#except knives are knives meat's meat

[xoxoemynn]

SNAKE KNIFE TIME LOOP SNAKE KNIFE TIME LOOP!!!

OKAY this is my most unhinged idea I will probably never write because it is just VIBES IN MY HEAD BASED ON NOTHING EXCEPT THINGS THAT WOULD BE AMUSING TO ME PERSONALLY BUT.

Poor Steak Knife is caught in a time loop where he just keeps dying of random, ridiculous things. Obviously what we see in 2x07. Getting bonked on the head with a flower pot. Eating fish that's gone bad. Tripping and falling into quicksand. Going to pet some animal that is super cute and cuddly but actually incredibly venomous. This gigantic man of pure muscle just keeps dying of THE most inane, ridiculous shit.

Until ONE DEATH he only loses consciousness and when he comes to, it's Roach caring for him. And as Roach nurses him back to health, they bond over their love of knives. They fall in love and together open the world's first hospital/restaurant. Because together, they understand more than anyone: knives are knives. Meat's meat.

Send me asks about my WIPs!

[multific]

The Window of the Soul

A'Tok x Reader

Summary: They kidnapped humans to use as slaves. He saw you the day you arrived at Yautja Prime.

They took others too. You weren’t so special. 

But why was it so strange?

You noticed him from the day they took you from Earth. He was the only one who saw you more than a prey or slave. It was visible in his eyes. 

He pitied you. 

And you didn’t mind. You needed his pity to survive. 

When they started killing the others, you gave up on going home. 

But you did want to survive. 

At least live a life and not die a worthless death. 

It is what you aimed for. 

You hoped for a family to take you. 

You hoped the young alpha would take you to his care. 

He didn’t look as mean as the others. He held a certain kindness in his eyes. 

You failed to notice that this was only towards you. 

The next day, he took you home with him.

Well, you say home but your image of a home was very different from theirs.

You assumed you would be a slave to him, like the others you saw once they were picked.

You knew that he could do anything with you.

The last thing you would have guessed was that he would feed you.

He brought a huge plate filled with meat and fruits.

It was so big you ate it for two days.

But you could have it worse.

You heard the stories from other humans. You knew none survived for longer than two years.

You were already there for almost one and a half.

In his care, you were for only half a year.

Well, you say care, in reality, you took care of his home. Cleaning, and he did teach you how to cook for him.

He was a hunter, as you have learned. 

In the tribe you lived, he was a hunter along with other males. It was the highest and one of the most prestigious positions, the only one higher was the leader of the tribe.

You could only work off of your ideas as you didn't understand them fully.

You did learn a couple of words but other than that, clueless.

Although their traditions made a lot of sense, they were similar to the ones you learn about in school.

Except for his eyes. There was something about his eyes that you noticed the first time you saw him. Something different about him, something kind.

You stopped being so nervous around the time when he brought home more than enough fur for you to have a bed of your own. 

If you didn't know any better you would think that he was treating you as an equal.

You did find it weird that he didn't lock his doors, let you roam free and let you around huge knives.

Perhaps he wasn't afraid that you would hurt him, perhaps he knew you had no chance of hurting him.

He would be able to kill you long before even the thought could come to your mind. 

While you were thinking of the ways he could be hurting you, he did nothing as such.

Not even a finger of his touched you at any time.

“A’Tok,” he said one day. You weren’t sure how, but you knew it was his name. 

“Y/N,” you simply replied. When he said your name, it sounded so strange but it also sounded very nice.

You repeated back his name. 

Yautja could not show emotion on their face, but you swore you saw a small twinkle in his eyes. Those eyes spoke stories to you, even if you didn't know nor did you understand.

You chose to ignore this.

What you couldn't ignore however was the day you got sick.

You felt a fever coming a couple of days ago, and soon, you became ill.

A'Tok had no idea what to do.

He stayed by your side day in and out.

You got so hazy with the fever, that you reached out to him since he was the only living being there with you.

"Don't leave me, please." you said even if you knew that he didn't understand you.

But he didn't leave, instead, he laid down next to you and pulled you close to him.

His cold body comforted you as you fell asleep.

The next day you woke up exactly as you fell asleep, in his arms.

You still felt under the weather but you were rather hungry now.

Your slightest movement woke up A'Tok. And he soon realized what you needed.

He brought you to the kitchen and prepared a simple meal.

While eating, you realise that you will never go home. You will never be back to Earth and somehow, you were okay with that. Somehow, you didn't mind living here with A'Tok. 

It all hit you like a cold shower and yet, somehow you were okay with everything.

You looked into his eyes and you felt at ease, you felt like you could live the rest of your life with him or at least for as long as he kept looking at you like that.

Taglist: 

@castellandiangelo @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl @manduse @jacalineiscomingforyou @mandoloriancookie @deliciousfestsalad @lilliumrorum @asgards-princess-of-mischief @fallout-girl219 @dracaryxzs @darlingmira @stygianoir @snowtargaryen

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

/YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO TRANSLATE, OR TO STEAL ANY OF MY WORK TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[lazyneonrabbitt]

Beef

Daryl Dixon x Reader

Requested : "Could you do a Daryl x reader where at first he doesn’t like her, and she tries to get to know why hes so mean to her? Maybe he yells at her and then some comfort after?" EDIT: I saw this same request being written by another writer and I want to say, don't send multiple writers the same exact request. I find this super disrespectful.

This one took some turns of its own while writing, I hope it's to your liking!!

When his group first came to the community you were excited. Finally you'd have a real huntsman around to share experiences with, you had missed it so bad.

Before the fall your family owned a shop, your father a butcher and your mother a taxidermist. You and your siblings learned every skill from hunting to skinning, prepping and using each part of the animal so none would go to waste. You hadn't hunted in so long, you weren't sure if you still could hunt succesfully. Even now you'd donate large, strong antlers and bones to the blacksmith in Hilltop to use in weaponmaking. You donated the furs you didn't fashion into items yourself to the seamstresses and prepped each type of meat for meals.

But somehow the new hunter didn't take the shared interests as something positive.

He brought you animals, yes. But never without throwing a judgy look around your workplace. Even when he came in with someone else who'd compliment your clean work he'd only scoff, dump his kills and head back out.

"Sheesh, what crawled up his ass?" The large moustached man laughed. You only shrugged as you lugged the deer behind your counter. "Hell if I know. Ain't digging it out tho. He seems to be doing okay with everyone except for me.." You returned the laugh while the man who's name slipped your mind helped you put the deer on your workbench, only to quickly drop the fake smile and leaning against your workbench.

You thanked him with a sigh and he gave you that look that told you to spill your thoughts.

"Fine. It sucks he's so weird. It'd be awesome to have a partner to do all of this with and to go hunt with." You busied yourself sharpening yuour knives, clearly still annoyed by the whole ordeal. "And..?" The long winded drawl made you roll your eyes at the man's persistance.

"And he's drop dead gorgeous, okay? There. I said it. I have a crush on the man. Happy no-- Ah fuck!" Your knife hit the floor with a clatter as you grabbed at your bleeding hand.

"Alright, up and out withya. To the doc we go." You were led to the infirmary and passed the source of your annoyance on the way.

Not that you were listening, but you still caught his voice in passing. "Damn folk 'ere don't know how ta do shit." You caught his glance in your direction and if you weren't busy keeping yourself from bleeding out you'd confront him.

It was a clear message that you weren't allowed to use the injured hand for your work and risk pulling the stitches, and honestly it just hurt too much to do anything with it. It sucked even more than having to leave your old home behind. There were people counting on your work so they'd have food.

It didn't stop you from going to work and doing as much as you could one-handed. You got there extra early to make up for the extra rime everything would take now, and by the time you'd normally open you found Deanna on your steps, greeting you with her usual smile. "I knew you'd be here stil working, but I brought someone to help until your hand is better. You shouldn't be overworking yourself."

As quick as she had entered she had left again as well, leaving you with your new work companion.

The hunter.

"Good morning." You gave him the kindest smile you could, but were only given a grunt in return as he tossed a bundle of tied up small game on your desk, rounded the corner and fished for a knife to start taking them apart.

Besides you explaining where to put all the different parts of the animal you two barely spoke, until the snap of bone pulled you away from your focused work of skinning yesterday's deer. "The hell?" You turned around to go see what he was up to.

"What are you breaking bones for?" His station was a mess, he pointed at the difficult point he was cuting along. "Easier ta reach without the bone in the way." Without even looking he continued. "Ya should know tha'. Damn city girl doin' mah work."

Again with his snarky comments. You shrugged it off and went back to your own station. Yiur bkood bloiled but you weren't gonna let him get to you, you had work to get done. "Try not to do that, we can still use the bones if you keep them whole."

You tried so hard to focus on your work, skinning the deer with only one functional hand was so difficult and even though you were having extremely conflicted feelings about it you still had to ask him for help.

"Can I borrow your hands for a minute? Can't do this on my own."

You held the large deer up and moved it as Daryl cut away the skin in the most choppy manner, creating a clear line where you stopped and he started. "Can you please work a bit mote delicate? That's gonna take me ages to clean up." You huffed from keeping the deer in place, but also annoyance. Why didn't he work like a hunter? He must know the code, right?

"Why're ya so on mah ass 'bout how I work? Gon' toss it out anyways. Just need the meat, tha's it." He got snappy at the end and you just stared at him, anger clear in your eyes. "Seriously?"

You let go of the deer and stepped away from the counter. "You're sent to MY shop. To help me because I happen to fuck up my hand for the first time ever since I got here years ago and all you can do is talk shit about me?" The knife that laid on the desk before now in your good hand and pointed at his chest. "God I can't believe I even fell for your hunting woodsman charms. You're just an asshole who doesn't give a shit about these animals or the hunter's code." With a clatter the knife hit the floor as you tossed it to the side with shaking hands.

"Get the fuck out of my shop and go find me someone who cares." With angry steps you turned around and headed out of the room, needing a break to gather yourself first if you wanted to get anything else done.

Now alone in the workstation, Daryl snatched up his catch from this morning and headed out.

~~

"You did what? Pookie you gotta listen to the girl." Carol sat down next to him and snatched the cigarette from his fingers. "You know you disrespected her life's work by now following her rules in her own shop, right?"

"I'on get why tha's even important anymore. We gotta eat, tha's all." Daryl's annoyed grumbles did nothing good it seemed as Carol continued to scold him like he was a child. "Did you for one second maybe think this work is all she has left to hold onto her old world self?"

"Cept this ain't the old world no more. She's waistin' time doin' all tha extra shit."

Carol was up and at the front door by now, putting out the cigarette in one of many ashtrays there. "Alright, up with you. You're apologizing with me right now."

The two took off to your shop but found no one there. Daryl's half finished rabbit still out in the open on the table while the deer was gone. "Ain't here. I'll head back tomorro--"

"No we're not. I know where she lives, come on." Carol practically pulled him along on the way to your place despite Daryl's protests.

You were working in your basement area when you heard a knock on the front door. "Come in!" Everyone who came to your place knew the door was unlocked and was free to come and find you, seeing you were either cooking, working on lounging when you kept the front door open.

"Hey, it's Carol! Heard about your hand, need some help around the house?" She needed an excuse to get an answer and find out where you were, so when you called back she knew to head downstairs.

Meanwhile Daryl just stared around to keep his mind busy. He found rabbit skins from prey he brought in wrapped around a pair of boots. He recognized the fur seeing it was a rare color. Further into your livingroom there was a deer pelt draped over the back of your couch. Also caught by him. The white spots over the back had one small flaw from where his bolt had struck right on a white dot. He remembered being proud of his aim for a minute that day.

"Daryl, come on." Carol's whisper-yell had him roll his eyes and as he passed your coatrack he noticed the hooks were all antler parts and the knives laying in the basket on the hallway table had bone handles.

So that's why you were so angry when he snapped the rabbit's leg and skinned the deer so carelessly. You did really use everything.

The two walked down the stairs to your workshop, Carol up front with Daryl following.

