#my brain can only think in Alternative Universes

[phonoix]

Okay I know we're all in mourning from the finale, and rightfully so. But I'm gonna need (respectfully and this is also a joke) fic writers to write happy fics.

May I suggest: a Jayvik and Caitvi The Holiday AU because it's almost Christmas time? I'll let you think about it. Have a good day.

[bfdifan26]

demonstrating true self indulgence

[kenyummy]

✰ 04. the ballad of a bygone blight.

✰ ꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ platonic yandere batfam / spider! reader ꒱

✰ 04. fantastic four.

SYNOPSIS : being spidey isn't easy. being transported into an alternate universe where you're nothing but a shadow in your house, makes sneaking around a little easier... until you find yourself the apple of their eye... kind of.

note: had to wrack my brain to remember what math i was learning in seventh grade LMAO . sometimes i forget damian is just a little guy in like seventh to eighth grade. crazy. and please let me know if there's any mistakes with pronouns/gender!!! i want to keep this open to everybody so im always trying my best ❤️

also ive realised how chopped harry is in the comics after taking my rose coloured lenses off. basically he and mj have their look in the ultimate spiderman TV show (in my eyes anyway, i kind of just described their appearance based off tgat lmaooo)

prev. ✰ masterlist ✰ next.

School has never felt so bland for you. Sure, it was never your favourite thing in the world—except for maybe biology—but you'd think that discovering a whole new world in your last year would make it a little more interesting.

It didn't.

It's been three weeks since you crash landed here in Gotham. The most you'd gotten from your family was an awkward "how are you" occasionally, and a lot of staring.

You'd only shown yourself as Spidey a few times to the public, but never stayed for those pesky news reporters shoving their microphones into your face. You'd never liked interviews, anyway.

The only highlight of your long days were MJ and Harry. You'd gotten over the initial shock of Harry being in love with you—convincing yourself that it really wasn't you he liked; it was this world's original you. (Though—that fact still lingers in the back of your mind whenever you talk).

Apart from that, school truly was uneventful. Your kooky art teacher was the only one of whom you actually liked, and it seemed the education here was rather lax. Uncaring. Not good for your future, surely—but you wouldn't have a future here, and you're sure this [name] Wayne will be just fine.

Speaking of schooling—the people here really seemed to hate the Gotham Prep kids. More than what a petty rivalry should be—it was pure malice.

Harry was especially adamant about this.

"They're all dumb, entitled rich kids who use daddy's money to get whatever they want, you know." He stabs his fork into a dry cut of chicken violently. Then points, accusatory, at MJ—who already presents a sneer to him. "And don't you start lumping me in with them—you know I'm not like that."

Her face twists, but soon she grins cheekily. "Okay, fine. Yeah, you're totally not, otherwise nobody here would like you one bit. And who doesn't love Harry, huh?"

"Oh, be quiet," But still, he smiles—damn his head is big. He glances over at you. You're picking around at your soggy broccoli with a frown. "Hey, [name]. Don't two of your brothers go to Gotham Prep?"

You look up at your ginger friend, head tilted to the side before it clicked. Oh, right. Tim and that young boy—Damian, if you remember correctly. Tim barely ever went to school if your diary was still accurate, and Damian had little choice but to.

(Doesn't seem like he'd be the social butterfly type, though.)

"Yeah, they do." You nod, still fiddling around with that vegetable.

"Not that I'm not glad that you're here—but why don't you go to school with them?" MJ leans forward in her seat. "I mean, isn't it easier for siblings to go to the same school?"

Your eyes widen for a second.

There's a few ways you can go about this.

One—you tell them everything you know about your other self. About how you never felt included enough to ask. How you never spent time with them. How it always felt like everything and everyone else was more important than you. How you suffered silently—begging for their attention for years like a house pet becoming a stray.

Two—you could tell them you have absolutely no idea because you have none of your memories of anything from the past years of this life—how you don't even remember all your siblings names half the time.

Or three, and your personal favourite—you can just lie.

It doesn't take a serial genius to figure out which one you chose.

"I guess I just didn't like the rich private school vibe they had going on." A smile falls over your lips. "Plus—you guys were coming here, so it gave me even more of a reason to attend, you know?"

You're not entirely sure that's true. But—if these two were anything like the Harry and MJ you know—then this would probably be right.

Judging from their smiles, your detective skills haven't failed you yet.

"Man!" MJ lolls her head back, groaning. "Can't believe I'm friends with two rich kids who get to choose which school they want—the beat down public or sleek rich private."

"Don't go dissing this school just because you're jealous of their uniforms," Harry snickers, pressing his index finger into MJ's cheek. She huffs and slaps him away.

"Silence, nepo baby. Your dad is basically Lex Luthor if he wasn't bald."

Harry looks more confused than offended at her comment, "Okay, but my dad isn't an evil mastermind plotting against a red and blue suited superhero."

You press your lips together thinly and look to the side, eyes focused on anything but him. Oh, Harry—if only you knew.

Damian Wayne had never truly seen the point of highschool.

Raised by assassains all his life—he had little room, time, and desire to learn about all this nonsense. While he enjoyed arts and fine literature—he couldn't find it within himself to care about the American Revolution, or whatever other ridiculous thing happened in history.

His maths teacher was absolutely, indubitably pathetic. Always on his phone as he assigns mountains of homework (because he never bothers to explain the complex materials they're given) on the latest subject—whether it be those blasted simultaneous equations, or to factorise useless monic trinomials. Even calculating tax and interest on the stupidest of cases.

Damian found himself sitting in the corner of his class in silence, staring down, bored, at the book in front of him. He truly hated math. There's so much real work to be done—crime to fight, plotting organisations to take down.

But his father, as always, is unmoving in his conviction that school is important. For Damian especially, anyway; Drake can skip as often as he likes because he's a senior already. Truly, ridiculous.

For Damian, and—oh.

You.

Bruce always seemed especially insistent on you two going to school. Even when everyone but him knew you skipped every few days and simply come home to wait.

Wait for what? For them?

His brows furrow. Suddenly, the black and white equations on the sheet blur and he zones out. Thinking.

You always did. From the day he'd walked into the manor, you were always there. Unconsciously, he'd notice it. A trait of a good assassin is that they can spot everyone in the room.

A trait of a great assassin is that they can spot everyone inside and watching.

Always, you were watching. Those pitiful stares. Desperate like a unloved pet. If he cared a little more (if any at all), he would've felt sorrow for your state.

Always wanting, but never asking. Never taking. Simply waiting for it all to come to you. He would never understand it. He would never understand you.

He would never understand how somebody could allow themselves to be so weak.

Like everybody else—when he first entered the manor, he proposed to fight you. Assuming—being the child of his father, like he was—you were worthy. That you were strong.

He doesn't know how he could've been so wrong. You immediantly reacted, gasping and clutching your face. He'd nicked it with the edge of his blade after he unsheathed it. You looked at the blood dotting your fingertips, then back at him, eyes wide.

Immediantly, Bruce rushed to his side and pushed him behind his larger, imposing figure—telling you to not interact with him because he's different to regular people. Different to you.

He watched you storm off from behind his father's legs; anger practically blaring off your figure.

Later—he happened to overhear you and Grayson talking quietly. Telling you to not be too hard on Damian, because he's troubled. That he's had a difficult life. At first—he was a tad offended—but that offence could not compare to the absolute fury burning in your eyes.

Though, it all melted away when Grayson's hand ruffled your hair. Like a little kid, you stared up at him, soft and starry-eyed as you unconsciously murmured you'd forgive your new little brother.

Damian dry-heaved. You were so goddamn weak.

So weak, and so normal. Everything you did was completely regular. You were on the same wavelength as the civilians he saved from burning rubble. The same as people who walked down the street, talking about their favourite Justice League member. Who cowered in fear in front of villains—to be saved by those heroes. By him.

You were nothing, and yet everything he could never have been.

(What child does not long for normalcy?)

Damian always thought you were rather helpless, regardless of how regular you were—and seeing you with that bullet lodged in your shoulder—he was right. Not being able to dodge something like a bullet—there was no wonder you never become a vigilante. There was no wonder you needed to be protected.

... Though—he began to think back.

Who did? Protect you; that is.

Whoever it was, they did a pretty awful job at it.

Damian strums his fingers against the hardwood table rhythmically. Face blank but mind running rapidly.

It couldn't have been Todd. No—he seemed to be in a frazzled state of mania when carrying your bleeding body in your arms. Perhaps he too, believed you were safe with the rest of his family.

(Oh how wrong Todd was—he looked livid.)

... Grayson?

No. When he's not in Blüdhaven, he is almost always with the other vigilantes within the family. Not here nor there, and certainly not close enough to protect you.

Not Drake. He never cared enough, despite everything. Not Cain, either. Though the silent protector type—she had too much on her plate to worry about you as well.

Gordon and Brown had their own families to worry about.

And his—your father? The Batman? There was no time for a regular child like you in the Batman's life of vigilantism. Whom he sworn to protect in his crusade now lay bleeding out in his great failure's arms.

...

Did you truly have nobody?

...

Damian couldn't really imagine it. He'd always assumed you had many friends to fill the void that yoir family left with their civilian clothes. ... Perhaps you did. He wouldn't know.

You are his only half sibling. In this world, only he is truly your brother, and you are his only older sibling. Does that not give him the slightest of responsibility?

He'd always been taught to keep everybody at arms length—even his own family. The whole world is out to get the Demon's grandson, then he must fight it. But his father taught him differently.

To protect those who cannot protect themselves—to keep those he cares about safe at any cost.

What of you? He does not care for you in the way an ordinary sibling should. Seeing you so weak, defenceless against him—must mean you trust him in some way.

(It's hard for him to fathom being able to feel so unprotected in a world he was taught was trying to extinguish him at every turn).

Regardless of how you don't belong—or how frosty you act toward your youngest brother—he has a duty.

No matter how hard you try—you can never sever the blood you two share. The others do not have this duty—but he does, because in the end, you are his. None of the others bothered, so Damian must.

You are everything he could never be, he has realised. But in the end, you are blood. It runs thicker in the veins than any water, and that is one of the most important things to Damian.

Seeing that same blood—his blood—spill out of you carelessly—that is a sight he will never bear witness to again.

Damian was the first one out the door as soon as the bell chimed in his ear. His bag slung tightly around his shoulders and textbook under his arm; he rushed into the familiar sight of a sleek, large car.

He shuts the door as he climbs into the backseat (Bruce said he was still too short to sit in the front, much to his son's displeasure). "Hello, Pennyworth."

Alfred glances back at him through the rear view mirror. "Good afternoon, Master Damian. How was school?"

"Same as usual. A waste of time." He clicks his seatbelt shut as the car begins to move. Alfred only hums, keeping his eyes trained on the road.

"I'm unsurprised to hear you say so. I do hope you understand why exactly, you are enrolled in school, however. And why Master Bruce is so adamant about your attendance."

Damian knows. He's always known, because it has been drilled into his head like a mantra. Talia and Ra's Al Ghul weren't math teachers—and most of his time really was spent training and sparring to be the best he could be.

He was not illiterate, nor stupid. Rather smart, actually. However, he didn't exactly learn algebra and chemistry with the League of Assassins.

He grumbles. "I know, Pennyworth. Father cannot seem to stop reminding me that all these things are far more important than stopping the endless wave of crime in Gotham."

If he weren't on the road—Alfred surely would've given him a nasty look. "Master Damian, please—your sincerity is positively slaughtering me."

