#never use bleach on your bones

[fox-yapping]

i’m bored so how to find then clean and whiten bones, beginner friendly:)

the best places to look for bones are where animals are/die, so this can be woods or forests, farm land, near lakes or rivers, roads and train tracks, this is just naming some places i could think of. you are probably going to have the best of luck near roads and on train tracks thanks to roadkill, but remember always be careful keep your eyes and ears open.

so you have found some bones, now how do you clean them?

well it really depends on the state of the bones, some bones if their old enough and have spent enough time in the sun don’t really need to be cleaned at all since all the fur and flesh will be rotten off and the sun whitens bones over time, you might just have to clean some dirt off.

but for bones where that is not the case, they will need to be cleaned, degreased, and whitened.

so now how to do that. before you do anything i recommend scraping/cutting off any fur/flesh that you can it will make the process easier and faster.

scrub the bones with warm water and dish soap i recommend dawn dish soap but any that says it will get rid of grease will work. once you’ve gotten any remaining dirt off soak the bones in boiling water and dish soap for at least 30 minutes then scrub the bones again and soak them in boiling water again. it’s okay if fur/flesh is still on the bones the cleaning process will take care of that.

now rinse and repeat that process. when scrubbing the bones you can use scissors and or tweezers to help pick of any remaining fur/flesh if needed, soaking them will make this easier.

now once they are clean and no longer have any fur/flesh on them they need to be degreased if the cleaning process didn’t already degrease them, it’s the same as the cleaning process make sure to use dish soap that says it gets rid of grease, except now you can also use some hydrogen peroxide, this will also help start the whitening process.

so now they are degreased and ready to be whitened this technically isn’t necessary but it makes bones look nicer, you don’t have to do this if you don’t like the look of it.

if you do want to whiten your bones, use hydrogen peroxide this is the main whitening method i know of, soak them till they have the the level of whiteness you want them to have. you may have to change out the hydrogen peroxide a couple times, you can also leave them in the sun to whiten but that will take longer.

so now you have clean bones:) you will probably have to use superglue or hot glue to glue in teeth and glue jaws together if you have skulls. super glue can also be useful to use on cracks in bones.

but if you want to avoid having to do all this you can always just buy bones. there's no shame in it and anybody who says that there is is not a real bone collector.

one more thing NEVER use bleach on your bones. NEVER. you can use other cleaning products than the ones i said but never use anything with bleach in it. it will turn your bones yellow and make them more brittle and fragile then normal bones. pictures below of some of my skulls, i used bleach on the opossum skull before i knew better.

[yeyinde]

the soft blue of a pale moon | Yautja x f!Reader

He keeps his claws fixed against the scruff of your neck. Forcing you down, bowed on your knees with your face tucked tight against his massive thigh, breathing in the stale scent of him. Even through the foreignness of it—the sharp burn of oxidising iron, rusted metal, and old, rotting blood—he smells good. Intoxicating. It makes you dizzy. Makes you greedy. For something. Survival, maybe. That instinctual drive, self-preservation, needling in your hindbrain to keep you alive.  Despite your reticence, you angle your chin up, glaring at this creature, this beast. This Cimmerian god of old. Stygian king in his throne of bones, his pretty pet, his plaything, supplicant by his side. You won't ever submit. Ever. 

warnings: noncon/dubcon. captive reader. predator/prey. forced submission. noncon D/s dynamics. forced mating. rough sex/violent sex. broken bones. belly bulge. biting. size difference. mentions of violence. scent kink (slight). marking/scarring (territorially, possessively). alien biology. alien genitalia. female presenting reader (female anatomy).

Yautja terms:Kainde Amedha — hard meat (refers primarily to xenomorphs)

Ooman — human

this is basically a Dark (from the 2010 avp video game lmao) x Reader fic. Yautja is not an OC. but you don't need to know anything at all from the game to read this.

lore:

comics, novels. divine wisdom.

The bed of furs is soft beneath you.

It's an odd juxtaposition compared to the uncanny harshness of the room you've been left in (held captive for days, weeks, months—) with its severe lines and its stark, unfamiliar geometry. The walls stained a strange, unearthly colour of brownish-gold, towering high into a domed ceiling etched with symbols and runes you've yet to decode. Ones you know you never will.

This whole place is otherworldly. Seemingly beyond the scope of science fiction, or what your meagre imagination can dream up. Reality. Fantasy. The two blend together to form this archaic, rustic interior that's somehow far too futuristic for your mind to understand, and yet shaded in use, in age. Space dust. Caught between old and new—new: unknown, unknowable—and utterly mesmerising despite the garishness of what lies outside beyond the edge of the pelts you rest on. 

Adorning the walls are an uncountable number of skulls and bleached white bones. Weaving spines strung up. Spindly, alien vertebrae. Fantastical creatures. Mythological beasts. It's something only the most inspired minds can conjure—

And yet, it all sits within reach. 

(The human skull on the wall, still attached to its spine, is perched over your head like an omen—)

You tear your gaze away from it, sliding over the trophies immortalised in a shrine dedicated to the prowess of the being who took you. An alien. Yautja, you’ve come to learn. Predatory hunters who roam the galaxies in search of the best prey. A race made of warriors with a strict honour code. 

Though—

You don’t know how honourable keeping captives are to their society, but none of the other massive beings had tried to intervene when he had taken you on the ship, hauled over his shoulder like a conquest, beating furious fists into his broad back. They stood back, chittering to themselves in what you know is laughter. Mocking clicks. Low trills. They thought it all so funny, outlandishly so, to see him stalk through the thick haze of fog that blanketed the ground with a yowling ooman clawing futilely at his back. 

(As if your weak, feeble fists could ever hope to maim, to hurt—)

You don't know why he decided to take you. Even now, aeons later as you pass by an unfathomable number of solar systems, all glimmering like crushed gems just beyond the domed window above your bed, you have no idea what brought this on. What made him look at you, and think—

Pet (mine). 

And it's not for a lack of trying, either. But trying to prise anything out of him is near impossible. Chiselling for gold with a plastic spoon. 

It leaves you with only one other villain in this story, and you very readily blame Weyland-Yutani for this mess—dig deeper, explore faster, mine harder—but yourself, more so, for signing your name on the dotted line in the first place. You knew it was a terrible idea from the beginning. Not too many planets are truly desolate these days. Not with those things, xenomorphs, roaming the solar system unhindered. 

Nothing good ever comes from meeting them. Death, inevitably, follows. 

Though, comparatively, you'd rather be sprawled out—naked, collared—on a bed of strange, soft fur than being used as a breeding sow for a race of parasitic monsters hellbent on devouring the galaxy. 

Panic is white hot, electric. The thought alone makes you lash out, a paroxysm of pure adrenaline, fear. Your hand flies to your chest instantly. Fingers knotting between your heaving breasts, feeling around for any movement under your skin. A beat. Several. All erratic. Thumping harshly against your ribcage. And—

Nothing. Just the erratic flutter of your heart, bragging senselessly in your chest. 

(stupid thing—)

Of course. Of course. 

Out of everyone on the ill-fated expedition, somehow only you survived. Holed up in the armoury, listening to those serpentine creatures tear into the flimsy metal of your ship. Taking out the ones who managed to sneak in with a well-placed shot to their domed heads. Hiding in a corner waiting for them to find you, wondering if the last few bullets should be used on them or yourself. 

It was days of that. Of piling these awful monsters high, and hoping the corrosive blood didn't ruin the hull to make an opening wide enough for them all to pour in, overwhelming you with your dwindling ammo. 

Breathing in ragged breaths, all the while listening to the hisses skirting across metal, grazing talons down your skull. They liked to taunt you, a fact that nearly drove you to the brink when all the meandering words uttered around about their hive-like simplicity, their insectoid stupidity, fell apart. These creatures are deadly, cunning. 

And smart.

They adapted easily to your patterns, overcoming your bullets and your patchwork ingenuity with ease. The only thing that kept them at bay was the metal being too thick to penetrate with their claws. 

(And you watched, helplessly, as they realised this after the second week, and sacrificed the smaller drones to splash their corrosive blood across the thickened alloy, melting it slowly down to nothing—)

They would have gotten you soon enough. 

Had to, really. Because the Queen was waiting. You heard her hisses in your head. Felt her in the air, disturbed and agitated, around you. Pulsing like a heartbeat. Hammering against your resolve with each nightmare she pressed into the folds of your subconsciousness. Luring you to her. Showing you the wonders of giving in, granting her access. 

Coming home—

You don’t know how anyone could withstand her influence. The siren’s call from down the hall, showing you image after image of her children curling protectively over you. Nestled in a tight embrace. Safe and sound from the howling winds and the scorching sun, from the awful hisses outside, and the horrific sound of metal giving way, melting into a puddle on the floor. 

It was madness. One you wanted nothing more than to give into—

And then they came. 

Appearing out of thin air just as your bullet pierced her jaw when she finally came for you, her child—

She fell, taking out several of the others with her—ones not on your list of alien species to look out for—and left behind nothing but a passel of intimidating creatures and you. 

He, their leader, was the first to find you. Grabbing you by the scruff of your neck like a misbehaving kitten, and pulling you close. Taking stock, you think, of the bodies behind you and the holes in the Queen made from your gun. 

An uneasy, stifling silence fell, broken by a series of drawn-out, low clicks. 

You realised then, right as he bent down and tore the claw off of a dead xenomorph, what these beings were. Hunters. Predators. It was rare to see them on earth, but you’d heard of several run-ins with these creatures whenever humans decided to mettle with their preferred prey. 

It was even rarer that any human survived the encounter. 

He cocked his head to the side before pressing the bloody tip to your cheek, branding you with the mark of the blooded. One that matched his own. Purposefully done, of course. 

His crest on your skin, unique as a thumbprint, is the loudest proclamation of his claim. Anyone from any number of clans that roam the heavens in search of prey, of hard meat, know, immediately, that you belong to him. That you bear his mark, branded with the scar of his respect. 

(Respect—such a weighty thing to carry across your shoulders, too. Something you'd been eager to obtain, hungering for it all your life. And now—

The blunt, almost suffocating heft of it feels permanent in a way you can't even begin to unravel.)

He'd taken you, then. Despite thinking of humans as soft meat, cattle, he'd thrown you over his shoulder and marched you to his quarters where he stripped the xenomorphs of their skin, and hung their bones on the wall—your trophies. Sat next to his own. A bold display. A show of respect, however rare—and unwanted. 

And then he'd stared at you through the black slits in his horned mask. Just watching. Studying. It took a great deal of composure not to weep. To beg for—

For something. 

Leniency, maybe. For whatever crimes you inadvertently perpetrated against them. For being here, of all places, because of the insatiable greed of Weyland-Yutani. 

For believing in them in the first place, maybe. Following, desperately, in the footsteps of your fallen idol. 

It never mattered much in the end, though. After a careful, blank scrutinisation, he'd simply reached down, talons digging painfully into your skin, and tossed you into the softest bed of furs—of pure, hedonistic luxury you'd ever felt—and followed you down with an inhuman growl that rattled through your bones. That seemed to echo throughout the ship, shaking the walls, and trembling through the floors.

The kicking and screaming never happened. Futility paints a desperate picture, doesn't it? And in those moments, now lost to time, you knew, somehow, that it was useless. Is useless. 

He wanted you. Him, the captain of this ship you've been left to rot inside of. The one who knows your language, but refuses to speak it. Preferring, instead, to let the guttural clicks and the chirring of his foreign, unspeakable mother tongue take precedence. 

The one who hunts, viciously, and wears his trophies around his neck. Strung up for all to see as they dangle across his broad, mottled chest. Black. Endlessly so. His colouring is shades darker than your own galactic canvas where midnight itself spills across satin, but the comparison itches in your chest, rotting along with your sickening heartbeat. 

And you think he knows this. Because despite his fury as he slashes his way through the oddest assortment of extraterrestrial creatures you've ever laid eyes upon, he's cunning. Smart. Adaptable. 

It's this, the strange, almost preternatural patience he exudes which keeps you where you lay now. The innate knowledge that he's a primal hunter, one who uses both instinct and a keen, calculative sense of awareness to ensnare his victims wholly, unquestionably. One who'd undoubtedly hunt you down to the very edges of the star system you escape into until you're bent down on both knees, supplicant to his prowess.

His little pet. 

And oh, how he luxuriates in it. This little moniker given to you by his clanmates seems to make him preen each time you hear the familiar, rasping click of their scornful mockery. 

Soft ooman. His ugly little trophy. 

He snaps his mandibles at them in response, but keeps his claws fixed against the scruff of your neck. Forcing you down, bowed on your knees with your face tucked tight against his massive thigh, breathing in the stale scent of him—ozone, leather, spice, and a potent musk of mildew and loam, humus; the stagnant waters of a swamp teeming with algae blooms. Even through the foreignness of it—the sharp burn of oxidising iron, rusted metal, and old, rotting blood—he smells good. Intoxicating. It makes you dizzy. Makes you greedy. For something. Survival, maybe. That instinctual drive, self-preservation, needling in your hindbrain to keep you alive. 

Despite your reticence, you angle your chin up, glaring at the creature, the beast. This Cimmerian god of old. Stygian king in his throne of bones. 

You won't ever submit. Ever.

But you can play the part—if only until he eases his grip, allowing you to slip away again. 

