endearing. If only you knew how much more it made him want to kiss you. He could tell how much it scared you with your heart thumping against his when he spooned you. But at least he knew now you liked him enough. He’d just have to find a more fortunate time, preferably when it wasn’t raining.

Gaz planted a kiss on your forehead before getting out of bed, careful to not disturb you. You’d usually wake in about half an hour. How cheesy was it if he made breakfast?

He got himself cleaned up before preparing some pancake batter. When he checked on you, you were still asleep, starfish style now, making him chuckle. With nothing else to do, he lounged on your couch, scrolling on his phone.

It didn’t take long before you shuffled out of the bedroom.

“Kyle?”

“I’m here,” he replied, making his way over to you to kiss your cheek.

“Good morning,” you mumbled, eyes shut as you grinned.

He poked your cheek with a small laugh, tucking your hair behind your ear. “I’m making us pancakes.”

You joined him in the kitchen shortly, laying out plates and getting mugs for tea.

“I can handle it,” he said. “While I waited for you to wake up, I found bike listings nearby. They seem decent. Why don’t you have a look?”

You waited at the dining table while he continued cooking.

“No way,” you gasped. “That’s- that’s my bike!” You turned his phone towards him.

He turned the stove off and hurried over.

“It’s been repainted, but look.” You pointed at the handlebar. “I carved my initials here, you can still see it.”

Gaz zoomed in on the photo before grabbing his phone, typing a message. “The cheek on this bloke,” he muttered.

“What are you doing?”

“Letting him know we’re very interested,” he said with a smirk.

You gave him a knowing smile.

That afternoon, in the parking lot of a gym near Gaz’s, a lad rode in on a shiny blue bike.

“Mate!” Gaz called, flagging him over.

He dismounted and struggled to set the kickstand down. He was around your age, stood a little taller than Gaz, but looked lanky even in his hoodie.

He shoved his hands in his pockets before clearing his throat. “So uh-“ he gestured at the bike- “it runs fine, brakes are good. It’s just repainted.”

You turned the pedals and tested the brake levers before inspecting the stamped numbers below the seat, the only part of the frame still in its original colour. “Yeah, looks alright,” you said. “Do you mind if I give it a test ride?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

You hopped on, flicking the kickstand up with your heel with practiced ease before riding off.

“You mentioned you’re the first-hand owner?” Gaz asked as you rode in small laps. “You got the receipt?”

“Yeah, about that.” He averted his gaze. “I must have misplaced it, I’m afraid. It’s been years since I got it.”

He nodded with a hum.

“But the bike’s fine, yeah? I’m selling it so I can upgrade.”

“How nice of you to get it repainted just to sell it, so cheap at that.” He laughed. “It’s a steal, if I’m honest.”

He forced a chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck as he shifted his weight. “Yeah, figured it’s easier to sell that way. So is-” he turned to you as you zipped out of the parking lot- “What- HEY!”

He ran after you, but could only watch helplessly as you rode out of sight. It was Gaz’s cue to sprint the other way.

“What the fuck, mate!” he yelled. “That’s my bike!”

“No, you stole it from her, you twat!“ he called back before rounding the corner. “But thanks for the paint job!”

There, you’d loaded your bike into the waiting car and were shutting the boot. You both rushed into the backseat.

“Go, go, go!” Gaz tapped the back of the driver’s seat, looking out the rear window.

Johnny peeled off as soon as the doors shut. As he turned into the next street, the seller stumbled onto the pavement, heaving with his hands on his knees.

“Wee lad looks like he’s about tae have a heart attack.” He let out a hearty laugh. “Somebody call 999.”

“Oh god, this feels illegal.” You squeezed Gaz’s forearm, unable to stifle your giggles.

“Well, the papers say it’s yours,” he said lightly, placing his hand on yours.

Before he knew it, you’d leaned in, fisting the shirt on his chest.

His heart stilled. Was this really happening? Were you doing this? It took another second before he pulled you in, pressing his lips against yours.

He closed his eyes with a sigh, falling into the kiss. Finally. Your lips were as lovely as he’d always imagined, fitting perfectly against his. His fingers curled tighter around your waist as your hand moved to cup his face. The way you caressed his jaw made him let out a satisfied-

“Oi! Get a room ye two!” Johnny scolded. “This isn’t part of being a getaway driver!”

You pulled away with a laugh, covering your mouth. “Sorry!”

Aw bollocks, how embarrassing. You gave him one little kiss and he totally forgot his friend was right there. He was never going to hear the end of it in the locker room.

“You owe me an extra box of granola bars,” the Scot said, scowling at him through the rear-view mirror.

Gaz’s hand remained on yours, but he couldn’t look you in the eye from how hard he tried to bit down on his giddy smile. Was he blushing? With how warm he was feeling, he probably was.

“We’ll continue at mine,” you whispered into his ear before giving him a small peck on the cheek. He turned to your teasing smile, his grin winning. You should stop making his knees weak, but who was he to resist stealing another kiss?

Masterlist

@tiredmetalenthusiast @readabitchtofilth @the-sweet-hibiscus @queensarchieve @eve-lie

@thumbtacked-heart @winnieb00 @shitface141 @mismatchsposts @hexqueensupreme

@shinymriver @cope-with-x-readers @tonypicstotransfer @ghostalina

[piningbuddies]

...yeah. yeah. major spoilers for 8x15. tw - major character death. read on ao3

Eddie gets the call at 9:32 on a Friday morning.

He's dropped Chris off at school and managed to pick up some groceries on the way home, he's got plans to swing by his favourite coffee shop for lunch and there's a marathon of Bake Off on later that he and Buck are gonna watch on facetime together when he gets off of shift, and things are okay. They're feeling solid for the first time in a while, like he's standing on solid ground for the first time in a long time, and like he might finally be finding his way.

So when Buck's name flashes across his phone at 9:32 on a Friday morning, he instantly picks up, tucking it between his shoulder and ear as he rummages through his bag to get to his eggs. "Hey, Buck. You guys must only have a few hours left of shift, right? Tell Chim that I got his movie recommendations, all seven texts worth, and that I only have so many hours left in my day—"

"Eddie." Buck says his name like it's been punched straight out of his chest, and it sets every single one of Eddie's senses on high alert, stopping in his tracks, eggs still in hand.

"What is it?" He questions, brow furrowing. "Is it Maddie? What's going on?"

"Eddie." Buck whispers, his voice hoarse in a way that tells Eddie he's been crying. "I– I need to tell you something." He takes a shaky breath, the words beginning to stream out of his mouth. "We– we were on a call and– and there was a fire at a lab and a– a virus and–"

"Buck, hey, breathe." Eddie says quietly, concern tingling at the tips of his fingers, like there's something he can't quite grasp. "Talk to me, what happened?"

Buck chokes out a shaky "Cap", sounding like he can't quite catch his breath, like the breaths he's trying to take are too big for his body before he manages to say, "Bobby didn't make it."

It's like part of Eddie's brain disengages, his legs turning to liquid beneath him as he slowly sinks into a dining chair. "What? Buck, you're not making any sense, what do you mean he didn't–"

"He's dead." Buck snaps, a pit forming in Eddie's stomach a mile wide as his world begins to shatter around him. Buck continues, a little quieter, "He was sick the entire time, and he didn't tell anyone. He made sure everyone was okay and then– he locked himself away to die alone, on the other side of the glass– god."

“Buck.” Eddie whispers, feeling completely outside of his own body. “Buck, what do you need?”

