#fanfiction betas

[lunarriviera]

on the importance of beta screaming

i would like to say a little bit here in this chili’s tonight about the vital, indispensible role of beta enthusiasm.

because yeah we all know we get tied in knots in our prose, write sex scenes with impossible numbers of hands, dangle modifiers, repeat words, commit horrifying typos like “he licks with his tounge.” i have several useless graduate degrees so yes i can fix all those things for you or offer revision suggestions. as well, i am a north american who lived in the uk and divorced a londoner, so i can also britpick or yankpick your fic. then, it’s important to have at least one beta who can check you if you’re writing about a culture other than your own. finally, i usually will only beta for fic with whose canon i am intimately familiar.

those things are helpful, even essential. but there is something else a beta reader not only can do, but has to do, and that is scream.

look it’s hard out here for a pimp okay. we are in our little offices or bedrooms or hunched on the bathroom floor with the phone just trying to write our little stories. we made a tiny gay man and we gave him problems, and now we are going to make it YOUR problem. and then we will all thrash around and yell happily together, for we love this tiny gay man.

but until someone picks that fic out of the tag and clicks on it and reads it and starts keysmashing in the comment box, you’re all alone. just you, in your head, in your room, while you’re walking around the park, while you’re shampooing your hair, while you’re cleaning the cat’s litter pan—it’s just you. (and, sure, also the imaginary friends who spout riveting or hilarious dialogue in your head. them too.)

and when you’re all alone with just your words and your little people, a terrible and completely unique kind of loneliness can sink in. were they the right words? were they funny, pretty, tragic, joyful, smart? do they truly convey the depth of your feeling? and above all else: can they compel someone else to feel what you felt? because you’ve read that fic that made you scream into a pillow at 2 am. and you wonder: can i do that for someone else? can i feel my feelings so strongly and so well that they reach out of the screen and haul someone else in along with them?

and in the hours, days, weeks of waiting for someone to reach back through the pixels for you, a beta steps in to fill that space. this, she will let you know, is good. this is REALLY good. this is so good she’s gonna dword. she has no chill. she is about to mclose it. how dare you. she thought you were friends. now you’re in a fight. elmo in flames dot gif., screaming girl dot png., spongebob burying himself dot webp.

this is not an OPTIONAL feature of a beta reader. this is not just a nice thing that it’s nice to have. this might be the ESSENTIAL function of a beta. her hand is over your head and it’s briefly sheltering you from the pouring rain. hey listen! she says, and she cups your face in her hands: SCREAMING CRYING THROWING UP. and you, wherever you are in the world, even if you’re 24 hours away from her on the globe, you put your palms to your cheeks to feel the warm blush of happiness and relief. someone else is out there, picking up what you’re throwing down. and you did not fuck it up. it’s actually entirely possible that you nailed it.

without her, you wouldn’t know. and in fact in a small fandom, without her, there wouldn’t BE that much of a fandom. so you and your beta get to be a part of that little group of people who keep a set of stories, a family of characters, alive. that’s fun too. (plus you get to backchannel about all the horribly Wrong Opinions everyone else has. this both saves you from making an ass of yourself on social media, and will make you guffaw during a zoom meeting if you’re not careful.)

so get you a beta reader who’s a screamer. i said what i said. don’t settle for someone who can be nitpicky about the past perfect but who never says anything positive; people will remember and come to read the fic that’s stunning and strange and new even if you forget to use “had.”

i aim for about 50/50 between praise and suggestions (the same proportions i use as a professor), but if i’m honest it winds up being more like 80/20 for fanfic. that’s okay. if i’m gonna err, i’d rather err on the side of encouragement.

we get so little of that, either as writers or just in the world. we get so little hand-holding and shoulder rubs and affectionate hollering. so when you beta, think about letting loose a little. think about, sure, exaggerating for effect. you know how sweet it feels when someone gets all exuberant all over your drafts—so maybe allcaps a little bit, as a treat. it feels pretty great. you’ll see.

(oh and ps: save a life. leave an ao3 comment.)

[frownyalfred]

the fact that I’ve actually had this happen multiple times when I’ve entered a new fandom is hilarious like what do you MEAN

[gothamite-rambler]

Jason (crossing his arms with attitude): What are you going to do? I refuse to apologize.

Bruce stared at Jason in shock, and in his anger, he made a decision that every parent dreads.

Bruce (stern tone): You are grounded!

Jason (this is a whole adult, defiant): You can't ground me!

Bruce (firmly): Grounded!

Jason (shouting, confused): But I don't even live here!

Bruce turned Jason around and pointed to the stairs leading to his old room. Jason was too stunned to respond.

Bruce (stern, but calm): Tonight. Your room. Grounded!

Jason (stammering): I- I- Wait- This isn't fair!

Bruce (scolding parent voice): I'm very disappointed in you. Now go to your room. I'm only doing this because I care for you. Grounded.

Jason (face turning red with anger and sadness): This is some bullshit!

Jason stomped upstairs and slammed the door to his old room. The sound of random items being tossed around echoed through the house.

Bruce (indifferent): He'll work it out of his system. I'm going to bed.

Dick (looking at Tim, then Bruce as he heads upstairs): Did you just ground a 23-year-old?

Tim (surprised): And did it work?

Bruce: You forget I'm Batman.

[rheas-chaos-anthology]

Questions to ask beta readers

General:

Were you confused at any point of the story?

What genre would you say this book is?

When did you put the story down?

Is the ending satisfying?

If you had to cut 3 scenes what would they be?

When did you feel like the story really began?

What was the last book you read before this story?

Characters:

Do you get any of the characters names confused?

Which character is your favorite?

If you had to remove a character who would you and why? (you don't have to remove the character, just make sure their role is meaningful)

Which character do you relate to the most?

Which character do you relate to the least?

Do the characters feel real?

Are character relationships believable?

Are the goals clear and influence the plot?

Are the characters distinct (voice, motivations, etc)

Setting:

Which setting was clearest to you?

Which setting was the most memorable?

Am including enough/too much detail?

Plot and conflict:

Are the internal and external conflicts well defined for the main characters?

Are the internal conflicts and the external conflicts organic and believable?

Are there enough stakes?

Are the plot twists believable but still unexpected?

[a-scary-lack-of-common-sense]

Continuation to This Post :]

------

It was always so strange to hear adults argue.

Grown up fights never seemed quite the same as the trivial spats her and Dipper sometimes had. They were similar in some aspects, yes; Adults and children weren't as different as people liked to think. Mabel had seen adults verbally lash at one another with vicious words just as low hanging and petty as the ones she'd sometimes see kids the same age as her use. Adults arguing was essentially just a louder, angrier version of children fights.

And yet, there was somehow... more to it. Grown up arguments always seemed to weigh so much heavier in the air, and for so much longer than she'd ever thought possible.

Sometimes, the weight would leave quick and early, practically gone by the next morning. However, occasionally, the weight would stay; and grow heavier, and heavier over the years. Until it came to a point when the weight was nothing but a choking, stifling presence that seemed to fill every room in the house and buzz deafeningly in your ears like an unpleasant static that made your head pound.

Then, one day, the pressure would burst with a loud yell, a slam, and a bang, and start building up all over again. It was a cycle Mabel was much familiar with.

Her Grunkle Ford's "Mystery Shack" didn't have that air.