With a glower, you lay open kisses along the hard, leathery ridges of his black scute, chasing the oily tang of his musk on your tongue. 

The feel of your soft mouth makes his thighs tense—all firm, corded muscle; raw, primal power sheathed in a thick, aggregate pelt of marbled colours. It feels like warm stone under your fingers. Oiled leather. Crocodilian. 

His maw opens, and the sound that tumbles out is full of fractured syllables and inhuman chirrs, gutteral crepitate. It's not something your human tongue could ever expect to replicate, and your lips tug downward in a sharp frown, your displeasure at this game of his growing by the minute. His staunch refusal to speak your language despite clearly knowing it—and knowing it well—is aggrevating, if only for the sole reason that he kidnapped you. That you being here, listening to him, is not of your own free will. 

The scorn is thick on your tongue, the vitriolic rebuttal taking shape already, but he silences you when his thumb grazes your jaw. The air in your lungs tumbles out in a shudder when you feel the unnaturally soft, yet firm, skin of his palm slide around the back of your nape. 

The fight in you is numbed by the realisation that his hand alone spans the entire length of your shoulders, now curled possessively around your neck. Fingers overlapping, folding over each other easily into a perfect collar. 

His hand closing over your throat draws your eye to the ringed gorget he wears around his neck. 

The comparison makes you sick. 

The talons on his fingers are warm, powder-soft like the beak of a bird, when they tap against your throat as you swallow, thumb still stroking along the ridge of your jaw. It's shockingly intimate, and the humanness of it settles in your stomach like a sinking stone. Granite needling against soft tissue. Mercury bleeding into your guts. You hate it. 

Hate how much you don't hate it. 

The juxtaposition fills you with a fit of vicious anger. You don't want to seek comfort from this beast. 

Your gaze drops, resting churlishly on the thick skin of his belly. Despite the raw, indomitable strength that coils through his muscles, malleable obsidian, when he sits, the softness of his belly pudges out, jutting over the brass-coloured belt of his loincloth. 

It's—

Another marker of his uncanny likeness to the human form. 

But where you might have expected to see coarse hair, his lower belly is sparsely covered by a dense, thick cropping of quills trailing along his abdomen. They feel like softened polymer under your fingertips, but catch on your skin if you're not careful, the sharpened edge digging in. It's not as painful as the press of his nails, but itches like a thorn. Needles of a cactus. 

They stretch upward. Arching along in a perfect mockery of a happy trail that stretches to form a heavy bushel on his chest, small whiskers on his chin, his brow, dotted along the crest of his crown where his tresses fall. 

Dragging your gaze up this path leads you back to piercing amber set deep inside the bracket of his skull. They seem to glow, an unnatural light spilling out of their sockets, highlighting the rigid lines of his bones. 

He's watching you. Always. 

(You blame the rapid thud of your heart on fear.)

Knowing he has your attention now, he makes the noise again. Lower this time. A snarling rasp breaking apart between his flexing mandibles. The sound akin to the rumble of an avalanche; the roaring screams of a forest on fire. 

You have no hope of ever mimicking it—not without drinking down acid to corrode your vocal cords first. The anger that lashes through you is a whipcord cutting its tip against your resolve. 

“What are you saying? I don’t understand—”

His massive crown dips, mandibles clicking. His thumb presses into your skin. Intentional. Pointed. 

It's then you piece together that what he's saying isn't a command or a taunt, but rather his name. One you have no hope of ever repeating unless you want to turn your vocal cords into tatters, strips of unusable tissue. Wasting your words on his name is not something you think you would ever want to do. 

And so, you don't. 

Maybe it's to spite him. Or to put some semblance of distance between yourself and the alien holding you hostage, touching the skin of your neck with a soft sort of reverence you hadn't known he was capable of. Whatever the reason, you twist the ugliness inside of your chest, the rage and sorrow, into a brutal knife, wedging it into the scant space between your bodies, prying them apart in a shallow victory. 

He's a hideous thing, isn't he? This brute. 

Raw power. Untameable malice. All hidden under this pantomime of honour. How laughable, really, to think these beings know anything of the sort. Or maybe it's just him in particular. The outlier of the lot. One with a confounding obsession with ooman pets. 

Ugly, you think, staring up at him. With his sunken eyes, and his mane-like crown. His tusks clicking together in quiet pleasure, smug in his throne of metal and bone. 

Ugly, like the mossy green surface of a still swamp. Stagnant waters. A black lake. Shrouded by a dense, impenetrable cropping of weeping willows and mangroves. Shading the water so much that the algae blooms turn black like tar. 

Dark, like him. 

And so, you whisper it. Not his name, but this vindictive moniker you pieced together thinking of the lingering swamplands covered in moss and peat.

“Dark.”

In response, his nails rake over the back of your neck in both a warning, a reprimand; the same harsh touch used on an unruly cub by its mother. The comparison makes you bristle, hissing out a series of cruel jeers at him, but he barely pays it any mind, too busy chittering to himself now, humoured instead of insulted by this tangentially human name you've bestowed upon him. 

The juxtaposition, the humanness of it all, is almost too much. 

How can a creature that ripped a xenomorph’s jaw apart with his bare hands have these soft rolls along his midsection. Feel humour the same way your friends back home might have at your taunting barbs? 

The contrast is nearly comical. Sour. 

You don't like it when he's too human. When he scratches his warm talons along your nape absently. Thoughtless. A little twitch of his hand offering threadbare comfort in an unconscious whim. When he's tactile with you. Tensile. Gentle. Touching your skin with an exploratory sense of curiosity, of fondness. Laying you down on the furs with a tenderness that is at complete odds to the rough, demanding way he'll inevitably mate with you. 

Mate. Because your coupling is always animalistic. Brutal. There's no tenderness to be found when he presses you into the furs, rutting into you like a beast. Growling, snarling. Making you take, and take, and take until he's satiated—

But you think you like it that way. 

Especially when he's fresh off of a hunt. 

When he fucks you into the mattress with nothing but harrowing, inhuman roars spilling from deep within his heaving, blood-drenched chest. Guttural snarls. Harsh, demanding. Moulding your body to his liking. Grasping you in a crushing clutch, and drawing your aching hips back to swallow down the intense thickness of his cock as it buries deep—impossibly so—inside of you. 

You like him angry. Like him rough. It rents the moments when he's docile with you; bifurcating the peculiar sheen in his beady eyes when he lifts his mask off, placing it on the metal mantle with all the others, content to just stare at you. Looking, watching. Assessing. 

It's the unnatural stillness of his gaze that sets you on edge. The heavy, unerring way he takes you apart with nothing but deep amber drilling through your skin. 

Through because you've pieced enough together to know he can't see you the same way you can see him. That all the sharp angles of your features are hidden. The infinitesimal detailing lost to some wavelength your human eyes can't begin to take apart. 

He hides this weakness by touching you endlessly. Long, sharp talons dragging over the bridge of your nose. The dip in your chin, the angles of your jaw. The plumpness of your cheeks. 

He buries himself inside of you, and plays an exploratory game of committing your topography to memory with the soft, thick palms of his hands. Lets his long, rubbery tresses brush across your face as he sets a maddening pace that promises to one day snap your pelvis in half again, eyes glued to the centre of you where you burn the hottest. 

Between these moments is where you linger the longest. Oscillating between a pet or a mockery of a queen; supplicant to its owner, it's King. Head resting on a terribly massive thigh as he commandeers a ship that makes all the technological advancements of your home world seem rudimentary and crude. A child's rendition of a spaceship brought to life with broken crayons. Left there to bask in his prowess, his glory. Surrounded by artefacts and trophies of all his kills—but considerably lesser than the vastness of his quarters where he keeps his most prized possessions. 

Yourself included. Polished diamond perched on a satin pillow. 

One he keeps dressed up in armour, in plating; decorated in the traditional fabrics of his own kind—mesh netting that keeps you perfectly comfortable, acclimated to the unbearable swelter of their ship, the temperature almost too much for your fragile skin to handle; breastplates over your chest; a bronze loincloth with intricate webbing and a heavy belt to keep it in place. 

Adorned with pretty gems and metal bands around your neck, your arms. His mark on your skin. 

Belly bare, and offered no shoes. But this fact is not a pointed statement about your imprisonment or your status amongst them—it's just for the simple fact that he doesn't wear them, and so: neither should you. The axiom is so irrefutable, that the bare, gnomic revelation is almost obvious in hindsight. 

Obvious. In the same way a lightning strike is. Being torn to pieces for getting between a mother bear and her cubs. Falling off a cliff after dancing too close to the edge. Trying to swim in aerated water. 

Obvious. It's all so obvious, isn't it? 

You spend most of your days in this liminal labyrinth. Lost in your own mind as space flickers past the large window in front of you. Pinpricks of light in the distance of an endless, unfathomable black nothingness. Perched on the precipice of complacency and dread. Never knowing when he'll grow bored of this game, and turn you from a living emblem to a skull on his mantle like all the rest. 

If, of course, you're even worthy enough of a place there.

You just don't know. And that's the crux of it all. Not knowing. Kept on the brink. Shrouded in uncertainty. 

You'd think it intentional if you hadn't seen the way he preens under your stare sometimes. Flexing in his metal throne, showing off his array of scars; the trinkets he picked up on worlds unknown. The open, wanting way he regards you—this little human, barely a scrap of thing compared to him, to the sheer vastitude of his bulk. Hungry. Possessive. Always snapping his mandibles at the other Yautja who get too close, claws raking down flesh, spilling luminescent green blood across the floor. Injuring his own kind for attempting to touch you—

The King’s conquest. 

But his ire doesn't abate for you, either. You've learned the hard way what it means to try and flee from his grasp, and while it wasn't nearly as bloodied, as brutal, as it was for his kin, it was terrifying. 

You thought you were toeing the line before when you'd dig your human deep into his thickened hide as he kept you tucked to his side, on your knees for him; or when you tug so harshly at his tresses that green blood leaks from his skull and he howls in pain, but you realised then that you were wrong. That those little moments of mutiny were akin to foreplay to him. Small, inconsequential. Spilling his blood earned you marginal amounts of his respect, and he showed it by dumping you on his bed, and burying himself inside of you until you'd passed out into the furs. Overwhelmed. Punished. But it wasn't. You weren't being taught obedience by his hand, but rather getting a playful slap for your antics. 

He'd snatched you by your throat in an instant. His warm, soft palm enclosing over the fragile length of your neck with too much to spare for you to ever be comfortable. Long fingers overlapped across your nape, and he'd heaved you forward, slamming you into the hard plains of his body with a growl. Talons prickling into your skin, spilling blood down your back. He'd snarled so loud that the ship seemed to quiver, quaking under the sheer weight of his anger. 

Amber eyes drilled into you, widened with the fever of his fury, burying deep into your being. Your head wrenched side to side in a slow, agonising jolt as he assessed you. Taking stock of the silly pest that tried to run from him. That had the gall to slink off like an insect scurrying over his feet. Dishonourable.

This, though. 

Running from him—

Well.

In that moment, the air wrought with the metallic tang of his indomitable rage, you had thought: this was it. He was going to kill you. Flay your skin from muscle, and hang you in the rafters for the rest to gawk at. Easy prey. A fickle kill. 

And with everything you'd gleaned about this strange tribe and their odd customs, it would have been a mercy. 

But he didn't. 

Doesn't. 

His mandibles flare open, stretching out wide across his boxy jaw. The pinpricks of his teeth gleam in the hazy, saturated light of the ship; white, jagged peaks against fluttering, angry red. It shudders as he growls. The decibels pitched low, unfathomably so. You catch the spear of it rattling through his body, the rasping snark bellowing from the depths of his chest, and shaking the air around you. You can feel it reverberate from his flesh, the tight grip he has on you a conduit funnelling his anger straight into the middle of your throat. 

It reminds you of a territorial crocodile bellowing in the shallow water, making it vibrate and splash around him as the shattering frequency ripples outward. 

It's terrifying. Electric.

You feel it rattle through your bones. Feel the ripples trembling through your flesh. 

It's primal, this fear. Animal. 

But in the end, he doesn't kill you. 

You're simply tossed over his shoulder like a rowdy, misbehaving pest, and taken back to his room, much to the amusement of his gathering tribemates peeking out of their room to see their leader tend to his wilful, misbehaving pet. He strips you of your armour with a careless, almost cruel disregard before pushing you back on the bed. There's a rigid line to his shoulders you'd never seen before; a damning flex to his jaws that make you shake, quivering in fear. 

You know better than to speak, to beg. All it gets you in the end is a mocking series of clicks that you know enough to recognise as laughter. Instead, you take your punishment with your chin in the air, unwilling to submit the way he so clearly wants you to. 

Your supercilious scorn has his mandibles widening in anger once again, and he exercises his control by shoving you face-first into the bed, and burying his tusks into the meat of your shoulder, keeping you still under him. 

It's a clear warning. Move, it says, and his tusks will catch on your spine and rip it clean from your back. You still. Quiet. A prey animal lying prone, unmoving, at the feet of a chuffing predator as he mounts you from behind, rutting into you with a savagery that renders you into nothing more than a ruined heap under his bulk. 

For your attempted escape, you end up with more of his scars on your body, indents in the shape of his flared mandibles on your shoulders, and a fractured pelvis. It could be worse. You could've died. 