“Eddie? What–”

“What do you need from me?”

It’s silent for a couple of seconds, save for Buck’s ragged breathing. Then, a quiet plea. “Come home.”

A lump forms in Eddie’s throat almost too thick to swallow around, something in the back of his brain telling him he should’ve been there all along. That maybe, just maybe, he could’ve done something to help. He could’ve saved Bobby, or been there to hold his team up, or to do literally anything. Instead, he’s 800 miles away in a completely different state as his world is completely tipped on its head. Everything is wrong and Bobby is dead and Eddie feels like he’s not even human anymore.

The plastic of his phone creaks and groans in his hand as he nods absentmindedly, his actions sluggish as his brain tries to play catch-up. “We’ll be there soon.”

Buck takes a breath, sounding steady for the first time in the entire conversation. “Thank you.”

It’s 9:32 on a Friday morning when Eddie gets the call.

It’s 9:37 when he hangs up.

It’s 2:07 in the afternoon ten days later when he and Chris return from LA, hearts a little more broken, a piece of them forever hollowed out.

The eggs are still on the table where he left them. Life goes on.

[thekoalapastriesbakery]

So to take from the previous time travel au, reader (currently 7 years older then logan when he left williams) is the creator of the williams f1 team in 1978 and is appalled at how his team is treating logan (and also the fact that their car making is so bad) reader is Nowhere near an f1 track so he has to contact his older self (who left williams to focus on himself and left it in the hands of someone he thought capable, who switched its team principal to mr. Aeiou in 23) and it takes till 2025 because reader had nothing on him so he had to find a job get enough money to buy a phone and learn how to use technology and even then reader wouldn't be able to contact his older self because no one answers random insta messages from acounts you don't know reader takes a pic of himself and sends it with an address and something only he knows (that he likes men, which was taboo back then) saying that if his older self wants to talk he could come to him since he wouldn't have belived it otherwise if it weren't him it happened to, anyway they get in contact older self is disgusted with logans treatment and decides to come back for 2025 while making his younger self team principal, logan (after old!reader asks him if he would like to be a reserve driver) is now old!readers child and young!readers brother meanwhile everyone else on the grid has their jaws on the ground with how hot young!reader is, the rookies are crushing hard, everyone else is trying to see if they can get with young!reader but he won't date a driver, full stop, somehow young!reader meets 1 drew starkey at some gala old!reader was invited too but didn't want to go to since he was real busy with the fiasco that mr aeiou caused, the info that young!reader is dating someone is devastating to the drivers who thought they had a chance.

Anyway i should probs stop typing since i'm pretty sure you just wanted short promt like thingies instead of this long as heck paragraph.

-🍑

you're all good peaches!! (also i changed a couple little things, i hope that's okay)

when you find out how logan is being treated

you are not happy

it takes fucking forever for you to find a way to get in contact with the older version of yourself

and even longer still to explain how you ended up there

older!you definitely wasn't buying shit until you mention something that nobody else in the world had ever known

your crush on a fellow driver back in the 90s

and then, y'know, older!you is a bit more convinced

you explain what's happening with williams and logan

and older!you is pissed

it doesn't take much for older!you to convince the board members to listen to him. the now ex-team principal probably gets incredibly passive aggressive in the media

nobody gives a fuck

at some point it comes out that you're from a different timeline

but then older!you convinces the williams board to make you team principal

and it just goes up and up and up from there

before you know it, williams is consistently getting double points

logan has his spark back

he's still not always matching alex, but you make the point that alex has a lot more experience

and alex makes the point that he and logan both learn from each other

you and older!you completely overhaul the marketing strategy

williams is now one of the most popular teams

probably because your marketing strategy involves just letting alex and logan have fun in vaguely motorsports related settings

you're technically the youngest team principal in the history of formula one

because you're only in your late 20s

and yeah, a lot of the other drivers end up falling in love with you

like holy fuck you were hot in the 90s

if you mention a partner or a date (because you don't want to accidentally out your older self maybe?)

they are heartbroken

they are genuinely like puppies around you

if you do end up single? expect to be flirted with by so many drivers you can't believe it

[star-crossed-fates]

Even My Damnation Spells Your Name

Chapter 5: Below the Bones of Heaven

Synopsis: In a city of steel and stars, you fall in love with a man the world calls a monster. He looks at you like you’ve haunted every life he’s ever lived. Sylus is danger wrapped in silk, secrets stitched into every glance, every touch, every word spoken like a spell. He’s yours before you even realize what you’re remembering.

Because this isn’t the first time.

Dreams unravel you. Memories not your own. A dragon’s death cry. A kiss beneath bloodied skies. A love too eternal to stay buried. As the past bleeds into the present, you begin to piece together the truth. Some memories burn brighter than the stars, others wound deeper than any blade.

And love, no matter how timeless, always demands a price.

Pairing: Female! MC [Named] x Sylus

Rating: Explicit 18+ [MDNI]

Spoilers: Sylus's myth cards/memories. Please note: memories might be a little different than from game for story purposes.

Warnings: NSFW, Explicit smut, including various kinks: Praise, degradation talk, first time, CP, DP, anal sex/play, probably some Dragon!Sylus smut, maybe a lot of it. Many, many more that I'm forgetting to list. Consider yourself warned. - Unlikely to be completely canon. - MC is named. Her personality is darker than in the game, far more morally grey. - Switching between MC's memories/dreams/flashbacks and current timeline. - Other love interests will not show up in this. - Some plot, but not super planned out. Basically, this is a "what if the closer they became, the more MC remembers her life with him on Philos.

No fear drives your legs, no shadow nips at your heels. You run because elation has taken the shape of motion, because your heart remembers something your mind cannot name.

The land opens before you, awash in wildflowers that shimmer like stories never forgotten, petals glowing as if the land itself is remembering how to smile.

Your laughter paints the silence in colour, every note a brushstroke of joy. Wind dances in your hair, laced with the scent of a forgotten summer. The sky is a bruise of dying light, amethyst trickling into indigo, scattered with stars too bright to be real.

At the bottom of the hill, he waits.

A creature carved from midnight and fire. The dragon is vast and holy, like a lullaby sung by the void, like thunderclouds dreaming in the shape of gods. His scales glisten like obsidian rivers, laced with glowing veins of molten red, as if the earth’s heart runs through him. His eyes gleam with the hush of collapsing constellations—scarlet, ancient, as if they’ve hoarded every fire the universe ever dared to light.

Your arms stretch wide as you crash into the curve of his muzzle, pressing yourself to him like a prayer returned to its altar. His breath rushes out, a furnace’s sigh, warm enough to stir your dress, your skin, the air itself.

He lowers his head, his massive neck bending with impossible grace. And you—so small, so human—rise from the earth, lifted by the bridge of his nose, held aloft as if you are made of light and not blood. You are set back down, soft as a petal’s fall.

You kiss the space between his eyes.

“Found you,” you whisper, like it was always meant to be said here.

He huffs, a low, amused rumble that stirs the marrow of your bones and leaves you smiling before you understand why. The earth hears him and stills. Even the wind leans in, held for a breath. He breathes, and the world listens—not out of fear, but reverence, as though it remembers him.

You lie beside him, tucked between the warm thrum of his body and the open sky. Stars drip down in streaks of silver and flame, meteors carving scars across the heavens, radiant and doomed.

“They’re falling,” you murmur, half to him, half to yourself.