Damian rolls his eyes, opting to stop this fruitless conversation and look outside the windows instead. At the outside world—the sky already paling to deep auburn shades as they drive through the endless roads.

He watched all the cars moving past; hurrying to get to their destination. Each with their own story and reason for being there. Every single one with their own thoughts and worries. Some with children, others with pets, and some with piles of groceries.

All with their own, individual lives. Including him.

A bus, too. It stops for a moment at a sheltered space, then drives away, leaving a few people standing under the shade.

An elderly lady with a man, presumably her son, walking away with her. A woman with frizzy red hair and freckles dotted over her nose. A few schoolkids—some his age, some older. Clearly from the public school on the other side of Gotham, if only to judge from the scantily clad clothes some of the older students wore—

Wait, is that you?

He sits up—the car slowly coming to a stop at a red light. His eyes don't leave your figure as he presses his nose against the window; observing.

You look around at the people that pass by you—gripping your bag close to your side and rushing into the nearest alleyway.

He waits for a few moments. This red light feels rather long—but what feels longer is watching and waiting for you to come out of that alleyway.

You never do.

Even as the car begins to move once more, driving past the intersection, he crawls as far back as possible to even get a glimpse—but you never show.

Just today, he had decided to be the one to take up the mantle and protect you. Just today, during a boring math class, he has decided that since you are his blood, he must keep a helpless civilian like you safe.

And now you're gone. Are you dead, or something?

(Deep down, his stomach twists at the thought.)

"Pennyworth, pull over." Hid voice is more taut than he had imagined. "Now."

Alfred looks back, glancing at the streets around. He doesn't question the young boy, simply doing as he is asked and pulling over to a deserted parking area.

When he has parked the car, he turns around and sees Damian slipping his Robin mask on—somehow already fully suited up.

His eyes widen, "Master Damian, what—"

"I have something to do. Let Father know I will be back home late."

Opening the door, Damian rushes out and pulls out his grappling hook, swinging onto the nearest building's roof and looking around.

He spots the alleyway you'd run into. It is still. Absolutely no movement nor any looks from passer-bys. He rushes across the roves towards where the dark side seeped into the crack of the buildings.

Maybe you'd taken another way out?

But looking at the alleyway now, it's more like a dip between the buildings to stand in more than anything. It was blocked off on the other side.

So where...???

He drops down, landing on his soles and squinting as he stares around into the dark. There's nothing.

No people, nor bodies, and certainly not anything to indicate anybody was ever here.

Except...

He glances at the wall. Theres a white cocoon-esque oval webbed to the wall. Those same webs he'd seen all that time ago—from that spider. That would show up then leave immediantly. Never staying for longer than they had to.

Dodging all of his and Batman's attempts at asking who you were, and what you were doing in Gotham. Always swinging away into the distance before they could be subdued.

Now, he stares at their ball of webbing and wonders if it truly is an arachnid he's dealing with.

He pokes it, looking it up and down. Then, he sees it. Through the small holes in the webs and the translucent, silk-like material—he finally sees it.

Your bag.

He tears off the webbing faster than he can think, getting the sticky substance stuck to his gloves and clothes; he barely even notices it. He grabs your bag and stares it, swallowing hard.

His mind buzzes with an unfamiliar staticky feeling and he suddenly feels sick to his stomach. Despite all the noise in his ear—his brain is able to comprehend one singular question.

... What did that arachnid do to you?

Clothed fingers digging deep into the leather fabric of the bag—clearly worn down and fading. Old. He would get Father to purchase you another. ... When he sees you next. Because he will.

His jaw clenches hard.

Damian throws the bag over his shoulder and grapples up—swinging onto a building roof and running across.

Running for what, he isn't sure. But what he is sure of, is that once he gets his hands on that arachnid, it will not be kind.

To find out what happened to you—that is his duty as your blood sibling.

He decides that in this life, he will be your protector. In the next, if he is ever given a chance to be normal like you—he will become a doctor. Or perhaps a painter. Or a poet. Maybe he will ask you to help him decide when he finds you and that arachnid.

... Yes, that sounds good.

You cut through the cool wind as you swing through the city. Grinning widely underneath your mask—you don't think you've ever been so happy since you landed here.

You're sure nobody will take your stuff. Even if they do, you could always just get whatever else you needed again. You were far too excited to dwell on the small stuff right about now.

Landing on a rooftop, crouched—you walk down the wall of the apartment complex, and look around for civilians. As he told you—the streets around the back of the building were practically deserted.

You count the amount of rooms from the side, up and down.

"Row 5, Apartment block... 2..." You hum, and nod to yourself.

You tap your necklace and the nanobots all crawl off your body, leaving you in your regular clothes. You land safely on the balcony of the room you were given.

You smooth out your flared jeans and take in a deep breath. Then, you bring up your knuckles, and knock.

The glass screen door opens before you can say fantastic.

A small pair of arms wrap around your torso and knock you backwards—you fall on your ass and let out a loud laugh.

"Spidey!!! [name]!!!"

"Is that who I think it is?!" You tease, eyes squinted upwards and the young kid buries into your stomach. His giggles are muffled by the fabric and he squeezes you so tight you'd be inclined to choke—if it wasn't you. "Frankie!! How's my favourite Richard?"

"I can't believe you'd say that, [name]. That hurts." A familiarly sweet voice speaks.

"Sue!" You grin, taking in the sight of the blonde and her husband by her side. You get up—Franklin stumbles behind you—and crash into her arms.

She chuckles, patting your back and smiling down at you, "I missed you too, [name]. You always manage to find yourself in the strangest situations, don't you?"

Reed cradles his chin, "Well, we were technically the cause of this distortion in reality, Susan—"

But seeing the expression on both your and his wife's face; he stops himself. Only smiling sheepishly. "My apologies. It's great to see you again, [name]. I didn't think we'd find another familiar face in a different universe."

"You're getting better at this, Reed." You lift yourself from Sue's comforting cradle and grin brightly up at him. "I didn't think I'd see all of you guys again, either. When you all disappeared for so long—I was wondering if something bad happened."

"Hah! Ta us? You kiddin'? Ya more bug-brained 'den that spider that bit ya!"

"Ben!!!" You go flying toward the rock-encased man and wrap your arms around his comfortingly tough neck. He spins you around and lets you down with a loud laugh.

"'Ey kid, how're ya? Heard ya tackled ol' matchstick 'ere outta the sky!" He slaps his rocky chest laughing—in the corner of your eye, Johnny stands behind him, unimpressed.

He walks up beside you, swinging an arm around your neck and snarks, "Yeah—well, Spidey's always been known for catching people off guard, huh? Creepin' up when you least expect it."

"You're making [name] sound like a villain, Unc!" Frankin, who had found himself attached to the side of your shirt, sticks out his tongue.

Johnny recoils, face falling in pure horror as he dramatically points at the young boy, "UNC??!! I... I'm an Unc now...??? I'm not even 19! I can't be an Unc!!!"

You burst out into laughter at the genuineness of Johnny's expression, watching as he freaks out about being "old". Sue and Reed roll their eyes—while Ben is there with you, laughing his ass off like he'd just gotten a home run on Yancy Street.

Franklin looks at your laughing expression and starts giggling along—jumping up and down beside you with sparkling eyes.

"Stop laughing, [name]! We're the same age!" Johnny points, accusatory. "If I'm an Unc, you're a...!"

"Doesn't matter. I'm cooler than Uncle Johnny anyways, right Frankie?" You grin, picking up Franklin as he cuddles into your neck.

"Mhm!" He nods eagerly.

Johnny sends you a blazing glare, lips pouted out. "You and me. We're—" He gestures to the two of you. "—gonna have some issues, here. Okay. Everyone knows I'm the cool Uncle."

"No, that's Benny!" Franklin points to Ben.

The look on Johnny's face shifts into utter disbelief—Ben falls out of his chair laughing wildly.

"Gosh, I missed you so much, kid." You pull at one of Franklin's cheeks and chuckle. He stares at you in awe for a few seconds, before hugging the side of your head and giggling.

"I missed you too!"

That same warmth fills each crevice and pore of your body, as you huddle close to your dear friends and let yourself feel at home for this small moment.

Meanwhile, in the dark of night, a pair of azure eyes watches, sharp and unnerving in the back of your skull.

You notice it. Of course you do. Your mind is tingling with that buzz—but you want to enjoy this night of nothing but home, even if only once.

taglist: @hello-bina @cosmosluckycharms @1abi @yhin-gg @insideoutjulie @bluepanda08 @omnivirgo @vanessa-boo @dind1n @welpthisisboring @lunaetiicsaystuff @marsmabe @atanukileaf @findingjaxx @4mrplumi @bunniotomia @lostsomewhereinthegarden @bat1212 @gaychaosgremlin @bongwaterflavoredgatorade @randomlyappearingartist @cxcilla @spidermanluvr444 @cruzerforce4256 @mybones537 @xjesterxjacksx @nirvanaxx1942 @djpuppy-kittens @br33zy-blizzardz @moon0goddess @0sunnyside01 @mei-simp @redsakura101 @the-dumber-scaramouche @wizzerreblogs @lovemiss-vale @deathbynarcisstick @allycat4458 @wonmyheart @luckyangelballoon @one-piecelover @hartwyrm @horror-lover-69 @maria-trisha @4rachn3 @galaxypurplerose @duskeras @coffeeaddictxd @lithiumval @kaz-playz

tsglist is closed, sorry! but do try and keep up with updates thank you!!!

[captain-ghost]

Ha why is this on my John playlist

“i see a man who makes it home alive but its no longer you” jack-ianto in children of earth - or whatever

[mandalhoerian]

❥⼺ still wakes the drowned god

⸻ summary: Your life as the Witch of the Abyssal Rift is turned upside down when the Kraken God awakens from his cursed slumber deep within the Abyssal Trench and seeks you out with one simple request: "Come to me."

The subsequent seduction and beckoning that follow will either lead you into a trap, or bind you in a deal you can't back out of. But it's too late now. You're already a reef fish curling into the silk of an anemone, thinking it found a bed, not teeth.

⸻ warnings: dream sex (consent is there but i will still add dubious consent just in case), ritual sex, tentacle sex (consentacles), he is AN OCTOPUS WAIST DOWN, freak shit, monsterfucking i guess, badly depicted witchcraft and deity work im so sorry if any witch or pagan reads this pls it's fictional 😭

⸻ before you read: this is based on the 4-star fragrant dream card and that one line in forgotten sea about lemurians turning into monsters without light. you don't have to read fragrant dream to understand this, though. the rafayel depicted here is also the sea god rafayel in his myth(s) and not current canon rafayel, so he might read differently. I took liberties with the sea cursing them both, so it's technically alternate universe canon divergence. the majority of this was written before tears of romirro dropped, so any similarities (such as rafayel being chained in the trench 😭) are NOT intentional. seriously, check my blog.

also, i would like you to shut your brain off if you're somehow knowledgable about the ocean and sea animals and ecology in any way shape or form. magical kelp grows where i say it grows and fantasy animals exist at which depth i deem they can exist. this is a tentacle monsterfucking fic don't look to me for scientific accuracy. if i see one person go "an anglerfish can't go that deep" i will delete my entire blog. thank you.

⸻ author's note: this fic absolutely DEVOURED my life to the point i went mia on my own blog. i damn near lost my mind writing it like this is my first time prewriting and publishing a work this long.

because of this, you will find the entirety of the work chapter by chapter on ao3, published at the same time. i really can't be bothered with posting them here one by one because the interaction drops dramatically and only the chapter(s) with smut get traction. so. boom. get cozy, get some snacks. or don't and pace yourself and finish it slowly, but i hope you enjoy!

please please let me know what you thought! i dont know when this'll go live and if it'll come out around his new myth but happy late mermay i guess LMAOOOOOOO (note to myself: yes this is dropping after the myth. look up at the fuckass banner you had to make so rafayel's tits wouldnt get sent to superhell by tumblr.) divider modified from here.

