#it probably doesn’t make sense

[storeecbrcod]

Whump Drabble/fic where Soap suffers realistic trauma from MWIII (though we’ll put a bandaid over his ultimate fate lol).

TW: explicit medical injuries and treatments, angst with a bittersweet ending, will likely be inaccurate in some way seeing as I’m not a medical professional nor a trauma doctor/nurse (I’m just a girl fr), Ghoap✨

Ghost had been wrangling with this worm of guilt that chewed at his heart, something that he thought he had grown accustom to over his life but was now back with a vengeance. When he wasn’t clawing his skin from his bone to try and find the fucker, he was with Johnny.

He had thought the hardest part of this would be overcoming that guilt, but he quickly realised the coma was much worse.

He’d followed soldiers after they’d suffered significant GSW trauma before, of course he had. He’d caused many himself, knew how to engineer one that would guarantee a kill, knew how impossible it seemed yet possible it was to survive a shot to the temple, nearly point blank. He knew what recovery entailed.

Yet, he didn’t know what recovery entailed when it made the soft birdsong in his life silent and still.

He was a sniper and a stealth operative, he was used to sitting in one place during recon, unmoving and hyperaware for hours on end, days or weeks or even months at a time.

Yet, he wasn’t used to searching for a heartbeat and willing it to keep going rather than aiming to stop it.

He’d never felt so restless in his life, cataloguing every detail of the man on the bed in front of him every day. He watched as bandages turned red, watched as the side of his head swelled and bruised and went so black it was like staring into space. He read the words ‘Pressure relief DO NOT TOUCH’ scribbled on the vacuum-sealed, open wound on the back of a window in his skull over and over and over until swelling bowed the dressing and the words didn’t make sense.

He watched air be pumped through tubes down his throat when his brain couldn’t do it for him, and saw urine pool in a bag next to the bed. He watched nurses exercise his body, watched the shut door as they cleaned him up with sponge baths. He’d watched the codes be called and watched from outside the room as ribs were broken in the frail, pale body that was a fifth of the size it used to be and void of the usual tan.

He watched it all. He watched everything.

Just watched.

He knew people in comas could often hear what’s going on around them, he’d learnt that when he rushed Tommy to the hospital after a particularly bad overdose. But it was like his lips were fused together, vocal cords totally lax and frozen. He couldn’t speak, wouldn’t speak, scared of what would tumble from his tongue and leave in the open when Johnny couldn’t even respond.

Spontaneity was a common tactic on the field, as much as they tried to negate it. It wasn’t very often a plan went totally right. Damage control and problem solving were heavily exercised skills that Ghost possessed.

But he couldn’t solve this. He could wish death on Makarov as much as he did before, he could research the best trauma surgeons and doctors and nurses and therapists in the UK, he could monitor Johnny’s condition obsessively all he wants, but he can’t fix it. He can’t heal the snapped neurons, he can’t dig into Johnny’s veins and fish out the blood clots that continued to threaten his life or limbs. He couldn’t crawl into John’s skin and nest there in his warmth, protect him and feel protected. He couldn’t.

Helplessness wasn’t something he’d felt in a long time, but he’d much rather be clawing out of his own grave as ravens cawed again than have to put John in one, still and unable to dig to join Simon.

So when Soap eventually does wake, it felt like an endless tunnel came to an abrupt end with blinding lights and trees, waiting for birds to call their greeting.

He made his own greeting, his imposing yet solid presence next to the bed as tubes were removed and the body was propped up and assurances were given. He was eager, after 4 months of pure silence about to be filled with music again.

But it was off key.

“Where am I?”

“Hospital, Johnny.”

A furrowed brow.

“Who th’ fuck ah you?”

Simon thought that the worst part of all this was the coma, the silence, but he was wrong. It was the recovery.

Simon had learnt that the temple was the perfect place to locate the parts of the brain responsible to speech, decision making and rationalisation, and memory. He’d learnt how irritating it could be re-explaining the same thing over and over every few minutes could be, he learnt of the shame that followed the irritation knowing that Soap couldn’t help it. He learnt how much it hurt to be escorted out of the room for routine check-ups because the once unrelenting trust between him and Johnny had relented to the shadow of unknown.

He had learnt that nothing is permanent.

His visits became less and less. Unsurprisingly, John (not Johnny; only his family calls him that) didn’t want a mountain of a man, full of angst and anger and sadness, haunting the corners of his hospital room. He only wanted his ma and pa, and as much as it hurt Ghost, he respected his wishes.

For months, Ghost isolated himself, got lost in his work. For months, John worked at recovery, regaining his smart mouth and witty remarks, slowly relearning his impulse control that wasn’t really as much control as it was pure will power to restrain himself.