"Oh wow," Carol's exclaimation had you laugh. "Yeah, I get that a lot." You stood with your back turned, struggling to hang a piece of skin.

"Here, lemme help ya." Daryl's gruff voice was suddenly right behind you and you spooked, letting go of the pelt but Daryl caught it just in time, draping it over the wire. "Like tha?" His hands stayed up there and adjusted it to your liking, having stepped back to watch him and give Carol a questioning look. She just shrugged and gestured at the man who was again staring around the room. "What brings you here?"

Daryl looked at everything except you, he knew he'd lose all ability to speak if he did. Hell, he already had a difficulty getting his words out now seeing how wrong he was for not listening to you. "Came ta say sorry." He stared at the basket of furs labeled 'Donate'. "Shoulda known better than ta get angry. 'N I get why ya work thr way ya do now." Next to the basket sat a crate filled with thick, sturdy bones labeled 'blacksmith'.

You nodded and gave him an option. "Come back to the shop tomorrow. I'll have tou clean up that deer skin you almost ruined and you're following my teachings. I'll forgive you for wasting the rabbit."

Daryl chewed at his thumb, the other hand stuffed in his pocket and fidgeting with the fabric inside. "Yeah, alright." He nodded and looked over at Carol who had the brightest smile on her face. One that screamed victory.

"We'll get out of your hair, I'll bring by some lunch tomorrow at your shop." Carol waved on her way up, and just as Daryl was about to follow her you quickly spun around to grab something. "Oh, here." You held out a thin knife wrapped in leather, a small engraving of Hilltop's blacksmith on the handle. "I saw you took the rabbits, so if you haven't prepped them yet you can try this one. They're great for smaller animals."

He stumbled over his thanks as he accepted the knife and quickly headed out after Carol.

~~

You were back at work early the next morning, painkillers and a small breakfast in your system already and hoping to finish that damn deer. It still proved a challenge to get it from the cooler onto the workbench but you managed eventually, just before Daryl came in.

"Mornin'." Hid gruff voice sounded through the workplace as he rounded the corner and placed the knife from yesterday on the table. "Thanks fer lettin' me borrow it. Worked like a charm."

You picked up the knife and held it out to him again, only to recieve a questioning grunt in return. "It was a gift. To keep."

Daryl never got gifts. Everything he had was scavenged and well taken care of for longer use these days. It felt weird to keep it but he thanked you again and pocketed it.

Meanwhile you had grabbed the deer skin and laid it out where he'd be working. "Look here, I'll show you how to clean this up and you'll go fix the rest, okay? It'll take a while but it'll be worth it." Daryl stepped up to you and observed the way you took the knife to the uneven spots of skin and carefully smoothed it all out. The precision in your work was impressive to say the least. "How long've ya been doin' this?"

You dropped a cut off piece of meat into a plastic container and thought back to the old world. "I guess ever since my parents thought I was old enough to handle knives." You held the tool out to the hunter and watched him take it from you. "Your turn. I'll be hopefully finishing that deer so just ask whatever, whenever."

You were lucky a lot of the cutting could be done onehanded, and holding back pieces was okay enough to do with your wrist or hold something down with your elbow. But now that you had all the easy access meats off and seperated you ran into a problem.

"Fuck.." You needed help. The same kind of help that had you kick him out yesterday.

"Sup? Need hands?" He was at your side in a second, waiting for your instructions.

"I need to take off the ribs but I can't." You leaned aside to point around the carcass. "If you can press down here, and there." Daryl followed your instructions and put pressure on the spots you pointed out. "Then I can take this here apart." Your movements were followed and suddenly it was way too hot in your always cold workplace. Yesterday you'd be happy if he decided thr Kingdom was a better home for him but now that he apologized and proved to better himself after your misunderstanding you were back to being the lovesick puppy Abraham had made you out to be when he brought you home after the infirmary visit.

With how Daryl held the spot clear and open you had to get close to chop through the bone and separate it all in workable bits.

"Can I take one a'those later? Michonne asked ta cook fer her kids cuz she's out 'n Carol's off ta Kingdom--" "Throw the kids an old world barbeque! I'll come help. I'm sure you're skilled in roasting over an open fire with how much you traveled." The excitement was clear in your voice, and the sudden compliments and offers of gifts and assistance had him nervously fidgeting. But thinking about having a fun experience with the kids instead of just cooking and having dinner sounded way better than his original plan, so he agreed.

"Ya got supplies ta fix tha' in half a day?"

~~

The two of you cleaned up after finishing thr needed work and while you carried the prepped meats, Daryl had the bowl firepit on a kart together with the metal rack to hang over it. Yeah, he lived in a community now but he never guessed he'd be carrying around a whole barbeque setup like he was getting ready to throw a party in the old world. "Gotta drop by tha' house fer a sec, get Jude 'n RJ."

After he got the kids and you had everything set up Daryl got the fire started while you made a quick pantry run and dug through Daryl's kitchen for anything to add to the meals.

You brought whatever you found and set it on the side of the porch steps, keeping a path to the house cleared and sat yourself down in the front lawn as you watched uncle Daryl in action, letting the kids toss wood onto the fire and poke at it with a stick but making sure they kept their distance and wouldn't touch the hot metal.

It was heartwarming to see him laugh and have fun with them and watched him speak quetly to the kids with a finger pointed your way before the two came running towards you.

"Daryl says the fire's good for food! Can we put some on the thing?" Two pairs of big, begging eyes stared at you and saying no would be the worst so of course you allowed them, under surveillance and with an assisting hand. "Alright, pick something you wanna eat first and put it on a plate, Daryl will take it to the fire and I'l helf you put it on the rack, okay?"

A chime of "Okay!" baely left them before they were at the collection of prepared meats where you and Daryl joined them in picking.

While Daryl roasted the food over the fire you were tasked go keep the kids busy, but wirh hoe much they loved chatting about everything and anything it was an easy task.

The whole evening was fun and food and family and it reminded you of everything you missed in this new world.

Everything was good in this moment, especially when you heard a little exchange between uncle and niece.

"Uncle Daryl? Can we have more dinners with her? But also mom and aunt Carol next time." You watched Daryl look towards you for a moment before turning back to Judith. "'Course, she's teachin' me ta prepare food so we can do this with e'ryone if ya want. But!" He raised his hand and pointed at RJ, who came over to him too now. "Yer gonna be the ones askin' folk ta bring food too, so e'ryone has somethin' ta eat, 'kay?"

The two happily nodding kids proved that your time in the community just got a lot more fun.

Now, after the kids were long brought to bed you and Daryl stayed around the fire. Having taken the meat rack off and set asidr you were just relaxing and picking away at the leftovers.

"So," you started, watching the flames in front of you. "That community barbeque plan of yours, it sounded amazing especially how you brought it over to the kids. But, aren't you afraid it'll drain recources too quick?"

Daryl shrugged it off. "Maybe. But those kids'll make folks keep stuff aside fer it." The idea of those two running around the place collecting people brought a smile to his face. "'Sides, I ain't wastin' meat no more with yer lessons tha' I hope ya will keep givin' me."

Oh. He wanted to stay? At the shop? With you? You were pleasantly shocked with that news. "What? Ofcourse I'll teach you. But only of you promise to take me out hunting when my hand's okay again."

He let out a breathy laugh and nodded. "Yeah, I'd love ta have ya around."

You stretched and laid down in the grass, looking up at the night sky.

"S'gonna be fun."

[thegnomelord]

Sorry for blowing up your inbox, but you've really got my creative juices flowing. So I want to expand on 2 ideas.

No. 1

Shrike Harpy Reader w/ oblivious Graves (bc from my knowledge, he's usually a vampire or regular guy) or Ghost (bc he was human before)

In which Shrike reader is getting progressively more obvious with their advances bc Ghost/Graves don't understand. The particular idea I had was where they think it's some kind of threat or prank. So reader is getting more obvious, and they think that the threat/prank is getting more intense.

That would be hilarious! Obviously, they will either find out or be told about the advances eventually. But the idea that you are courting them and they miss the mark entirely is so funny to me. Especially if their teammates laugh and refuse to tell them the obvious truth.

No. 2

Going off of the spider's sexual dimorphism + a different version of monster au. Pairing spider hybrid reader w/ octopus (cthulhu?) König (if you do reqs for him), where spider reader looks at him and is like:

So you're telling me there's an eight-legged hybrid, approximately five times my size, that could snap my spine like a toothpick, just beyond enemy lines.... Do you need someone to volunteer for a solo recon mission any time soon?

Oh no! My recon mission turned into a hostage situation, how unfortunate. But while I'm here, I should interrogate him... yeah, interrogating is exactly what I'll be doing with this giant tied up man rn....

👑 anon

No, no, anon I'm always so happy reading all the stuff you guys send me! I know next to nothing about Konig except the stuff I've read about him that turns him into a really perverted disgusting degenerate and while I'm not comfortable writing that, I hope one of my mutes picks it up bc it is super cool! I got a dancing with Ghost ask I really wanna do so Graves it is lol

CW:SWF-ish turns suggestive at the end, Graves being oblivious

Graves hates being the butt of the joke.

For the last couple of months he's been getting 'gifts' in the form of chunks of meat stabbed through various knives. It had started a knife being stabbed through burgers and steaks(typical American food), which he couldn't eat, but slowly progressed to rarer and rarer pieces of meat until he wound up finding just raw and bloody chunks of meat; a leg of some large animal turned into a pincushion, a still beating heart stabbed through with a knife, livers shish kebabed on a bayoneted blade. . .

And he'd find them everywhere, in the communal fridge, in his office, in his room. And while he didn't mind the free meal, he was a little unnerved. He knew it was you doing it because he had screened the minds of all his shadow's, but he didn't know why you were doing it.

He can see the way his shadows smirk at you when he finds another bloody organ skewered on your favorited knife in the fridge, your feathers puffing up and a not so quiet chirp escaping your lips when he sneaks the meat away to feast on.

You also become more touchy with him when you notice him accepting your gifts, though he has no idea of it. He trusts you, which is why you're allowed to sneak up on him, your wings spreading out to wrap around him like a cloak as you chirp a "Hello commander."

It makes him jump out of his skin, and though he chastises you about it, it's never as harsh as he could make it, his shadows giving him a knowing look that he can't reciprocate.

That's the worst part. None of his shadows will tell him anything.

He doesn't know much about your species of harpy except for the generalized knowledge of extreme speed and craftiness, so he can't figure out if this is some kind of joke, or threat, or you just seeing him as part of the flock? Or maybe it means nothing? He's especially confused when you grow bolder and one day he walks into his office to see a Bison leg sitting on his desk, once again skewered. Where did you even get the bloody bison? Hell knows but certainly not him.

Eventually a shadow grows annoyed by your constant bloody gifts in the fridge and with a very annoyed huff drops a harpy encyclopedia on his desk.

He'll need to get them a gift basket after this; he spends the next few hours just reading about all kinds of harpies, ears progressively getting hotter as the book delves deep into every aspect of the harpies, each sub-race's specific courting and matting habit and making him feel like he's reading porn.

Then he finds a chapter about your type of harpy, eyes growing wide like dinnerplates as he reads about your quirks. He doesn't know whether to go search for a cross or tissues. He reads more and more, turning pages upon pages, his eyes scorching every anatomical picture into his brain and making him think of what you're packing, his pants growing tight as the minutes tick down.

Just his luck that you'd decided the moment when his face is the hottest to walk into his office without knocking, another skewered offering on a plate in your hands.

"Christ!" He yelps, slamming the book shut and looking at you like you're his parent and caught him looking at a playboy magazine.

You puff up in surprise, your wings spreading out a bit before flattening back to your back, a soothing chirp leaving your lips. It used to mean nothing to him, now he knows what it means, his cock getting a bit harder in his pants.

"You alright commander?" You ask, walking closer, the talons of your feet clicking against the ground.