The shack's air smelled like burnt out candles and cheap discount Halloween fake blood, with a hint of real blood underneath the stinging scent of old wood and aged parchment. It wasn't necessarily a very nice air, certainly not in any way the fresh, crisp, clean air of the streets of Piedmont, but it smelled more like home than she'd ever felt back in California. It just smelled like... Grunkle Ford.

She liked her Grunkle Ford. He was super weird; with an even weirder Uncle as his roommate. He checked her and Dipper's arms and legs every morning "just in case someone broke in at night to steal a sample of their bloods"; he despised overly sweet foods (baffling, truly); and he had exactly 27 locks installed on the front and back door respectively that he could unlock all in under a minute with his really fast extra fingers. He reminded her a little of Dipper on some occasions, no matter how much the latter liked to deny the similarities (although, bar the demonic obssession).

However, last night, the air suddenly grew heavy.

Grunkle Ford had a fight.

Mabel hadn't heard it, and she hadn't seen it, but she knew there had been one. She was an expert recognizing the signs; she could always tell.

When she had awoken that late morning, the stuffy summer air had taken an even more sour note than usual, and had become a touch heavier than it should have been. Either that meant Grunkle Ford had just recently finished up a ritual, or a particularly rowdy argument had taken place; and Mabel knew that Grunkle Ford only performed his rituals between 2 to 4 AM, when he thought the twins were well asleep.

It was strange, to feel that same heavy air push down upon her temples and pound that same painful rhythm of a mounting headache as it used to do so often back when Mabel was in California. It had already happened a few times at the shack, but this one felt... heavier, than usual. She didn't think she would have to encounter the discomforting weight again this summer, away from her parents. Yet here she was. Aching.

She knew Gunkle Ford and Uncle Bill fought and bantered. With Bill being a permanent resident trapped within her Grunkle's mind, she couldn't imagine how they wouldn't. She didn't think even she could keep her cool if she had Uncle Bill as her brain roommate 24/7.

In any case, their interactions in front of the twins were mostly a mixture of exasperated resignation, or irritated tolerance, mostly from Grunkle Ford. Their occasional volleying exchanges of vitriol doused insults and words were short lived, and brief most of the time, especially when in front of the kids. They were nothing like the long, loud ones that could go on for hours back at her house in Piedmont.

Even so, there were some times when Mabel would see Grunkle Ford late in the evening, red faced and tight fisted, stomping down to the basement and disappearing into his lab there with a deafening slam of the rickety wooden door. She recognized that slam. He didn't want the twins to hear the argument.

Even if they could hear anything, what little they could glean always seemed to be only side of the argument, with Grunkle Ford yelling curses at Uncle Bill inside his head. She always did wonder what happened inside Grunkle Ford's head. Although, she wasn't sure if she wanted to know the answer. She couldn't imagine the state of the mind of someone who sometimes forgot to eat or sleep for almost a full week until someone reminded him.

The entire day passed with that same, tense air choking the atmosphere. Dipper had dragged Mabel and himself to some adventure in the forest, but it seemed to her that he was just trying to find excuses to stay out of the shack for the time being. Even he seemed to feel the unnerving heaviness of the air.

That night, underneath her sheets, Mabel pulled out the worn and well used wooden art mannequins Dipper and Grunkle Ford seemed to keen on using to summon Bill rather than their own shadows. With her trusty golden glitter pen (that she knew Uncle Bill loved despite what he claimed), she gently drew a closed eye upon the blank wooden face of the little model.

The eye opened, and she spoke:

[hyperfixiation-station]

Behind Enemy Lines Pt.1

CW: Torture, Canon-typical violence, talk of derealization, disassociation Summary: You were a friendly medic, captured years ago and held prisoner, forced to do do the bidding of your captors. Years later, a man by the name of Ghost is dragged in and changes the trajectory of your life. A/N: I had severe ADHD, and i am unmedicated rn, and it makes it really hard to work on things unless I get the hyperfocused drive for it, so I'm sorry I'm so bad at making the other parts to my fics. Know that I will never abandon them. it just might take me a while. idea part 2

You fought back, at first. Way back when you first got captured, taken from your base camp and dragged through miles and miles of harsh terrain, blindfolded and bound. A medic you were, yes. But your team had trained you with the best of them. You spent the whole time trying to escape, kicking and screaming until they bound your legs and gagged you. You spent the first month of captivity refusing to talk to them, hissing and spitting and pretending their punches didn’t hurt. But it didn't take you long to realize it was better to cooperate, or to at least be civil. Civility got you less broken bones, less pain, more rations, more sleep. Cooperation didn’t come till later, when you finally realized your team wasn't coming for youthey were dead but you didn't know that.

Surprisingly, the whole mouth-getting-sewn-shut didn't happen till a couple years in... they were torturing someone, a man who said he had kids and a wife at home, whose only wish was that they left something recognizable of him so they could get some closure. You begged them to stop. Begged them to stop when his wounds became too numerous to count, too much for you to handle. Begged because you started to care for him as he told you about his son and daughter, how they want him home for Christmas(You didn't have the heart to tell him Christmas was 6 days ago) Told them that he would die no matter what you did if they continued. Well, they didn't stop, and he did die... and you found yourself ringing in the new year by being strapped to a table.

“We warned you to stop talking with him.” They said as they clamped the metal shut over your forehead and chin, holding you in place. “We told you to not get attached, but since you can’t seem to do it on your own, we’ll help you.” The feeding tube came 2 weeks later, shoved up your nose when they realized you were starving...they couldn't lose their favorite medic of course.

You stopped paying attention to the passage of time after that, spent most of your days drifting in and out of reality, moving through the motions with a practiced ease. And it would have remained that way, if it wasn’t for a man in a skull mask with a team- a family- looking for him. 

Your first introduction to him ended up with you getting a broken nose. Per usual, you were shoved into the cell, medical kit in hand, ready to fix up whatever damage your captors had done the their poor prisoner.

The mask he had been wearing when you saw him dragged in was gone, and he had a gash that went all the way through his cheek that would need stitching up. You pull out your equipment, moving slowly towards his bleeding face. 

he headbutted you the moment you got close enough for him to reach, and the crunch of bone and the gush of warm blood followed, not that you noticed. You were still in that dreamlike state, not quite tether to reality in the way you should be. You barely noticed when they tranqued him, and the only reason you didn't finish his stitches is because you passed out too(it’s hard to breathe through a bloody, broken nose)

The next time you approach more carefully, but he’s no trouble. Mostly because they left him completely strapped to the table this time. Today was a rare day, a time when you  could actually feel your feet on the ground rather than just see them. You feel bad as you wipe him down, your eyes flicking over the myriad of scars on his body. What’s one more you think to yourself as you get to work stitching a stab wound to his thigh. Just barely missed the artery here…that could have been bad news. Okay tie it off and- there we go. I think the only other thing that need to- oh, is he…talking to me? I should probably pay attention to that.

“-here?” His voice is gravely, though you suppose yours would be too after being tortured. He stares at you expectantly, and you shrug. You don’t know what he said, and even if you did, you couldn’t answer. You just move to his wrist, snapping the bone back in place. He inhales sharply, but doesn’t make an actual sound, which surprises you. But you don’t dwell on it, wrapping a bandage around his arm and moving to exit the room. 

“Y’ no’ g’nna lemme off?” His voice sounds, “they said y’ would.” You spin around, staring at him. You're not stupid. And even if your…bosses had said that, you still wouldn’t do it. Being trapped in a room with a man who is at least a foot taller than you and looks like he could kill a man with his glare? No thank you. 