⸻ word count: 97K

❥⼺ READ ON AO3

[ilium-ilia]

tongue on loving wound

simon “ghost” riley x fem!reader | omegaverse!au | alternate universe to In Limbo | alpha!ghost x omega!fem!reader | masterlist

Chapter Two: unravel me until i’m wrapped around your finger

tw: gore, blood, slight pseudo dub-con, is scent intox a thing?, scenting, nudity, light smut

Simon spits the blood out of his mouth before wiping the remainder off on his sleeve.

It lands in a bubbling glob next to Marco’s corpse, marring the floor with a faint pink before it’s overwhelmed by the flood of ichor pouring from his yawning throat. Pearl white teeth peek out from between parted lips, now stained rose, and Simon scoffs at the sight of his canines. Sharp. Whittled down enamel. They’re fake—the mark of an alpha without control. 

Closing his eyes, Simon breathes in the scent of a fresh kill. Raw meat, thick in the air, wafting through his nose and plugging it full until his mind is spinning. Pheromones fade and are quickly replaced by decay. Wet foliage and fur caked with dirt beneath a shallow grave. 

This is what victory smells like. This is success. 

“O-Oh my god, y-you…”

Eyes like burnt umber lock onto you the moment your trembling words burrow through Simon’s brain. Sweet little omega with her back against the wall, knees pulled to her chest, and hands covering her mouth—you’re shaking with wide eyes focused on the scene behind him. Simon glances back at Marco’s body for a split moment to take in the gore and he mulls over how this must look to you. A senseless act of violence. Revenge in its most brutal form. You’ll realize that this is a gift in due time. 

“I told ya I was gonna take care of all this, sweetheart,” he patiently reminds.

The moment he steps towards you, your attention snaps to him. Blood still coats his face, wetting his maw, dribbling down to his chest. You know humans used to kill one another like this back before nature was deemed unsightly. Sharp teeth are meant for protecting, for fighting, for piercing sweet scent glands on the tender sides of necks. Still, the sheer carnage before you stuns you into silence. 

All Simon can think about is what a good omega you are looking up at him as you curl on the floor. It instills an aplomb that swells in his chest, heating his blood as it pumps throughout his body. You. Yes, you. It feels right. He can’t name why, he just feels the fact of it settle in his bones, a weight he doesn’t mind keeping around.

Kneeling before you, Simon’s hands reach for your throat and you only flinch a little bit when his fingers hook underneath your collar. Faux pink sears his retinas as he thumbs over the polymer. Real leather would be more secure, but this infantizes you. Belittles you. 

Teeth gritting, he begins to yank it apart. Plastic and metal strains and creaks underneath the pressure, and you squeak just as the collar splits open, claps coming apart and clattering on the ground. Simon discards it to the side, and your hands are quick to rub your naked throat as you sigh in disbelief. Your skin is ripe and smooth with perspiration, but you can’t help but trace the ghost of your collar. 

“Simon, I—thank you—this is—I can’t believe—oh!” 

Without warning his nose is in the crook of your neck, crooked curve rubbing at your scent gland. His breath is soft and long as he inhales you. Your gland pulses against his nostrils, white hot blood throbbing beneath your skin, and he huffs. Palms flat on his chest, instinct tells you to freeze as he continues to nudge against you, hot breath fanning against your newly revealed skin. 

There’s a pit that pulls just behind his navel when you tilt your head to the side; a snarling beast that compels his mouth to open. He nearly listens to it. That whining dog within him. Yet his nose catches the unsavory redolence of Marco, and how it still taints your skin, leaving you sordid and rotten, and he licks his teeth instead. 

“Sweet little ‘mega… you still smell like him,” he mutters into your collarbone. 

Blinking, your feet begin to scrape against the ground, body squirming beneath all of Simon’s attention. “I do?” 

He nods, then covers your hand on his chest with his own as he leans back to look at you. “I’m gonna fix that.” 

“You will?” 

Lips still twitching, still yearning for something, Simon leans forward without warning, mouth planting against the center of your forehead. The taste of your skin is muted because of Marco’s blood, which now stains the crown of your head, but it’s enough to satiate the growling in his stomach. 

“Yeah,” he assures as he rubs the blood off your face with his thumb. “Gonna take you home ‘n get ya all cleaned up.” 

Before anyone can stumble upon the mess he’s made, Simon escorts you out of Tsar Trading and shuffles you into his car before speeding off through the city. Your body is airy in the passenger seat next to him. Limbs filled with helium, skull packed with balloons, everything zooms by in a blur. Hands drawn to your throat, you can’t help but hold your tender skin. How long has it been since you last felt yourself like this without a barrier? 

Without Marco’s threatening teeth hovering over your neck? 

The dull drum of your hangover worsens the moment Simon pulls into the garage, and reality crashes down around you with the sudden weight of a tidal wave. Marco. Your debt. His corpse heavy on the floor of a grimy pawn shop. A hunk of flesh in Simon’s mouth. The alluring sheen in his eyes as he spat out fresh ichor onto his latest meal. 

“C’mon, sweetheart.” 

The door is open. Simon’s hand is waiting for you. Beckoning. Calling you home. You gently place your fingers against his palm and he brings you out of the garage and into the house. It’s darker than you expected it to be. Windows shrouded with thick curtains, all overhead lights snuffed out with only lamps and secondary lighting to illuminate the rooms—it’s warm. Comforting. A blanket of drowsiness swaddles you the very moment the door is locked behind you, pulling you beneath rocking waves and drowning out the vicious storm you’ve attempted to weather most of your life. 

Simon leads you through the living room around his comfortable sectional and coffee table littered with motorcycle parts to bring you into his bedroom. His mattress is huge. Large enough to swallow both you and him for dinner and still have enough room for dessert. Much like the rest of his house it’s dark with plain walls and a strong aroma of tobacco and musk. You breathe in and your brain begins to spin; gyrating until you’re unsteady on your feet. 

Algid air greets you in the master bathroom and it acts like water against your face, shocking you back into your body. Simon turns on the spout in the bathtub and runs his fingers beneath the flow, humming to himself as steam begins to waft and he yanks on the diverter until it’s spewing from the showerhead. 

“Oh, that was kind of you. You didn’t have to run it for me,” you excuse, attempting to thank him for his kindness despite how gauche it feels on your tongue. 

Straightening himself, Simon wipes his hand off on the front of his jeans before his attention is back on you. “Course I did.” Then, he motions at you, fingers flicking up. “C’mon. Clothes off, sweetheart.” 

His order restarts your brain and you find your arms absentmindedly crossing around your midsection, guarding your stomach, the most tender part of your body. “What? Like, right here? In front of you?”

“Is that a problem?” he asks with a raised brow. When you stutter through your answer, he puts you out of your misery. Stalking closer, feet moving with purpose, he gently closes in on you, body waiting to smother yours. “I told ya I was gonna clean you up, didn’t I?”

You swallow. “Y-Yeah.” 

The blood on his mouth has dried, but the scent is still just as strong. Intoxicating curor like red wine and honey mixed with brutal sweat. All discomfort within you dissipates when he looks at you—when he’s so close that you can smell him. Rewired brain, neurons learning new pathways, doors opening that you always thought were locked shut. 

“You’re gonna let me clean you up then, yeah?” he prompts. His lips quirk into a pleased smirk when you nod. “Good omega.” 

All shame leaves you the moment you begin to peel your clothes off. Shirt, pants, underwear—it all piles up on the floor next to your shoes until you’re standing nude in the mist, nipples perking in the cold. Simon pulls back the shower curtain and ushers you inside then shuts it before too much water can splash on the floor. 

Mindlessly, you stand beneath the pelting drops of water and let it cascade down your body, ignorant to the quiet thudding that hits the floor next to you. The next time the shower curtain moves, Simon is naked. His pallid chest dully reflecting the light still isn’t enough to blind you as you watch him climb into the tub behind you. You inspect him within a single instant. The thick muscles that flex in his thighs, ink spreading along his arms in swirling designs, a fat keloid that digs into his shoulder—

—and of course, him. 

You know what he’s supposed to look like. The videos and pictures from your health class ages ago were able to teach you that much at least. Still, it’s different seeing a cock in real life. Flaccid, it hangs lazy between his legs, foreskin stretching over the head and hiding it from view. Speckles of silver attempt to make their presence known from the underside of his shaft, leading all the way down to his puffy knot where it rests as a dormant shade of pale pink. 

As he snaps the curtain shut behind him, you distract yourself with mindless swaying while your arms wrap around your torso. Hands behind your shoulders, fingers digging into the anxious muscles unguarded. Simon dips his hand beneath the stream then wipes at his face. Beads of rosy water roll down his abdomen, tracing along his sternum before eventually diving to the tub where it vanishes with the flood. 

It isn’t long before his attention turns to you. Shower gel lathering in his bare hands, he guides you how he wants your body and scrubs you clean everywhere he can reach. The side of your neck, down the curve of your spine, between your legs—you giggle when he reaches your flank, nails scraping over your waist, tickling your ribs. He spends extra time on your wrists. Thumbing over the tiny scent gland that lies just over your pulse, he brings it up to his nose after each rinse where you can hear him breathe you in even over the roaring water clogging your ears. 

“Do I—erm… do I smell okay now?” you question cautiously. 

There’s a long stretch of silence full of Simon nuzzling your wrist before he finally answers. “You don’t smell like anythin’ at all.” 

“Oh, yeah,” you say with a sheepish chuckle. “I guess that… makes sense.” 

“Do you not have scent glands?” His question is blunt—near invasive. Far from a proper thing to ask, but his need to profile you is nettling too deep beneath his skin. The only person in the world he cannot smell, here before him, and haunting all his waking thoughts. Yet, you are not scandalized. Simon’s curiosity is not the first you’ve encountered. 

“No, I have them,” you admit. “They just… don’t seem to want to do their jobs. At first they thought it was late puberty, then a hormone imbalance, then a genetic condition… Now they’re telling me I might just be a little broken with no fix.” 

Simon’s eyes narrow at your explanation as if the very notion has him upset. “You’re not broken,” he insists. 

Backtracking, you shake your head. “Oh, I know. I guess. I-I mean, it doesn’t bother me. Like, I’ve never had any of the urges everyone else gets. Nesting, or heats, or…” Your tongue is loose, flapping against your teeth before you’ve fully comprehended your words. You stare at Simon as if he’s tricked you—transfixed you—before swallowing down the rest of your explanation. “It’s for the best anyway, I mean, with all that stuff going on with Marco I wouldn’t have the time to deal with biology anyway so… s-so, thank you. For—erm—taking care of him.”

Simon is quiet for a long time. He holds your gaze and it burns, red hot coals shoved into the pits of your stomach, poking at your navel, urging you forward. Instead, you stay still as he pulls your wrist up to his mouth just as his tongue lulls out to lick your gland. It sends a spark through your nervous system. It sizzles along each neuron until something hums to life in the long forgotten slice of your brain and you’re left staring at him with wide eyes. 

“Anythin’ for you, little ‘mega.” 

