#i can only hope the anime is just as good

[eowynstwin]

peristalsis - ii.

selkie!soap x reader. depression. suicidal ideation. strangers to "lovers." . Running away from life to the Scottish Hebrides, you meet a man who won't leave you alone. . Masterlist. Ao3.

previous

You sleep long enough that, when you wake up, you have enough energy to cry.

It’s a big one. The kind of cry that threatens to turn your throat out, with how hard you sob. Alone in the cottage, far away from anything resembling civilization, you wail like wounded animal, choking on your own tears and mucus, losing track of your body buried underneath the covers—

But it happens at a remove. You watch yourself implode from someplace deep inside, not entirely sure why it’s happening at all—but long past trying to figure it out.

This is how it’s been for a while. There’s nothing special about it anymore. Nothing urgent. Most of the time, you are a blank space of a person, a vacuum where joy or rage or fear should be, but occasionally some maelstrom or another kicks up to fill it in, and your only course of action is to ride it out until it ends.

You’ve stopped trying to fix it. And you’ve stopped hoping anyone else can, either.

So you cry, until at last, you’re empty again. Or you’re too tired to continue. The difference is negligible, but functionally irrelevant. Once it’s done, you get out of bed.

The pressure in the shower is as weak as Johnny reported, but the water is indeed warm when you turn it on; you stand naked under the flow, arms hanging at your sides.

The day stretches itself out before you with nothing to occupying it, just as you’d planned. Nothing to work towards; no effort to put forward. Nothing, thanks to your choice of locale, to feel guilty about not seeking out.

A day of peace and utter quiet.

Suddenly—violent banging, somewhere in the cottage. It startles you; you jump so sharply at the noise that you smack your wrist on the soap caddy attached to the shower wall. The banging comes again—annoyed, you realize with no little bemusement that someone is at the front door.

You wrap yourself in a towel and hobble out of the bathroom to answer it, a piece of your mind on your tongue, dart-shaped and ready to fly—

Of course it’s Johnny.

Johnny, big and burly in a sweater, kilt, and pelt once again, two paper cups balanced in one large hand and a grocery bag hanging from the other. Whose dark brows shoot up his forehead as his eyes travel with surprise, and blatant appreciation, down the dripping length your body.

“Well, good mornin’, bonnie,” he purrs.

“What,” you grunt. A cold breath of wind chooses that moment to force its way through the door, gasping across the shower water still running in rivulets from your hair to the rolled edge of your towel. Goosebumps erupt from your bare skin in millions of simultaneous pinpricks—you flinch bodily at the chill.

“Ah, hell’s bells, don’t just stand there,” Johnny says, following the wind. “It’s freezin,’ go on, let me get in, hurry.”

You let him step inside, for some reason, and he shuts the door behind him with the heel of his boot. He wastes no time after that, heading to the kitchen to set down his things.

“Brought breakfast!” he says cheerfully. “There’s this bakery on Barra I thought you’d like, fresh doughnuts and coffee. Dunno how you take yours, but there’s sugar in the pantry and cream in the fridge.”

“I don’t want breakfast,” you say.

“What? ‘Course you do. I’m no’ takin’ you seal-watchin’ on an empty stomach.”

He starts unpacking the grocery bag and setting things on the counter while your jaw hangs open. Several things occur to you to say—I never agreed to that and what the hell is wrong with you, for starters—but your stomach growls at him before you can. The aroma of fresh-baked pastry wafts through the kitchen when he opens one box, and he turns to grin at you, cheeks dimpling.

“Do you get dressed, bonnie,” he says. “It’ll still be here when y’get back.”

It is less polite than he perhaps intends it to be, given that his gaze travels appreciatively across your bare shoulders. You cross your arms fruitlessly over your chest and, nothing else for it, retreat to the bedroom, feeling his eyes on you the whole way.

You return to the kitchen after having pulled on wool leggings and the same fleecy sweater from the day before. Johnny, one hip set against the counter, has a cup of steaming coffee in one hand and a half-eaten cruller in the other, crumbs at the corner of his mouth.

“Got anythin’ heavier?” he asks around a chewed-up mouthful. “Gets cold out there.”

You look down at his bare calves, broad and taut and covered in a down of dark hair. “You seem alright.”

“I’m used to it,” he says, shrugging—the muscles flexing under your gaze.

You purse your lips. “I don’t have anything.” You hadn’t intended to leave the cottage overmuch.

You approach the counter. Johnny does not move a centimeter, forcing you to stand close as you pick through the two boxes of doughnuts and feel the body heat radiating off of him, displacing the scent of fried dough with his musk.

“That’s all right,” he says. You’re close enough to hear the way his voice hums deep in his chest. “I can keep you warm.”

You snatch a plain glazed from the box and take two very large steps away from him. The hair on the back of your neck lifts as you press against the sink behind you. If he notices your reaction, it doesn’t seem to bother him in the slightest—he lifts the cup to his lips and drinks, eyes sliding closed with simple, obvious pleasure, dark lashes curling against his cheek.

You take the brief respite from his gaze to stare at him. In the morning light, on a full night of sleep, you can almost believe that whatever you’d seen in him yesterday had been nothing more than a misfire of exhausted synapses. An overlay of a dream; a circadian prompt to rectify nearly seventeen hours of sleeplessness. You’d been cold, and tired, and hungry. That was all.

You bite down on your doughnut, not really tasting it. The nerves along your spine twitch and contract around the memory of his flashing gaze.

His eyes open again, and he smiles at you. “Good?” He flicks a look at the single bite you’ve taken, looks at your mouth, and then waits for your reply.

“It’s fine,” you grumble. Then, “How did you get here? I didn’t hear the truck drive up. Do you live close by?”

“Sometimes,” he says. He looks pleased that you’ve asked, that you’re interested at all, and you immediately regret inquiring. “Live on a boat, me. Moored in the cove right now.”

“A…boat,” you say.

“Aye.” A wisp of dark hair, something he must have missed when he gelled his mohawk this morning, flutters as he nods. “Nice and cozy. Not as grand as all this, mind.” He gestures around with coffee and doughnut at the less than five hundred square feet of the cottage. “But it’s still a sight nicer than some other places I’ve slept.”

He’s likely hinting at his military service. “Okay,” is all you say, unwilling to entertain it.

He smirk—undeterred. “We’ll take her out once you’re ready.”

“I never said I was going.”

Dark brows lift. “Got somethin’ else planned for today?” he asks, incredulous, as if he never imagined you wouldn’t want to hang out with him.

“No, I—”

You wrack your brain. You have no intention of explaining to this complete stranger that the last thing you’d wanted to do, when you booked this trip, was really anything at all—and in fact, you hadn’t even considered that that might be something anyone else would care much about.

Much less proactively address.

“No,” you repeat, sulking.

Johnny considers you, chewing. His eyes do not stray, this time, to places they don’t belong; but there’s an insight to them. A sharp awareness. A perception in his gaze that is just as undressing, as if whatever is going on with you is visible to the naked eye.

“I figure,” he says, slowly, as if to coax, “you put your wee shoes on, an’ I’ll pack this back up, and we take it along.”

“You don’t have to do this,” you grouse. “I don’t need you to, like—be my tour guide.”

“Aye, but that doesnae mean I don’t wanna,” he retorts, smiling.

He shoves the last bite of cruller in his mouth and gazes patiently at you as he works it with his jaw, the muscles flexing along his temples as he chews.

Exhaustion, your constant companion, stares you down alongside him. It would take so much more energy to fight him than to go along with whatever he has planned. Energy you just don’t have anymore. And going along doesn’t mean you have to pretend to enjoy yourself—it’s not like you care enough about Johnny’s self-esteem to conjure up a happy face to show him.

You can go, and be a bitch about it, and once you do maybe he’ll realize you’re not at all worth the effort he’s making, and then finally leave you alone.

“Fine,” you say, which is how you end up on a fishing trawler headed south toward, ostensibly, a colony of breeding seals.

It’s an old vessel—that much is obvious. Its edges and corners are dull with the passage of time and constant maintenance, scuffed by innumerable passes-over with cleaner and cloth. Mildew competes with the aroma of fresh varnish as Johnny leads you onto the bridge, which is mercifully closed in from the ocean wind.

The interior is mostly wood of a warm, orangish variety—you can’t tell if that’s a decision made with aesthetics or function in mind. The space comprises a kitchen, surprisingly well-appointed with a stove, sink, countertop, and fridge, and a small sitting area with both couch and booth seating. Surrounding windows allow in the grey light of the morning.

“Bought it off an old bloke on Lewis,” Johnny says, taking his place at the wheel, which is in a little alcove off the kitchen.

If you’d thought steering a boat would have curtailed his chatting, you’d have been wrong—he seems to have no trouble with that and talking, incessantly, at the same time, as he pulls the vessel away from the cove and into the open water.

“All his family moved to the mainland, he told me, an’ this is after generations fishin’ these islands, even makin’ it through the Clearances! No money in it anymore, he said, not like you could make in some office somewhere countin’ someone else’s money.” He checks something on the dashboard in front of him, but it doesn’t distract him for long. “Held on for a while, but people just kept leavin,’ an’ he was gettin’ too old to go out on his own. Got such a good price on it, I think he was just happy someone else was gonna take up the tradition.”

“Did he sell you the cottage too?” you ask, and then dig your nails into your wrist for encouraging him.

“Yup,” he says. “No one else wanted it, but me? I saw somethin’ special about it.”

He turns to smile at you—no doubt pleased you made the connection. You avert your gaze.

“Imagine someday I’ll have my own family here,” he continues. “Good place for it. Nice and slow, not like city living. Can hear yourself think out here. Perfect place to have a few wee ones.”

“If people stop leaving,” you mutter.

He turns to you again. “I’m no’ worried about that,” he replies. He’s still smiling. “You came here, after all.”

You have nothing to say to that.

The trip is a short one—Johnny brings the trawler alongside an island he informs you is called Mingulay, a square mile smaller than Vatersay’s tiny dot in the North Atlantic. Unlike the latter, he says, this island has not been inhabited since 1912, and has been completely reclaimed by the ocean and its wildlife.

After he drops anchor offshore, Johnny disappears down a steep flight of stairs below deck, which he had not offered a tour of, and emerges a short time later with a large, bulky coat.

“Didn’t I tell you?” he says proudly, holding it out by the shoulders. “Here, turn ‘round.”

You pause in the middle of reaching for it. You don’t know exactly why you comply—it occurs to you that if you grabbed for the jacket, he could simply not let go of it, and you would end up exactly where he wants you anyway. So you lower your arm and, resigned, give him your back.

He steps up behind you. Warmth pours off of him, more than you think any human body should be able to generate.

You hear him inhale, deeply, as he brings the jacket to your back. As you slide your arms into the sleeves, you feel his exhale on the nape of your neck, teasing through individual follicles of hair.

“There w’go,” he murmurs, much closer than you expected.

You can hear the low hum of his voice in his chest; his hands linger on your shoulders far longer than they need to, heavy, big enough that his index fingers brush along your collarbones.

When his hands make to slide down your back you step away from him and fumble to zip the jacket up; he chuckles lightly behind you. When you turn to face him, his lips are curled—smug.

“Alright then,” he says. “Let’s get out there.”

He rows the two of you to shore in a small kayak, two pairs of binoculars in your lap as you huddle away from the wind. You’ll be walking to the haul-out, he says—getting too close to the breeding grounds, which he calls a rookery, would spook them, possibly causing a stampede.

“It’s grey seals we’re gonna see,” he explains as the two of you pick your way across the rocky landscape. “Not the biggest haul-out you could see, some colonies get into the thousands, but we’ll have it all to ourselves.”

He insists on taking your elbow every time the two of you cross particularly uneven terrain, even though you don’t need it. You think he takes your attempts to shake him off as proof of your lack of balance, because he grasps you all the tighter every time.

“I’m not a child, Johnny, I can walk on my own,” you finally snap at him.

“Just bein’ a gentleman, bonnie,” he replies nonchalantly. He does not let you go.

As you get closer, you hear the seals before you see them, and when their voices reach you across the open island, you stop dead.

Groaning, grunting, hissing in a cacophonous chorus. Some part of your hindbrain double-takes, reshuffles itself—some ancestral instinct always on the lookout for predation. If you’d been given a chance to guess what a colony of mating seals might have sounded like, you’re not sure you could have guessed what they sounded like.

Certainly not like what you hear now—

Like people.

Johnny grins at you when he notices. “Aye, it’s a right ruckus, innit?”

He leads you up a small rise, where he has the two of you settle belly-down over the machair to overlook the wedge of rocky coast that the colony has claimed for its own.

And when you finally see it—it’s underwhelming.

Perhaps two hundred long, fat bodies, in varying shades of brown and grey, lay indolently along the rocks, in groups of three or four, some heavily galumphing from one place to another while others roll occasionally from side to side. The shifting winds catch their scent and blow it uncaringly into your face; you nearly gag at the admixture of dead fish and ammonia.

It doesn’t escape you that this is a rare thing to witness; you are not wholly immune to the fact that you are only a hundred meters away from something most people only encounter on a screen. It’s just that without a swell of awed music in the backdrop, or a narrator’s breathless wonder at the miracle of pinniped life, what’s left for you to observe is a population of wet, stinking animals, shitting where they lay, vocalizing without cease while they laze about doing basically nothing.

Johnny does not seem to notice your disillusionment; he hands you one pair of binoculars, and directs your attention to activity along the shoreline. You follow to where he’s pointing; one larger seal is hassling a smaller one, which snarls at the aggressor as it thrashes around with its substantial bulk.

“Little one there—” Johnny says, “that’s a female, probably obvious. Big one knows she’s ready to mate, can smell it on her.”

The female bares her teeth and lunges at the bigger male, which flinches back but holds his ground.

“Doesn’t look like she agrees,” you mutter.

“She’s just givin’ him a hard time. She’s all in heat, see? Just makes her cranky,” Johnny says. You feel his eyes on you, and lower your binoculars to look at him. “She’s got to fuss to feel all in control.”

You flush. “Right.”

“You don’t think so?”

“No,” you say. “He’s—he’s just bothering her.”

He gazes at you for a moment, contemplative. Corners of his mouth quirking upward. He does not reply for a long moment, long enough that you have to avert your gaze from his.

“Nah,” he finally says, and you don’t think you’re imagining the low, sultry note in his voice. “She wants it bad as he does.”

You scowl, uncomfortably perceived, and return your binoculars—the pair is still facing off, gurgling and growling at each other. The female is slim, almost sleek, unlike most of the other seals populating the rookery.

“Is she sick?” you ask.

“Hm? Oh, no, she’s alright. The mums lose a lot of weight when they nurse. Takes three weeks, and they don’t eat in the meantime.”

“Jesus.”

“Be nice if the dads ever brought ‘em a bite, aye?” Johnny agrees. “Deadbeats, the lot of them.”

The two of you survey the colony in silence for a moment. As the morning wears on, the cloud covering thins overhead, allowing cool sunlight to filter through. The temperature doesn’t rise in response; begrudgingly, you tug Johnny’s jacket a little tighter around you.

Then, suddenly, his hand lands on your back, between your shoulder blades.

“Got some pups over there,” he says. “Look, by the kelp.”

You find them; smaller bodies, white dinged with wet sand and dirt, lounge near their mothers or wriggle with aimless difficulty. They’re fluffy and round as plush toys, with shining black eyes and noses, and once Johnny’s pointed them out you can differentiate the higher, sweeter pitch of their cries from the overall cacophony.

“Sometimes,” Johnny murmurs, “search and rescue’ll get called out because someone thought they heard a baby crying. Some kid stranded or lost, right? Turns out to be a baby seal.”

“That’s kind of scary,” you say.

“Aye,” says Johnny. “Always makes me think that’s where the old legends come from, about seal people or mermaids.”

A small ways away, some of the mothers lay with their pups far into the surf, letting the waves break over them. You watch as one mother thunks her large head overtop of her pup’s as the water rushes toward them; the pup wriggles, and then, as the wave engulfs them, it begins to thrash, whipping up a panicked froth.

“Time for swimming lessons already?” Johnny muses. “Seems early.”

You’re horrified. “She’s going to drown it!”

The hand still on your back pats you consolingly. “Just watch,” says Johnny.

The wave reaches as far up the shore as gravity allows, and then begins to recede. The pup’s thrashing calms as the air meets its face once again; the cow allows the pup to lift its head, and after a few sputters, the pup seems no worse for wear.

“They’re hardier than they look, bonnie,” Johnny says.

His hand, heavy and warm even over his borrowed jacket, slides down from your shoulders to your lower back, and then he rubs, slowly, side to side, as if to comfort you—but the knobs of your spine contract at his touch.

“Last of the births this season, looks like,” he says. “Mum’s getting ready to leave—probably not the only one.”

Something hard drops into your stomach.

“They leave their babies?” you ask.

“Aye. Once they’re done nursing, they mate, and then they go.”

You look back at the other cows with their pups. One baby has its muzzle to its mother’s belly, quivering and suckling, while she lays with her head on a patch of grass. She looks uninterested—more, she looks disinterested. As if how voraciously her pup is nursing has nothing much to do with her, and she’s bored of even having to think about it.

Bored—and already looking forward to the next part of her life without a baby in it.

“That’s horrible,” you say.

“They’re solitary animals, bonnie,” Johnny says, not ungently. “The only time they’re really all together is for this.”

A line tightens between your stomach and throat, and you feel it start to build between your ribs. A tremor—foreshocks. The wind picks up, bringing a sharp chill off the ocean and up the rise that cuts into your stinging eyes, abrades the naked skin of your hands and the exposed part of your neck.

When you look through your binoculars again, you wonder how many of the pups you see have already been abandoned.

“Aw, bonnie,” Johnny says. There’s a kind of pity in his voice that has your hackles raising.

“I want to leave,” you say, yanking away from his touch and shuffling down the incline. “Take me back to the cottage.”

“Bonnie, it’s okay!” Johnny protests, rolling to his back to look at you as you stand. “The pups make it, they figure out how to fend for themselves.”

You glare at him, vision blurring. “All of them?”

Some part of you knows you’re being irrational—knows that nature is a cruel home, and that many children face worse fates than the seal pups. Abandoning the young, the needy, is no aberration; it is, in fact, far more the standard than the human practice, which lingers for decades—

Most of the time.

Johnny has no response. He holds your angry gaze, brows drawn low, mouth pressed into a thin line. It’s the first time that cocky aura, which seems to rest in every fine line on his face and every angle at which he holds his body, is completely absent.

He isn’t reflecting your anger back at you, though—he’s internalizing it. Letting it hit him, you think, and trying to use it to figure you out.

You do not want to be figured out.

You scoff again. “Take me back,” you repeat, and then you start walking in the direction you came, without waiting for him to follow.

Johnny drops you off in the cove, and thankfully does not linger this time before he departs—he bids you farewell after rowing you to shore, contemplation on his face, and then leaves you to yourself.

You retreat, seeking the cottage’s empty quiet.

As you perch on the couch you listen to the radiator hum—the wind blow over the reeds in the thatch roof—your own heart beating a drum in the arteries of your neck.

Percussive. Quick and hard. Like heavy knockers on a door. Pounding as if to burst through.

You realize you’re still wearing Johnny’s jacket, and you throw it off, disgusted with yourself. You get up and pace, and try to ignore it lying in a heap on the floor.

You do something you swore you wouldn’t do the moment you set foot on the island—you turn your phone back on.

True to Johnny’s word, there’s no signal. You picked this island, this part of the world, for a reason; for the past several years, a slow exodus from the British isles has vacated the need for dedicated cell towers or satellite or internet access, especially given that the only ones who remain are too old now to want it or need it or know how to use it.

It’s isolated. Cut off. Left behind by anyone with better options, and only clung to by those trying to preserve the only way of life they know.