For months, Ghost sought birdcall in the gurgles of his enemies’ throats, revelling in the garbled melodies that never matched the one he remembered, but breaking off just the same.

Beware the mockingbird, Johnny would say.

Yet here he was, searching for a blue jay’s song among the mouths of the unknown and wicked.

He got so used to the warped record that he often found himself forgetting what the original chords sounded like when they reverberated through his chest, right to his heart. Was it sweet, like the pull of a blade through supple skin? Was it explosive, like the crack of body armour in the gap between Kevlar plates? Was it deafening, like the rounds discharged that aimed for his heart?

Was it quiet, like an unmonitored heartbeat over nighttime?

Was it gentle, like the lingering touches left on his waist that still burned his skin months later?

Was it still there?

“Simon.”

Ghost blinked, looking up to Price. He hadn’t realised that he’d let his gaze wander, his mind even further.

“You need to go see him.”

There’s a cry of a broken-winged dove in his ears, overshadowed by the croon of a raven. Stability and chaos, broken and mended in one.

It hurt his head.

“He asked me to leave,” Ghost reasoned.

“When he first woke up, yes,” Price conceded. “Back when you honoured your callsign very proficiently, mind you.”

A scoff erupted from Ghost’s chest, under his crossed arms.

“Look, Simon,” Price sighed, leaning back against his desk, blue eyes of cobalt melting the sulphurous gleam of Ghost’s brown ones. “He remembers, now. Remembered Gaz in a matter of moments, recognised me soon after.”

There was a pause, pregnant and heavy as Ghost kept his mouth shut, luring Price to continue. Daring him to try and push past the raven’s sharp talons to help the dove.

A hand reaches towards the nest.

“It might be time for you to try again.”

The raven hesitates.

“The hospital staff spoke to us about how helping Soap’s brain reconnect the broken neural pathways from the trauma could help him recover faster.”

The dove coos.

“Please, Simon.”

Outstretched fingers.

“Fuck, I can’t watch two of my men crumble at the same time.”

A flurry of feathers, the screeching of breath through gravel, rubber on road, nails on chalkboard. It’s overwhelming, sending his heart into overdrive and rationality to the wind.

“Fuck you, Price.”

Yeah, the recovery hurt the most.

Looking in the mirror during recovery, specifically, hurt like a bitch. Scars that pulled over once unmarred skin, hollow cheeks where laughter and smiles once grew, gnarled soul and memories where purity reigned. It was all thrown back at you, as insistent as a murder of crows at your doorstep.

He could see the way John, not Johnny, sifted through his memory like a locked filing cabinet while trying to place Ghost, desperately searching through the unlocked drawers over and over for the file he needed, all while the closed drawers taunted him with kept knowledge. It was all right there, yet he couldn’t access it.

“Ghost, aye?”

It’s met with a grunt. Silence stretches out, black feathers shielding the delicate white ones.

“And ye were my… lieutenant?”

He was going off of information fed to him, his brow furrowed in concentration, still trying to place Ghost. He couldn’t tell where the darkness around him ended and Ghost started, obscured by inky blackness.

He doesn’t sound right. It’s not the same teasing, playful lilt that danced in the air. It’s not pronounced the same, not said the same, it’s not the same.

It’s some… imposter. Something that looks the same and smells the same and tastes the fucking same, but it’s different.

A cuckoo’s egg in a nest.

“Price ‘nd Kyle were telling me some stories about ye,” John noted with a small smile. “You’re quite the stunner out field, ‘pparently.”

It’s an olive branch, a bridge built half way. An offering to meet in the middle, to talk and revere and remember.

But Ghost didn’t remember, and neither did John.

Recovery never ends, you know. It goes on and on and on, haunting your nerves and your wits for the rest of your life. You’ll always have some sort of ache or pain, a reminder of what happened to you.

John never ended up recovering fully. He was medically discharged, left to nurse a broken cage and a silent heart. He did well, considering; it wasn’t hard when you didn’t remember the song that beat with the rhythm of your heart.

He still joined the team on outings sometimes, staying in a local hotel when everyone was back at base. They’d have a meal, or go to a pub, catch up. Re-establish connections once lost.

Ghost rarely joined them, to save his own torment.

But of course, he had to honour the dove occasionally. Just as he was now, sitting across the table from the lively Scot and with his two other teammates, Gaz and Price. Beers had been served, a single glass of warm whiskey for cold hands. The table was lively, fun, rambunctious in all the best ways.

The cuckoo had hatched in earnest, Ghost found.