When the water shuts off and you’re met with the bite of brisk air, Simon dries you off with one of the largest towels you’ve ever seen. It dances over your skin, down your back and in the crux of your arse. He doesn’t bother to grab himself a fresh one before he dries himself off, then lazily wraps it around his waist. Enervation tugs at your eyelids as you lean down, fingers reaching for your old clothes on the floor, but your movements cease the moment Simon’s hand is on the back of your neck, scruffing you like a mangy cat. 

“Nuh uh,” he warns. You yelp as he pulls you back and you spin around to face him with a huff. “You’re not wearin’ those. They reek of Marco, and I just washed you up.”

As if wounded, you wrap your arms around yourself, skin puckering into gooseflesh as you shiver. “What am I supposed to wear, then?” 

Instead of giving you any proper clothes to change into, Simon retrieves a spare quilt from the hallway closet, wrapping it tight around your shoulders before dressing himself. Half naked, you sit on the edge of his bed with glassy eyes and scenes swirling in your skull as you’re forced to confront the day's events. 

Sharp teeth in tender throat. Fresh ichor spilling like pomegranate juice. The pretty corpse of a pretty man. A pink collar next to pallid fingers. 

“Hey.” Simon stands before you, fingers pressing beneath your jaw, prompting you to look up at him instead of your lap. “I’m gonna get you new clothes. Gonna be okay by yourself for a bit?” 

Your blink comes slow as you stare at him, nose flaring as his scent pierces through you like a bullet through ripe flesh. “Yeah. You can take the key to my flat, it should be in my pants.” 

“No baby, I’m buyin’ you new ones.” 

“What?” you breathe. “But I’ve got perfectly fine clothes at home!” 

The look he gives you turns your tongue into stone as umber eyes darken into onyx. Lips squeezing tight, you stare at him, hips readjusting on the edge of the bed as you wait for him to speak. 

“You’re not safe right now. Goin’ back to your flat is a bad idea while things are too hot, ‘n you’re safer ‘ere with me.” Pausing, Simon’s fingers wander away from your chin and down along your neck, ghosting over that sensitive nook that makes you quiver. “I asked you if you needed an alpha to take care of this for you ‘n you said yes, so you’re gonna be a good pet ‘n let me do this, yeah? Gonna let me take care of ya?” 

All fight and urge to argue is siphoned from your marrow, forced into dormancy too deep for you to reach. Everything goes fuzzy as mirth seeps from your brainstem and into your blood. It pumps throughout your body. Everything tingles. You’re warm in his touch. Content. Happy. 

“I’ll be good.” 

Simon makes quick work of his trip. After gathering your old clothes and throwing them into the bin, he spends his time meticulously gathering everything he expects you to need. Trousers, panties, shirts and pyjamas—he forgoes getting you any sort of bra entirely, not even attempting to eyeball your size. He doesn’t intend on letting you leave the house, anyway. Not until things cool down. 

He returns with his arms full of stacked bags that he haphazardly places on the kitchen counter before meandering back into the bedroom. Numbra cloaks the room, nearly obscuring his vision, but he’s still able to make out your form on the bed. As he stalks closer, feet silent on the floor, he notes you’ve slightly rearranged his bedding. Pillows strewn around your body, duvet bunched up in supporting places like you’re in the midst of a bowl. 

Eyes closed tight with the quilt pulled just under your chin, you’re fast asleep. He can hear the air in your lungs and how it expels through your nose, soft against the sheets, eyelids fluttering in the midst of a dream. Something stirs within him. A primordial growl that doesn’t quite bubble up in his chest—a content beast purring. 

He’s compelled forward, knees dipping into the mattress, movement gently jostling your form but not stirring you into consciousness. This feels right. His body next to yours, back pulled close to his chest, arm caging around you as he digs his nose into the back of your neck. You smell pure. A natural redolence like jasmine. With Marco’s scent expunged, he falls asleep within mere minutes. 

A few hours later, he wakes to the feeling of your nose pressed to his flank. 

His shirt is rolled up slightly, exposing the soft padding of his stomach during his slumber, but something sears through him. Your skin. Without the quilt to guard your body, you’re leaning against him without a barrier and he swears he can feel the quiver of your pulse. Your sniffs are soft and delicate, near pathetic little things—secretive and tense. 

Breathing in, Simon’s legs go rigid as he stretches and you freeze the moment he moves, retracting back into yourself as if you can’t afford to be caught. It’s impossible to hold back the simper on his lips as he sits up, movements slow and careful so as to not spook you. Still, you pull the quilt up under your chin again as his body twists, hands planting on either side of your head. His pupils swallow his irises. Black holes ready to consume you. 

“Why’d you stop?” he asks. 

Your lips curl inward before you press them against the corner of the blanket. “Stop what?” Simon doesn’t expand on his question, but the rise of his brows gets you to spill. “S-Sorry, you just… smell really nice.” 

“You’ve never been this close to an alpha before, have you?” he hums curiously. When your only response is to shake your head, his simper grows into a smirk. Before you know it, he’s lowering himself onto his elbows, body blanketing yours until his neck is presented to you. “Go ahead. You don’t even have’ta ask, baby.” 

The speed at which you give in is laughable. Nose against the underside of his jaw, diaphragm forcing your lungs to suck in mouthfuls of him—you dive into him. Arms curling around his neck, you pull him closer and he relents. You nuzzle into him as if you’re trying to dig through his throat with your nose. The longer he lets you explore, the more brave you become with your movements—reeling him closer, tugging on his shirt, legs squirming beneath him. 

Then, there’s the pinch. 

Dull teeth nip at his collarbone, forcing Simon to pull back with a growl. Teary eyed, you stare up at him, apology already slipping from your mouth. 

“I-I don’t know what came over me, I’m sorry,” you spew. 

He doesn’t say anything in response—he simply allows silence to shroud the two of you as he reverses the dynamic. His own crooked nose knocks against the side of your neck and you keen so prettily his hips roll forward instinctively as his lips hover over your scent gland. There are times in the past when he’s messed around with omegas like this before, toying with their most vulnerable parts just to feel them melt, but there’s something that’s weaving through his brain that muddles his thoughts. 

Jasmine. Ichor on flowers. Fur warmed by the sun. 

It lulls his teeth out from between his lips. They’re dry. Thirsty. Screaming for something to wet them, to put them out of their misery. Simon nearly gives in. Tender flesh on full display for him, quivering pulse within his grasp—he pauses. The scent flees just as quickly as it appeared. 

Humming, his lips quietly press against your scent gland and—for now—he ignores the tickle in the back of his brain that demands more. 

Weeks pass like this. You laze around on any surface you deem soft enough as you flip through the dusty books that lie on forgotten shelves throughout Simon’s home or solve sudoku puzzles in the paper. He tells you this is to keep you safe—just until Marco’s corpse has fully rotted—but by the time the weather warms into spring you’ve already carved your own spot into this house. 

Curled up into his side on the couch, nose suctioning to his side, digging into his ribs, wandering up to the pit, nesting in his bed, snoozing whenever you please, smiling more and apologizing less—you’re not sure you want to leave anymore. It’s safe here in the secluded den Simon has built. You tread past windows without the worry of camera flashes burning your sight, you don’t flinch when he touches you—and his smell. 

It sows something inside of you. An infinitesimal seed that’s burrowed deep into your gut and has germinated for so long it’s ready to bear fruit. Delicious, ripe with juice and skin so full it shears with the faintest pressure of teeth. The roots burrow so deep that they affect not only you, but Simon, too. He feels it churn through his offals, spearing through all things unnecessary; intestines, liver, spleen. 

The feeling haunts him worse when he’s not at home. Far in the depths of Terminus’s maw where a sickening concoction of scents assaults his nose. Even here in the VIP room it’s overstimulating. Sour musk, faux pheromones, greed and bitter lust; it all coalesces until his eyes are watering at the stench. There’s a twitch in his fingers that beg for a cigarette, but he bites the sensation back as the sillage of rosewater pierces through the wall of odor around him. 

“There he is. My husband’s favorite delinquent,” Aelin chirps. Simon’s growling chuckle sounds like blended metal when compared with the soft music playing in the room. Aelin grins as she leans against the wall next to him, heels tapping against the lacquered floor. “I do hope he’s taking things easier on you now after that whole mess.” 

Mess. He nearly scoffs.

“Marco was a sod. It was a pleasure to get rid of ‘im,” he hums. 

“Even without permission?” she questions, inflection curling around each word. 

His reply dances on the tip of his tongue, but he bites it back. Of course it was worth it. He’d do it a million times over. Without permission, by himself, with a crowd, with his bare hands—the trouble he caused was worth it. Snuffing out the filth. Freeing you from your bonds. The sweet omega sleeping in his bed is just a secondary treat. 

“Chip didn’t come with you tonight?” Aelin reroutes when he doesn’t reply. 

He shakes his head. “Said she wasn’t feelin’ well.” 

“Ah.” An elbow brushes against his side; playful. “She seems to be staying with you an awful lot these days. Hardly even answers the phone when I text. Care to explain how that came about?” 

Truth is, he doesn’t. He thinks about your debt, and the secrets you’ve whispered to him about it, and he knows you couldn’t handle bearing your sins to Aelin. Not now, at least. Instead, Simon sighs as he rests the back of his head against the wall, looking at the crowd over the angled curve of his nose. 

“She likes the way I smell.” 

At that, Aelin smirks. 

The rest of the night moves at a snail's pace. Musk is tainted with liquor and hoppy beer, burning his nostrils until they feel void of hair. Simon remains at the edge of the crowd, eyes narrowing at each face that passes him by while something writhes beneath his skin. He thinks of you. Your skin on his. Nose on his neck. Gland in his mouth. It’s as if he has hives on his skin, they itch and burn, setting him ablaze, making him wish he could take his claws and rake it over himself until it stops. 

On the ride home he lights a cigarette to cleanse his palette of the filth he’s had to endure through the night. It swirls on his tongue and when he exhales he pushes it through his nose until the only thing he can note is tobacco and the buzz of nicotine. His dash reads 01:33 by the time he pulls into the garage and he’s groaning as he enters through the door, achy feet finally nettling too deep. 

The moment he steps foot into the living room, Simon knows something’s wrong. 

Thin fabric and glistening springs greet him as he stares at his barren sofa. Each cushion has been stolen away, leaving behind not so much as a throw pillow in its wake. Hackles raised, he carefully steps around the couch, eyeing it warily, as he enters the kitchen. The light is still on—you always keep it this way when you know he’ll be home late—but the island is a mess. Seven half empty water glasses are strewn about the countertop with no method to the madness, and he nearly slips right on his arse as he splashes through a puddle just by the sink. 

A piercing dither strikes his chest when he calls your name and he gets no response, sending him spiraling through the house until he’s bursting through the bedroom door. When he flicks the light on he freezes.

You’ve nested—properly. Damn near burrowed. A true hibernaculum. Sofa cushions line the wall and are held together by tucked sheets, and you’ve seem to have raided his spare blankets from the closet. His hamper is overturned, and he sees various articles of his clothing poking out from the medley of fabrics that you’ve buried yourself in. Even from the doorway he can hear your whimpering. Pathetic pules. The squeaking of a mouse or cries of a kitten.

Simon opens his mouth to grab your attention, but just as he does something hits him—a wall of thick air, something hardly permeable, yet strong enough to nearly bring him to his knees. He clasps a hand over his mouth as he stumbles toward you, but it’s not enough to smother the scent. 

Your scent. 

Jasmine and blood, fresh red oozing out of weeping meat, warm honey dripping onto a waiting tongue, the brine of needy tears spilling from a desperate cunt—

Your eyes flutter open as Simon seats himself next to your nest and the moment your gaze locks onto him, he knows he’s doomed. The sudden onset of your scent leaves his brain devolving until a demanding mantra plays on repeat—take. Take you. Take everything, all your pain and strife, and give, give, give. 