"Yes, yep, perfectly fine." He grunts, desperately hoping his vampiric state will suppress the heat in his face, but to no avail. "You-" His eyes settle on the plate in your hands, his body practically conditioned to salivate when he sees a familiar knife sticking out of the food.

"I?" You ask, then you note the book on his desk, your head tilting in confusion. "Graves?"

He swallows, eyes darting from the food to you, and he doesn't know which one he's starved for more. "You've been wooing me like a dolly huh?" He asks.

"Yeah." You're unsure of what else to say, in your head, had he not wanted your advances he would have never taken your offerings. Then you realize. "Don't tell me you just noticed." You deadpan.

Graves gives that awkward chuckle you've grown to love, and you decide you need to be bolder. You place the plate on his desk and lean over it, a coo rumbling in your chest— deeper, rougher, seductive.

"How about I show you what I want?"

[machveil]

Retired!Simon Riley who becomes the town’s popular butcher. Simon and Retired!Price hold promotional events at the local park - setting up a grill and a beer cooler. Price is on grill duty while Simon dishes up different cuts of meat

Retired!Simon Riley that’s talking to older women - what cuts work best for the dinner they have in mind, all the while Price is standing around with a couple dads. Simon carefully shows off a knife he uses to the kids that come up to him, all bright and eyed and awed at the big man

the promotional event was Kyle’s idea, Johnny making rounds around town telling people about it. I think Kyle and Johnny, while not specifically tied to Retired!Simon’s shop, help unload shipments and work the counter here and there. eventually they decide ‘eh, why not’ and fully work there

they might be retired from Task Force 141, but they can’t not be a team - instead of deployments, now they wait for game season and working with local farms. Retired!Simon still uses knives, except these ones are meant for deer and other game. they aren’t under a hail of bullets, but now Price gets to relax and make money off his hunting hobby

[ryuzakemo128]

Omegaverse headcanons

CW: dark stuff mentioned.

In the same universe as my omegaverse parts

Pairing: Poly141 x female reader. With Nikolai included to a degree.

Omegaverse Parts: Part One + Part Two

One. You don’t get it when someone wears denim jeans into the desert. “What the fuck is this?” you asked, borderline annoyed. Your frustration showing this time, “Soap, march up there and get changed, you’ll sweat up a fucken storm. We’re going into a desert location, not fucken fashion week.” 

Two. You have a bath at eleven o’clock regardless of time zone or location. In hot weather it's a cold bath and in cold weather. It's a reasonably hot one. A creature of habit is what Price loved to call you. Even if you bit him on the hand once.

Three. You never miss a training session. Ever. If they thought they can get you to skip it? They’d be told, ‘I’m sleeping on the couch tonight’. And not, ‘You’re sleeping on the couch tonight' because what’s worse than a partner who only won’t sleep in the same bed as you. But also won’t fuck any of them during that night either.

Four. You hate when people don’t eat breakfast. It’s like not having ammo in your pocket before you go out on a mission. Sure, you might not need it, but if you do, you’re fucked. And no, a black coffee doesn’t count.

Five. You hate when people don’t clean up after themselves. You don’t live in a barracks anymore, you’ve got a penthouse in the city now, but that doesn’t mean you can throw your socks anywhere. You’ve got a basket, use it. And for fuck’s sake, don’t leave your gun on the coffee table.

Six. You have an ever-growing collection of knives, from bone knives to Damascus steel knives. They all have stories. They're all displayed neatly in a glass case in your penthouse. Price has made a habit of not asking where they came from. Fully aware of where the bone knives came from.

Seven. “No, Price, I don’t care. If Nikolai isn’t living here, you can’t fuck him here. End of story. Good night and go fuck yourself.” you reprimanded from the master bedroom ensuite. “In the grace of my good will, you may stay over his place and nothing more, nothing less.”

Price wasn’t terribly happy with that, but he knew you were right. If they wanted to mess around with someone who isn’t living there? They better do in their house, under their roof and in their domain. The only strict rule you enforced quite well. For a good reason too. Their nests were in here, and you didn’t want anyone else’s scent mingling with yours, except for those who lived there permanently. Plus, you liked your privacy.

Eight. Your back tattoo is still something Price and Ghost love staring at, “The gates of hell are open night and day; Smooth the descent, and easy is the way: But to return, and view the cheerful skies, In this the task and mighty labour lies.”

The words etched into an archway, 'The gates of hell are open night and day; Smooth the descent, and easy is the way:’ and the words, ‘But to return, and view the cheerful skies, In this the task and mighty labour lies.’ is etched into the open gateway, gilded in gold and silver. As if thunder and lighting struck down onto the pavement leading into a ‘heaven’. 

If there even was one? You don’t know, and you don’t even want to pretend to know if there is one, too. You’ve seen enough shit to fill a library with horror books. Enough to know some questions just don’t have answers or have answers you don’t want to hear. 

Nine. You love lavender cigarettes over cigars, tobacco, chewing tobacco, normal cigarettes. Vaping was fine, but you liked the raw taste of the cigarette in your mouth, the way it burned down your throat and into your lungs. You'd sit on the balcony with the cool breeze, watching the city lights twinkle like distant stars, a cigarette dangling between your lips.

Herbal cigarettes and vapes were common for you, a way to keep the inner ‘beast’ in check without the use of sex, raw meat or a cage fight. Lavender is said to soothe the ‘savage beast’ according to your mother. But you liked to think of it as a way to keep the peace, to keep your mind from wandering to places you’d rather keep locked away.

Ten. You've got a thing for rain. It's like your inner wolf comes out, yearning for the wet fur and the smell of damp earth. You'd sit by the windowsill, letting the droplets kiss your skin, the smoke from your cigarette curling around your form. Sometimes, when the weather is just right, you'd go out onto the balcony and let it soak you.

Price eventually found you outside in the rain one afternoon on the balcony, vaping a strong lavender-scented electronic cigarette. You were wearing a black men’s shirt with a double-sided dragon graphic print on it. Draping over her, large enough to swim in by the looks of it. One of the men’s shirts she usually bought for herself. 

Eleven. You eventually showed the four of them around your walk-in closet, “Thrifted or bought impulsively.” you told them. “Take a good look.”

And Price has seen the large collection of men’s shirts, jackets, and hoodies you have. It was a walk-in closet with a collection of dark clothing far too big for you. But you loved how comfortable they felt on you. How the fabric hung off your shoulders like comforting armour.

Twelve. You wear men’s deodorant, which Soap finds to be rather amusing. “You know, darling, there’s stuff for females, too.” he teased one morning, holding up the stick deodorant he found in your drawer.

“But do they have any smelling like lavender & cinnamon or dark chocolate or leather & cookies or coconut & black pepper?” Soap looked at your Lynx body sprays which you usually put on after a shower. Which for the rest of them?

The large bottle of body wash in your shower is a mix of both types. The lynx Dark chocolate, the ‘golden temptation’, which is a molten chocolate blended with fresh citrus and smoky amber. Along with goat’s milk body wash, which is more for sensitive skin, sometimes even your scent can be overpowering to the alphas.

Thirteen. Cartoon movies like Anastasia, Care Bears, The Wild Thornberrys, Teenage Ninja Turtles, Rugrats, and SpongeBob were your guilty pleasure. You could spend hours watching them, even if you've seen them a hundred times before. You liked the simplicity of them, the way they made you feel like a kid again. You felt complete, perfect, right to watch them.

Fourteen. You cook with slow cookers a lot, Gaz saw you use four at once one afternoon when he came from his solo missions. Two for wagyu beef stew and two for salted caramel fudge. You were busy since four in the morning, and you were having a nap by seven in the morning as they slowly cooked. 

Fifteen. You have a pet wolf named 'Mona Lisa' because she smirks when she's being cheeky, and she's got a penchant for stealing socks. You found her as a pup when you were on a mission and smuggled her back home. Now she's got her own room in the penthouse, filled with plush toys and a giant dog bed that she rarely sleeps in, preferring the floor beside yours.

Price came face to face with the wolf pup, Mona Lisa, a northwestern wolf with deep piercing copper eyes, staring at him intently. He'd never seen such a creature so close, especially not in the penthouse. “I take it she's yours?” He questioned, raising an eyebrow.

“As much as she wants to be.” you replied.

Price leaned down, looking into her eyes, “What does that mean?”

“I don't own her, just as much she doesn't own me.” You said, stroking her fur gently. “We're just roommates who share a very complicated relationship. She's got free rein of the place, does whatever she wants, and I don't question it.” You couldn't help the fond smile that played on your lips as Mona Lisa leaned into your touch, her tail thumping against the floorboards. “And much like other wolves of her species, she is territorial and defends her territory against intruders.”

Price chuckled, “So she's the unofficial security system, huh?”

“More like a bodyguard, but that works too.”

Price laughed, his eyes lighting up as he watched you with Mona Lisa. It was a strange dynamic, but it worked. The wolf had taken a liking to you from the moment she was brought into the penthouse. And she was as protective of you as any of the guys were, maybe more.

Sixteen. You were not an alpha, you were certainly were no quivering omega, and you are not even a fucking beta. What in the name of a metaphorical god are you? With no conclusive, definitive answers to who or what you are. You were left to wander the expanse of earth. Alone. For a time before they came into the picture. You were harsher than the winds of the desert sandstorm, colder than the snowy Ural Mountains, and more elusive than a ghost in a haunted mansion.

You had no pack, no back-up, and with absolute certainty? No way of knowing what you are that made you seem so unapproachable by everyone around you. You didn’t know what made you monstrous to those who had trained you. Whatever it was? They refused to make a lick of sense over it. And before you know it, you were left to rot in the middle of nowhere. 

You have a heat cycle which is both intense at times and “Her scent is sweet, tooth rotting levels of sweet, think candy bars and cotton candy. There’s some spice to it, like cinnamon or pumpkin spice in those pumpkin spice lattes Gaz likes to have every Halloween.”

Though there are times when you were in heat, and you barely noticed. Either it was very faint or you were too distracted to particularly pay extra attention. 

Your heat is either in intense or faint, it was always a coin flip between the two. Perhaps this is another reason why you don’t fall into any of the three categories of Alpha, Beta, or Omega. 

Price caught you looking up quizzes like ‘What wolf are you?’,  ‘Are you a true loner?’,  ‘Are you an Alpha, Beta, or Omega?’ and ‘Where are you on the omegaverse hierarchy?’ 

You were still fighting the military to get them to give you your medical results, it was an uphill battle with no mountain to fall onto. 

You threw your hands up, exasperated, “Why is it so hard for them to just hand me my own fucking medical records?” You sighed, slumping into the chair at the dining table.

Price shrugged, sitting across from you, “Maybe they think you’re a danger to yourself and others if you find out what you are. Or maybe they just lost it.”

“Their minds or the records?”  You quipped, eating a slice of apple from the fruit salad you made for breakfast. 

Price chuckled, taking a seat beside you, his gaze lingering on your flushed cheeks, “Could be both, knowing how the military loves to keep its secrets.”

“Like a whore who keep all tips for herself,” Soap grinned, sauntering into the kitchen. He had always had a knack for making everything sound like a double entendre.

“Or CEO of a billion-dollar company who refuses to pay it employees livable wages.” you quipped.

Seventeen. You were meticulous in your guns, specific about certain things like the cleanliness of your rifles, handguns and organising them by type, calibre, use, and then by the date of purchase. 

The ammunition is given the same treatment, even if there was back-up stored away somewhere. They were neatly organised too.

You had a knack for knowing where everything was without looking. It was like a sixth sense. You could be in the middle of a conversation and point to the exact spot where a gun was kept. It was unnerving at first especially your memorisation process is basically staring, touching and then memorising the layout. You had a way with the weapons that was almost sensual, a dance of precision and power.

Even the gun oils you used were separated, one for rifles, one for handguns, one for magnums and another for pistols. You had a scent to each of them, and you knew the smell of each like the back of your hand. It was almost a comforting scent, one that filled the air when you were in the penthouse armoury. It smelled like home, like the smell of your mother's kitchen when she was cooking up a storm.