It was easy to see the progress John had made, loud and bright and cheeky like he used to be. Demanding of attention, hungry for every scrap of past he could swallow to try and heal old wounds. Listening to stories about himself and his old crew when they were all together, as if it was another version of him. The right version of him.

And by god, were the scraps from Simon the most nourishing of all.

John’s mouth felt desert dry, cactus dust caking his tongue as he bit desperately into every glimpse of Ghost’s bare face, lips wrapped around glass and breath smelling of potent, liquid gold with every word. It hurt, it tasted awful, and it was impossible to rid himself from. It hurt so good, feeling his heart pull and swell in ways he didn’t understand anymore.

He felt like glass, he felt like the air, he felt like expensive liquor, he felt like it was meant to be him in their places, held and touched and breathed and consumed. It was overwhelming, leaving him starstruck and staring, a flutter in his chest reawakened.

Ghost’s own nest was erupting with displaced wind, white wings desperate to spread and carry it away, escape the raven’s hold. Right now, meeting Johnny’s eyes, he realised that the time spent captive in the nest had only lent to the dove’s healing. It was stronger now, bigger and fiercer and so, so hopeful.

The cuckoo cackled, loud and leering. Mockingbirds whistled and cawed, off key and haunting. The raven keened, shaken and damning.

The white dove flew.

The blue jay sang above the bramble.

And the two nested together, among the dappled branches of a birchwood tree, cool and calm and surrounded by colour year round. Above the bramble of the past.

Ghost had learnt one thing over everything else; a lesson that was recurrent in his life, stubborn and overwhelming. It swallowed him in waves, crashing him into the sand bank below.

Nothing is ever, ever permanent.

Admittedly, his retirement had gone well. The down payment was easy, the renovations smooth, moving in a sigh of relief. They’d have their harder days, where getting out of bed and walking without aid was difficult for Johnny, but they’d have their good days, too. They’d have their days where they’d go for walks across the countryside, watch as their service dog bounced around through tall grass, tongue lolling from her mouth.

They’d have quiet days, relaxing days. They’d have loud days, rough days.

But they were all days where the sun would rise and then set.

They were all days when the blue jay sang.

Simon had forgotten silence. His life was filled with sound, and love, and content.

Maybe… maybe the worst part of it all was loss.

Maybe the worst part of it all was the unmoving body, still warm.

Maybe the worst part of it all was the frantic screams that drowned out the silence.

Maybe the worst part of it all was the silence.

Silence.

A/N: bandaids don’t last forever

Idk if this is coherent or cohesive or any other co-words meaning readable and enjoyable. Maybe I’ll rewrite it, who knows. Probably not, I can’t post consistently as it is lmao

[hauntmemaybe]

Ok so I was going post this as a life hack or something not related to my posts but then I realized this is SUCH a thing Percy would do

So basically showering with the lights off is so magical and it kind of soothes my headache/anxiety/ stress in general

Like just imagine Percy after the war (s) just takes a cold ass shower with the lights off- he can’t stand to see his own reflection through the mirror, and it hurts

He can’t stand to think of himself as a monster with blood on his hands and it’s all his fault

So he’s washing the blood off, without the lights so he doesn’t see the damage he caused in the world and on himself with simply just surviving.

[gutsby]

Bigger in Texas

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: Joel won’t fit.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Size kink (seriously, don’t read if you hate big dicks / disgusting descriptions) Penis and pussy pronouns. Virginity loss. Age gap. Praise kink. Daddy kink. Joel ‘hung like a fucking horse’ Miller is a soft dom and also a good teacher. Competence kink (?)

Note: Somebody made a fic challenge to use penis pronouns, and I can’t for the life of me remember who it was. If y’all find them please show them this and tell them I love their brain 🫠

Update: @sp00kymulderr you’re a legend for this. Dick pronouns are engrained in my brain, and I’m forever grateful.

Word count: 2.3k

This wasn’t the life Joel Miller had pictured for himself.

The dead coming back to roam the world and eradicate most of its population, for one. The cold. Finding his baby brother way out here in Wyoming with a wife and a child on the way. The looks he was getting these days. It’s not like he’d asked to get mixed up with a girl your age. It just happened. And since damn near every-fucking-thing that had “happened” to him since outbreak day fifteen years back had been bottom of the barrel, full-blown nightmare territory, the second he saw a good thing fumble across his path, he’d seized it—you.

You, who were young enough to be his daughter.

You, who’d never seen a man fully before meeting him.

You, who hadn’t squeezed so much as a finger in herself.

But much like his past, Joel Miller was a sordid and sick kind of man, and he had the cock to prove it: presently weeping precum at the site of your softest, tightest hole, smearing the pearly-white slick through your folds with a sound so sweet it was nauseating. Begging for entrance.