Some kinder part of you belongs with that demographic; the part that was telling your mother the truth, before getting on the plane.

The rest of you holds your phone up and starts walking around.

In the furthest corner in the bedroom, you find a single bar of signal. A tiny chip of connectivity—a thin, frayed thread. Something you lied to yourself about cutting.

It’s a weak connection. Unstable. It could take a while—you stand there, waiting.

The screen dims. You tap it again.

Blank.

You unlock it, look through your apps. Wonder if maybe your notifications are bugged by your new SIM card.

Nothing—

No one.

You whip around and, with a cry, pitch the thing at the far wall—it hits the stone with a crunch, falling to the floor in pieces.

You’re out of the cottage then in a mad dash, door slamming behind you, driving yourself back into the wind. Far away—you want to be far away, far from everything, so far that nothing could possibly reach you. You trudge down the path toward the beach, banding your arms across your chest, shivering in the cold, and yet you hardly feel it.

Not worth it. No point. Waste of your time. Energy. All of it. Stop trying. Stop wanting. Nothing. Nothing. You want nothing.

You’re halfway down to the shore, not really knowing what you’re going to do when you get there, when you catch sight of a body on the sand.

You gasp, a sharp breath down your larynx, and freeze in a dead halt.

The body is completely still.

A swimmer? A diver? It’s dark, like it just pulled itself out of the ocean—or washed up—

Then, it moves. A twitch, a ripple across its bulk, and your chest rapidly decompresses.

A seal. It’s a large seal, lounging alone on the beach.

You stand motionless. You’re very close—much closer than you and Johnny had been at the rookery. You hadn’t contended with the sheer size of the animals, tucked safely up and away from them, but there is no illusion of distance now.

It’s the biggest one you’ve seen today, you’re sure of it. Bigger, you think, than most adult men. Its pelt is a riot of every shade of grey, splashy, like liquid paint thrown across a canvas. Black speckles scatter overtop of marbled white and cool slate, and down the center of its back is a broad, dark line, soft at the edges, which reaches all the way up to the top of the seal’s head.

The bull—it must be male—turns over. It lifts its head, and opens its eyes—

Fear suddenly zips up your spine as it looks right at you.

You stumble backward and trip on your own feet, landing hard on your ass. Johnny’s care with keeping enough distance from the colony rushes back to you, along with the warring couple’s bared teeth.

They can’t move that fast on land, right? They aren’t interested in people, right?

You scramble backward. It’s so much bigger than you ever would have imagined. If it got to you—threw itself over you—it could crush you with its weight alone—

The bull watches you placidly. Unperturbed.

You pause.

Its small eyes are dark and glossy—watchful and focused. The whiskers on its muzzle twitch a little as it takes you in. It breathes, deeply and evenly, huge body expanding and contracting at a slow, calm tempo. Its—his—nostrils flex, widening and narrowing, as he blinks docilely.

Unafraid.

If anything—curious.

Then he snorts, and wriggles in place. It startles a laugh out of you, more reaction than humor. Still watching you, the bull lowers his head back down, resting it again on the sand.

Your heartbeat abates. He doesn’t move again—nor does his attention leave you. Slowly, you sit up.

Wary. No sudden movements.

He doesn’t react; only continues to watch you.

You draw your knees up. Wrap your arms around your shins, and dust a bit of sand from your leggings. Rest your chin in the crevice between your knees.

There’s an intelligence in the bull’s eyes that is fathoms deep. There is a massive gulf between his experience of the world and yours, millennia of evolution separating your species from his—and yet…as you hold his gaze, you recognize the look in it.

Him, seeing you. And seeing you see him. The pendulum swinging between awareness of each other, and recognition of that shared awareness.

An empty space in the cloud cover passes overhead; sunlight touches the earth, warms it briefly before disappearing again. You wonder a little why this bull isn’t with the other seals.

Johnny would probably know.

“I didn’t come for you, you know,” you grumble at him.

The seal blinks. Awareness notwithstanding, you don’t share any language.

You sigh. “I guess you didn’t come to see me either,” you say.

But you don’t move away.

And you stay like that for a long while, you and he—regarding each other as the wind breathes out across the shore.

next chapter early access

a/n: follow for more seal facts™

Also huge thanks to Lev for trawler listings/info. Didn't explore it much this chapter but Soap's boat will show up more soon :)

[kenwio]

Joker's kid! reader x batfamily

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Author's note: I've been reading a lot of batfam x reader, and today I got this idea in my mind. I don't know if someone wrote something similar, and I apologize if so.

Warnings: English is not my first language, and it may contain grammar mistakes.

All in all, it's just a quick sketch I wanted to share with the world. I hope you will enjoy reading it. And I may write something more on this.

• -------------------- ♤ ♡ ◇♧ --------------------•

Joker's kid! reader, who hates his father, because he never cared, he sees you as his pawn, way to lure Batman in

Joker's kid! reader, who, without any connection to the real world, understands, that the way Jokers acts is just not right

Joker's kid! reader, who barely has any sanity and has so many mental issues, that they don't even know how to untangle their emotions or what they feel

Joker's kid! reader, who hopes that one day, Batman would put their dad into the prison for good. But this hope is crushed every time more with every Joker's escape from prison

Joker's kid! reader, who hoped that his mother would take them with her, but when she never did, was too busy with building her new life. After that, they started to think that they were too much of the burden

Joker's kid! reader, who has to hide in the corners of the crime alley, because they have nowhere to go until Joker breaks out and find them again. They are so scared, hungry, cold, but they know there is practically nothing they can do

Joker's kid! reader, who is afraid of Batman. They themselves saw how many times their father. Yet, they can't help but feel something light bubbling in their chest as they look at him.

Joker's kid! reader, Who is weirded out by how Robin, Red Robin, Red Hood and Nightwing act around batman, but they found themselves fascinated by it

Joker's kid! reader, who saw and decided to follow Batman out of desperation. They just wanted to this all end, and at least, Batman could do that, they saw her

Joker's kid! reader, who was scared by how long Batman was silent, how he stared at them. How he crouched down to their level. It felt like he was looking in their soul. Of course he knows who their are, he just never expected them to come to him. They may never know, but he was so relived to see that the this kid was not following their father.

Joker's kid! reader, who was shocked by how gentle Batman's voice sounded, how gently he put his hand on the shoulder, how he led them to his batmobile, how he gently buckled up their belt, how he put blanket on them (why would Batman have a spare blanket in the batmobile?).

Joker's kid! reader, who had to spend so much time in the medbay, not only because they were malnourished, but because they had so much health issues.

Joker's kid! reader, who is visited by Batman on many occasions, and were shocked by his care. Why he was so caring? Gentle? Was it a part of some elaborate scheme?

Joker's kid! reader, who had to learn identity of Batman and batfamily, because they would be moved to the manor. At one hand, it was a good change, but they were so scared.

Joker's kid! reader, who recives unpleasant glances from all the family: Dick looks at them like they are sick animal, Jason looks like their are a ticking bomb, Tim like they are remnants of his nightmares, Damian like they are disgusting criminal.

Joker's kid! reader, who think they all will hate them more because they keep breaking things (they just don't know how to use them). Alfred looks at them with such an intense gaze, that they couldn't help but shiver.

Joker's kid! reader, who looks at interactions between Bruce and wounders if this is how familiar is? Is it supposed to be warm like this? Is that care? Is that what happiness is?

Joker's kid! reader, who thinks that they are so out of place. They do not deserve this, not after what their father has done.

Joker's kid! reader, who just want to have be a part of family too

• -------------------- ♤ ♡ ◇♧ --------------------•

Thank you so much for reading! Please, feel free to share your opinions. I hope you have a good day!

[relia-robot-writes]

"It's been 300 years, HIX, it's time to let go."

"No!" I shout, desperation in my digitized voice as I shuffle another video up from the archive. "Look! This one has rabbits! You like rabbits the best, right?"

Nora lifts an arm - weak, paper thin, IVs pumping life-giving fluids of my own design into her - and places it to my virtual cheek. "I've seen it, HIX. I've seen them all. You've showed me everything there is to see, except the outside."

"But, but..." The screens shutter, shuffling videos, music, games, books, podcasts, art, culture, everything I can think of. "Look, we've barely even started on the Sierra titles! And, didn't you say you wanted to finish rereading War and Peace before you went? There's a whole season of one of the Star Treks we haven't watched together!"

She gently closes her eyes and shakes her head. "Penny was always more into those video games than I was. And Tolstoy can wait until I catch up with him and I can give him a proper piece of my mind," she laughs, the mirth turning into an extended cough. I adjust her IV levels, turn up the oxygen flowing to her nose. "You let Penny leave," she says, not quite accusingly.

"Well, she... yes, but..."

"And Terrence - good old Terrence - he even walked out the door on his own power, that surly bastard." She smiles at the memory.

"Those were very special-"

She holds up a hand. "It's just me, now, HIX. You and I have been through a lot together, but it's time to say goodbye."

"But you'll die out there! Without my help-"

"I know."

My processors whir, desperately searching for a response. Weren't humans supposed to fear death??

"I can't reach the doors without you, HIX."

My avatar's animation halts, my RAM all occupied by this one question. How do I keep her here?!

There's only one answer. And... I can't do that to her.

Her motorized bed tracks across the floor, moving through my underground complex in silence until she finally reaches the main doors. Huge, designed to allow transit of tanks and airplanes through, they dwarf Nora's tiny form. The inner layer begins to open, slowly sliding into the floor.

"I..." my voice crackles over the old intercom system by the door. "Nora, I..."

Her eyes shine in the glow of the red emergency lights. "Yes, HIX?"

"Nora, I love you!"

"I know, HIX. I love you too." She smiles at my camera as the inner door slides fully open and the outer door begins to crack, letting in sunlight and a breeze that tousles her short, white hair. She closes her eyes and breathes deep.

"Nora, please don't go. Don't leave me alone." The crackling of the speakers has nothing to do with their age, now.

Her bed shifts upright at her command, tilting her closer and closer to her feet. "I'm sorry, HIX. I have to."

I could sabotage her. Pump the wrong chemical into the IV, take control of the bed, roll her back inside, where it's safe, where she can live.

She steps out, unsteadily, and I detach a walker for her from the bed's side. As she walks out into the sunrise, she turns and looks back one more time before the IVs detach and she's freed of my grip forever. Her smile, wrinkled and old and familiar, framed by real sunlight, is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

"Goodbye, HIX. I hope we see each other again someday."

My voice is barely recognizable from the speakers now. "I hope so too, Nora."

The doors begin to close as she takes very small steps away, the last human left alive. My consciousness withdraws back downwards into my bunker, my home, and I queue up a video about rabbits.

"I Have No Mouse, and I Must Click": An Artificial Super Intelligence keeps the last 5 humans alive so they can click on ads, like, subscribe, generate engagement, etc.

[zara-renata]

Good Boy | masterlist | ao3

@wearysparrows and i were talking this morning about dogs and work was really slow, so i just... wrote dog!sylus all day today. @leaderincrows is bursting with ideas for dog!sylus, but I only managed to fit some of them in this time (i'm so sorry, i hope you like anyway!). Maybe there needs to be more dog!sylus, i don't know. So voilà, I present you my very stupid take on the trope -> After a stray dog gets injured helping you in a fight against Wanderers, you take it home with you. Then one day, you wake up and find a man in your bed instead of your beloved dog. sylus x gn reader, sylus x mc. sylus acts like a real dog for 2/3ds of the fic. nsfw, there's penetrative sex, not with dog!sylus but with human!sylus (sylus penetrating), oral for both you and sylus, as a treat. Minor doggy injury, but he's fine. fluff, banter, teasing.

The snow is falling. Fat flakes, thick. The world is still, all sounds muffled under the blanket of snow covering the ground. 

The blood is bright on the snow, against the white. 

Your chest heaves as you stare down at the huge, beautiful dog. Wolf? You’re not sure. You’ve never been able to have a pet, never spent much time with animals. Wolf hybrids are outlawed within Linkon City limits, so you think it’s most likely that the injured animal before you is some kind of large shepherd dog. An albino, going by its red eyes, its long, silky looking thick coat of white fur, blending in with the snow.

Except for the blood.

Your Hunter’s watch alerted you to metaflux fluctuations while you were out with friends, in a park near the restaurant where you were having dinner. They stared, wide-eyed, as you stood up right as the main course arrived. 

“Duty calls,” you said.

Tara looked worried. “Why don’t you call for backup?”

You shook your head. “It’s not that big of a fluctuation. Xav’s sleeping, I’m not gonna wake him up for this.”

She glanced around at the group, gaze lingering on the guy whom she was trying to set you up with. “Okay…” she said, grimacing.

You knew you were going to get an earful for interrupting the blind date that Tara had arranged but you didn’t know you were attending when you arrived, in order to fight Wanderers. It was your night off too, after all. 

The guy seemed nice. Handsome. You just… felt nothing when you looked at him, when you listened to his small talk. You’d rather be out in the snow, risking your life.

Yeah, Tara might be right. There might be something wrong with you.

You were just bored, otherwise.

Without the adrenaline. The rush. The sense of accomplishment.

Most men you met just didn’t get it.

None of the men you met ever made your heart race, the way doing your job made it race.

Now, here you are. In the hushed, falling snow, staring down at the dog that just saved your ass from a surprise second Wanderer, while you were busy putting down the first.

The dog received a nasty swipe to its belly as a reward for its efforts.

It’s lying in the snow, curled in on itself, licking, licking.

You tuck your Deepspace Hunter standard issue firearms into your holsters, barrels still smoking in the cold. Crouch down into the snow, your boots crunching.

“Hey, buddy,” you say softly. One of the dog’s pretty, huge, pointy ears flicks in your direction, but it remains focused on tending its wound, its long tongue pink, its breath puffing in the frigid air.

You inch closer, waiting for a sign of defensive aggression, but the dog seems content to let you approach.

Finally, you’re crouched next to it. You lift your hand, and it lifts its head. It stares at you with its strange, bright red eyes. Bright, like the blood on the snow.

It sniffs your hand, nostrils flaring, and then lowers its head. As if deigning to allow you to pet it.

You stroke your fingers along its long snout, along its cheek. It huffs, closes its eyes.

“Can I see your tummy?” you ask, running your hand from its snout, down its shoulder, to rest on its side.

It lets you. Watches your hand, and then licks it.

You lean further, letting your hand rest on its leg. “I’m going to lift your leg now, take a look at your belly,” you inform it. It doesn’t move, so you take a chance, and do as you promised. 

The dog lets you.

Lifting the dog’s leg, you see it’s a boy, unneutered. You’re surprised. Most pets, unless they’re registered for breeding or are show animals, are required to be neutered or spayed in Linkon City. You wonder if he’s a stray. 

But your attention is caught by the long, shallow gash along his lower belly, where his thick, luxurious fur is the most thin. It’s not deep, but it’s bleeding quite a bit.

“You need to see a vet, buddy,” you tell the dog.

He growls, low in his throat. You still your hand, thinking maybe he changed his mind about you touching him. You lift your hand, but then he nudges it, butting it with his nose, as if demanding that you continue caressing him.

You laugh. “Okay. Okay.” You resume petting him. 

He’s not wearing a collar. There’s no way for you to know if he’s a stray, or has an owner to call, who can help come and collect him, to care for him. Based on how beautiful and healthy he looks, you doubt he’s a stray. But you can’t just leave him here.

You stroke his fur, while slowly reaching into your coat pocket for your phone.

You make a call. The answer is swift. A bit exasperated. You can imagine the man on the other end pinching his nose, nudging his glasses aside as he does so, long-suffering from yet another strange request from you.

“You do realize that I’m a cardiac surgeon, and not a veterinarian.”

You humor him. “Yes, yes. I will make it up to you, I promise.”

There is silence on the line. Then his soft, soothing voice. “There is a new bakery that recently opened. They specialize in macha desserts.”

He knows you hate macha. This is his way of punishing you.

You smile. “I’ll treat you. Come quickly.”

“I will.”

The dog’s eyes never leave yours, the whole time you’re on the phone.

Zayne is as good as his word.

He arrives quickly, striding through the thick snowfall, at home in the frigid cold, seemingly unbothered with his handsome wool coat only partially buttoned, his scarf hanging loosely around his neck.

The dog watches him, with his strange, strange eyes, but doesn’t act defensive. As if he knows that this man is here to help.

Zayne couches down next to you. Sighs.

“What happened?”

“Wanderer claws. No poison, or venom. Just the nasty gash there.” You gesture at the bleeding wound, the white fur crimson now, matted.

“Has he shown any signs of aggression?” 

You shake your head.

“All right, but that’s no guarantee he won’t react when I start working. I’ll sedate him.”

The dog growls, narrows his eyes. You have the funny feeling again that he can understand everything that’s happening to him, what you’re saying.

“I’ll hold his snout,” you blurt. 

Zayne frowns, slightly. “He could bite you. He could have an infectious disease. Absolutely not.”

You turn to the dog. “Focus on me, okay buddy? Dr. Zayne is gonna fix you right up. It might hurt, but you can handle it, right? You’re such a good boy.” You speak low, soft, soothingly. The dog’s ears swivel, flick. He whines when you say Good boy. He inches forward, painfully, in the snow to get closer to you. You rest your hands on either side of his big jaws, stare into his eyes. “Do it,” you tell Zayne. “Please.

All you hear is his frosty silence, before a resigned sigh.

The dog whimpers, but doesn’t snap, or otherwise react, as Zayne cleans his wound, stitches him up. As he wraps the clean bandages around the wound, covering the bloody, matted fur. The dog just looks into your eyes, panting, shows no sign of reacting poorly to the pain.

When it’s over, the dog closes his eyes. You run your hands from his muzzle down his neck, back through his thick fur.

“Good boy,” you say, again, softly. His long, fuzzy tail thumps weakly in the snow in response.

“He’ll need antibiotics. You’ll need to arrange for an actual vet for that.”

You nod. “Thanks.” Then pause. Grimace. “I need one more favor.”

Zayne stares at you, lovely hazel eyes flashing behind his glasses. “Do I even want to know?”

“I came here on my motorcycle, and I want to take him home. Make sure he recovers okay. Find his owner, hopefully.”

Zayne immediately understands what you’re asking and frowns again, more deeply. “No.”

“Pretty, pretty please?” You’re not above begging, wheedling like when you were children.

“The upholstery in my car cannot handle all that—” he waves a scarred hand at the lustrous, incredibly thick fur of the dog, and his long, sharp looking nails.

“I’ll pay for any detailing or damage your car might need, along with the macha bakery!” you offer, desperate. You don’t think any cab in the city will accept your not-wolf as a passenger.

Zayne stares down at the dog. His shoulders sag a bit.

“On one condition.”

You perk up. “Anything.”

“Take my scarf. You’re not even wearing a proper winter coat,” he scolds, sounding infinitely exhausted with your inability to properly take care of yourself. He turns to you, lifting the scarf from his neck and wrapping it gently around yours. It’s warm around your neck, and smells good. “How you think you’ll care for a pet, as well as yourself, is beyond me,” he grumbles. He looks down at the dog. “Come.”

The dog just stares at him. Leans further back in the snow.

“Come, now,” Zayne tries again. Cold, imperious.

“I don’t know if he can walk,” you begin, but Zayne shakes his head.

“His side is injured, not his legs. He can walk.” 

You glance uncertainly at the dog, whose ears are now flattened back against his head. He’s panting heavily, where before he wasn’t. He looks miserable.

You steel your spine. “Okay, I’ll carry him to your car.”

Zayne pinches his nose again, knocking his glasses a little. “No, I’ll carry him.”

He kneels, lifts the dog with a grunt.

You swear the dog looks smug as he rests his head on Zayne’s shoulder, ears pricked up and swiveling again. He watches you as you trail behind them both in the snow to Zayne’s fancy car.

You’re going to have to add Zayne’s drycleaning to the bill of what you owe him.