Dividers Credit: @cafekitsune + @strangergraphics

[rottiens]

More chef Sukuna hcs pls🥺🙏🏻

thanks for asking ^^ this is one of my favorite aus and i will always welcome the opportunity to talk about it hehe

this au is very strongly inspired by the bear and carmy, so sukuna also smokes in this au but he tries to quit because you hate the smoke.

he always takes his smoke breaks before lunch

sukuna, being the head chef and owner of the restaurant, could be quieter and not so involved in the kitchen but he is addicted to work and stress, and being not busy makes him uncomfortable

when you come to visit him on your days off or on your lunch hour to eat together, the other chefs in the kitchen provoke him by telling him that the "boss (*you*) has arrived", he laughs rolling his eyes and takes off his white apron right away to come to you, no matter how busy they are

his specialty is meat and fish

he is very good with knives and chopping

you usually tease him by answering "yes, chef" when he gets intense/very stressed and this always makes him smile

sukuna has his ears pierced as well as his left eyebrow; he would like to pierce his tongue but is afraid that it will ruin his taste somehow

he has the same tattoos here as in canon except for the ones on his face.

sukuna learned to cook from his grandfather, inheriting the restaurant from him.

you meet him at a sushi expo he was invited to by your group of friends but he spent the whole time criticizing the texture of the fish

fun fact: it was hate at first sight with him because you thought he was very picky

he drives a motorcycle

as i said, his love language is cooking for you. he likes it, he enjoys it, even though you like to help, he prefers to be alone in the kitchen and concentrate better, there is nothing you ask him to cook that he wouldn't do or learn for you.

his love language is also biting you

once things got hot in his restaurant kitchen but he held back because the kitchen is a sacred place, and it would be unhygienic to have sex there

[pepplemint]

The difference in translation was pointed out over here but I just want to make a point of in this panel specifically how much the translators interpretation adds to the overall understanding.

Before this panel is Vash saying that it should be enough if humanity changes their ways, they don't need to go further. This panel is Knives response. After this panel is Knives saying humans suck everything dry and [the plants] don't have to be civil protecting themselves. Or has he forgotten Tesla? (The translations differ quite a lot so I tried to summarize it)

The translators have interpreted this panel in one of two ways: 1. He is talking about humans as being domesticated animals therefore he won't listen to them (Overhaul) 2. He is saying Vash is a domesticated pet (to humans), therefore he won't listen to him. (Official)

But the japanese is this:

誰がとりあうものか

亥畜の言葉なヒ

I don't interpret those words as either of those, I interpret it as "they're not going to listen to us". The farmer won't listen when the cow tells him they don't want to give away their milk, the butcher won't listen when the pig says it doesn't want to die for its meat. It would be enough for humanity to change but they won't so they have to do more than ask nicely. And Tesla is definitive proof that plants are no exception.

...Hell I think that makes a lot more sense because it's an actual response to what Vash said, not just a dismissal, as well as ties in with the things he says next.

[theheartcollecter]

GHOUL

Fem!Reader x Monster!141

Chapter 5: Carmine

Warnings: masturbaition, eavesdropping on sex, some fighting (lmk if I missed any)

A/n: this one is a bit longer, hope you enjoy🫶🏻🫶🏻

Over the next few weeks the hybrids trained me, mainly Simon and Kyle. Johnny was too eager and John normally had paperwork to do. Simon was harsh but effective with his training and Kyle was more patient. The boys taught me code words to use on the comms and how to use a basic pistol in case of emergencies. I trained wearing a bulky tack vest full of knives and other things. The uniform they gave me was a long sleeve black shirt paired with cargo pants and boots. By the end of each training day I was caked in sweat.

“Gonna need to give ‘er a code name soon, sir.” The dragon hummed in response to Simon, the two men watching as Kyle once again tackled me to the ground. I’ll admit, having the feathered man on top of me was nothing to complain about. “Ugh,” I scrunched my nose at Kyle, who just grinned down at me, pushing him off. “What if I pick my own code name?” I suggested, “What’ll it be then?” Said John before taking a drag from his cigar, one that always seemed to be lit. I thought for a second before settling on “Carmine.” John nodded, “Alright, from now on you’ll be called Carmine in the fields.”

Later that night we discussed the mission, only two days away now. I had a bag packed and everything, the reality coming down upon me that in two days I’ll have to kill or kidnap Dain. I shouldn’t feel pity for him, he’s the one that got me into this.. mess. Although, this ‘mess’ might be the best thing that ever happened to me.

I laid in my bed, tossing and turning. I let out a groan as I eventually sat up, staring at the wall. I couldn’t sleep no matter what. I looked around me room until my eyes fell on a tiny book. I picked it up and sat back in my bed, the title was something old and classic. I read a few pages until rhythmic thumps were heard on the wall opposite my bed. I got up, book forgotten as I pad across my room, curious as to what the noise was all about. Johnny’s room was the only one near mine, Kyle’s beside his, John’s across from mine and Simon’s beside his. I thought Johnny might’ve fallen, the wolf had a clumsy side.

“Shite, Simon,” I let out a small gasp, my hand covered my mouth. Oh my god. I run back to my bed, crawl under the covers, but then.. “Tha’ feel good, Johnny?” Followed by the slap of skin, and sloppy kisses. I wondered if Kyle and John could hear it, or if they too were having their time together. It had been so long since I last got any relief, my core practically gushed at the sound of them. I shook my head, trying to forget about it and go to sleep.

I knew the boys had some kind of relationship, but I wasn’t sure of the extent. The things spewing out of Simon’s mouth were the sexiest I’ve ever heard, and Johnnys moans were like sirens. My breath grew heavy, I reached down into my sleeping shorts, my hand found my clit easily, circling the little nub. I moaned, slapping a hand over my mouth. Though it was unlikely the pair heard me over their own pleasure. Sweat slicked my forehead as my hand grew faster, my fangs bit into my lower lip, almost tearing into the plush. My cunt grew wetter with each noise they made. “Atta boy, ya close?” Johnny only garbled a moan in response, Simon chuckled, a sound that made my thighs close around my hand. I pressed on my clit harder, my hand grabbed onto my pillow, sheets, anything as I came. The grunts from the next room told me they too had reached their peak. Simon no doubt filling Johnny up. The image made my cunt pulse all over again. I sighed as I rubbed a hand over my face, before drifting to sleep.

The next morning I wake up to the smell of bacon, a food I used to love as a human, now the fried meat makes my stomach churn. I rise from my bed, throwing on some pants and a bra. I walk out to the dining room, the boys are all there except Johnny. John is in the kitchen plating food for the others, his green wing shining in the sunlight, horns look ethereal. “Mornin’ dove, want some?” He offers, I shake my head, sparing him the talk of how food tastes to Ghouls. I sit next to Kyle, who mutters a ‘Goodmorning, pretty’ before scarfing down his plate. Simon has his mask rolled up only far enough to eat comfortably, he locks eyes with me, my breath hitches. Shit, does he know? No, there’s no way he does. I advert my eyes as Johnny comes out of his room, sweatpants low and no shirt on, exposing his abs and a trail of curly dark brown hair that leads underneath. He’s rubbing his back, no doubt aching from last nights activities. I must’ve been staring too long because a sly smirk is plastered on his face when I look up. “See anythin’ ya like?” His tail wags slightly, I grumble and turn my head. “‘Nough. Tomorrow is the big day, mission starts.” John passes the wolf hybrid his food before digging into his own. Kyle’s black wings stretch out behind me as he yawns, leaning back and patting his stomach. “Mm, should cook more often, Cap.” The rest of the day is boring and long, filled with lectures and plans. My uniform is laid out on my bed, I stare at it but can’t help thinking: somethings missing. I find my mask and place it next to it, there, it’s perfect. I spend my night thinking of Dain, how will he react to me? Will it be easy to kill him if he doesn’t cooperate? Or will salty tears slide down my face when my Kagune rips him in two? Will I indulge in him? Eat his flesh?

Morning comes quicker than I expect, the sun hasn’t even begun to show and no birds chirp. I groggily turn off my alarm, a knock comes from my door, “Can I come in Bonnie? I got some coffee for yer sleepiness.” I grant Johnny access, the first time anyone’s ever come into my room, he walks over to my bed, placing the black coffee down on my nightstand. “Better get up and ready, Cap’ is kinda grumpy in the mornings.” He gives me a small smile, the bags under his eyes confirming he’s just as tired as me. I ruffle his hair, his soft ears flattening on his head. I don’t notice the faint blush that coats his cheeks. “Thanks, Johnny” I say between a yawn. He nods and leaves my room. The coffee is warm and goes down smoothly.

After a steamy shower I get ready, my uniform on, mask in hand. I put my silvery hair in a slick bun and then I grab my duffle bag and head outside my room. John tells me to load my stuff in the car outside, so I place my bag in the van and wait inside. After a few minutes I grow impatient, “What are we waiting on?” I say as I see everyone but Johnny is standing by the entrance. He comes running a few seconds later, “Okay, I’m ready tae go now!” His tag wags as he holds up a sketchbook in his hand. In the car we all settle in, John and Simon sit up front, taking turns driving. Kyle is passed out halfway through and Johnny draws in his sketchbook. I look over to see a unfinished sketch of Kyle, drool seeping out of his mouth and onto Johnnys shoulder, just like how he is in real life.

The trip in the car is long, but then we transfer to plane, and after that it was all a blur. We get to the site a few hours later, by now it’s dark out and the air is crisp. We head out of the trunk, there is a big building—like the base we came from— enclosed by fencing and guards with guns. There is few lights, making it almost impossible to see where I’m going. John makes fast movements with his hands, signaling us to follow him. Our movements are quick and quiet, I’m in front of Kyle and behind Simon as we walk. We sneak around to the back of the building, there is few guards but still some nonetheless. John hops over the gate carefully, then Johnny, Kyle flys over it, and Simon helps me up. I have to ignore the way his hands feel against my skin. The boys begin to move but I wait for Simon, who has yet to jump over the gate. To say I’m shocked is an understatement when Simon turns into a shadowy figure and passes through the gate. It must show on my face because I see his eyes crinkle, hinting at a smile. I turn and follow the rest of the boys. It happens all to fast, the boys take out the few guards, Johns gun firing, Simon turning into smoke then coming up from behind them and snapping their necks, Johnny using his claws and canines to rip apart soldiers and Kyle flying high above us. The walkie I was given is in my ear, and through it rings Kyle’s voice, “Carmine, the ghoul is inside the left wing!” This is my time to act. My time to finally see Dain. I put on my mask hastily as I run towards the left wing, Ghoul blood making me run inhumanly fast past multiple yelling soldiers, not giving them my attention, my mind focused on one thing.

In a crowd of panicking soldiers, blue buzzed hair and red eyes that mirror my own find mine. He looks surprised, confused and a bunch of other things I don’t care for as my rage bubbles inside me. My mask covers all but my Ghoul eye which encases in black as a sprint towards Dain.

Taglist: @sugarrush-blush @sleepisfortheweakpooh @caffieneaddictt18 @ghostly-fox-pawz (comment to be added/removed)

[belle--ofthebrawl]

I wish you would write a fic about just how much of a crush Aurora has on Mountain (bc I cannot stop thinking about the harvest blessing fic)

I don't know if this is what you wanted but it's what I wrote and we all have to deal with that now. (Bonus just for you: weird ghoul lore)

Aurora was born of gluttony. All tongue and teeth and wailing starvation, no matter how much she stuffed into her small body it was never enough. She remembers the clawing ache of hunger in her stomach more than anything else of her time in the pit. Her fellow hunters learned to leave when she was in the area very quickly; lest they be considered prey as well.

Aeon was the exception to this. He tried to steal her food, a downed behemoth who's killer she had killed and eaten in turn, stomach still hollow with the desire to feed. She’d been near mindless when she fought him and feeling the poke of his cock on her belly awakened her to an entirely new form of hunger.

This one at least, was easier to satiate.