Should have, maybe. 

(is that a plea? an orison? 

and if so, why is it drenched in misery?)

And there is something vicious about the way he tends to your broken bones after, plunging the needle into your skin despite your howling, or the way you thrash. It's pure agony. The sensation how you imagine it must feel to be burned alive from the inside out. 

That, you think, is why he has no qualms about leaving you alone now. Wandering off, chasing trophies and honour on a planet just outside of the domed window above your bed. A vicious, red world tidally locked around a small dwarf. One half shrouded endlessly in black while the other burns, charred from the intensity of its star. In the middle, you know, is a small strip. A habitable zone, if only just. 

It's a place where a large, lumbering predator roams. One with towering antlers akin to the moose on earth, and jagged, spiked teeth protruding from its maw. The length is too much like a Sabre-toothed tiger for you to ever want to meet it face-to-face in the dark. 

Proper prey. A worthy trophy, they consider it. 

And, from the chittering you picked up, it seems that xenomorphs—kainde amedha—have found this place as well. 

The thought of them down there—spreading, growing, infecting—fills you with a potent sense of dread, one that gnaws on your insides with serrated teeth. Vicious and ugly, it lingers in crevasses where it pokes and prods at your fear, and your worries, until they split open, leaking putrid rot all over. 

It’s not that you’re worried about him. Not at all. 

(despite the nagging in your chest that whispers you’re a liar when you press your face into his side of the lavish bed of furs, greedily inhaling as much of his lingering musk as you can—)

He's gone off on hunts many times since you've been taken, and most of them end up on worlds already broken apart, infested, by those parasites. 

The notable difference is that brushes with them in the past never incurred much worry from you. If anything, you think you rather preferred it. Enjoyed the respite that came when he was gone, giving you a meagre ounce of freedom to think about all the (futile) ways you could escape. 

And mostly waiting. Waiting for someone at Weyland-Yutani to notice the glaring absence of one of their engineers. 

How laughable, really. Its echo is a false prophet whispering poison into your head, telling you that things will be over soon, that the higher-ups care less about profit margins than a whole fleet that went missing under garish circumstances on a planet you're soon beginning to think you never should have been sent to at all. 

Saves money on wages, you suppose. And the expense of sending a rescue fleet in to investigate costs more than your yearly salary. 

The bold, unignorable truth in that is a cruel, twisting knife to your agency. To the lingering remnants of your humanity, and worst of all, your hope. 

No one is coming. You've known this for a while now. The toxic hisses are part of the reason why you decided to try your luck on a massive, earth-like planet the first (and only) time you've tried to run. Because without that, without this fraudulent hope, what else are you left with if not him?

And now—

It's been an uncountable number of days. Weeks. 

Time in interstellar orbit is inconsequential. The beings themselves—yautja, you remember him hissing; garbled words mangled in his throat, and feel the burn in yours when you try to echo it in his tongue—have no reason to keep time, it seems. And even if they did, it's doubtful you would be able to interpret its abstract meaning. 

But even without traditional clocks or human measures and scales of time, you know that he's been gone much longer than before. Agitation seems to simmer in the air. The yautja—unblooded younglings; juveniles in their comparably archaic youth—that come to deliver your food seem—

Restless. 

Their maskless faces whisked in agitation. Shoulders set in a tense line. Eyes skewed toward the vast windows of the mothership, fraught with an eager sort of intensity. 

You know, first-hand, how brutal their hierarchy tends to be, and have seen Dark use a brute, savage dominance over the younger, disrespectful, ones who ignored his warning in the past. The amalgamation, then, of their excitement and their uncertainty screams one thing: 

he should have been back by now. 

And it—

It does something to you. 

Changes things, maybe. Skews your perspective. 

Because the reality is this: 

As much as you hate your circumstances, you're under no compunction that Dark isn't the sole reason you've been left, untouched, for so long. Why you're allowed to stay alive; to linger in his shadow, trailing after him like a lost dog. And you're barely certain that Dark won't turn around and kill you when the whim strikes him, much less his compatriots. His clanmates. 

It leaves two brutal truisms for you to contend with: that you need him; and that without him, you're dead. 

In that, you find there's almost too much to think about. 

So—

You lean back, staring up at the pale blue moons outside of your prison, and think of nothing because if you can't see the pendulum, if you don't stare down into the maw of the pit, then you can pretend neither are really there at all. 

You wake from a restless slumber to the door opening with a mechanised whirr, the rasp of heavy metals sliding against each other filling the air. A plume of thick fog billows up in response, shrouding the entrance in dense white. 

The cloud conceals their identity, but it doesn't matter much. No one has access to these chambers. No one but him. 

The long, sharpened talons on his toes clink against the floor as he approaches. Each footfall makes your heart jump, scattering in a strange, off-kilter rhythm. 

Through the fog, he appears. Battleworn, and filthy. Splotches of dulled green blood cover his body from head (where you note a few tresses have been ripped off, some at the crown where a pock gapes open, deep forest green, and others at the ends) to toe. The majority of it is covered in the low, angry light of the glowing metal, the colour of molten rock. It's shielded from your prying eyes as he moves forward, strides purposeful as he lugs his wares over the threshold. 

He comes to a stop at the foot of the bed, broad chest heaving with each breath he takes through the mask still on his face. You take stock of him as he stills, cataloguing each change to his appearance now—a new scar down the length of his chest, blistered and scabbed over from the healing salve they carry on their hunts. Part of it is hidden under a thick patch of burnt skin. The splatter whipping over his lower belly, and raising the toughened skin up half an inch. 

The infliction of both are immediately recognizable in their unmistakable pattern. 

The slash of a xenomorph’s claw ripping through skin, shredding through it like paper; and the jagged, rough burn of their blood as it rained down, unhinged, on bare flesh. 

He fought quite the battle, you note, and pretend the rapidness of your breath doesn't reek of relief. 

His hard-earned victory sits in his hands. 

The skull of a queen. 

The sickly white already polished and primed, ready for its place on his mantle. It should be there already. Should have been his first stop. Per tradition. 

But he breaks it by standing before you now, covered in grime and dried blood. Reeking of stale sweat. Of rot. And holding his wares in his hand for you to see. To take note of. He waits even though you know it costs him a great deal of effort to stand here, beaten, bruised, scarred, burnt as he is. Half of it is the same, undeniable stubbornness that they all seem to inherit; a weaponised sense of pride. The other—

Well.

The significance of this moment, of this break in a sacred routine, isn't lost on you, despite your best efforts to pretend otherwise. As much as you want to ignore it, it itches behind your ribs, pulsing like an infectious wound. 

It's only when he sways slightly in exhaustion, the movement almost indiscernible if you hadn't been watching him so intently, do you release him from this strange moment. Bowing your head down in quiet, muted submission; a reverent surrender to his indomitable prowess. 

This gentle, almost desultory yielding doesn't seem to click at first. He tilts his head down slightly, gazing at you through the black slits in his mask, seemingly uncomprehending as he takes in the sight of you—this errant little human who caused him nothing but trouble, offered nothing but mocking respect—bowing down to him after an indefinite time fighting to free yourself from under his thumb. 

Until—

It does. 

The massive, bleached skull of the queen is shoved in the air in a sudden chirr, pitched to the ceiling as he stomps his feet on the ground in an effort to widen his stance. Knees bent, he throws his head back, and lets out a ravenous, blood-curdling roar of victory. 

It bludgeons into you. The force of it winding when it hits, bruising along your skin in a throbbing ache. 

This doesn't so much as feel like toppling over the precipice, but already being caught in an unstoppable freefall. 

(one you're not sure will be an indefinite fall to the stagnation, stasis; or will send you crashing down to the jagged rock at the bottom of this vertiginous drop. 

the one thing you are certain of is this:

it's much too late to go back when you've already lept off the edge.)

—and so, the pit it is.

His thumbs pitch under the board curve of his mask, grazing the soft underside of his boxed chin. Carefully, he lays down a single finger at a time, resting it against the smooth surface before slowly lifting it off his face. 

When the humid air hits his flesh, his mandibles flare out. Flexing. An unconscious response, you now know, after being folded against his mouth to fit inside the helmet for so long. Joints aching. Muscles hinged with disuse. 

It's with this motion that you notice the absence of his left, lower mandible. The stump a mangled mess of cauterised flesh. It's ugly. Atrocious, even. The scars crisscrossing against moulted skin of pale amber and black are a harrowing emerald smear, an awful amalgamation of dried blood and gnarled tissue. 

The shock of it is dulled under the weight of his success, and it's then that you know you're too far gone to ever go back. Where there should be pity, and—shamefully—disgust, all you feel is an overwhelming sense of borrowed pride. Chiselled from the staunch set of his shoulders, the flex of his muscles, as he openly preens under your stare. Angling his chin downward, giving you a better glimpse of his battle scars. A hard-earned victory. 

A queen is no easy feat, after all. 

His eyes find yours in blood-red gloom. Burning amber, chiselled into the canyons of his unique, unmistakable topography, seems to drill, intensely, into you. They stray, travelling down the length of your nude body, barely covered by the pelts of his conquests. 

You spare a thought to the idea that seeing you this way, wearing nothing at all but his kills, is what makes his broad chest expand suddenly, shoulders pulling back as he preens. Puffing his plumage in a heady pride, a deep satisfaction that runs bone deep. 

Waiting for him, you think. Dressed only in the hide he skinned with his bare hands. 

He rumbles suddenly. Bellowing out a low, steady growl between his sharpened teeth. This noise is unlike anything you'd ever heard before—deep, unfathomably so; but hollow. It echoes, reverberating from his chest in a timorous pitch. 

You could almost mistake it for a leonine pur. 

He stalks towards you, and each step ignites a war within you. The urge to flee from this predator is fierce. Instinctual. It burns through you with a vicious force, but in that rippling intensity, kindling burns in the scorch marks left behind. 

Just as potent as the urge to run is, the want, the desire, to roll over and submit to this massive, powerful creature rages, blistering through you. 

But you force yourself to stay still. To wait as he moves, seamlessly, to you. Lighter now that he's stripped himself of the wrist gauntlets, the cannon mounted to his shoulder, his trophies, his kills—the dangling skulls from around his neck, and waist. The belt and loincloth were the first to go, freeing himself to display his immodesty, completely at ease in his own nudity. The thermal netting peeled off next, and dropped into a pile by his mantle. The chill—if a near-constant swelter could ever be considered such a thing—made his jaws flare out in the only sign of discomfort he would ever give, flexing under the slow acclimation to this balmy heat that clings to air. 

The heat, though—

Such a relentless thing. 

You feel the humidity burn through you as he walks, unashamedly bare, to you. An incredible length of skin unveiled for your prying eyes, glinting a devastating obsidian in the pale luminescence of the locked moons just outside the window. 

In this sparse light that trickles in, you let yourself grow bold, greedy, for the fill of him, and let your gaze trail down the pockets of quills dropping down his chest, his belly, until you meet the thick thatch on his groin. It's here where your breath catches. Hitching loudly in your throat as he comes to a standstill within your reach. 

As human as he sometimes appears—usually in the most inopportune times—you can't deny the obviousness in his extraterrestrial anatomy compared to yours, to human morphology. Birdbeak warm claws, tusk tips on mandibles, leathery skin connected through a series of irregular polygonal shapes in mossy black and blazing amber, baleen teeth sharpened to needlepoints—you would be remiss to think him human in anything other than silhouette. 

But arguably, the biggest shock (outside of his maw) is, of course, his cock. 

Softened, it's kept tucked away inside of a slightly bulging cloaca shaded in the same dark green hue as his outer arms, back, and legs. A dense cluster of quills sit in a thatch around it, protruding near his black, pebbled scute. It's firmer than you'd expected it to be, but softens near the opening where his cock emerges, intimidatingly long, thick. The fattened length of him, too, is foreign. 

The end tapers into a fleshy point. Along his shaft are barbs, small ridges that resemble the scute covering his body, if only softer. The reminder of them makes you tremble, skin heating. Feverish. It's indescribable, really. The way they drag along your sensitive flesh on the outstroke, the sensation dizzying. 

Covering his flesh is an oily, slick substance, and it's really only this natural lubricant that even allows taking the full length of him inside of you possible. The sheen of it glints in the light when he flexes his muscles, and steps closer to the bed, smearing slick against his thighs. Your mouth waters, flooding with the veracity of your insatiable want.  

(You hate him. Hate him. Want so him so badly that it feels like you're burning from the inside out—)

The push-pull of your submission, still at war with your innate sense of self, dims, quieting when he reaches the edge of the bed, cock in full view. The jut of it, now fully extended from his sheath, hangs, heavy and thick, between his legs, bobbing with his movements, twitching in his growing excitement. Prespend, slightly more watery in texture compared to a human man, gathers at the opening, dripping down to the floor beneath his feet. A long, pearlescent strand clings from his weeping slit, dropping to land on the flesh near his knee. 

The sight of it shouldn't be as sinful as it is—you’ve yet to find god amongst the stars and you doubt, very much, you ever will—but seeing the thick glob of his desire spill, leaking steadily from his twitching cock, fills you with a heady sense of want. Desire. 