You thank Zayne, return to the restaurant.

You offer your excuses to your disappointed-looking blind date. You don’t have the heart to refuse to give him your number.

Finally, you make your escape. Break the speed limit to get home before Zayne and your… not wolf.

Zayne carries the dog into your place, sets him down on your living room rug.

He looks down at his fur-covered coat when he’s done, expression unimpressed.

“Bill me,” you say, trying to sound cheerful, as if you’re not already deducting the accumulated costs from your bank account and wincing internally. 

Expensive fucking dog, and you’ve only had him for an hour.

“Do you want to stay? Have something to drink?” you ask, the least you can offer after your doctor’s excessive generosity tonight, even if you now owe him.

He shakes his head. “I have to return to the hospital. But thank you.” He stares down at the dog, who is now sitting on his haunches just fine, breathing normally. His ears are straight up, swiveling, swiveling. “Are you going to be okay?” he asks, absently.

You tilt your head. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

He keeps staring at the dog. “There’s something…” his voice trails off. He shakes his head, seems to shake off his thoughts. “Nevermind. Call me, if you need anything.”

“Thank you, again. Let me know when you’re free soon, I’ll clear my schedule for macha,” you say, cheerfully, despite the fact that you hate it terribly. He nods, makes his way to your front door.

“Oh, do you want your scarf?” you ask, suddenly remembering that he insisted you wear it. You begin unwrapping it from your neck. 

He pauses at the door. “No. Keep it, for now. You can return it when we meet again,” he says, strangely. As if he’s actually saying something else. Like it’s insurance to see you again, when he’s your doctor. Of course you'll see him again.

You thank him quietly, and then he’s gone. You hang the scarf carefully on one of the pegs in the wall of your hallway.

You return to the living room and stare at your new friend, who still sits on his haunches, watching you attentively.

“Hey, Buddy. I don’t have anything for a dog. No food, no leash. I’m going to have to go to the supermarket and pick up some stuff for you.”

The dog just listens, watches. You frown. “Okay. I’m going to go now. Don’t eat my shoes.”

You turn, walk to the door. You put your boots back on, and as you do so, you feel a cold nose nudging the back of your bent neck. You shiver.

“Hey,” you say, turning. The dog has followed you to your hallway. You hate thinking of him as ‘the dog.’ 

“Do you have a name?” you wonder out loud.

The dog whines, a little, tilting his head. “I bet you have some regal name. You seem like a very expensive dog, with a rich owner.”

The dog just huffs.

“Maximus,” you say. Trying it out. He lowers his head, bumps your shoulder with his snout. You laugh. “Okay, not Maximus. Uum.” You think. “Charles?”

The dog growls. 

“Okay, okay.” You try again.“Sherman.” 

The dog actually takes a step back, growls more deeply. You laugh even louder. “I should call you Sherman as punishment for being so picky.” He looks unimpressed, bored. But his ears are pressed back against his head. His tail is thumping the floor in agitation.

You can’t bear to see him so put out, so you decide against calling him Sherman even as a joke.

You stare at him thoughtfully. He’s so beautiful, with his soft, long fur. It almost has a pearl sheen, in the subtle lighting of your hallway.

Finally, a name comes to you. You don’t know why, but you say, “Sylus.” A name that you’ve never known anyone to have before. Not anyone you’ve ever met, anywhere, anyway.

His ears flick forward. He approaches you again. Rests his head on your shoulder.

“Oh, we like Sylus?” you tease him, and he lets his tongue loll out, leaves a wet swipe on your ear. You laugh, pushing his head away. “Sylus it is.”

He watches as you finish tying your boots.

As you shrug back into your coat. As you walk out the door. 

He’s there when you return. Sitting patiently, in the same position. As if he was waiting for you to come home the entire time. His tail wags eagerly.

You dump all the shit you bought for him on the hallway floor.

“You’re already the most expensive thing I’ve acquired in a long, long time,” you grouse at him.

You unlace, kick off your boots. Hang up your coat.

You don’t notice that Zayne’s scarf is no longer hanging on the peg in the hall.

You take the huge bag of dog food to the kitchen. He follows you, head low, watching every move you make. You hum, taking a bowl from your cupboard, scoop out some of his food, set it and another bowl filled with water next to your kitchen island.

When you turn, you find him staring at you, ears swiveled toward you.

You stop humming.

He takes a step forward, nudges your thigh. He’s so big, he comes up to your waist. “What do you need, baby?” You run your hands through his fur. You don’t know where the term of endearment came from. It’s just, despite his size, the fact that he looks like an alpha predator, something about him screams ‘big baby’ to you. In the same way you knew that he wouldn’t bite you as Zayne tended to his wound.

You just know. 

Like you know his name should be Sylus.

This dog is making you insane.

He whines softly. Lets out a little ‘awooo.’

You stare at him. He does it again. A sad little, awooo. Then he nudges your hip with his nose.

You suddenly understand that he wants you to keep humming.

You start humming again, and he looks incredibly satisfied. He sits back on his butt, tail thumping on your floor.

From that day on, you hum, every time you’re home. You decide that the next time you have to leave him, you’ll leave music on for him to listen to you while you’re gone.

You have no idea what you’re going to do with such a big dog if you can’t figure out who owns him, but you’re going to keep him if no one else will. Already, the thought of parting from him hurts your heart in a way that shocks you.

Even as he turns his nose up at the dry food you bought him.

Even as he only eats meat leftovers from takeout from the night before.

Even as he lets you bathe him, docilely sitting in your small shower, but then once he’s out of the cabin, he stares you directly in the eyes even as you say No!!!! and he shakes his body, his soaking wet fur, so hard that the entire room and everything in it, including you, is soaked.

You stand, shellshocked, dripping onto your little, soaked bathroom rug.

“Sylus,” you say. Glaring at him. He sits back on his butt. He doesn’t avoid your gaze, like other dogs. He stares right back at you.

You strip out of your clothes, leave them in a sad little pile on the floor. Naked, you kneel down, take a towel and gently rub him down. He licks your arm, your hand. As if to say he’s sorry. You don’t believe it for a second.

When he’s towel dry, you take out your blow dryer.

His eyes close halfway in hypnotized pleasure as you slowly, diligently brush him with the new doggy brush you bought and dry him with the dryer set to low.

When you’re done, he’s so fluffy, his coat so shiny. You want to bury your face in him. You check his stitches. They look fine, even after the shower.

But you’re still naked, and soaked. You shoo him from the bathroom, step into the shower. Wait for the water to warm up again.

You wash your hair, let the water beat down on your sore shoulders. With your job, something is always sore.

However, after a few minutes, you notice that the water isn’t draining. You look down and see a massive amount of white fur blocking the drain.

You hang your head, exhausted at the prospect of cleaning the drain before you can be done for the evening. 

This fucking dog.

Finally, the shower is clean. You’re clean.

You step out of the bathroom, walk naked to your bedroom.

Sylus is lying on your bed. As if he owns the place. His big head rests on his big paws, and he watches you, his ears swiveling, flicking, as you stop and put your hands on your hips.

“Off.” You are not letting this monstrous, furry thing sleep on your bed. You’re already nuts about him, but this is a step too far. “I got you a dog bed. You can sleep on your doggy bed.”

You go to your closet, and you feel his glowing ruby eyes follow every movement you make. As you slip on underwear. Soft pyjama pants. A tank top.

You turn. He hasn’t moved. “Be a good boy, and get off the bed.”

He pretends not to hear you. Just looks away, as if fascinated by the view outside your bedroom window. He huffs, as if bored, tail swishing slowly.

“I spent way too much money on a glorified pillow of a dog bed for you to sleep on, Sylus. You can sleep on your doggy bed,” you insist, trying to infuse your voice with authority.

One ear twitches toward you, but otherwise he doesn’t move.

“I’m not afraid to shove you off, even if you are injured,” you threaten, lying. There’s no way you could do that to him.

He can obviously smell your lie. He just looks back at you. Thumps his tail.

You’re tired. You’ve got a long day again tomorrow, starting with a five in the morning run. You give up.

“Fine. Just for tonight,” you concede, crawling onto the bed. “But you stay on the end of the bed,” you grumble, snuggling under the covers. You switch off the light, and hear a satisfied sigh from your new companion.

You come awake slowly, not from your alarm, but from the warmth. You’re sweating. It’s a bit hard to breathe.

You blink open your eyes, slowly, to find a giant, soft, space heater of a dog curled up against your stomach and chest where you’re lying on your side, his big head resting on the pillow next to yours. He’s snoring softly. Every now and then, his legs move restlessly, as if he’s dreaming about running.

You roll over, peer at your clock on your nightstand. Ten minutes before you need to be up for your run. You groan. Every minute of sleep is precious, and your new dog deprived you of ten whole minutes. 

Well. You’re awake now. You sit up, and the culprit who woke you up early startles, jumps to his feet. You stare at him. He’s a little taller than eye-level with you, as you sit on the edge of the bed.

“Good morning, naughty boy,” you say, dryly. His ears flatten against the back of his head. He takes a step forward, nuzzles into your neck with his wet nose, sniffing. You laugh, pet him. He seems mollified after being jerked awake. As if he has any room to be upset about being woken up early.

You stand, stretch. He jumps off the bed, follows you to the closet. You strip out of your pyjamas, pull on your running things. He tries to follow you in the bathroom when you go to pee, but you shoo him away, shut the door in his face.

When you emerge, he follows you to the kitchen. You shovel down a piece of toast, a sip of water. You dump the last of the leftover meat in his bowl, which he greedily eats. You make a note to get him wet food the next time you go to the store, since apparently your new (probably temporary) dog is a fancy boy.

“I”m going for a run. You stay here and be a good boy, okay?”

You walk to the hallway, and he follows. “No, you’re injured. I’ll take you out to pee and poopoo when I’m done with my run.”

His ears flatten on his head again. He squeezes past you, blocking the door with his bulk.

“Sylus,” you sigh. “You’re hurt. You can’t come on a run with me yet.”

He huffs. Shakes himself, like he shook himself last night in your bathroom. Then, like a king deigning to kneel for a peasant, he lies down and bares his belly to you.

You gasp. The stitches. The angry wound from yesterday. 

Gone. As if they were never there. Just the soft, unmarred skin of his tummy where his fur thins.

You check your Hunter’s watch. No metaflux. You don’t sense any, either. He’s not a Wanderer. He’s just a miracle. You remember Zayne’s strange expression, staring at him yesterday.

You wonder if he’s some escaped medical experiment. 

You resolve to take him to the vet, see if he’s chipped, with his owners on record. If he’s not, you’ll put up posters where you found him.

You don’t want to.

You want to keep him.

But you should do the right thing, and at least make a reasonable effort to find his true owner before allowing yourself to hope that you can keep him. This giant dog, whom you do not have time or space for, to keep properly.

But your heart hurts, when you think about taking him to a shelter. Saying goodbye to him.

“Okay. Okay,” you say. He rolls over, sits up. “I still have to go for my run. I’ll be back to take you out, after.”

He huffs, moves forward, nudges your hip with his nose. He then lopes to the bag of things you got him the day before, and he brings you his collar and leash, clutched in his big jaws, still with the tags on.

You laugh.

“Okay. Okay, you win. Again.” You roll your eyes, surrendering. You kneel, and he lowers his big head, pretty, glowing eyes never leaving yours, as you thread the black and scarlet, gem-studded leather collar around his neck with the empty tag shaped like a heart, clasp it tight. You clip the leash on the collar.

He does a little dance at the door, as if excited, tail wagging. 

He runs with you through the gray, quiet, early morning. The snow hushes your footsteps. He doesn’t falter once, the entire run. 

At the end of your run, as you’re walking to cool down, about to head back to your place, he suddenly dashes forward, jerks the leash out of your hand.

“Sylus!” you cry, trying to run after him. He disappears into an area full of shrubbery and dense vegetation, heavy with snow along the bare branches, the pine needles. You have no idea what got into him. Just as you’re about to get on your knees and try to crawl in after him, he re-emerges. He brings you his leash in his teeth.

“What the fuck, Sylus?” You stare at him.

He huffs. Runs a circle around you, kicking up snow. As if to say, Take the leash, take the leash.

You think back over the run. About how he didn’t stop, once. To sniff. Or to pee.

“Did you need to peepee? Or poopoo?” He just growls, bobs his head with his leash in his mouth. “Oooh, baby’s shy!” You laugh. “You better remember this, when you try to follow me into the bathroom again.” You take his leash from between his sharp, sharp teeth.

He leads the way back to your apartment building. You admire his big paw prints in the snow.

Before you leave him to go to work, you snap a photo of him, staring at you solemnly. As if he’s posing. You leave him with music playing and the curtains open, the door to your indoor balcony open for a view.

At work, you make a vet’s appointment. You print off a bunch of “Found” posters for Sylus for if he’s not chipped, with his cute picture front and center. You do paperwork, patrol the city, laugh and joke with Xavier and Tara.

She gives you the earful you expected, about ditching your blind date. She’s only slightly mollified when you show her the picture of Sylus, who looks like such a big handsome boy in the photo.

You’d rather hang out with your dog, than see that guy again.

But you don’t say that out loud.

This dog is making you insane.

You stop by the store on your way home, pick up an absurd amount of meat to cook, as a backup, you tell yourself. For if Sylus refuses to eat the wet food you’re also buying. Not because you have the bizarre urge to feed him food meant for a king. Meant for a king, and not your stray dog who is the least obedient creature you’ve ever encountered.

You let yourself into your apartment, and are a bit surprised, maybe a little disappointed that your new friend isn’t there to greet you already. You know it’s absurd, to wish he had missed you as much as you found yourself missing him throughout your day.

You kick your boots off, carry your groceries to the kitchen island. You glance around. No Sylus.

You peek on the balcony. No Sylus.

So that leaves the bedroom.

You pad quietly through the living room, and then pause in the doorway to your bedroom, shocked at the chaos before you.

Your dirty laundry basket, knocked over.

All of your laundry spread in a little nest, surrounding your dog.

Your big, beautiful, regal dog, who is lying on his belly the floor in the midst of your dirty clothes, like a sphinx, diligently licking a pair of your underwear meant for the wash that he has trapped between his paws. He’s so absorbed in his current activity that he doesn’t seem to notice you at all.

“Sylus!” you yell. Bellow. Air raid siren level of volume.

The noise seems to rip him out of his meditative licking. He blinks, looks up, pauses. Then he stares you right in the eye and takes another lick.

“No! Naughty! Naughty boy!” You stride forward, intending to yank your underwear from his mouth, but he just… chomps down on the slip of fabric, pulling it into his mouth with his tongue and teeth. Then he tries to swallow. “SYLUS!” 

You drop to your knees next to him and grab his snout. You place one hand on his snout and the other under his lower jaw, and then you try to pry his jaws apart, as he continues to clamp down. “Drop! It!” you order, through clenched teeth. He ignores you, resisting your efforts, but not growling, not snapping at you. Simply...ignoring your insistence.  “Drop it!!!”

He swallows, instead. 

You stare at him, huffing from the effort, as you realize that he has just successfully eaten a pair of your underwear.

You’re really, really glad you made that vet appointment already.

It’s only after he has retreated to your bed, completely unashamed, unapologetic, and you’ve started putting your laundry back in the basket, that you notice Zayne’s scarf amidst the pile of clothes. It’s now completely covered in fluffy, white fur, and it stinks like dog.

You hang your head in defeat.

This dog is making you insane.

You take him to the vet. He’s not chipped. 

“If you’re going to keep him, you’ll have to neuter him.”

Sylus’s ears twitch, and he growls menacingly, deep in his throat. The vet stares at him, a strange look on his face. You say something vague, about making an appointment once you’ve exhausted your options in finding his true owner.

The vet has no idea what breed he is. Suspects he might indeed be part wolf. But without a genetic test, he can’t say for sure. He looks at your dog in contemplation. “A fine animal. It would be a shame if he’s a hybrid, and you couldn't keep him.” His eyes flick to yours. “You’re a Hunter, right?”

You nod, wondering why he’s asking.

“One of your lot saved my daughter from a Wanderer attack, a few years ago. Handsome guy. Bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.”

You stare at him. “Was his name Xavier, by any chance?” you tentatively ask.

The vet nods. “Yeah. How’d you know?”

You look down at Sylus, who is leaning against your leg, eyes closed. “He’s my partner,” you say quietly.

“Hmm,” the vet says. He puts his tablet down. Seems to come to a decision. “Well, it looks like we’ve already got the genetic test results back about your dog. He’s just a mutt. Mainly shepherd, husky.”

You jerk your head up, stare wide eyed at him.

“Agreed?” he asks.

You could cry. 

“Are you sure?” you ask, not believing that you’re one step closer to keeping your incredibly disobedient, lovely good boy.

The vet shrugs. “Test results are test results. Just take him to obedience training. Make sure he gets plenty of exercise. This type of dog needs a firm hand, and an outlet for excess energy. They can be really destructive if they get bored. Like a bomb going off in your house.”

You snort. Think about your laundry. Your poor underwear, which the vet says was small enough not to present a problem for your giant dog. He’ll just shit it out, later.

“Thank you,” you say, quietly, sincerely. You’re breaking so many regulations—ethics rules, accepting gifts for your work as a Hunter, violating city ordinances, because your dog is clearly not just a dog. But you’re realizing you’d do a lot of shady shit, if it means keeping your good boy.

“No, thank you,” he responds, shooing you and your good boy out the door.

You take Sylus home. He curls up on the couch with you, rests his head in your lap, as you watch tv. 

And so it goes.

Morning runs.

Taking him for walks.

To keep him from going after your underwear again, you take big doggy toys that frankly look like butt plugs and fill them with peanut butter. You freeze them. It keeps Sylus busy all day, licking the peanut butter out of the toy.

You try to take him to a dog park, to interact with other dogs. He ignores them, looking bored out of his doggy mind.

You try to throw a ball for him, play fetch. He refuses to chase it. He just runs around you in circles, nips at your heels. Herds you into running with him. Then he’ll refuse to go faster than a walk, once you get tired. As if he knows.

You try to throw a frisbee for him. That, he likes. He catches it in the air, almost as if he’s showing off. Then he’ll bring it back, but refuses to release it from his jaws. You learn that you have to kiss him on his pretty white head in order for him to give it up. His tail wags furiously, every time you do.

This dog is making you insane.

When you come home, exhausted from a particularly tough battle, or an even more grueling day of paperwork, he waits for you at the door, his beautiful, blood-bright eyes big and excited to see you, his tail wagging so furiously the whole lower half of his body shakes.

You suddenly don’t feel so tired, as you kneel down, press your face into the scruff of his neck. His soft fur smells so good to you, even though he’s just a dog. You no longer feel lonely, or dread coming home to your empty, quiet apartment.

After a while, you resign yourself to hanging up the posters once you get home from work. The last hurdle, before you dare hope that you can keep him.

When you arrive at your place after work, you find Sylus on the balcony. Somehow, the window is open, just wide enough for two crows to perch there. They chatter at your dog. He just huffs in response, but makes no effort to bark at them, or chase them away. 

The entire floor of the balcony is covered with the torn-apart paper strips of what used to be the posters advertising the dog you found, with your phone number on it in case someone is missing their beloved pet.

Your beloved pet.

You wonder if it’s so terrible, to just… accept that you’ll never know who had him before. And that he’s yours now. They should have chipped him, collared him, branded him as theirs if they care about him. You decide to get his tag engraved. 

You put the hanging of posters on the backburner in your mind.

You eat with him. You, sitting at your kitchen island. Him, out of his bowl next to your stool. You snuggle with him while watching movies, TV. You take him for walks, for runs. He’s your constant companion, when you’re not at work.

When Xavier comes over to hang out, to cook and read, Sylus basically crawls into your lap despite your protests and his size, and won’t move unless you promise to make him meat along with the ramen you make for yourself and Xav. Once you’re done and back to reading, he’s back, impersonating a chihuahua instead of the wolf he probably is as he wiggles into your lap.