“You're quintessence, like me.” He'd panted in the afterglow. “You're not going to survive on what everyone else does.”

She kissed him, and tasted his emotions on a tongue she felt no desire to chew on. When he slid his fingers inside her, curves them just right, she finally felt full when she whispered her name and he whispered it back in reverent awe.

Two mouths were surprisingly easier to feed than just her own, she was pleased to discover. And though a duo-pack was hardly a respectable number, she grew fiercely protective of Aeon, forever grateful for the way he took care of her appetite no matter how it reared its ugly head.

And walking through the portal with him, hand in hand to their new lives, was the closest thing to a blessing she would ever receive. This body could eat and be filled for much longer than her old one.

This was how she fell in love with Mountain. After an eternity of fending for herself, for Aeon when his head ached too much to hunt, there came this giant of a ghoul that radiated nothing but acceptance. His first action was to give her a soft blanket and lead her to a table where she sat down and was served food she couldn't have even dreamed of before. Bread that was soft with a crackling crust, a hearty golden soup he showed her to dip it in. Meat falling off the bone, she never thought cooked meat would taste better than raw. And he let her snap the bone to scrape out the marrow, even offering her a strange and soft paste to mix it in. He called it butter. He filled what was empty, asked her how she felt and when she fell asleep at the table after gorging herself, he had picked her up and carried her to a wide, square nest space and tucked her in. She fed on the kindness of the action unconsciously and woke with the knowledge he would provide for their odd little pack.

Love as a romantic act was unfamiliar to her. She loved Aeon, but it was a different feeling from what she felt towards Mountain. Aeon was practical and familiar; she knew him like the back of her hand. She wanted to prove herself to the large earth ghoul, prove that should he ever be incapacitated, she could care for him as well as he cared for everyone else.

Hunting on earth was different. She wasn't used to small prey. But she was a quick learner and soon presented the earth ghoul with a clutch of dead creatures with long ears and soft fur, plump and well fed on the lush vegetation of the surface, to see what he could do with them.

And he taught her how to cook. He let her have the second fattest “rabbit” for herself, to snack on as he readied his knives and pans and bottles. She learns about brining, and seasoning and cooking meat slowly so it was juicy and flavorful. Hell was so hot that corpses burned up quickly, devoid of the magic intrinsic to surviving the flames, so all meals had to be as quick as possible. This “slow-cooking” is maddening, but he opens a cupboard, unwraps something and gives her a large rectangle of foodstuff the color of rich, fertile earth. It smells bitter with an underlying sweetness and she nibbles the corner of it, savoring the way it melts and spreads over her taste buds. When she eats it, there are little crunchy bones mixed in and he laughs when she tells him this.

“Almonds.” He corrects. “Dark chocolate with almond toffee.”

Her purr when he ruffles her hair startles them both. 

“Like hearing that.” He says. “Better sound than your stomach rumbling, huh?”

She decides she's going to give him a thousand chocolate bars in return if he keeps looking at her like that, with an emotion so fulfilling it keeps her satisfied for three days straight. Even when the rabbit stew is done, she doesn't take a huge portion for herself like she usually does. She lets others eat as much as she wants, pride welling up when Mountain tells them she caught the rabbits and they congratulate her with with wide smiles and warm eyes. 

She kisses him after the clean up. With a full belly and full heart, she's still got a third appetite to calm. He understands without words. Takes her to his bedroom where he put her through an agonizingly slow warm up. Prepares her until she's tender and dripping, tests her with his fingers and fits himself in; they feast on each other until the sun sets through one window and rises again in the other.

She still bites him though. Sometimes she still doesn't understand which hunger drives her, but he's willing to help her navigate it. Sometimes this emotion is so much she feels it fill her stomach up completely, crawl up her throat and she waits to choke on it but she never does. And with his help too, she learns to say the words that help it stop hurting her in such a strange and wondrous way.

I love you.

[gaybirdnerd]

Bad habits from the 141

Ghost:

Knife tricks, he will be bored and with nothing to do and will just start flipping knives and doing shit with them no one else has seen. This has caused numerous occasions where a dumb recruit decided they could do it better than him and sliced some fingers.

Picky with how his sandwiches are made, the meat has to be on the very top unless there's provolone cheese, will take apart any premade sandwiches to change how it is placed. No one knows why, he just does it and will give no explanation.

Skin picks. If he finds something different on his arms or his hands or his neck or his face, he'll see if he can pick it off. Be it a scab or a chunk of dirt or a pimple, he'll mess with it either until it bleeds or it's gone.

Soap:

Plays with bombs??? He literally just takes explosive putty and turns it into shapes like it's Play-Doh. He's safe about it, but holy shit you can't just pull a bomb out of nowhere and hand it to someone as a joke when they ask for a wrench or something.

Will drink coffee obsessively. It doesn't really affect him all too much, but if he's got free time where he CAN have coffee, he WILL have coffee. He can go to sleep right after coffee and be ok, but he can also "accidentally" drink like 20 cups in a day because he's bored. He has stomach issues very often when he does this ofc but it doesn't stop him.

Bites his nails. Will go at a nail until it bleeds, particularly when he's nervous or bored. He keeps himself occupied drawing or journaling just to avoid going to town on his nails.

Gaz:

Lays in bed all day when he has nothing to do. Literally will wait until the last second to go to the bathroom during these times and won't move except for that and for getting into more comfy positions. He has a snack stash that literally no one can find in his room, so he doesn't even need to leave for food, he just sits and lays there watching stuff and doom scrolling on his phone.

Eats salads one ingredient at a time. Will find every piece of lettuce in the salad and eat it and then go on to the next ingredient. He thinks this is how salads are meant to be eaten. He doesn't even separate the ingredients, he just picks them out around the other stuff, even when it's got dressing on it.

Listens to music obsessively. Will sit in the most serious meetings with one earbud in, somehow hidden, and listen to the music while passively taking in the information unless it's a super serious meeting. If it's a cut-and-dry "get in, get out" or information grab, he gives no shits and simply watches what's being projected for them to see (maps, details, plans, etc.)

Price:

Smoking ofc, but what a lot don't know is that he went from cigarettes to cigars in his early 20s and still slips onto cigarettes sometimes when he's super stressed. It tastes different and wakes him up whereas cigars are heavy smoke and calm him down.

If he's got mashed potatoes of any sort, they HAVE to be mixed with vegetables, he refuses to eat them otherwise. It's not a bad habit perse, but his refusal to even look at mashed potatoes unless there's a vegetable such as peas or corn makes it a stubborn issue no one in the world can change his mind on. If he gets an MRE with mashed potatoes and no vegetables, he'll either negotiate getting someone else's vegetables or simply give them the mashed potatoes.

Picks at his nails. Thinks it's gross to bite at them, but they get chipped and bother him by snagging on things so he'll pick at the inconsistency and make it worse then keep picking. Ghost gets him a small nail file he can put in his phone case to keep with him so he doesn't need to continue getting frustrated at his nails.

Laswell:

Doesn't sleep. Will get maybe 4-5 hours out of a day and will stay up for hours in the middle of the night because she's following a lead or researching something that caught her attention 5 days ago.

Refuses root vegetables and will fight someone if she finds one in her food. Again, not much of a bad habit, but the fighting is. Once threw down at a family gathering because someone (a particularly stubborn aunt who hated this habit) snuck a cut-up carrot in her food and only her food. She was 16.

Reorganizes her desk and office once a week. You wouldn't think this would be a problem or even a bad habit until you realize she puts stuff in such different locations each time that she can't shit. She never learns from this and jokes that it makes her life more fun when she finds the stapler actually under the desk.

[yandere-toons]

Yandere Toga Himiko (Romantic Scenario - “ブラッド・クィーン”)

Warning: Gore, Villain Reader, Toxic Mindsets.

Word Count: 2,127.

Artwork: Akiyama Yoco's first illustration for Toga.

Death's ghost rained down in fine red embers, bringing with it the smell of a hundred knives rusting deep within fly-torn flesh.

A mist of blood, nearly steaming on cheeks aflame with heat, clothed the muscles so taut in her neck. The fill of her stomach took a leap and a bound, aflutter and twitching, like a bird fraught with excitement.

Thump after thump drew blood flush over her skin, matched the pounding of drums in her heart, slipped along her mouth at every breath, danced bittersweet on the end of her tongue.

The music of dreams carried on the blood-wind, singing of what it was to languish beneath the stars in decades past.

For a while, you sat and listened, fingers dug in round the edge of the armrest, knuckles sharp against skin.

The gramophone beside an open window stuttered for a moment, as if struggling to perform its duty in the face of the room’s two living occupants. The eerie echo of the distant singer, of a time long since passed, seemed almost to sedate you.

In contrast to her, so animated and audible, the music seemed so rhythmic, blending into other sounds of the night, cancelling out all else.

All else, that is, except her.

She glided over and around the mangled forms scattered throughout the room. Some seemed almost alive, displaying occasional twitches of stress from their agonizing last moments, whereas others seemed little more than lumps of twisted meat, stinking and splattered.

A giggle, authentic and dripping with joy, reached your ears.

She didn’t mind the macabre display, and neither did you. There was intimacy in the scene, even if hidden and shamefully unappreciated. Not long ago, the desiccated husks were full of life, bemoaning their fates, casting aspersions against yourself, one another, and her as you’d made your way around the room, making selections together.

None of them could properly resist, of course, and so the two of you could, and did, take your time.

The gramophone stuttered again, and you cast a quick glance at the machine, less out of curiosity and more out of annoyance. That made for a second stutter within the same song. You took a mental note to adjust the machine afterwards, and your eyes returned to her.

The moonlight cast a small shadow of her upon the wall, and you wondered for a moment if she had noticed its diminutive size or if she remained lost in her bliss.

She squealed as her boots stomped a gore pulp beneath them, the squelching reminiscent of a watermelon splatting against the ground. Dollops of blood flew, and within another motion, both her boots and legs had received a fresh coat of crimson.

Her eyes shined like freshly minted coins as she revealed a toothy grin, and she ran her tongue over sharpened teeth that resembled fangs. Yes, clearly, she was enjoying herself amid the gruesome redecoration of the room.

She twirled once more, and her eyes fixated upon you as you rose from the chair. You approached her softly, but intently, and she wouldn’t look away. Tucking her hands behind her back, as if suddenly bashful, her eyes travelled the length of you. Her movement slowed, but her smile remained.

Tenderly, you extended a hand towards her, your eyes never missing an opportunity to make contact with hers.

Her body stiffened; breath caught in her throat.

You cocked your head, less out of confusion, and more to survey her from a different angle. The edges of your lips curled up ever-so-slightly, and with your head leaning in towards hers, she was frozen.

No voices, no gurgling from the butchered wretches below, and no stuttering from the gramophone.

Her lip quivered momentarily, and you took another step forward. She could feel your hot, yet restrained, breath on her face, and you could see the rapidly developing makings of a red tinge on her cheeks. The splotches of red on her chin, the stains of bodily fluids in her formerly pristine hair, and the reeking stenches all around meant nothing.

It was only the two of you, sharing a moment that only two such wayward souls could appreciate.

She shivered as your hand reached her midsection, teasing her hips lightly until it reached its intended target. Tracing blood-stained fingers and feeling out the point of a sharpened blade, you tenderly clasped hold of several of her fingers around the blade and, with eyes never leaving hers, guided her hand from behind her back to your sternum.

With mere inches of distance separating you, you placed the gore-drenched hand with the blade over your heart and, in a voice barely more audible than a whisper, blew forth a single word: Dance.

Her hand shook, and with eyes beholden to your own, she grinned from ear to ear. Nodding, she pressed herself against your chest, the knife locked between two grasps as though it were a child in need of protection. Her other hand surreptitiously made its way to your side, and yet the motion garnered no reaction from you.

She sighed, and you laid your other arm about her back, drawing her closer.

The gramophone performed its duties, and the rest of the world fell away as the two of you traversed the room, deliberately yet fluidly. The sporadic squelches, the scratching of boots against solid floors, and the blow of the wind served only to bring serenity to the both of you.