He shifts, and his tail curls around you, wings folding like cathedral doors behind your back. You could sleep here forever, buried beneath the hush of wind and scale.

Lifting you with his tail, he places you gently between his horns like a crown. From here, the world is a pale reflection beneath you, a dream flickering in a giant’s breath.

“I wonder what it feels like,” you muse, eyes fixed on the meteor shower, “to chase what was always meant to burn.”

The dragon stirs. One wing unfolds, then the other, vast and ink-dark. They stretch toward the stars like they’ve always belonged to the sky. He leaps, and the world falls away. He ascends slowly and steadily.

He doesn’t throw you to the stars.

He brings you them.

From here, you are higher than fear, higher than memory, higher than anything with a name. You stand on his head, balancing on breath and bone, your dress whipping around you like a comet’s tail. You reach for them.

They flare just beyond your fingertips, wild and unreachable, and you ache at the beauty of it.

“I can almost…” you breathe, hand outstretched, eyes wide. “Almost.”

He carries you higher, wings carving through stardust and silence. You cling to his horn, wind roaring past your ears, laughter caught somewhere in your throat.

The meteors fall, each one burning dreams like the last wishes of forgotten gods set free at last. They streak the sky in silver requiems, burning bright and vanishing like promises too beautiful to keep. There you are, balanced on that impossible edge between gravity and starlight, watching the heavens unravel.

You lean forward, pressing your forehead to the warm, ridged scale between his horns. He tips his head gently, just enough for you to know he’s listening.

“Thank you,” you murmur.

A purr rolls from his chest like thunder tamed, the low murmur of mountains dreaming. A sound older than language coiled around the bones of the earth. He tilts into a gentle arc, his body curving like moonlight drawn across water. You move with him, swallowed by the glittering dark with the stars almost close enough to brush your skin.

Together, you glide beneath the stars’ slow breath, cradled in the quiet where the sky forgets to end.

You wake up reaching for the stars. Fingers splayed into velvet dark like you could still brush the edge of a meteor, but there’s no sky above you. No endless hush of wind. No warm dragon beneath.

Only cold, silk sheets.

You clutch at the blanket like it might anchor you, but it’s not the dream. It’s not scales and breath and the soft thump of a tail curling around you like protection.

It’s fabric. Expensive. Perfect. Meaningless.

You close your eyes.

You want to go back.

Please. You want to go back to the field kissed by dusk, to the impossible warmth of him. To the way his breath stirred your dress without scorching it, as if even fire had learned gentleness for your sake.

You’d trade the whole waking world just to feel that weightless again. To hear the hush of wings brushing starlight, like lullabies written for the dark.

But the sky is gone, and rising feels like grief wearing your bones. You sit up slowly, like every vertebra remembers joy and resents its loss. Your chest feels raw, aching with the echo of something that should never have been love but was.

You were happy. Not the quiet kind. Not the safe kind. But the sort that ran barefoot through you, wild and breathless. You were laughing. Spinning. Flying.

For once, it hadn’t been borrowed. It had been yours. You press a hand to your chest, as if you could anchor the ache there, as if touch alone might stop it from unravelling you seam by seam. It slips through anyway.

Behind your eyes, the stars are still falling, but there’s no one left to catch them.

You don’t know how long you sit there, knuckles white around the sheets. Long enough for the dream to lose shape but not feeling. Long enough for the ache to hollow out your chest like a slow-burn bruise. Eventually, the stillness becomes unbearable.

Your feet hit the floor like you expect the world to shift beneath them, but it doesn’t. You move without thinking. One hand ghosting along the smooth curve of the wall as if it might whisper secrets back to you.

You find Kieran half-sprawled across one of the couches in the main lounge, arms behind his head, staring at a projection of a racing channel like he’s been here for hours and plans to be here for hours more. He notices you before you speak and sits up.

“Didn’t think you’d be up yet.” His voice is soft, disarmed of its usual teasing bite.

You don’t answer. Just stand there, wilted, trying not to look like you’d trade your own pulse to be back inside a dream. He watches you for a beat, reading the cracks.

“Boss man is in the gym,” Kieran informs, nodding toward the far end of the hall. “Been in there for hours.”

You nod, but your throat is tight again. You can’t seem to thank him, so you don’t. You just drift past, leaving silence in your wake.

The doors to the gym are shut, but the rhythmic dull thud of force resounds. Your hand hovers near the handle. The dream smoulders, as though waking didn’t shake it loose. Behind that door waits the one person who could unravel it or silence it completely.

You’re not sure which would break you more.

You push the door open. The gym exhales metal, salt, and the ghost of heat like it remembers pain more vividly than peace. He stands with his back to you, carved in shadow and breath. No fists flying, just silence and stillness, broken by the slow rise and fall of his shoulders.

His palms rest against the heavy bag, not to strike, but to steady, as if he’s holding back a sea and the tide is still choosing whether to flood or retreat.

“Couldn’t sleep?” His voice is casual, distant, like someone laying bricks between you, one by one.

“No.” You hover by the door. “Not really.”

You wrap your arms around yourself and clear your throat. “I… had a different dream.”

That makes him shift a little. A single tilt of his head, but not enough to meet your eyes. “A bad one?”

You shake your head. “No. That’s the problem.”

That’s what finally turns him. His eyes find yours—smouldering scarlet, but not like fire. Like coals cradled in ash, as if a storm within him had been taught the shape of stillness, the long, quiet art of waiting.

You try to smile, soft and half-formed. It flickers. Dies.

“It was peaceful. It felt real. Then I woke up… and it felt like I was falling out of it. Like I opened my eyes into a nightmare.”

He nods once, slow and heavy, like a man well-acquainted with the grief of dreams that vanish with the light.

You look down at your hands. “Kieran said you’ve been in here for hours.”

His eyes drop to the floor, then drag slowly up your form like he’s searching for fractures. “I needed to hit something.”

He walks toward you, close enough to make your breath catch in that strange, silent way it always does when he’s near.

“I don’t know how to be around you right now,” you admit.

His lips part slightly, then close again, like he wants to speak but doesn’t trust what might come out. After a beat—“Come with me.”

You blink. “Where?”

“Out.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s not a request.”

His eyes dance like they’ve just dared the world to catch him in the act. He reaches past you, grabs a black jacket off a bench, and tosses it over his shoulder. Sylus walks out, and you stand there a second longer, stunned, and then follow him.

The garage hums with mechanical life. Cool light spills from strip fixtures overhead, catching the sleek angles of chrome and matte black. You trail behind Sylus, hands stuffed into the sleeves of your hoodie, still unsure what this is.

He stops beside a car that looks like it might’ve once belonged to a military prototype. It’s angular, dark, and lethal. Definitely not regulation.

“You upgraded this?”

Sylus taps his fingers against the roof, the way one might pat a sleeping beast. “A couple of things under the hood need stress testing.”

You arch a brow. “And you need me to test drive it?”

“Think of it as exposure therapy.”

“To… what? Speed? Bad decisions?”

“To me,” he laments without looking at you, and then he tosses the keys.

You barely catch them. He slides into the passenger seat without another word, reclining like a king who knows the throne will obey. You fumble your way into the driver’s seat and adjust it so that you can actually reach the damn pedals while glaring at Sylus’s long legs as if they’ve spited you purposefully.

The garage door peels open, and neon bleeds in from the street like liquid crime. You pull out slowly at first, tense and painfully aware of Sylus watching you from the corner of his eye.