You take a step back, heading towards the door. The man lets out a sound you would barely qualify as a laugh. “Sm’rt then.” He says to himself, “No’ gonna be that easy.” 

The next time you go in, you can't help but wonder what they want from this man. By now they usually would have killed him off. Oh well, not your job to wonder. You clean him up, splinting the fingers they had broke when he talks to you again.

"why don't y' let me die?" He says, voice just as gravely as before, "Put me outa m' misery?" You don't respond, just keep taping his hand. IT's something you ad asked yourself, right at the beginning. It would be kinder for you to just let your patients die. But you couldn't do it. Partially because you were punished anytime someone died before your captors wanted them to, but also because you were a medic. YOu were there to heal. You couldn't stomach letting someone die by your hand.

"Answer me!" The man snarls, bringing you back to the present, "For god's sake y' never talk, fuckin' mute." You don't respond, of course. Just finish your task and leave him to his thoughts.

He’s angrier after that time, you’ve noticed. The few times you're actually present, he’s fighting you. Usually not with words, but he bucks and doesn’t hold still. He’s tried to grab your medical supplies countless times, and one time you actually had to be pulled out because he jerked his arm while you were stitching him and somehow managed to drive the needle into your own hand. The few times he does actually yell at you, you’re usually not paying attention. You can catch words like “Dishonorable”  and “Disgraceful”. You aren’t entirely sure of the context of the words, but you can guess. You’ve treated enough prisoners who think that you are the world's worst human being, a blight to the medical field, to guess what he's trying to tell you. 

It's funny though, this man so full of hate. Because, for the first time in goodness knows how long, your feet are on the ground, and your head is level. Something about this man, his angry, uncrushed demeanor, even after weeks of torture, stirs emotion in you that you can’t quite identify. And maybe you should be grateful, thankful your head is on right, but you're not. You so desperately want to go back to that place of apathy and detachment, where your emotions weren’t so strong, were the pains of mishealed bones and poorly healed scars didn’t plague your waking moments. 

Or maybe it wasn’t the man- The Ghost, as you found out he was called. Maybe it was the fact that something in the air had changed. The air was electric, charged with tension so thick you could feel it even alone in your cot. They were watching you, you could tell. Could feel their eyes tracking your movements in a way they hadn’t since first giving you freedom to move around. 

You're not sure why. It’s not like you have anyone to go home to. You were an only child, and your parents had died long before you reached 18. All you had was your team, a team that had seemingly abandoned you. So why would you leave? There was nowhere to go. And yet they watched you. Was it because you were becoming more aware, more grounded then you had been in a long while? Was it the man, Ghost, who had them on edge? 

The answer came two days later. You were in Ghost's cell again, desperately packing gauze into a gaping hole on his side. You don’t know what had happened, but for the first time in years you were dragged from your cell, your captors muttering under their breath in a language you still didn’t understand as they thrust you into his cell. Blood was everywhere. Your best guess was that Ghost had been struggling and an instrument had slipped and gouged out a hole in his side. So here you are, packing gauze into the wound as you try to figure out what to do to keep him alive with your rudimentary supplies. 

You pack another piece of gauze in just as the door goes flying open. Men, dressed in black, wearing the same mask Ghost was, come bursting in. 

“Get back!” The one in the front yells at you, gun pointed in your face. You shake your head, hands pressed against Ghost’s wound. 

“Now!” You make a protesting noise, trying to gesture with your chin. The man looks down, eyes widening. 

“Aw shit- are you the medic?” You nod almost desperately. The man looks at you again, staring at your hands. They are shaking, pressed against the wound as you try to keep Ghost from bleeding out. 

“Fix him.” The man snaps. You shake your head and look up at the man, trying to communicate that you need more supplies. 

“Use your words.” The man gabs the gun at you, indicating he wants you to get on with it. You stomp your foot, shaking your head again. 

“What, what's that supposed..…you can’t speak, can you?” You nod, glad he finally got it. The man groans, lowering his gun.

“You’re coming with us, but you make one wrong move, and I mean one, I will put a bullet through your brain before you can even speak. Got it?” He gestures to the other two men with him, and together you lift Ghost up, carrying him out to safety.

A/N- anyways, here's part one. Sorry if it disappoints anyone

tags, sorry if i missed any:

@redzluvvesage @just-a-harmless-potato-05  @vesna-the-spring @princess312 @norsehorseofcourse-blog @bonniperinktrance @soggywafflezz  @littlebunie @sirbonesly @havoc973 @mommymilkers0526 @thegreyjoyed @pinkiliciousgunp0int @poopoobuttsy @darcellethedreamer @kamote-kuneho

[inkskinned]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

[villainbait]

Exclusive Favors

Pairing: Sylus x MC / fem!reader Rating: PG-13 Tags: who did this to you, hurt, comfort, hurt/comfort, injury, implied violence, brief violence mentions, angst, canon sylus behavior, blood mentions, kissing if you squint Summary: You barely survived a night on your own in the N109 Zone without the watchful gaze of certain Onychinus leader, but at what cost? Word Count: 1.5k

The dull sound of your door closing was like the snap of a final curtain call falling into place and you slumped against it, relieved to be safely in your own apartment. You had survived a night in the N109 Zone on your own, but it had been a near miss. One you wouldn’t be repeating, especially since the intel you wanted had been a bust, anyway. 

You touched your side, your breathing uneven, and you wince. You definitely have a cracked rib. You try to take a deep breath and pain radiates from your chest into your stomach, making you a little nauseous. Okay, maybe two.

You were trying to psych yourself up to move and trudge into your apartment to give yourself much needed medical attention when the reverberating shock of someone's forceful knock bounced you against your door-frame. You consider not answering the insistent caller on the other side, but a muffled, familiar baritone floats through the door.

"Open the door, sweetie."

A sigh left your lips at the demand and you tried to stifle the pathetic, painful whimper that your exasperation cost you. Of all the people on the other side of that door, Sylus was the most unexpected. Or maybe not, considering he boasted that he knew everything that went on in his territory. Maybe that’s why he was here and if it was, he wouldn’t leave until his curiosity was satisfied.

The door cracks open and you stare up at him through the hole you made, reluctant to allow him entrance and to partially block his view of the damage those thugs had caused when they mugged you in the alleyway earlier tonight. However, Sylus’s easy smile is nowhere to be found and the frown lines on his forehead are the deepest you've ever seen them. His large hand wraps around the door-frame so you can’t close it again and he pushes gently against it, but you don’t budge. 

"Who did this to you?" His tone is dangerously low.

You ignore his question, instead poking your head out to look down the deserted hallway of your apartment building. "Why are you here? It's dangerous." It was risky for Sylus to wander around Linkon City normally, even if he claimed many people didn't know what he actually looked like. However, the Hunter’s Association did and your building was crawling with employees at all hours of the day and night.

"You didn't answer your phone, so I got worried."

Oh right, you had forgotten they had taken that too. You sighed again, the pain of having to replace everything beginning to give you a headache. That key charm Zayne had given you for your birthday was perhaps the worst thing to have lost, maybe more than the phone itself.

"Let me in, kitten." Sylus’s voice is gently cajoling and you concede because you're too tired to argue with him tonight. So you open the door and  try to act normal, but your voice is far too lighthearted for how heavy your legs feel as you trudge into the apartment. 