“Oughta have a boy your age pop your cherry, kid.”

It was simple.

“Ain’t right havin’ a man my age all in your guts.”

And true.

The head of his cock made another wet, sickening noise through your folds, and as though instigated by the sound, your eyes flitted to the source. You smiled.

“Probably. But I want you,” you answered. Soft.

Joel got harder, and he hadn’t thought that was possible. His gaze joined yours, and the sight nearly finished him.

Beneath him, your legs had spread wider, showcasing that perfectly glistening seam alongside the head of his cock. He looked huge. Or you looked small. Or perhaps it was both, and he was old, and he really shouldn’t be doing this at all, but then his hips stuttered a bit and his length pushed in. Joel hissed and seized the headboard.

It wouldn’t even go in. The tip just stretched the rim.

“Baby, fuck—” Joel whimpered.

“He’s so big.”

Three little words from your lips, and it almost did him in.

Again.

You wriggled your hips and flashed another happy grin.

“He wants in, daddy. I can feel him pulsin’ like I am.”

You volleyed a look up to Joel as if to say, ‘So that means we’re ready, right? Will you let me have him?’

And, strangled by guilt as he was, Joel couldn’t resist.

He let his big, bulbous, leaking head sink in the tiniest bit, and he let out a groan. Your walls were so tight. This was him, too—his tip was oversized, just like the rest of him—and when it notched in an inch, Joel could see the pain flash quick in your eyes. His hips moved to retreat.

But then your heels were lifting and digging in his ass, and though strained, your voice made it out, weakly:

“Don’t, daddy. I want him.”

Joel couldn’t dream of refusing.

And his vision blurred more at that word, him.

“I-I know. He wants you too, baby—”

Another quarter-inch.

“—so, so bad.”

“Daddy!”

Joel had to blink to try and wake from his daze. His tip was so warm, hugged so perfect and snug and wet, that he didn’t even realize that was all that fit. He was stuck.

You whimpered again.

“‘S’too big, daddy. Just make him go in.”

Your eyes rolled with indignation and overwhelming pleasure alike, and your hips squirmed again. This time, you tried to nudge him in deeper, but your body simply wouldn’t budge; you’d reached the widest part of him.

“Honey, it’s—”

“Hurtin’! I need you inside me.” you cried, impatient.

“Just takes a little time to get there, darlin’—”

“Well, get to it, then. A tip ain’t enough.”

Joel’s face flushed. He might’ve been forced to bite back a laugh under any other circumstances, but this was your virginity. His bed. Your naked bodies, together, tonight.

He wasn’t about to rush it now and fuck everything up.

“This tip’s about to paint your pretty insides white and make you wait til next week to try again if you keep it up.”

That made you go still.

You shook your head while Joel released the headboard from his grip and took your hip in it instead. He grunted.

“Sweet pea, you gotta see—” he resumed, voice low, “—it won’t feel good for you or me if I just…push right in.”

You sighed, feeling his hold tighten.

“Tongue and fingers only do so much. You gotta learn.”

You whined, digging your feet in deeper when his tip drew back to your entrance. Looking a bit squeamish.

“Be brave…and patient for me.”

From the look in your eyes, Joel could tell you probably hated him right now. That was just fine. He adjusted his hips to a more comfortable place, and then he pinched your hip bone. He nudged you back, and he let you wait.

Then, right when you opened your mouth, he sank in.

Joel thrusted with only his tip, the size of a small lime, and he fucked your hole gently. Back and forth. Shallow.

It did enough. You squeezed both his forearms.

“Oh, daddy.” Your bottom lip trembled as you said it.

With his free hand, Joel smoothed your hair back.

“Yeah, what is it, baby?” he murmured, dulcet as ever, “Thought you said the tip ain’t enough for you, sugar.”

His words came slow. His strokes were delivered quick, though tenderly. Your brain appeared to be in a fog, or a trance, as your chin dipped down toward your chest, and you watched him breach the first inch of you repeatedly.

“Curious little thing.” Joel couldn’t fight the chuckle now.

“He’s so…” you trailed off.

You squeezed his arms, and he squeezed your hip back. He let you watch him fuck you with only his tip, and when your head began to tilt back from the strain, he reached up with his other hand and held the back of your neck. He felt you clench at that, and you both groaned.

“So…big,” you finished, eyes glazed.

“I know.”

This went on for the longest time: Joel stretching the first precious inch of your pussy with the head of himself, you watching and breathing deeply, whimpering occasionally, and him holding at the nape of your neck like a softer touch might lose you to him forever. Was this teaching? When you clenched again, he reckoned it was.

“That’s it, honey. Watch her swallow me.”