He hasn't touched himself at all. Content, almost, to stare at you, head cocking to the side as his beady amber eyes drill into your lower belly, fixed on the spot where you burn the hottest. The heat signature you give off, blistering; red-hot, is probably the biggest appeal to a creature like him who sees in shades of yellows and reds. The mismatch of your complexion, the nude state of your body, is inconsequential to him when at your core, you're molten. And all for him. 

He knows this, too. Knows your body well enough to see the unmistakable burn of your desire. Your desperation. The slick growing between your parted thighs turns into a heavy, hot flood; pulsing full of electricity. The depth of your need grows increasingly uncomfortable the longer he waits, watching. You want him. Want this massive beast who stole you away, who held you down and made you take him, made you submit. 

And he wants you back. This Stygian king cut from ashlar, limned in shadows, wants you just as much—if not more. Went out of his way to burrow past your pitiful defences to bury himself as deeply as he could, rearranging your humanity into a likeness of his image; branding you with his mark, dressing you in clothes tailor-made to fit. Giving you the gift of his prowess—bones, skulls: trophies from the most fearsome predators in the galaxy left at your altar—in this mating dance, this outré ritual. 

His desire for you is overwhelming. Dangerous. Your hips twinge at the reminder of when he exercised his punishment, exiguous as it was compared to his sheer strength, smarting with the phantom burn of fractured bones as he gave in, infinitesimally, to this voracious yearning that smoulders, a constant ember, in the sunken depths of his eyes. 

Something surges through you at the thought of him holding back as much as he has, at the way he thickens just at the sight of your blood red need. It's a strange amalgamating of animalism (pure, unquantifiable primalism, bestial in its savagery; feral), and a heightened degree of pride—the sort that leaves you feeling godlike, peerless: transcendent, in the very essence of the word. 

He wants you. You. 

And in that, the vestiges of your control cessate. 

Submission, you find, feels too much like finding sanctuary amidst a raging wildfire.

In response, he trills. The thundering bellow vibrates through the air. An unmistakable pur of a beast successfully conquering its mate. 

He moves—soundless and surprisingly agile for such a mountainous creature; prodigious down to his every atom—and makes a slow, aching crawl to meet you on the bed. His knees, the size of your skull, press down first, making the basin of fur dip under the enormity of his heft. Encompassed in his shadow even with him kneeling before you, it makes the absurdity in your sizes more pronounced. Thighs thicker than the trunks of fir trees. Arms the width of your legs. His chest is the span of your own, just duplicated thrice. 

Dark is a beastly thing up close. 

There's a thrum in your throat; a heady pulse, throbbing with adrenaline cut by dormant fear. As if sensing death so close by, an atavistic caterwaul begins in your hindbrain, screaming at you to run, roll over, submit, play dead—the flickering of these prey responses an instinctual deluge that you quell, half-heartedly, with the knowledge that there's nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. 

He'll find you. Even if he has to hear the star system apart to do it. 

As if omnipotent to these weeping tendrils of animal fear, his broad chest trembles as he lets out a shallow pur. A softened bellow. The growl of a prowling cat on the Savannah. 

You shiver, fisting the fur in your slick palms until it bulges up between whitening knuckles. 

“Please,” is all you say, and you don't even know if this particular word registers to him at all. He never responded in the past to it (or stop, don't, no) outside of the rare occasion when he kept his helmet on, and mocked you with the garbled mimicry as he buried himself as deep inside of you as he could go. 

This time, though, his mandibles twitch. His maw gapes open, displaying an egregious set of terrifying teeth, and the flutter of his throat grows, undulating in jerking pulses of flesh, sliding over each other until—

Puh–le’e–suh—

It's butchered beyond recognition. Maimed in the flex of his corded, baleen throat. But the intention is there, and the implication more so. 

He spoke. 

And it's a broken, devastating mockery of your mother tongue, but the force of it all is a blow, a bludgeon unlike anything you'd ever felt. 

A whirlwind of emotions rage through you, all congealing into a muddled, indiscernible mess. It slips through your fingers, featherlight, but he doesn’t give you a moment to gather them together between your fists. 

His tresses fall over his broad shoulders as he prowls forward, tiring of this epoch already. The long, tubular strands frame you in a serried curtain of black as he looms—gargantuan, mythical—above you, head dipped down. The massive crown lists to the side when you lean back, instinctively, spine meeting the furs in tandem with his slow advance. 

The absence of his lower mandible when he flexes the others is novice in the liminal light that spills through the bulk of his body. You're not used to seeing him hurt like this. Ragged scars. Scorch marks tearing across his flesh. 

Reflexively, you reach up. The tips of your fingers are feather-soft against the dry tresses just behind the missing cluster. The ends of them are cauterised—a thick, metallic clump glued to the bottoms to keep him from bleeding. Another anatomical anomaly. 

Filled with veins and nerve endings, his tresses are far more sensitive to touch than the coarse hair of primates—the integument is different, too; rubbery to the touch, reminding you of polymer pipes or rubber bands, almost. 

At your gentle touch, he makes a noise, a shallow churr in the back of his throat; mandibles soon folding over his mouth after. Reactive, you find, and endlessly endearing for such a monstrous creature. Cute. 

A smile blooms at the notion of his sudden shyness. Such an outlandish thing for someone whose entire existence is narrowed down to honour and death. The pinch of his tusks elapsing over his maw fills you with a misplaced affection, a foreign growth metastasizing between your ribs. 

You're not sure what it is—survival instinct, maybe. The urge, the drive, to keep living despite yourself; a blot against the harsh reality of your predicament. It feels like the most likely one considering the other is genuine adoration. Unthinkable even now in spite of your willing submission. 

But thinking about this is a jagged dagger cutting through your insides. You shove it aside, hide it away. 

The soft touch—a mere whisper of your fingertips gliding along the surface of his tresses—takes on a more intentional drag, purposeful. You curl your index finger around a corded forelock, giving a small, impish tug just to make him jutter above you. 

His jaws flex, mandibles spreading slowly apart with a quiet, humid hiss. The heat brimming up once more as he curves his long mane over you, chin dipping down to encompass the entirety of your body under his. 

You can't help wondering if this is what it feels like to be devoured. 

And when he reaches the apex, eclipsing everything in your sight with the full, dark heft of him, hands fixed against the soft furs above your head, you think of a sanctum instead of a cage. 

(a swinging pendulum—)

The heat is unbearable with him over you like this. Made worse, somehow, when his hand lifts, falls to your waist. The width of it covers you entirely. Swallowed whole by palm. You tremble, and he eats your anticipation with a distinctive, preening click, turning you on your belly with an ease that knocks the air from your lungs. Barely a featherweight to him. The notion is scorching. 

The name he's given you is full rasping, mangled syllables your fleshy tongue could never begin to wrap around. In the absence of knowing how to speak it, you've begun to call him by your own human version of his namesake. It's this, the shortened, paltry whisper that rolls off your tongue when he presses the tapered tip of his cock against you. 

“Please, Dark—”

At the soft utterance of it, he snaps his hips harshly in retaliation, burrowing his cock inside of you in a quick, jarring thrust. 

It rents you in two, splits you down the middle. Your breaking point is surpassed in an instant; mettle fracturing, shattering on impact. It takes every ounce of willpower to cling to cognisance when he snarls through the last few inches of impaling you entirely. 

In the static tatters of your consciousness, the realisation—a startling polyphony of fear, trepidation, and awe—that this is him holding back lingers on the periphery. That, in itself, is the rekindling of your appetite; hunger gnaws on shallow need, unsatiated by the threadbare scraps it's been given to chew on. 

You say his name again. The whisper of it raw, wounded; scraping against your lacerated vocal cords, torn by the vicious howl, the shriek, that ripped through your chest when he seated himself deep inside of you. 

He responds by snapping his hips into yours, the barbed ridges on his cock licking across your nerve endings in the almost perfect zenith of pleasure and pain. It's nirvana, you think. With hell nipping sharply at its heels. 

The stretch—unlike anything you've ever felt before; incomparable outside of too much—burns furiously. The only thing keeping it from being impossible is the thick oil coating the length of him. The makeup of it must have analgesic properties, or some paralytic agent mixed in, because with each stroke, it soothes your raw flesh, erasing the pain of him inside of you, and leaving nothing but pure, unfettered sensation behind. It's just the thick, unrelenting press of him. The heaviness. The girth. 

It's good. Too good. Overwhelmingly so. 

A series of low clicks spilling out from his broad chest, the chirr of a rattlesnake. He must see it, the way your body floods with endorphins, with heat. The room, kept at an uncomfortable swelter, glues to your skin. Balmy, and achingly hot. The blister of it burrows deep, massing together into a molten core at the very apex of where he's buried inside of you. 

Drawn there, moth to a flame, your hand slides between the damp fur, now drenched in your sweat, and comes to rest on the prominent bulge shifting through your abdomen. His cock. 

Behind you, Dark lets out a susurrus hiss, and pauses the ruinous cants of his hips just long enough to let you feel for yourself how perfectly he changes your shape to fit himself inside. It's unmistakable, of course; but everything outside of raw feeling is liquified. Rendered numb. You know, somewhere, distantly, that this—feeling him through your muscle, your skin so distinctly that you can touch each ridge on his cock—is something that ought to break you, shatter you into pieces. The anatomical anomaly of having him stretch you like this, to this extent, is unfathomable. 

And yet—

He drags his cock out, and you whimper, mindless, stupid, at the sudden loss of him. 

You don't feel complete unless he's buried within you. 

And despite yourself, the somnolence lapping at you, a part of you wonders if this is a symptom of that paralytic agent—musk, pheromones, miasma, poison—blotting out all logic, and inducing a soporific desperation, a vacuous need for him and him alone. One that makes wholeness out of the heavy press of his cock. 

If it is, it doesn't matter much anymore. 

You're too far gone, lost to the throes of it, to care about anything else. 

A good thing, perhaps, because with Dark, it's always a selfish coupling. He pays no real heed to your pleasure, fully under the belief that his cock splitting you apart is enough. 

And damn you—damn your treacherous body—it is. 

Each brutal cant of his powerful hips slamming into you sends waves of pleasure roaring down your spine. To be pried apart, stuffed full of the overwhelming surplus of his girth notches against something inside of you that makes your bones liquid, your marrow running molten. Burning you up from the inside out. 

You clench around him desperately, fingers knotting into the furs below, squeezing it tight in a vice. Trying, futilely, to cling to some sense of cognisance despite the vicious way he takes you apart. Atom by atom. Synapses bloating, crackling under the strain. 

He fucks you like beast. All vicious snarls, guttural rasps; blood is drawn when his claws catch your skin, tearing it open like tissue paper. The sting is buried under the layers of sensation tunnelling through your body. 

Pleasure, pain: equilibrium met on the cusp. Aided, in large part, by the frenzied way he ruts you; fractured, careless. Bullying himself into you until the tapered tip of his cock bruises your cervix—more battering ram than flesh; eager to wrench you open, spill himself inside of your womb. 

You can't imagine what this must be like when he isn't holding back. Horrific, maybe. Blood, bruises. Torn skin. No wonder their hide is so thick. 

But even this—tamed, as it might be—feels like a battle. A war. He spears you open, chirring the whole time as he curls over you, protective and awful, the motion forcing the last few inches of him into you. Bruised, aching, you whimper at the feeling of his sheath, white-hot and soaked with your slick, cupping your drenched cunt. He holds himself there, as deep as he can possibly go—tip a bludgeon against your cervix, stretched wide around the thick of him—and lets out another long, low pur that rumbles through you. Teeth chatter from the vibrations, delirious and bordering on the equinox of absolute damnation, your pussy clenches around his cock, each ridge and divot more pronounced than before. 

Overwrought with bliss, with a nauseating pain, you keen in response to his deep bellow, feeling more animal than ever before. 

Driven purely by instinct, you push back into him, thighs slapping against his own. The power in his muscles, the contrast between your supple, soft body and his, iron wrapped in thick, crocodilian skin, is flint striking steel. 

A mere tinderbox, your body erupts in a devastating heat. 

The burst of molten red makes him reel back, barbs catching on your sensitive skin. It's too much, too much—

He thrusts back into your spasming cunt with a shuddering roar, the sound alone—the lewd, drenched squelch of him splitting you apart—tugs the knot inside of you past its breaking point. As his claws rip through the pretty fawn fur, shredding them to pieces as he grips tight in an effort to piston his cock as fast as he can into your aching pussy, you find yourself tipping over the precipice in a stumbling fall. The force of it, the suddenness, is agonising, edging immediately into overstimulation when the deep, heavy jut of his cock head burrowing into your fluttering walls doesn't cease. It's—

White noise. Static. Your head is galvanised into slush, slurried into liquid pleasure that thrashes and writhes in your core, nerve endings set aflame in a wet, hot inferno under his bulk. 

You puddle under him, burning with the aftershocks. Body melting, useless and spent, into the sheets as he drives into you with the single-minded purpose of reaching his own cataclysmic end. Numbed now, all you feel is an intense, dizzying pressure pulsing molten inside of you. 

Dark braces himself over you, content to just rut deep into you, barely pulling the full, heavy length of himself out of your aching sex. With anyone else, it might be considered sloppy—a messy, desperate coupling, but even this much with him is devastating. Ruinous. 

It's a maelstrom. A bleak, calamitous fall to the bottom of a blackened pit. 