“You know, if you keep frowning like that you’ll get wrinkles and people really will think you’re an old man.” 

He follows you in with a small chuckle, his eyes bouncing around the room as if the perpetrators could be hiding in the shadows. When you grabbed the first aid kit and sat down to tend to your injuries, Sylus was suddenly there, kneeling in front of you. His hands push yours out of the way and he silently takes over the job of nurse, and you think about fighting him as you watch him roll up his shirtsleeves but realize you were just too exhausted to care. 

“What happened?” He asks eventually and you realize you will have to tell him something. Lying won’t work, he’ll find out if he didn’t already know. 

“What often happens when you end up in the wrong place at the wrong time in the N109 Zone, Sylus.” You offer with a single shrug, doing your best to sit still while he cleans the wound on your arm. “You know that better than me.” 

“Were you wearing–” he was referring to the brooch that signified your status as protected. 

“They took that too.” His hands stilled on the bandage he was applying on your forearm. “Did they, now?” he murmured silkily and you saw a muscle in his jaw tick, though his expression was partially obscured by his unruly hair. “After all that trouble I went through, too.” You tried to make a joke to ease the tension which earned you a soft amused twitch of Sylus’s lips. He was too angry to truly smile and you could feel it radiating off of him in waves. Despite that, his hands were painstakingly gentle as he touched what was clearly a blossoming bruise around your wrist. Sylus’s tender touch lingers on your injuries and he checks each one with a thoroughness that feels as if he’s memorizing exactly where you were hurt. 

He orders some of your favorite food, helps you get cleaned up, and tucks you into your bed. He points to the notepad you kept by your bedside table that you sometimes scribble notes on when you took calls. “Make me a list of what they looked like, and then go to bed. I’ll take care of the rest.” Before you could protest, he left the room abruptly. You picked up the notepad and stared at the print of the cute little animals dancing around the top. You’d bought it on a whim after seeing how cute it looked in a stationary shop window near one of your mission sites. It seemed too obscene to write what would virtually be a hit list on such charming paper. 

Instead, you scribble all of the reasons you’re grateful for today. Right at the top was that you had survived all on your own in the N109 Zone and you were able to see the infamous Onychinus leader kneeling at your feet. The list grew as you included the tasty food you ate earlier, and the glimpse of a suspiciously familiar crow you saw on your way into work this morning. The page was halfway filled when the pain medication Sylus had convinced you to take started to kick in and you felt your eyelids drooping. 

Drowsily, you snuggle down underneath your covers and clutch the plushie Sylus and you had won at the arcade last weekend. When you hear the distant muffled click of your door opening, you try to rouse yourself but you felt so warm and your body felt so heavy that you couldn’t manage it. That doesn’t stop you from trying until a large hand gently smoothed back your mussed hair, and the sensation of soft knuckles trace the curve of your cheek. “It’s just me,” the familiar voice murmured and you tried to speak but he shushed you. “Sleep, kitten.” 

You swear you felt the ghost of his lips on yours before he was gone, but maybe it was just part of the hazy dream you had of crows, violence, and enchanting sanguine eyes. 

Sylus returns to the N109 Zone and finds himself staring at the “list,” a bemused smile on his face. He shakes his head and tucks the cutesy page into his pocket. You were far too adorable and it made what he was about to do that much more satisfying, sauntering into the abandoned warehouse where your phone had last pinged; deceptively calm. The screams and stench of death shuddered throughout the N109 Zone tonight, serving as a violent and bloody reminder to all that no one should dare to touch what was his lest they face the consequences. 

Sometime in the early hours of the morning, your fingers fumble for your buzzing phone and land on the familiar outline of the brooch, both in their normal places as if yesterday was just a bad dream. Through your sleepy daze, you realize your other hand is occupied–as is your bed. Turning, you’re surprised to find Sylus is fast asleep next to you, his hand intertwined tightly with yours. There’s deep circles under his eyes, but his normally furrowed brow is smoothed out in sleep. With a sleepy smile, you curl back up to let him rest a little while longer, tucking your joined hands against your chest, cuddling his arm.

You both doze off together, and you’ve never felt so safe.

[nmakii]

inspired by @kaislvves’s bastard post… ps: i acc love dior sauvage its my scent for when i go to school but its so strong HAHAHAHA

kaiser’s cologne has an overwhelming scent. not just in a way that two sprays could fill the entire bastard münchen cafeteria in his scent, but also in a way that lasts. his scent lasts on for a week before it finally wears off.

what’s his scent? dior sauvage, the scent of liars. kaiser likes the overwhelming presence of its’ scent; it’s as powerful as he is.

he loves to spray his cologne all over your closet and clothes, making sure that whatever you wear, and whatever perfume you try to wear to overpower it, you end up on the other side smelling of him.

it’s adorable how you spray on your 70 euro hermès perfume, checking out your outfit in the full-body mirror in your bedroom, before you’re coughing and choking on his overwhelming scent.

“mikka!” you shout out. “stop spraying your perfume on my clothes, it’s so strong!” you frown. his attention is finally raised away from his phone when he finally looks up to you, small circle-framed glasses starting to slide down his nose before he pushes it up with his middle finger.

“why should i? i like doing it.” he simply states. that’s just how he was; how he was raised— if he wants something, he must do everything to take it. likewise, if he wants to keep something, he has to make sure no one else steals it.

and with a job that forces him to almost always be out of country, he can’t help but worry about his rose. what if another piece of trash tries to flirt with you while you’re vulnerable? the overwhelming, almost sickly scent of citrus and pepper would be enough to tell them to back off; you’re already taken by another man.

“yeah; well, i don’t like it. it always lingers for too long.” you explain. and to kaiser, your explanation is moronic. “…that’s the point of a cologne; to linger.” he bluntly states. you roll your eyes at his smart-assed response, and scoff, “ugh— duh, but it stays on for days!”

kaiser only shrugs. “good. everyone knows you’re taken.” he’s quite adamant to telling the media what fragrance he uses. it’s odd, but he always encourages his interviewers to smell him in at least one point of the interview, giving him the chance to comment on his fragrance. it’s become a bit of a meme in his fandom that he wants to get sponsored by dior. but, no.

this isn’t about money.

it’s about everyone knowing his scent.

like a wolf marking his territory, kaiser leaves his scent on what he owns. and what he owns is you; your heart. it’s not enough that you love him with your heart as much as he cherishes you— he needs others to feel him spiritually when you’re nearby.

“this is stupid, mikka. none of my perfumes linger anymore cause of your dumb sauvage.” you scoff. and, kaiser stands up from his place in the bedroom, moving behind you. his overwhelming height makes for an awkward position when he rests his arms on your shoulders, and his jaw on your forehead. he stares at the reflection in the mirror, admiring of his and your beauty. the glint in his eyes is dangerous— as dangerous as the cheshire grin he proudly displays before he completely destroys an opponent in a match.

“would you want different kind of physical marking then?” he asks. his fingers delicately ghosting to touch the ticklish parts of your neck.

“…no.” you roll your eyes. kaiser sneers.

“then, you’ll have to stick with the cologne.”

[suzieloveships]

Words can't express my love for the ao3 writers

[satanisaware]

BETA WALLY!

It has been a while since I drew something creepy about this boy, so here I am.

Also here is the original Wally too, I originally drew these based on my fanfiction, but it's okay, I'll put them anyway, it's about him.

