#literal soaking wet feral cat here

[karlachismylife]

I have four fresh asks in my inbox that all bring me immense joy and I wanna give all four quite lengthy answers, so asking for a lil bit of patience from my beautful anons, the brain juice is juicing (is this an appropriate thing to say considering that two out of four are piss-related? i dunno) 🙏🏼 I am once again sleepy for god knows what reason so I came here to ramble sleepily. Surprisingly no unhinged feral thoughts tonight.

Just Karlach, Soap and Ghost. Probably from the anarchist!Karlach au, but far, far down the line, when everything between them is finally resolved and their little weird and unlikely family is together.

Holy shit it somehow became a oneshot.

All The Leaves Are Brown

(Title from "California Dreamin'" by Hi Standard)

Dingy little apartment, messy and a tad bit unlivable, smelling like petrol, paint and cigarette smoke, partially stripped of furniture, half-painted murals on just recently plastered walls, window frames old and frail, letting draft in. It's okay, though, it's not that far into the autumn cold yet, so no need to whip out whatever hermetic paste they decided to try this year.

Just a little bit chilly.

Chilly isn't a problem for them. Not when both Karlach and Soap are living, breathing furnaces, tank tops and matching boxer briefs letting the heat evaporate from the big surface of their naked skin. And there is plenty of heat as they laze about on the old couch, casing coming apart in the most rubbed on places, pillows dipping almost down to the floor, a single spring trying to bite into Karlach's ass as she sits there, Johnny perched on her thick thigh with his hands running up her stomach, the fabric of her loose top bunching up over his wrists.

They're just kissing, slow, sloppy, sensual makeout, puffy and sensitive - they've been going at it for quite some time already - lips catching onto each other. Johnny catches Karlach's lower lip ring between his, tugs carefully, gliding his tongue over the steel piercing and further into her mouth - only for it to be caught by the tiefling, sucked on and melted in the clove aftertaste of the pretentious black-wrapper cigarettes she spoils herself with.

Pulling back a bit, he slurps the excessive drool loudly, as if he was offered a really sweet caramel candy, causing them both to giggle, Karlach's nose wrinkling irresistibly. Johnny kisses those wrinkles with his wet lips, then brushes them against the snake bites piercings at the corners of her mouth, touches her little eyebrow ring and finally presses a soft, barely audible "chu" to her forehead, rendering Karlach completely soft and peaceful, yellow cat eyes fluttering close and her big palms coming to rest on the small of his back, not even noticing that it makes the hem of his tank top ride up just like hers.

"Tryna heat up the place, are ya?" Low chuckle startles them just a little bit - after a certain amount of time you just come to terms with living a literal ghost, able to move silently even when the ancient floorboards of the cheap apartment creak even under cockroaches' tiny little feet. Simon's quiet appearance still elicits simultaneous "fuck"s from his two warm sunshines, and he looks pleased with himself as he detaches himself from the wall he was leaning on for god knows how long. Watching them. Soaking in their love he had to learn to accept.

"Aya, dinnae want ye tae freeze yer auld bones, LT." Soap grins at him, sliding off Karlach's thigh onto the couch that immediately lets out the most pitiful and drawn out plea for mercy a piece of furniture is capable of. Karlach next to him crinkles her nose again and slaps her bare thigh in a more than clear invitation.

"Come on, soldier. We missed you."

Something buried, rotten and probably almost dead flutters in Simon's chest at this simple, fearlessly sincere and thus invincible in its vulnerability admission. He thinks everyone in the room can hear the disgusting sound of raw meat, chopped up and disfigured, fed to the worms and rejected even by them, churning in place of his heart - but neither bright-eyed Johnny with a mischievous smirk on his face, nor visibly excited Karlach with her tail twitching and coiling around nothingness on the floor, seem to be turned off by the gloom and darkness that Simon is.

Even after everything he put them through, they are just as eager to have him, if not more.

He comes closer, big, looming shadow, wrapped in all black from head to toe - from the hood of his skeleton hoodie obscuring his eyes to the socks, probably not a pair since he can't find a single matching one after that one time he let Karlach deal with the laundry. Doesn't matter, though, Simon just needs them to be warm, and that they are.

Autumn is his season, season of wet decay and exposed death, but he still barely handles the cold. Winter will be hard.

Two hands grab him at the same time, a considerable effort put into pulling him onto the couch between two buff bodies. Giving in just for the sake of the pleading puppy eyes, Simon carefully lowers himself onto the poor thing barely holding up - and finds himself in a heatwave.

Karlach and Johnny are searing hot as they wrap themselves around him, muscular thighs thrown over his manspread, one leathery tail coiled under his knee, burly arms holding him down by his waist and chest as if he might wrangle himself free and run away.

He would. Just some months ago, he would. Run away and leave scorched ground behind himself, empty shells and shattered hearts.

His, whole, reborn and red-blooded, gives away everything Simon would like to keep to himself, as it pumps like crazy, sending cold, viscous blood to his skin to get warmed up by the external heat of his lovers and come back as red surf washing over the internal organs.

"Should've come to us sooner, mate, you're freezing," rings Karlach's genuine worry in his ear. Booming voice that used to bring some deep-rooted hate from within muffled as Simon watches her grab his hand and shove it under her tank top generously. Her chest is burning hot, like he dipped his hand into boiling water after holding it in ice.

"Stubborn bastart." Soap grumbles into his other ear, lifting Simon's second palm and pressing hot kisses to his scarred knuckles. Black hoodie starts to get hot. "Hiding from us won't fly, LT."

Karlach's fat scar glides under his fingers - she leans closer, careful with her remaining horn, and Ghost half expects her to kiss him like she was kissing Johnny - hungrily and sensually, but instead he gets a soft nose brush and a peck onto the little bump with a scar he has after breaking it how many times.

"Why so shy all of a sudden, lass?" It's a weak attempt to regain control, and Karlach has no one control her. She shushes him with a quick peck to his mangled lips. Then on his cheek. His temple. Split eyebrow. Corner of his eyes.

"Just taking my time to look at you, soldier. And I like what I see." Her smile is blindingly bright and genuine. Simon's ears feel hot - he can't believe he would blush from a single compliment.

Turns out, it's just Johnny breathing open-mouthed breaths onto the tips of his ears to warm him up. Caught in broad daylight, he just snorts with a grin and latches onto Simon's neck, bringing out the shivers. Now that his hand is free from distracted Johnny, Ghost can bury his fingers in the outgrown mohawk and pull, earning an immediate moan and a more eager bite to the neck from his predictable mutt.

"Wanna take this off? We'll keep you warm, Si," Karlach's impatience is too obvious - in the way her tail squeezes his knee tighter and her fingers tug on the hem of the hoodie, urging Ghost to get rid of it.

The thought of shedding his thick cotton hide is cold. But when he does pull it off with a casual tug somewhere behind his scruff and over his head, Simon doesn't even get a chance to shudder, two living heaters plastering themselves over his both sides.

Slowly, without much coordination and with apologetic giggle from Karlach at the sound of suffering furniture, they all lean onto the back of the couch and pull their legs from the floor, tangling them and her tail together.

"Ye good?" Johnny tucks his head into the crook of Ghost's neck, his hot, wet breath hitting his pale collarbone peeking from the T-shirt's collar.

"I'll fix the windows tomorrow, don't worry, soldier. Someone from the commune brought good stuff from the city and promised to share." Simon frees his hand from Karlach's tank top and wraps it around her shoulders, scratching at the base of her broken horn absentmindedly. He would've refused help from her people proudly not so long ago. Nothing he needs from the scum like them.

But that scum is family now. And the windows need fixing. And finally someone is doing or for him, not waiting until he deals with all his problems himself.

Karlach's heart can't beat too fast nowadays, but her ears still twitch and her eyelashes flutter when he presses a kiss to her forehead.

"S'alright, love. I'm already plenty warm."

[tetsuwhore]

𝐚 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 | 𝐨𝐢𝐤𝐚𝐰𝐚 𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐫𝐮

Description: in a ditch effort to avoid your fate as a lonely cat lady, you allow your best friend, Oikawa, to help you gain sexual experience.

Warning: explicit smut. size kink if you squint. loss of virginity. kinda angsty

Notes: 2.9k words. inspired by my ‘inexperienced bestfriend’ headcanons

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

It had been a mindless comment really. 

The three of you were just reaching the convenience store when Iwaizumi received a call. After answering it and finishing his conversation, he promptly explained that it was his mother, who needed him to run errands for her. Which left you and Oikawa, who continued whining about his irritation at his ‘fanclub’.

Rolling your eyes, you scoff, “So, you have a literal entourage of people devoted to you? Big fucking deal. My single ass hasn’t even kissed anyone yet, y’know. At this rate, I’m gonna end up a lonely cat lady by the time we’re in college.” You laugh lightly, only meaning it half seriously. Therefore, you could be forgiven for choking on air when you hear his serious response. 

“Why don’t I help you change that then?”

And now, here you are, laying in your best friend’s bed as he’s knuckle deep in you. You’re covered in a thin sheen of sweat, breathing heavily and biting your lip in an effort to stay quiet. Your eyes are tightly shut, but you can tell that he’s still watching you intently, eyes alternating between focusing on his finger slipping into your hot cunt, and then wandering back to your contorted face. 

Struggling with your words, you manage to gasp out, “H-how does it feel so, uh, so fucking good?! It’s never like this when it’s, ah, when it’s just m-me.” Chuckling at the shakiness of your speech, he responds, “Had a lot of training to strengthen my fingers for setting. Plus, they’re much longer than your tiny ones, aren’t they? Makes it easier to reach deeper.” 

Shuddering at his words, you add, “They’re t-thicker, too.” Laughing at that, you feel him slightly shift the angle of his hand before continuing, “You usually can’t rely on fingering alone to get you off.” He follows that with a quick flick of his wrist, grinding his palm against your clit as his finger keeps prodding that certain spot inside you, adding, “Gotta pay attention to the clit.”

His attention is back on your face as you moan in response to his actions, no longer able to stay quiet. Grinning at your reaction, Oikawa continues his ministrations, rubbing his palm harder against you and increasing the tempo of his finger. His voice is silky smooth as he keeps going, “Keep rubbing harder and faster, until…”

You feel a high-pitched cry escape your lips. It’s so embarrassingly loud and shrill, but you’re unable to control it. His face is so smug - and normally, you’d want to slap the expression off of it, but this time, it just makes your face grow redder. 

“Until, it hits just... right. And then, you keep it consistent,” he whispers in your ear, “Feels good, hmm?”

Nodding frantically, you grip on to his arm, desperate to hold on to something so you don’t completely lose yourself. You hear him hiss - likely at your nails digging into his skin - but you’re too preoccupied with your impending orgasm to pay too much attention.