And with a savage, brutal plunge, he buries himself inside of you again, prising the soft plug of your womb open with a brutish roar—deep, broken; bellowed at the heavens—and you feel the steady pulse of him inside of you, filling you. It's too much—his fat, heavy girth, and the copious amounts of his spent stretch you past your limit, teeth raking across your mettle, and the bulge in your lower abdomen grows taut as he floods you with his release. 

The end of the pit looms, and from the chasm, a jagged maw gapes open, gnashing its teeth at you in rapacious anticipation as you careen toward its empty gullet. Falling, falling, falling—

And in the midst of it all, you think this might be what dying feels like.

Your cognisance is drawn together in pieces, inchmeal. 

A slow, gradual crawl out of slumber, the tugging threads of hypnagogia clinging to your rheum-heavy eyes. 

Furs stick to your damp body, some pulling loose when you shift away from the uncomfortable, sweat-soaked puddle of heat beneath you. 

Nausea roils through your belly, pulsing with dreadful synchronicity to the throbbing ache in your pelvis. In an effort to quell the feeling of your insides folding over themselves in a damning knot, you gingerly press the tips of your fingers to the spot that aches the most, feeling the raised indent of a contusion under your pads. 

It makes you blink up at the domed ceiling, head lifting to catch a glimpse of soft flesh near your hip. 

Through the midnight spill of your skin, you can see the tumid ridge bubbling up slightly higher than the rest of your flesh. In the middle is a small dot. An injection sight. 

You realise, with a huff, that he must have broken your pelvis again. Unintentionally, this time. Caught up in your feverish coupling. 

It makes sense. Your bones feel shattered beyond repair, but you know that they're knitted back together, suffused with the medicinal magic their healing injections have. 

The thought should scare you. Be it the ease in which he can break your bones, snapping them into pieces; or whatever it is he's pumping into your body to heal it, but it slips, diaphanous and ephemeral, from your tangled thoughts. Untouchable now, slowly fading into the background. 

The marbled quiet of your mind is broken when you feel him move beside you. His massive paw falls on your crown, covering the entirety of your head with an ease that you can't imagine ever not leaving you a little breathless at the scale, the vastness in your differing sizes. It rests there for a moment, leaching the warmth from your cap like a satiated, languorous reptile. A sluggish snake still digesting its oversized meat. 

A series of clicks spill when you lull your head over to meet the burning yellow of his gaze, everything awash under the heavy scent of sex and loam. Stale sweat, iron. You breathe it in, blinking in the soft blue light of the pale moons spilling in from the window of the ship. 

He lounges like a satiated cat. His legs spread akimbo; his other hand resting on his chest. The narrowing of his eyes, too, reminds you of a well-fed feline, squinting into a dewy oblivion. 

With a deftness you can't keep up with, his hands shift, reaching out to take hold of you when the sleep drips from your eyes. It takes no real effort at all for him to drag you to rest between his spread thighs, head pillowed on the tuffs of quills covering his lower belly. 

There's a twinge in your hips, but it's numbed by the palliative magic of the injection, pulsing like the soft beat of a headache through your bones. It'll hurt something awful later on when it begins to wear off, leaving you feeling more like a massive contusion than a person. But that's later. Much later. And as he rests his palm, warmed by your heat, against your nape, you find you don't mind the tenderness much at all, content to bask in the evidence of your coupling simmering, electric, between you, distinct in the air. An ozoneous tang. Heady. A sour, earthy miasma. 

You breathe it in. Breathe him in. 

And in the slow, soporific spool of your weaving thoughts, you can't help but wonder what he thinks of this, of you, as he reclines in the fur. Nothing at all, perhaps. 

Or maybe something. Something you can't even begin to unravel. An archaic, primordial sort of want—animalistic, alien. The kind that would make him scar his own kind for gnashing their claws at you in anger, indignant over your mere presence in their leader's nest. Who would take a creature not of the same species, and parade them around as they bared his mark for all to see. A mate. A conquest. A queen. A pet. The fickleness of it is not lost on you, but there's something about the knowledge that this is as taboo, as unprecedented for him, for his kind, as it is for you. 

And yet. 

He still picked you. Of all the humans in the galaxy, crawling around like lost, queenless ants, he decided to shun the staples of his culture and take you with him. 

That alone, you think, is enough. 

And so—

You relax. Melting into the wrought iron strength of his frame, liquifying under the raze of his nails grazing your skin, pulling you deeper into this sense of complacency. Where else do you belong, after all? 

You turn your head, nuzzling your nose into his quills. Into his skin. The potency of his smell is stronger here, so close to his groin, and you groan a little at the twinge in your cunt at the heady, briny weight of it settling on the back of your tongue when you breathe in deep. 

He chuffs a bit, quietly pleased by your obvious scenting. The way you bury your nose into the crease where his inner thighs bend, drawing in the pungence of his unwashed flesh. It drags your attention away from his heavy musk, head lifting to catch his blistering, intent gaze. It darkens slightly at the sheen smearing across your chin and nose, covered in the natural oils of his pelt. 

It's unlike yourself, but you find the depth of his intrigue deeply arousing, and slowly lick your stained lips, chasing the taste of him with your tongue. 

A rumble reverberates from his broad chest, shaking the bed with his quiet growl. It's the only warning you get, the only one he'll give, before the other hand folds over your lower back, pushing your belly into his sheath where he swells, hot and thick, between you. 

His eyes glow in the absence of light. Pale amber flickers when you arch into his chest, needy for him, and it unveils a catacomb desire much too primordial for you to ever dream of mapping. The deep pool of it unspools you, and you fall, weightless, to the bottom. 

Ensnared. 

[nadvs]

the act of unravelling (part three)

pairing rafe cameron x pogue! female reader

rating mature 18+

summary you never expected you’d get tangled up with a kook, least of all, rafe cameron. one night, you make a life-altering decision to get revenge on someone you both despise. after you vow to keep what happened a secret, your relationship begins to twist into something more.

tags very dark! violence, homicide, drug and alcohol use, parental neglect, mental illness, s/a, trauma. no smut.

< prev

Being in Rafe’s truck again is like being thrown back into a bad dream you can’t wake up from. You remember every detail from that night, the smell of bleach, the ache in your bones.

He parked by the edge of the country club lot, and as he settles in his seat and shuts the door, he wraps both of you in privacy behind his tinted windows.

“What is it?” you ask, your voice cutting through the tension. Rafe rakes his hand through his hair. He seems nervous, a contradiction to the smugness you’ve gotten used to.

“You were right,” he admits. “Cops aren’t even sniffing around yet and people think it was me.”

You meet his eyes, the blue hue bright and striking. The night it happened, you’d only seen him through the dark. Now, in the daylight, he almost looks innocent. But then you remember the loudness of the gun and how angry he looked when he fired it.

“What happened?” you ask.

“Last night,” he begins, “a few of us were hanging out and people were talking about how something might’ve happened to him. This guy had his name in my mouth… said some shit about how they should probably ask me.”

You nod slowly, taking his words in. You expected as much. As someone who openly hated Porter, Rafe’s likely at the top of everyone’s list of suspects.

“What’d you do?” you say.

“I swung at him.”

You exhale defeatedly, looking up at the ceiling of his car. He’s such a loose cannon that for the first time since that night, you worry that he won’t be able to keep his mouth shut.

“Damn it, Rafe,” you complain. “And you were giving me shit for being obvious?”

His temper flares like a match thrown into a pool of gasoline.

“I’m not gonna sit there and let some asshole say that shit about me,” he mutters. “This is why we need to have our story straight, alright? If you even think about ratting me out, you’ll regret it.”

You tense up. So, this is why he so desperately needed to talk to you. You can’t believe you thought you could find any comfort in him.

“You don’t need to threaten me,” you say sharply. Rafe is taken aback by the confusion on your face. You look like you’d never even considered selling him out. But maybe you’re just a great liar.

“We said we’re in this together,” you continue. “Neither of us leaves the other, no matter how messy it gets. That’s the whole point of being each other’s alibis.”

Rafe sucks his teeth. You realize just how on edge he is about this. He was so comfortable the night it happened. Almost careless. Irritated at how anxious you were. Now, it’s like he’s spiraling.

“I won’t let this ruin my life,” Rafe mumbles. He huffs an unamused chuckle, looking out of the driver’s side window. “I’m not going to jail. I’m not…”

He trails into silence. You stare at his profile. The coldness you’ve always seen in him has been shadowed by a deep paranoia.

“I’m freaked out, too,” you admit. He looks at you again. “But this is only going to work if we trust each other. We need to stick to our story so well that even we start to believe it.”

He tilts his head, looking at you with skepticism, a wrinkle between his brows.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about screwing me over, Pogue,” he says. “You could say I did it and scared you into staying quiet.”

“Are you that paranoid?” you ask. “I won’t go behind your back. I promise. Even if it’s just a cover-up, we need to act like we’re friends now.”

Rafe gives you a once-over, the hardness in his face slowly fading.

“And don’t call me that,” you say. “You know my name.”

He breathes a real chuckle this time. Despite your better judgement, your heart flutters now that you’ve earned a smile from him.

“You’ll take it to the grave?” he murmurs.

“I will. You, too?”

“Yeah,” he says. He studies you again, realizing that you don’t have a guilty conscience at all. “You really don’t regret it.”

“No,” you state. The agony of reliving what Porter did to you hurts more than any sort of remorse you feel for taking his life.

Rafe is surprised to hear you don’t wish you could take what you did back. You’re as cold-blooded as he is. You might be the only person who comes close to understanding what it’s like being controlled by anger this intense.

“I just hate how I can’t stop thinking about if we left any evidence,” you say.

“Yeah.” He settles back, adjusting in his seat with ease, the tension between you dissipating. “We were rushed.”

You nod as you chew on your lip.

“At least nobody saw us,” you say. “And if the cops check our phones, they won’t find anything.”

“Good thinking to turn them off.”

Your face creases in surprise.

“What?” he says.

“Just throws me off when you’re not an asshole.”

He scoffs, his jaw tensing. But beneath the irritation, he wishes he could undo the way he’d spoken to you when you first got in the car.

It’s like his mind is speaking a different language to him when he feels any sort of shame. He usually tries to shut it up. When he looks at you again, he decides not to.

“I didn’t mean to… threaten you,” Rafe mumbles.

“Yeah, you did,” you say with a humorless laugh. “But I’m on your side here. Don’t forget that.”

You check your phone. You have plans to hang out with the guys after work and after what you put them through a few nights ago, you’d rather not leave them hanging again.

“I should go,” you say. “My friends are waiting on me.”

“Did you tell them the truth?”

“No,” you say. “This stays between you and me only. Trust me.”

Rafe stares at you, longer than he ever has before. It’s not anger in his face. Not worry, either. It’s something new. Vulnerability.

“I don’t trust anybody,” he says.

Your lips twitch into a frown. Even though this is a man who’s relentlessly teased you for your place in the classist system he seems to worship, your heart twinges in sympathy.

“Nobody?” you ask quietly.

He looks out the window again, tense and distant. He doesn’t say anything else.

“I have your back,” you reiterate to him. “To the grave, right?”

“Yeah,” he offers, not looking at you again. You exit his car, the confusing knot in your chest only tighter now.

·········

The police start knocking on doors a day later. When they come to yours, you do your best impression of a clueless nobody who just wants to help.

The lead on the case introduces himself as Detective Brading, settling in your living room like he’s been here before. He’s so confident that it’s intimidating.

You can imagine Porter’s wealthy family is doing everything they can to find out what happened. The man staring at you is likely the best of the best.

You’ve rehearsed your story so many times that it feels natural. The two men nod along as you lie to them about how you’d fallen asleep in the bedroom, how you’d woken up to him and Rafe arguing, how you convinced Rafe to leave with you.

Your parents stand close by, arms crossed. This is the most they’ve heard you speak in a long time. They hardly ever ask you anything about your life, so it feels odd to have their attention.

“We think you two might have been the last people to see him before he went missing,” Brading tells you. “Porter didn’t say anything about going anywhere?”

“No,” you answer. “Rafe and I left pretty quickly.”

The detective looks up at your parents with raised brows, asking them to give you a moment. When they leave, he leans a little closer.

“We know he deals drugs,” he murmurs. “And we know you bought from him. We’re not interested in getting anyone in trouble for that. We just want to know what happened to Porter. Is there anything you didn’t mention about that night in front of your parents? Be honest.”

“I fell asleep because I smoked too much pot,” you say quietly, looking back through the doorway your parents left through. It’s taking everything in you not to cry as you think about why you really lost consciousness in that room. “But I only ever bought that from him. He offered other things. Like cocaine. It’s why he and Rafe argued.”

It’s what you agreed on saying, but it still feels like you’re selling Rafe out. It’d be suspicious if you didn’t tell them this version of the truth, though.

The detective nods, clearly having been told this already. Your chest twists in unease as you think about Rafe’s name in everyone’s mouth, leading the cops to him. And possibly to you.

“How close are you to Rafe?”

“We've been talking more since I started my job at the country club,” you say. “We started hanging out a little bit ago. We’re friends.”

“Do you think he would’ve done anything to Porter?” Brading asks.

You meet his eyes, swallowing hard.

“No,” you say resolutely. “I don’t.”

·········

A man is missing and possibly, at this point, presumed dead. But that doesn’t stop Kooks from wanting to party.