“Stretches real pretty for the tip, doesn’t she?”

“Bet she can’t even fit another inch of this cock.”

Suddenly, your head was jerking up under his hold.

Eyes flaring with a hot, juvenile kind of anger: “I can!”

Joel clicked his tongue against the backs of his teeth and pretended not to hear. He also had to feign indifference when your walls tightened and all but choked his head and a wave of new pleasure surged up through his body.

“She can, Joel, I’m serious!”

Another two seconds of this and Joel sensed he might see tears. Though his gaze had trailed up to yours, and the look in his appeared stern, deep down, he was just as quick to want to cave. He just hid it better than you did.

“You think so, sweet pea?”

“I know so. I need it.”

“Need him?”

“Y-Yes.”

How sweet you seemed. How naive you must be.

Joel might’ve been mean, but he wasn’t cruel. He also liked teaching lessons as much as he enjoyed showing you the way, so in the next second, he obliged. He took the last shallow thrust of his tip and sank into your cunt.

As he filled you, you whined. It only took an inch or two.

“Da-a-ddy. Please.”

You must’ve been begging for lenience. Joel retreated.

Then, much to the man’s surprise, you kicked your feet. Not in relief but in protest, shaking your head up at him:

“Put him back. Please. D-Deeper.”

It was as though Joel’s brain had exited through the back of his head and all rational thought escaped him, for the moment. The only voice he heard was yours. It was pleading. And in between your legs, you were soaked.

So drenched to allow him another inch. Then another. Then another. Joel fucked in gently and felt a seismic wave of pleasure seize his limbs—and likely yours, as well. It was as though in two blinks, you’d forgotten the pain altogether. You were suffused with need instead, eyes wincing and lips curling and sounds leaving your throat like an animal in heat. Want him deeper, please.

Joel sawed back and forth with just those five or so inches and made you writhe underneath him. Felt you clamp down on his thick, slippery cock and heard the remnants of your shared arousal making sounds as your body accepted him. Stretching wider. Getting wetter. Bringing him closer to the edge with every breath.

“She’s doin’…so good f’me,” Joel told you, brainless.

His thumb drifted to your clit. He rubbed it gently. No sooner had he finished the first circle around that nub when your hips were stirring again—this time incensed.

“Daddy.”

“I know, baby. I know.”

Joel kissed the top of your head, thumb insistent. When his eyes met yours, he was surprised to find them wet this time. Tears pooling and streaking down to your temples while your body bounced gently beneath his thrusts. A whimper trembled out, and Joel slowed.

He could tell from that look you didn’t want him to stop, though. It just felt so good. So, instead of dropping his pace too much, Joel cupped your chin in one hand, and with the other, he kept thumbing at your clit. Humming.

“Poor thing’s never had something this big in ‘er, huh?”

You shook your head. Cried a little more.

Joel kissed the tears on one side, lips smiling as he did.

“I can tell, baby. But she’s taking it so well.”

“Y-Yeah?”

His hips sped up a little. The thrusts were still shallower than they normally would be, given your state, but they seemed to be working well enough. You winced again.

Joel kissed the other side of your face to take more tears.

“Uh-huh,” he answered, “Openin’ up real nice for daddy.”

It was like his words worked as well as his thumb on your clit. You whimpered again, lips parting a little wider now, and the sound that came out was as desperate and feverish and fuck-drunk as Joel had ever heard it.

“S-Say it again,” you pleaded.

“Say what?”

“That he’s…stretchin’ me open. Makin’ me his.”

The soft, slick resonance between your body and his seemed to amplify even more—you were getting wetter, and Joel’s thrusts all but shook the bed with their force.

His eyes darkened when he felt you tighten again.

“Yeah? You like hearin’ all the filthy fuckin’ things your daddy’s doing? The way he’s breakin’ you in for him?”

You nodded. Your throat constricted with a moan.

And, just when a fresh set of tears seemed to be close on the horizon, Joel lowered himself to you. He held you to his chest, hips working relentlessly, and he watched your face screw up in pleasure. A trace of pain surfaced again, but it was soothed with a kiss. Joel grinned against you.

Between your thighs, his cock was throbbing with a feeling just as big. He knew he couldn’t keep this up much longer. Hurting and aching and needing as you were, he had to make sure that you would cum first.

When his cock grazed a fleshy, sensitive patch inside your walls, he knew it wouldn’t take much. He went on:

“C’mon, sugar. Daddy’s split you open on his cock so nice, least you can do is cum for him. Can you do that?”

His nose brushed yours. His thrusts sped up. You nodded, quickly, and when he shifted in the bed with his thumb still on your clit and his lips and his stubble grazing your mouth with every push of himself, he felt it.