“Relax,” he coaxes. His timbre carries the calm of stones beneath rivers, eroding your tension one syllable at a time. “She’s got bite, but she won’t chew unless you beg her to.”

“Oh, good. I love being chewed by death traps.”

You guide the car through the arteries of the N109 Zone, where streetlights flicker like dying fireflies and nothing feels quite alive. The city here is all tension and teeth.

When you hit a red light, you hear it. A low, guttural rev from the car beside you.

You glance. It’s some neon-lit hunk of overpriced ego with a man behind the wheel wearing sunglasses at night. He chews gum like he’s at war with it. The bass from his stereo is actively trying to shatter the time-space continuum, and to top it all off? He smirks like you’re the punchline in whatever Fast & Delusional fantasy he’s living.

When he revs his neon-drenched monstrosity's engine again, you tighten your grip on the wheel. There’s a twitch at the corner of your mouth that’s either the beginning of a smile or the end of your self-restraint.

Next to you, Sylus remains draped across the passenger seat like an impeccably dressed warning label. He doesn’t even look over.

“Don’t even think about it,” he cautions, voice all suede and steel.

You are absolutely thinking about it.

So you rev back. It’s not just a sound. It’s a statement. It echoes through the street like a dragon clearing its throat before setting fire to the world. You’re giggling—real, dangerous giggling—the kind that tastes like triumph and smells like gasoline.

Sylus turns to you painfully slowly. “Anira.”

“He started it!” You say it with the righteous fury of a five-year-old about to throw hands on the playground.

The man revs louder. Petty vengeance in vehicular form. You glance at Sylus with the wide-eyed innocence of someone who’s already made seventeen bad decisions today and is hungry for more.

“Don’t,” he forewarns.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You’re about to,” he mutters. “And I’d prefer not to scrape you off the pavement tonight.”

“I can handle it,” you purr, fingertips brushing the wheel like it’s a co-conspirator.

You smirk and rev back. The engine roars like it just remembered it has free will and deeply resents authority. It’s not just noise. It’s a threat, a challenge, and possibly a mating call for anyone whose idea of romance is mutual recklessness. Sylus exhales like a man who just realized he is, in fact, dating the apocalypse.

He might be right.

He turns to you like a man confronting divine punishment. One eyebrow climbs Mount Judgement. “You’re actually considering it.”

You grin like the devil just handed you a driver’s license. “Considering? Trouble, I’m already picturing slow-mo explosions and my hair blowing back like I’m in a shampoo commercial.”

“Wonderful,” he mutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “This is how I die. Not in battle. Not in flames. But in the passenger seat of a glorified death trap with you at the helm, chasing some neon-fuelled idiot who thinks revving counts as flirting.” Another rev. Louder. Bolder. The sound of male ego given horsepower.

“Hey, sweetheart,” the guy calls out of his window, waggling his fluffy brows. “That car yours, or did your boyfriend let you borrow it so you could feel something for once?”

You freeze. The air stills. Somewhere, a squirrel stops chewing mid-nut.

Oh no.

Oh no, no.

You’ve seen this scene in every fast-car, bad-decision movie. You’ve read about this moment in books with titles like Throttle Me Harder. You’ve lived this fantasy during long, emotionally turbulent showers.

First thought: Sylus is going to leap out the window like a reaper in luxury leather and rip this man’s vocal cords out.

Second thought: Honestly… valid. Ten out of ten. Would watch.

Third thought: Wait. Why is Sylus still sitting there?

You glance at him, still and unmoving. Not even a twitch. He’s staring straight ahead like he’s waiting for enlightenment or his takeout order. No tension. No death glare. Not even a polite eyebrow raise that says, “I will destroy your lineage with a smile.”

Okay. Rude. Maybe you were mildly hoping for some dramatic, territorial energy. This is the part where he’s supposed to go full medieval over his mildly unhinged girlfriend. A little “She’s mine,” maybe with ominous threats whispered like a bedtime story.

But, nope. Sylus is radiating the emotional availability of a haunted statue. Inner peace: maxed out. Feral protector mode: in hibernation. Passive-aggressive detachment? Activated and thriving.

He is basically a meditation app in a suit with a kill count.

And honestly, the betrayal? Unforgivable. You would’ve settled for a single jaw clench. A dramatic sigh. A “Don’t make me ruin you.”

Just a crumb of male rage, please.

Then, as slow as dawn breaking over the horizon, he smiles. Not the cute one. Not the maybe-he-likes-you one. No. This is the side-cocked curl of doom. The kind of smile that makes volcanoes evacuate themselves.

“Take the next left,” he instructs.

You blink. “What?”

He’s already pulling up the city grid like it’s nothing, tapping through menus with unbothered malevolence. “Old tram line. No cams. No traffic. Perfectly legal if you’re also legally insane.”

Your brain does a cartwheel. “So… that’s a yes?”

He tilts his head at the other car, lips parted in the kind of smile that made the Big Bang think twice.

“Make him regret being born,” Sylus intones, like he’s ordering a drink spiked with pure vengeance.

The light turns green, and you turn left.

The engines howl like war drums, but yours—oh, yours—is a hellbeast unchained. It snarls beneath your fingers, the chassis vibrating with a sound so deep it rattles up through your thighs, into your chest, and settles somewhere low in your stomach. The whole car feels feral, coiled like it’s waiting to pounce, and you adore it. You want to kiss whoever built it. You want to marry this engine. You want to pin it to the wall and—

“Focus,” Sylus mutters, not even looking at you.

You are focused. On the rumble, the heat, the almost obscene growl this beast makes every time you brush the throttle. It’s not just a car. It’s a predator, and you’re sitting in its ribcage, hand on its racing heart.

You’re bouncing in your seat. “Sylus, Sylus, Sylus—are you ready?”

“No, I’m deeply regretting every life choice that led us to this moment.”

You flash him a manic grin, fingers tightening on the wheel like you were born to white-knuckle your way through chaos. The guy in the other car is smirking at you like you’re a joke. Perfect. He’s underestimating you.

The flag drops.

You launch. Tires scream. The engine roars like something infernal just got exorcised through the hood, and you’re already ten feet ahead before your brain catches up with your body. Everything goes sideways and forward all at once, and you’re howling like a deranged banshee blessed by horsepower and terrible decisions.

“Oh my stars, I’m a god,” you scream, clinging to the wheel like it’s the only thing anchoring you to this mortal realm. “Did you feel that?! We teleported!”

Sylus does not flinch or blink as he leans back into the seat like he’s waiting for an elevator. “You’re going 120.”

“I’m going 120, and it’s only been twelve seconds!” You shout, hair flying, eyes wild, a grin splitting your face. “Tell me that’s not sexy! Tell me this engine isn’t whispering dirty things to me right now!”

“Sounds more like it’s screaming,” Sylus replies evenly, completely unfazed. “You downshifted too early.”

You gasp. “How dare you!”

A corner barrels toward you, and you take it without braking because, clearly, fear is for people who haven’t spiritually merged with their car. Sylus grabs the door handle with the same detachment one might use to pick up a cup of coffee.

“Should I be worried?” he asks mildly.

“Only if I start laughing again,” you shoot back.

You start laughing again.

The other racer inches up beside you, and you shout, “Oh, you wanna go, Neon Boy? My toaster could outrace that sad excuse for a—WAIT NO! He’s pulling ahead! Sylus, do something!”

“I’m not driving,” he drawls.

“I’M LOSING TO A MAN WHO WEARS SUNGLASSES AT NIGHT, SYLUS.”