It was an intimacy and affection few could imagine and even fewer could experience; it was one Toga Himiko shared deep in the nights of you.

***

After what seemed like only a moment, the two of you had made your way across the room more than once.

The moonlight, shining through a precious few windows, continued to illuminate the scene, even as the night grew darker and a fresh chill entered the air. The corpses had taken on much larger shadows, and though none twitched as they had previously, the light seemed to pass about them, throwing intriguing shapes upon the floors and walls behind.

Toga hummed, buried in your chest, face no longer visible under that bloody mess of hair. She didn’t seem to mind that, in the motion, your hand had won against hers for the primary grip on her vaunted knife. It was your fingers that kissed the slick steel, even as hers remained tightly, but not painfully, clenched along the grip.

While she couldn’t bring herself to fully let go of the object, she was content to share it with you, and you were content to share it with her.

Your formerly coordinated motions slowed to a halt. The two of you seemed to be sharing an extended hug more than anything else, and as she raised her head, a creak uttered from somewhere else in the room.

In an instant, you were separated, and Toga shot her head sideways, scanning the area for any threats. You mirrored her approach, intent to ferret out and eradicate whatever had interrupted your bliss, but on further observation, nothing revealed itself.

Motionlessly, silently, you both waited, eyes and ears attuned to the most minute disturbances, and still, nothing.

Toga, peering upon the carnage with seemingly fresh eyes, noticed a more full-bodied corpse toward the centre of the room. The quarry had not been easy to pacify from the hunting ground, and his size made the drag to the room more difficult than expected.

She pounced on the offending mass of flesh, back turned to you, but just as passionate and animated as ever. She straddled the corpse, skirt partially hiked, legs planted on either side: there stirred in Toga a warmth throughout her body. She spared the corpse below a glance, as though he might revive to cheer this opportunity, and buried the knife in his chest cavity one final time.

The fool’s glazed-over eyes offered nothing save for the lingering imprint of his final terror.

As she plunged the blade from its target, dead sinew tore, and blood spewed from the former captive, splattering across her chest and face, washing what had already been soaked in past excursions. The moonlight worked to augment her crimson coat, making Toga’s body shine, and as she grinned, her face seemed to absorb every photon of light in the room.

The knife was again doused, its temporary reprieve resting against your chest forgotten.

You approached, transfixed on her exquisite form, heaving with exertion and bolstered by excitement. Your boots crunched the severed fingers of another offering, even as your eyes remained centred on her within your approach.

Witnessing such fervour was a treat, but enabling it, and being so proximate to it, that was a delicacy to be savoured.

Breath shook out of her, then rose anew, before she flung herself close, again tucking her head underneath your chin, with hair loosely tied and frayed about your vision; both hands came upon a shoulder, where, one by one, the nail of each finger drove deeper, encouraged by the sweet longings of a crooner, frightened by the lightest sway of your body.

Without yielding an inch, you gently removed the tensed, clasping fingers from your punctured tissue.

You continued to pry one finger at a time from its familiar destination, and with your touch, Toga shivered, eyes not daring to meet your piercing gaze. She pressed herself deeper into your chest, hot breath palpable through the ripped fabric guarding your newly bleeding form.

You offered a slight push, less for easier access to your fresh wound than to attain renewed sight of Toga’s expressive face.

A flash of fire erupted in your shoulder.

Cold lips of steel once again pierced cloth and flesh, a kiss upon bone, turned warm under a stream of red.

A blood-strip flew to the lower portion of your eyelid; and for a moment of complete instinct, you squinted, barely a twitch and nothing more.

Toga, with her face at last visible, watched as though she might cry, bright eyes fogging over to something like molten bronze. “Take my blood,” she breathed, giving out a piece of herself in ways long held inside, “We can share the pain!”

She detached from you and, gasping, took the knife to her palm; or, rather, the blade of the knife swung low at a centre vein when you caught it, fingers wrapping the serrated edge.

Blood colder than steel leaked forth to the ground.

Each plop, each scattering of a blood-ball transfixed Toga a little more, the spell broken only at the wisp of a word from your mouth.

No, and the thrumming of her pulse stilled. Toga set the golden light of her eye upon you, seeming a curious child than anything wicked.

Crimson fluid oozing from between your sliced fingers, you stepped forward, towering over the paralyzed Toga. Once again, your eyes did not break from hers, and she could not stop her knees from shaking, bending inward as if they suddenly couldn’t bear her slight frame any longer.

With liquid dripping between the two of you, you stretched an arm across her waist and behind her back.

All she could do was utter a squeak before she once again was pulled into your leering form.

Neither one of you said a word as she settled, her immediate tension from the surprise contact melting when she realized its intention. She purred, low and sultry, yet aside from a turn of her head to allow her ears closer to your chest, she remained stationary.

The whole of one ear pressed to your heart, a low beating of something far away, enough to stay living and no more. Against the still of your body, Toga's heart pounded forth as if to join the two.

There the two of you stayed, once more locked in one another’s embrace.

The sacrificial flesh scattered, defiled, and eviscerated across the floor, the walls, and even traces on the ceiling were nothing.

The droplets of blood flowing from your shoulder were nothing, simply a weakness of the body.

The stenches filling your nose, the memories of screams and mutilation that played in the back of your mind, the urge to snuff out the warmth of life so close to you — all had been replaced with serenity.

The terror of the departed flesh served its purpose. The experience you both shared with them was distinctive, but the intimacy shared with Toga was singular. So few could understand that you had found each other. None of the flesh could appreciate that their screams, their cries, their entreaties, all of it served a purpose they couldn’t imagine.

Toga could, though, and you would share it with her for the rest of your days together.

Another, she whispered.

[diana-thyme]

Greek Gods 101: Zagreus

Zagreus is a god of the Orphic Mysteries. Excluding the universal offerings, some common offerings include:

Depictions of Lightning Bolts

Depictions of Heart

Knives (Real or Fake)

Phallic Symbols, Items, or Imagery

Grapevine Seeds

Empty Wine Bottles

Wine Corks

Children’s Toys

Theater Masks

Ash (Or Depictions of It)

For devotional acts, some activities that can be done for him include:

Making Wine

Harvesting Grapes

Roasting Food

Learning About Hunting Laws

Drinking Wines or Other Alcohol (Or Virgin Drinks)

Learning About (and How to Create) Pitfalls

Learning How to Clean Bones and Process Carcasses

Eating Meat

He is not celebrated in any Athenian holidays (except, perhaps, the Orphic Mysteries).

[lliminall]

libera me, dies irae, requiem aeternam | pt. 2

[yandere!giorno x reader x yandere!GER]

word count: 2.5k

tags: gn reader, yandere, very brief implied nsfw, still ignoring GER’s canon limits, jjba but make it eldritch horror

It’s a wonder that you can still find ways to get yourself hurt despite the many safeguards your captor has put into place. No razors in the bathroom, no glass in your room, no knives at the table unless he is with you.

Tonight Giorno has joined you for dinner, and the knife you’ve been allowed to cut your food with proves itself to be a weapon in your sleep deprived hands. The blade only slips for a second, but it’s long enough slice deep into the meat of your finger, and you hiss as stinging pain races up your hand.

Giorno’s hands are on top of yours before you can even think to ask for help.

“It’s all right,” he soothes. “I’ve got you. I’ll take care of it.”

His hand covers your bleeding finger and something in the air around you seems to shift. A change in the energy, intense and disorienting, and somehow familiar. A creeping sensation begins to overtake you, frigid like ice water dripping down your spine. You’ve felt this energy before.

It retreats only a moment later, leaving you swimming back to your senses in the quiet of the dining room. Giorno unfolds his hands and your fingers rest in his palm, perfect and unmarred except for the smear of blood on your skin. Your head spins.

“What…?” is all you can manage in response.

Giorno looks at you contemplatively, choosing his words carefully as he thumbs over the skin of your fingers for as long as you’ll let him hold them.

“It’s an ability I’ve had for most of my life,” he says. “I understand this must be disorienting for you.”

You want to ask him to explain what just happened, where you’ve felt this before, and why this feeling of dread settled under your skin the moment he showed it to you. But Giorno stands and lifts you up with him by your newly healed hand.

“I should have noticed how exhausted you are,” he says. “I apologize. You must want to lay down.”

He begins leading you to your shared bedroom, and there’s a finality in his tone that tells you he won’t be explaining what that was just yet. He leaves you in your bed with a final brush over your hand, and turns the light off behind him.

—

It’s late when you finally decide to forgo your attempts to sleep. The clock on your bedside reads “12:45 AM” in faint glowing numbers, and Giorno has yet to join you in bed. You have a feeling that you know where to find him.

Padding softly to the door of his office and knocking twice, he calls for you to enter.

It’s clear that he wasn’t expecting to see you at all, much less clad only in the thin fabric of your night shirt. It brushes against the tops of your thighs and you tug the hem down as you step into his office.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you tell him.

“I understand,” he says. “I’m sure you’re confused about what happened earlier.”

You take a seat in the chair across from his desk.

“I do have a lot of questions,” you tell him. “I get that you didn’t really want to talk about it, but it’s keeping me up. And kind of, uh, freaking me out a little bit.”

Giorno takes a deep breath. “It’s…difficult to explain,” he begins. “I suppose it was inevitable that you would learn about it eventually, but I don’t know if it will bring you any comfort to hear an explanation.”

“Giorno,” you nearly whine, and his expression brightens at the sound of his name on your lips. It isn’t something he’s had the pleasure of hearing often. It isn’t often that you seek him out willingly for a conversation, either.

“I’m not going to be able to stop thinking about it. Can you just tell me what happened? Please?”

He looks at you with a torn expression and says nothing. You know he doesn’t like denying you anything, but his desire to please you is second only to his need to keep you under his careful control.

“I won’t bother you about it again,” you add. “I just—I really need you to help me make sense of this.”

You need him, you said. You know that you’ve won when his shoulders slump the tiniest bit, and he lets out a long breath. Giorno takes a pen from his desk and holds it up for you see. That energy permeates the air again, the one that you know but can’t quite place, and before your eyes the pen begins to warp and twist into something else. A stem pinched between his fingers, a pale pink bud growing and unfurling into petals at the top. He places it into your hand. It’s a flower. Delicate and beautiful where only moments ago it was mechanical steel.

Giorno smiles at your awestruck expression.

“This is my ability. I can create any living thing out of inanimate objects.”

You look up at him with wide eyes. “You can make anything?”

“Nearly anything,” he says, pleased at your rare lightheartedness. “Do you have any requests?”

You hum quietly in thought, still thumbing absentmindedly at the flower between your fingers.

“What about…a frog?” you ask, your expression open and hopeful.

It occurs to you that this is one of the only positive interactions you’ve had with him yet. Giorno is basking in this moment before you, clearly trying to mask how pleased he is with his usual composed demeanor. He plucks another pen from his desk and that same energy permeates the air again. It cuts through your mood like a knife, shocking you back into focus. You remember why you came here. There’s something wrong with all of this, and you’re going to find out why.

The pen becomes a frog in Giorno’s palm, and he motions for you to give him your hand. You swallow hard and hold it out to him, schooling your face into an expression that’s as relaxed as you can manage. You want him in a good mood. You want him answering your questions.

He places the frog gently in your waiting palm, where it settles into the warmth of your skin. It’s real, but your appreciation for the moment has been soured by the reminder of what you have to find out.

“It’s cute,” you say, and Giorno smiles at your praise.

“You made an excellent choice,” Giorno says. “I’m partial to frogs myself.”

You don’t know if you’ve seen him looking so hopeful in all the time you’ve been here.

“How do you do it?” you ask. “Is it like…magic?”

Giorno laughs quietly and you feel almost like a child for saying it.

“It’s not quite magic,” he says. “Although you’re not that far off. It’s more like—well, it comes from my soul.”

“Your soul?” you ask, not quite following him.