It was a small pulse, at first.

Joel thought you might be adjusting—clenching—again, when the lips that were trembling against his own parted more. Your arms wound around his neck, and suddenly the throb of your walls around his member got tighter and tighter and tighter. One more second and your cunt might’ve squeezed the hot, sticky seed right out of his body and flooded your insides with it, but then came release. The ‘o’ of your mouth let out a shriek, at last, and your body went soft around him, beneath him, whining in turn, ‘Daddy, daddy, please’ while the muscles once taut and unflinching gave him reprieve. Fluttering repeatedly.

Joel fucked you through it. He talked you through it.

He stroked your hair, and he held you tight. Called you his sweetheart, pretty thing, perfect girl, you’re doin’ so good f’me. Keep going. That’s right, cum all over daddy. He told you to take what you needed, and without another word, he felt just that. Your cunt spasmed around him, and you consumed every inch he gave and drank every drop of spend shooting out in thick spurts.

You fell boneless on the bed when all was said and done.

You looked happy, and that made Joel even happier.

He stroked your cheek, and you leaned into it, clearly drained while your gaze held his in a weak sort of look.

It was soft. Loving, even. It could’ve been romantic.

Then Joel’s hand slipped down to the nape of your neck again. Your muscles were limp, like all the rest of you, but somehow, he was able to hold you up. Tilt your chin a bit.

Make you peer down between your shaking legs, where his cock was still sheathed inside you—partly, anyway.

Your eyes widened. Joel grinned.

“You did great, baby. Ready for the other half of him?”

can y’all believe this image is what inspired this fic HA

it’s only Thursday i’m sorry 😔

[delphines]

The thing that’s crazy is like. Mark S was so excited to talk to his outie. So excited to see what he was like. Kinda like how his whole face lit up in s1 when Devon told him he was a teacher. He was so happy. And then Mark Scout tells him “Ms. Cobel says there’s someone you like down there. I’m glad you got to have that” like he’s talking to a kindergartener who handed out a valentine to their crush at recess. Then he calls Helly “Heleny”. Couldn’t be bothered to learn her name even though he knows they slept together. And the respect Mark S had for his outie vanishes. There was no choice. “They give us half a life and think we won’t fight for it.” Well, he’s fighting now.

[dipperscavern]

In totally gonna press the issue-Remmick sucking blood off ur knee after u fall (cause he scared the shit out of u at night) and he's looking up at u from between ur legs

I DONT WANT TO TAKK ABOUT IT LALALALA I CANT HEAR YOU okay i’ll speak.

remmick is still adjusting to being around you. it’s ironic, really, being inhuman for so long you forget what it’s like.

rem, i can’t hear your footsteps (..) you’re quiet when you move

he’d just about scared the daylights out of you — being so focused on the thrum of your pulse he forgot to heavy his footsteps for you. he’s so damn used to being unseen it’s taken nights like these to remind him to occupy a space.

so now you find yourself here, sat on the edge of the bed with remmick between your legs. caressing your calf with a touch that’s sickly sweet, especially coming from a soul that’s so rotten. “Sit down,” he had said. “Let me clean y’up,” he asked.

and just like you said come in all those nights ago, you said okay, rem. he likes when you call him that. if you had fangs of your own, you’d know by the jump of his blood. know by that link.

but not yet, remmick tells himself. eternity wasn’t a choice for him, so it will be a choice for you. it’s better if you choose it, make it taste sweeter when the time comes.

the time isn’t here now, though, so he’s on his knees. steadying your bleeding leg with the very hands that have taken lives —turned them everliving, too.

he kisses his way up to your wound, finding the stray drips of blood on his way, greedy in the way his tongue darts out to lap it up. you resist the urge to squirm. he’d probably like it.

it stings only for a second when his mouth lands on the source of that astray crimson, and you can feel the phantom of the fangs you know he’s using willpower to keep at bay.

it’s hardest when blood is involved, that animalistic part of his brain fighting to be forefront of his actions. but remmick has lived with such a dark passenger for centuries, and waves it back with the very hand his claws dare to poke out of.

it isn’t a lot of blood, only the smallest of offerings — but an offering nonetheless. another presentation of trust, another night of seeing the dark and choosing to let it cradle you.

and it does. he licks and cleans and his breaths are shaky while he does it, but he never falters, even with the effort it clearly takes to pull himself back from you. from your offering.

when he does, he presses a kiss to your knee. you twitch when he does, the area still sensitive.

“Poor darlin’,” he coos, and his hand smoothes over your thigh, causing your skirt to bunch. “Care to let me make it up to you?”