You shift again—aggressively, probably incorrectly—and surge forward, pure spite and stubborn joy fuelling your acceleration. The road stretches ahead, and you’re flying again, heart slamming in your chest like it’s trying to beat the engine to the finish line.

“I love this car,” you bellow over the wind. “I’m going to name her—Sylus, help me name her!”

“She’s not sentient,” he mutters.

Another turn. You drift this one, not because you know how, but because braking is for cowards, and Sylus tilts slightly in his seat, bored as a house cat.

You throw him a look. “Do you feel nothing?”

“I feel mildly concerned for your survival.”

“Aw,” you croon. “That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”

The finish line ignites ahead of you like it was summoned—a glowing, godly threshold carved into the asphalt by fate and poor decisions. Your opponent is close.

But you? You are not merely driving. You are fused to the wheel like a cursed sword to a chosen one, like a war priestess possessed by the ghost of every unhinged drag racer who ever lived.

The engine snarls beneath you, a wrathful, wheeled chromatic beast foaming at the mouth and whispering blasphemies into your bones. You gun it, and the acceleration hits like a divine slap from the cosmos.

Your spine becomes theoretical. Your soul briefly leaves your body to scream, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” before diving back in, equally thrilled.

You howl into the night like a woman possessed. “WE RIDE, GORGONATHA! TO GLORY!”

Sylus blinks. “Who the hell is Gorgonatha?”

“The car, Sylus! STAY WITH ME!”

One final burst. The tires shriek. The car lurches forward like a demon launched from a trebuchet. Your opponent fades into your rearview mirror, stunned, possibly praying. You explode across the finish line with all the subtlety of a holy war.

You win.

By a nose.

A glorious, dignity-shattering nose. You let out a victory screech so intense you’re not even sure it came from you. It might’ve been Gorgonatha. It might’ve been Sylus quietly dying inside.

Your knuckles are still locked on the wheel like you just guided a star through war. The engine purrs beneath you now—sated, smug, almost flirty.

The sad, defeated whine of your opponent’s car creeps up beside yours like a wounded dog dragging its pride behind it. His face appears, and he looks like a man who just watched his entire legacy get torched.

“What the actual hell was that?” he demands, voice raw with disbelief.

You turn your head slowly, like a villainess in a slow-mo reveal, and give him your most beatific smile. “That, good sir, was grace under pressure. Or possibly a divine possession. The jury’s out.”

The man blinks. “You almost sideswiped me on the turn.”

You nod solemnly. “Yes. That was her speaking. Gorgonatha’s rage is not mine to temper. She merely allows me to ride.”

“Are you high?”

“I’m elevated, emotionally.”

He gestures helplessly at the car. “That’s not even a race car! What the hell is this?!”

Sylus finally leans forward, calm as always. “A prototype.”

You nod sagely. “She runs on vengeance and the broken dreams of misogynists.”

The guy just stares and flounders as his brain begins to fry like an egg on engine metal. “Whatever. Rematch next week. Same time.”

You blink. “You want more of this?”

“You got lucky.”

You grin. “I am lucky. Lucky this car didn’t just ascend into the sky and become a comet.”

He peels off with the angry sound of a man trying very hard to salvage his dignity. You watch him go, then slowly turn back to Sylus, who is still too calm.

You pat the dash affectionately. “She was magnificent.”

“She almost killed us.”

“She made me feel alive.”

“You screamed ‘WE DIE IN GLORY’ mid-turn,” he counters.

“Did we die?”

“…No.”

“Then Gorgonatha was right.”

Sylus exhales like someone aging a decade in real time. “Please don’t name the car.”

“Too late.”

You’re still laughing when the city lights flicker back into view. Gorgonatha hums under your palms like she’s got stories to tell for years. You pat her lovingly, cooing nonsense praise like she’s a warhorse who just carried you through Valhalla and back as you pull into the underground parking garage.

Sylus has said nothing for minutes now, which is deeply suspicious.

You shoot him a look, still buzzing like you licked an eletrical socket. “…You’re mad.”

“No.”

“You’re definitely mad.”

“Why would I be mad?” he replies, voice level, arms folded like some vaguely handsome, judgmental statue. “You only broke the sound barrier and possibly time itself.”

“Time?”

“I’m pretty sure we skipped ahead three days during that last turn.”

You huff a laugh but then squint at him. “So… scale of one to ten, how close were you to yanking the wheel and ending us both?”

“Oh, I let go of the idea of survival halfway through the second corner.”

“See?” You gesture triumphantly at the windshield. “That’s growth.”

He sighs long and dramatically, like he aged a century watching you power-slide past an old digital billboard that blinked PLEASE SLOW DOWN.

“You don’t drive, Anira. You commit vehicular poetry and hope the laws of physics are too stunned to interfere.”

You snort. “Vehicular poetry. I like that.”

“I’ll put it on your tombstone,” he deadpans.

The corner of his mouth betrays him. A twitch. A real smile threatening to break surface tension.

“Oh my stars,” you whisper, scandalized. “Was that a smirk? Did I just get a smirk out of you?”

“No.”

“That was a smirk. A Sylus Smirk. I win.”

He exhales, slow and resigned. “If this is what winning looks like, I fear for the universe.”

“Too late. The universe just high-fived me and offered me a monster truck.”

“You were supposed to test the engine,” he mutters.

You bat your lashes. “I did. It passed. Spectacularly.”

“You’re ridiculous,” he sighs, resting his hand on your thigh like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“You’re glowing,” you shoot back, eyes narrowing with suspicion. “I turned you on with my reckless endangerment, didn’t I? Be honest.”

“Maybe.”

You blink. “Maybe?”

He shrugs.

You throw your hands off the wheel like he’s insulted your ancestors. “I’m sitting over here so wet you may actually have to reupholster the seat, and you’re giving me a maybe? Holy shit, Sylus. What does it take to turn you on, an asteroid collision? A war crime?”

He finally turns his head, calm as the dead of space, eyes glittering. “I said maybe. I didn’t say no.”

He reaches over, takes your hand in his, and lowers it into his lap right onto the very solid proof of his reaction. It takes everything in you not to wrap your fingers around his girth that throbs against your palm.

Your mouth falls open. The silence between you vibrates with wicked tension.

“Oh.”

He doesn’t blink. “Still want a yes?”

You are going to die. Not in battle. Not by some monstrous Wanderer clawing through your chest. No. You’re going to spontaneously combust in a luxury sports car because of this man.

You try to play it cool. Like your brain isn’t melting. Like your body isn’t seconds from flinging itself into his lap like an unhinged groupie at a concert. There is a relentless pang of need between your thighs, and your pussy is clenching involuntarily as if it needs to remind you that it’s empty. You cross your legs like it’ll help.

It doesn’t.

Why is the air so hot? Why is he so hot?

You make a wheezing sound, some mix of arousal and existential horror. “You’re evil.”

“I’m practical. You asked.”

The elevator ride feels like a held breath. You don’t say a word, and neither does he. Your hand is still warm from where he touched it, and every time you shift your fingers, you swear you can still feel the outline of his cock, like a phantom touch burned straight into your skin.

The doors slide open with a soft hiss, revealing the quiet sprawl of his penthouse. It’s dim, low-lit, and humming with that strange, unreal calm his home always carries, like time doesn’t move the same here.

You step in first, and he follows, as silent as a shadow behind you. For a second you think you’re going to turn around and he’s going to kiss you or ruin you or both, and you’ll let him, because something in your bones has already decided it’s inevitable.