“Nuh-uh, keep your legs open,” Oikawa tuts disapprovingly. Opening your eyes, you realize that you had subconsciously closed your legs, trapping his hand in between - they were shaking so badly you hadn’t even noticed. You struggle, but nonetheless, move your feet further apart to allow him to continue. 

Tossing out all inhibitions, you don’t even bother attempting to hide your moans. Instead, you loop your free arm around his shoulder and bury your face in his neck, sobbing against his skin as you feel the knot in your stomach grow uncomfortably tight.

You feel his arm under you pull you closer to his chest, hand running up and down your side in a soothing motion. “Mhmm, that’s it, just like that, just like that,” Oikawa whispers - gentler than you’ve ever heard him speak - as he coaxes you through your orgasm, slowing his movements, but not stopping, allowing you to ride it out. 

He only pulls away once you stop trembling. When you open your eyes again, you find him watching you with a hawk’s gaze as you exhale shallowly, fighting to catch your breath. It makes you feel self-conscious, being under his scrutiny. Blushing, you cast your eyes into a corner to avoid his.

“Aw, (F/n)-chaaan, don’t go all shy on me just yet. I’ve still got more I wanna do to you first,” he teases as he moves his body on top of yours. 

Furrowing your brows, you begin to protest, “More? But, you said this was just for prep, right? So we could-”

Before you can finish, he interjects, “Are you really saying no to another orgasm?” Well, he had a point there. “Okay, I won’t stop you,” you concede, “but I’m still kinda, um, sensitive. Can we, uh…” You trail off, but he catches your eyes glancing down to his lips and smiles, finishing your sentence for you.

“A kiss? All you had to do was ask, sweetheart.”

You don’t get a chance to comment on the nickname because you’re too distracted by Oikawa’s hot breath fanning against your mouth as he moves his face closer to yours. Your eyes flutter shut as you feel his fingers graze your chin, tilting your head slightly upwards. And yet, he doesn’t close the distance, as if he was waiting for you to make the move. So, you do. 

The first thing you register is how soft his lips feel, lightly pressed up against yours. Suddenly feeling a wave of self-consciousness hit you, you pull away abruptly, realizing that you’re not quite sure what to do next. Confused by your pulling away, he looks down at you, eyes quickly flickering with understanding as he realizes the reason for it. 

His thumb moves to caress your cheek before he moves forward again, this time, taking the lead. It’s more pleasant this time as he guides you, lips gently melding with yours. He keeps the pace slow, and you’re thankful for that - too much too quickly would’ve overwhelmed you. But then, as you’re wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer, his thigh brushes against your core.

It’s involuntary, really, when you softly moan into his mouth in response to the contact, still sensitive from your previous orgasm. 

But it’s enough to drive him feral.

Tightly gripping your hips in his calloused hands, he presses his lips harder against yours, swallowing your gasps as he tilts his head forward to deepen the kiss, turning it into something deeper, hungrier. You feel his tongue enter past your lips, licking the edges of your teeth before clashing against yours. You’re not sure how you feel about that - the sensation is slightly odd, but not entirely unwelcome. 

“So, there was... s-something else you wanted to do?” you question breathily after pulling away, eyes cast up towards the ceiling - you would implode if you were to look at him while he was sucking on the sensitive buds of your breasts. Trailing his lips down your midriff, he mutters in between kisses, “Mhmm, got something I wanna show you.” His voice is so low, you almost miss what he says next. 

“Gonna make you cum on my tongue,” he murmurs against your skin, “so you’re nice and ready when I stretch you out with my cock.”

This was your best friend. The same friend you used to play hide-and-seek with as kids. The same one who coerced you into binge watching space documentaries with him during sleepovers. So then, why was it that his words made your body react by sending a flush of pink across your face, and a throbbing between your legs? 

He’s laying on his stomach now, face dangerously close to your soaked core. Scooting closer, he lifts up one of your legs, rough palm slowly trailing up the back of your calf. Shifting it to place it on his broad shoulder, he lightly brushes his lips against the expanse of your inner thigh. He’s ghosting kisses along your skin - you can feel them, but the pressure is practically non-existent, it’s maddening. 

“Oikawa, stop teasing! Do- do something…” you grit out, frustrated. 

Hearing his chuckle only adds to your exasperation as he ignores your request, deliberately straying away from the center of your legs. With that infuriating smirk still on his face, he feigns ignorance, “Hmm, I’m not sure I know what you want me to do here. Why don’t you tell me?”

When you give no response, he repeats himself, “Tell me, c’mon.” His tone is deceptively light and teasing, but you don’t miss the commanding nature behind his words.

“Want you to… to, uh, make me c-cum,” you’re trembling as you struggle to get the words out, “on your… on your t-tongue.”

Shaking his head, Oikawa tuts, “No, no, say the rest.” God, why was he such an obstinate asshole? More importantly, why was it working so well at getting you hotter?

Breathing unevenly, you whisper, “gonna get me, uh, nice and- nice and ready,” and you cringe at how whiny your voice is, but nonetheless, finish, “so you can s-stretch me out with your… with your c-cock.” The words tumbling out of your mouth are so, so filthy. He’s practically coaxing them out of you.

(You hate how easy it is for him to do so.)

Humming approvingly, he praises, “Mhm, that’s a good girl. Wasn’t so hard now, was it?” The smug smile is back as he purrs, “Can’t have you going all shy now. Not when I’m about to make you cum so hard you cry.” 

Before you can respond, he’s hoisting your other leg over his shoulder. You stare up at the ceiling, form tensed up as you wait for what feels like an eternity - you can feel his breath fanning over your core as you anticipate his next move. 

Then, you feel it. A warm, wet sensation right against your sensitive clit - you have to force yourself not to jerk away in response. The first swipe of his tongue is broad, one that languidly trails up all the way from your slit, to deep between your folds. 

The feeling is so odd, so new. And so, so delicious. 

It’s nothing like your fingers (or even his), nothing like you’ve ever felt before, but fuck, it’s good. It’s an antithetical combination of too much, and not enough - you can tell he’s holding back, going slow to begin with. And as much as you want him to turn ravenous and devour you alive, you know it’ll be too much for you to handle. 

Oikawa knows exactly when he’s got the right rhythm going. Of course, you think to yourself, of course he fucking knows - from how you’re suddenly gripping his hair, squirming around and whimpering for him. And he keeps it up, using his tongue to turn you into a mess. Licking again. 

And again, and again. 

“Mhmm, Oikawa, k-keep… oh- keep doing that! P-please, I’m gonna… I’m gonna-”

You’re cut off by a sharp moan that leaves your lips as he pulls you closer to his face, tongue digging deeper into you. You’ve vaguely aware of him lightly chuckling against you - probably at how whiny you sound.

(And you can’t even get annoyed at him because you’re too distracted by how it sends vibrations directly to your core.)

Oh. Oh. Oh, god. 

Tightly gripping his hair, you tense up, head thrown back and eyes tearing up as you release a final cry. Your hips move involuntarily, grinding against his face in a ditch effort to prolong the waves of your pleasure for as long as you can. He holds his tongue out flat, allowing you to do as you please. His eyes are locked on your face - his smoldering gaze is so intense that you feel compelled to look away, afraid that you’d combust if you didn’t. 

Oikawa only pulls away once you whimper weakly that it’s too much, your hands slowly releasing the grip they have on his locks. Planting a soft kiss on your inner thigh, he moves to rest on his elbow next to you as you exhale heavily, face flushed and hot - from your orgasm, or the embarrassment, you’re not sure.

“Good?” 

The question in itself is genuine enough, but the shit-eating grin on his face is all you need to see to realize that he knows. The bastard already knows that it was more than good. (With how you were practically sobbing his name only minutes ago, how could he not?) Choosing not to respond, you shoot him a glare instead.

“(Y/n)-chaaan, why are you annoyed at me for asking a perfectly reasonable question?” he pouts, whining, “Besides, I should be the annoyed one, seeing how you were practically yanking my hair out!” 

Rolling your eyes, you retort, “Serves you right for teasing me so much!” 

Shaking his head dramatically and childishly muttering something about how you’re ‘so mean’, Oikawa turns to face you, gently cupping your cheek. His expression and tone are more somber this time as he inquires, “You sure you still wanna go all the way though? We don’t have to go any further, just making you feel good is perfectly fine for me.”

Seeing you sit up, he moves, resting his back against the headboard as he waits for your response. You reach for the condom on his nightstand before returning back, placing yourself in his lap. Handing him the little silver packet, your hands move to his shoulders, before you finally respond, “Yes, Oikawa, I want to do this, don’t worry.” 

“Besides, we’ve already reached this far anyway,” you move your face closer to his, whispering against his lips, “It’s like you always say - if you’re going to hit it, hit it until it breaks - right?” Seeing his eyes widen in surprise at your boldness, you silently congratulate yourself - you had finally rendered the Oikawa Tooru speechless.

(Even if it was only for a few seconds.)

“Fuck, hearing you say that was hot.”

Swallowing at the roughness of his voice, you bite your lip, asking softly, “That’s what you’re gonna do then? Break me?”

Quickly regaining his composure, Oikawa smirks, purring, “Hmm, I’m not sure you’d be able to handle it, sweetheart. Maybe next time.” 

And then he’s on you again, hot mouth pressed hard against yours. Unlike earlier, he doesn’t hold back this time, quickly engaging you in a searing kiss that sends shock waves straight down to your stomach. You’re still shaky on what to do, but you attempt to mimic his movements, following his lips and working with them. 

In the midst of all your excitement, you had not even realized that Oikawa was still fully clothed. Your cheeks flush pink as it dawns on you that you, on the other hand, are completely naked. Pulling away, you hastily reach for his shirt, practically yanking it off of him before looping your arms around his neck, sighing when you finally, finally feel naked skin against yours. 

Moving back to press your lips against his, you feel his hands shift, rustling against your stomach as he makes quick work of unbuttoning his pants. But before he can put on the condom, you stop him. “Wait, c-can I?” you ask, tone laced with hesitance. He simply nods, watching you with that same scrutinizing look that he wears on the court as he hands you the rubber and waits. 

For a moment, you simply eye it curiously. It’s… surprisingly pleasant to look at. It’s ruddy, particularly at the head, and it curves slightly to the left. As for the size, you don’t have the experience to start making comparisons, but you know it’s big, at least for you. It was definitely bigger than your tampons, and those were already hard enough to put in. 

He wasn’t kidding about stretching you out. You feel a deep-seated lust settle within you as you consider the thought - oddly enough, it’s appealing, and you quiver at the thought of your tight walls being stretched thin around his large length. 

Once you’ve got the condom on, he asks again, tone uncharacteristically hesitant, “You sure?” Sighing in mock exasperation, you grin, teasing, “What happened to Mr. Stretch-Me-Out-With-His-Cock?” 

Seeing his unamused expression, you chuckle, adding without thinking, “No, really, I appreciate you doing this with me. I want to experience what it’s like, be ready for the real thing, y’know?”