[livinghalfway]

Mini Prompt: Hit and Run

It’s a surprisingly quiet night in Gotham, because of this everyone is currently gathered on some random rooftop for the time being; even Jason.

Bickering and joking taunts are being thrown around by all of them when suddenly a figure is zooming past most of them. Only for the unknown threat to tackle Jason. Throwing the two of them across the roof.

When the two finally come to a stop the unknown, a boy with white hair and green eyes, is on top of Jason. Just as everyone is recovering from the shock and rushing to help, the boy slams his hand deep into Jason’s chest. He is then pulling out a toxic green substance.

They try to attack the threat and get him off of Jason, but everything just goes right through him. Luckily the boy doesn't seem to want anything to do with the rest of them, and just as quickly as this all started it's over. As the boy simply disappears from sight right in front of them all.

Jason on the other hand is left on the ground gasping for breath. When they finally get him calm enough to tell them how he's feeling the first thing Jason tells them is that the pit rage is gone.

[kelpermoosee]

My friend labeled this “toxic aromantic yaoi” and I couldn’t agree more

[ciderjacks]

despite Laios low self esteem making him think that if he’d been eaten, Chilchuck and Marcille wouldn’t have helped Falin,

theres a small part of me that thinks the reason Chilchuck stayed with the party and went back in the dungeon in the first place was because he didn’t want to leave Laios alone. That Laios was moreso the reason he stayed.

[that0nebird]

The thing that gets me about making toph more traditionally feminine is the way it’s being treated as if toph has some sort of weird internalized misogyny for being too masculine when like, there is a whole episode dedicated to her and katara doing traditionally feminine stuff together and having a fun day. It’s not like she rejects everything fem it’s just those things aren’t really toph’s preferred way to have fun so of course she only really does it once in a blue moon.

[deadpoetsandlivinglegends]

Todd doesn’t talk much in the beginning but I think one random night Todd would go on a sudden 35 minute rant while doing Latin homework about how poetic it is that the Latin word for love is amor cause it sounds like armor, and love makes you feel safe, and Neil would sit there and listen, occasionally adding in comments if it seems like Todd is winding down to get him started up again, and after that Neil tries to get Todd to go on rants whenever he can so he can just sit and listen to Todd go on, sometimes it works and sometimes, especially when they are out and Todd feels anxious, it doesn’t, but every time he does talk on for long bouts of time, Neil just thinks ‘love makes you feel safe’

[starlostfish]

Run

Hiiiii heres onryo!Ren lol. Based off a scene from ju-on 2! Hope it looks ok! Also heres another kinda related drawing i did awhile back: [old post]! This idea wont leave my brainnnn

[stars-obsession-pit]

Planet Phantom

Not related to the episode Phantom Planet; this prompt was inspired by the Marvel story “Planet Hulk” so I just copied the name format from there.

Halfas, the Ghost Investigation Ward found, are incredibly tough to kill. No matter what they’ve tried, Phantom always managed to claw its way back to “life”, usually spending some time in a dangerous, mindless rampage in the aftermath.

They could try to just imprison it, but Phantom’s seemingly ever-increasing strength would pose a major risk to them.

So instead, they came up with a different plan.

Lock the ghost in a durable capsule and launch it as far off into space as they can to hopefully never find its way back to Earth. There was some contention at first over the risk of Phantom escaping during the launch, but eventually, a decision was reached.

And as they lost sight of the tiny payload on its way out into the endless abyss of space, they all breathed a sigh of relief.

Except that unbeknownst to them, it hadn’t been lost to the vast, empty void between the stars as they had planned.

Instead, it had fallen through a rift in space. A rift that led the capsule crash to crash down in an alien civilization, cracking open and freeing the injured halfa trapped within.

[satoblue]

the first time you had sex with satoru he actually ended up paying you for it — casually sliding you money across the table as if it’s the most normalest thing in the world while you both sat to eat breakfast together the next morning. he was so confused when you gave him the most offended look ever — but he was really happy that you slept with him! satoru didn’t get around a lot bc of work and nobody has been able to grab his attention like you have before so he didn’t really know what to do in this situation. all in all, he was just grateful you fucked him in the first place and hoped you’d continue to date him after this

[vexedmilky]

Thinking about the banana peel death in things where the loop continues even after Siffrin dies is so funny because imagine being one of the people in Dormont and you’re like “Man I hope that they’re able to beat The King” and then one of the people you were entrusting with your life slips on a banana peel and fucking dies and now you have no clue what the fuck is gonna happen now