You’re in the passenger seat as JJ drives to the north side of the island while John B and Pope talk in the back. You’re gazing out the window, watching the landscape go from dilapidated front yards to gated communities.

You’re heading to a party that you heard about from one of Porter’s friends and the way the police questioned you earlier today is spinning in your head.

“You good?” JJ asks.

You look over at your friend, flattening your lips together. You can never tell the whole truth, but you can offer bits and pieces.

“The cops told me they think I’m the last person who saw Porter before he disappeared,” you say. You can’t bring yourself to tell them the version of the story that includes Rafe yet. They’d never believe you. They’d judge you. “It’s kind of scary to think about.”

“My money’s on that he went on a bender,” JJ says. “Sampled his own product. Maybe even too much of it.”

“You think he overdosed?” you ask.

“More like Rafe offed him,” Pope chimes in.

“Is that what people are saying?” you ask, blood cold, turning back to look at him.

“It’s what I’m saying,” he answers. “The guy’s unhinged.”

You want to defend Rafe. To say he wouldn’t go that far. But it’d be suspicious. And a complete lie.

“It’s a small island,” John B says. “It’s only a matter of time before we find out what happened.”

You hope that’s not true.

·········

You make it to the house, reminding yourself over and over that you have to live as if you believe your own lie. You want to erase that night from your memory. Erase what Porter did to you.

You chug the first drink you can get your hands on. Your friends rib you for how quickly you down it. You blame it on a rough day at work.

Soon after, you’re at the keg, not even close to buzzed yet, but desperately needing to be. Discussing Porter with the cops today, pretending like he was just a dealer you had a few short conversations with, hearing that his family is concerned for his wellbeing made your pulse spike.

Does his family know what a monster he is?

You have to correct yourself.

Was.

“Slow down,” you hear.

Rafe towers over you, his eyes on your cup.

“What?” you shout over the music and conversations surrounding you.

“You’re on your second drink already.”

You look over your shoulder to make sure your friends don’t see you talking with him.

“I don’t even feel anything,” you reply sharply.

It’s a half-truth. Your sadness and anger are weighing heavy on your soul. That vile man took away your power, but you took it back, so you hate that you’re still so rattled by what he did. You just want peace.

“And why are you keeping tabs on me?” you ask.

Rafe stares at you, his lips just slightly parted. He can lie and say he wants to make sure you’re not setting yourself up to get hammered and potentially admit to someone what you did.

But the truth is he can’t stop thinking about you. And he doesn’t like seeing that look on your face, sad and absentminded.

He knows you hate him. He wishes he could hate you back.

“I need to be sure you’re not a liability,” he lies. “And people think we’re friends now, don’t they?”

You look over your shoulder again, anxious the guys will see you. You need privacy if you’re going to continue this conversation.

“Come on,” you say, dipping your hand in his, dragging him through the crowd. His palm is warm and soft and you don’t know what you were expecting, but the way Rafe feels is the opposite of it.

You open the first door you see, stepping into a narrow closet. You shut the door and switch on a light and suddenly he’s standing right over you, all breadth and intimidation.

Your heart races from the way you’d just touched him, from the way he’s just about pressed up against you right now. Something must be short-circuiting in your brain, because the fear you used to hold for him is entirely gone.

The attraction you’ve always felt is overpowering now. You can’t make sense of your own emotions.

“I haven’t told my friends our story,” you confess.

“What?” Rafe snips, his tone low.

“I can’t handle telling them right now, okay?” you say. You cross your arms. “I just said I was with a guy. Telling them that guy was you is… They’ll be so disappointed in me.”

“Disappointed,” he repeats with a scoff.

“Rafe, think back to every encounter you’ve had with us. All you’ve ever done is insult us. I don’t even want to think about how hurt they’ll be to hear I’m friends with you.”

“Who gives a fuck?” he mutters. “We need to make sure our alibi is solid. If the cops find out your friends don’t know we–”

“I’d tell the truth,” you say. “That I was worried about what they’d think.”

“I can’t believe you.” The thought of you being concerned about someone else’s opinion is ridiculous. “Why do you care so much?”

“They’re the only family I have,” you admit. It comes out before you even realize it. You look down, sighing. “You don’t get it. You’re like… an enemy to us. They know how shitty you treat me when I’m at work. Telling them–“

“How the hell do I treat you shitty?” he interrupts.

“I know that those tips are all a degrading show of how you’re so much richer and better than me,” you say with a roll of your eyes.

“It’s not like that.”

“What’s it like, then? Charity?”

Rafe’s jaw tightens, his nostrils flaring. Charity isn’t the right word. He hides behind a forced ego, but he’s always wanted you. And through excessive tips and constant teasing, at least he can talk to you without risking the chance of you rejecting him.

You have him all wrong. He doesn’t think he’s better than you. He’s afraid you’re better than him.

“I’ll tell my friends, okay?” you say when he doesn’t speak. “But I talked to the cops today and they seemed convinced. We’ll be fine.”

“They talked to me, too. I can tell they think it was me.” There’s an almost imperceptible tremble in Rafe's voice. “Everyone thinks it was me.”

“Even your friends?”

“Yeah,” he says. If he can even call them friends. Hearing you call yours family made his jealousy flare. Envy is all Rafe ever feels. Like he’s missing the one thing that deems everyone else loveable.

But he’s hanging on how you said they’re your only family. He doesn’t have a family, either. Not really. Not one that cares about him. Maybe you understand him more than he thought.

“Well…” You clear your throat. “They can believe what they want. You can trust me that I won’t ever tell anyone what really happened.”

“Why?” he finally asks. “Why not just snitch on me, Pogue?”

“Because that night, I told you to do it and you did. The world is a better place without him in it. You did me a favor.” You uncross your arms. “And I told you to stop calling me that.”

Rafe clears his throat, giving in, remembering how you’d saved his life and offering a quiet sorry before he says your name.

It’s the gentlest you’ve ever seen him. It’s a shock to your system. You search his blue eyes in the dim of the closet as if you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to make a snide joke.

But he doesn’t. He just stares at you, his breaths shallow, and you rethink everything you thought you knew about him.

He’s violent and aggressive and condescending. But you don’t see that right now. You see a man who doesn’t seem to be able to believe that someone would want to protect him. Is that who he is behind all the bravado?

The world continues to turn on the other side of the door, music blasting, bass rattling, but time has stopped between you. He’s looking at you through low lids. Like he wants you.

You shouldn’t. Shit is already complicated enough. But what’s one more tangle in the string tying you together?

Your fingers are at the collar of his button-up, pulling him towards you, lips meeting with abandon.

Rafe kisses you back immediately, hungrily leaning into you, cupping your face. His heart is racing. He doesn’t know how or why this is happening, but he wants it so bad that it hurts.

Your mouths part and finally, you taste him against your tongue. It feels so right, like you were always meant to do this and were both too stubborn to.

His hands press tighter against your jaw. Fear floods you. You’re back in that bedroom. You pull back.

“Not so hard,” you say.

“Okay,” he whispers, his grip loosening. He stays hovering over you, nose nudging yours. “Just… please…”

You nod, tilting your head to kiss him again, his hunger for you palpable. You’re with Rafe again, not in that bedroom, but here with a man you want who listens to your wishes.

Your head is swimming with bliss as he kisses you, smelling like cologne and desire, every piece of you wanting him. Then, his hands drift down over the curves of your hips, pulling you flush against him.

And it’s too much. You’re back there again. Begging for it to stop.

“No,” you snap, both hands roughly pushing his chest.

Rafe hits the shelves behind him, his head radiating in pain from how hard he smacked against the wood.

“What the fuck?” he mutters. He was just living in a dream. Why the hell are you pulling him out of it?

“No,” you repeat breathlessly. “You can’t touch me like that.”

“Okay,” he groans. “I won’t. Jesus.”

He clutches the back of his head, wincing.

“I’m sorry,” you say, your throat raw. “I didn’t mean to push you that hard.”

“Why’d you even kiss me?” he says. “Fuck.”

“I’m sorry,” you repeat. You step towards him, trying to meet his eyes. “You can’t… I need you to ask before you touch me like that.”

His lips are glossy from the kiss, his face pinched in pain. You take a risk, gently placing your hands on his cheeks.

Rafe should be angry at you. But goddamn it, your touch feels so good that he melts. His gaze is heavy on yours, both of you breathing deeply, coming down from the sudden outburst.

“I didn’t mean to,” you repeat softly. “Just don’t take me by surprise. I can’t handle it.”

Rafe searches your face, silently asking for an explanation.

You shake your head, not having it in you to answer right now. Your goal tonight was to forget. Not relive. You pull him closer, and thankfully, he lets you.

Your lips are tender after you part, having lost count of how long you’ve been kissing.

Things just got so much more complicated. But you wouldn’t take it back. Not for a second. Nothing else makes sense right now, but having Rafe the way you always secretly wanted him is the one thing that does.

“Don’t fuck me over,” he says, a note of cynicism in his tone as his forehead brushes against yours. “No matter what happens, don’t fuck me over.”

“I won’t,” you promise.

·········

The next morning, you’re walking through the club hall towards the golf course to start your shift. You still can’t get the way Rafe’s mouth felt against yours out of your mind.

He kissed you like he’s been waiting to kiss you for ages. Like he felt lucky that he got to.

You’re about to step through the glass doors leading outside, but the sound of your name makes ice go through your veins. You know that gravelly voice.

You turn to see Detective Brading, his stare intimidating.

“You have a minute to talk?” he says.

You can tell by his tone that it isn’t a question.

next >

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[heatherholes]

i get that the lack of individuality is the appeal of bimbofication for many. but what i like to see, personally, is all the wonderful different types of girls learning their place. their unique personalities kept but warped. the most obvi example is the nerdy weeb girl who loves hentai and ahegao and slutty cosplay, the desk pet gamer girls. unlike some less interesting misogynists, i don’t think they’re faking their interests for male attention. they just don’t know how to express themselves any other way and that’s super hot!

i wanna see it everywhere. the horror fanatic watching shlocky b-movie rape scenes like they’re porn. the girl who loves cars getting bent over the hood. the ren faire attendant dressed as a tavern wench. the tabletop gamers and larpers doing mediaeval fantasy, getting treated medievally. the skater chick who laughs loudest when a girl face-plants, the metalhead demanding you name five albums. the goth who draws a pentagram on the floor and kneels naked, thinks of her punishment for eve eating the apple and whispers ‘hail satan.’

barstool type girls are a favourite of mine. you know, they watch football, eat wings, are all too happy to go to strip clubs and participate in the locker room talk. who proudly proclaim that they’re not like other girls, they’re one of the guys because they put on a sports jersey, while still looking every bit the bleach blonde fucktoy. still pretending she doesn’t know how to shoot pool so he can show her.

and the gym bunnies with an intense discipline and determination; are strong physically and mentally. what motivates their commitment to self improvement? looking good for men, of course! she’ll work herself to the bone keeping toned for you and won’t whine for help hauling the groceries. let her tell herself it’s because you respect her strength if it makes your life easier.

similar are the boss babes, hyper productive and entrepreneurial. proud to have her own money, apartment, car, small business. she’s a big believer in splitting the bill on dates. why? she heard men don’t like gold diggers. she doesn’t want him to think she’s putting out cause she gets something out it. she’s not doing it for anything but him. whether or not she expands her “online brand” as a pornfluencer into onlyfans will depend entirely on him. he okays it, but only for a split of the money? wow, now she’s the provider. how empowering!

that’s to say nothing of the actual girl bosses. the salaried power player at a fortune 500 company. what does she do there? discourage employees under her from going to HR, cut funding for the women in business initiative and giggle at sexist jokes to show she’s a team player, mostly. she has the economic freedom to do anything, a career she fought tooth and nail for, a spot in the c-suite someday. she’s a winner, not a trophy. she’ll give it all away once a man further up the ladder knocks her up.

well, what about the marxist punk yelling no gods, no masters? no way she’s gonna submit to a man. no, but she’s gonna suck dick for the communal spirit and promote collective ownership of her holes.

the shy girl into art and literature? her love of culture gives her unique insight into the history of male supremacy. everywhere she sees herself through the eyes of men. not just any men, creative geniuses. in the museum she looks at the ancient vases that use the same iconography to depict marriage as rape. from the nude statue of a goddess to the painting of a peasant girl — both are objects, never the subject. in the library she reads the taming of the shrew and thinks, who am i to argue with shakespeare? quietly, she lets her dreams of being an artist die and resigns herself to the life of the muse.

tldr: cater to the male gaze and serve patriarchy but most importantly be yourself

[hmmm-shesucks]

Once the foxes become more comfortable with each other, they begin to nag. Mostly little things, usually humorous things. They nag on Nicky for being too forward sometimes. They nag on Neil for his horrible life habits. They nag on Dan for her mother henning. They nag on Kevin for everything. It's fun, it's what families do. They all just pick on each other for fun.

It takes a little longer for them to feel comfortable nagging Andrew though, which, is understandable, but one of the first things they start picking on him for is his lack of communication in general. He NEVER talks. They just want him to participate sometimes.

Renee and Neil find this funny because Andrew talks A LOT just not around the foxes. He's not comfortable.

See, Andrew is fucking weird. Everyone knows this, but the foxes think he's weird in a “mysterious, murder you in your sleep, was totally the kid everyone thought was going to shoot up the school” kind of weird.