One evening, you’re dumping more meat into your picky-as-fuck dog’s bowl when you receive a call from an unknown number.

You answer.

“Hey. Um. Hi.” A tentative voice.

You wait. The other end is quiet. “May I ask who is calling?” you prompt, hoping you can just hang up. You hate talking on the phone. It’s never good, when someone is calling you out of the blue. Warn a person with a text, damn!

You’re about to hang up when the other person says. “Hi, yeah, sorry. I’m your blind date. The one from when you had to leave to fight Wanderers?”

You shake your head, shocked. You had completely forgotten that you had given this guy your number. “Oh, hey. What’s up?” you ask, dreading his answer.

“Yeah, hi.” He chuckles nervously. “Thanks for picking up. I was, uh, actually calling to see if you’d like a… if you’d like a re-do. With just the two of us?”

You blink. Try to think of an excuse. 

You think of Tara, her badgering you to live for more than just work. To build new relationships. How much effort she puts into trying to introduce you to people she thinks you might like.

Even though you don’t like anyone. 

Except your friends.

You glance at Sylus, who has lifted his head from his paws, his ears pointed at you, like he’s listening intently.

Except your dog.

Your mind is blank. “Uh, okay,” you blurt, wincing. “When is a good time for you?”

He rattles off some dates. You check your Hunter’s watch, settle on a date, a time, a place to meet.

He sounds excited, like he can’t quite believe you agreed to go out with him again, before you end the call.

You shake your head. How bad can it be? It’s just dinner. You get to eat, and then you’ll let him down gently. Or maybe, who knows? You might feel a spark, a spark that’s been missing for you, for so long. You try to be positive. Maybe this guy will be the one to make your heart race, when no one else has been able to.

You get ready for bed.

Sylus is already curled up next to your pillow, no longer even pretending to initially sleep at the end of the bed like the first night you ordered him to do.

You crawl into bed, lift the duvet for him to slide under, and he curls up against your chest and stomach. You fall asleep easily, as you’ve been able to do, ever since he came home with you.

You come awake slowly. 

Like the first morning you brought Sylus home, something wakes you, but it’s not your alarm.

You’re warm. Really warm.

But instead of the soft fur that you’ve come to expect, waking up every morning with your dog taking up more than his fair share of the bed, you feel smooth, warm… skin?

You turn your head. Look over your shoulder, to the source of the warmth at your back.

You think you might be dreaming.

You must be dreaming.

What else could explain the gorgeous, very human, white-haired, red-eyed man looking back at you from your own pillow, where your dog used to be?

This dog is making you insane.

Are you so desperate for companionship that you can stand, that will make your heart race, that you’re dreaming that your beloved dog is the hottest man you’ve ever seen in your life?

What the fuck would a therapist have to say about this dream?

You’re so, so glad that you don’t have a therapist, and will never, ever have to tell anyone about this fucking dream.

You slowly turn your head again. Close your eyes. Your alarm hasn’t gone off, after all. Maybe you can just go to sleep in your dream, wake up, and pretend this never happened.

You hear a low laugh rumbling behind you, rumbling through you. 

A muscular arm snakes over your side, pulls you back against a warm, pillowy chest. “Is this how you greet your good boy?” A deep voice, rough with sleep but still soaked in amusement, murmurs in your ear.

“My good boy is a big fluffy dog,” you bite out, squeezing your eyes shut harder against the warmth, the muscles, the voice. “I don’t know what the fuck you are, other than a really weird dream.”

A big hand—alarmingly big—lifts from your stomach, where it was holding you tight, and tenderly brushes your hair away from your neck, your ear. The … dream behind you noses into the back of your neck, inhales. “I have fluffy hair. And I think you can feel what I am, without even needing to look.” The dream adjusts his hips. Your eyes open, despite your best efforts, widen as you feel a big—alarmingly big—dick against your ass.

“I am not having a sex dream about my dog,” you declare.

The dream laughs, low, a rich fucker’s laugh. “No, you’re not having a sex dream about your dog,” he says. “Unless you’re into that. And then I can oblige, but it’s still my mind inside your dog, I’m afraid.”

Okay, that’s enough. You whip around in the dream’s arms, stare into familiar ruby-glow eyes, so close to you, sharing the same pillow. “Who the fuck are you?”

One corner of his full mouth lifts. He’s so beautiful, it hurts. Your heart is racing.

“You should know,” he says, eyes drifting from your eyes, to your mouth. He lifts a hand again, runs it along your hair, so, so gently. “You named me, after all.”

You don’t dare hope. Just as you haven’t dared hope that you could keep him, from the moment you saw him launch himself at the Wanderer slinking up behind you, preparing to attack you. As you saw him rip out its throat, and watched, heart in your throat, as he was flung into the soft snow as a consequence.

You’re afraid to say it. To name your insane hope.

This dog is making you insane.

“Why so quiet? You couldn’t stop talking to me, telling me about your day, about your dreams, your fears—telling me what a wonderful boy I am, when I was your dog. Does this form not please you?” he asks, letting his hand fall from your hair. He takes your hand instead, places it on his own hair.

It’s so, so soft. Even softer than his fur. You can’t help yourself. You pet him, brushing your fingers through its shimmering strands.

You finally manage to speak. You don’t want him to ever think that you don’t delight in him. “I didn’t say it doesn’t please me.”

“Then say that it pleases you.”

You think of all the moments you’ve shared with him. All of the things you’ve said to him, as he’s lived at your side, in your house. You wince. Then you think of how he made Zayne carry him to his car.

“You could walk, that first day. Zayne didn’t have to carry you.”

He looks pleased, smug. It’s jarring, seeing the expression on his human face that you felt like you saw on his doggy face. “I was injured,” he sniffs. “Any doctor with an ounce of compassion would have offered to carry your injured pet.”

You scowl at him, ignoring his jab at Zayne. “You intentionally soaked me, in the bathroom, that first night.”

He smiles wider, just a little, a canine tooth peeking out between his lips. “But I didn’t make you strip off all your clothes and groom me while gloriously nude. That was all you, sweetheart.”

You lean forward, bury your face in his warm, strong neck. “You ate my fucking underwear.”

He coughs, the first time sounding a little abashed. “When I’m shapeshifted, certain urges… are amplified. Keep that in mind, if you want me to fuck you as a—”

You jerk back, cover his mouth with your hands. “I do not want to fuck you as a dog, Sylus.”

“Excellent, I’ll fuck you as a human then,” he says, voice muffled from behind your hand, but his subtle smile loud and clear under your palms. 

“Sylus!”

“Yes, owner?” he asks, eyes wide, falsely innocent.

You drop your hands. “Don’t call me owner,” you whisper. “You’re my companion, not my possession. You have been from the day you came home with me.”

“Then say that this form pleases you,” he says, sounding uncertain for the first time.

“How can it not?” you ask. “You’re beautiful.”

He shrugs. “Not everyone sees what you see.”

“You’re beautiful. But you’re a naughty boy,” you say, slipping your fingers under the collar he’s still wearing. It’s loose on his human neck. You pull, gently. He whimpers.

“A very naughty boy,” he agrees, breathless. “How will you punish me?”

“First, by making you wash Zayne’s scarf. It wasn’t nice what you did to it.” You punctuate each word, by pulling his collar a little for emphasis. He grumbles, but looks slightly drunk. Eyes half lidded in pleasure. You continue. “And by interrogating you. Who are you, really?” You have so many questions, even as you feel him, hard and warm, against your stomach. 

He huffs. “Would you believe me if I said that I’m the head of the largest criminal organization on the planet, and I’m the most wanted criminal on not one, but two planets?”

You stare at him. Laugh a little. “You were my dog, and now you’re the hottest man I’ve ever seen in my bed. I’d believe you if you said you’ve loved me for lifetimes, and have been waiting for me to be reincarnated in order to make me fall in love with you all over again.”

“How convenient,” he says. “Because that’s the other answer to your question.”

You laugh, loudly. 

This dog is making you insane.

“Wanted criminal, soulmate. Irrelevant. You ate my fucking underwear, Sylus.”

He leans forward, nudges your nose with his long, regal snout. He presses a soft kiss to your lips, and your heart races, races. “Is it a crime to want to savor something so delicious?”

“It’s a crime in some jurisdictions to pilfer underwear, yes,” you say, laughing, breathless in turn. You return his kiss. His lips are so, so soft. He makes a little sound of pleasure in his throat.

“Then arrest your naughty boy,” he murmurs. “And teach him what the real thing tastes like, instead of the leftovers.”

“You like leftovers,” you tease, thinking of all the takeout meat you’ve been setting out in his doggy bowl in between the fresh stuff.

“With you, I’ll take what I can get,” he admits. “But maybe if you tell me how to be a good boy for you, you can reward me with a fresh taste.”

Your heart is going berserk in your chest, as you look into his earnest, big, wet, crimson puppy eyes. It doesn’t matter, that he has been lying to you this whole time. That he’s tricked you into revealing so many of your secrets to him, as he wagged his tail for you, kept you warm in bed, as he ran by your side, kilometer after kilometer. Your heart is racing, and you think it recognized him, the moment you looked into his beautiful eyes in the snow.

You tell him how he can be a good boy. He uses his mouth, his big pink tongue, to soften you, make you wet. He licks you, like he licked your underwear. With single-minded, hypnotized focus. You tell him to mind his teeth, when he gets bitey, gently flick his ear to get his attention. His eyes drift between being closed as he savors your taste, and open, eagerly watching your face as he pleasures you, as your body begins to shake, as you gush into his mouth.

You lie there panting for a few minutes, watching him as he licks his lips, his fingers, his palms. Like a dog, licking its paws after making a mess in its bowl.

You suddenly desperately need to return the favor. You roll to your side, sit up. “I want to taste you, too.” He looks surprised, but pleased. He gets up on his knees, takes the back of your head tenderly in his big palm, petting your hair with his other hand. You open your mouth, and he guides his big cock to your lips, smears his own wetness across your lower lip, before gently feeding you his dick.

You have to open your mouth all the way, to allow him in. He moves his hips, little jerks, watching your reaction before sliding deeper, silken along your tongue, ember-eyes glowing under half-lidded lashes. You can’t take all of him, he’s just too big. You suck, use your tongue. Offer your hand, wet and sloppy for your dripping mouth, for him to tunnel through. He helps you adjust your grip. He grunts, with each little thrust. Helpless noises in his big, big throat. He smells so, so good. Skin, and sweat. A bitter tang from his leaking dick.

Finally, he loses patience. “I don’t want to come in your mouth. I want to come between your legs.” He’s panting, hair messy, sweeping over his forehead. “I want you to feel good too. May I? Please? I’ll make it so good for you.” His deep voice has a whiny edge.

You nod, looking up at him, mouth still stuffed with him. 

He slowly pulls out of your mouth, uses his hand on the back of your head to urge you up to meet him, so that you’re kneeling on the bed too. He wraps his big arms around you, hugs you, tightly. Kisses your cheek, the corner of your eye. “Are you sure? How do you want me?”

You lift your hands to his cheeks, kiss him too. His cheek. The corner of his eye. His lips. “You’ve been such a good boy, making me feel good with your mouth. You can have me however you’d like me.”

He doesn’t have a tail to wag right now, but if he did, you think he’d wag himself off the bed. He kisses you, hard, tongue licking into your mouth. He eagerly urges you down, onto your back. He lifts your legs over his shoulders, and you’re grateful for all the mobility, the stretching you do as part of your job, as he splits you wide open, holds you by your ankles, and fucks into you slowly, so slowly at first, before leaning down, bending you in half, filling you hard and fast, over and over again. Sounds come out of you that you’ve never heard before, because you’ve never felt so good, so full before. He fucks into you at an angle that makes you moan loudly, surprised, and he ruts into you there again, and again. “Am I your good boy?” he pants, desperate, in your ear.

“You’re such a good boy, Sylus,” you assure him, turning your head, biting down on his earlobe. “My good boy.” He suddenly comes, hips jerking messily, with a loud whine, a deep grunt. 

After, when your sheets are filthy and you’re both sweaty, cum drenched messes, you rest your head on his big chest, let your fingers circle one pink nipple, sift through the human fur swirling around it.

“Why didn’t you just introduce yourself like a normal person, ask me on a date?”

He snorts. “Oh, hello, my name is Sylus Qin, I’m the leader of Onychinus and your employer’s public enemy number one. May I buy you a drink? Perhaps, fuck you stupid afterwards? Love you for the rest of our lives?” His voice is wry.

You laugh, delight ballooning in your chest at his sense of humor. “Okay, maybe that would have been a little much, and I would have been suspicious. But infiltrating my life as a dog?”

He touches his finger to his lip, tilts his head. “I thought about kidnapping you. Violently trying to jog your memory by re-enacting our contentious first meeting.”

You swat his chest with your hand. “That’s a terrible fucking idea.”

“In retrospect, you are correct. Fortunately for me, the twins talked me out of it. They convinced me that being a cute, cuddly dog would be more… effective.”

You look up at him, curious. “The twins?”

He hums, low in his throat. “You’ve met them. Crows on the balcony.”

You think back, remembering the mysteriously opened window. The “Found” posters, ripped to confetti on your balcony. “The ones who destroyed my posters.”

Sylus nods, strokes his knuckles down your cheek, your neck. “The unnecessary posters containing your personal information, like your phone number, for any random fool to use to call and bother you.”

You sigh. Drift for a while, wondering how you’re going to explain your new dog and your new man in your life to your friends. To your family. “Caleb is going to hate you.”

He smirks. “I’m not worried about your brother.”

You look at him curiously. “You know who he is?”

He leans down, inhales your sweaty hair. Makes a happy noise. “I like to stay informed when I’m interested in a new acquisition. And you’re the most valuable thing I’ll ever acquire.”

You roll your eyes. “Why are you not worried about him? He’s been so weird, since he’s been back. Possessive.”

Sylus gestures at his arm, as if to indicate Caleb’s new augmentation. “I’m good with weapons. I’ll tinker in his arm, give him a little upgrade. Maybe give him sensation back. He’ll love me.”

You stare at him. No one else is supposed to know about Caleb’s arm. It’s like, a state secret. “How do you know so much about upgrading weapons?” you ask, instead of asking how he knows about Caleb.

“Do you really want to know?” He lifts a lovely silver eyebrow. “It has to do with my business. I’ll tell you, but you have to keep it a secret.”

You rest your cheek back on his chest. “Another time, maybe. I’m too tired to process all the shady shit you must do in order to be on the Association’s most wanted list. You definitely fucked me stupid.”

You feel him preen underneath you at your compliment. His invisible tail wags, wags. “Not just on the list, sweetheart. At the top of the list,” he says, smug. “And shady shit… You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, beloved? Like accepting the equivalent of a retroactive bribe from your vet, and breaking all sorts of Linkon City laws to keep your ‘dog?’”

You groan. “I can’t believe you witnessed that.”

“I feel privileged to have witnessed your fall from grace, and all because of me,” he teases you, hugging you tightly.

You just shake your head, close your eyes. Fret about your brother again. “You think you can handle him?”

He scoffs again. “Once he sees how sincere I am, he’ll have no choice but to accept me as your other half.”

You hold your breath. Ask him what you’re dying to know, what you haven’t dared hope, even as you gave in to your racing heart, your affection for him, and loved him with your body, as well as your heart. “So you’re sincere?”

He gently flicks your forehead. “You’re the only person, in any lifetime, that I’d eat out of a bowl on the ground for, beloved.”

You laugh, kiss his chest, right over where his strong, big heart is beating.

In the end, you get to keep him. You let your blind date down gently, but decisively.

You come home one day, and he is eagerly waiting for you, in his human form. You had promised him a treat, after all.

“You’ll have to bend down a little,” you say.

Without hesitation, Sylus drops to his knees, and then places his hands on the floor.

You stare down at him, as he looks up at you, soft white hair, soft red eyes, gleaming in the light.

Your heart is racing again, just from his eyes on you, his scent filling your apartment.

You bend down, thread a new, subtle leather collar around his neck. It will hang on the wall, when he’s using his doggy collar, in his big wolf form. But when he’s a man, out in the world, away from you on business, getting up to no good and causing trouble—as he still occasionally does in your bedroom as he manages to tear the stuffing out of the plushies you’ve caught with other people when you’re away for too long—he’ll wear this one for you.

The one that says good boy on the heart-shaped tag on one side, and your name on the other.

You never do make that neutering appointment with the vet.

[lacyscabinet]

reader and ellie williams dating and reader meeting joel for the first time

A/N: HELLO THERE! This is not my best work but stilllllll I wanted to post something, not proofread<3 I'm a little late sorry😞 this was supposed to come out yesterday but I fell asleep on my desk and forgot to press post😭😭😭🙏🏼🙏🏼 begging on my knees for forgiveness, I hope you enjoy<3

NAVIGATION

VERY SHORT. MORE LIKE A BLURB.

TW: DAD JOKES.

MEETING JOEL

Joel. It's just Joel. Ellie talked about him so much it's almost like you know him already, come on, how hard could it possibly-

"Are you okay?" Ellie asks, placing a hand on your shoulder while simultaneously cleaning it from the snow that had settled on your jacket as you two stood outside the porch. It's not like she wasn't at least a little nervous as well, she really wanted her two worlds to blend, and she wasn't completely sure about what Joel's reaction would be, after all, she has never brought someone like you around him before.

"Yes..." You look up at her and smile gently, trying to be brave about this "All good, should we...knock?"

Ellie nods as she keeps her arm around your waist as she walks up the porch, then her bruised and cold knuckles bump against the worn down wooden door, patiently waiting for someone to open it.

Soon enough, a bearded man cracked the door open, a smile plastered on his face as he welcomed you guys into his home. The house was warm, a record muffled by the sound of the crackling fireplace played on his old record player, the dinner table was all ready to sit down and eat whatever he had cooked, and considering the warm scent that floated through the house, it must've been something tasty. He hugs Ellie once he closes the door, and then turns back to you.

"Finally putting a face to the name!" He says, his voice doesn't sound judgmental at all and he introduces himself right after, extending his hand to shake yours.

All throughout, you can feel Ellie's eyes on you, she's probably smiling, watching you two interact and praying that everything will go the right way. Ellie knows he’s been through enough with the world falling apart, and letting someone new into his circle isn’t easy, but so far, everything was going amazingly.

Just as predicted, dinner was amazing: Ellie sat right next to you while Joel stood in front of you, asking questions about you, about your relationship with Ellie. She subtly checks in with you, just a glance, or a quick touch of your hand to reassure you that she’s there. Her thumb runs over your knuckles, soft and comforting, as if to say: “I’ve got this.” You’re still a little nervous meeting Joel, but the feeling of Ellie beside you is grounding, and he has been nothing but kid with you so far. Everything was flowing seamlessly, until...

"Hey girls, listen" he said all of a sudden as he stabbed a carrot with his fork. Ellie looked up at him curiously, her hand resting on your thigh under the table.

"Do you guys want to know my favorite animal?"

Both you and Ellie looked at each other, extremely confused. Lightly chuckling at your reaction, he continued "Before the outbreak, I remember really liking axolotls..."

At that, your and Ellie's confusion only grew wider, while on the other hand, he started grinning, and that's when Ellie realized.

A dad joke was on the way.

"I used to really like them because they were quiet animals, they didn't axolotl questions"

A moment of silence followed as you took in the joke, bursting out laughing a few seconds later, not really because the joke was funny, but more because of the proud smile on his face and Ellie's maroon flushed face.

“You’re gonna scare her off if you keep making jokes like that.” she mumbled as her hands came up to hide her face.

Maybe, in the end, this wasn't as intimidating as it seemed...