Again, it was a mindless comment. As you angle yourself over him and move down, you’re too caught up in the feeling of being filled for the first time - you miss the way Oikawa’s eyes grow dark upon hearing your words. 

Real thing.

Then again, who could blame you for not realizing the impact your words had on him. You would always see him as nothing more than your best friend, as the stepping stone before you got to the real thing. Nothing more. Nothing remotely close to how he wanted you to see him. 

(Or how he saw you.)

So as he places his hands on your hips in a bruising grip, moving his hips upwards in a punishing thrust that has you keening, he swears. 

He may not be your “real thing”, but he’ll make sure to burn into your memory that no one else would ever fuck you as well as Oikawa Tooru could.

[yanderenightmare]

Ok hi again, I may be over doing it......idgaf I like ur shit! Good shit grade A writing. Aha

Aftercare, does it happen? What do they do?

Also....are these guys aware of their s/o limit if so do they stop😈

Pressing X for doubt

yandere ! BNHA thirsty headcannons

Support me at KO-FI if you feel like it<3

goodiebag WARNINGS: yandere, noncom/dubcon, abuse, manipulation, mind control

BAKUGO KATSUKI - KACHAN

He’ll at least ask. He’s always careful to ask. The actual response isn’t too important. Protest that are drowned out in a moan can’t be seen as an actual protest anyway, and he always makes sure that her words are chocked in her throat. Bakugo knows his worth, he knows that each and every thing he does to her in that bed, it’s guarantied she likes it. Her pride makes her a liar, she can’t be trusted with her own pleasure, not when he knows and has proven time and time again that he knows her body and her limits better than what she does. When he has her bent over his lap, that cute little ass that he knows belongs to him, aiming to make sure that she knows it too, each time his hand comes in harsh contact with the soft flesh, feeling it up like putty in his hand as she winces and cries for him to stop. Her protests can’t be taken seriously, not when two fingers gliding up her pussy tells him all he needs to know, feeling how soaked she already is for him, all warm and velvety and ready. That’s all the answer he needs to keep going.

As far as aftercare goes… it can vary. Sometimes he’ll draw a bath with bubbles and lavender oil and light scented candles. Other times he’ll make food, where he’ll bake desserts more than anything. But there are days he won’t do much more than keep a painfully suffocating grip on her as he drifts rather quickly off to sleep. Exchanging no words except for those growls of good night and I love you. Leaving the rest for after they wake up, having an early morning where he’ll never let her sleep in, dragging her with him to shower before he has to leave, where afterwards he’ll treat her to more tender care on the bed with his face buried between her thighs in a way of apologizing for having to leave her alone all day.

DABI - TODOROKI TOUYA

She shouldn’t worry her pretty little head about anything. Dabi might look like your worst nightmare, but you’d be surprised how soft the darkness really is. He can be persuasive and disarming if and when he wants to be, or he can be foul… He likes finding a mix between the two though, they work better together anyway. Make her feel safe, but only if she obeys, and make her feel fear if she doesn’t. He won’t bite�� at least not for any longer than to make her cry for him, for those precious little water-works to bubble up to the surface. Making a chew toy out of that pretty swan-neck of hers, paint it with purple, resembling what hue of mulberry-wine found on his marred skin. Nibbling on that cute button between her legs, feel her tremble in his hold and hear her gasp out his name. Or grinding those perfect little nipples between the rows of his teeth, watching her blubber out her pleas when the pressure he applies threatens to bite the flimsy nib off, feel her pussy clench around his shaft upon the anticipation and fear. Fear does such peculiar things to people, especially in the form of threats, especially when walking hand in hand with pleasure. His darling doesn’t know what to make of herself, left completely like putty in his hands, all for him to toy with and tamper and tease. Where she doesn’t dare try and make him stop, she doesn’t dare allow herself to enjoy what he’s doing either, because only mad people run into things they already know to be a trap.

He’ll hush and coo at her to stop crying afterwards, her little mind on the verge of breaking and her pitter patter heart standing on the cliff’s edge ready to jump with nothing but Dabi to hold onto, the knot in her lower abdomen already having exploded time and time again because of him. She’s such a mess, such a cross-eyed wet hot mess, his little mess and that always manages to bring a smile to his face.

SHIGARAKI TOMURA

If Tomura’s in a mood, as in a childish fit, she can expect no rest, because the wicked as we know get no rest, and the unfortunate sweet thing kidnapped by the wicked get no rest either. Tomura’s mood, quite like his morals, change like tidewater. Sometimes he’ll behold her precious beautiful body as though she’s made up of fine porcelain, meant to be touched and worshipped softly, where the fact of her wanting the worship or not is irrelevant. He’ll still touch and touch and let himself get carried away by how insanely soft her skin is as opposed to him. He’ll fuck her slowly, each hump meaningful and hauled out to the max as so to feel every single inch of him filling her up… Then there’s his other mood… The feeling of opposition is no less there, how unfairly gorgeous she is in contrast to how appalling he is, however… instead of it evoking worship… it evokes humorous triumph. Gut-wrenching nasty despicable satisfaction, where it brings him such inane pleasure to think that someone as disgusting as him has the power and the will to corrupt something so pure, something so pretty, and how there is quite literally nothing she can do to stop him, nothing at all… it gets his blood rushing in sadistic glee when he pushes her down on her stomach, fisting her hair while jutting into her from behind, every little salacious depraved thought growled into her ear, with no regard to her choked screams except for a wild grin, spiked to go even faster.

Not much tender aftercare here I’m afraid, he thinks it’s best to leave her alone, getting in his chair to game, taking one long last look at his cum seeping from her hole, his handprint red across her ass, still looking so pretty even with all those bruises… maybe even inspired to go for another round.

SHINSO HITOSHI

Aww. Little kitty is at her breaking point? The collar is too tight for Master’s precious pretty pet? Pussy-cat wants a break? But good kittens deserve good toe-curling eye-crossing world-shattering rewards, and bad kittens will be punished however Master chooses, won’t they? If she screams no, he’ll hear yes. If she screams stop, he’ll hear more. If she screams please, well… he’ll still hear please… It’s so unbearably cute to see her stutter and frustrate over how her words come out all wrong, as if someone’s picked her brain, pulled on her strings as though she were a puppet, changed what she wants to say, to what he wants to hear. What’s even cuter is when those large eyes of hers go all ditzy, crossing paths, that crinkle between her brows furrowing, with her tongue falling over her lips. But, the cutest thing is when her tail wraps around his thigh and leg, holding onto him in such a soft embrace when her bliss strides over her body, reaching all the way to the tip of her plushy soft tail, when her wrists and ankles are too busy being kept tied snug and firm together, as he continues to slam himself fast-forwardly into her.

He’ll erase his mind-tricks afterwards, careful to restore anything he might have disturbed or broken during their playtime. Her fluffy tail still slithered around his thigh as he pets her over her soft ears, telling her what a good little kitten she is and how proud she’s made him, feeling her shiver and jolt against him, small little spasms followed by short acute hiccups, proof of how bendable those so-called limits are when Hitoshi takes control. Proof of how good he can make her feel, so good she loses track of where she is, so good she loses contact with her mind, so good the only thing she’s still able to do is purr.

TAKAMI KEIGO - HAWKS

Oh… She can’t blame him when his rut rolls around the corner. He can’t control those urges. Not when she’s there, so plain and defenseless and a perfect fit for him to take all that cooped up frustration out on. He just needs to fill her each and every crevice up with his seed, make sure she’s well bred, pump her full of his cum until his balls no longer have anything left to give. He’ll hump like a frenzied pup, hands gripping her hips so tight her feet don’t even touch the ground. He’ll pound until he’s exhausted, until she’s left a swollen sweat-slicked mess, no longer able to stand straight without her weak and wobbly knees giving out beneath her. She wishes his rut and her heat could line up, so she doesn’t have to go through the same thing twice, but she isn’t that lucky, and Keigo is. He’ll be counting down the days until finally picking up those sweet tones in the air, that aroma that makes him go feral. She does him a favor by acting so shy, so ashamed, it makes it that much more fun when she’s struggling against both him and herself. All it takes is for him to put his thumb in her mouth… how she’ll begin to drool at the very first taste, her eyes losing that feral fight and falling prey to the feeling of her nerves being set on fire. He gladly indulges her needs, his heart fluttering at how clingy she becomes, how sweet, blubbering out gibberish, shapeless words that are such a good replacement for what vile things she’ll yell at him most other times.

He’ll be so hungry in the mornings after, disappointed for the lack of food in the house, but he can’t blame his darling for not cooking, not when he’s rendered her lame, she can’t very well cook if she can’t stand. He’ll order so much take-out the smell of sweat and juices soon gets coated and overwhelmed by the smell of spice and broth. Eating, regaining all his strength… that was only day one of two weeks… the rut is only just beginning.

MIDORIYA IZUKU - DEKU

Don’t worry, Izuku knows how much to give and how much to take, just as he knows when to give it and when to take it, and how to give and how to take. He knows what punishment is due for what crime as well as he knows when rewards are in order. And if he so happens to need to punish her… he’ll make sure she does something in need of punishment. It’s not often he needs to act on those sadistic carnal vulgar yearnings, but a bad day gets a whole lot better if he can come home and take it out on someone, especially when he gets to play with her beforehand, poke and prod until she slips up, allowing him to pounce on her the second she fucks up like a fox finally done playing with his food, his little bunny. The ends justify the means after all. He knows that it’s unfair to take his frustration out on his little darling… but… it being wrong… somehow makes it feel better. Having her blubbering on choked sobs and quaking beneath him, under his blood-soaked scarred hands, her little hole serving as such a snug and no doubt painful fit for his cock to abuse. Hearing her apologize for doing absolutely nothing at all, just to satiate his craze, all because he decided he wanted to exercise his dominance.

One thing that’s good about Izuku is that once is enough, and though that one time might feel like a million times stretching over a million days, where she’s left unable to walk properly… once he’s done, she can be sure he’s done… at least until the next day. If she hasn’t passed-out, he’ll let her cry it off when he’s done, offering no words but still comforting her by stroking her back or fiddling with her hair, twirling it about his fingers as she rests on his chest, her tears making his bicep itch with irritation, but he’ll allow her that much.

CHISAKI KAI - OVERHAUL

He tries being sweet, he tries being gentle, he tries mimicking the same type of softness as his darling bestows upon him, yet… although she’s sweet, she’s also so aggravatingly reluctant, and Kai doesn’t have the time nor the patience to second-guess every single little thing he wants to do. It’s impractical, it’s wasteful, it’s stupid, and stupidity as we know is a disease he can’t risk being infected with. No, better then, for him to just take the lead, for him to make the decisions for her, for him to decide her limits, up to him to decide when she’s ready to take his cock, how fast and hard he can thrust into her, how tight he can grip her wrists when she starts pushing at him, how many bruises are too many, how many times she can cum. Besides, if things go too far… he knows how to piece her together again. He hasn’t studied every single detail of her just to let all that valuable information go to waste. He’ll see to it that she’s as good as new once their done, if not, maybe even better, maybe even less reluctant to give into what he wants next time, maybe a bit more respectful of the rules, maybe a bit more understanding of who there is the boss and who there is the brittle brainless little toy.