“Yes,” he nods. “It’s my spirit, you could say. The manifestation of my will. It has the ability to create life, and if there’s ever anything you want to see, you’re welcome to ask me for it.”

Giorno poses it as an offer to you, but you hear it for what it is. A request. Please come to me. Please talk to me. Please smile and laugh with me again. What a breathe of fresh of air this would have been, a break from the boredom and anxiety of your days, if you hadn’t just begun to put the pieces together. Giorno’s spirit has powers.

“So, if your spirit does all this, is it kind of like a ghost?” you ask.

“You could say it’s something like that,” Giorno says. “You can’t see it, but it’s been here each time I’ve used it for you.”

A spirit that you can’t see. A spirit with magical powers. You remember every night that you’ve been here, every night that you’ve felt haunted in the space of your own dreams, that lingering, otherworldly, familiar feeling following you into your waking hours.

You remember a voice like Giorno’s and piercing eyes standing over you. A spirit. Giorno’s spirit.

You must look like you’ve well and truly seen a ghost, and you suppose you have. Giorno’s expression falls as he senses the change in your mood. He calls your name softly.

“Is something wrong?”

You can’t be near him anymore. You place the frog on the table and stand, the flower falling somewhere at your feet.

“Sorry. I’m going back to bed,” you say, and as you whisk yourself away you hear his dim voice calling out to you in confusion.

You can’t go back to the bedroom. Can’t lay down and sleep where you’ve been watched—stalked—night after night by this thing that has haunted you ever since you were brought here. Your legs bring you to a guest room, sterile and unlived in, and you drop to the floor against the pristinely made bed. Knees to your chest, bare thighs prickling in the cool air.

This is a nightmare. A waking, living nightmare. You can’t let yourself fall asleep again, where that thing will be there, waiting for you as always. You imagine opening your eyes and finding yourself back in the void, with nothing but the presence of a monster you now know is real. You cannot. You will not. You have to stay awake.

You sit in the dark room until your exhausted body begins to betray you. How long has it been since you slept? Really slept? You sit until you begin to nod off and then you stand, and pace, and crouch with your head in your hands. Anything to stay awake.

You feel, for a moment, that oppressive energy filling the room again, but there is nothing there. You wait, and it fades, and you don’t know if your sleep deprived mind has finally begun to unravel or if that thing has finally begun following you outside of your dreams.

—

Giorno isn’t surprised when, by the time he finally retires for the night, he doesn’t see you in bed. Normally he insists on you sharing his room, for your own safety, of course. He can’t risk leaving you unattended all night. Tonight, however…his gut tells him it would not be wise to search you out. No matter how much he wants to take you by your shoulders and have you explain what that was all about.

He folds himself under the blankets and falls into a fitful sleep.

He dreams about you. Or rather, he sees you and himself, living your lives together, as if watching a film play out before him. There’s a tug on his soul. What is his stand up to?

He sees you walking with him in his gardens. Chatting to him about the flowers you pass and the care you’d done for them that morning. You look happy. Not in the way you were before—before he brought you here—but in a way that approaches it.

Like a sixth sense, Giorno is suddenly aware of his stand’s presence somewhere near him. The scene fades away from him like a tape being rewound, and then it rebuilds itself around him, different now.

He sees you crying in the bedroom, storming into the bathroom and shutting the door behind you. It doesn’t have a lock, but he knows you would be flicking it if it did.

“I’m doing this for your safety,” Giorno watches himself tell you through the door. Does he always look this tired? “I promise you, everything I’ve done is for your benefit.”

You sob quietly behind the door, and the world breaks down and rebuilds again.

He sees you and himself seated at a table in a restaurant. A public venue, where you shift nervously in your seat. Giorno places his hand over yours and you don’t pull away.

“Are you all right?” he asks quietly. “We can always go home if this is too much for you, carina.”

You shake your head and fluster. “No! No, it’s ok. I think I need to—I mean, I just have to get used to it. Being out here again.”

Giorno watches himself nearly flinch, and feels the same pang in his own chest at the understanding that he’s made you so afraid of something so normal. A restaurant with people in it. People who aren’t him. You curl your fingers into his and give him a shy smile.

“And I want to be here with you,” you say.

The world breaks down, the world builds up. Giorno catches sight of his stand over his shoulder, and calls out to it in the chaos.

“Why are you showing me this?”

His stand meets his eyes for a moment, and then the world is rebuilt.

He sees you sitting across from him at the dinner table, pointedly looking anywhere but at his face. Looking like you could start crying in a second.

“I’m sorry,” he tells you. “I’ll take you outside as soon as I have the time, but you know I can’t allow you out alone when you’re acting like this.”

You don’t answer.

Breaking down, building up.

He sees you sipping mocha from a mug he raises to your lips. You, cursing at him and declaring your hatred of him. You, sweaty and flushed beneath him. You, turning your back on him.

You. Bloody and broken.

Giorno has seen enough.

He wakes drenched in sweat. Sheets stick to his skin as he hauls himself up to sit on the bed, and he turns to face the window where his stand is illuminated by the pale moonlight.

“What was that?” he asks, nearly out of breath. It does not respond.

“What was all of that? Why would you show me this?”

The stand does not reply. It knows, and Giorno knows, that he already has the answer. That these are just a fraction of the countless outcomes of your lives together, his deepest desires, his greatest fears, and somewhere in between, the choices that lead him there. His stand watches him. Quiet.

“I know,” Giorno says. “I already know what’s at stake. I’m going to fix all of this, I just need time.”

The stand watches him. It doesn’t need to speak—it doesn’t ever speak to him—but Giorno knows in his soul what’s being communicated between the two of them.

Don’t fuck this up for either of us.

Giorno throws the blankets from his body and takes a hair tie from your nightstand, imbuing it with the form of a butterfly and following it out the door. He leaves his stand in the room behind him. He needs to find you, now.

Everything he wants and everything he fears has been laid out before him, as vivid as anything else he has lived and breathed through.

One of these outcomes is destined for truth, and Giorno has never failed to reach a goal once set in front of him.

The butterfly comes to rest on the door to a guest room down the hall.

Giorno takes a long, steadying breath, and knocks.

[captain-mj]

Hmm what if—

Little red riding hood Soap and big bad wolf Ghost but—

Soap is not a little girl going to grandma’s house but a hunter in disguise trying to lure the wolf out to kill it, however—

Ghost has been watching the hunter with interest for a while and didn’t fall for Soap’s little trick, so—

They somehow ended up fucking :)

OH absolutely!!! Been a while since I wrote straight smut

CW: slight Dubcon? It’s super clear that Soap is interested, but he won’t admit anything because he’s a hunter

Ghost spent a giant portion of his time hunting, so he didn't fall for the little act of Soap's. He knew exactly what he was doing. The little glances around were not the actions of a nervous little prey item, but the experienced actions of someone who knew what to look out for.

It was currently February, meaning it was smack dab in the middle of his normal mating season. The scent of this hunter set his senses alight. They smelled of wolfsbane and... wolf? Right above human? Either way, they certainly got his instincts going if nothing else. Something just rugged enough to tie it up in to a nice little present for Ghost was there too.

He wondered what this hunter would do if they knew the monster they were hunting was not only hunting him back, but thinking of how he'd look knotted and fucked out.

This guy looked very much like he'd whimper if Ghost railed him just right.

Soap went down the trail, spreading their scent. His crossbow was clipped to his belt, Ghost just barely seeing it.

He snapped a twig and silently disappeared in the other direction, watching Soap whip it out and shoot a bolt exactly where he had just been.

Ghost circled around, doing it a few more times until Soap was on edge and aiming at one specific spot. All of his focus was on the small area where twigs kept snapping and not Ghost sneaking up on him.

His hands fit around Soap's waist as he dragged him to the ground.

Soap tried to defend himself but they were too close now and he couldn't get the crossbow between them to hit him. Ghost put one giant clawed hand around Soap's throat and pinned one of other arms, leaving him to pathetically kick and hit at him.

"Stop squirming."

Soap paused. "You can speak? Wasn't expecting that."

Ghost flipped him over and shoved his face into the ground, looking at the red hood that covered him. It went down his back like a cape and it was in the way.

Ghost shoved it to the side and paused.

Soap grabbed one of the knives on his belt and embedded it in Ghost's arm. He quickly bit him where his scruff would be and snarled, both of them at a stand still.

"Knife catch you by surprise?" Soap referred to when he paused, wondering if it was because he had more weapons.

Ghost laughed. "How fat your ass is."

Soap became belligerent. Quickly gasping and thrashing and acting like Ghost had been wildly inappropriate. "You! Don't look at my..." his ears were bright red.

Ghost bit down a tiny bit harder. "Take that fucking knife out of me before I break your spine."

Soap hesitated before yanking it out. "You murderer."

"I've only murdered deer." Ghost crouched on top of him. "No human murdering here."

Soap scowled. "Liar." He finally got the upper hand, kicking Ghost directly in the ribs.

Ghost yelped and leaps back. “I haven’t. Humans have too many bones And the meat is too sweet. Might make an exception for you.”

Soap frowned at him but didn’t move. They both stayed still and just stared.

“Huh.”

“What?”

“For some reason, I believe you.” Soap sat up and slowly got up. “You really haven’t eaten anybody?”

Ghost shook his head. “Plenty of deer to go around.”

Soap slowly raised his bow. “Why did you attack me then? Why not leave? And why make that weird comment??”

Ghost stretched to his full height of 6’4 and his fur stood on end to make himself look bigger. “You hunted me first.”

“Fair point. And that comment?”

“An observation.” Ghost growled softly and Soap scoffed, glancing away. He took advantage of that moment of weakness, running at him and grabbing him again, letting them both fall. Soap’s hands were trapped under Ghost’s legs and he couldn’t move more than an inch. “You should really research creatures you hunt.”

Soap scowled at him before flushing as Ghost forced his legs open. He didn’t plan to do anything to Soap. Especially not anything unwanted. However, he definitely wanted one thing and that was to find out where the scent of wolf was. And also to maybe enjoy more of him. Perfect material for later.

He pressed his nose to the inside of his thigh where his arteries were.

Soap was hard. He felt it against his cheek. His entire face was bright red as Ghost kept his legs open. There wasn’t an ounce of fight in him as Ghost continued to sniff over him. He found the piece of wolf hide in his pocket and felt a tad betrayed.

Soap hummed. “It was that or dog piss. Heard both attract you guys.” He glanced down and saw the way Ghost was tensed.

Ghost ran his nails gently over his chest. “How evil. To trick a wolf looking for a mate like that.”

Soap turned bright red. “Oh. Oh.”

Ghost grinned, giant teeth showing. He started to drag him to his cave and Soap started to fight again. “Wait. Wait!! I wouldn’t be a good mate. I’m terrible at cooking.”

“Got thick thighs. All I really need.”

“You can’t even breed me!”

“I’m sure I could try.” Ghost looked down, noticing that Soap was not bothering to grab his crossbow. “I should at least try knotting you a few times.”

Soap flushed as he was put in Ghost’s nest. The bow was clearly dropped by the entrance. “What about…” He went quiet as Ghost grabbed him and undressed him roughly. His thighs went around Ghost’s shoulders.

“You smell sweet.” He ran his tongue over the vein in his leg before nuzzling into the soft skin. “Really sweet.”

Soap tried to kick him but Ghost wouldn’t let him. “Awa' an bile yer heid.”

“Speak English. If I can learn your language, you can speak the one I know.”

That red cape stayed on.

It was the only thing that stayed on Soap as Ghost started to lick at his body. He couldn’t use his claws to prep him so his tongue would have to do.

Soap did whimper. They were small and stunted, clearly he wanted to cover them. But Ghost heard everything. So he pushed his tongue into him instead of just teasing.

Soap jackknifed, hands scrambling to tangle into his hair. He shook slightly before a tremble ran up his spine. “So good. So deep, Jesus.”

Ghost didn’t bother responding. He just enjoyed his meal until Soap had saliva running down his thighs and he had been loosened up. Soap had long started begging for something. Ghost wasn’t sure if it was for him to stop or give him more but he was yanking Ghost close and crying in pleasure every second he could.