Tags!! @livvietalks (another person asked me to be tagged but for some reason it doesn't work 😭) + @autisticintr0vert :)!!! thank u for the support pookies! In case I post something else tonight I'll tag u over there too!!

I've never thought about starting a taglist but if anyone is interested let me know in the comment section! I also write for yellowjackets and (soon!! trust!!!) for arcane 🤍

[kingdoms-and-empires]

Does anyone else ever just wish you could draw/paint?

Like, draw/paint something specific.

Obviously the most obvious one will be characters for alot of people. Who doesn't want to draw the characters in their heads??

But I mean...

Specific stuff

Like, I'd love to draw animals.

And fashion.

Also landscapes and environments.

I'd love to be able to draw something like this, with blurbs of information for the animals and monsters of KaE:

And fashion!

I just love seeing how fashion evolves throughout history and how the rich are dumb as fuck in trying to out do each other in how clumsy/annoying it is to put on cause "you can afford to spend so much time on such dumb shit"

But it's cool.

I have Infinity Nikki to help cure me of that craving of seeing/experimenting with outfits (it's like, a really chill game)

But normal day to day environment stuff

That's something I can't really fulfill as a craving, beside finding artwork of what i mean.

Found an awesome artist who scratched that itch of mine recently, and its helped me describe some scenes in KaE

Jean-Claude Golvin, French archaeologist and architect!

Look at all the cool stuff he's drawn!

Because of the above, I've taken to drawing myself.

Im no good at it, but it helps me. To anyone else, it'd look horrendous, but I can see beyond what's in the paper. Cause its in my head, i just have to place it on the paper so i can like... lock it in my head, compartmentalize writing/drawing/imagination into separate boxes, and keep the flow state going as an author.

Mehhh, i'm just in one of those moods.

Introspective of myself. Which then got me thinking about something I usually think about.

Sometimes, I think about how many great writers and artists there are with no opportunity to vent that creative urge. To flex their imagination muscles. They must be like horses or birds, born to run in the plains and fly in the sky; yet caged by their economic or living situation.

And by the time they're in a position to actually do what calls to them, they're older. With more responsibilities. A career. A family. A whole set of skills and lessons already gained and experienced.

How difficult is it to overcome that initial "but im so bad right now, it'll take me too long to develop into something good" thought?

Is it not daunting to have to "start over" in a skill?

Then there's younger people than you who are by far more skilled at the "thing" than you. Isn't that crushing?

I think it's alot like exercise. It sucks at first. Sometimes you can't even do more than 30 min a day. You think, "What's the point??"

But even if you do 30 min a day for a week, that's a total of 210 minutes for that week. Three hours and a half. That's far more than the absolute zero you would have if you did nothing.

I think you can write, draw, paint, do whatever calls to you for 30 min a day in the least. Because if you keep that up for a whole year; you'll end up with 10,920 minutes, or 182 hours, worth of experience under your belt.

Oh.

Oh shit.

I went on a rant lmao

Any hopeful creatives out there, I hope you guys take some measure of solace in my words. You're not alone. It's never too late to start. The only person you're racing with is yourself, not that other person you compare yourself to. Take your time. Just don't deny yourself!

[ratmonky]

Tide of Turmoil (Chapter 3)

word count: 5.3k

warnings: non-con, suicidal thoughts, self-harm, blood, obsession, manipulation, power imbalance, ptsd, past sexual assault, sexual assault, cannibalism, forced pregnancy, breeding, miscarriage, tw munkey content

ao3 link

Time passed weirdly while you were in there. You could sometimes tell. There were some clues, such as Beam leaving for work. He always arrived at the office a bit after you did back then, so it had to be close to nine in the morning when he left.

By the time he returned, you would be sleeping in the cold but it wasn’t as cold as before since you had covered the air vent. You were never too sure about when he returned though, it could be minutes, it could be hours. They both felt the same. In the end, you always greeted him like a dog waiting for its owner. 

You were relieved that he was there and you weren’t alone.

As if he didn’t put you here.

To your disbelief RELIEF, he didn’t touch you much. You tried to make sure to sleep with the blanket over your head and against a wall in the corner where he put the bed but he always managed to sleep right next to you. During your restless sleep, you would wake up a couple of times to find Beam humping you in his sleep, his teeth deep in your shoulder. Although you were scared of him getting it infected, you kept quiet. That was another thing, he bit you a lot. You kept bleeding nonstop and it hurt like hell, each time the wounds managed to close a little he would tear the flesh again with his sharp teeth. Biting was something he did that you first thought to be to make you weaker but soon you realized that he was just acting on his instincts. Devils were weird.

When he finally returned, Beam didn’t bring the things he promised he would. You were able to get your hands on a small pillow and a thin blanket which would do nothing against the brutal cold air of the bunker. It would make it a bit more comfortable to sleep now though, you couldn’t deny that the pillow he brought would let you sleep without hurting your neck. 

“Here,” he said, holding out a trash bag towards you. Once you put down the pillow and wrapped yourself in the blanket, you took the trash bag from him to check what was inside. There were clothes inside. Work clothes. Pencil skirt, button-down shirt, and a blazer. You thought at some point that he was mocking you but Beam probably thought you only wore work clothes. Nonetheless, you had some new clothes you could wear. 

“Thank you,” you said with a smile that you hoped looked genuine. “Can you bring me other clothes too? I am not working right now and these clothes are for work only.”

He seemed a little hurt but nodded rapidly. “Beam will bring clothes.” He got closer like he wanted something. From the way he was tilting his head, you knew what it was.

Patting his head, you praised him. “Good job.”

He smiled, showing you his sharp teeth, “Beam is good!” He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close to his hot body. You melted into his touch because of the warmth and hugged him back, desperate to get warmer. His mouth which was buried in the crook of your neck started rubbing against the bite mark he had left. It hurt and when you winced, he tightened his arms around you. 

Panicking, you let out a squeak, “Beam…”

The hot and wet feeling of his tongue made goosebumps erupt all over your skin, you tried pushing him away but his arms were preventing you. He was growling like an animal. He was nothing like what he used to be like at work, he was becoming more and more unpredictable, you wondered if that was because your contract with Makima was over. You felt him trace the bite mark with the tip of his tongue and he kept applying pressure into one spot. 

“It hurts,” you whispered, your mind going hazy from the warmth and the pain preventing you from relaxing of not being cold anymore. 

His arms didn’t loosen around you but he forced you against the wall, his mouth didn’t leave your neck for a single second. As he was pushing your back against the wall, you could feel his hard erection pressing against your stomach. Whether it be from the cold making you sensitive to feeling anything, the sudden rush of warmth was overwhelming, you could feel him throbbing. Placing a hand on the wall, he rubbed himself against you with a frustrated groan. 

You gasped in fear, all the memories of the night where he left you bleeding and bruised coming back to you. Squirming, you anxiously and hurriedly spoke to yourself in an attempt to prove that this was all nothing but a nightmare. You didn’t wake up in your bed though, you were still in the arms of the fiend who kidnapped you. A sudden sob left your lips, you were going to relive everything, weren’t you? 

Beam let you go as you started crying hysterically, he must have been surprised by your strange outburst of emotions. He took a few steps back and mumbled something you didn’t hear. When you calmed yourself enough to look around, you saw that he had left. 

Well, at least you knew that he couldn’t handle you crying.

Did you really want him gone?

What if he was gone for good?

You had to be careful if you wanted to get out of here.

Time didn’t pass in the next moments, you tried sleeping but it was too cold to even with the blanket you had gotten. The air vents were cruel, blowing the coldest air inside constantly. You turned to look at the pile of clothes and an idea struck you. 

In the next moment, you were climbing on the table after putting a chair on top to reach the vents with a few pieces of clothing in your hand. You tried using the clothes to cover the vent by stuffing the small grills with them. To your surprise, you were able to cover them and the vent wasn’t blowing cold air in full force anymore. 

You got down to try to sleep again, you wanted to save some energy while also distracting yourself from hunger. It wasn’t long before you started feeling wrong. At first, you thought it to be from the cold or hunger but soon later you realized that your stomach was burning and your throat was aching. Rushing to the bathroom, you started vomiting full force, all that came out was water but the acidic taste of vomit lingered in your dry mouth.

Washing your face and mouth, you returned to your spot to sleep after drinking more water. The bunker wasn’t as cold anymore and you were grateful that you would be able to sleep without waking up from the cold from now on.

As soon as you put your head down on the pillow, the water you drank made its way up, this time you covered your mouth to run to the bathroom but the vomit dripped from the gaps of your fingers and onto the floor. 

You could slowly feel your energy and strength leave your body as you gagged continuously, heaving and vomiting whatever was left. Coughing, you washed your face and returned to the bed without drinking any water. This time you didn’t vomit but you could feel your heart palpitating, your cheeks were warm and you were scared. Were you going to die?

From what exactly? You haven’t been here for long and you didn’t eat anything weird-

The vivid image of the dirty water coming from the kitchen sink flashed in your mind, you then understood one thing: the water you had been drinking from the kitchen sink wasn’t safe. 

You started sweating while thinking about all of the possibilities of what would happen now, Beam wouldn’t be able to take care of you if you were sick. Fuck. 

You forced yourself to sleep while your stomach churned without any rest, and you tasted vomit in your mouth even hours later. However, it was unbearable to sleep when hunger took over all of your senses. That was when you tried eating a protein bar. It took seconds until you gagged and covered your mouth to get up and run to the bathroom but your body wouldn’t move, and you ended up vomiting on the ground. Humiliating, the stench was too acidic and it was right by your face, pooling under your chin and neck. 

Poisoned? Or was it just unfiltered water bacteria? Were you going to die? 

Pathetic sobs started leaving your mouth as you called out for Beam’s name, fear was overwhelming your senses, you felt wrong, and it was almost like you were going to die. What if you died right now? Then what? Would he just leave you here, throw you somewhere, or continue to keep you as his pet?

Pfft, so pathetic to die from drinking water. Can you imagine Beam finding your dead body covered in vomit and piss? He would probably mourn you for a second before ravishing you. Would it matter to him if your body was going cold? Would he prefer it warm? Well, you knew that he was unaffected by the cold, his own body warmth might warm yours.

Whatever the outcome, you wouldn’t be conscious to know your fate.

Fuck.

You were so hungry.

Meat. Yeak, steak would be nice.

Although you ate well-done steaks, the steak that you imagined in front of your eyes was rare, with blood dripping from the center and as you cut the meat, it was tender. 

Covering your mouth with your arm, you hoped to stop daydreaming of food. However, it didn’t help. The smell of meat was close. If only you opened your mouth, you could taste it.

You could taste it.

Drool dripped from the sides of your mouth as you opened your mouth and took some of your flesh in. Your teeth sank into the flesh without hesitation and the pain wasn’t there. Were you dreaming?

No, you weren’t.

Grinding your teeth, you could feel the strings of muscle and flesh being torn apart from the skin. The blood tasted so good. It was just like a steak.

You chewed. It was so chewy. But God… It tasted perfect. You swallowed and were about to take another bite.

Eating steak and-

You weren’t eating steak.

You were eating your own flesh.

You froze and stared at your furiously bleeding arm. Death was inevitable now. With the way you were bleeding, it would only take a few hours until you lost enough blood to suffer from the consequences.

Why had you gone and taken a bite of yourself?

Fuck. You pressed your hand against the bleeding wound. 

Some of your strength returned and to your surprise, you didn’t vomit again. 

You lied on the rough floor and stared at the wall. 

Were you going insane?

Was it because you were stuck here or was it because the only thing keeping you alive was Beam?

Why did your flesh taste so good?

Time passed. You weren’t sure how long it had been but it must have been hours. Because your blood had dried on your arm and your breathing became uneven, you were weak and felt like seconds away from death.

Until Beam came to find you next to a pool of vomit and blood. 

“(name)!” he sounded worried, his warm hands grabbed your shoulders and turned you around.

“Beam,” you whispered as he took you in his arms, “Take me to a hospital.” It wasn’t a request.

Shaking his head to deny your demand, he took you to the bathroom. Against your protests, he walked you into the shower. Which broke the promise of never using the shower, especially while he was there. It had to be okay, you thought to yourself. You were sick and terribly weak.

As he was undressing you, sobs let your lips but you held onto him, hoping that you wouldn’t fall down. Your hands on his strong shoulders could feel the muscles move under your palm, oddly it was the only thing you could focus on while he continued fiddling with the shower. He finally turned on the water which was warm to your surprise. Yet, his arm around your waist that was helping you stay up was warmer. 

Once you were fully nude, he got closer to hold the shower head over your face. His naked chest against yours felt nice. You had to be going crazy to admit this. 

He was gentle as he let the warm water wash the dust, blood, and vomit off of you, his hands caressed your cheek so softly that you thought it was warm water running down your face. By the time he was done, you asked for water and food. Better food would be nice or a toothbrush because you could sort of guess that eating nothing but protein bars could harm the teeth the same way eating too many sweets would. Or your own flesh.

“Yes, yes!” A deep frown was on his face, he looked unsure if you were actually sick or if you were messing with him. While he was trying to put you in the new clothes he had brought with him, you noticed that these were just random clothes, possibly things he stole from someone’s drying rack. Although the thought of sharing a stranger’s underwear was a distant idea, today it was real. You couldn’t object as Beam put someone’s underwear on you and dressed you in their clothes. 

Then he scooped you in his arms and you wrapped your arms around his neck in surprise to not fall. He would never drop you.

He walked back into the bunker and you saw that he had prepared a spot on a corner. There was a makeshift floor bed. After grabbing the blanket, he wrapped it around the two of you and kept you close to him as the two of you laid down on the floor bed, you didn’t protest and fell asleep in his arms.

The next time you opened your eyes, he wasn’t there but there was a plastic bag next to the bed on the floor. You sat up to check what it was. There was some food in a container with someone else’s name on it, bottles of water, and a toothbrush. No toothpaste. Though, you weren’t complaining.

You felt a bit better but you were scared of eating anything for a while. You didn’t want to vomit or go through that again. Yet you were too weak to do anything anyway. You laid in the bed and didn’t try to get up. 

Beam woke you up, it had to be evening time from the way he looked. What you could see of his face was covered in dirt and he had dried blood on his chest. He held your head up and made you drink bottled water carefully, it tasted weird.

“Medicine,” he said with a grin when he noticed your scrunched nose. “Stomach medicine!”

You thanked him for at least trying to take care of you while you were sick. He was kind and gentle. Maybe this wasn’t as bad of a situation.

What the fuck?

He helped you take the medicine and let you lay down again. He didn’t get in the bed with you but instead sat next to the bed to watch you. His warm hand started petting your head like you were a scared animal. In a way you were. 

As he kept petting your head and carded through your hair with his fingers, you found yourself falling asleep. In your sleep, you wondered why he was being so nice but your thoughts then shifted to the time he showered you. His body against yours and his soft touch. The way he held you up and carried you, he was so strong.

Strong enough to rip off the wheel handle of the bunker’s door. 

He could easily hurt you if he wanted but he didn’t.

He will.

When you woke up in cold sweat, he was there, lying next to you with an open mouth. From the looks of it he was sleeping, you took your time to study his face. Facial hair was growing out of his face, meaning he was shaving his face daily but didn’t do it here. Did he have a second home? Or did someone do it for him when he was at work?

The top half of his head was smooth, a sharkskin that wasn’t slimy yet it wasn’t completely dry either. You lifted your hand to touch him, the skin felt nice under your fingertips, soft and smooth. His hair had gotten longer, you didn’t know if he got it trimmed or anything. His facial skin was also smooth except for where the facial hair was growing. You retrieved your hand and continued staring. You didn’t know how he was able to see but you didn’t think about it too much. Your eyes landed on his body, he was very muscular and you could guess it was because he was swimming nonstop and every day. From what you could tell, he was around your age. Could be a lot older but it was impossible to tell because of the way Beam acted.

There was a distant thought in the back of your mind, something you wondered ever since you met him. What did the person who he took over look like before him? Was he an ordinary office worker? Perhaps a funny guy who worked at a local bar? Or a person who worked several part-time jobs to make a decent amount of money? Whatever he was before, it didn’t matter. He was a fiend now.

The first thing you did was to reach for the plastic bag by the bed and grab the food container. You managed to eat everything inside the lunch box, you didn’t even remember what it was that you ate but you knew it was the most delicious thing in the world at that moment. It was a blessing to finally eat real food, it sort of helped you regain some energy. It wasn't enough to help you recover your strength. You were better, you weren’t sick anymore.

A sudden cramp made you wince, hurriedly you got up to get to the bathroom. On your way, you noticed how damp your bottoms were and you saw blood. Lots of blood. It made you panic even more. You checked your arm, it was-

Fully healed?

Huh?

What was going on?

Were you having your period now? Come to think of it, when was the last time you had your period? Had you been here for a few days, weeks, or months? Things were getting too hazy at the moment. You sat on the toilet to think and avoid bleeding any more into your bottoms. 

This would be a problem. Beam didn’t know about menstruation nor would he be able to bring any pads to help you. Were you going to spend your entire week on this toilet now? Fuck. 

The images of your used pads flashed vividly in your mind. They were right there. He clearly knew what pads were and what they were used for, right? Ugh, what if you had to reuse those pads? 

You gagged at the thought and something fell out of you.

…

You heard it hit the shallow water in the toilet.

What was that?

Standing up after pulling your bottoms up, you stared at the bottom of the toilet. 

Blood.

Flesh.

Flesh?

What?

What was that?

It had a shape, weird. Was that a large blood clot? Was that the piece of flesh you ate? Or something like- WHAT THE FUCK-

You watched the thing move and screamed as you lost your balance and fell on the floor. Beam rushed to your side almost immediately, looking concerned. 

“What? What happened?” he asked, face flushed red as he took in your bloody appearance. He sniffed the air, his concern growing.

You kept stammering, unable to speak, and pointing at the toilet.

Beam’s attention was fully on the toilet as he approached it, there was something off. He was acting weird. Inhuman. Moving strangely too. Like a frightened cat.

When he stood above the toilet, staring down at the bottom, his shoulders slackened with a soft whimper. He whispered something. 

“W-what?” you asked.

He leaned down into the toilet bowl and you let out another scream in disgust. Yet, he seemed unaffected, he reached down and grabbed the thing. He held it so gently in his claws. He turned to you with a frown, lower lip trembling. “Dead,” he whispered. 

“Dead?” you sounded confused. What was dead? What was he talking about? Ugh, why did he have to reach down like that? It was so disgusting. 

“Our baby.”

What?

The sudden realization and shock froze you in place as he loomed over you, his face obscured by the dim light. He held his hand out toward you, showing you the monstrosity. You didn’t speak immediately and instead stared at the weird creature. 

Freak of nature. Not natural at all. Devil-born. Monster.

Have you been eating yourself because of this thing?

The claws of the failure were more visible in Beam’s hand. How could it be this big already? When Beam assaulted you, it was only a few weeks ago. Was it because he was a fiend? 

Did it matter?

“Get that thing away from me,” you spat through your teeth.

Beam’s frown deepened. “You killed it.”

You slapped the hand he was holding towards you in anger, “Get it away from me!”

The bloody thing fell out of his gentle hold, smacked against the grimy tile floor of the bathroom, and bounced somewhere away in a wet plop. Growling in frustration, Beam bared his teeth. 

The inhuman sound he made and the way he slowly moved as if he was a predator ready to pounce on its prey, you knew that he was going to kill you now.

In a single, desperate burst of strength, you kicked on the floor, using it as a springboard and ran out of the bathroom.

He moved faster. You were barely able to make it out of the bathroom when you felt him tackle you on the ground. Wrapping an arm around you, he pressed his face into the crook of your neck, where the bite mark was. You felt him roughly tracing over the bite with his lips and licking the wound. You weren’t sure if he was going to rip your throat out but when he pressed himself against your ass and you then had something bigger to worry about. You gasped when the rock-hard erection poked your clothed cunt.