“Simon?” 

The crack in your voice sends his heart quivering as he leans forward, hands cupping your face. You’re febrile. It seeps through his skin and into his bones demanding that he purges it. “I’m right here, baby.” 

“S-Something’s wrong like- like, I feel really weird,” you whine. You reach up to wipe the sweat from your brow only for it to be instantaneously replaced by more perspiration and he has to fight back the urge to lick your fingers clean. “Everything’s so warm and I just- I can’t think straight… I-I’m sorry about your clothes, you just- it’s the only thing that seems to c-calm me and-and oh… Simon you… you smell so nice.” 

Each word you speak has his heart thudding in his chest, violent and raging like a storm. Your eyes are so heavy you can hardly keep them open, just peering up at him through heavy lids as you deliquesce in his grasp. He’s leaning forward, lips parting, tongue wishing to taste the delicate scent that teases his nose. 

“Did somethin’ happen?” Even his own voice sounds as if he’s under water—too far beneath your current to be saved. 

“N-No it just- I felt odd this morning but it just- it came out of nowhere sometime after you left.” You stutter as he breathes in against your scent gland. “Am I sick?” 

“You have a scent now,” he admits as the world seems to sway around him. It’s potent. So strong yet pleasant, smothering him in a way he wouldn’t mind asphyxiating. 

“I do?”

He hums in confirmation as he begins to traverse down your body. You’re wearing nothing but a dress shirt and a pair of panties, leaving your bare legs to spread wide for him as he slots himself between them. You listen to his touch, chest rising against his face as he trails down to your stomach. Then, he’s pushing at your thighs, giving himself enough room to shove his face against your clothed sex. 

Instead of exclaiming, you moan, hips rolling up as he inhales. There’s an intoxicating aroma that overwhelms him, sending all his blood straight to his cock where it aches against his jeans. You watch his eyes squeeze shut before he’s weaning himself off of you, and when he looks up at you, his eyes are warmer. There’s a new fire lit behind them and the sparks are jutting out to meet you—to know you, your skin, the softest parts of you, everything that makes you tick. 

“Poor little ‘mega,” he coos as he sits back on his haunches. “Can’t even tell when she’s in heat.” 

“What?” Everything you know crumbles around you as Simon’s words attempt to untangle themselves in your mind. “But I- no- I’ve never been in- they said I couldn’t!” 

“Might’ve been from the stress,” Simon offers, though it’s hard to think rationally when your scent muddles his thoughts. He attempts to recall any other omega who’s scent had this effect on him, yet nothing comes to mind. Something jovial purs in his chest at that revelation; that you’re special—his. “Owing Marco, workin’ yourself half to death the way you did, might’ve thrown your body into survival mode. Prioritized other functions besides scent and hormones.” 

There are tears in your eyes now. Frustration and fear clash head on in your chest, and you’re pawing at your eyes to will them away. “Fuck. No, no, I can’t—this cant—no!” 

Simon melts over you, elbows crashing into the mattress as he covers your body with his, sticking close to you despite the heat. “Shh, it’s okay baby.” 

“I dunno what to do! I’ve never… I can’t think, I just, it’s like there’s a hole inside of me, and it burns, and I just need it—I dunno what I need! I’m so-”

“Shh,” he coos again. He knocks your hands away from your face with his jaw before he’s presenting the side of his neck to you. Your sniffling slowly fades until you’re breathing deep, nose against his throat, drowning in his scent. “Poor thing. Need me to take care of you, yeah? Need your alpha to help you through your heat?” 

You hum, lips reaching up to grace against his Adam’s apple. “You smell… that’s not too much trouble? Helping me? Simon you—my alpha?—you smell so nice…” 

The keen in your tone has his fingers curling into your nest while the straining in his pants gets worse. He’s throbbing with want. It rattles inside of him so fiercely he fears you might hear the growling in his stomach. 

Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.

“No baby, it’s no trouble,” he assures. “Do you trust me?” 

You’re beginning to calm now, muscles no longer tense on the bed, yet still burning just as hot as you were before. But it’s better now. It’ll be enough—until it isn’t. 

But he’ll be right here to take care of his omega through it all.

“I trust you,” you eventually sigh. 

“Good. Now lay back and let me take care of my mate.”

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[gallusrostromegalus]

As someone a bit too young to have seen Bleach the first time around, AEIWAM is still consuming a crucial portion of my brain cells. So imagine my surprise when I looked up Tousen, the reason you started this behemoth of an alternate universe, on TV tropes.

Among other shocking revelations...

WHAT DO YOU MEAN, HE JOINED AIZEN OF HIS OWN FREE WILL IN CANON???? What do you MEAN, TITE KUBO, that the reason your Tousen wants to destroy the Shinigami is that his crush died of DOMESTIC VIOLENCE???

Who is this man and what has he done with my eternally suffering Tousen?

You understand why I had to take custody of this poor bastard.

I can respect what Kubo was going for- Aizen was right in the fact that Soul Society does suck, and the extended canon is that Tousen's crush was killed by her husband, everyone knew it, and nobody would prosecute the husband because he was a Noble. Canon Tousen is, more or less, suffering from the same kind of rage-based brainrot that is unfortunately so common these days- the idea that because a system is imperfect, or ever corrupt, that it's a good idea to tear the whole thing down/restart the universe (the real Path Of Least Harm is of course, the much more complicated and frustrating work of Dis-and-re-mantling the system piece-by-piece without leaving vulnerable people to fend for themselves, but that isn't as emotionally satisfying or fun to draw as senseless destruction, but I digress).

but his arc is only barely on the page at all, mostly after his death and contains one of the blandest and most obnoxious tropes- fridging- and the whole thing falls flat. It also fails to explore the FASCINATING angle of disability and tbh, racism in soul society- two VERY fucked up things that would very much justify his rage. But it's shonen and the series was deep in production hell at that point, and tousen was far from the only victim. I still don't know what the fuck Gin's deal was.

ANYWAY,

Notable changes between Canon!Tousen and AEIWAM!Tousen and some art under the cut:

Kakiyo is Kaname's adopted sister, and despite looking nothing alike, since they re-incarnated in soul society at the same time, they regard themselves as twins.

Kakiyo does kind of a lot in the plot before her demise- she's responsible for introducing Kaname and Komamura, teaches Zaraki and Yachiru how to read, and unintentionally helps Aizen by recommending him to be promoted to third seat in the 5th division, because she and Kiganjo were thinking about starting a family soon, and Aizen would make a good stand-in for her while she was on maternity leave.

She also gets to do a bunch of stuff after she dies too!

The characters in Tousen's name approximately mean "Necessary Scholar" and make an allusion to a legendary scholar from China who came to Japan to find the elixir of immortality for the emperor. He returns with an elixir that stops the emperor from aging, and the emperor kills him so he can't make anyone else immortal (the emperor doesn't age, but he's still vulnerable to stabbing, and gets stabbed). I thought that was an extremely fun literary allusion so I'm leaning into it- before he becomes a Shinigami, AEIWAM!Tousen took over the library run by his ans Kakiyo's adopted godparents, and ran a children's literacy program. he has a special interest in information sciences and educational methodology. even among nerds, he's a mega-nerd.

Kakiyo meets and marries Gosuke Kiganjo, who goes back to West 51 to meet his beloved's brother and the weird giant monk that runs the library with him. Kaname is immensely fond of Kiganjo, and has no qualms being the best man at their wedding. He and Gosuke are good friends for the first few years of the marriage, until Aizen gets his claws into Gosuke and slowly drives him insane.

In AEIWAM, Tousen is cursed into going along with the plan by Aizen. Aizen was just going to make Kiganjo kill him, but Gin is getting impatient with Aizen's hogyoku progress, and persuades Aizen into cursing Kaname into compliance instead with a Forbidden Bakudō: Kyuunodo — Ningyō Kugi Saiyaku (人形釘誓約, Puppet Nail Covenant)

I do keep the canon!Tousen's reputation for being pedantic, unecessarily critical and generally kind of boring. The reason for AEIWAM!Tousen's reputation is different: He is kind of a pain in the ass, because he is in Horrific Pain and Deeply Traumatized and that makes people irritable to say the least, and he deliberately cultivates a reputation for being Boring to keep people far, far away from him- and hopefully, far from Aizen as well.

An underrated bit of Canon!Tousen is that Suzumushi is not his zanpakuto. Suzumushi was Kakiyo's zanpakuto, and we see him take the sword from her coffin in the manga. Which is insane because it means HE ACHIEVED BANKAI WITH A ZANPAKUTO THAT WASN'T EVEN HIS. Dude is SEVERELY underrated as a swordsman. In AEIWAM, Suzumushi is still Kakiyo's zanpakuto, and only BARELY clings to life on the last reserves of the Spiritual power Kakiyo put into her before Kaname finds her. Suzumushi persuades him to take her up, enter the academy and bring Kakiyo's killer to justice (Suzumushi has fallen to Aizen's illusion and doesn't know who the killer is). She kind of glosses over how they bond, but she more or less crawls into his soul and supresses Kaname's native Yume-kon that would have been his own Zanpakuto spirit if it had been allowed to awaken. She did make an entirely new Shikai and Bankai for him- the chime that makes people lose conciousness is entirely new, the AOE of Just A Shitload Of Swords was Suzumushi's original Shikai. The Bankai of a space where anyone not touching the sword experiences no sensory input? Suzumushi made it first and foremost as a refuge for Kaname when the pain of the curse became to unbearable.

The biggest difference, of course, is that Kaname lives through the Aizen Arc and gets a Happy Ending: Once he wakes up after the battle, he is free, and chooses to marry the wolfman he's been in love with for centuries. Here's some art of them, finally home:

[revelboo]

Your Soundwave and Starscream make my brain more happy than my antidepressants * - *

I like writing both of them and coming up with alternate takes for them

The idea for the first part popped into my head before bed and was still there in the morning, so I wrote it. But I keep thinking, what if Soundwave knew Shockwave before empurata, back when he was Senator Shockwave? Before they stripped the good parts away and left only the drive to preserve and protect Cybertron, before all the reasons he cared, every emotion but anger had been cut away along with his memories of why it was important to him. What if they were friends and that’s why Soundwave is so patient with his weird, unsettling behavior and anger issues?

Clumsy Heart Pt 2

IDW Shockwave x Reader, Soundwave x Reader

• “I can dispose of this one and find another if they’re unsatisfactory,” he offers when Soundwave is silent, visor dim as he just stares at the human. Displeased with you. Reaching for you, Soundwave’s hand catches his wrist when the human tenses as if considering jumping even though they must realize they won’t survive the fall. Head turning back to Soundwave in question, he waits. “I can find another.”

• “No. Leave it.” You’re only a human, nothing he should care about, but that dispassionate offer to dispose of you doesn’t sit right with him. Knows it’s the lingering grief, but the fear in your eyes, in your mind pulls at him. Makes his spark ache. Releasing Shockwave, he lays the back of his hand on the surface. “Come.” Those wide eyes go from him to Shockwave and back. You’d just heard Shockwave mention disposing you, of course you’re scared of both of them now. And yet, you twist your little hands together and approach him. Stopping just shy of his servos. Looking up at him with wet eyes.