But he doesn’t touch you. He walks past you. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back in a minute.”

You nod like you’re composed. Like you aren’t one heartbeat away from disintegrating. You drop onto the couch, spine stiff, limbs tingling like they’ve forgotten how to exist.

Outside the windows, there are no meteors now, just light pollution, blinking satellites, and the occasional flicker of passing aircraft. Still, you can almost imagine the field. The warmth of the dragon’s breath. The soft, heavy way it moved, like it could destroy the world but never would—not with you in it.

What does it mean to run toward something you don’t understand? To kiss a beast between the eyes like you’ve done it a thousand times before?

Your head rests against the couch, eyes unfocused. Your thoughts drift. Back to the dream. The dragon. The stars. That feeling of something ancient and infinite brushing the edges of your soul.

Maybe it was only a dream, soft-spun and golden, stitched from the thread of something lost.

Or maybe—it was the truth in its purest form, and this waking life is just the echo.

Chapter Masterlist 

A03 [Cross-posted] 

Taglist: @mcdepressed290, @animecrazy76, @harmonyrae, @for-hearthand-home

Hiya, kittens! I feel the need to let you know that this will likely be a long fic, because I'm terrible at writing short ones. I like to ramble too much, and include scenes that in no way advance the plot. So, yeah, hopefully you guy don't mind that!

I love all your comments so far, keep them coming if you're comfortable doing so! Each one makes me smile.

Take care everyone and enjoy! ☺���

[fantasy-anatomy-analyst]

Hello again! I just wanted to stop by and note what I’ve noticed about a newer MH Monster’s design, namely the Arkveld.

I main,ywant to focus on the wings, and what I noticed about them and the chains on them. Specifically, it seems to be set up so that the Arkveld has basically this sort of setup: The wings are on fingers just behind the chains, which I propose are on specialized front fingers as an attachment point. This is due to this image I was able to take from footage of one flying.

As you can see, the membrane of the wing is indeed completely detached from the chain, even in flight. This implies it’s attached to it’s own finger for support in a pterodactyl-like way, under the fur (which idk what you have to say about that, even if this is effectively an exaggeration of how bat wings have hairs on them to sense air flow). While not a perfect “realistic” wing design, it’s something I wanted to bring up since it’s interesting to me.

my bestie has been playing this game! I can't remember if she explained why they have that funky chain on their wing, but she did tell me the arkveld is some sort of artificial creature, which makes the anatomy somewhat more flexible.

the chain also reminds me of birds that have odd feathers, like that one nightjar with the long streamer feathers on its wings.

(image description: overhead drawings of different nightjar species that all have extra long feathers on their tails or wings. end description)

nightjars are living validation for everyone who makes winged characters with seemingly impractical wing designs.

[rokkr-ragnarok-writers-corner]

Beach Day

@abstractdogwolfthing is the owner of this amazing AU, and they got me on an absolute roll~

Will be tossed on AO3 later probably~ Like most of my work, its completely unedited ~1,100 words, took about 30-40 minutes to write

Strawberry Nightmare takes her Pets out for a Beach day, with some help from her absolute bestest friend in the world Fresh~

“Pleeeeeaaaaaaaasssssseeee~” Nightmare asked, batting her eye as she held her hands together. Begging her favorite bestie in the entire multiverse, “my pets were all begging me so adorably!~ “Please Boss, Can we have a day at the beach! The fresh salty air is good for us!” You knooooow I can't say no to them!”

Fresh was hiding their grin behind a fur lined fan, waving it just enough to get her curls bouncing. This body was a rather comfortable one, but well… All bodies deteriorate before long. “And you need me because…?~”

“Can’t a girl ask her besty out to a Beach day in peace?~” purred the strawberry flavored Guardian.

“You and I both know you don’t just dooo anything sweet cheeks~” Fresh tapped Nightmare’s head with the fan, “but fiiiine~ Ill get my answers later anyways~”

Strawbs gasped, a hand over her chest dramatically, “Why Fresh! Its like you don’t trust me!”

“More like I know how to get your adorable pets talking when you don’t want to love~” Fresh giggled, “Ill see you tomorrow. Don’t break your phone before then~”

Neither set a time, but they really didn’t have to. Things always just seemed to work out for their little hang out sessions~

The next day Strawbs was standing on the dock with the leashes in hand, “Now pets~ What were the rules~”

“No splashing the boss!~” Killer eagerly piped up, holding their hand up and waving it.

“Boss don… like much… rough housin,” Horror tacked on, yawning a bit as they leaned on dust sleepily. Eyeing the basket in Dust’s arms.

Dust rolled their eyes at it, but didn’t mind too much, signing, [and no feeding the fish.] Making sure Horror only got a little snack for now so he didn’t ruin his appetite for lunch.

“Perfect!~” Strawb clapped her hands eagerly, “aren’t you all such good poppets?~ Make sure to tell your loving doctor if you aren’t feeling well~”

From behind her slowly rose a large large skull. A familiar eye in one of the sockets. A grin slowly grew as it noticed Strab hadn’t noticed it yet… And gave her a long lick~

“Tasty~” Fresh teased as the pink guardian gave her friend an indignant look.

“Ask first! What have I said about asking to lick first Fresh? Do you have any idea how much concentration it takes to get the tastiest goop to a location for you to lick? How dare! How dare!” Waving around her favorite quill dramatically.

Fresh let out a little snort, “Admit it~ You love it~”

“That’s not the point and you know it!” Strawb insisted. Not noticing her patients loading up their beach supplies on Fresh’s shell while she scolded the Parasite.

Dust walked up and tugged on her sleeve a little. Pointing up at the shell where they had set up a tent with a blow up bed for her. Draped in soft fabrics and faux fur pillows. Even a cooler next to her with tasty chilly treats. Though she wouldn’t be able to taste the different flavors, their textures would be a delight.

“You know me sooo well!~” she squealed, wiping away a tear with a little flourish. Shuffling over quickly and flopped on the bed with a little moan of delight.

While she hugged a plush she watched the others setting up a volley ball net. A Blow up mannequin set up as a fourth player to even out the odds between the teams. Killer far too hopped up on sweets to need any help. Dust was deadly efficient so the sleepy Horror didn’t need to do much to help.

A near 1v1, but well… volleyball is supposed to be 2v2.

A couple hours into the swim, Fresh hummed, “and to your right is a Coral Reef. Admire its colors and the cute little fishies if you will~” Still laying flat as she floated along, arms crossed as a pillow.

“Fish?” Strawb asked, perking up some. Slowly she left her comfortable nest to go to the edge of the shell. Taking out a camera to take pictures for her clinic. Maybe she could ask that cute little artist to paint their own versions with these beautiful sights~

She didn’t expect to slip off the shell… Fall into the water with a startled squeak!

The trio of pets didn’t notice at first, too engrossed in their game… The sound of the ball being struck louder than their Boss’s little squeak.

Horror lifted their head, looking around. Brow furrowed when he noticed the tent was empty. “Mrrrrrr?” he slowly stood, shaking himself some to get his bones back aligned. The rattling stopping the other two in their tracks.

“Something up Ror Ror?” Killer asked, walking over. Making an amused little giggle as their shoes squeaked with every step. A cheeky little grin on their face.

Dust tilted their head some, wondering why they stopped.

“Boss lady…?” horror asked, pointing at the tent where said boss was nowhere to be seen.