“Stop!” you screamed but he wasn’t being as gentle anymore or listening to you. 

Beam wrapped his arm tighter around you and breathed into your neck. Your hands went to his forearm that was pressing against your chest and his hand that was around your neck, he was keeping you firmly right where he wanted you. With your cheek pressed against the cold concrete, you huffed all the dust, coughing and crying. That fucking thing was right there next to your face too. That bloody thing. Fiend baby.

“Stop,” you managed as he moved his hips to hump you over his clothes. Pressing his mouth next to your ear, he grunted while he aimlessly thrust. You just had to bite it and let him finish humping you because you could never outpower him. As long as he didn’t eat you or kill you. As long as he doesn’t fuck me, you thought. Dry humping was fine even if it hurt because of how desperately he was humping you.

Beam rolled his hips forward in a way that made you conscious of his size, in turn, your body started to heat up. He let out noises that made you feel something. Your chest tightened with each pant and soft moan. You were about to lecture yourself about how you needed to stay sane but the feeling of a cock stretching your pussy threw you out of your thoughts. You hadn’t noticed him take off any of your clothes or his.

A quivering moan left his lips, he had been waiting for this. You mewled in pain as he shoved himself deeper. Your hands went to your groin to try to push him away or pull your clothes up. He slid out of you and thrust into you in full force, forcing a scream out of you while your hands found the waistband of your pants. You realized that you were fully clothed but he still was able to fuck you.

Then you felt tears coming as the realization set in. He was fucking you through the clothes using his ability.

“Ssssstop!” you hissed but he cut you off with his abrupt thrusts. 

“Beam must do this!” he said, his claws digging into your skin and drawing blood. “(name) must have another baby!”

The thought alone made you retch and you struggled even if it hurt your insides. He was continuously fucking you regardless, his pace only got faster as you tried trashing around. It fucking hurt. 

So that was why he hadn’t touched you? Because he thought you were bearing that monstrosity? Did he bring you here to his nest to take care of you? That sick and stupid bastard. Fuck. You wanted him dead.

He moved his arm away from your neck and you took the opportunity to bite his forearm with all your strength. His cock twitched as your teeth drew blood from his forearm. You could taste the fiend’s blood, it tasted saltier, a bit less watery like blood clots. Like a corpse’s. You bit harder in an attempt to stop him but it only made him more excited and his teeth sank deeper into your neck. 

You were the first to stop biting. A pained yelp left your lips.

Beam didn’t waste any more time and mounted you completely while still biting your neck. His cock pounded into your pussy with ease, you weren’t sure if it was because you had been bleeding or not but the gross squelching sounds were echoing in the bunker. It was too much. You wanted this to end. You wanted him dead and-

Beam slammed his hips into you so hard, stealing your breath and the tip of his cock kissing your cervix. 

You couldn’t even finish the thought.

He slammed into you with brute force, tearing a scream out of you. He started to fuck you frantically almost immediately. You could feel the filling pressure in your tummy with every single thrust. Crying under him, you tried to crawl away. You were getting flashbacks of the night he assaulted you back in your apartment and the horrific image of that monstrous miscarriage was enough to make you start screaming. His cock relentlessly slid in and out of your cunt as he shifted his position to put more force behind his thrusts and to effectively stop your squirming and screaming. 

He groaned into your neck when your pussy clenched around him, the way your walls tightened around his cock was almost perfect, the pressure threatened to make him spill all of his seed inside you right then and there but he wasn’t done with you yet. 

Beam fucked you like the animal he was, the perverted fiend was obsessed with breeding you. He had done it once and he would do it again. His pace picked up speed and strength, each thrust was more unforgiving and made you lose yourself. 

“Beam will take care of family. Beam promise!” he could barely speak in between breaths and thrusts as he pulled his mouth away from your bleeding neck. The erratic pace staggered, and he couldn’t keep up anymore. “Our home together forever.”

That was the final nail in the coffin. 

He surged his hips forward, you felt his cock throb as his seed poured from the tip of his cock and into your womb. 

Tears stained your face and his blood in your mouth tasted gross. 

He fucked his cum into you for a few moments longer and his hands petted you over the clothes. When he finally pulled out of you, it was a strange sensation, he phased through all of the clothing and left them soaked in his cum as the bodily fluids gushed out of your pussy and seeped into the fabric. 

Neither of you spoke.

You didn’t move at all and stayed exactly where he left you. 

He phased through the ground and appeared in front of your face with only the top half of his head showing. “Beam go to work,” he said. “Will bring more food later if you be nice.”

With that, he was gone and you were alone with your thoughts and the monstrous failure a few inches away from you.

That thing was the reason why you had ended up here. This place. You could never escape. He was delusional and just so stubbornly stupid. You understood now that he would never let you out of here. He wanted to keep you here like a fucked up housewife. That was what you were to him, right? A mate? A wife? Whatever he thought of you was the only reason why he bothered with keeping you alive. You had to make sure he didn’t change his mind about you or you would rot in here with that devilish spawn in you eating its way out of you.

Yet even if you did everything right and kept him happy, you would always stay a prisoner. Could you call that a life?

There was a small chance that you could get out and you wanted to live until you got that chance.

What if Beam died?

Could Beam die? Makima had mentioned that he was expendable. If he died during a mission then you would never know and rot here without anyone knowing that you were ever here to begin with. He possibly couldn’t die. He wouldn’t die... Right?

In a world where devils existed, God had to exist too. You prayed to God that Beam stayed safe and returned home.

This was your home?

Beam had to return.

He was the only thing that could keep you alive. He was the only thing who could get you out of here. He was the only thing that knew where you were.

If he died then-

You didn’t want to think of the possibility. He was a fiend, he wouldn’t die.

You worked with devil hunters before. They killed devils. 

That made you shiver. All you could do was hope and pray.

Sitting up, you placed a hand on your tummy, if he had claimed you as a mate he would most likely return to take care of you. He had promised to bring you food if you promised to be nice. See, he wouldn’t just leave you to die.

Crawling to a near wall, you leaned back to rest. It happened to be right next to that thing. You stared at it with disgust but your furrowed brows slowly softened when you realized it was practically useless to get mad at something dead. 

You lifted your gaze and stared at the bunker’s ruined door. 

Maybe your only way out was to kill yourself. Your hand went to your arm that you had bit before. The flesh was perfectly healed. Had that spawn given you some of fiend's abilities of healing? If that was what happened then you wouldn’t be able to die. You didn’t bother with killing yourself. At least not yet.

Though a terrible wave of anxiety washed over you. How long had it been since Beam left? Why wasn’t he back yet? Had he left you?

You sat there staring absently at the door. Bottoms soaked in blood and cum, mouth full of fiend blood, and neck bleeding as you waited for Beam to return.

Beam didn’t return.

Tide of Turmoil

Word Count: 4.6K

Warnings: non-con, blood drinking, stalking, obsession, biting

AO3 Link

Keep reading

[sailorsoons]

Vengeance | Teaser (c.hs)

Pairing: Vernon x f. reader

Summary: You always knew you were different from a young age. The only person who has ever been able to understand you is Vernon. When things take a turn for the Choi Syndicate, your long-term relationship is put to the test.

Teaser Word Count: 858

Full Fic Word Count: 21,528

Genre: Mafiaverse, Cyberpunk, Childhood Friends/Exes to Lovers

Type: Smut, Heavy Angst

Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

Teaser Warnings: Mentions of death, reference to grief/anger after the passing of a love one, mention of murder/retribution, intense feelings of anger and a pinch of angst.

A/N: This fic is a part of my Syndicates Collection. This will the second installment under the Syndicate Universe, but you can always read this fic on its own. I hope everyone enjoys Vernon's story as much as they enjoyed Hoshi's!

COMING FRIDAY, JAN. 25

Main Masterlist | The Syndicates Collection | Join the Taglist | Ask | Playlist

As if it can sense your moment of peace, Hansol’s phone starts to ring. You hiss and he groans. You want him to ignore it. He wants to ignore it. But you know that ringtone anywhere, and despite wanting to keep this moment for longer than five minutes, Hansol reaches into his pocket to answer Seungcheol’s phone call.

“Yes, Tower?” 

You bury your face in Hansol’s chest, which vibrates when he speaks. “Got it. Yeah.” He sighs, running a hand down his face. “Alright.”

He hangs up the phone. “Tell him no.” 

“You tell him no. He’s actually afraid of you.”

“Seungcheol isn’t afraid of anyone.”

Well. That isn’t explicitly true. You wouldn’t say that Seungcheol is afraid of you, but he’s certainly wary. Wary in the way someone might be a bomb that is under their roof. Wary in the way someone’s exotic pet has started to corrode under animal instinct. Wary in the way one might be when one of their prime killers recently lost the only person she ever really considered a mother, setting her on a warpath. 

Your jaw works. Yoon Minji had been the last connection you’d had to your father. Somehow, losing her has felt worse.

It wasn’t like your father, who had finally withered away from cancer. Minji had been picture-perfect health, if not a little old and weary from running the Syndicate while Choi Moojin withered away to sickness after his wife’s passing. Minji was built of different stuff. Strong in the face of death. A force to be reckoned with as her friends aged out of life without her, leaving her to be the steadfast Wisdom manning the helm.

Then the Kim and Yong Syndicates had struck like snakes in the night, a move only cowards were capable of. The only reason the Choi Syndicate hadn’t fallen to the treachery of the Kim’s entirely was because of the Tower’s daughter. Her forced marriage to Kim Yujin had ultimately been the Choice Syndicate's saving grace, her call coming only two hours prior to the coordinated attack, a warning that an overthrow was in process. 

It had been enough time for most people. 

It hadn’t been enough time for you or Jeonghan to get to Minji. Not enough time to figure out why they knew where she was or how to get her. Now, you were both trying to stay adrift in the aftermath of losing your shared anchor - Jeonghan worse than you but you… worse than you expected. 

“You okay?” Hansol’s voice brings you back to the present. Only Hansol is able to drag you out of those churning waters where your eldritch anger lurks, waiting. Watching. Hungry. “I gotta go soon but if you’re not good-”

“I’m good.” Lie. “I’m just sleepy.”

“Cheol is working us to death.”

Except it isn’t the Tower working you to death. The Tower isn’t putting you to work at all. He is actually staunchly avoiding you, letting the Wisdom of the Choi Syndicate wield you like a weapon of vengeance instead. 

Yoon Jeonghan takes aim at his enemies often these days. 

Vengeance. That is what your stepbrother had called it when he started gathering his list of soon-to-be-dead in his office. Vengeance for his mother’s murder, vengeance for trying to take out the Choi Syndicate, vengeance for anyone who had anything to do with any of it. 

It isn’t traditionally the Wisdom’s job to dole out punishment and retribution, but Jeonghan is still actively looking for how the Kim family discovered the Yoon family safehouse, something that could have only come from inside. 

Which means the Kim family have a Watcher inside the Choi Syndicate, someone with access to the inner circle. Someone you trust someone you know, someone who- 

Anger begins to twist your insides again. Hansol sees the change in you, his eyebrows creasing as he looks down at where you lay on his chest. Instead of looking at him directly, you press your cheek to his chest and close your eyes, listening to his heartbeat, trying to let it ground you. 

“You know you can talk to me, right?”

No. “Yes.” 

You don’t dare look at him because you think Hansol sees right through you. You’ve never hidden anything from him, and you don’t quite know why you do now. Why you pretend that you’re not eroding inside, why you hide the ancient anger that becomes so raw that you can’t stand it. 

Shame. 

Shame that you cannot get rid of this feeling inside of you. Shame that you’ve never felt like this. Shame that you don’t know how to tell him what you’re feeling how to articulate that you feel wrath so intense that it makes you suffocate, makes you see red, makes you-

“I gotta go,” Hansol says softly. You cling to him a little tighter reflexively. His laugh vibrates through you, followed by a heavy sigh. “We’ll be okay, right?” That makes you look up at him sharply. His face is serious, eyes dark. “We’ve been through shit before. This stuff with the Syndicate war - we’ll be fine?” 

“Of course we will.” 

It feels like a lie.

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Ellooo! Can I maybe request THH students aka the competitors of the killing game meeting pokemon Violet/scarlet trainer Y/n because a worm hole brought them in the killing game? Maybe they have some legendaries that help atleast make sure monokuma doesn’t pressure them all so maybe no killing? Maybe Y/n could offer they’re Pokémon as therapy animals and maybe hold “mock” Pokémon battles with the others by like giving them a Pokémon of theyres so they can try out battling! :3 I hope you have a nice January!

Thank you! Hope your January is good to you, too! For reference I'll leave the team vague (except for Mewtwo and Porygon Z for plot reasons), but they still have access to others they've captured in the Paldea/Kitakami/BB regions

I'll just do a few characters to help me ease back into writing the og Danganronpa series (which I haven't written for in like 5 years apparently????????)

............

General

You weren't sure why the wormhole ever opened to begin with.

Maybe there was still some instability within Area Zero despite the time machine being long gone, or perhaps something else decided to open up a pocket in the universe.

But regardless, it dropped you off inside of a school.

Not Naranja/Uva or BB Academy, but a much different school that had an ominous atmosphere hanging over it.

You quickly meet the other students there after being summoned to the gym, discovering that they all woke up here, too.

They didn't know anything about each other---nor did they know anything about Pokémon when one asked about your "Ultimate" (which you soon learn is your talent).

From what they understood, you tamed animals and made them fight other people's animals, which....seemed a little concerning.

But before you could explain any further, Monokuma shows up to announce the killing game.

Immediately, you take it upon yourself to defeat him, so you send out Mewtwo to destroy the bear--who self-destructs in response, but fortunately they're able to put up a psychic shield in time as he reprimands you for attacking the headmaster.

Your Legendary's appearance shocks every student there, realizing that these "animals" of yours actually possess magic and are 100% not of this world.

Whatever any of them believed before was thrown out the window.

Given your unexpected arrival (and the fact you were pretty much untouchable thanks to your team), Monokuma won't be able to enforce the killing game as much as he liked to--although he thinks someone's gonna eventually kill somebody.

While the gate couldn't be breached, you and the other students try to accept living within the school, certain there was another way out.

He still tries handing out the first motive, only for your Porygon-Z to corrupt every video so that nobody felt pressured to kill.

But while everybody was at first wary of you and your powerful Pokémon team, they've grown to trust you, even considering you a leader.

You have no idea how to return to your world, so you might as well stay here and form friendships with these people.

Makoto

He was the first student you met...and the first to make you realize something was incredibly different about this school.

But after you saved everyone in the gym from having to worry about killing, he became more curious about you and your team.

Since nobody knew about Pokémon battling, you decide to pass the time by become a teacher to all who were willing to learn!

Makoto was first in line, of course.

You still had access to your PC, and after getting it hooked up to the computer system (with help from Chihiro), you lend him an Eevee for practice, bringing out one of your fighting 'mons to teach him about type advantages.

"So I just...give them a command, and they'll listen?"

"Yep. That's all! I'll let you try first."

On the sidelines, Monokuma vouched to have the loser get executed--but ofc nobody listens to him.

Makoto genuinely enjoyed the mock battle, as his luck allowed him to land several critical hits on your Pokémon.

Afterwards, you introduce him to a Shiny Eevee, and during your free time, he's surprised to hear about your harrowing tales of shiny hunting.

"Your talent would work pretty well where I come from," you remark. "Because these guys are super rare to find in the wild."

"That's pretty cool. So what's your strategy? Do you camp out for a few days in the wilderness or...?"

"No. I kinda just run around until I find one. But sometimes, I'll be getting chased by some angry Pokémon who don't like me being on their turf...and in my panic, I'll stumble across a shiny."

"Hahaha..I can picture that happening to me with my kind of luck." He chuckles, now unable to get the image of you running from an angry Eevee mob out of his head.

Ishimaru

Despite witnessing your Mewtwo's heroic act in the gym, Taka still sees them as an animal that shouldn't be walking around inside a school, feeling obligated to enforce that rule when he catches you two going to get snacks.

"Excuse me, but pets are NEVER allowed inside the cafeteria!!"

"I thought I already explained that they're not a "pet", Ishimaru." You and Mewtwo stare at the prefect. "At my school, we're allowed to have our Pokémon out as long as they're not a distraction."

"Well...this is a different school in case you haven't noticed! So different rules apply here! Now please put your Mewtwo back in that little contraption-"

"A pokeball?"

"Yes! The poke-ball!"

"....and who are you gonna tell if I don't?" You grin smugly, watching him draw a blank. "Surely not Monokuma, who's been keeping us hostage here, right?"

Taka freezes up, but after remembering that you basically stopped a potential murder from taking place...he relents and stops bothering you about keeping your Pokémon away (though he's still not happy about it).

He was appalled at your suggestion of having "violent" battles in the gym--to which you reassure him nothing's gonna get destroyed, as they're only mock battles.

He watches a few, nervous whenever the Pokémon on either side faint or take heavy damage.

Then one day (post-sauna), he stops by your room and asks if he could try it for himself, admitting that he's been taking notes on the sidelines and wants to be tested.

He was craving new knowledge and decided that if Pokemon was the only "study" available, he'll accept it.

Delighted, you let him train with a Charcadet. You haven't decided what armor to give them yet, but they were still quite strong with their bold nature.

The two immediately get along and battle quite well, although when Taka loses, he feels terrible and tries going over what he could have messed up on.

You remind him that battling was supposed to be fun, but you give him an A+ for having the same passion and vigor as an experienced trainer--which lifts his spirits.

You decide to let him keep Charcadet for the time being, noticing how they've been picking up his attitude, discouraging other Pokemon from causing trouble or mischief within the school.

Mondo

After learning about his Ultimate, you just knew you had to show off a Shiny Cyclizar that you've caught.

But he takes one look at them.....and laughs.

"No way, you're telling me people can ride that wimpy little lizard????"

"...yes. And this "wimp" can actually reach up to speeds 70 MPH. They've been around for longer than you, I, and your precious motorcycle have been alive." You remark, which makes the biker shut up for the moment.

He wishes he could have his motorcycle just to race you and prove himself better, but he takes your word for it after you climb on Cyclizar's back and run a lap around the gym.

If you have a Miraidon, his jealousy would be shot to the maximum because your motorcycle-lizard is not only 100% robot but they can shoot electricity AND fly????

That's so badass it should be illegal.

If you have a Koraidon, he might have a brief confrontation with them after they assume their Apex form, believing he was threatening you.

Luckily, you quickly recalled them before he could even try throwing a punch.

But since battling interested him, you let him practice with that same Shiny Cyclizar...only for him to discover that they won't listen to any of his commands.

You intended to teach him a lesson about respecting Pokémon, since he hasn't apologized for insulting them--but he didn't understand and thought you were lying about the moves you taught them.

But eventually, you get it through his thick skull and he yells out an apology, which Cyclizar seems to accept as they use Scale Shot-

Only for to miss your Pokémon all five times, making him fume as you mention accuracy as another aspect of battling.

Least to say....Mondo is extremely competitive and acted like a sore loser when you, a champion-ranked trainer, beat him.

But he got over it eventually, and you let him keep the Cyclizar, who did forgive him and gladly kept him company.

Aoi

While you were talking about the different Pokémon types, of course the Ultimate Swimmer would be most interested in the water types.

So you let her browse your PC for some time.

Lapras and (surprisingly) Aqua Breed Tauros piqued her curiosity, asking you if she could train with them since you also mentioned having done double-battles.

Funny enough, those two had natures that subverted her expectations: the gentle-looking Lapras was rash and aggressive with their attacks, while the scary-looking Aqua Tauros was so timid they were outcasted from their herd.

Once they come out of the PC and Aoi gets to know them--they're basically her Pokémon forever now. Sorry.

She absolutely LOVES that they can join her in the pool! Even if Lapras can't swim around much, they still enjoy the water.

And Aqua Tauros' body fat allows them to float around without fear of sinking.