• Dispose, like you’re a bit of trash to throw away. Because the universe isn’t done screwing with you. Apparently catching your ex was just the warm up to this horror. Trying to study them both without angering them, you can feel your heart pounding inside your chest hard enough you wander if you might have a stroke and not actually have to worry about what the giant, robotic monsters want with you. Because that might be the kinder way to go if all the horror movies you’ve watched are any indication. Dissection? Maybe you’re food? A plaything to torment until they break you?

• That anxiety and fear is nearly crippling as Soundwave crooks a servo. Needs you to calm down, because right now he can’t think. Little face grim like you think you’re marching to your own death, you climb into his hand and sit down, shoulders tense. And it’s worse. So much worse when you lay your little palms against him, your wild emotions crashing through his defenses, flooding into him. Shuddering with your fear, head bowing, he’s aware of the ragged, tonal sound of pain he makes. That he’s drowning in you, unable to stop it. “Stop.” Pleading because he can’t shut you out, your terror needling his spark, slicing into him.

• That word sounds like a plea. Like he’s in pain. Something’s wrong. Soundwave trembling faintly as his head dips toward the human. Doesn’t understand what’s happening, but it seems plausible that it’s because of you. Reaching, he uses his cannon to rake you out of Soundwave’s palm, hearing your yelp as you land on your back and slide on the surface of the desk, immediately curling into a ball. And again Soundwave stops him from removing you, grabbing his arm. “Why?” He asks. You’re clearly somehow a threat, so why restrain him? Why not let him permanently remove you?

• Arms covering your head, you draw your legs up against yourself and wait for the next blow. Wonder if you can make it to the edge of the surface you’re trapped on before you’re caught. If you can jump and land so you don’t break something. Needing to believe there’s a way out of this. That you can survive them.

• Venting raggedly as he watches you peek at him, he wonders that himself. You hadn’t been trying to hurt him, your fear just too visceral. A living thing, all jagged edges that can cut him. A hand still on Shockwave’s arm, he reaches out a single servo. Rumbles softly at you, making that low, tonal hum he uses on his cassettes to soothe. Spark aching as you shiver, curling tighter into a ball. Because you’re not a cassette, you don’t understand he isn’t going to hurt you. Ghosting that servo over you, he keeps humming to you. Coaxing you even as it hurts him, his grief and loss tangling with your fear in a confusion of misery. Unable to stop crooning at you through the agony.

Previous

Next

[kikithekiwi19]

I love your panty/stocking reader for invincible!!! Did you think if would be possible to see them interact with mark variant and they completly different from the reader of their world.

Also did you see it will be a new season in July?!

COOKIE JAR!

Mark Grayson Variants x Panty/Stocking Anarchy! Reader

❛❛I caught yo ass red-handed in my cookie jar.❜❜

YES I HEARD ABOUT THIS!? My days of Invincible withdrawals are coming to an end. Essentially, this is how they'd react to the reader. Be prepared for unimaginable levels of horniness. Also, no specific variant mentioned.

Let's get one thing straight. You most definitely tried to fuck a variant or two. You'd be lying if you didn't find the idea of multiple versions of your boyfriend manhandling you hot.

When you and Mark arrived on the scene, he had to physically keep you from pouncing on the variants. No matter how funny it would have been to watch. You were drooling for just a touch, cooing for them to come closer.

Some of them were deeply disturbed, they were scared shitless as thrashed around in your Marks iron grip, while others actively implored your chaos

Actually battling them was a different story.

Mark internally groaned as you bantered with his alternate. It was like you guys were practically fucking each other with your words alone.

"You know, you weren't as fun in my dimension. Killing you was a bore."

"Of course I'm better, this pussy can work magic."

"My, my, your even more bold than I imagined."

"Then why don't you come closer and see how bold I truly am, sweetcheeks~"

God, he doesn't know if he should be flattered that you loved him in every universe. Or for the fact that it only seemed to boost your already high libido tenfold.

Other then the high tensions between some of them, you guys worked in sync taking them down. Your razor sharp aim mashed well with his skills, you guys handled them with ease.

You even got to captor two of your own!

"Can we keep them?"

"God no!? They've murdered millions!"

"They could murder this pussy next!"

"Is all you do is think with your clit?!"

You did get to keep those two. Helpful for the GDA and your libido.

You hated all of them. They were all poor imitations of your beloved. So when you were put on the battlefield, you gave them hell. Blades drawn, their heavenly light reflecting in the sun as crimson splatters conceal their beauty.

Like, Mark was genuinely concerned; it was like when you'd crash out before getting your morning sugar. No matter how hot you looked, killing his alternates. He feels like an ass for being painfully hard while helping you fight.

"All of those pieces of shit should repent for even dreaming of crossing paths with me!"

"How about we go to that new bakery before you kill anyone else?"

"I knew there was a reason why I'm with you."

"What's that supposed to mean!?"

So you guys leave mid battle, not like there was a battle anymore anyways, you killed a majority of them anyways. For their safety and your sanity.

The ones you do come across along the way were barely spared a glance before attacking.

"Your stronger in this universe, perfect for the empire. Come back to my universe."

"Maybe all that fighting finally made the little brain cells you had left implode."

"C'mon, I'm better than him by a long shot."

"The only thing long is my katana as I viguriously fuck your ass with it!"

Yep, the sweet break was definitely necessary.

[cultkinkcoven]

Paganism has given me such an immense appreciation for the fact that I am a human being and i don’t even know how to explain it.

Thank the Gods that I was born as a human being. Thank the Gods that I was born into a human body.

Thank the Gods that I was born with eyes that can see light, but only a specific section of light that can allow me to understand matter. Light that has travelled for billions of years only to interact with me here, at this point in space and time

Thank the Gods that I was born with ears that can hear sound and interpret it as music. That I my face and bones were formed to create a mouth that can create complex sounds, so that someone that I love can know that I love them. So they can know anything that I could ever tell them. Thank Gods I was born as a creature with the power to create language, to communicate information through words.

That I have tiny electric signals that connect my skin to my brain, so I can feel touch. So I can smell. So I can understand that I am here, that this is here, that this happened.

Thank Gods that I am human, and I can look into the sky with absolute aw, not knowing whether it is looking back at me. Thank Gods that I can have these thoughts, that I can feel some sort of love and significance in these millions of complex frequencies. That it isn’t just information, that it isn’t just static.

Thank Gods that I am large enough that the movement of my atoms doesn’t make me feel like I am being torn apart. Thank Gods I am small enough that my rotation around the Earth doesn’t make me motion sick.

Thank Gods that my ancestors and their ancestors and those before them had so many experiences that their memories are written into my biological code as symbols. So that when I see the moon, the sun, the mother, the hero, the fool and the poet, my mind understands them as significant. Thank Gods that I see red as passion and love because it is the color of my blood. And blue is serenity and melancholy and peace, because the sky and sea are blue.

Thank Gods that I am human, and I was born into a species that cared enough about itself to record what it did. To expand upon their theories and continue their pursuits. To be infinitely wiser than those who came before.

Thank Gods that I have a body, that I have a mind and a soul too. That my body carries me, cradles me though this experience with absolute care. Protecting me, telling me, far faster than I can even perceive, that I am here, that the universe is here. That this is all around me.

Thank Gods that I am human, and I know the canine well. And he recognizes me from a multi century long acknowledgment of ancient companionship. Thank Gods I am human, and I am so interested in the lady bug, because no one else would count her spots. Because no one else would study the way the spider spins her web. Because no one else would be so curious as to count the carvings made over millions of years on the ocean floor. Because no one else thinks to wonder how a penny tastes.

Thank Gods that I am human and my mothers mother told her stories. That I believed in ideas that were fabricated in my nursery. Thank Gods that I read the tales of fantasy and historical fiction that have lead to my ability to imagine a dragon, a fairy, a Erdrich horror which exceeds all words for which I could describe it. A God

Thank Gods that I am human, and I can pray. Thank Gods that I can find Gods in high and low places, on massive and minimum scales. Thank Gods that I can traverse the entire universe in this mind that contains me. That I can explore distant worlds, alternate realities, with the assurance that I can always come home. To this body, to this world. Thank Gods that I am trapped within this body for now and that God can use this body to speak to me. That I can observe God propagating through the world, that I can ask God endless questions. Thank Gods that I have endless questions. Why why why must I know, why must I understand this thing that is living. Why why why must I stub my toe and get eyelashes in my eye and hiccups and random vibrations in my stomach

Thank Gods that I am so reactionary, that I get frustrated and embarrassed and inspired and enraged. Thank Gods that i can feel pain, thank Gods that I can feel ecstasy.

Thank Gods that I see that woman that works at the grocery store every other day. Thank Gods I noticed she changed her hair. Thank Gods that I thought about changing my hair, and changing my gender, and changing my name.

Thank Gods that I grow at a rate that is not too fast, but not too slow. Thank Gods that I am changing, that I am not the same as I was before.

Thank Gods that I can look up at the moon and love her. I think it makes it all worth it, even if I cannot ever truly know if she loves me. I can believe it to be so. Thank Gods that I can believe it to be so.

Thank Gods that I am human. Thank Gods that I am here in this body living on this Earth in this year, in this moment. Thank Gods that I am human.

For as long as I am human, and I may not be human forever, thank Gods that at least right now, I am human.

[hasnomoxxie]

Alternate universe time, lemme dump real quick

WW2 au was on the brain, so I did a couple clean ups to my Obelix design so that he matched my Asterix a little better- In this I think he'd be like an actual post delivery person, sending supplies to and fro (since he's the only one able to go out due to his strength). I did base this one a little on Obelis'h and mixed the old design in there. Haven't settled on anything for Asterix just yet or what he does-

But then I thought...

w h y s t o p t h e r e -

Theres TONNES of au tropes that could be done with Asterix (i say, rubbing my damn hands together like a fruit fly) So ummmmm,,, here are the most popular aus I could find but with the Asterix twist ^^

I scribbled these all in an afternoon, smite me whenever- I'll most likely never touch these again bc lowkey I don't want that stress. Ily Asterix

Genderbent/Rule 63

Comma & Monolita (genderswap) In the year 50bc, Julia Caesar has conquered the entirety of Gaul with her Roman army. Almost. The only place she hasn't managed to touch is the little Gaulish village towards the coast, home to the indomitable gauls. Thanks to the great druid Spoonfulofsuga, the gauls drink a magic potion that gives them superhuman strength, allowing them to consistently push back Caesars army with ease. The greatest of these Gaulish warriors are best friends Comma, a small but very skilled gaul who uses her wits to get herself out of any sticky situation, and Monolita, a large but well meaning menhir deliverer with incredible strength due to her falling into the cauldron of magic potion as a baby. These two are often sent off by their Chief Criticaldata to carry out tasks and go on adventures in distant lands before returning home to a feast of roast boar, cooked by the men of the village.

By Toutatis, turns out a lot of Genderbent Asterix stuff exists but still, its one of the most popular so gave it a shot in my own way. Dude, thinking of the names is so much fun. Plus female obelix has my heart uaua.

Role/Personality swap

Obeswix & Asterswix (Roleswap) In the year 50bc, Thea Cleopatra has conquered the entirety of Gaul. Almost. The only place she hasn't managed to touch is the little Gaulish village towards the coast, home to the invincible gauls. Thanks to the great druid Valueaddedtax that grants them invulnerability, allowing them to resist Cleopatras armies and send them running back to where they came from. The greatest of these Gaulish warriors are best friends Obeswix, the largest but also the smartest gaul in the village able to use both his size and skill to his advantage, and Asterswix, a clumsy but kind hearted gaul with a temper whenever anyone points out his size and permanent invulnerability due to him falling into the cauldron of invulnerability potion as a baby. These two have incredible chemistry with each other and are often sent off by their Chief to carry out tasks or go on adventures in distant lands before returning home to a feast of roast boar.