Fresh turned their torso just enough to look at them from the corner of her socket, Judgement clear in her gaze, “She fell off several minutes ago and you only notice now? No wonder your lot don’t last long. Such pathetic little pets don’t even pay attention when their Mistress is in distress,” she sneered.

Killer scrambled to the side of the shell where the footprints of their Mistress went. Noticing a bobbing bit of pink many fish were nibbling at. “Boss!” he cried out, “Boss! Are you awake?” Waving his hand to see if she would react.

A soft groan came from the pink mass and not much else.

He giggled at how cute it was. Debating if they should save her now or give it a few minutes just to see how she does…

Horror and Dust made the decision for them, opting to use the Volley Ball net and poles to fish out their boss. Their boss giggling as she was pulled up and onto the shell at last. Sopping wet with Salt water and a cute little swirl in her eye.

[Awwww~ Look at her~ No thoughts just Salt~] Dust signed, the one whos survived as Strab’s pet the longest.

“Salt?” Horror asked with a raised brow.

[Boss is Drunk~ S so cute seeing her like this~] Dust offered. Soon going off and coming back with a few towels. Laying them across their boss so she wasn’t left to dry out in the sun for too long. Killer was quick to help, Giggling away as they though of other ways to get their boss drunk like this.

[creature-wizard]

Okay so, this wonderful infographic gave me what I need to explain how it can be extremely easy to make someone think they have DID when they don't, and talk about my own experiences as someone who doesn't have DID, but has had my brain do things that could look like programmed DID to the people who were convinced that this is a real thing.

So as this infographic shows us, everybody is multifaceted. We all have different parts within our selves, so to speak. Different parts of ourselves can hold completely contrary opinions and beliefs.

So here's an example: There's a part of me that believes that there is no supernatural activity in the universe whatsoever, and that we live in a deterministic universe.

But there's another part of me that's like, "Hmm, actually, there are a few reasons to think there might be some supernatural things, and there's no strong evidence to support a deterministic universe. And besides that, determinism is kinda demoralizing, and there's the fact that people behave better when they believe in free will, so..."

There's a lot of contradictions like this in my brain. And my anxiety/depression often gives me some gnarly mood dips that often prompt my brain to prioritize its more pessimistic parts. But ultimately, I'm still experiencing these states as a single person.

For most people, these different parts are essentially integrated with each other, blending smoothly into each other so that it forms a fairly cohesive self. Most of us don't effectively become a different person when something happens to prompt us into prioritizing a different part.

But in a multiple system, these parts aren't integrated, because childhood trauma disrupted a key stage of brain development. This means that for multiple systems, each part is essentially its own entire person.

Now, here's one way somebody can be tricked or trick themself into thinking they have DID: Denial and repression.

Here's a hypothetical example: Someone grows up in a church where they're always told that the church's teachings are perfect. But they see where the church's teachings don't really prevent abuse; in fact, talking about abuse within the church is discouraged.

However, they've also been taught that eternal damnation awaits anyone who defies the church and its teachings. So they always push away the part of them that acknowledges that the church's negative aspects and force themselves to focus on whatever positives they can find.

However, this repressed part is still there, stewing under the surface, building resentment toward the church and toward its god.

Then one day something finally snaps, and this person can't hold this part of themselves back any longer. It bursts to the surface and they make a raging rant against the church and against God.

Once this person gets it all off their chest and the pressure is relieved, they find themselves absolutely horrified because what they've just said is in such drastic conflict with the part of themselves they've forced themselves to prioritize, the part that they've convinced themselves is their only set of beliefs and feelings.

This is where the SRA/RAMCOA/TBMC/ITBC/whatever they're calling it now "expert" can come in and explain that actually, they just experienced a programmed alter fronting. Then they explain how there's all of these secret Satanic cults that program people to have good Christian front alters but also program them to have other alters that hate Christianity.

Literally anything somebody might be repressing this way could be interpreted as a programmed alter. A woman who represses the part of herself that wants to explore taboo sexual desires or even just present herself as a sexual being can be convinced she has beta kitten programming, for example.

Another way people can come to wrongly believe they have DID is failing to understand that different parts in a person's can become associated with certain characters or figures, and that these parts can be "channeled."

For example, someone with abusive parents watches a TV show with a character who feels outraged over the way their parents abused them. This resonates with the part of their brain that feels outraged about the way their parents treat them, and they form an association between this character and their own feelings.

Once this happens, they can experience this character expressing opinions and stating intentions fueled by these feelings, and when their brain prioritizes this part of themself, they might find themself acting more like this character in some way. Furthermore, they might also be able to "talk" to this character and have this character respond, or feel an emotional reaction from this part of their brain.

This is something my own brain does. Sometimes when I watch media, I occasionally have a character get associated with some part of my brain, and sometimes they just seem to pop out and insert their opinions. Or I can just go "Hey character, what's your opinion?" and they throw out an opinion from that part of my brain.

This link can also be reinforced by writing fanfic about the character, because the writer is using that set of feelings to guide how they write the character.

The more somebody watches or writes the character, the more their brain implicitly understands what the character "should" do, and so it becomes easier for their subconscious to just throw stuff out. Again, I have personal experience here, and numerous writers out there can confirm that they experience characters like this. Many writers report experiencing this kind of thing so intensely that it completely throws their story off the rails - the characters effectively "take over," and the writers just have to go along with it. It's a well-known thing among fanfic writers.

Of course, you don't even have to be into fiction for your brain to associate some kind of figure with a certain part. Anyone can easily associate the general idea of a strong, powerful man with the part of themself that wants to do violence. Anyone can associate a dog with the part of themself that wants to play and frolic. Anyone can associate flowing robes and glowing auras with the part of their brain that believes in transcendent divinity. If you access these different parts of yourself and try to imagine what they would look like as a person, you will probably find your brain creating what feels like an appropriate embodiment for them. And then you can channel them, and you will experience them speaking to you or through you. And if you get into it deeply enough, you might even experience them taking over your body for a time.

Ultimately, a person can have such a character or figure take up residence in their brain with such vividity and apparent autonomy that they do in some sense function as a kind of separate entity, without DID or TBMC/ITBC being involved whatsoever. (In fact, torture would be more likely to hinder, rather than help this process.)

Dr. Alison Miller really gave the game away when she described how she has her patients communicate with their alleged alters. In a case of genuine DID, alters really aren't at a person's beck and call like this. (Edit to clarify: This isn't to say voluntary switching can't happen, or that alters can't be called forward in certain cases, but Miller was basically trying to get freshly-diagnosed people in contact with long-buried alters using a technique that was basically just channeling. A long-buried alter isn't likely to respond to this.) But this is how it works when you don't have DID and you're poking around at your own very integrated (if very repressed) parts.

[cute-little-fly]

As someone that is fan of both shows, and that even with its limitations still liked Arcane Season 2, Arcane is a show that has a complete different set of public, scope and issues than Helluva Boss. Sorry if I am invading your post, i will erase if it bothers you, but this made me want to put another perspective to the precise issue you are pointing out:

I don’t think Arcane is a bad show, (in case someone here would like to watch, hear me out lmao); the issue was that it betrayed fans’s expectations, and a lot of things that you felt were focused or were going to pay off on Season 2 were either sidelined or ignored. Besides, one (and slightly other) plots of Season two felt very detached from the original premise. It had other small issues, but the main ones are those.