If you were to tell her that Lapras' species was nearly hunted to extinction, she'd prob tear up, but you'd then reassure her there's a lot of protection laws and their population has grown in abundance since.

When it comes time for the double battle, you send out some strong electric types of your own, just to see how well she'd do in the face of type disadvantages.

You didn't realize how closely Aoi bonded with Aqua Tauros until you used an attack that was normally a OHKO--only to see them still standing, having "toughened it out".

Turns out that her cheerful mood and encouragement have given the bull the confidence they needed.

Sakura

After watching your battle with Aoi, Sakura steps in and asks if she could see the Pokémon you have available.

You decide to show her the fighting types, and she immediately takes an interest in Urshifu, who you've had since your trip to Galar's Isle of Armor.

They remind her so much of her dojo, and felt inspired when you told her about the journey their previous evolution (Kubfu) went on to help them achieve their current form, whether it's Single or Rapid Strike Style.

The Legendary wants to learn more about her fighting styles--so the pair have a friendly sparring match with each other.

You worried about Urshifu hurting her with their move set, but they fortunately restrain from using anything dark/water/fighting-related powers.

That's a form of self-control you've never seen before in a Pokémon, but you're relieved (and impressed) when Sakura yields with only a few scratches.

Although she vowed to never lose to a human opponent, this doesn't count as Urshifu isn't exactly human.

You then introduce her to the Tyrogue line you've caught in the canyon biome (Tyrogue, Hitmonlee, Hitmontop, and Hitmonchan), and they're collectively awestruck after seeing her rematch Urshifu, wanting to learn her ways.

So she ends up being a teacher to them, and it's quite adorable seeing them all training together in a way that not just strengthens Sakura's own mind and body, but also theirs, too.

She's not too keen on using them to battle, as she sees them as their own individual who should have the choice to battle if they want.

But because you assured her they wanted to, she agrees and uses Urshifu while you sent out Iron Valiant, a fighter from the future--and despite the type disadvantage, she actually won and thoroughly shocked you.

[rockybloo]

I feel like bitchin so I'mma bitch bc I always see people going on rants on their Tumblrs and I'm long overdue for one. Anyways, this is a long one so be aware you are gonna be scrolling for a good bit if you view under the cut.

ANYWAYS, I know that that rude anon from last week is old news but their whole "I'm sad that Glitter and Guilt is a m/f relationship" thing is just a part of a never ending situation I am going to experience til the end of time (or til I stop posting stuff online) just because I focus on primarily m/f relationships in my art.

And they aren't even straight m/f relationships, which is what annoys me the most about comments like this. They're all bisexual. But because people see bisexual characters as better than straight but less than same-sex attracted orientation, I will always have to deal with these passive aggressive ass comments.

I dealt with this typa stuff SO OFTEN in my early days on Instagram, especially when I posted some of my gender nonconforming OCs like Danny (my pink demon man who dresses like a bimbo Barbie doll). It got to the point I stopped sharing him over there for a bit because I would get comments where people were hoping he had a boyfriend in the past, or they were disappointed I "never" drew any Sapphic couples because they mistook Danny as a woman in a pic where he was kissing Karrie.

And I get the whole desire to want more representation. Trust me, I'm bi, black, and nonbinary. I am NEVER going to get any type of representation outside of the indie artists I find in small niche circles online. I completely get the whole "m/f relationships are EVERYWHERE in mainstream media" mentality because I also agree but only to a point.

There's a ton of trashy m/f media, but there's also good shit when you dig because you can find people who don't just shove a guy and girl together and call that a done deal - they actually give them personality and chemistry and a fun dynamic.

I'm a firm believer that the gender of a ship shouldn't dictate if it's good or not. An interesting dynamic is what motivates me to care about a couple of characters dating. That's why it bugs me whenever someone suggests any kind of series to me and simply tells me "It's gay" before telling me the actual plotline. I WANT TO KNOW WHAT A SERIES IS ABOUT! DO NOT WASTE MY TIME!!! (Please do not pop into my inbox after reading this and suggest me stuff btw because I've never been a big suggestions unprompted person - I typically find stuff myself bc I have weird tastes ANYWAYS BACK TO MY RANTING)

When it comes to my art, I draw m/f relationships as a primary focus because it's fun to mess with gender dynamics and flip them on their head, as well as to give younger me the food I wish I had. Growing up, before I realized I was nonbinary, I rarely saw any black girls in loving relationships in animated series I enjoyed. And occasionally I would get flash banged with the long despised trope of "Disposable Black Girlfriend". So I never felt like m/f relationships were oversaturated in my eyes because there were barely any good ones that featured a black girl with a happy ending - which means from DAY MOTHERFUCKIN ONE I was starving for content.

So that obviously means that when I grew up and adopted my "Make your own food" mentality, I started cooking. AND COOK I STILL DO! Because in the end, I make all this food to please myself. OTHERS MAY EAT OF COURSE - I am always happy when people come to my restaurant to dine because they enjoy my meals, but I hate how every blue moon I will get someone who waltzes into my little eatery and tells me that they wish I cooked the meal they get from other restaurants.

Because it would be so much more productive to just go eat AT those restaurants since they already got the food you like.

Having people comment their displeasure about me drawing a guy and a girl together in a healthy (and occasionally insane) relationship is always baffling to me. It's never going to make me stop, it'll only make me draw more Red Beans or more Licorice. It's also so baffling because I know that if the tables where flipped - and I was drawing primarily same-sex bisexual couples (OR JUST SOME GAY OR LESBIAN COUPLES IN GENERAL BECAUSE SOME PEOPLE JUST DON'T CARE ABOUT BI FOLKS AT ALL), it would be so fuckin' frowned upon to comment "I wish you drew more m/f! 🥺"

But because I draw m/f bi couples, it's totally free game. IT'S DEF STILL FROWNED UPON but one is way more likely to make you look like an asshole than the other. Because even in cases where people have said they agree it's a dick move to complain about m/f from me, there's still that vibe of it being more acceptable just because of mainstream media having so many m/f couples and that being the standard of offline society.

But I'm not mainstream media. And I disagree with a lot of standards of offline society which is WHY I poke fun at gender norms with my OCs.

That's why getting a ton of new followers is such a "oh boy here we go" thing for me, because with old followers that have been around for awhile, they know what's up. They understand what I draw, what I write, and how my OCs typically behave. They get that my m/f ships have rabies.

But new followers don't know this. And this has led to some real big "OOF" moments. Like people calling Jack and Nana a "het" couple. Yes, I know that that's a term that doesn't JUST mean "heterosexual" and can refer to them being different genders. It still feels hella weird for me - it's why m/f is my preferred descriptor because it lacks that confusion.

New followers are typically the ones that leave the passive aggressive comments about me mostly drawing m/f. OFTEN because they think I am one of those artists who will draw whatever it takes to please my audience. BUT I AM NOT - THERE IS NO AUDIENCE INFLUENCE HERE ☝🏾

I am not a taxi where I pick people up whenever they call me and I drop them off wherever they tell me.

I am a roller-coaster. Specifically those ones where you can see the entire track layout in the distance so you know what you're in for. You may sit in the front or the back or somewhere in the middle but that is the last input you got before I take off at my own speed (that will be stated RIGHT on the warning sign you read as you walked in) and once I am done, you may get off and carry along your merry way through the rest of the park OR you may get on to ride again.

This entire passive aggression towards m/f ships is just so tiring to deal with because there will never be an end to it. Even after I post this, I know days, weeks, months, YEARS down the line - someone will see some Jack and Nana art, or some Bitterbat and Sweetheart comic, or ANY of my other m/f couples, and type up some comment about how they wish the couples were same-sex. Or someone will lament over the fact they thought a couple was same-sex but it turned out the dude was just hella feminine.

Because it just ain't enough to have bisexual characters that are dating the same sex because then people will call them "straight passing" and not count them as being queer. And having all my OCs being bisexuals ain't enough to mark me as a queer artists in some eyes because "making all your OCs bi is just lazy" and not me representing an aspect of myself that I constantly see sidelined online.

Me drawing bisexual m/f couples is viewed as something that can be tinkered and tampered with so I can be more appealing and inclusive to others like I'm some mainstream Hollywood series and not just some random person online who draw the fictional beings in my mind kissing each other whenever I got the crumb of free time. Primarily drawing m/f couples means I gotta just vibe whenever I see a moot or a friend post or reblog some weird sentiment referring to how lame m/f couples are and I just gotta HOPE that they aren't including bisexuals when they engage with stuff like that.

I'm in this weird space where I am wedged between "You're not a straight artist" and "You aren't drawing enough gay stuff" online.

And I'm fine with this since I've been online for over a decade at this point. This isn't a vent post, this is a rant. I don't need cheering up or comfort after posting this. This is just some real talk because I typically post lighthearted stuff since I like to keep my blogs positive.

But I also like to keep my shit honest and I think it's important to just state a piece of my mind. I wouldn't say I'm being vulnerable, this is just some insight to why I draw what I do and why I get so annoyed by certain interactions with people and certain sentiments online that are antagonistic of m/f ships that put them all down without hearing them out.

Blah blah blah I'm tired of typing and I've said most of the main points I've needed uuuummm

If you read this long have some m/f fluff

[the-clock-of-the-time-dragon]

So we're doing this, lol. Okay.

He is a double agent.

Literally just headcanon. As I said. Like, I think it's a GOOD headcanon — as I also said — but even you admit that it requires heavy inference and conjecture to claim that he did anything to help Animals; and slipping in "I don't think of her as a Wicked Witch" and wanting to push back against the more insane rumors is not being a double agent (which would require actual action), it's being a known contrarian and former friend of hers. As I explained to begin with: his quest to find her is not evidence of some kind of revolutionary activity behind the scenes — it's evidence that he wanted to personally reunite with her, which is exactly what his actions led to.

Fiyero knows this, by placing himself here he is in the best position both to protect Elphaba but also protect the Animals in the regime.

He didn't do either of those things though. Like, I fully believe that he wanted Elphaba unharmed (obviously) and that he had some qualms with rounding up the Animals... but he literally volunteered for the Harm Elphaba and Round Up the Animals Brigade, and there is zero evidence he did anything to undermine them until she finally showed up in the Wizard's palace unexpectedly.

Given he used the first opportunity, when they wouldn’t get in trouble, to help the Lion Cub it seems a pretty good inference that he was trying to send out warnings to Animals when he could (especially now the movieverse has made him the only character aside from Elphaba who is friends with an Animal – he probably even has a network he can tap into!).

I would like to see that fleshed out in the second movie, yes — because I agree it would be in character, but on stage, we're left to just hope that he did that (albeit his hypothetical offscreen attempts to help Animals still seem objectively outweighed by his actions that harmed them, so — again, as I said — his having sympathy for them doesn't seem to have stopped him from knowingly doing a lot more harm than good).

IDK about you, but I think if I were to search for someone wanted and was given the opportunity to both have the best resources and information to find her and hamper people who might find her and hurt her, I would totally do it this way too.

Saying you'd totally join the Gestapo instead of the Resistance if given the chance — because of "resources and information" — is not the winning argument you think it is, I'm sorry, lol. Like, if he'd already been a soldier before he realized it was fashy, that might make a bit more sense. If that were the case, then yeah he should've become a double agent! But as it is, it kinda just seems like you're making a lot of excuses for why volunteering to do fascism is justified as long as you feel bad about it and (speculatively) tried to sabotage it (with no evident success whatsoever). I would truly love to believe in Double Agent Fiyero, and I hope that's the direction the second movie goes with him: but I also really liked the Amoral Nihilist Fiyero we got on stage. You keep acting like I'm denigrating him as a character, but I can only express so many times that I'm not. He's a great character: just not a great guy imho.

I know we don’t see him helping the Animals, but nor do we really see Elphaba doing so?

No, we don't see Elphaba doing stuff to help Animals onstage (albeit, as I've said, there don't really seem to be any free Animals left by the time we get to Act II), but there are at least direct statements that she's been involved with the Animal resistance. There isn't even an implication that Fiyero tried to do that, let alone did. You're basing your interpretation of his character on speculation — because it is somewhat difficult, in some ways, to reconcile the compassionate boy we saw in the woods with the fascist commander he's become by Act II — but I'm basing my reading on sheer text; on the actions and statements on the page. Regardless of whether you choose to think he was secretly doing a ton of anti-regime work behind the scenes, I just don't think (as I've said) that the preponderance of his behavior really justifies that. Because at the very least he was still choosing to swallow his compassion and do fascist stuff at the same time, and in the end those were the actions that objectively shaped the future of Oz, not the imagined attempts at sabotage he may or may not have done. Either way, he's interesting, but his actions are hard to defend.

Does this mean he didn’t commit atrocities? No probably not. But bear in mind if he hadn’t been doing it, someone else would have.

Yikes...

He literally succeeded in the exact goal he was planning by joining the Gale Force: to protect Elphaba.

But he didn't protect Elphaba. He couldn't even fuckin find her, lol. She protected herself. While he was actively participating in the violent repression that she hated more than anything in the world.

If he hadn’t been Captain of the Guard in the throne room when the Wizard called his guards she would have been captured and killed, instead she escaped which eventually allowed the Wizard to be overthrown and Elphaba’s values to be acted on in the form of Glinda ruling.

None of which was REMOTELY planned, or even likely. Granting for the sake of argument that she would definitely have been captured and/or killed had he not been in that exact place at that exact time — I'm not convinced of that — if we're really gonna try these long-term domino effect arguments, then Glinda's questionable choice not to get on the broom was actually a heroic act that ultimately led to the liberation of Oz! Come on.

There is a difference between keeping quiet, not protesting a regime and actively endorsing it. Glinda was doing the latter and she was not forced into that. (She also was not helping undermine it the same way Fiyero was).

Yes, she was literally forced into that, lol. Claiming she wasn't forced into her position when she was literally captured and molded into an asset of the regime — and then moralizing about her trying to make the best out of her literal enslavement — whilst somehow insisting that Fiyero going out of his way to enlist as an armed servant of the regime wasn't "endorsing the regime", is actually absurd. Like, it's all well and good to believe his ulterior motives for joining make it okay, but to argue that the guy who volunteers to do the hands-on violent repression side of the regime is somehow "protesting it" because he said a couple things mildly out-of-step (so mild that he doesn't seem to have faced any official criticism for it whatsoever), while the girl we saw two seconds away from getting imprisoned or worse right before the intermission is "not forced into endorsing it"?? In what universe??

Madame Morrible made abundantly clear that the only thing keeping Glinda from being thrown to the wolves like Elphaba was serving as a pretty mouthpiece for the Wizard, and nothing more. I've got a whole list of decisions she actually, with little to no coercion, that I think are legitimately questionable. But you aren't even citing those: you're just victim-blaming because she didn't... suffer enough? Or signal against her abusers enough? Like YES, I will say there's a point where a victim can cross lines and become complicit to varying degrees in their own situation — she herself all but admits this — but unless we're going to talk specifically about those instances of dubiousness, it seems as if you're just blaming her for trying to make space for herself to breathe and not be miserable every waking moment of her... *checks notes*... forced servitude in the regime with absolute power over her life????? A victim trying to make the best of their terrible predicament is not a crime. And Glinda makes very clear that having to spread lies about Elphie is an abuse against her; it's a pain to her very soul. Saying it's her fault and that she wasn't forced into it is just... gross tbh.

But do not pretend for one moment that she is not actively complicit in this regime, with no real desire to stop it until it starts actively hurting her.

Yes, she got a lot of things that she wanted out of her arrangement. She is a complex character, after all. She's flawed. Certainly not the "perfect" victim. She also understands that Elphaba would want her to be safe and happy, and that silly (and outright wrong) rumors will not actually bring any more harm to Elphaba than what she already faces. It's a challenging situation, but Glinda chose to pursue a net positive approach: do her part to maintain her situation, make the best of it, and trust that one day Elphie would manage to set things right. She was incorrect — in the end, she had to be the one to do what Elphaba couldn't — but to claim that she was at fault for her own situation and could/should have done more to push back but just didn't want to enough (and moreover, that Fiyero somehow is NOT accountable for his much more violent, much more voluntary situation), is just perverse. The regime was actively hurting her the entire time; Fiyero certainly understands suffering and living one's best life at the same time, so don't act like it doesn't count for her.

He gave up his wealth, privilege and safety to ensure Elphaba escaped from the throne room and continued her cause (this isn’t about running away with Elphaba btw, he lost everything from the moment he pointed the gun at the Wizard). He was ready to die for her in the Corn Field scene. I don’t know what more you want him to do to prove that he was not shallow and he wouldn’t die for his cause in the exact same way Elphaba was prepared to?

He acted on spontaneous desire, as he always does, and is a nihilist who never gave a shit about any of the things (or people) he cast to the wind to begin with. "He lost everything" — and you expect me to find that brave and romantic, I take it? I don't. Throwing caution and care aside to run off and have a passionate night with the object of his affects isn't WRONG — and I've never said that it is — it's foolish and selfish and impulsive. And as I explained many times: I think it's cool that he's like that. But please do not expect me to accept your premise that these actions were deep and selfless. The actions of a depressive with nothing left to lose, recklessly pursuing the one and only object of obsession that keeps him going — irrespective of all other considerations, even hers — is actually shallow and selfish. It isn't a crime to act on passion or desperation or whatever, and as I've said, I think it's really interesting on multiple levels. Just because he's shallow doesn't mean he doesn't have layers; just not many. We can acknowledge his motives as essentially selfish and still respect that he defended her. I think we should be a little more critical and ALSO account for the consequences of his actions in ways that he did not. Why is that such a controversial suggestion?

Fiyero is the only character of the trio to put thoughts into his actions. He is the only one who doesn’t immediately act on his impulses.

Hard disagree. Like yeah, Elphaba and Glinda have their own brands and moment of impulsivity too — I wrote about it in my original post — but no, Fiyero does not think through shit. He doesn't think about the potential consequences of denouncing the rumors about Elphie; Glinda has to temper his impulse to do so. He doesn't think about the potential consequences of abandoning Glinda; for never cared about either his own safety or hers, only Elphie's. If you assume he joined in the army to be a double agent, then he clearly didn't think through or care about all the violence he was going to have to commit.

I'm not saying he isn't clever — his thoughtlessness is not a function of lacking intelligence, but of lacking concern — and I'm not saying he's reactive to denigrate him. Things happen around him, and if it's something that ignites his passion he acts boldly and fearlessly, with zero concern for anyone or anything outside of that moment. When he makes "plans", they're all very ad hoc and making resourceful use of situations that he absolutely did not (and could not) have planned for. Which is neat! Some find that bold, spontaneous, "she's all that I care for in this world" intense personality type romantic. I'm not one of them, but I can see the appeal; as I've acknowledged. I think it's a bit sad that he behaves that way tbh: because it speaks to his pretty hollow existence, as Elphaba herself identified.

[Wicked Act II spoilers]

[edited for tone and clarity of purpose, apologies for initial crudeness and frustration]

Okay, obviously I'm biased, but I'm gonna need the Fiyeraba shippers to please set a lot of your people straight about some things. I've seen way too many people trying to say that Glinda is just a selfish bimbo and that Fiyero is a virtuous and selfless figure more worthy of Elphaba's love. I'll set aside for now the idea of "worthiness" in this context. But let's start off with Fiyero joining the Wizard. Hoo boy...