Andrew is not that kind of weird. He's a different breed entirely. He plans out how he'd survive the apocalypse, any of them. He is constantly fighting back the most wild intrusive thoughts. He is 24/7 existential crisis. His head is a wild fucking place.

But he is trying. Making progress. Trying to be more open and approachable, as Bee says. So he talks. Out Loud.

And the foxes hate him.

In the most monotonous voice ever

“Do you ever feel like your bones are dirty? Like, I could totally strip my meat suit and just give my ribs a good bleaching.”

“If that light fell out of the ceiling it would kill at least three of you and seriously injure the rest of us.”

“Nothing is stopping me from buying five ice cream flavors at once, but I'm learning self-control and Bee would be disappointed.”

“Currently having a manic episode. Should I A.) call Bee, tell her I'm not doing too great, and talk about my symptoms and how to best cope? B.) find the nearest mall and spend every dime I have in less than thirty minutes. Or C.) go apeshit and try to fight anyone and everyone who looks at me in a less-than-kind way. Children included.

*stage whisper* there's a secret fourth option but I'm saving it for later ;) (pronounced Semicolon left facing open parentheses. Yes he says this out loud)”

disappears for less than five minutes and comes back with three furrbies and a corndog, one that is obviously not from the mall's food court.

He's so fucking weird. Like, weirder than Neil, and it's awful (so good dude, the foxes eat it up)

And it's not the manic Andrew on meds. It's just Andrew. He's still Andrew. He's still quiet most of the time and he is still grumpy and apathetic, but he's also comfortable enoughto just blurt random shit out and have fun watching everyone figure out how to respond. He's found safety in his new family and he can openly be who he is without fear of judgment or rejection. He's happy in a way he's never felt nor ever thought he'd get to experience. He's just Andrew.

[lalunanymph]

RIN ITOSHI AND DOWN BAD!!!

𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐁𝐀𝐃 [*ੈ✩‧₊˚ dawn.🕹️ ttpd]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ one breakdown. a sudden realization.

I’m staying at my parents’ tonight. Don’t call me. 

9 hours ago. That was Rin’s last message to you. 

The sky above was turning, grey clouds lingering on the horizon like the thickening of a warning smog. Growing up on this side of town, the smell of asphalt assaulting your nose was a constant, and it mingles with the carnage of your writhing emotions.

Picking up your pace, you try to leave the thought of Rin behind in the dust.

Taking the stairs two at a time, you reach the double glass doors, pushing it aside to be surrounded by the smell of iron, sweat and bleach. 

A run would be the best thing for your mind.

Booting up the treadmill, you stretch across the bars, unloosening the knots in your back; giving your glutes a tight squeeze with alternative leg lift ups. 

The pounding of your running shoe-clad feet on the belt filled your mind with white noise—the music blaring from your earphones helping to drown out the pain clawing its way through your chest.

But, no matter how much you tried to move forward, you could never forget. 

The greasy sensation lingering heavily in your bones heaves and twists, a child in the corner begging for mom to turn and acknowledge it. Throwing plates shattering to the floor; fingerprints drenched in blood red of neglect streaking across pristine white walls.

You lean forward, slamming the pause button. Almost flying off the treadmill, grab the handles and double down, clutching your torso, sweat and tears stinging down your cheeks. 

There was no one to watch your breakdown, the clock showing 2 in the morning; flashing 24-hour neon sign at the doorway blinking apathetically in your teary vision. 

For a long moment, you stayed down on the ground, sniffling quietly.

Once the tears dried up, you picked up your phone, checking your messages. 

Predictably (even if it made your stomach fall to your feet), Rin hadn’t texted you. You stared at his name, at his photo—his pretty teal eyes half-closed, disgruntled shade of amusement at your surprise kiss on his cheek as you ambushed him with this photo.

Never would you have anticipated he would make it his main contact picture.

Loving Rin existed in shades of grey and fractions of light which you tend to miss if you didn’t look fast enough. A fond look, a secret smile.

You missed his every fleeting show of affection. 

But, how long could something so perfect be kept behind the scenes without deteriorating from a lack of light and affection?

I can’t believe you would think I was cheating on you because of some rumour, he seethes from the couch. I come back home to you, don’t I? You’re being too fucking sensitive and unreasonable. If you hate me, you can say it right to my face rather than making this more difficult for me. You’re such a hassle. I’m leaving.

Barely giving you time to take back your words or give your pain more breathing ground for understanding. 

Rin took his keys, wallet and half of your heart out of your shared apartment’s door; unwittingly breaking your entire trust in him in a fell swoop.

You blinked the moisture from your eyes, staring at the carpeted floor. 

Your phone vibrated, and you rubbed your eyes, reading his message over and over again.

I’m sorry. I hate fighting with you. I’m on my way back home. Can we talk? 

You stare at your phone; outside at the inky sky unleashing a deluge of rain which splatters across the high windows. Rin was never this persistent unless he knew he had fucked up big time.

Baby? Are you there? Can we talk? 

The vibration of an incoming call. Without thinking it through, you declined the call. 

If he wanted to tell you what's on his mind, he could do it face-to-face.

(Did you even want to see him again?)

Hey, I know you’re angry at me, but at least let’s talk this out. I know the season’s been hard on both of us. I don’t want us to end like this. 

You read his texts silently, not responding. 

Another call. Another tap of the red button. 

Baby, stop ignoring me. I was stupid with my words. I said some really stupid stuff. Don’t be angry anymore and let’s talk this out.

The pitter pattering of rain fills your mind with static, keeping you on a loop of his last words and the ones you can’t seem to focus on the smeared screen. 

Mechanically, you read through his text, seeing the chat bubble disappear and reappear—never did three dots make you feel close enough to have a stroke. 

Your baited breath follows on the tail of his next message:

I still love you. I love us. I’m so sorry.

A wave of loss overtakes you, the next message you type out with shaky fingers sent straight into the void—blue speech bubbles turning grey once you begin the process of removing Rin bit by bit from your life; clicking on the ‘block’ button to refuse these crumbs of affection you couldn’t starve yourself on anymore. 

I’m sorry, too. Please, don’t come home. Goodbye, Rin.

©️ lalunanymph

[florencemtrash]

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Chapter Twelve

Azriel x Day Court Librarian Reader

Summary: Y/n's clairvoyance is a gift from the Mother, but it feels more like a curse. With the power to gain knowledge through touch alone, Y/n holes herself up in The Alcove and hopes her powers and parentage will remain a secret. But things will change after the Summer Solstice ball and a chance encounter with a certain Shadowsinger.

Warnings: None! Familiar faces return to Velaris and Y/n finally gets a chance to explore the city...

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

I’ve been dreaming again. Dreaming of him. 

Thanatos. With his milky pale skin the color of bleached bones. Bold brush strokes of black ink mark his clothes and paint his hair and his marble eyes. I should feel unsettled when looking into the face of death. But I don’t. I’m the only one who gets to see him like this. The only one who gets to see his true face and I don’t know why. He doesn’t understand it either, and it frustrates him to no end. 

He’s almost as curious as I am. Almost. 

He came to the cabin again today, carrying that black lit candle between his spindly fingers like he believed in the Mother and was prepared to pray and sing to her like the rest of us. He says he likes to hear me during the service, tiny and informal as it is, but really I think he’s here because it irks me, and because I’m some tapestry he can’t seem to unravel.

He asked me again whether I’d call upon the Mother for him. He says he has a question that needs answering, and once he has his answer, he’ll be able to tell me how we can defeat Koschei. If it’s even possible. 

But I don’t believe that male for a second. He’d sooner carve the world to bits and devour the scraps before helping us like the coyote he is.

Rest assured I will never agree to his bargain. It will take more than that to turn Bethsevah Mordeigh.  

Although he said something strange that night, when the candles had dripped and left their waxy marks on the altar. 

“You were made to ruin me, Beth,” he said, “And I will let you do it a thousand—a million—times over.” 

He spoke in a dozen different voices, but I can’t deny I liked how the sounds came together and became his own. 

You jerked awake with your hand still cradling the book against your chest. 

Bethsevah Mordeigh. 

You had a name. 

You had a name! 

You burst out of your room. 

“Az! Az! I’ve got something.” You beat your fist against his bedroom door. “Az!” There was silence. 

The kitchen was empty, dirty dishes scrubbing themselves clean in the sink. A glance at the clock above the oven told you you’d slept in a great deal.

You took the steps two at a time, sprinting down the hallway towards the west wing. The training arena took up most of the second floor stocked with enough weapons to outfit a small army. Wood and stone knobs stuck out from the wall at extreme angles as part of the climbing gym. The ceiling dipped up and down like draped fabric. On any other day you would have seen Valkyries with rippling arms and backs making their way up to the green flag pinned directly above the room’s center point, bodies straining against the pull of gravity. But not today. 

Two of the three mats spaced across the room were occupied and you heard the beat of Illyrian wings before you even opened the double doors. 

Feyre and Nesta stood against the side wall bracketed by racks of steel swords, glistening throwing knives, and an Illyrian bow as long as you were tall. 

Feyre licked her lips, greedily tracing Rhysand’s powerful form as he went toe to toe with Azriel. You couldn’t help but stare as well as they leapt around the ring in a blur of wings and shadow. You’d never seen Azriel shirtless but… well… it was a sight you could get used to. 

It was a dance — a dangerous, deadly dance — and although the language of violence wasn’t one you were familiar with, you could read the display well enough to know that Azriel would win this round. 

Sweat glistened on his skin, slipping down the curves of his back where leathery black wings fused with his shoulder blades. Tattoos wrapped around his shoulders and across his chest, pulsing with a life of their own as Azriel cleanly side stepped one of Rhysand’s kicks. There was the faintest crease in the High Lord’s brow to let you know he was getting tired. 

But Azriel was just getting started. And now that he knew you were watching? He wanted to make it worth your while.  

Rhys gritted his teeth, launching out with a strike quicker than lightning. Someway, somehow, Azriel was faster. He dipped to the side, Rhys’s knuckle just kissing his cheekbones and came up for a counterstrike, slamming his fist so hard into his brother’s cheek that he staggered back. 

That was unnecessary. Rhys snapped his jaw back into place.

Azriel grinned. Fatherhood suits you. But I can’t let you get soft.

There was a roll of violet eyes. Sure. That’s why you’re trying so hard right now.

Rhys snatched Azriel’s leg out of the air, rolling onto the ground in a move that sent the Shadowsinger twisting in a graceful arch that had your breath catching in your throat. He broke free of Rhysand’s hold, leaping onto his feet like gravity didn’t apply. 

You met his eyes, heady and dark, and could have sworn he winked. But it may have just been a trick of the light. 

You ducked your head, hurrying across the room towards Feyre and Nesta and hoping they wouldn’t comment on the flush creeping up your neck.

“Fey—” you began urgently.

The High Lady held up a hand and you fell silent. There was a sheen to her eyes that let you know she was honing in on Rhysand’s moves with more than just her eyes. 

Nesta smirked at you as you blushed. You struggled to keep your gaze from drifting back to the powerful display, even as you caught glimpses of Azriel’s tan body out of the corner of your eye. Rippling, bold, strong. 

“Don’t worry about staring,” Nesta said with a wicked glimmer. “The boys admire us. We admire them. It’s an even exchange.” 

One mat over Cassian was sparing with a new female you’d never seen before. Illyrian, but there was something wrong with her wings. They were held strong and proud above the ground, but they dragged in places where Cassian had control over every minor movement. If you concentrated closely enough, you could make out the thin, shiny scars that had snipped the tendon closest to the apex of her wings, just by the arch of her claws. 

Your stomach dropped with horror.

Her wings had been clipped. 

She held her own against the Lord of Bloodshed. Cassian might have had the advantage of experience and his longer limbs, but she moved with a daring determination. She dodged every blow by the narrowest margin, conserving her energy so when she was able to slip close and find her opening, she slammed her elbow up and into his nose with a sickening crack that echoed throughout the room. 

You winced, hands flying up to your face at the same time that Cassian’s did. 

“FUCK!” He roared. 

“Whooo! THAT’S MY WIFE!” A gorgeous, curvy blond hung off one of the ring posts, legs propped up on the tensioned ropes. 

There was only one member of their family that had ever been described as sunlight incarnate. That had to be Mor. Which meant the striking female currently giving Cassian hell on the mat was Emerie.

Emerie blushed, stealing a heavy look for long enough for Cassian to snap his nose back into place. He ducked down and swept her legs out from beneath her, wrestling her to the ground in a tangle of leather and wings. But Nesta didn’t let him have the advantage for too long. 

Cassian choked on the teasing words he’d prepared for Emerie when Nesta sent him a particularly candid image of herself in a strip of black fabric. 

For later tonight. She whispered down the bond.

Damn it Nes.

Emerie smashed her forehead into his already swollen nose, then her knee surged up with enough strength to crack ribs. She braced her foot against his chest and flipped him over her head and onto his back, wrapping her powerful legs around his neck and pinning him to the ground with his arm forced back in his socket. Finally he tapped out. 

“Poor Illyrian baby,” Nesta crooned as Emerie pulled Cassian to his feet. Despite the blood that dripped from his nose, he was glowing with pride at Emerie. “Better luck next time.”