Pain is a good cleanser anyway, despite it being bloody and gory and mixed in with tears and drool and snot and whatever else may occur once the need for his quirk arrives after his aggression causes something to bruise or break. She might think that it’s cruel that healing her has to hurt more than the wound itself, but what she needs to learn is that prosperity always comes at a price, a price that he’s all too willing to pay when she fails to live up to her potential.

TODOROKI SHOTO

Limits are made to be broken, to be conquered, in order for us to prosper. She should be grateful she at least gets the liberty to be with the one she loves, the one who loves her. She should at least be grateful that it’s not just anyone who’s breaking her limits, but him. Him and his hands and his tongue and his cock and his frostbite and his flames and his smile and his biting laughter. She knows by now that there is no stopping him when he starts, she knows that her only hope is to wait for herself to achieve that opium-blown ecstasy and ride that insanity where her skin feels like fire and her insides like ice and every touch, no matter how feather-light or how brutish and bruising, is god’s touch.

Shoto is unprecedentedly thorough and dreadfully talented at aftercare. While his darling is lying all limp and numbed-down, holding onto the prickling feeling dancing like fire-ants on her skin, she can barely even capture the feeling of Shoto wrapping her up in a fuzzy robe. His cold lips pressing onto her forehead and by the time she comes to, when she finally and woefully breaches the surface and gets reeled back into reality, right when she’s at the verge of collapsing from having all her hormones crash, her adrenaline fizzing out into nothing and she’s left feeling all cold and so dreadfully sad, Shoto’s right there, making her feel warm and appreciated and safe. He’ll light candles, scented with rosehip, he’ll already have picked out a movie, he’ll have the chocolate ready, the tea brewing in their matching cups, swiftly braiding her hair into a neat loose setup to keep it from falling into her face as he knows she’s much too drained to lift her hand, resting between his legs, her head using his chest as a headrest. If he’s being honest, he isn’t quite sure what he loves more, the play-session or the aftercare, all he knows is that one is impossible without the other… yet again proving the importance of balance.

Support me at KO-FI if you feel like it<3

[whirlybirbs]

--- tenderly feral. 

summary: you’re used to being alone. daryl, somehow, changes that. rating: t for violence, references to murder/assault/loss, s5 spoilers, if that matters. word count: 3.7k a/n: this is set mid-season 5. right before alexandria. listen, i know, i’m catching up, okay???? anyways, i wrote for daryl when i was literally in high-school and i think this is very fitting. it all comes full circle. this will, no doubt, be a series.                                             ✘      next chapter.      ✘

You’re quiet. Mean lookin’ and awfully quiet.

Daryl Dixon reasons you’re a little bit like a feral cat - used to bein’ outdoors and used to bein’ mean, mean as can be. You’re not used to havin’ others around. It shows.

You don’t trust easy.

And that’s fine, because neither does he.

You’re with the group a little over a week when you finally speak more than a word -- it’s to Rick, saying you saw some formula and diapers and baby blankets in one of the neighborhoods South of Atlanta. It’s a metaphorical olive branch; offered in favor for the next-to-nothing meals and for the church roof over your head...

For saving your skin.

Your voice is a rasp, sounds like you haven’t used it in months. The words fall past your lips slow and sluggish.

(Daryl wonders if it’s from the bruises around your neck, from the hands that had been strangling you into the pavement with no remorse when he found you.)

You’re trying to say thank you. The words don’t want come out just yet. Daryl knows how that feels. So you offer a supply run instead. Risk your neck. Show your thanks.

You figure you won’t be around for long. Might as well make it worth it.

The archer squints into the evening sky as a sunset flare draws a halo around your head.

“Didn’t think t’ grab it, then,” you mutter, lips ghosting over the words as your worried eyes bounce to the cooing infant in the officer’s arms. You toe the dirt, “But, I could grab it now. She’s gotta eat.”

Rick doesn’t trust easy anymore -- not to say he ever really did before.

His eyes narrow, a blink of a microexpression that’s laced with skepticism and curiosity and a vague sense of doubt. Despite it, you stand unwavered as Daryl watches through the mousy strands of his hair from the front steps of the church. After a moment, Rick nods.

His eyes dart across the wooded horizon.

“Tomorrow,” Rick says finally, “Sun’s gonna set soon.”

Daryl watches as you nod, shuffle past, and retreat to the church. His stare follows the steps of your well-worn boots, blue eyes watching as you weave through the open doors to the Lord’s home silently.

You’re a feral cat tryna be an indoor cat.

But you’re tryin’.

Daryl guesses that’s all that matters.

✘ 

You prefer being alone.

It’s just... better that way.

You leave before sun-up and come back that afternoon with a carload of supplies -- Daryl isn’t sure how you managed to swing it, heading out to the ‘burbs with the van alone like that, but you do and there’s grub in everyone’s belly at the end of the night because of it.

It’s either sheer stupidity or pure survival and Daryl isn’t sure which one.

That night, he watches from a few pews back as you fork a can of brown bread into your mouth while you shake a bottle of formula.

In the lights of the candles, you seem softer -- maybe not so mean.

You present the bottle to Carl, lips quirked up into a ghost of a smile as the boy thanks you and bounces his sister on his hip.

(The boy reminds you of someone you knew once, then, and the formula hangs between your hand and his as a memory punches you in the gut -- you remember Boston, and Pennsylvania, and every loss along the way and Carl sees it before you can wipe it away. You try your best to distract from your gaping wound with a tight-lipped smile, but the burn of tears unfallen paint the boy’s face all sorts of guilty.)

“You okay?” he asks, eyeing the bottle.

“Yeah,” you whisper, ducking to the ground, “M’ fine.”

You ain’t. Daryl sees that.

The pew creaks as Rick settles beside the archer.

Silence runs like a river between the two men as you cross the church and settle back against the wall by the altar. They’re both watching, like wolves protecting their pack, and you avoid the weight of their gazes in favor of your canned bread and the small comfort of your corner.

You swipe angrily at the tears streaking your cheeks.

Daryl sees it. He doesn’t know what to make of it, but he sees it.

This is why it’s better to be alone.

“If we’re gonna move soon, after we get Beth,” says Rick after a few beats of breath, “We need more supplies. Somethin’ t’ last us more than a few days.”

Daryl blinks into his can of beans, knee bouncing.

“Yeah.”

“She offered to show us the spot. Go with her tomorrow.”

Daryl nods, tipping back the can into his mouth as Rick pats his knee.

✘

“I’m comin’ with you.”

You go rigid, stiff as a board, when Daryl’s voice passes behind you. Swallowing, you bend at the knee and move to finish shoving a few balled up bags and some water into your camping pack -- when you stay silent, his boots carry him closer, and you’re left to eye the lopsided laces staring back at you.

“Y’ alright with that?”

“Don’t matter,” you say, words biting a bit more than you mean for them to; you’re quick to stand, hauling your pack onto your back, “... Does it?”

Suddenly, the world swings on a hinge and like a screen door slamming open, you’re locked in the orbit of Daryl Dixon. The shiner around his eye makes him look meaner than he is. Blue eyes are soft, betraying him even more. You stand straight, unwavering, as the archer wets his lips and breaks away. He toes the ground and swings his crossbow over his left shoulder as he squints along the tree line.

Mean, mean, mean. Ain’t you?

“No,” he breathes, “It don’t.”

✘

The ride to the South End ‘burbs is quiet.

You forfeited the keys without a fight, swinging yourself into the passagender side of the van -- your fingers had clawed at grime and scum lining the windshield only to yield nothing but smears. So, as the van rolls on, you opt to look out the window.

The view, however desolate and broken, is nice.

After a long stretch of road and a longer stretch of silence, Daryl finally speaks. Blue eyes dart to the curve of your face. They linger, following the column of your throat.

“... Those bruises are healin’ up good.”

He eyes the road with a noted sense of worry.

Again, you seem to stiffen and turn inward. Your hands fly to your neck, pushing the collar of your worn flannel up. The brush of your fingers spurs a wince that flashes into a snarl. Daryl sees it.

Mean.

You plant a boot on the dashboard and cross your arms.

And that’s that.

✘

You manage to stock up three bags of cans, water, and medical supplies.

It’s not much but it’s something, and as you drag yourself up into the van, you catch Daryl’s figure in the rearview. There’s a cigarette hanging between his lips, fingers prying at a bag in the trunk -- the smell of nicotine is better than that of the upholstery which has seemingly soaked up all the residue from it’s previous owner.

The stain in the carpet is big.

Your eyes fleet up from aforementioned stain, connecting with Daryl’s like keys fitting a lock.

He’s always watching.

You reason Daryl Dixon is a bit like a fighting dog -- nasty when he needs to be and fiercely protective. It shows.

He doesn’t trust easy.

And that’s fine, because neither do you.

(Even when if he is the man who’d saved your fucking life. Even if Daryl Dixon is the man who’d pried another living being off you -- even if he’d tackled that fuck to the ground while you gasped for air and stars swam in your eyes. Bloodied fingers clawed at the hot pavement and the world swayed, but you could breathe and you were alive, even if the sound of a tinkering belt and violent threats still sat in your ears.)

Trustin’ ain’t easy now-a-days.

✘

The dance of candlelight carves his face into something softer -- you swear you can see the play of a smile there when Carol talks; as the grey-haired women waves her spoon and shrugs, you find yourself missing conversation for the first time in a long time.

Maybe you have been alone for too long. It shows in moments like these.

You tuck your knees closer and fork the peaches in the tin can with an edge of frustration. In your corner, you sit, far from the lull of the group’s conversation.

But, it’s Tyreese who drags you up from the bottom of that pit of loneliness -- the deep baritone of his voice rouses your attention.

“... Where are you from, newbie?” he asks, words weighted with sincerity, “Where’s home?”

(You’re not a newbie. Maybe that lanky boy Noah is, but you’re not -- this is just something temporary between the running. This group... well, nothing is ever permanent anymore. Especially with the current state of things.)

The conversation holds itself still the lungs of those around you, stuck in their throats as Tyreese drives apart the sea and welcomes you in with a kindness unfounded.

Your eyes hit the bottom of your can. The sugar sweet peaches glisten like tears.

“Boston,” you muster finally, exhaling.

“Christ.”

A sea of murmurs. You can feel the distrust of Rick and Michonne in the tempered reactions -- as Rick bounces a cooing Judith, you’re suddenly feeling like the flame the moths flock to. You feel obligated to share this part of your story, after all isn’t that what people do?