The titular bitchular, if anyone gets this far and says undertale. YEAH HI I THINK UNDERTALE IS COOL. Yk those three/four swaps are the ones I thought of. I think Valuaddedtax and his potion would be cool to explore

like, cmon. Be real, this is lowk sick too

Bizzaro/Mirror-verse

Brackix ⅋ Gigantix (Fell/dark twisted glimse into my fucked up mind that would simply make one go insane lmao this is all a joke) In the year 50bc, Julius Caesar has ordered a full scale invasion of Amorica, claiming each new country as his own with his roman army. That is until he and his army arrived to the last standing gaulish village, home to the irascible gauls. To Caesar's surprise, the village, that he assumed was filled with defenceless gauls, was filled with hulking monsters with super strength that quickly decimates Caesars armies. Instead of fleeing, this greatly intrigues Caesar- If his legion can take down a village of superhuman gauls, not only would he have fully conquered Amorica, but finding the root of these gauls power would give him the strongest army throughout the world. Unbeknownst to him, the source of this power is from a potion, one brewed by the druid Supatoxix, that grants the user super strength at the cost of making them mindless hulking masses of destruction. There's often lots of brutal violence in the gaulish village and not everyone gets along with one another, especially the strongest fighters. These would be Brackix, a caniving and sarcastic but the smartest gaul in the village that often views those around him are dumber than he is, and Gigantix, a stonefaced beast with a pure heart who (after following a young Brackix's advice to stand up to his childhood bullies by breaking into the druid's hut to steal some potion) accidently fell into the cauldron of potion as a baby and has permanently been stuck as a towering monster. As the village deems that Gigantix's condition is Brackix's fault, he's often seen taking care of him, as any negative outburst from Gigantix would be negatively reflected onto Brackix. Otherwise, these two would often be sent out by their chief to scope the encompassing areas for Romans and the first chance to knock the tyrant out of commission.

Summoned all the writing skills back from when I was like 7 for this one. Ngl, kinda interesting??? Tho lowkey I prefer the cartoony bonking and paffing of Romans to actually take this one seriously Whatever ^^ I DID SOMETHING AND IT SHOULD BE ARRIVING NEXT WEEK, AND IF IT TURNS OUT WELL I MIGHT DO SOME MORE. Fingers crossed (yes it it asterix related). I need to draw Caesar BADLY ALSO I READ ASTERIX AND OBELIX ALL AT SEA?? what the FART? MY BABY IS STRESSED THE FUCK OUT THROUGHOUT, HAD MYSELF STRESSED AND IK ALL THE COMICS END THE SAME BUT I WAS STILL STRESSED TF OUT. spongebob rollercoaster image but ngl I genuinely was stressed in the first half

Juicy lore mmhmm yes yes. The them appreciation panel for today

Absolute banger so far I think, I LOVE comics!

[thefreakandthehair]

mistletoe.

written for @steddieholidaydrabbles | prompts: mistletoe | wc: 999 | rating: teen & up | tags: alternate universe- no upside down, alternate universe- flower shop au, eddie pov, eddie munson has a crush on steve harrington, confident!steve harrington, fluff, getting together, first kiss, background buckingham mention

It’s chaos. 

Clippings, and rogue petals, and ribbons that still need to be tied into bows as far as the eye can see. Long tables lined with crinkling plastic to protect the aged wood take up the center of the room, and somewhere off in the distance, Eddie can hear Chrissy on the phone with what sounds like a disgruntled, last-minute customer. 

“... Sir, it’s December. Most of our poinsettias have been reserved for weeks. We have two left that we can give you. You can have them, or you can—”

Eddie’s sure Chrissy’s about to kindly tell the phone stranger to go fuck himself and he couldn’t be prouder of how far she’s come, really, but he loses the thread on the conversation when Steve bustles in from the back.

“How many carnations does one middle school Winter Wonderland dance need, anyways? Are there even this many kids in the town?” In his warm, forest green jacket and black beanie with wind-flushed cheeks and rosy nose, Steve exhales and sets the box of carnations down on the counter. 

“Enough to pay the rent this month with carnations alone, apparently,” Eddie jokes, tapping Steve’s jean-clad shin with the toe of his boot. “We’ll be here all night doing these ribbons, won’t we?”

He tries to make it sound like a chore, like something he hasn’t been looking forward to since Chrissy told them she had a date and couldn’t stay. Any amount of alone time with Steve is welcome, even if it means tying tiny bows on small carnations and pricking his finger a hundred times with the stupid little pins. 

“Probably, yeah,” Steve shrugs with a smile. “It’s not so bad though, right?” 

“Not at all.” Eddie bites the inside of his cheek to keep from beaming. 

When Chrissy wraps up her part— invoices, confirmations, and all of the paperwork shit that Eddie and Steve are better off leaving to Chrissy— she practically skips out of the office with a wave and a smirk. 

“You do know that if she and Robin hit it off, this is gonna be a regular thing, right?” Eddie jokes, hoisting himself up to sit on one of the tables and grabbing a ribbon to wrap around another flower. 

“Robin hasn’t stopped talking about Chrissy for months. This is going to be our life, Ed. Mark my words.” Steve laughs with Eddie’s favorite crooked smile, the one that only ever seems to be targeted at him. 

He tries not to let Steve’s phrasing dig its claws too deep into his lovestruck brain, but our life wiggles its way in regardless. 

Eddie looks around and takes in all of the fine details— a half-eaten bag of plain chips, two cans of coke, carnations and ribbons strewn about in somewhat orderly piles. Chrissy left the radio on when she left, the station alternating between the top hits and classic holiday songs, and Steve bobs his head to Wham!’s Last Christmas. 

This could be their life; not just the tumultuous riptide of highs and lows, but all of the mundane minutiae in between. 

Eddie and Steve. 

EddieandSteve. 

“You okay? Stab your thumb again?” Steve asks, tearing Eddie from his reverie. 

“Yes, and actually, yes,” Eddie laughs, breathy through his nose, and wipes his thumb on his jeans. Before Steve can grab his hand and check him over, and probably push Eddie over the edge into doing something incredibly fucking stupid in the process, he brushes it off. “It’s fine. Let's get these bitches done.”

Hours pass, quickly and comfortably, and they eventually tie their last ribbon. 

“We did it, Jesus H. Christ,” Eddie celebrates, hopping off of the table and tossing the last carnation into the box. “Do you still have skin on your fingers? I don’t think I have fingerprints anymore.” 

“Now would be the time to go commit some crimes,” Steve snorts, his nose wrinkling, and Eddie wants to kiss him right on the mouth. “Before you head out though, I uh, I think we forgot one. Close your eyes for a second.” 

“What?” 

“Just close your eyes? Please?”

Eddie does as Steve asks because he’s helpless to not, his brows knitting together in confusion because closed eyes. He hears rustling and the sound of scissors snipping ribbon. What’s so special about this carnation? What’s so secretive that Eddie has to close his eyes and miss valuable alone time with Steve? Doesn’t Steve get it? Every second with his eyes closed are seconds he doesn’t get to stare. 

Steve’s stool slides against the tile floor, scraping as Eddie feels Steve standing closer. Close enough that he can feel Steve’s breath against him when he says, “Okay, open your eyes.”

In front of him is Steve Harrington, his favorite smile, and wide, hesitant eyes holding a hastily tied together bundle of mistletoe just above their heads. 

“I know it’s not Christmas yet or anything, but I couldn’t wait.” 

“You’re not fucking with me?” Eddie asks, heart clattering in his chest as hope gouges its way out of its deepest recesses. 

“Definitely not. I really like you, maybe more, and I know I didn’t have to wait for some big moment but tonight, just the two of us, it felt right. If I’m wrong, I’ll chuck this in the garbage and we can never bring it up again but—”

Eddie launches himself at Steve, both arms wrapping around Steve’s neck. 

Maybe he should’ve taken it slower— maybe their first kiss should’ve been patient, tender— but he’ll have other opportunities to show him the softness he deserves. Instead, Eddie kisses Steve just like he’s fallen in love with him: spontaneously, impulsively, urgently. Steve drops the thicket of branches and pulls him in closer, one hand balling the edge of Eddie’s shirt up in a fist by his hip and the other cupping the back of Eddie’s head, meeting his intensity wordlessly. 

Through the murky daze of Steve’s lips against his, Eddie hopes that this is their life. 

[zosan-secondchances]

The Pirate King of the North: Part 2 with Concept Art

Main Themes: Villain Sanji, Alternate Universe, Zosan Ship

Warning: Long post ahead and some One Piece spoilers. Contains strong language.

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 (Special) | 19

Let's go back a touch to when old Sanji reunited with his Zoro after the arm incident.

Sanji

I'm back Marimo-kun~! Sorry I was gone for so long!

Zoro

What the–? How the fuck did you get into my house?!

Sanji

Turns out I got this genetically-modified body so my limbs are practically replaceable! This isn't normal, right?

Commander 1

My Liege, we still need to attach the rest of the flesh.

Sanji

Oh, shush it now. I know it's just for padding at this point.

Anyway! This means we can keep fighting! Isn't that wonderful? I know your dad doesn't fight with that red-head anymore because of it.

Zoro

Dad? What are you…? Forget it. You're a freak. Get out. Now.

Sanji

Is…is it the hair? I thought I'd try something new…. I spent so long fixing it up for you. Do you not like it?

Zoro

Wait, what is that?

Sanji

Oh! This thing on my hand? It's a get-well-soon gift from my dear Doffy! He said I should at least try and make the fight fair for us so you won't get bored of me. What do you think?

Zoro

Fair? What do you mean fair?! And who the fuck is Doffy–?

Sanji

So many questions! Marimo-kun, I'm actually just here to propose. Let's go and get married!

Zoro

This…this must be some kind of a sick joke.

Sanji

I'm plenty serious actually. Come now, it'll be fun! If you marry me I'll give you all the sake you want~!

Zoro

You're barking mad if you think I'd agree to that.

Sanji

Commander, please present the dowry.

Darling, do you accept sea cows or do you prefer gold?

Zoro

Get the hell out of my house!!

Sanji

Hmm…you're right. I'm not doing this properly. Hey, is your dad still at Kuragaina? And was that a yes to sea cows?

Zoro

OUT!!!

This is Sanji's first of many marriage proposals.

---

Later in the week, a certain captain is over at Zoro's.

Law

You don't have to marry the man. Just get on his good side enough to get the information. I don't care how you do it.

Zoro

You ask too much this time, surgeon.

Law

Oh, for fuck's sake–you owe me. And I'm cashing in.

Zoro

Fine. But I'm only doing this for Luffy. What do you need exactly?

Law

I need to know if someone's still alive…. It's only a rumour but it would kill me I'd I don't find out for sure. And only he might know it.

Zoro

A friend of yours?

Law

You can say that.

Zoro

What's the name?

Law

It's…the Marines call him Corazon.

----------

Notes: I'm still exploring how to do dialogue the way my brain lays it out in my head. I've written scripts for storyboarding purposes before but Tumblr layout won't let me do what I need so bullet points it is. Oh well! Depending on feedback I might change it up.

[ivymarquis]

Not me vividly hallucinating about a certain scot eating me out until I cry

What you wish for

Pairing| John “Soap The Munch (tm)” MacTavish x F!Reader Rating| E Word Count| ~500 Kinks/Content/Warnings| Cunnilingus, squirting, mentions of safe word, Johnny is A Munch(tm), the author is an American still trying to dial in a Scottish accent

Date a munch, they said.