Another sketch of Beta Wally!

[lostintransist]

Broken Beyond Bearing

-… . - .- … / -… . .. -. —. / -… ..- - -.-. …. . .-. . -..

@beloveds-embrace I hope I did this idea a bit of justice so far. Inspired by the delcious idea from beloveds found here.

AO3

CW: references to medical procedures that were not agreed to, reader is dying, A/B/O, odd dynamics, babies first time writing A/B/O.

A/N: I am really new to A/B/O so if something feels off or if you want more of this idea LMK!

Kate told you that the CIA still used Morse code in the field sometimes. It had fallen out of fashion after World War II and the alphabet soup of government agencies liked to reuse what they could. She said it worked best for short messages and when speaking could alert enemies. She talked at you nonstop on the long drive from the hospital. You wondered if the silence would bite at her toes or if the drone of the engine would keep it at bay.

She found you in the waiting room. Back straight, head upright you stare out the window across from you. If you ignore her maybe she will leave you alone like everyone else. You had been freed from a facility when some government agency or another busted them for performing illegal experiments on betas. Everyone else had a family to return to.

You weren’t everyone.

“I have a friend at this hospital. He called me when he saw that you had yet to be released,” she uses a soft voice as if the mint green and oddly shaped couches were pews instead. Pews don’t creak like plastic when you shift your weight. “My name is Kate. My friend, Ty, is an administrator here. He mentioned you needed someone to sign for you due to your beta status and the lack of documentation on your identity.”

Silence had been your only weapon against the staff there and the staff here.

She smells of alpha, the heady scent that should reek of safety and confidence. It tastes sour in the back of your throat.

“I’ve read through the information about you from Scorpio, the changes they made to you? They don’t expect you to make it another five years.” Kate rubbed her hands down the top of her slacks. “I’m here to give you an offer.”

Glancing at her without turning your head you wait. When she meets your side eye you shift your gaze back to the distant fluffy clouds dotting the sky like sheep grazing through a meadow. The sky sheep look all the whiter for the blanket of snow smothering the earth below.

“I know of a group of men, even split between them alpha and omega, who could use someone to care for. They are gone for long stretches of time and won’t pressure you for anything, only to care for you and use you as a touchstone of normalcy,” Kate lets out a breath, the shifting air bringing more of her should be comforting scent to your nose.

Voices drift past the locked doors to your right. You had posted up on the maternity floor, the staff had yet to find you here the last few times you were able to avoid their gazes.

“Why me?” Your voice whispers out. Should have grabbed the water mug the night nurse had left on your tray before you ducked from the room.

“Well, that’s the sticking point. They don’t know you would be coming. The guys have started to fray at the edges, getting reckless on jobs. I need them to be safe. If they have someone to come home to?”

Ah, so this wasn’t about you. Couldn’t ever be about you could it? No. Always a beta, never important.

Scorpio had seen six hundred seventeen betas through their doors before you quit counting. Not one of them left through the front door.

“You can’t tell them I’m dying.”

Control had to be a resource you doled out sparingly.

“Done.”

“And I get my own bed.”

The wrinkles around her face deepen as Kate settles on an unsure look.

“I’m not sure…”

“I will spend time in their nest when invited but I get my own bed,” you look at her now, face to face.

She must see something unmovable in your expression.

Sighing, her eyes drift shut and her shoulders relax.

“I will make it happen.”

Nodding once you stand.

“Lead on Kate, let us meet my doom head-on.”

Kate chooses not to comment on your morose declaration.

Maybe that is why she filled the car with her voice? She must not appreciate your brand of deadly honesty.

Her voice drifts away as she turns off the well-maintained and snow-cleared highway for a clear spot marked only by the tire tracks that lead between the dense trees.

“I’ve told them so many damn times they need to move closer but no it’s all ‘Kate you don’t understand we need the space from everyone’ and never thinking of how hard it is for people to visit them,” she mutters to herself as the color leeches from her knuckles with each slip of the tires.

“Maybe they don’t want visitors.”

Kate’s brows pull down as she glares out the windshield.

Looking back out the window you catch sight of a massive moose between the trunks before it disappears into the trees. It takes another twenty minutes of achingly slow driving before Kate finally relaxes her shoulders.

The smell of satisfaction drifts through the car heater. Turning you find a modestly large cabin, a green metal slanted roof, and a porch that reaches from one corner of the house to the other. Next to the stairs that connected the porch to the ground are two vehicles, one SUV and one large truck, though these both sit neatly under the porch. Kate parks in the open.

Without hesitation she climbs from the driver’s seat, grabbing the backpack she picked up for you with your three changes of clothes and two sets for sleeping. Kate is halfway up the stairs when you finally join her. Snow clings to the canvas of your shoes even as you follow in the large boot prints she left behind for you.

Tucking your arms close to your chest you stand behind Kate as she pounds with a fist on the door. The swish of her coat is the loudest sound beyond her beating for entry. You are fighting to keep your teeth from chattering when the door finally opens. You didn’t know cold had a smell. The only word you could find for it? Sharp.

“John. Took you long enough,” Kate pushes her way through the opening in the door.

A burly man steps back to allow her entrance. He is barely decent, his robe hanging open and tie only just covering his bits. John lifts a brow at you when you don’t immediately follow. You are not dressed for winter. When a particularly chilled bit of wind rushes past you and into the house, he moves to shut the door. Darting inside you watch him warily until you stand near Kate again. She stands in front of a massive couch. Counting the cushions, you give yourself the space to breathe. Twelve separate sitting spaces, three walls of a square, and still with room to walk behind and peer out the window that took up nearly the whole wall behind it.

“Not like you to show up without calling Kate. What is this about?” John steps around the snow you shed on his hardwood floor.

“I brought you a wife.”

They stare at each other for nearly thirty seconds. Your toes start to sting from the cold. The shoes on your feet squeak as you shift from foot to foot. Making the mistake of breathing too deeply you can taste the battle of wills between them. Kate’s shouldn’t be sour scent warred with John’s masculine, woodsy scent. He was an omega?

A long table is positioned opposite the kitchen, and central to it all is a wood-burning stove. The kitchen has an excess of cabinets. You start to count them to avoid what your nose is telling you.

“Why would I need a wife?” He finally asks.

You are also curious about the word choice. Betas weren’t terribly important in the grand scheme, born at a lower rate and died at a faster one. Populations didn’t need betas to survive, they, you, were mostly only good for keeping fights from escalating. With everyone receiving training in school anymore on how to address and deal with signs of rut/heat to avoid fights, death due to rut-related combat had reduced by over half. Betas were less important than ever. The other reduction in deaths had come from Scorpio.

Sarah had always been so proud to tell you about how you were contributing to keeping alphas from killing each other when she drew your blood or injected you with yet another unknown serum. The government had started to pump the barest amount of what Sarah called, calmers, into the water system. Said it was good for everyone, like fluoride.

“Serin, helicopter, Los Alamos, hospital visit. Would you like me to go on?” Kate said all those words as if they made any sort of sense.

John sucked in a deep breath through his nose. His eyes snapped to you.

“What are you?”

Kate steps in front of you. The slap of your hand to your scent gland runs parallel to her words. Sarah had done something to you, changed everything at a base level, including your scent.

“Beta, and a wife. Someone to care for, someone who needs you.”