You’re not sure. When you’re alone, you avoid the living like the plague.

But, despite your hang-up’s and hesitation, you nod again, move forward and sit up. You swallow and wet your lips.

“Been on the road for a long time.”

“How long?”

“Since it started.”

Daryl’s face flinches. You see it. He knows.

“Why?” asks Michonne with a pointed edge, “Why not... settle?”

“I did,” you say, “Tried to, at least. Then people died, shit fell apart, and... I kept moving. I had to.”

“Alone?” asks Rick, eyes narrowed.

You nod. Shame weighs your shoulders.

“Seemed like I was bad luck,” you chirp, “Real bad.”

“Well, you’re here now,” says Tyreese, “And we’re glad.”

You wonder if that’s a good thing, after all.

✘

“Here.”

You narrow your eyes.

In his hands hangs a tube. The label is faded.

You squint up at Daryl Dixon from your spot on the church’s steps as a mid-day sunray curls right around his head like a halo. His face is set in something awfully serious. Fiercely protective. Like a damn fightin’ dog. 

(You wonder who holds the choke chain, who yanks the leash.

Is it Rick?)

You take it, confusion flying across your face.

“It’s some cream,” he says, “Carol found it. Said it’s good for bruises.”

You see the way his eyes fall on your throat.

“M’ fine,” you croak, “It... It don’t even hurt.”

“Bullshit.”

“How would you know, huh?” you bite, lips snarling, “I’m fine.”

“‘Cuz I been choked out before,” Daryl snaps back, looming closer, “Take th’ damn cream.”

You do, only with a lasting look of irritation. The moment the tube leaves his hands, he relaxes.

Like that, the air dissipates into stillness.

Daryl’s eyes roam the steeple. When you speak, it catches him by surprise.

“... Thanks.”

You’re still feral. But you’re tryin’.

✘

You stay back -- you don’t know much about this mission to save one of their own, but you know you want nothin’ to do with the pigs in that hospital. You’ve met them before, out on the streets of Atlanta, and you have no intention of meeting them again.

The thought leaves a bad taste in your mouth.

And when there’s trouble with the walkers that crawl to the church, following the hysterical father, you barricade them in alongside Michonne without second thought -- but this turn of fate dredges up this gut-churning feeling of bad luck.

Bad, bad luck.

And then, a fire truck full of friendly faces plow into your concept of bad luck and compounds it with a lie about a cure for all this and a busted trip to Washington.

And then, when you all drag yourselves to Grady Memorial and Daryl Dixon hauls a dead Beth Hershel out those back doors in his arms? When Maggie, the kind woman with the kind drawl crumples at the sight? When Daryl wails and Carol tries -- god she tries --  to calm them both down?

You’re left to wonder if you’re better off alone.

If you and your bad luck is better off in the streets.

Mean and awfully quiet.

✘

The group finds two cars.

They park in the woods and bury Beth at sun-down under a sky of red.

You pass dirt along the grave and remember a prayer from long ago. It’s a croak on your lips but it means something to Maggie, who reaches for your hand and thanks you after it’s all said and done.

Grief sits heavy in Daryl’s gut.

He’s at the edge of the makeshift camp, nothing but a shadow. But, you find him.

In your hands is a can of beans.

You settle next to him on the log. The wood groans but Daryl doesn’t flinch -- his eyes art trained on the low fire that glows before his boots. The embers crackle. He inhales, sharp and fast, and you don’t need to see his face to know he’s been crying.

So, you pull your knife from your boot and crack the top of the can open. You gesture it towards him.

“Eat.”

“I ain’t hungry.”

Your jaw tightens.

Silence draws itself up between you and Daryl and dances in the flames of the campfire. You bounce your knee and clutch the can. That suffocating silence swells there, finally bursting when you turn to eye him with a careful amount of worry.

“... Who was she?”

You see his mouth move. His brows knot, then his face falls.

“A friend,” he whispers, “Family.”

You wonder what that’s like -- to have both of those with the current state of things.

(You had it once -- before things fell apart and you started moving on your own. You had a sister and friends and people who had killed for you by your side. You’d killed for them, too. You would, again. Maybe you’d kill for Daryl, too. A part of you already feels like you owe him.)

“I know it’s not my place,” you say slowly, “But she’d want you t’ eat.”

Daryl’s eyes rocket upwards, catching your expression.

He knows your right.

He takes the can and your fingers brush.

“... Thanks.”

And that’s that.

✘

Tyreese.

You liked him.

You forgot how this felt. Loss. Grief. Death.

You stand shoulder to shoulder beside Daryl over a shallow grave.

And you cry.

✘

It’s bad.

You’re bad -- you’re nothing but bad luck and all this? This is how it’s gonna end.

A thousand miles, and for what? To starve on a Georgia highway?

Behind you, like a ball and chain, is a horde of walkers that snarl and gasp and trudge along, waiting for one of you to drop. You wonder if you’ll go first -- if your last meal will really be peaches. Canned fuckin’ peaches.

You swallow, swipe at your clammy skin, and keep moving.

For the first time in a long time, you’re tired of moving. Tired of running. Of being alone.

For the first time in a long time, you glad you’re not alone.

Daryl is lingering behind you. His steps are sluggish and his crossbow is slung across his waist, posed and ready. The vest around his shoulders is soaked, tattered shirt darkened with sweat. You’re no better. The hair along your neck clings with reckless abandon. You spare him a glance, then slow up to match his pace.

You’re quiet for a while, steps falling in with his.

And then you speak.

“I never said thanks.”

Daryl’s face gives nothing away. HIs eyes, though, dart to you for a moment. When you speak, your eyes are off on the horizon.

“That guy was gonna kill me over a can of soup,” you speak slowly, ignoring the garrish flashes of the scene that unfolds behind your eyes every-night, “And you stopped him.”

“... Had to.”

“No,” you shake your head, finally breaking to look at him, “You didn’t.”

He’s quiet for a few feet, then he sighs. “Jus’ ‘cause things have got t’ shit don’t mean people don’t matter.”

Your mouth goes dry. “I’m bad luck.”

“You’re not.”

“Ever since I joined up,” you drawl, movements sluggish as the horizon glimmers, “I... People have --”

“It ain’t your fault.”

His words are firm, backed by a rush of anger that knocks you for a loop. Daryl staggers along, face set in some unreadable way that leaves you wondering what he really thinks -- he’s like Rick and Michonne. Pointed and distrusting, but there’s something else there.

“Tell the others I’m goin’ t’ look for water.”

He dips into the woods and disappears.

Mean and awfully quiet.

✘

He doesn’t find water.

But when the skies split open and pour rivers of rain down on you all, you find yourself not caring. You lay in the street beside Tara and Rosita and you laugh -- peels of joyous sounds that mesh as the group scrambles to grab bags and bottles.

And when the sky roars, you and the group hole up in that barn down off the beaten path.

You curl up in a corner, far from the fire, as the come-down of the day seeps into your bones with the rain.

It’s Daryl who approaches, rousing you from a half-sleep.

He plops down against the hay bail, prompting you to stir.

You inhale and shift, rubbing your eyes. You blink at him, caught in the tired look on his face and the cut of his cheeks. He looks rough -- you haven’t known him long but you know this isn’t him. He’s a ghost of himself. Between grief and starvation, Daryl Dixon looks nothing like the man you’d watched nights ago back in the church, glowing in the light of prayer candles and good grub.

“You okay?” you ask softly, voice nothing more than a mere wisp.

“I wasn’t gonna save you at first,” he blurts, “Wasn’t gonna fight that guy, wasn’t gonna... stop him. Things have been bad and... I don’t --...”

His words die. Your chin drops.

“All this?” he gestures suddenly, “All this is just remindin’ me I’m alive, y’know?”

You turn to eye him, then nod. “Yeah.”

His fiddles with his fingers. Silence creeps between you two and your chest aches with some sort of feeling you’re not too sure of. Maybe it’s dread? Maybe it’s regret or... distrust. You don’t know. But it’s not nice.

“I’d do it again,” he leans, “If I had to.”

“Do what?”

“Kill someone,” Daryl mumbles, “If it meant savin’ you. I don’t regret that.”

You think of the sound the crossbow bolt made when it passed through that man’s skull. You think of Daryl, scrambling to help you up as a group of walkers creep in -- you think of him and Carol, prying you out of the thick of it and saving your fucking life.

“You don’t know me,” you say slowly, “What if I’m not who you think I am?”

“I’d know,” he watches you and you feel like you’re stuck in cement, “Everyone would know. But you ain’t bad. You know that.”

Maybe you do.

Again, the quiet rolls in like mist in the morning. You’ve started to realize it’s a part of Daryl -- he isn’t a talker, not like Glenn or Eugene. He’s quiet and reserved and he picks his words; there’s nothing that doesn’t matter in the way he speaks. It’s all him.

He spins a piece of grain between his fingers.

Your head rolls. You trace his profile with your eyes.

“M’ sorry about Beth.”

“Yeah,” he breathes as he drops his head back, “Me too.”

“... Think we’ll survive this?”

“We always do.”

✘

His name is Aaron.

And you don’t trust him.

You wonder if it’s because you’ve met men like him before -- promising a safe place to rest your head. Promising safety and a future. Those men have all been liars, thieves, murderers.

(You wonder if this is how Rick felt about you. If welcoming you in with Daryl’s blessing was met with the same hesitation? Were you once nothing more than another Aaron?)

But... he’s not lying.

Rick notes your discomfort. He needs that. He needs the good and the bad and the ugly, the trusting and the distrusting. He’s a good leader -- you’re seeing that now in the ex-cop. 

That’s how you get shouldered in between Aaron and Michonne in the backseat of that shit-box Lincoln. That’s how you plow through the dead at 45 MPH, heart dropping into the pit of your gut as you haul ass out of the car and plunge your hunting knife into as many heads as you can. Your survival instinct is feverish and terrified and full of desperation; as you roar, Rick watches.

In a flash, something settles between you both.

You book it through the woods and hit Route 16 with no RV in sight.

No Carl, no Judith... No Daryl.

The moon casts inky shadows in your wake.

No time to stop. You all keep moving.

✘

Rick whistles. He gives a call.

There’s a response.

You carry yourself into a collision of an embrace -- Daryl curses, quietly, as he sways on his feet and grips your shoulders tightly. In the light of the alleyway, it’s just the two of you; the moment passes like a ship in the night and peel yourself away with a broken laugh.

“You okay?” he asks, stepping back and gauging you. The touch makes his skin hot.

“Fine,” you croak, “You?”

“Never better.”

✘

Alexandria is what they call it.

In the cramped back of the RV, you spare Daryl a look as the vehicle rolls to a stop and Abrahram announces the arrival with a measured level of reservation.

You can’t remember the last time you stopped running.

No better time than the present.

After all, you’re just a feral cat, tryin’ its best to be indoors.