Slowly, making sure to draw it out, Ghost pulled his tongue away from Soap’s now gaping hole. Soap whined and clenched desperately around nothing.

Ghost yanked him around, positioning him so he was presenting. Soap arched his back like he was trained to do it, hiding his face in his arms as if embarrassed.

“Are you big?”

Ghost lined up, not answering verbally. Instead he just started to press himself inside.

Tight.

So tight.

His brain stopped functioning, only able to focus on thrusting more of himself in.

Soap panted in arousal and he spread his legs a little to give Ghost more room. Despite how big Ghost was, he made it look easy as his eyes rolled back. He whimpered once Ghost had almost finished sliding in.

“So big. What the Fuck.” Soap wiggled his ass enticingly and Ghost slammed in the last couple of inches. He wailed at the feeling and then broke off into little whimpers. “Splitting me open.”

Ghost’s head felt fuzzy from a mix of Soap’s compliments and the tight, hot thing around him. He was supposed to let him go for other people after this? No. He’d convince him to stay. Only Ghost got to enjoy this.

Maybe he could train him so he could only cum on his knot. Imagining Soap having to come back, sexually frustrated and needing something only Ghost could give him.

He finally started moving, now sure Soap wouldn’t break apart if he did.

“Soap right?”

“You can call me Johnny.” He said, looking blissful. Tears were running down his face and one hand was now pressed to his stomach where Ghost was. “Oh god, it’s so good. So much.” He cut himself off to scream as Ghost found something.

Ghost sped up and planted by his ear. He bit at his throat gently, slamming in over and over and over again.

Soap sobbed as he came all over himself, eyes rolling back. His legs were shaking so hard, they gave out, only held up by Ghost’s hands.

Soap sobbed harder when Ghost started to knot him. Ghost worried for a minute he might actually be hurting him until he heard the frantic pleading for him to break him open. He was clearly enjoying himself.

When he finished knotting him, he came, rocking insistently right against his prostate the whole time.

“There we go.” Ghost slapped his ass. “Told you, nice thighs were all I need. An accent doesn’t hurt.”

Soap nodded. “Aren’t you going to pull out?”

“You don’t want me to do that.”

Soap growled at him before shifting and gasping. “How long until your knot goes down?”

“Long enough for me to recover for round two.”

“And how long do you plan on keeping me here?” Soap sounded cheeky.

“As long as you’ll let me.”

-

Ghost proceeded to pin him to the wall and fuck several orgasms out of him. Soap barely seemed coherent towards the end, legs trying to keep Ghost moving.

Cum was running down Soap’s legs as Ghost continued, searching for his own release. He felt Soap shudder and cry into his shoulder.

“I can’t keep… Fucking hell, you’re going to drive me insane.”

Ghost picked up the place at that and Soap held him tight. He screamed properly when knotted this time, sensitive and sore and open enough that there was a sweet sting of pleasure to it and Ghost watched his cock twitch.

Soap stared at the ceiling, clearly trying his best to collect himself.

“So what position do you want to do next?”

Soap whimpered but when Ghost licked at his tears Im apology, he leaned in.

“Can we do it on the floor again? Me facing you this time?”

Done.

-

Ghost regretted not doing this first. Soap’s ankles were by his ears as he pounded into him. His whole body was getting more and more instinct driven. It was a shame Soap simply wasn’t capable of really coming anymore. The little masochist was still enjoying it, but he was tapped out.

That didn’t mean Ghost didn’t put all his effort into making him. Poor thing looked positively broken.

“Johnny.”

“Mmh.” Soap managed, clearly in a state of bliss.

“You alright?”

“Please keep knotting me.”

That was all Ghost needed. He adjusted his position and started to pound into him, making Soap twitch and clench around him with every thrust.

“You were made for this. Being bred by me. Wonder what everyone would think if they knew you. A great hunter was so easy.”

Soap whimpered And his cock started to leak again.

Ghost grinned. “Forgot to check the month and now does nothing but take a monster’s knot. Being bred and broken, yeah?”

Soap nodded immediately. “I want that. Yes.”

Ghost knotted him right then and there’s, watching him almost pass out as they came at the same time. He knew he could drag another one out of him.

“I’ll give it to you, Johnny. Don’t worry.”

[atsadi-shenanigans]

What Shall We Become 31 - Madeleine Stowe

You make a choice.

On AO3.

You can’t fucking breathe. You stumble over nothing and Astarion’s cool hand in yours is the only damn thing dragging you on. Feet feel like meat bricks, the impact of each step aching up your shinbones. Even your hip joints start to feel trembly.

“I don’t. Think I,” you try to say through the burn in your throat.

Y’all climbed down to the base of the tree (or near enough, since it seems to be growing up through the ass crack of the world). To one side, some man wails gibberish at y’all.

You don’t stop. Neither does Astarion.

Your pack thumps against your spine. You hope all the bottles in there ain’t crashing together and mixing themselves into Faerunian mustard gas or whatever.

Astarion leads y’all down and down, around the roots. The ground smooths out below. A path disappears into the dark as y’all get away from the ghost light of the fucking weird tree. But that stitch in your side lances up into your lungs. You ain’t gonna last much longer. Which you say.

Astarion says something back, ending in darling. Tugs on your hand.

“Fuck,” you gasp.

As y’all hit the level ground and the cool darkness below, something wails behind y’all. High-pitched, ululating in a way that don’t sound natural. Some kinda horn? Jesus fuck, they’re hunting you.

Astarion swears (you don’t really need a translation by the tone.)

Fucking drow. Fucking Faerun Middle Narnia bullshit.

The magic tree and its whispers start to fade as your heart threatens to rupture.

“I gotta.” You try to breathe. Try to form a fucking word. Everything is flagging through the adrenaline now. You stumble again over nothing. “Gotta stop.”

Astarion twists around. His hand tightens in yours. Jesus fuck, you can handle a few more steps—

You ain’t never been shot. But you’re pretty sure it feels a lot like what hits you. Except ain’t no sound or baseball bat of impact. You’re stumbling along, and then something pierces the back of your mind and your whole body locks. You got enough awareness to know you’re falling and that your face is gonna take the hit—

It does. The world snaps out for a second as your brains rattle in your skull.

Then you’re lying on your stomach in the dirt and Astarion skids to drop next to you.

“Darling? Eleanor?”

Your lungs is gonna burst. Your arteries is going to split like overcooked macaroni noodles. There’s something in the dark. Some primal terror your simian ancestors know and shriek and shake the branches of your brain at.

Trapped. Watched. It’s going to get you and your body pulls tight in preparation.

“Darling!” Astarion says.

A presence in your mind. The shadow of one. Like that fuckface with the knife, only colder. Harder. Much, much sharper.

Your fingers scrabble uselessly in the dirt. You can’t run. Can’t breathe. Can barely think. Something’s got you. A fly in a web, thrashing and drawing it closer. You can feel its eagerness. It’s thrill. A successful hunt. The final memory shard.

“D-drow,” you say and bite into your tongue for the effort.

Astarion swears again. Stands. Draws his knives.

There’s more than one drow. Several. You can just about sense that in whatever holds you (one drow; one fucking magic drow clenches your brain in a raptor’s talons). The last time Astarion fought one drow he got hurt and damn near eaten by the local wildlife. Ain’t no way he’s gonna win this.

“Astarion,” you manage through clacking teeth and the iron taste of your own blood. “Run.”

“What?” he says all sharp. Then his thoughts reach to yours, only that whirling cloud of terror mostly blocks him and he recoils.

“Run,” you say.

He manages to get through: you’re being ridiculous and they’ll catch you if he just leaves you here.

But they can’t see him. Not in the dark. Fucking Predator Rules. He can get away and they won’t even know he’s out there.

Another thin wail. Gotta be a hunting horn. Your brain helpfully reminds you of stories you read as an adult, as entertainment, of the Wild Hunt. Stupid peasants caught outside in the night and carried off by mad fairies. Sometimes for good. Most times for bad. And almost never, ever seen again.

More reason for him to stay (fuck, you thought that last part too loud). He told you they see the heat of a living thing, and you surmised he could effectively hide in the shadows. He can strike from those same shadows. It’s what he was made for.

And an undercurrent he’s trying to hide. Shoving down even as his thoughts race and the fear makes his fingers twitch.

He left you before.

You catch distant footsteps now. A rush of them. And if you can hear them, they’re close. Astarion is an outline with dim features in this light, away from the tree. A couple steps and you’ll lose him.

They’re gonna catch you (it watches, coming closer, so close and if you could move, you’d throw your arms up to cover your head in an instinctive, childish attempt to hide). If they catch him too? It’s over for y’all.

They’ll kill you; Astarion knows this. Knows drow. They’ll have no use for you. They hate surface dwellers and everything not drow (and most drow). You’ll die, and it will not be quick.

Except you got something they want. That shard in your brain. They can’t just kill you, or they’ll lose what they came for, right?

So they’ll take it and then kill you.

How easy is it? To take that from a brain?

For a sufficiently powerful sorceress? As the one holding you clearly is? How in the hells should he know?

He has to go. You cannot both be caught. And then. You catch it. Like a plucked cord, the small vibration ricochets through him. The desire to run.

Cause he’s been in scrapes before, you sense. And when he could run—from Faerunian cops or bad people (sometimes both in the same people)—he did.

But other times, filled with cold horror and dread and pain, those times he couldn’t run. Physically couldn’t. An order from a hated voice commanded him kneel and his legs gave out and he could only cower there and wait for it to start and wish, wish, wish he could bolt. He’d tried that once and never again, can’t take that again—

He wrenches that thought from you. Eyes wide and wild, lips pulled back to bare his teeth. That wasn’t for you.

“Sorry,” you croak. You didn’t mean to see it. You push that through to him. Start to do your best to smooth down the hackles raised in his alarm.

Until the shining line appears. Until the whisper of an idea is just there in your head.

You pause to consider it, this time. As best you can with the voice in the dark it’s coming for you. He has to go. Has to.

So you reach for that cord. Gather the animal terror batting itself against your ribcage, and shove that at him. At that same cord in him. The memory of longing to flee.

Danger run! you shout at him. It’s good to run!

Feel it hit. His lungs jerk as it hits his body like a punch to the heart. He stumbles back two steps before he locks his own muscles. He knows what you did. Is angry about it, but so desperately wants to give in.

Across the brainworm group chat, the others are sensing some of this. Reaching for you. You imagine the door of a bank vault closing, the heavy ka-klunk of it sealing and the wheel spinning as it locks out the rest of the world from you.

“Go,” you say in English. Astarion is the only one you still let through. You say it low and smooth as you can with your jaw damn near locked and your voice straining. Like talking to a spooked horse. Like trying to convince the infuriating goblin man who you want to kiss (jesus lord) to get the fuck away from the Wild Hunt on your ass, because if he’s out there, y’all got some chance. “Astarion, go.”

His mouth opens. No words come out. But he takes another half step. And y’all are still connected enough you feel him feel your small sigh of relief. You want him to. You need him to. He wants to.

“Please,” you say.

He takes two more steps. Turns. And disappears into the dark.

You let him stay connected a little while, so he knows you approve. Knows you’re glad he ain’t here. The footsteps of the Wild Hunt get louder. The fear squeezes your brain like a goddamn vice. And maybe fifty feet away, a low imperious voice says something.

The sorceress. The one who holds you.

You cut the brainworm connection. Find yourself alone in your prone, useless body on the verge of hyperventilating.

You don’t want Astarion—or any of them—to feel this. The thought you was hiding. How badly you wanted him to stay. Stand over you with them knives and his teeth. For someone, anyone—him—to stay with you, just once. Not leave you alone. Protect you from the bad things just once, just once in your whole goddamn life. Not leave you to face it all by yourself again and again, because ultimately you are alone and always will be and no one, ever, can stop the bad things from happening.

And then the drow are on you.