His eyes are on you as sounds from deeper in the house reach your ears. Deep voices, a loud thump, then laughter. You look past John and see a set of stairs near the front door that leads to a second floor that only takes up part of the space from the vaulted ceiling.

“We don’t need anyone Kate-” he folds his arms across his hairy chest as Kate cuts him off.

“Should I ask them then? Call them down and see what they say?” She glares up at him, the height difference not making a difference even when her alpha to his omega should. You had only ever seen one dynamic, alpha ruling, all else managing to stay out of their way. That did not hold true here. They battled as equals.

John let his lung full of air go, a sigh of admission as his hands fell to his hips.

“No. We will take her.”

Kate nods once, settling your backpack on the couch before turning and giving your shoulder a squeeze.

When she turns back to John she gives him the final piece of information.

“She gets a room to herself. Doesn’t need to be much, but at least a place to retreat when everything becomes too much.”

He rolls his eyes but nods.

“Anything else Kate?” He asks drolly.

The glare she sends him is met with a smirk.

“I will check back in a week to see how everyone is settling.”

John walks her to the front door, opening it for Kate to step back into the startling brilliance of the sun twinkling off snow.

When the door clicks shut behind her John turns to you. His eyes drift from your feet upward until settling on your face.

“Hello, wife.”

Part 2 | Broken Masterlist | Masterlist

[wetpussyju1ce]

Alpha!König x Omega!fem reader (smaller than König)

original post

for @ohdrey89

+18. mdni.

könig and his tiny soon to be heat partner are a cute pair. since the day König shoved his whole knot inside her, his brain chemistry shifted and he's been stupid for her ever since. absolutely awe struck w her. he can't help it. now when she's all calm, asking him if he'd be willing to help her fix some fences to keep foxes away from her chickens, as if the day before his mind and whole being wasn't blinded with so much pleasure he felt reborn. she can't be asking him that so… so casual when he feels like he'd die if he stays away from her for too long.

he definitely knows he has some underlying issues if he's feeling this affected by them having sex for the first time. or maybe it's love. he'd like to think it is. because she's funny, smart, kind and pretty, and her pussy is the wettest, warmest and tightest he's ever been in. so yeah, she's definitely a catch. and she seems like she likes him to a degree, because even after their little excapade at the cottage, she still smiles at him and holds his arm or squeezes his thigh when they're all gathered up before dinner in his pack house.

his heart hammers in his chest and he feels his balls throb whenever she bats her pretty eyelashes at him or teases him. she asks him to help her with the most random things, things that require heavy lifting around her own little garden and cottage. and he does it. because why the fuck would he say no?

and she knows what she's doing too, sits on a bench with her chin resting on her palms as her elbows rest on her knees, watching the massive Alpha chop enough wood to last 3 winters, just because she asked. and he's sweating through his t-shirt, the fabric sticking to his freckled and scarred skin under. and she's just taking it all in. the bulging biceps, the big hands, the massive shoulders, his thighs that are as thick as trunks and the bulge between his legs, her absolute wet dream, live in the flesh.

when he's done, he's panting and his t-shirt is drenched, so he takes it off and she grins like the cat that got the cream. She offers him water off her cute pink pitcher, and he drinks like half of it. when he's done. she takes the water back inside the house, with him following her, his t-shirt in his hands. he stands in her small kitchen awkwardly, too big, too out of place for her soft and cozy home. that is until she tells him to leave the t-shirt on the floor, she'll wash it later. and he's about to disagree because he can wash it himself but then she's slowly lifting her tiny t-shirt over her chest, and he chokes on his spit.

His eyes immediately land on her small breasts and he can't breathe.

König doesn't even realise he's already crossed the kitchen and now has her flat down on her dinner table, his mouth licking and sucking, taking his fill out of her chest. And he's moaning, big warm rough hands holding her still as she laughs and moans on the table.

He frantically unbuttons her shorts and pulls the zipper down, before he can pull down her shorts and underwear in one go he remembers his manners and looks up, “Can– Can I eat you out? Please?”

“Yes,” She grins and he doesn't waste another second, pulling her clothes down in one go. he gets his head between her legs, buries it as far he can go, his nose nudging her clit as he licks broad stripes over her wet lips, then shoved his tongue in.

One thing the Omega learned about König is that when he wants something, he does it fully, wholeheartedly, he doesn't waste time with pleasantries. If he wants to eat her pussy, he will, with everything he's got.

The Omega quickly startes to trash under his filthy mouth, she grips his hair and pulls, her legs shaking as he messily drinks her slick between her legs. The noises he makes are loud and wet. She gets momentarily worries he may drown down there, considering she leaks a lot, like so much, especially when he's involved. But all König does is feast on her sweet cunt, drinking out of her as if she was the sweetest thing he's ever tasted, and she may as well be considering his dick is about to rip through his jeans, his knot tingling and ready to swell.

Her mind is foggy, her eyes are rolling at the back of her head as he eats her out and thumbs at her nipples with one hand at the same time, he's not giving her time or space to breathe. With every exhale she moans, and when he ears finally stop ringing she realises he's been speaking to her. Or at least saying something and she makes a small confused sound, looks down her body and tries to listen over the sound of him loudly and sloppily drinking everything she has to offer, and finally picks up something. König is another planet, his brain shut down and all he can repeat over and over again are praises for her, and her pussy; "You taste so good, so good-- So sweet and warm and tight-- Please come on my face, please I want it--"

That's it. That's all it took for her to squirt all over his face, shouting in her small cottage, writhing on her dinner table that she definitely needs to clean later. König is over the moon, unashamedly moaning with his head between her legs, he doesn't give a shit about breathing when she's covering his whole face with her slick, marking him up. He doesn't even realise he's also coming in his trousers, ruining his boxers with a horrifying amount of cum, but he'll deal with that later, after he gets his fill.

[gothamite-rambler]

Jason Todd babysitting baby Damian.

Jason looked around as Damian sat next to him. The little baby stared at the man with a blank stare.

Jason (rubbing Damian's chubby cheeks with his hand): Tiny baby. Precious. Soft. You are a cute baby.

Baby Damian smiled then giggled.

Jason: I can't believe you share his DNA, or her DNA or her father's DNA.

Jason booped Damian's nose making the baby giggle and cover his face.

Jason: All right, got that out my system. Let's go play in the dirt.

Jason picked up Damian and took him outside.

Jason: Battled my brother, taking care of my dad's secret son, getting paid. It's gonna be a good year.

Damian (happy): Ah!

Jason: Thank you.

[chrystal-ink]

Shadow X GN Reader

A Dangerous Game

NSFW MINORS DO NOT INTERACT !!!

Content warnings: smut, reader has a vagina, vaginal fingering, penis in vagina sex, breeding kink, unprotected sex

This is my first time writing smut please tell me if it's shit or not I promise I won't be offended lol.

-Chrystal

you sat on the couch trying to ignore the feelings flooding through you. the movie droned on as you felt the heat radiating off his body, his arm draped around you distracting you from the action on screen.

"just ignore it Y/N" you thought to yourself. "you can wait for tomorrow, it's not a big deal at all."

on any other day you would have given in, taken the opportunity of the quiet moment and alone time to share an intimate moment with your beloved partner. Unfortunately tonight you couldn't not because you didn't want to quite the opposite you wanted nothing more than to feel him close to you. Unfortunately, you forgot to take your birth control this morning.

you didn't know exactly why but the thought of being completely unprotected guided by the hands of fate while Shadow's cock was inside you was more arousing then any thought in the world. you couldn't get it off your mind no mater how hard you tried.

you shifted uncomfortably in your seat as you bit your lip your panties becoming wet anticipating action that wouldn't be coming tonight. you tried to slow your breathing down hoping he wouldn't notice the fact that you were completely turned on right now.