It would be fun, they said.

And it is, for the most part- you can admit that with no hardship.

It’s just that occasionally (like now), it becomes obvious that Johnny is eating you out for his pleasure and your own is just a happy by-product.

“Shit, ah! Johnny! I’m gonna- hgn- Johnny I’m gonna cum,” you pant in warning as the Scot buried between your thighs goes to town on you like a man starved.

Every time this man drops to his knees in front of you, it is a guarantee you’re going to see stars.

This time he’s got you pinned on your back on the bed. You seem to be wiggling too much for his taste as he’s banded one forearm across your waist and the other hand grips one thigh to keep your legs spread for him.

No matter how much you cry and moan and buck and cant your hips, he just leans his weight on you to keep you still.

He alternates between broad swipes with the flat of his tongue or more pointedly circling your clit or lapping at the inside of you.

While he’s yet to disappoint, he really seems into it (re: you) today. Like teetering on has-something-to-prove into it.

With that sort of dedication and attention, it’s no wonder he’s got you squirting and squealing in record time as he slips two fingers inside and abuses that spot that has you seeing stars.

Johnny works you through your high, lapping up every drop of it like it’s his last meal. Your legs twitch weakly in his hold as he continues on.

You think that maybe he’s working himself down, that he’ll leave you be in a minute.

He doesn’t.

Less attention is paid directly to your clit, but he’s still honed in between your legs even as you squirm. “Johnny,” his voice is a whine in your throat. “Johnny I came- I already came,” like there was any possibility that he is unaware of that- given how you squirted all over his face.

He pulls off momentarily, eying you with a skeptical look. “The fuck’s that got to do with me, bonnie? Cum or don’t, I'm finished when I'm finished.”

Your brain needs a system reboot at that- you stare at the ceiling dumbly as he gets back to business.

He’s trying to kill you- there’s no other explanation for it.

(Distantly you remember how your ex never went down you- still expected head on a routine basis, of course!- and you swore that the next guy you dated would have to be okay with reciprocation. You certainly got your wish in spades, hadn’t you? Almost like the universe was apologizing in the most mind-melting way possible)

It’s all you can do to lay there and breathe. If it actually gets to be too much- well, that’s what safewords are for. But Jesus fucking Christ the man doesn’t do anything in halves.

It’s only after he’s wrenched your second orgasm from you that he lets up, crawling up the bed to collapse to the side of you.

“Soon as my legs quit twitching, I’m returning the favor,” it takes you a couple tries to stammer out the words. Johnny looks every bit like the cat that caught the canary.

“Oh I’m no done with that sweet cunt o’ yours- ye just looked like ye were gonna pass oot. We’ll give ye a break an then back tae it, hm?”

[thatmexisaurusrex]

If you’re making excuses for what happened last night on 9-1-1, just. Unfollow me. Block me. Whatever.

I’ve never been triggered by a show in my life.

I was in a panicked state the moment that scene started. The claustrophobia of it; the way Eddie talked; the way he moved through that scene - it brought me into the mindset of when I get into arguments with a person who essentially uses any moment I dare show emotion to make me feel immature for even feeling anything and showing it; that what I’m feeling makes me illogical or irresponsible or unable to come up with reasonable arguments.

It took me back to the feeling after those arguments - where I have this deep rooted anxiety need to either clean my entire apartment or jog until I can’t move because if I didn’t I was a terrible person; that I can’t eat because if I did I was a terrible person.

And whatever, you didn’t have that reaction to the scene probably.

I don’t expect everyone to have that feeling.

I don’t expect my reaction to be universal because my reaction was very much rooted in something specific to me.

But the way Buck flinched? The way he shrunk and lost all fight? The way he took it and took it and took all that anger with no way out and with no moment where they work through the fight? Only to be told that a note that sounds like the person is leaving isn’t the reasonable assumption? Made to feel dismissed like an idiot for doing so? The way Eddie blindsides Buck with loved ones in a way that gave him no alternative by to play happy, put together, good host? The love bombing with no remorse on Eddie’s part for how he acted wildly inappropriate the night before?

I don’t care about grief. Grief isn’t a good excuse. Eddie almost killed a man during an illegal boxing match due to his anger. Eddie destroyed a room once due to a PTSD episode. Eddie was supposed to have worked through at least some of this shit years ago in therapy.

What happened was too much. It went too far. There’s working through your feelings, even if it means being angry to do so, and there is using your friend as a verbal punching bag after you did something shitty only to love bomb the friend the next day.

And maybe the fight would not have been so bad if Buck didn’t fucking flinch when Eddie grabbed Buck’s shirt and cornered and crowded him on that kitchen counter. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if Buck didn’t fold to the anger; shrink and take it like he deserves it. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if it didn’t feel like Buck was trying to work through the fight they had the night before only to get an ominous note. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if Eddie didn’t ambush Buck with people he loved right after and made Buck put on a dog and pony show for guests lest he bother them with his fucking emotions he was screamed at for even having the night before.

But that did happen.

And I don’t expect the show to fully apologize for shit or work through it step by step. That’s not practical for the kind of show it is.

But fuck, man.

The panic never left me that night.

That feeling?

That unease in me that the show gave me never left me.

I cried a bit.

On and off.

Throughout the night.

I spent the entire night feeling not quite fight or flight, but frozen and frayed like a live wire; unable to stop moving and forcing myself to eat dinner despite everything in my brain telling me not to.

It never left me.

I had a nightmare last night.

Hell, I’m feeling it come back to me a bit just thinking about it but I honestly woke up so emotionally exhausted. My emotional exhaustion is keeping the feeling at bay.

I loved Eddie Diaz. He was my messy but well meaning guy. I really did love his character.

I’m not sure if I can watch him on screen with everyone being normal and cool with him after what happened last night.

It’s okay if you can.

I just don’t know if this feeling will come back if I see him again. I don’t know. I know I’m never watching that episode again. I’ve never had this reaction to fictional tv shows before. I just don’t want to feel like this again.

So, have your opinions.

Whatever.

That’s your prerogative.

I just don’t want to see them if it’s to defend what happened last night with Eddie.

[officialnostradamus]

It's Time For...

My headcanon about Johanna Hezenkoss & Emmrich Volkarin's relationship. Which nobody asked for BUT that's what tumblr is for.

Now, hear me out, I am thoroughly enraptured by the collective fandom brain that says Emmrich was Down Bad, and Johanna was too busy being a Bad Bitch to care about his feelings. In at least one universe each, you're all 100% right, and I respect you for it. However, I posit an alternative and beseech you to go on this journey with me. I want to explore a woman who does not have a singular mind for a man, who carves her own way through life with a diamond-headed sickle, but who still thinks about him enough to hate him. A woman who sees obsession as a way of life and treats him as just another in a long line. 

Our gentleman necromancer is the kind of man who falls in love at the drop of the hat. A man of a million heartbreaks. Emmrich has fallen in love with every person he's ever been on a date with. He has fallen in love with a woman selling flowers from a cart because she told him the species, though he already knew, and he fell in love with the man he met in the lift because their hands brushed when they reached for the lever and he had a beautiful laugh. That's simply how he is. 

To someone like Johanna, that is a paltry weakness. Worthy of scorn if not outright mockery (and, let's face it, usually outright mockery). Johanna is a woman of barbed emotions, they stick in her mind as they catch upon thought and idea and they do not become action. She doesn't have time for them when she could be bringing her brilliance to life. 

As students, Emmrich is in awe of her. Passionate, intelligent people are his favourite to be around and Johanna has them both in spades. She is fearless and unfettered by the law of man or magic. Daring and dauntless are also qualities Emmrich finds commendable, and on paper he should have been in love in an instant. He could have been in love. But Johanna is something else, too.

Johanna is also cruel. There are so many things that Emmrich, in the sweeping nature of his own passion, can look past. Selfishness can be self-determination. Recklessness can be bravery. Even the willingness to defy the laws and responsibilities he personally holds so dearly can be novel, an experimentation, the base of all new discovery. But cruelty is, perhaps, one of his only staunch nos. 

To think of it in simple terms - Emmrich is the one to see a starving kitten and whisk them into his arms to find them food and shelter. He loves to see someone else do the same. He can understand the person who walks past. He can forgive even the person who left them there to begin with. He cannot abide the person who laughs. 

Johanna laughs.

For Emmrich, this is easy enough. He does not fall in love and he needn't do so. Johanna is still a valued colleague and, somehow, he enjoys her company. Even if they don't see eye to eye, she is still all of those other qualities he gazes fondly upon and they don't have to agree to have spirited conversations and to learn from each other.

For Johanna, this is a slight. This is inexplicable. This is enough to burrow an emotion past the rest and what she feels is confusion - and that is so much worse than anything else it could be. Johanna knows that she is perfection personified and even if she doesn't want Volkarin, why doesn't he want her?

Johanna is clever, and desirable, and if she's in the mood for a lover it's easy enough to find one. She knows how to crook her finger. Sure, she's intimidating and she can just as easily send them running as keep them coming, but it works for her. 

Except not with Volkarin.

Every fortnight or so she sees him doe eyed and dreamy over some fellow student - once, even a visiting Chantry Sister! - and yet he has never looked at her that way. When they stay up all hours of the night, researching their shared love of magic, studying for an exam, performing an experiment, he treats her with kindness and respect. Gross. He exclaims appropriately about her brilliance. Deserved. And he never strays from the bounds of their strange friendship. Unnerving.

Worse, still, he doesn't even seem to realize that they're rivals! Both of them sit at the top of any class they're in, trading number one back and forth in a constant dead heat. When she is number one, Volkarin congratulates her! He gasps in awe at her impressive work. He even stills his tongue in front of others when he believes she may have cheated. Later, alone, when he calls her on it he is gentle. He offers to help, tells her that he will always be willing to help. She can only laugh at him. Because that is pathetic, and condescending, and she is cruel. 

It turns out that when he's hurt, his wet doe eyes aren't all that different from when he's a besotted fool. 

Their relationship is always like this. They drift apart, eventually as students, but are thrust back together as members of the Mourn Watch. Johanna is never less intelligent, never less driven, and Emmrich is never less kind. He supports her when he can and challenges her when he must. He wants what's best for her, and for the Mourn Watch. 

She wants the same things. 

When her twisted experiments and refusal to follow the rules finally ends in her dismissal from the Mourn Watch, she is furious. Emmrich is sad. For a while, he sends her letters, and they say the same things he always has. He wants to help. He will help. He cares about her. Johanna responds to exactly one. 

Volkarin,

You have always been a mewling, pitiful little creature with no backbone. Impressive, considering how easy it would have been to graft one to yourself. If you conquer one fear in your miserable life, let it be the one that forces you to keep talking when you should be quiet.

It's the one Emmrich doesn't respond to. It is short. It is cruel and their bond finally severs, a task Johanna thought impossible. He wants to help. He will help. Until he doesn't. Emmrich Volkarin never follows through on anything. Emmrich is fearful and petulant and compassionate to a fault. And he has finally had enough of her.

That's fine. They were never friends, always rivals, and he never loved her because he was too cowardly to truly see her. She knows this now and that is why she relegates Emmrich Volkarin to a footnote. Part of the past and not her glorious future. It is by nature of the beast that there is no one around to point out, no one that cares enough to notice, that she doesn't need the same footnote on every page.

**Thanks for coming to my Ted Talk. I am a lunatic. I'll be on tumblr all night - actually, for the rest of ever 😘