[zev-zev]

i will truly never get over just how beautiful silverv is written. like getting to see “the johnny silverhand” in action, catching glimpses of a man who’s just…well let’s be honest, not a good man. he treats alt like shit, treats rouge like shit, and treats kerry and the rest of his band pretty much like shit too. he left kerry without so much as a goodbye—all just to go on an arasaka bombing run. we see him literally pick alt over rouge and then turn around to beg rouge for her help in saving alt.

like of course johnny is an unreliable narrator and you can’t really take his word on everything but— i think some truth lies within. and i think we get to see it as he genuinely changes because of v.

and yeah you could argue that it’s just the construct and yada yada but the construct was created with the data of rocker-boy johnny silverhand on it. it’s data of his angry, former self right after blowing up arasaka. it’s his personality from when he was in the war— data literally created with him wrapped all up in a bundle of rage…so why does he change? he didn’t change for kerry. didn’t change for rouge and never got the chance to change for alt. i mean sure the relic’s data could be written to adapt and evolve, and i don’t know if it did evolve or if it could, i’m not sure but still. i genuinely just think v is the one who changes johnny. johnny’s engram is supposed to completely take over v, and while it clearly does throughout the game(and ofc this is all a special circumstance bc the relic’s data believes v was dead before it started taking over their psyche etc etc), it wasn’t supposed to be the other way around. and v doesn’t take control of the relic or anything, i know, i mean it in a way that instead of johnny’s relic outright taking over, v somehow changed johnny’s data as it ate away at v themselves. the instructions for the relic were clear and yet…when we, the player, meet johnny, he was very much that asshole from his former glory days come back to life again— where he literally threatens to kill v and just take the body…multiple times…but by the time v and johnny find his unmarked grave, johnny has changed.

he, in the softest tone we’ve heard from johnny up until this point, tells v that they’re the closest person to him by a long shot. how he’s always been such an asshole and used every person in his life for his own selfish needs but it’s v that ends up being the only one who gives a shit about him. and now he truly desires to be the person to save v, even as the relic is in the process of actively killing v against their will. he was so upset about the thought of fucking up what v and he had, and when you point it out that he almost did fuck that up? he’s scared of losing v. asks for a second chance, begs v to let him make things right! for the both of them. definitely something the old johnny would have NEVER done. (not to mention the ost during this scene? god, how hauntingly beautiful it is. also it gives off this vibe of how truly lonely johnny is and would be w/o v.)

and then there’s v. sitting on some rusty-dusty piece of metal, carving johnny’s initials into said metal just to leave something behind of him, whether he was buried there or not; v still made it apparent that they cared for johnny. and proving it even further when johnny asks what they would really write, if he had a proper burial and headstone. and without hesitation v tells him, after everything they’ve been through— the hurt, the venom laced words, wanting each other dead—“the guy who saved my life.”. and you could argue that v just means the relic saving them from the bullet dex dishes into their head but i truly think it’s so much deeper than that. after everything? johnny lying? cursing v’s every waking second? using v for his own selfishness—his old self—and v still picks the moment johnny literally saved their life? like v could have very easily instead made a joke about the situation. or tell johnny they’d write something harmful or meaningless on his grave to get back at johnny for all the shit he’s put them through but no! with their own soft voice, they tell johnny the one good thing he’s done in his “life”, sitting atop his “grave”, is that he saved them.

idk i have so many silverv thoughts because they’re written plain as day as soulmates. like platonic, romantic or whatever, they’re soulmates— literally meant to be. if it had been anyone else’s head, johnny might not have become someone “different” from his former self. and v would still have their life, sure, but even then they changed too; changing from wanting johnny dead to panicking at the thought of johnny not being there with them?

UGHHHH. they give me the biggest brain-worms. i love silverv so much.

[bartohenchmanb]

I have to give Castlevania Nocturne a lot of credit for how they treat Olrox.

Castlevania Nocturne takes place during the French Revolution, and Olrox is unapologetically Aztec. His entire character is shaped by the fact he is Aztec and the genocide he personally witnessed. Him being Aztec is a fundamental part of his character.

But there is no reason given in the narrative why he needs to be.

I can’t explain to you just how rare it is that indigenous people are able to be a part of a narrative without they’re needing to be a justification for them being indigenous. Most stories that bother to include us all occur out west, or near a reservation, or require native spiritualism somehow. About half of indigenous people don’t live on a reservation, about 70,000 last I checked lived in New York City alone. We could just be a character’s neighbor. We could be a coworker, a rival, it doesn’t matter we can exist in any story that takes place on the North American continent because we can be found any place on the North American continent. But you never see that presented in fictional media.

Castlevania Nocturne takes place in France. And Olrox is just unapologetically Aztec. His character didn’t need to be. But he is. And that makes me smile. So I gotta give kudos to Castlevania Nocturne.