You cursed yourself for your forgetfulness. had you not forgotten you would be free to fuck all you wanted, but instead you were here doing everything in your power to distract yourself from the fluttering in your core.

Unfortunately, Shadow knew you so well he sensed your discomfort and immediately knew that you were in need of him. if he was being honest he wanted you too your scent had been driving him wild all night and he was looking for any excuse to feel the warmth of your pussy around him.

He could always tell when you were ovulating, a primal urge always stirred within him, wanting - no needing to be inside you filling you up with his cum, and seeing the look on your face as he brought you to orgasm. most of the time the feeling was dulled something that could be over and done within an hour or less either by taking a walk outside in the fresh air or by having a quickie.

but tonight the feeling was potent, stronger than it ever had been in the past. it was almost too much to bear. he wanted nothing more than to slam you against the couch and fuck you till the sun rose in the morning soaking your pussy in his seed.

grabbing your chin he turned your face to his planting a solid kiss on your lips. you melted into him forgetting your dilemma for a moment. grabbing his face you kissed him again, and again losing yourself in the taste of his mouth.

Making out wasn't so bad right? there wasn't any way you could get pregnant from that, so you continued, lips colliding with one another hypnotizing you into a blissful trance.

Shadow's hand traced up your leg his fingertips tickling the skin beneath as they trailed through your fur. stopping at your tail he gave it a light tug a small gasp escaping your mouth at his actions.

he gave you a smirk pleased with his teasing. he moved his mouth down to your neck kissing your sweet spots making you moan as his lips caressed the sensitive skin. his hands moved up your body grabbing the hem of your shirt he pulled it over your head and tossed it onto the floor. he made quick work of your bra unclasping it in an instant freeing your breasts from their prison.

each of his hands took a Brest massaging them as he swiped his thumbs across your nipples sending shivers of pleasure down your spine.

you wrapped your legs around his waist your clothed pussy grinding against his growing erection . Shadow groaned against your neck the deep vibrations echoing through your body encouraging you to make your movements faster.

you were approaching the point of no return, you wanted to keep going all the way. but you knew you couldn't not without Shadow knowing, and not without risking everything in the process.

"Wait." you reluctantly pulled away stopping your movements.

"Is everything alright? why'd you stop"

"I'm sorry love, I really do want to tonight, but I can't"

"Why not?"

You sighed feeling defeated. "I missed my birth control this morning, so if we have sex tonight there's a slight chance I might get pregnant."

Shadow's ears perked up "What?"

"I mean the chances are pretty low but still better safe than sor-"

"Let's do it."

"What?" you weren't sure if you heard him correctly. Did he want to keep going?

"Let's have sex tonight."

"But what about- I mean we haven't even talked about -"

"I Know, but you said the chances are low right?"

"I mean yah but I still could, do you really want to risk it?"

"Yes." his hips bucked at the thought of you getting pregnant at his hand.

you thought for a second, just missing one pill didn't raise your chances by too much, it was almost like a game of roulette. the danger of it all aroused you more than you thought it would, and there's nothing stopping you from taking plan B tomorrow.

"Okay" you took a deep breath "Let's do it"

Shadow smiled Kissing you once again, his passion seeming to grow with the intensity of this night. his lips didn't leave yours once as he removed your bottoms tossing them aside before picking you up and carrying you to the bedroom.

on the way there you kissed every area that was available to you his face neck and chest becoming your canvas as your anticipation grew.

entering the bedroom Shadow carefully laid you out on the bed removing your panties and spreading your legs, he stood back for a moment, admiring every curve and surface of your body. Enjoying the way the moonlight gleamed off of your soaking wet pussy, ready and waiting just for him.

"Chaos you're perfect." he said before removing his gloves and climbing on top of you. picking up where you left off your lips collided, passion growing with each passing second.

your hips moved on their own tired of waiting for the attention you needed. reaching his hand down he slipped a single digit into your delicate folds prodding against your walls sending butterflies throughout your system.

"Be good for me and I'll put more in alright?"

"Mmmhmm" you hummed in agreement

his thumb traced circles around your clitoris. the cool metal of his inhibitor ring brushed against your inner thigh mixed with the stimulation of your sensitive nub sent a shockwave of pleasure through you.

he ran his finger along your walls looking for your sweet spot. a loud moan coming from you signaling him that he had found it.

"Perfect now, I don't want to you to make a sound, not right now, Do you think you can manage"

You nodded your head in agreement.

"Good"

he continued to work you every slight movement sending more and more pleasure thorough your system.

Shadow smiled listening to the wet slapping sound of your pussy, as far as he was concerned it was his favorite song, one of the only sounds he could listen to for hours.

he slid a second finger inside watching as your face scrunched trying not to make any sounds as he brought you closer to the edge.

You bit your lip hoping it would help fight the urge to moan, yell or make any noises.

"No no no, don't do that you'll hurt yourself" Shadow brought his other hand to your face releasing your bottom lip from the grip of your teeth and gingerly wiping his thumb over the bite marks.

He brought your hand to one of his quills.

"Hold this and when you feel like yelling pull, you won't hurt me I promise."

You obeyed gripping it tightly as he continued working on you adding a third finger to the mix.

you closed tightly around his digits, pulling on his quill you watched his head pull back. with each pull on his quill he pressed harder and harder against your walls, soon enough a familiar pressure began building in your abdomen.

"Okay my love, let me hear your beautiful voice once again."

without wasting a second you let out all the sounds you had been holding back.

Shadow listened as your beautiful moans filled the room. if your pussy was his favorite song then you were his favorite singer. your moans a symphony to his ears.

the pressure built more and more within you, you were going to snap at any moment, his fingers were like magic turning you into puddy in his skilled hands. losing all inhibitions the pressure finally released his name spilling from your mouth as you came into Shadow's gentle hand.

shadow smiled as he removed his fingers from you, playing with the fluids remaining on his hand. he could practically taste your fertility as he licked them clean.

"Are you alright?" He asked watching you pant as you lay on the bed.

"Yah, just catching my breath for a second."

"Good, Because that was just a warmup."

You looked down his cock was fully erect precum beading at the tip. he had been waiting for you and you were ready. this was the moment. Both of your lives could change forever after this, or they would remain the same there was only one true way to find out and that was by diving in head first.

"You said the chances of you getting pregnant were small right?"

"Yah."

"Good, Then I'm going to make this count."

With that he plunged his cock into you moaning as your walls contracted perfectly around him. he began to thrust slowly listening close as a string of soft moans flowed from your mouth.

he thought about making you his forever. the thought of him getting you pregnant made him thrust faster. a rough moan leaving his throat as he pushed himself further into you.

Shadow's cock fit perfectly inside of you. as if he was created for the purpose of pleasuring you, you clenched around him moaning in tandem with him as each of you drowned in each other's touch.

still riding the high of your previous orgasm you thought about how what you were doing was crazy, how it could end in complete disaster or incredible bliss. you thought about the possible consequences and the permanence of it all. but what was life without risk?