And you know, I don’t know how controversial this is but… For me, it was pretty cool and fun to watch, I actually liked being surprised with something different out of the blue… But I understand why from a storytelling point of view it wasn’t pull off fine, and how for a show of that scope that didn’t look well…

So, I understand the criticism of Arcane perfectly and the critical community us very varied. You have the critic that bash Arcane because it has a queer couple, and a lot of very centered and well known critics. You see both good stuff and bad stuff mixed, and a lot of the times it’s just a sincere opinion of people that felt disappointed and that valid too…

However, with Helluva Boss the critical community is completely different. The nature of Helluva Boss as an indie web series makes the criticism not being really serious either and we have a lot of content farming here. Arcane as a more visible show, is criticized by better writers that at least are fair and respectful to the creators and try to be objective, or they just have a good damn point. This is why even if I like Arcane, I don’t mind to see criticism videos once in a while.

Helluva Boss criticism on YouTube is made (mostly) by people that don’t actually have very good points, are not actually critics or any kind, and are just randos of YouTube that cringe about it. They are resentful people that evaluate Helluva Boss as if HB pretended to be the pinnacle of art or a show intended for something big.

HB is basically just a bunch of silly weird people wanting to do a show for themselves and sharing it with other people. That’s it. That’s Helluva Boss… and you know what, I think Helluva is actually good for its intended audience and scope, and considering its origins is good. I am sorry but even if they had mistakes as writers I think it’s good and worth to watch just by the characters, songs and animation.

I can value more the stuff on HB because I know that I am seeing what the creators WANT to do.

In Arcane I know there was a lot of Riot and corporate influence in plot points. So yeah… it’s kinda different.

why are my youtube recommendations all anti hb videos

[rolandkaros]

caved.

[iphigeniacomplex]

breaking my silence on chess the musical to say that i would literally not give a fuck about this show if i thought it was good or fully successful at what it is saying. SORRY! i love how messy she is. i love how since 1984 and continuing to this very day people with entirely different perceptions of and opinions on the musical have attempted in their own ways to "make it good" by creating all these different versions with like notably different plots, characterization, and song order, and i love how fucking bad the vast majority of these are despite it all. i hope people keep trying to fix chess the musical forever and until the end of time. i hope no one ever figures it out. i want every currently living theatre director in existence to make their own version and for all these versions to come out on broadway at the same time, making that year's musical season entirely comprised of various different versions of the cold war chess musical by tim rice and half of abba. i want not only our greatest minds but also our middlest-of-the-road and worst minds to come up with their own conclusions as to why chess does not entirely work in its original form or any subsequent forms like to really think about it and yes i do want someone to dedicate their entire life to perfecting chess by releasing version after version after version until they die peacefully but still, as always, in the grips of obsession. i want marriages to be broken up. i want mental states to be shattered. i dream of this world

[cotharach]

"You're with someone?!"

Flayn almost spits the tea from her mouth. Her heart races—so much so that the pounding serves to muffle all the rest of his words. She thinks she's already caught the most important, anyway.

She leans forward. Her intrigue melts away all tension. Its transforming power makes her into a hungry beast, prowling about the conversation with an eagerness to strike. Love has always thrilled her, even if it wasn't her own. There was always something about it that Flayn never tired of hearing. How many nights had she lay awake thinking of it? How many pages of romance novels had she snuck in between Reason tomes and Faith scriptures? She consumed it just about as much as it consumed her.

Looking now at Alm, she sees a completely different person. She sees someone with a wonderful story to tell, and a beautiful love to share!

"Oh, Alm, words cannot express how delighted I am to hear that!" Flayn sets down her teacup and leans back into her chair, sighing dreamily. Her eyes travel from the surrounding bushes to the distant horizon, and she looks at the sun as if she might soon kiss it. "Romance is always so thrilling… how I wish I could experience such things for myself!"

She sighs once more, this time a bit sadder. Self-pity is never a thing she wishes to wallow in, but recent tragedies have sprung melancholy onto her. She knows why she cannot experience love the way others do. It's probably why she loves to hear their stories. An author for a father has shown her all the power of written word!

"Ah, but let's not make this about me…" whipping her head back towards him, Flayn once again looks at Alm with a hungry gleam in her eye, "do tell me all about this special someone! Have you been together for long? Are they in the monastery? How did you first meet?"

A gasp. "Have you two kissed before?!"

host a tea party?

⚚ [ cupido bash, flayn & alm ] ⚚

[xxplastic-cubexx]

i’m so glad you brought up that bit in excalibur where magneto’s ideal prison is him getting to be a husband and father again, because it’s so relevant to the idea that the house of m reality isn’t actually everyone’s ideal life, but just wanda’s idea of what everyone’s ideal life would be. all the time i see x-fans condemn magneto for house of m because his ideal world is him becoming exactly like his oppressors, but house of m isn’t actually the life magnus wants! any time magnus gets to become a political leader, he hates it. he hated ruling genosha. he hated ruling krakoa. deep down, he doesn’t want to be superior. he just wants to live in peace with the family he lost.

also, shoutout to magda and anya, who never get to be anything other than magneto’s women in refrigerators. i wish they got to be more important than that. i love it every time we see them in comics, but it’s so rare. and shoutout to magda in particular since she’s been almost completely erased from the narrative by the maximoff retcon. really hope we get a reveal that natalya maximoff was magda all along when we inevitably make wanda and pietro magneto’s mutant children again.

i honestly didnt know excalibur was a predecessor to HoM when i heard about both runs so when i saw that set of panels for the first time it really had me reconsider HoM and the 'ideal reality' bit, im surprised i dont see it mentioned more often

i really wish there were more appearances of mags, magda, and anya; if there are stories focused on them i barely see them talked about... ive heard magda is mags' best-written partner from some but i also very rarely see stories that feature her directly named, so i never get to see her beyond the few fleeting instances i just so happen to catch her. id very much like to see more of her and mags' domestic life....

i think if we find out that natalya was magda all along i'll howl: this family really Can get more complicated contrary to popular belief 💀

[beaulesbian]

Xitra "Rook" Ingellvar

[shakingparadigm]

horrendously sick and twisted btw

[skunkes]

yeah ur addition abt brushes mattering is so true, i dont think i really came into my current style until i tried out aliasing for my lineart

exactly! ill never understand brush gatekeeping (other than for certain reasons, like how i wont share brushes that ppl have given me in private bc theyre not mine to share, sometimes ppl wont share them bc they want to sell them etc) or saying it doesnt matter lol.... ppl who do so are always like "um having my brushes wont make u draw exactly like me! 🙄" like yeah, they wont. that's not what anyone expects. but also, if they wont magically make someone draw exactly like you then what exactly is your problem with sharing them lol what are you afraid of !

i've used TONS of brushes from artists who have shared them and i hate most of them because they don't fit my way of working even after editing settings, which is why i know they do matter when you get your hands on brushes that fit your line weight, strokes, style, texture, preferences, etc. if that makes sense....

[astros-arts-inthestars]

aubrey with a metaverse outfit

...I hope you know it took me a month to draw this and it's nOT EVEN BECAUSE IM GAY. Colors are hard man. But i... actually REALLY TOOK THIS REQUEST SERIOUSLY THE MOMENT I SAW IT and am pretty proud of the design- tHE COLORS JUST FUCKED ME OVER MAN

anyways <3 Aubrey as a Phantom Thief!! Without and with a mask <3

Joker (and the others) suggested codenames such as: -Hare -Cottontail -Lucky -Rabid -Burrow

What do you guys think?