[lightonourfeet]

kitten caboodle

Ryou was panicking. 

Granted, it wasn’t the ‘running around and into things, full on fear’ kind of panic.  No.  It was much worse than that.  It was the deep kind of panic that filled up your chest and stomach until you were drowning, all heavy and thick and making it hard to breathe.  The kind of panic you knew was worth panicking over, the kind that came up out of the inside of you instead of coming on from outside.  The kind that always lived in your heart, waiting to spread out and grow.

It was raining.  Hard.  It was cold and it was getting dark which he knew meant it was going to get darker.  He didn’t know where they were and he didn’t know where to search for that would be familiar in a good way.  Thunder roared and lightening cracked nearby and all his fur stood on end - or it would have if he wasn’t soaking wet and it wasn’t all plastered to his thin body.  And all of that - all of that he could have handled.

But Shiro was next to him and while that would have usually made things bearable and even all right, was all wrong.  Because Shiro was sick, which he’d already known - but when he’d woken up from his fitful nap next to his brother, he’d realized, for the first time, that Shiro’s mangled front leg

it smelled like death.

Ryou knew what death smelled like.  And smelling it, not on but in his brother had sent him into a panic.

He’d done all he could for Shiro.  And he was still going to lose him.  Because soon the death would spread up the leg and then Ryou would smell it on Shiro’s breath and he would know.

He was going to be all alone.  He was going to lose his brother.  And he didn’t know what he’d do in a world without Shiro in it.

So he gave in, finally, to the panic and he did the only thing he had left to do, his last resort and possible damnation.

He stepped to the edge of the car they were hiding under and he screamed for help out into the dark empty, raging night.

Lisa stood in the doorway and debated.  The storm couldn’t last all night.  She could go back inside the cafe and wait out the storm.  Her shift was over but it wasn’t as if employees didn’t hang around after hours sometimes.  It couldn’t rain all night, at least not like this.  She could get herself a cocoa and sit by the window and wait it out.

Except she’d been on her feet all day being nice to strangers and all she really wanted to do was go home.  Home to her own space and her own peace and quiet and her own things, where she could change and take a soak in the tub and curl up in her own bed with a book or her laptop and lose herself in something silly and soft and romantic until she fell asleep.  And to do that, she was going to have to walk the two blocks to her apartment in the storm.

Well - she’d gotten soaked by the rain before.  She could handle it again.

Her sneakers filled up with water the second she stepped out into it, pulling her coat up tight around her neck but once they were wet there was no sense in avoiding the puddles anymore and she made the straightest bee-line with the longest strides she could manage for home.

And she almost walked right past the beaten up car parked next to the curb without even noticing.

Except she heard the ‘mew’ even over the storm and instinct had her feet carrying her a few stride beyond it, bend determinedly on home but her heart had her turning back into the face of the storm to take the same strides back and squat down on her heels to peer under the car.  Because she wasn’t sure she’d really heard it but if she didn’t check she’d never sleep right tonight.  For a second she was sure she was getting water down the back of her neck for nothing.

And then the darkness under the car blinked at her and she realized it was a black cat - no, kitten - in the shadows by the tire.  Not a newborn, not that small, but still very much a kitten and out in this kind of weather.  She made a crooning, worried noise and he hissed at her, more something she felt thanks to the open mouth than heard over the noise of the storm.  But after that hiss, he scooted closer and she was glad because she really didn’t want to fight a cat in the rain but she couldn’t very well leave him out here either, even if he was already feral.  So she bent down some more and the water soaked through the knees of her jeans and she got both hands under the car so she could scoop him up.  Except he scooted back at the last second and she banged her forehead on the side of some stranger’s car in her instinctive lunge for him and just as she was about to pull her hands back and rub at her forehead and curse the fact she was probably literally going to have to try to crawl on her belly under the car to catch a skitterish kitten

her returning fingers brushed fur.

She blinked again in surprise, rain running down her eyelashes and carefully felt along the new fur.  Her heart sank.  The body under her fingertips was lying so still.  A dead kitten?  Had something gotten it?  A dog or another cat or even a car?  She knew it was the way the world spun but it still hurt her heart and she gathered up the body instinctively, vague ideas of putting it in a shoebox at home and in the fridge until she could bury it drifting through her mind.  Except just as she drew it out into the rain it mewwed weakly, at her or in protest of the sudden cold rain and she realized it was alive - and couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or not because even as the rain soaked it through she saw the way dried black melted into red and realized it was hurt and very badly too.  Careful, trying to be gentle, she tucked it into her jacket against her chest, over her heart, hoping to keep it a little warm at least and then, lighting fast, used her other hand to reach out and snag the other kitten as it was too busy watching her hand with its fellow kitten in it to react.  It hissed at her as well and she felt the bite of tiny icepick claws in her hand but she hauled it out by its scruff all the same, apologizing for manhandling it even as she shoved it in the depths of her coat pocket and zipped it in.  The raging going on against her through the fabric of that pocket told her just how unhappy the living kitten was with that arrangement but she needed both hands to cradle the outside of her jacket to keep the sick kitten safe.

And this time, when she stood up, she didn’t speed walk.  She ran, wet sneakers splashing up great uprisings of water as she went through the puddles.  Headed the opposite direction from her home. 

Headed for the emergency vet five blocks down and across the intersection of Sycamore Street.  Usually it was birds and squirrels she was bringing them, but she’d never held anything that felt as weak and cold as the kitten she cradled against her chest as she ran.

[lady-tortilla-chip]

Petrichor + Soukoku

I don’t know what this is anon. I really don’t and I triple checked what Petrichor meant (because I didnt previously know when I got this) so, I hope this fic (not a ficlet because it’s 1600 words long!!) is what you had in mind!

—

The first time Dazai saw Chuuya again was during the first storm of the winter season. The rain was relentless over the city. Falling in sheets full of wrath pounding against windows and pavement.

Dazai had gotten himself caught in it. Still a few blocks from his own dingy apartment building and finding refuge within a small cafe that still happened to be open.

The smell in the air was distinct and wet. The kind of smell one looked forward to when it finally rained after a long dry season. Like everything was cleansed of its dirt and grime. (Though Dazai would never properly be cleansed of his own.)

However, Dazai would’ve preferred to enjoy the smell inside his apartment. Where it was dry. Currently he was soaked to the bone and while it wasn’t particularly chilly out, it didn’t make his wet clothing any less uncomfortable. He sat himself at a table close to the door.

Peering outside the window he watched as passerby’s -smartly equipped with umbrellas- went about the rest of their day. Either heading home or back to work. It was methodical, the way each person walked passed another. The way they called out to cabs and slipped inside without breaking the nearly endless cycle of moving cars and people.

It was boring.

A waitress came by his table only once to offer a warm drink, her smile plastic, given out to everyone as per her job’s description. She seemed tired, older than a woman working this kind of job should be. Dazai accepted her offer of the daily special.

It was a simple coffee that didn’t taste all that great, but then, nearly everything tasted bland to Dazai. At least she’d been right in that it did warm him to the core.

As he continued to people watch, only half focused as several different trains of thought battled for his primary focus, the distinct sound of a bell ringing pushed them all to the back of his mind.

Looking up Dazai was greeted with the sight of a very wet and angry Nakahara Chuuya.

He hadn’t seen the man in well over two years.

Not since he’d left.

He didn’t think he’d ever see the man again.

He’d grown, not so much in height as everything else. His stance was more assured despite his hunched shoulders which shook with irritation at the weather. His face was more defined, the lines between his masculine and feminine features more clearly drawn to make him seem less androgynous than he used to. His eyes were still full of light, however they were sharper.

Though that could’ve just been the glare he was currently sending Dazai’s way.

He hadn’t even realized the redhead noticed him.

At the realization he also realized that the man was moving towards him.

Seating himself in the chair across from Dazai with an exasperated huff like the decision to sit there hadn’t been entirely his own.

Dazai didn’t say anything and he doubted the man wanted him to. He looked like a cat, an angry, wet, and feral cat. Blue eyes narrowed and the twitch of his brow like that of a cat’s tail.

“So either, you are very dead and hung yourself in this cafe and are currently a ghost. Or actually fucking stuck around in Yokohama. Please tell me you’re fucking dead.” Chuuya said.

“Would you like the truth or something to continue believing I have successfully killed myself?” Dazai responded.

Chuuya leaned back, his arms crossed over his chest, “You pick.”

Dazai nodded his head once and said in a self pitying tone, “Alas, I cannot say I have died but instead am still trapped among the living.”

Chuuya rolled his eyes, huffing a breath through his teeth as his gaze flicked elsewhere, “Fuck me.”

Dazai’s brow raised, the first thing that came to mind to say would surely get him violently thrown back into the rain. Through the window.

So instead he stayed silent.

Chuuya’s eyes came back to meet his, eyebrow cocking high on his forehead as he spat, “What? No stupid remark to make about how you already have? Or happily would again? Or maybe that you’d never dream of it? Nothing?”

Dazai shrugged, “Seems you’ve come up with enough comebacks on your own.”

Chuuya sneered, “Shut up.”

Dazai shrugged again then sat back in his own seat. Once again glancing outside only to see his reflection staring back at him. Deciding he didn’t care for that particular view he moved his gaze over to Chuuya’s reflection. Allowed himself a moment to dwell on everything that seemed to have changed about him.

His presence seemed to have broadened, become twice the size since Dazai had last seen him. It was a still familiar presence though, known.

“You know I’m still feeling the heat of your oh-so-sudden departure?” Chuuya eventually said, breaking the thin layer of silence that had settled over them.

Dazai didn’t turn his head away from the window to indicate he acknowledged the statement. Simply waited for Chuuya to continue speaking.

“I’m still in the process of cleaning up your mess.”

Dazai made a sound under his breath, “Surely the blood has been truly and thoroughly cleaned up.”

“Not really.” Chuuya bit out.

“Did you-?”

“No.”

The new mafia boss still hadn’t publicly been made clear yet.

If not Chuuya, then it was Kouyou.

Dazai snorted.

“She’s great at it, better than even he was. Has had to call my loyalty into question one too many times though.” Chuuya said with a pointed look at Dazai before averting his gaze again.

Dazai didn’t have a response for that. It made sense that Chuuya would be a suspect to aiding Dazai in his escape. His loyalty coming into question would’ve been laughable with literally anything else. But Dazai abandoning ship the way he had and how easily he seemed to slip away, there was absolutely no way Chuuya wouldn’t receive suspicion.

Chuuya frowned, head turning to look at Dazai back through the window, “You have nothing to say?”

“Were you hoping I would when you came to sit there?”

Chuuya’s eyes narrowed, “No,” he answered and it seemed honest, “No, actually I was hoping I’d slipped on a puddle and passed out a few blocks back and that you weren’t actually here and I was just suffering through a concussion induced nightmare.”