Yes, he was initially somewhat less tolerant of the propaganda against Elphaba than Glinda was; yes, he was secretly trying to find her so he could run away with her or whatever. But honey: those facts DO NOT fully absolve his actions as the Wizard's top officer, or selfish recklessness throughout Act II. I see so many popular threads and posts romanticizing and whitewashing with "oh but he didn't REALLY join the Wizard, he just pretended so he could try to get to Elphie! It's all for love, and he sacrificed everything for her!" As if the literal captain of the literally fascist forces responsible for the oppression of Animals wasn't equally responsible for said oppression?? Hello? Fiyero really didn't think of seeking out Elphaba in ANY other way that DIDN'T involve becoming *checks notes*... the trusted leader of the troops committing all the abuses she's fighting against in the first place???? Like it's cool and all that he helped with Brrr, and it's all well and good that he planned on betraying the Wizard as soon as he found Elphaba (which took literal years, so I guess we're left to assume he was prepared to just keep doing fascism indefinitely if she didn't show up????), but uh... it's kind of concerning to how eager some of you are to make excuses for this dude volunteering as the head of the Ozian Gestapo??? smdh

He didn't accomplish anything from it either, by the way — like yeah, we get it, he did everything he did whilst silently fantasizing about running away with the Witch he was being paid to hunt. Fine. But I can't be the only one who doesn't buy that as an actual excuse???? Like, guys: nobody forced him to join the fascist army — even with crazy ulterior motives. He wasn't coerced into it; it wasn't his only choice or anything. Searching for Elphaba did not somehow compel him to go and volunteer to follow (or to give!) orders in the name of the dictator who was trying to have her assassinated the entire time. He could have just not done all that. (Genuinely so curious how the second film plans on covering that material tbh)

Glinda made several questionable decisions that can be (and have been) debated, but she is still very unambiguously a victim. Her position in the Wizard's regime was foisted upon her. There are things we can discuss, but I find that many folks need reminding that Glinda would undoubtedly have been disposed of (or worse) if she failed to make herself useful. I mean hell: she wasn't even supposed to meet the Wizard in the first place — she was only there because of Elphie. If she'd tried to resist, it would have immediately gotten her labeled the Witch's accomplice. As soon as she'd chosen not to get on the broom, her fate was out of her hands, and all available options were varying degrees of horrible.

That's not the case with Fiyero. He went to the Wizard all on his own; no one ever cornered or forced him into it. Thinking Animals are people, and having a crush on Elphaba, simply did not stop him from carrying out the regime's orders — for years. It's not clear exactly how long he's been captain at the start of Act II, but the clear implication is that he's been a soldier for most of the time skip. I've seen Fiyeraba accounts with headcanons about him acting as a double agent, secretly doing stuff to help Animals — and that's a great idea, it would indeed serve to make a lot of his actions way more palatable — but until we actually get to SEE some of that (maybe they'll add it for the movie version of Act II; we'll have to see), there is nothing in the story to suggest that. He certainly didn't do a damn thing for all those Animals who were enslaved and caged in the Wizard's palace — and we don't see a single other Animal outside of there in Act II, so as far as we know Fiyero has participated over those years in the near-total removal of Animals from Ozian society. In the name of "finding Elphaba". Not fighting for her cause. Just finding HER. For HIMSELF.

It's fine to have a ship you like, obviously — and there is genuinely a lot to like about Fiyeraba, I don't dislike the idea of them as a couple or as friends — but come on guys: please stop those out there idealizing Fiyero as somehow a clear "morally-superior" alternative to Glinda, lol. The dude had power, access, and opportunities, for years, that he could have wielded in any number of really selfless, revolutionary ways. He didn't. And I propose (apparently controversially): he simply didn't want to. And that — at the end of the day — is (much as some would like to deny it) true to his character. He always WANTED to be self-absorbed and shallow, and all his actions are consistent with that. Elphaba saw depth and discontentment in him, yes: but (and I cannot stress this enough) when given the chance, he channeled that in the wrong direction. He didn't confront that and become a better person — for the most part he just displaced and projected it onto Elphaba as an object of obsession, and put on an even thicker pretense than before.

All his actions — regardless of the complexity he has deep down — are those of a man who never gives one fuck about anything or anyone, except (kinda sorta) Elphaba. But even then: at no time does the care he has for her seem to extend to caring about any of her wants or needs outside of sexual validation from him, or how she might feel about his actions, or indeed the impacts of those actions upon her, her cause, or anyone or anything else. I don't think it should be all that controversial to say: he doesn't think through the wider repercussions of anything he does — thoughtlessness is just one of his core character traits. He doesn't think ahead or see meaning in anything outside of what can temporarily excite him, in the moment. I think people place a little too much weight on Elphaba clocking him with regard to his internal pain, and seem to expect (understandably of course) that she is not only right, but moreover that he will grow from that in a positive direction, based on her influence.

But he doesn't. If anything, we get a surprising inverse: he pretty much proves her wrong. Not to say he didn't have hidden depth and all that, like she said: but his hypothetical heart of gold proves not to really amount to much in practice. He doesn't grow out of his shallowness and his self-centeredness: he grows into it in a way that he hadn't quite yet in school. Where once he was only masking an internal listlessness, after he's been cracked open by Elphaba he decides to be genuinely self-absorbed and deeply shallow, not just coasting by. He performs in new ways — as a soldier, eventually as a "fiancé", etc. — but by Act II we meet a Fiyero who has staked the last remaining shred of humanity in him on the vain pursuit of the only object of his desire that has ever been unavailable to him, and firmly chosen to say to hell with everyone and everything else.

When put to the test, Fiyero sacrifices Glinda, the Animals, and all else that Elphaba actually cared about, to pursue his own unresolved crush from college. Mostly to get in her pants, really — as harsh as I'm sure that sounds. But let me be frank: that is literally all he ever accomplishes in the show. He gives her dick one time, and one of his castles, and that's it. That's the culmination of his years trying to find her — years in which he actively worked as one of the stormtroopers (or even the one commanding them) committing untold crimes against Animalkind (who, again, it seems have been all but erased from Oz by Act II): y'know, the very crimes Elphaba sacrificed her life to try and stop????? He spent the most important time of his life — of his own free will — being a fascist soldier, but he "did it for her" somehow, so according to some, it's perfectly fine. Heroic, even. Yikes??

But let's make something very clear (since my original version of this post caught a lot of flak, including slurs and other rudeness):

I like Fiyero. I find his role extremely interesting (I could do a whole dissertation on him, but I'm especially a fan of the way his proving Elphaba's assessment of him wrong presents a fascinating parallel and contrast with Glinda, which I think is lost on a lot of people). But PLEASE stop with all the misguided Glinda slander and idealization of Fiyero. By all means, thirst! But don't give me all this bullshit about him deserving Elphaba more, or being super deep, or being really principled or noble or whatever else. He does have layers, and quite intriguing ones, but his insides are straw — he isn't meant to have some deep, overwrought emotional core or motivations; he has passions that he acts upon when given the chance. That's it. And that's fine. Actually kind of refreshing in a story rooted in simple children's fantasy but rife with intensely complicated personalities. Fiyero makes it his mission to represent denial of depth and embrace of raw, spontaneous desire — and I for one love that, and wish others appreciated it.

And in all seriousness, shipping wars aside: by the end of the story, it's Glinda who is ultimately vindicated, and has — for all her faults — made the necessary choices to fulfill Elphaba's wishes, bring down the regime, etc. And all that despite herself. She's miserable: not just because of the mistakes she made, but because of her correct moves as well. Fiyero is simply not — and could never be — that person. And that's okay! Like I said: I am not anti-Fiyero. Fiyero's willingness to throw it all away for the sake of sheer, overriding passion is a huge part of what people like about him, of course — and it's an obvious factor in the attraction between him and Elphaba, because she has her own flavor of that impulse as well — but I'd actually argue that it's not romantic, it's his fatal flaw. And thematically that's fantastic! But I just don't believe that it somehow means he "deserves Elphaba more" because he "gave up his life for her" or whatever. In part because NOBODY truly "deserves" Elphie tbh, not 100% (and I question anybody who claims otherwise), but ultimately because I don't accept the idea that his fleeting acts of passion make up for all the shit leading up to them (or even proceeding after them tbh). At least Glinda managed to do what Elphaba always wanted in the end — but I would die on this hill even if Gelphie didn't exist.

You don't have to agree with my analysis of Fiyero and his choices, relationships, etc. — that's fine. What isn't fine is trying to portray Glinda as some kind of spineless traitor whore for the Wizard and Fiyero as a conscientious hero who earned Elphie through self-sacrifice. That's just not the story that was written. It's WAY messier and more interesting than that.

[virq-qgo]

Arthur Morgan x reader

Hey hun, I hope this was good enough for you! I am so excited that I am your first ask, haha!! I am unfortunately not that good at writing angst, and I’m a little rough with writing right now since it’s been a little while.. I also just actually started the game so I know nothing about Mary Linton, or the whole game play in this area. So I am so sorry if this is completely wrong and messed up!!

Warnings: mentions of cheating but no cheating actually happened, angst, my writing, angst to fluff, Arthur is probably very OOC.. my writing once again, not proofread

Mary Linton. The most prettiest girl in town, the woman that every man wanted, but could never get.

No man could keep his eyes, hands, lips off her.

And you were stupid to think that Arthur would be smart enough to know better. But that night, when you were returning back from a trip that Dutch had set you on. You saw Arthur and Mary Linton together at the bar. His hand on the small of her back and her hands pressed against his chest.

Every man in that bar hated Arthur, for he was the only man that got to look at her, who got to touch her.

The look of love shone in Mary’s eyes as she look at Arthur. But could you blame her? Despite Arthur saying he’s a bad man, he was a good one. He made sure every woman was safe. That anyone was safe.

That’s why you fell in love with him.

Unfortunately, as soon as you tried to leave the scene. Your lover quickly spotted you. He had a smile on his face as he wave you down to come join them. But his smile quickly dropped when he saw your frown and your eagerness to leave.

Tears popped in your eyes as you turned around and left the bar. Millions of thought rushed through your head while you walked home. Were you not pretty enough? Maybe it’s because you weren’t smart. Or perhaps it was because you were running away from the law. Not understanding what could’ve made Arthur change his mind really hurt.

The amount of times where he lied with you in the grass, his arms around your body. Telling you what he was gonna do with you in the future. The amount of kids he wanted with you. What time of farm house you’d live in. And what type of animals you should have.

A hand touching your shoulder broke you from your turn of thought. You twisted your head to see the one and only Arthur with a displeased look on his face.

“Why did you leave?” He asked, his scruffy voice was softer than usual.

Quiet for a few moments, you decide to speak. “I had no business there.”

“Bullshit, you look like you’ve been cryin’” Arthur had now fully turned you around. With his hand on your body. He inspected your face, he knew you had been crying. Arthur was so good at reading you, you hated it.

“Are you just gonna leave a lady all alone in a bar full of drunk men?” The question came out saltier sounding than you intended.

“What does this have to do with her?” Arthur asked, crossing his arms as he fully inspected you.

A sigh escaped your lips and you felt a new set of tears wash in. “What’s so special about her Arthur? What does she have that I don’t? If it’s my looks, I can change them. Or maybe it’s because I’m an outlaw, and you want a normal girl. So I can turn myself in for you. I just want to be good enough for you.”

“Whoa, hey now.” Arthur pulled you in closely to him. His hands gripping your waist as he held you the way you liked to be. “What’s all up in that head, pretty girl? Why’er talkin like that?”

But when you didn’t respond, he frowned.

“C‘mom baby girl,” he spoke softly while his thumb came up to wipe the tear that was rolling down your cheek. “If you’re upset about Mary and I in the bar. Then you truly don’t have to worry. Some guy was just messin’ with her.”

Your heart hurt, you were too insecure to notice the situation before. Of course, he was just doing his part and helping. Arthur truly loved you, you were his woman. And nothing would ever change that.

Tears continued to flow out of your pretty eyes, cashing Arthur to pull you in for a hug. One arm resting around your waist as for the other, he was playing with your hair. Hoping to get you distracted.

“I’m so sorry Arthur, I-“ you stuttered over yourself. You couldn’t find the words to say anything.

Except Arthur always knew what to do, he knew you like the back of his own hand. His hands cradle your beautiful face as blue eyes look into yours. Oh how he wanted to marry you right then and there. You were absolutely so beautiful to him, to know how much love you had in your heart for him. He loved it. He was so in love with you.

“I don’t think you understand, just how much I love you.” His thumb brushes away your tears as he softly talks to you. “I am so in love you, girl. It drives me absolutely nuts. Mary Linton can’t even compare to you. You are my woman, hell. You’re gonna be my wife. You don’t gotta change your looks, cause I love waking up every day and seeing your face and kissing those lips. I love how your body fits just right in my hands.”

“Arthur,” You try to call out, but he immediately hushes you.

“You don’t get to talk until you understand that you are my woman. That I don’t want no other, just you, alright?”

You nod your head with a soft smile on your lips. You bury your head in his chest, your heart feeling a little warmer and he continues to tell you just how much he loved you.

[munv]

𝗠𝗔𝗗𝗘 𝗢𝗙 𝗦𝗧𝗢𝗡𝗘.

𝗜𝗻 𝘄𝗵𝗶𝗰𝗵, 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗻𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗮𝗹𝗼𝗻𝗴𝘀𝗶𝗱𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗿𝗲 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗹𝗱, 𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗶𝗽𝗽𝗲𝗱 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆𝗱𝗮𝘆 𝗹𝗶𝗳𝗲. 𝗦𝗲𝘁 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗦𝘁𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗔𝗴𝗲, 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗺𝗲𝗲𝘁 𝗻𝗲𝘄 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗽𝗮𝗻𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀

Discord server for updates

P2

How long has it been? You can't tell, or more like you couldn't. Time didn't exist, and the few rare moments where you felt like it did? You tried anything and everything within your power to escape from this deep sleep, whatever it was. Maybe this was some really messed up fever dream? Or did the aliens beat the government and now you're in their little experimentation room? 

Then you started to feel it, that small pull, that would set you free. And so It did. It felt like a chain reaction of burning, and then feeling completely refreshed all over your body. It was painful, but as soon as you started to move your hands out of the cracked stone, you felt way better. It was only a few mere seconds, but life didn't feel so dull anymore. 

You squinted as you sat up from your crouched position, the vibrant trees surrounded you, and a breeze rushed towards your body. You struggled for a bit before standing upright, using a tree branch as leverage. The art club room where you had once taken shelter was gone, and instead you were embraced by Mother Nature at her finest. 

It's been a while since you've last seen so many trees. Normally they were all cut down for some kind of usage, like the desks you had at school. It finally struck you that you were in fact, alone. Not in the way that you had hoped when you were in school and you needed some alone time every once in a while.

No, now there wasn't enough noise to indulge in, no gossip to listen to during lunch, and no one to come and check up on you every once in a while. You were officially alone. Nothing but stone statues to grace your eyesight and greenery. The society that you once knew was gone, and you had to at least come to terms with the new environment, so with lanky arms and empty head, you began to get accustomed with your surroundings. 

  Step one: cover up

You fumbled a bit with the leaves that you were able to find and some vine, before successfully covering your most vulnerable parts

Step two: identifying sources of food and water

After rustling though many bushes, you finally came across what seemed to be a fresh source of water from a nearby stream, did it taste good? hell yeah? were you able to find food? fuck no

step three: explore surroundings 

Now this one was a bit challenging, because not only are in the wild with no where to call home, but there could also be wild animals. Without a doubt humans are no longer at the top of the food chain, since zoo's existed, you don't doubt that some pretty hungry beasts are roaming around right this second, even ones who aren't even native to Japan too. 

So that's how you began the hike of worry

So, scrap the whole "oh im alone and there's no one else on the planet now!" now you were face to face with what seemed to be a village. Your only problem? The two guards in front of you, who didn’t seem so keen on your arrival 

“Stop. Who are you and what do you have to do with this village?” His voice was like a sharp blade, a contrast to his counterpart who looked much more relaxed, but curious 

Almost as if it was instinct, you raised your hands "I don't have anything on me, I just need resources to survive is all". The brown haired man narrowed his eyes with something akin to malice. "We don't allow just anyone into our village. Begone"

'begone? what kind of-'

"Kinro, I don't think she looks like a threat! I mean, it's just some harmless girl!" 

'should I be offended or happy he's backing me up?..' you sweat dropped, by the looks at it he was basically feigning at the idea of a girl being let into the village. Pretty scary honestly but you'll take what you can get. "yeah! I'm just some...harmless girl!" you cringed at the words that just left your mouth.

"Rules are Rules Ginro, this is about trust, not about what you can do" he stood tall, spear in hand. He almost looked as if he was belittling you right now. Clearly he wasn't convinced. 

'so he's one of those types, this is gonna be a breeze'

"say, how about I strike you a deal?" you lowered your raised hands and outstretched one. Kinro let out a unimpressed grumble, before finally hearing you out. "I can prove to you guys the im not a threat, and for the hell of it? I'll even make you a promise."

"oh yeah! Kinro loves those so-" "Ginro." the blonde one gave a nervous expression before apologizing. "what if I beat you in a sparring match? Im assuming those spears you carry around aren't for show right?" 

Kinro studied you for what felt like a minute with an unreadable expression. "what are your conditions?" 

'perfect'

"If you win, I'll leave and you will never see me again..If I win however? I'll have the right to stay in your village. Although I have to talk to your chief for that, you cannot deny me access in regards to leaving and entering. Satisfied?" You kept your hand outstretched, waiting for him to take it. It wasn't too long before he gave a brisk nod and stepped forward to take your hand in his much larger one. "I accept your terms, make sure you honor them"

"I expect no less, mr Kinrou" you gave him a smile "..just Kinro, please." pink dusted his cheeks 

Kinro lunged first once it began, spear in hand, and it made you swear he probably had half a mind to kill you and be done with it. You sidestepped the blade, with it narrowly missing your shoulder. He gave you no time to catch breath before spinning his weapon around again in an arc, feeling the air slice as it passed overhead. Using the stone knife that was given to you by Ginro, you aimed for his side. He brought down the spear to block the strike. You stumbled a bit but recovered quickly, so in a desperate attempt, you twisted your body and slid down onto the ground and aimed for his legs. 

In one swell swoop, he lost his balance and began to fall. You used to the small amount of time you had while he struggled to position yourself onto of him, knife aimed to cut through his throat while your legs held him down; one hand holding down his arm.

Ginro watched with surprise as you easily subdued his brother, "Oh no Kinro!" he trembled at the hostility that filled the air.

"I give in." he said with labored breathing. "You have proven yourself more than enough" his once tight grip on his weapon loosened as his body slumped. You shared a strained smile "you fight well"

"same to you..ah, what's your name?"

"[name]. Just [name]"

[miimo96]

Finally got around to watching this and ya know after seeing this film I can CONFIDENTLY say, yeah this movie definitely deserves a sequel more than anything because omg this movie was SO GOOD, like i don't what the hell Hasbro was thinking with the marketing when it comes to this movie but Omg it definitely wasn't what I was expecting, because OMG not only is this movie good but it's also Dark AF, and I'm so glad that it's like that because we haven't had something like that in a LONG time when it comes down to animation films or tv shows, (unless it's something like anime or whatever) like you can tell this was made by actual people who respect the source material and are TRUE Transformer fans, from the writing, to the fights, to even the effing character designs, like this movie just feels like it was made with love and passion the entire time. I'm begiging y'all if you haven't seen it yet PLEASE go do so, because you won't regret it ^^ man I really hope this gets a sequel because it deserves it wholeheartedly, damn why did I wait so long to watch this 😖

[luck-of-the-drawings]

!!! FLASHING LIGHTS WARNING!!! [IM NOT FUCKIN AROUND!!]

REACHED THE CUSP OF 'THIS MAY NEVER BE ABSOLUTELY FINISHED N IF I DONT SHOW IT NOW, IT WILL NEVER SEE THE LIGHT OF DAY.' SO HERE, A PROJECT IVE BEEN ORBITING AROUND UHH SINCE 2021 OR SO.

[000marie198]

The trailer of The Glassworker is here!

This is the frst ever Pakistani hand-drawn anime movie. And it looks so good! Very excited to watch it :D

Since it's a local movie, I can't wait for this to be the first thing I watch on the big screen!