You lips craved more touch and they needed it now, grabbing Shadow by the Chest fluff you pulled him down into your lips, mouths intertwining with one another. you thrusted up in a circular motion pushing him deeper into you. he groaned against your mouth his deep voice vibrating in your chest.

Shadow grabbed your legs and adjusted your position folding you in half to get a better angle of your pussy.

you could tell he was close and so were you, in a few minuets it would all be over and your future would be undecided.

Shadow re inserted himself trusting at a speed you've never felt him go at before the quick brushes agist your clit bringing you one of the most intense levels of pleasure you have ever felt your legs beginning to tremble at the stimulation.

"mmm Shadow I think I-"

"Do it please, Cum for me."

You screamed as the intense orgasm Rippled throughout your body. not a single inch of you was spared from the wave of pleasure.

Shadow came not long after his hot cum filling you to the brim. he removed himself with a satisfying pop. he gently unfolded you taking you into his arms.

Still shaking from your orgasm Shadow curled himself around you steadying you drowning you in sweet words.

"You did so well, now rest I got you. I love you."

"That was incredible." You finally managed to get out.

"Yah, You should forget your pill more often"

you managed a giggle as you snuggled further into him.

"Nice try Love"

[a-scary-lack-of-common-sense]

What if instead of threatening to take Ford's eyes, Bill just took Fiddleford's?

Tate still remembered the night his father's sight was taken from him.

"What have you done to me, Stanford?"

He felt the storm coming even before the first lightning struck. From the very moment he opened his eyes that morning until the very moment he lay back down to bed, he could feel a vicious tension brewing in the otherwise serene household.

Storms were very uncommon at Tate's house, and on the rare occasions they did arrive, they never stayed for long.

Yet, after a quiet breakfast full of anxious, unmet glances and clattering cutlery that rang far too loudly in the silence of the table, he knew that this storm was going to be unlike any other storm he'd witnessed before.

A prickling, disquieting static seemed to have made itself at home underneath his skin, that day. It had made every hair on his body stand on end, and an odd stinging sensation to dance across his spine and tongue; an uncomfortable urge to duck and take cover low on the ground nearly overwhelming his every sense. It was like waiting for the shattering thunderclap to sound after the sky turned white with a blinding flash of light. He knew what was coming, and the anticipation was unbearable.

His mother and father had acted as though nothing was wrong; as though they didn't feel the looming presence of the darkening clouds growing like a murky gray forest on the ceiling.

He hadn't been able to fathom at the time how adults could seem so all-knowing, and yet simultaneously be so utterly clueless about the very obvious happenings that surrounded them. Now, though, he just found it strange how adults often tend to assume children don't feel the stifling weight that they hung around themselves; as if children didn't breathe the same bitter choked air as their parents did. It wasn't even as though they did a very good job at pretending; his parents always were terrible liars.

When the lightning finally struck, it set the house ablaze.

He heard the thunder from his room, and felt the crackling heat crawl up the stairs and seep through the gap beneath his door. He'd laid in his bed, hand clasped nervously across his chest and looking up at his room's cloudy, weeping ceiling as a cacophonic explosion of noises came bursting from the living room downstairs. The fight had erupted with such unprecedented force that in Tate's young mind, he'd felt genuine fear of the house collapsing atop them all from the sheer force of the yelling.

The smell of burnt tongues gently wafted through the air, and Tate briefly wondered if it hurt his parents when they scorched their mouths with such scalding words just as much as it hurt for him to hear it.

It was a big fight; a terrible, big fight; so loud, and so very angry, and helpless, and desperate, and betrayed, and sad.

The back and forth screeching seemed endless, and eventually the screaming words began to muddle and merge into one another until they hardly even sounded human anymore. Suddenly there were animals wailing in the living room downstairs, and Tate could do nothing but listen helplessly and grip his interlocked fingers tighter; hoping that if he stayed still enough, then the growling beasts that were shattering plates downstairs wouldn't come upstairs.

But then,

then,

something changed.

The shift was all too sudden; too abrupt; too quick even for the usually sharp witted child to catch on, and before he knew it, the screams of anger suddenly shifted into one of pure, unadulterated horror.

"Fiddleford, your eyes- good lord, your eyes! Let me look at them!" "Don't touch me! I- I must call Stanford, he's done something to me. Him and that demon, they've cursed me." "For Heaven's sake! Please, forget about that damned Stanford of yours for one moment and listen to yourself! My husband's gone mad, mad!"

And suddenly his parents were human again.

Tate was restless in his bed as his heart seemed to beat bruises against his ribs, his sweaty fingers digging crescent shaped grooves into his skin as fear enclosed its frigid claws around his throat in a vice-like grip. He couldn't breathe.

The storm was over, and it should have reassured him, and yet he was anything but.

Curiosity and fear had been what forced him to kick the sheets off himself and creep his way down the rickety wooden steps. He had to know what happened, he had to know what damage the storm had caused, he had to know.

His steps were far from quiet, and the creaking of the floorboards beneath his feet hardly did him any favors, but no one answered the calls of the squeaking wood. No one came peeking out from the living room to stop the obviously sneaking presence that was tip toeing through the halls; No one called out to check on their little child; all was silent, and calm, except for his mother's soft sobbing coming from the kitchen.

When Tate eventually found his father, he saw

devastation.

The storm had been merciless. It had left nothing behind but a shuddering husk of a man. His father was shaking like a leaf, shoulders tense and back hunched over as though bowed by an incredible burden. The telephone receiver was held in his hand like a lifeline; as if it was the only thing in the world that was keeping him tethered to sanity, and somehow, Tate didn't doubt that it was.

Curled up on the floor in the dark, muttering and trembling, he dared say his father looked... small.

It almost felt surreal to see his father in such a state, like witnessing a God collapse, or a star's light dim to nothingness. His father had always been a solid, permanent pillar sho seemed able to hold up the whole world on his shoulders, and still stand tall and proud despite the weight.

And yet, the crumbling remains of a once impermeable monolith now lay scattered across the hallway floor and splattered across the walls.

The sight had scared him.

At the time, Tate hadn't known what had happened. Even to this day, he still wasn't too sure he understood what exactly had taken place in that living room for his father to have so sudddenly gone from seeing to blind in the matter of seconds.

His mother had tried, in vain, to explain it to him later, to try and make him understand when he was eventually old enough to hear the gruesome tale; but still, he struggled to fully wrap his head around it.

"It was as though his eyes just sunk into his skull," his mother had recounted to him with a haunted look in her eyes. "They suddenly just vanished into the empty sockets of his face, like someone pulled them out from inside his head. There was no blood, no resistance, no tearing. It was as if his eyes were simply plucked out of sight by some invisible hand."

There had been blood on the walls when he had found father back then, a long trail of gorey wet red smeared all across the lovely yellow wallpaper. He realized only now, recalling the memory, that the blood back then had not been from his father's eyes, but from the deep gouges he had dug into his face with his nails, his searching fingers desperately looking for eyes that weren't there beneath his empty eyelids.

"What have you done to me, Stanford?"

Tate had never heard his father's voice sound so raw, so afraid. It was so unlike the familiar comforting drawl he'd grown to love and recognize, it almost sounded alien, coming from his father.

"I can't see, Stanford, I can't- my eyes, they're gone. Why are they gone? What have you done?" "Answer me, damnit, what have you done?"

His father never got his answer, because whoever was on the other side of the line soon hung up, and his father was suddenly left blind and alone.