“You could be.” Dazai said and that got him a grunt.

“Maybe I am. And that’s why you’re so quiet.”

“I’m not quiet. Just observant.”

Chuuya rolled his eyes, “What are you observing?”

The entirely honest answer was, everything, though that’s not what he said, though, he regretted what he actually said all the same, “You.”

Chuuya smirked and leaned forward, “I haven’t changed. But you clearly have.” He said with a clear nod to Dazai’s change of wardrobe and unbandaged eye.

Fighting the urge to reach up and touch the skin around his eye, Dazai watched as Chuuya clenched his jaw. Expression shifting as he debated something.

Eventually he asked, “Was it worth it?”

It was a loaded question, one that wasn’t enough to encompass the emotions Chuuya had felt at Dazai’s betrayal. Wasn’t accusatory either. Sounded curious, like he needed the answer to be the right one. The one that could rationalize why Dazai would leave him. Why Dazai didn’t choose him.

Just four simple words that Dazai couldn’t decipher the purpose of answering, because he didn’t know what the right answer was. Not knowing something, especially about what Chuuya wanted from him was foreign. Odd. Had him wondering if perhaps Chuuya had changed more than just physically and far more in maturity.

So, he responded honestly, “I don’t know yet.”

At that Chuuya smiled though it didn’t touch his eyes and stood.

Dazai, curious now, asked, “Was that why you came over here?”

Chuuya didn’t pause, didn’t miss a step, just continued out as though Dazai’s voice hadn’t reached him.

The brunet, watched as Chuuya exited the building, re-entering the rain and moving quickly away.

The first time he’d seen Chuuya after defecting from the mafia, killing Mori, and leaving behind one of the only good things he’d had in life, was also the last.

It wasn’t until, a few years later, tucked in bed with Chuuya laying next to him, curled against his side, breaths light and gentle as he slept, that Dazai stopped have firsts and lasts with the man.

That they began and the end, the end was distant. A promise that would eventually be fulfilled, like the promise of rain after the end of a dry season, the promise of petrichor drifting in the air when it did, the promise of a final page to every book.

The book Dazai had, guaranteed their end would come later. That Dazai need not trouble himself with worry over what may occur tomorrow because tomorrow they’d return to their bed. As they always did. As they always would.

[hellyeahrpmemes]

※ JENNA MARBLES SENTENCE STARTERS, PT. IX ※

here’s sentences from 10 more of jenna’s videos! feel free to change names/pronouns/zodiac signs/etc.! more jenna sentences

PANCAKE ART CHALLENGE

“I’m not very good at drawing things.”

“Yours won. Yours so won.”

“It looks like a feral cat.”

“You’re just pretending to be a chef.”

“I made your forehead in pancake form.”

“Don’t look at mine - don’t look at mine…!”

“She looks like a ghost of herself.”

“It looks like a tombstone walking a dog.”

“It looks like a can of silly string gone wrong.”

“That’s a bunny. You draw it every single time we’re at dinner and you find a crayon or a pen. That’s the one thing you know how to draw really, really well.”

“So it’s a flamethrower?”

“What the fuck is your problem?”

“I’m gonna put this on your bed tonight. On your pillow.”

“It’s an Ankylosaurus, duh.”

“Can you autograph my pancake?”

“I wonder if it tastes good.”

“It looks like a weird calculator.”

“If he can do it, we can do it, too.”

“In the end, we both lost.”

“It was a lot harder than it looks.”

CHILDHOOD STORIES

“There are some moths in my house, and I don’t really want to kill them, but they are driving me crazy. I swear to god, if they start chewing my clothes, it’s gonna be game over. I’m gonna burn this house down.”

“I have lost my mind a little bit.”

“Worship me, Pinterest.”

“I feel like I am now the queen of DIY.”

“We would just sit there, and maybe look out the window, and maybe talk to each other.”

“You really needed a friend, but I really liked to play with it alone.”

“What did you do? That looks so cool!”

“I forgot I had a rope, and I forgot this thing called friction happens, and I sawed it in half.”

“I didn’t say anything to my dad, because I knew that that would be certain death.”

“I am a really bad liar and I have a terrible poker face.”

“My brother wasn’t going to tattle on me, because he is not a snitch, and I appreciate that.”

“It was like top ten most angry moments I’ve ever seen my dad.”

“Shut up, my gerbil is not fat.”

“Dude, your gerbil is so fat.”

“It was the most disgusting thing I think I’ve ever seen.”

“Sometimes, if your mom can’t take care of you, she’s just going to eat you.”

“I took a pair of scissors, and I decided to give my cat a haircut.”

“Damn it, now the cat’s gonna get his head stuck in everything.”

“I’m fired, I quit, I’m fired.”

MY DOG CHASING A DRONE

“I got Julien a drone for his birthday.”

“He really just loves to chase it.”

“Why fight it when you can just work with it?”

“It really is completely hysterical.”

“This is what I want to watch on the Internet.”

“We love each other forever.”

“I would never do anything to put him in any sort of danger.”

“We work together to make fun things happen.”

“It’s just really cool and really amazing and I just wanted to share it with you.”

“You don’t even care, do you?”

UNPOPULAR OPINIONS

“Do you need a snack or anything? You good?”

“I think avocados are propaganda in Southern California.”

“You hate something as meaningless as an avocado, Jenna? Really?”

“If I was a ghost, I wouldn’t just help people when they needed me, I’d be there all the time.”

“What’re you doing? Cutting your nails? I’m gonna stand here and watch.”

“Are you ever truly alone? I say no.”

“Why am I turning? I hate this chair…!”

“I don’t think ghosts and/or spirits just limit their visitation hours to when you need them. I think they’re there all the time. Creeping on you.”

“I think parasailing is boring as fuck.”

“That looks intense, count me out.”

“It’s very boring. It’s not worth it.”

“Why are you so famous? It really bothers me to the core of my being.”

“I think almond butter tastes like blood. I think it’s gross, and it tastes like blood.”

“I think tonic water tastes like earwax.”

“I think that making a salad is way too much work for the end result.”

“I’m not really talented at hard manual labor, which I’m sure my grandparents would find as a character flaw.”

“I think Jenna is the best name ever. Sorry, all other names.”

“I would buy her a drink like the gentleman I am.”

“I have a landlord that says no, but I say otherwise.”

“Go check out the otters. You won’t be disappointed.”

“They’re literally just there to have a great time.”

“I mean, it’s cool to see you, man, but you seem sad.”

“I think curtains are way too expensive for what they are, and a waste of money.”

“I’d see that, like, four times in the theater.”

“I’m legitimately terrified of prescription drugs.”

“I don’t really care what anybody says. I mean, I do a little bit.”

“Think for yourself, use your own brain, it’s a fun thing to do.”

REVIEWING BAD APPS

“Guess what? This is life.”

“I think it’s funnier now that the song is two years old.”

“If I paid money for it, I’m angry about it.”

“This is the weirdest fucking app.”

“I think it’s genius. I think it’s great.”

“Does this not know that google exists?”

“Did that horse fall?”

“Is this porn? Is this porn? This feels porny.”

“This one makes me feel like I’m really there.”

“That’s pretty annoying.”

“It’s not the worst, but it’s also not not the worst.”

“One small tattoo for man, one giant leap backwards for mankind.”

“Oh my god, oh my god, that’s nightmare fuel.”

“It’s so stupid that it’s amazing.”

“Just that name is the funniest thing ever.”

“Oh, I hate this so fucking much.”

“Think of all the times you just needed a candle, but you don’t have one.”

“Whenever I find something really cool, I just tell Julien, and he never appreciates it, so I hope you appreciate it.”

GIRLS DAY

“It’s time to go.”

“This is the cutest shovel I’ve ever seen.”

“I got this on sale!”

“I feel crazy.”

JENNA’S RACHET FASHION BOUTIQUE

“I like to sew, even though I’m not very good at it. I just refuse to fail.”

“We used to have to take home economics, where you learn how to sew and cook and stuff, and, apparently, people don’t take that anymore.”

“I still am mediocre at it.”

“If shit ever went down at a zombie apocalypse, everyone’s gonna be butt-ass naked, and I’m gonna be over here, sewing, with electricity.”

“I’m just gonna try and sew myself a sick outfit.”

“I also don’t want to spend a lot of time doing this.”

“Fuck patterns, fuck all that shit, let’s just do it live.”

Everything that I sew is gonna be with navy blue and/or black thread, which, if you have a problem with, just go away now.”

“I’m gonna make a long maxi skirt, ‘cause those are overpriced.”

“I would do this drunk, but it seems really dangerous to sew drunk.”

“Something smells like burning.”

“It looks crooked, but you just pass it off as fashion.”

“Get your scissors, and cut whatever the fuck is bothering you the fuck out.”

“Backwards and forwards and backwards, it’s just like life.”

“The best way to learn is to just look at a shirt, and make it.”

“Just don’t even bother finishing anything.”

“Yes. Yes, cape, yes.”

“Somebody could have made something really nice out of this. Not me!”

“I’m literally wearing a tube of pajamas, and I love it.”

“When I was at the fabric store, I saw this, and just really couldn’t resist.”

“What lady going to a ball couldn’t fit this into her wardrobe?”

“A fun, exciting fabric to make a hat out of is denim.”

“Don’t laugh, it’s fashion!”

“If you saw this, you’d be like, that is couture.”

“I really should’ve just made my entire outfit out of this, but that’s for next time.”

“Looks great. I’m scared of you, but it looks good.”

“I feel like the outside matches the inside.”

“Yes, bitch, you fuck that outfit up.”

“Honestly, I’d wear this shirt. And this skirt.”

THINGS I WISH I COULD LIE ABOUT

“I’m also sorry. But not that sorry.”

“Most of it just stems from being terrified of authority. I’m scared of getting in trouble.”

“Whenever someone asks me for my phone number, I always give out my real phone number. I can never lie and give them a fake number.”

“I’m terrified of having that confrontation.”

“Yeah, I got it really wet. It’s soaking wet. Just fully submerged in water. It’s wet.”

“I just wish that I could lie, but I feel too bad, I have to tell the truth.”

“I could’ve saved myself a lot of money with just a couple lies.”

“Their dogs are not therapy dogs, and you can tell.”

“I know for a fact that, by saying yes to that question, I’m just gonna get a lecture for the next ten minutes.”

“I don’t need to hear the lecture. I know the lecture.”

“Eggplant? Ew! The fuck is wrong with — my god, no…!”

“I don’t need to violently argue with someone when they say they don’t like something.”

“I can never, ever, ever lie to a police officer or a cop, ever.”

“I wasn’t speeding that much, but I was definitely speeding.”

“I was listening to R. Kelly’s World’s Greatest, and it was just getting me so hyped up that I just, I went so fast, I didn’t realize how fast I was going.”

“He gave me a $300 speeding ticket.”

“That started the ‘do not play’ list in the car.”

“You’re singing with your eyes closed, which is not good for driving, at all.”

“I think this is a good look. I think we should make this a thing.”

“Some of you guys are fuckin lying.”

HOW I TALK TO PEOPLE AT PARTIES

“Oh my god, how’s it going? So good to see you!”

“Hey, thanks, I’m a catch.”

“It’s a conversation, we should listen.”

“I don’t wanna listen…”

“I’m gonna use my eyes and pretend I’m listening.”

“She just asked us a question — did you hear what she asked us?”

“So how’s, uh… how’s what’s his face?”

“I just don’t want her to tell the tree story again.”

“One time, I was climbing this tree in my backyard…”

“She can smell your fear, you know.”

“I can smell time. It’s 11:30.”

“I can rap. Quadruple threat.”

“Did you watch the baseball game the other night?”

“Are we drunk?”

“This is bad, we shouldn’t have said that, why did we say that?”

“Hey, we should get this pierced.”

“Do you feel like breaking something?”

“I really love you so much.”

“She’s already drunk ‘I love you’-ing.”

“At least she didn’t make any drunk plans yet.”

“We are not going to remember that. Not at all.”

“What do you think happens when you put a ton of lettuce into a woodchipper?”

“I fucking hate you guys. You guys are idiots.”

“My brain is a terrifying prison.”

WHAT’S IN MY MOUTH CHALLENGE

“Why are you laughing already? Stop laughing.”

“You put the heel of my boot in my mouth? What are you, insane?”

“This touches the ground?”

“I was mad, sorry.”

“No, this is not going to turn into you solving a Rubik’s cube.”

“Who makes appointments a year in advance? I do.”

“This is my inhaler, you asshole!”

“Did you just say scoff?”

“You sinus-blasted me?!”

“Do you have any idea the mental preparation you need to have before you take one of those!?”

“As soon as it hit my tongue, I knew I was fucked.”

“Open up, we are playing a game.”

“Julien, my mouth tastes like Christmas tree!”

“Oh my god, what the fuck is that? It’s wet…”

“Open up all the way.”

“You put yeast in my mouth. That was fucked up.”

“Wow… I hate you.”

[alarashinu]

(So I could have sworn I posted this back when it happened but apparently I’m just losing my mind, so here it is now. This was a retroactive/memory scene between myself and @mundanemike detailing how Lysandir and @ravenswitte became a mated pair, and was written out during the now-concluded Demon-Jacked plot.)

Massive trigger warnings for blood, gore, torture, and (technically) cannibalism.

(It’s also quite long!)

He couldn't think straight enough to have any real processed going through at once. He couldn't move. His eyes wouldn't even respond to his wants, though the want wasn't as strong as the desire to make it stop. There was so much sickness lacing through him, walking hand in hand with the agony that burned from ever bruise, cut or gaping wound. He had lost track of himself, not sure how long the red eyed man had been there with his creatures, tormenting him like a handful of demons and twice as cruel. He had no idea how long he'd been left here on the cold, gore-slicked floor of his cell with only the rotating thrum of the turbines to keep him company.

He was...

Fairly sure he was dying.

That was, to be honest, terribly inconvenient. He was pretty sure that crazy fucking bitch wasn't going to be able to raise him anew like she threatened all the way out here. Something of a pained, crackling rasp escaped his broken and bloodied lips as he tried to just breathe and laugh. It was excruciating, the whole ordeal, and new coppery warmth came to greeth his muddled senses as the hot iron nails of it dug into his veins and slithered to his core. If he wasn't dying he was possibly losing what was left of his mind in here. That, or the strange, ribbons of sticky flesh piled in the crook of his curled body were actually his guts. Had he tried to put them back...? He thinks maybe so...

"Ahahahahah....HA."

It wasn't funny, but what else could he do?

He wasn't a big crier.

Never had been.

Plenty of times he'd thought about it. Like right now. He...Wasn't sure how to just do that sort of thing anyways. He always laughed when it looked bad. Right now he was half off his gourd, numbly pawing the mess closer in towards himself, and...And he didn't think of the bitch.

Nah, she'd be mad but she'd be fine..

It was that stupid deer that kept popping back in, smiling and sighing at him for something awful he'd done or caused. He was real good at filling that irreperably ruined bad dog, wasn't he...? He wasn't just going to sigh this time and it caused the mongrel in the cage to linger there, close to his face. It was ok that he was so disappointed now...

He'd deserved that sort of look for a long time. "...bloo'ee puss..." He spat the words with some of his own fluids into the night, mangled cheek tearing more as it peeled from the metal where it'd been resting. He wasn't mad, he was...Was he mad? Maybe. Maybe he should be. After all, he couldn't even give him that look when he first found out. There had to be something wrong and broken with the creature, not like him but still there. He'd never know why he kept coming back...But maybe it was because, no matter how much he deserved it, Lyz never gave it to him. Even with someone else's guts in his hands.

Never.

Not even once.

The smell was what really brought him back, though. That, and the taste of his own blood thick in his mouth before it dripped in a slow, thick stream. He'd been a very, very bad dog and Lyz kept him. Even when he broke his toys. He couldn't help himself, you see. Somethimes it just...Got the better of him. Most people didn't want that. They ran or fought or screamed or...Anything. Staring the feral and enraged wolf in the eyes with the guts of that poor boy twisted all about his rending claws, the warm, crimson wetting the fur and spreading across the open clearing...He was some sort of saint or something, the way he did that...

That thing he...

How he...

He had smelled blood.

It was probably nothing. An animal he got too rough with.

It was human.

He got too rowdy at one of the taverns, got someone's blood on his fists.

It was hot.

It was fresh.

And then it was everywhere.

Lysandir stopped on the edge of the clearing, just where thick undergrowth gave way to shorter grass. That was all. He just stopped, and he took in the scene before him, amber eyes glowing in the dark even as the rest of his sleek, feline form was wreathed in shadow. His pupils, widened to nearly perfect circles in the night, narrowed to slits, until nothing was left but that sea of gold as he watched the wolf, guts hanging from his claws like macabre streamers, and the body lying broken under his paws, its ribs pried open wide like gruesome wings.

Anyone else would have run, screamed, attacked... something. He thought dimly that maybe he was supposed to do that. He thought maybe that was the proper thing to do when faced with such grisly horrors. When faced with monsters.

Instead, velvet paws and dainty steps brought him from the edge of the clearing towards the scene illuminated like a spotlight to his nocturnal eyes, the cold silver light of Mother Moon refusing to leave anything to imagination. He felt his toes squelch in the wet grass, and for a moment he wondered if it had rained. But the thick copper stench in his nose wouldn't let him entertain that thought for more than a heartbeat, and he found himself wondering just how much blood was in a human body.

He stopped mere inches from the beast, thrusting out his nose and bristling his whiskers, not in anger or fear, but in... curiosity?

Witte, in his haze of mingled agony and time and distance, was more right than he could know: this creature -- this delicate, gentle creature -- was a deeply, irreparably broken thing.

Roughly about five to six liters. That's how much the average human had, but this one was running short. Though it wasn't running short enough not to gurgle and spit some of it. For the love of the Light, the poor man was still alive. Witte had forgotten him for a moment, the golden sets of eyes meeting and staying hung there for the moment. He should say something, probably.

The monster that was The Raven at the time, had turned back to the prey however. His claws digging into the skull along the hairline as he grabbed its face in both hands. It was an interesting sound, the human's head crushing in and squeezing out the breaks and past his fingers. He didn't stop, though. Not until there wasn't even a head left to recognize. It's popped like a melon at one point, spreading bloody cleared fluid into the mix as it rushed out in the face of the pressure. Of course there were still some moving parts here and there, twitching and settling...

But that's when he lowered his muzzle and started to eat him.

Maybe Lyz being there had made him more vicious in the end, though it wasn't conscious. It reminded him of why he'd stalked the young cobbler home in the first place. His home was a warzone in the wake of the struggle and Tegwynn's outrage. He hadn't really done anything, though. Well not anything a person might consider acceptable terms for murder.

But he kept looking at the deer. He even gave him something. Witte hadn't asked Lyz about it, no. The devil inside had taken him by the reins and led him right into hell again without looking. He got ahead of himself thinking and--

Well, to be honest, he didn't remember much of it after the fellow answered his back door.

Lysandir took one step back as skin and bone and brain gave way under the immense pressure of the monster's claws, but it seemed more to avoid getting any of it on his pristine black fur, the little ponce. You know how cats are. In fact, he even gave his shoulder a vaguely irritated lick, tasting blood on the roof of his mouth. It made his whiskers bristle again, and when he looked back at the Raven -- his Raven -- something warm and wet was being shoved in his direction.

He sniffed at it delicately, as though appraising its suitability as an offering, and never once did his eyes leave Witte's as he took it and swallowed it down.

He should be horrified, he thought distantly. He should be disgusted, perhaps even vomiting at the idea of making a meal of another sentient creature, of sharing that meal with the beast who had killed it.

He should be a lot of things, he knew, that he was not.

He could have backed down and shown some sort of remorse, some sort of attempt to hide what it was he'd done and would do...But he wasn't particularly repentant either. It didn't help that Lyz took his heart like it was intended. Alright then, his slowly returning sensibilities decided to just say fuck it. Like usual.

There was another moment there where all that could be heard was the soft, peeling of flesh from bone as he lowed his head to feast upon the one who had probably wronged him in some way his warped mind could twist it. He gave the antlered one all of the best parts, his favorites at least, if he would join him.

It was...Kind of pleasing though, watching the cat do as he did. He was by far no wicked creature like The Raven, no. He was wild and beautiful, as gentle as he could be fierce...He never seemed the sort to make sense around his sort. The sort that tried to save you and then hated you when they couldn't. He just wasn't though.

Maybe that's why. Maybe.

Each piece was taken with that same delicate, soft mouth, half of it eaten and the rest offered back: an acceptance of the grisly gifts and a reciprocation. It was an intimacy, a joining, and he thought with dark humor that of course the most intimate moment of his life would be something like this: a freshly murdered corpse, a feral monster, and the Moon.

He looked up at Her for a moment, slowly blinking those depthless golden eyes. Perhaps he was asking Her about this strange path She had sent him down. Perhaps he was asking Her why this monster was meant for him.

Or maybe he didn't care.

Licking his chops, his teeth very white in the dark, the druid lay down in the still-damp grass, apparently no longer caring that it soaked into his fur and clotted between his toes. One paw hooked around a rib, yanked, pulled, and long ears flicked at the wet, visceral snap as tendon and bone gave way. Blood and clinging strips of flesh were licked away by a rough, skilled tongue, and a thick tail lashed with lazy enthusiasm, batting against the Raven's haunches. When the purring began, it thrummed through his entire chest and danced back and forth against the nearby trees.

A damaged thing.

A wrong thing.

A broken thing, bathing in blood and moonlight.