Mor grasped Emerie by the front of her training gear and yanked her close for a long kiss that left the Illyrian stumbling back with red lipstick smeared over her lips and a dark blush across her caramel cheeks. 

Nesta yelped when Cassian wrapped his arm around her waist, lifting her off the ground with one arm like she weighed nothing.

“We could try that move tonight. Your legs, my face? But this time I won’t tap out.” Cassian winked and Nesta leveled a sultry glare in his direction, eyes lingering on the sheen of his muscular chest with unabashed heat. 

“Get a room,” Mor called out and Emerie threw a towel in his direction. It landed over his shoulder with comical perfection. 

“Says the pair that had to disappear to another continent after their wedding ceremony.” 

Mor flung an obscene gesture his way and Cassian returned it with equal fervor. “Says the pair that made Azriel run for the hills when he was left to chaperone.” 

“Hey! That’s on Rhysand. He never should have left us with a chaperone at all.” Nesta cut in. 

“You rang.” Rhysand appeared sweaty and spent behind Mor’s shoulder and slung his arm around her. The bruises on his cheeks were turning darker by the second.

Azriel hovered on the edges of the crowd, glancing at Mor and then at you. He was mildly disappointed that you’d been too busy watching Cass and Emerie to see him win at the end of the fight.  

“Gross, get off of me.” Mor shoved her cousin away. 

Rhysand’s shoulders shook with laughter. He smiled at you, eyes gleaming with happiness. It had been so long since he’d last seen his cousin. 

“Mor.” He gestured to you, “Meet Y/n—” He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I think I just realized I don’t know your last name.” 

“Halwynn.” You offered up your mother’s last name. Even though you technically didn’t have any right to it as a bastard, it’s the name you’d gone by your whole life.

“Meet Y/n Halwynn,” Rhysand finished. 

“The resident intellect,” Mor said, caramel-brown eyes shining. “Well thank the Mother, you showed up when you did.” She looped her arm around yours easily and you caught a whiff of the perfume she’d dotted against her collarbones — amber and vanilla. A ruby the size of your thumb hung from a gold chain, following the dramatic dip in the front of her scarlet dress that left little to the imagination. You thought she might just be the most gorgeous female you’d ever seen. 

“We’d be absolutely lost without you. I hope the Library is up to your standards, although let’s be honest, it probably isn’t.”

You agreed a little too quickly. 

“Bethsevah Mordeigh.” Rhysand turned the name over in his mind, testing its familiarity and coming up empty. “Any takers?” 

You all stood around Rhysand’s desk, the book propped open beside bottles of jet-black ink, eagle-feather pens, and neat stacks of parchment paper.

Everyone shook their heads. 

“Fair enough.” He looked disappointed, but not surprised. “We’re only separated by a few thousand years, give or take.”

You paced in front of the windowsill, nervously picking at your fingernails until they were under threat of bleeding. Azriel noticed and one of his shadows gently wrapped around your wrists and pulled your hands apart. You looked at him gratefully and stuck your hands in your pockets.

“The oldest text I’ve seen dates back twelve-thousand years,” Feyre offered. “I’ve also asked Gwyn and Clotho to begin searching.”

“What about the Day Court?” Azriel looked at you.

“I can ask Helion to search the archives. But I’ll warn you, records dating back that far are few and far apart. And priestesses back then were less keen on recording the movements of their members. But we might get lucky with some of her descendants if they ever joined the order. Work our way backwards through history.”

Mor shot Rhysand a look. “Why ask me to come back here now? I could have been of better use searching for this information on the Continent.”

“Now is not the time for you to be traversing foreign lands. Not with Koschei at risk of being let loose.” 

You shook your head. “And it wouldn’t matter. Bethsevah wouldn’t have been born on the Continent. If she ever went, it would have only been to trap Koschei. Our best bet is to search for information about her down south.”

The others stared at you in confusion. You blinked as if the answer was obvious. “Organized religion surrounding the Mother emerged in Southern Prythian and her priestesses didn’t spread out to Hybern or the Continent until the Insynthian Age.”

“Your point being?” Nesta folded her arms over her chest. When it came to the specifics of Prythian history, she and Feyre were about as useful as a glass rod in a lightning storm. 

“The bit about the candles is a very, very old ceremony. People would write their prayers in blood and have a priestess burn them on a candle made with a strand of their hair woven into the wick. If Bethsevah was a priestess performing this ritual, she would have been an early member of the order. Before the Insynthian Age.” 

“That would narrow things down significantly.” Rhysand nodded in approval. “I’ll reach out to Lucien, see if he’ll be able to find anything out for us.”

You pulled a sheef of paper out from your pockets and Helion’s pen. You scribbled down a note to him about what you’d discovered and within five minutes the words were racing south to the Day Court. 

“How on earth do you know this?” Mor asked incredulously, looking at you with a mixture of awe and bewilderment.

“I’m a Librarian.” She looked unimpressed by that statement. “I had a religious phase.” You smoothed your thumb over your necklace, feeling for your mother’s seal — a flowering heather and fountain pen crossed over in an “x”. 

“A religious phase?”  

“Yes.” 

She clicked her tongue, red lips turning up in a smirk. “You Day Court fae are certainly something.” 

You blushed. “I’ll let you know if I learn anything else.” You went to grab the book, but Mor’s hand slapped down first, pinning it to the table and you with a stare. 

“Nope. Work is for tomorrow,” Mor declared, eyes glittering with fondness. “Today, I want to see my city with my family.” 

You tapped the book through your robes, counting the rhythmic swings against your hip like a metronome. One. Two. One. Two. One-

Cassian leaned down to whisper, “You’re doing great,” before waving to a male with ash-blonde hair standing beside an apple cart. 

Pink ladies, honeycrisps, and ambrosias were piled high into luscious clouds. Two gestures and a flick of a coin through the air later and Cassian was shoving a small, flimsy basket in your hand. Roasted apples covered in burnt sugar and drizzled with caramel seeped into the wax paper. 

One. Two. One. Two. 

It was still too early for most of the Night Court, but the hustle and bustle in the Palace of Bone and Salt was unperturbed. Now was the time for the owners of small shops to haggle for prices without interfering with common business. The apple cart you just left had a new customer already — a wispy female with candy-floss hair lugging a basket on wheels capable of carrying three bushels for the bakery two streets over.

“Would you like some?” You held the food up to Azriel, but he only stumbled over a crack cobblestone street before shaking his head no. 

He was being awfully quiet today. Quieter than usual. 

Maybe he’s sick? You thought to yourself. He hadn’t eaten lunch either, but maybe that was just because he disliked the sandwiches you’d made. Or maybe it was because of a certain blond-haired female who kept giving him side glances with questions eating at her from the inside out.

“Come on,” you encouraged, nudging his shoulder. “You haven’t eaten since breakfast.” 

Azriel looked at the apple slice you held out for him like it was a personal torture.

Cassian grinned and slung his arm over your shoulders, peeling you away from Azriel’s side to his relief. The weight was a comfort coming from him and you felt that thrill in your stomach whenever any member of the Inner Circle touched you. 

“Azriel won’t starve. I promise, Y/n.” 

Nyx thought he might starve. He was a growing boy, and had a stomach to match. He tapped your elbow and you wordlessly passed over the basket to him, but not before snatching a piece for yourself. The sugar crackled, then melted over your tongue, the sharpness from the apple cutting through caramel in a burst of tartness. 

“How is Helion doing by the way?” Mor dropped the question casually. “Rhys says you know him well.” 

You blinked at her. What did she care about Helion? “I’ve worked on a few projects for him before this one. And he’s doing as well as he can be, I suppose. Things aren’t exactly perfect in the Day Court right now.”

“Ah, Helion,” Mor breathed out, almost wistfully, “He was one of the few good males I ever slept with.” 

You choked on your food, sputtering and coughing for long enough that Cassian started to slap your back. You felt your bones shake with each blow.

So… Mor had slept with your father… figures.

Feyre looked at you with concern. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” you said meekly. You shoved more food in your mouth before anyone could ask any further questions.

Azriel felt that familiar pool of jealousy bubble in his stomach at the mention of Helion. You kept rubbing that necklace of yours, Helion’s seal displayed prominently like he’d personally stamped you as his. 

He allowed himself to get close enough to brush against your shoulder and a few of his shadows creeped onto your body, weaving themselves into your hair. You looked up at him and smiled. 

“You’re in a good mood today.” Azriel’s hazel eyes were brighter in the morning light, flecks of green poking through the amber. “You’re smiling.” 

And what didn’t you have to be smiling about? You were finally exploring Velaris. Mor, Cassian, and Nyx had touched you, albeit through the fabric of your robes, and you hadn’t been overwhelmed. And you’d finally been able to take knowledge from the book.

 It had been a pinch of information as potent as saltwater. You had gotten a name, and names held power. 

Azriel’s eyes glimmered with quiet delight. 

“I’m just happy,” you said. “I think things are getting better, with—” You glanced down at where your arms swung side by side and you reached out a finger, allowing it to gently brush against the scars at the top of his left hand. You curled your fingers around his for the briefest moment before letting go. “And… you know.” You shrugged. 

Azriel stopped walking abruptly and everyone turned to stare at him. The Shadowsinger was strung taughter than an Illyrian bow. 

Mor raised her brow in open appraisal. There was a flash of something like shock in her eyes and then she was buried in Emerie’s hair, whispering something into the female’s rounded ears that had her dark carved eyebrows flying up to her hairline.

“Az?” Rhys asked cheekily, “Everything alright?”

Cassian chuckled and even Nesta smirked.

Last year he was giving Elain and Gwyn the bedroom eyes, and now he short-circuits because Y/n brushes her hand against his? I don’t believe what I’m seeing, Cass.

Some females like their males a little pathetic and lovesick. 

You would know. 

Cassian chuckled, looping his arm around her waist and burying his lips in her hair. He twirled the face framing pieces between his fingers like he always did, and Nesta tried not to think about how she’d first started leaving them out after meeting the Lord of Bloodshed. It would seem she had once been a pathetic and lovesick fool herself.

I love it when you tease, Nes. 

Maybe she still was. Nesta couldn’t help but lean into his touch. 

They do make a good couple. She admitted and Cassian was in agreement.

Feyre was thinking the same thing as you twisted towards him, hand still outstretched like there was a string tying your fingers to his. You couldn’t help but want to drift towards him as surely as gravity makes rain fall to the earth. 

Does she know? Mor grasped Rhysand’s arm, eyes wide and staring. Does she know they’re mates? 

Not yet. 

Mor groaned. Are you fucking kidding me?

I wish I was.

Damn you, Azriel.

Azriel shook his head and forced his body to move forward. The world had stopped when you touched him, and it was only just starting to pick up again. 

“Sorry,” he murmured. 

Nyx munched on his apple slice, staring at you both curiously before following after his mother and father.

“Did you hear something?” You stayed by his side, no longer interested in the aromas fluttering in the air from the bakery, the soup shop with its stone vats bubbling in the back, the smokehouse with its slabs of bacon crackling on grease. “From your shadows?”

“No. Why did you think that?”

“You had a look in your eye, like you weren’t quite there for a second. My mother used to say that I looked like that sometimes when using my powers. Like for a moment I was untethered from the earth and at risk of floating away.” 

Azriel saved that piece of information, storing it away in his mind next to the knowledge that you had always wanted a dustbear for a pet because they were such simple, mindless creatures and you never felt overcome in their presence. 

“I do feel that way at times.” He waited until your little troupe passed by the spice shops. The particles in the air always made Cassian sneeze. “But not now.” 

Everyone dipped into a paisley blue building, the bell ringing with a soft clang to announce their presence. 

“Right now I feel… settled.” 

You grinned at him brighter than the sun, moon, and stars combined. “Good.” 

You followed after the others, and while your back was turned, Mor took her opportunity. She clawed the back of Azriel’s leathers, hauling him down the alleyway before anyone could notice. 

Azriel’s eyes blew open in surprise when Mor shoved him up against the wall hard enough for a rain of petals to fall over their heads from the second floor balcony. It would have been romantic if it weren’t for the incredulous look in Mor’s eyes and the fact that Azriel was still caught up in your smile and the feeling of your skin against his. Gods he wished you were the one pressing him against this wall. He couldn’t stop thinking about that hug in Rhysand’s office. He wanted to feel the softness of your body against him once more. 

“You idiot!” Mor slapped him across the face and it shocked him back to the present. “Why didn’t you tell me you found your mate?” She hissed. 

Azriel looked frantically back to the street, half expecting you to be standing there with your inquisitive eyes. It was still a jolt to his system whenever anyone used that word: mate. Equal parts exhilarating and terrifying. It was such a fragile word, and the others tossed it around so dangerously. 

“I didn’t—” Azriel stammered. Mor and Emerie’s arrival this morning had been unexpected for everyone except Rhysand and Feyre. “There wasn’t time.” “So?! You should’ve made time.” Mor stepped away, letting the Shadowsinger back down onto his feet. He had the good sense to look sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck while Mor tossed her waist length hair over her shoulder. Her cheeks were flushed pink, tanned and freckled from her time on the Continent. 

Azriel felt that familiar coil of guilt building in his stomach and he tried to remember the apology he’d been preparing for this exact moment when he and Mor would be alone. 

He cleared his throat and bowed his head to the ground in a picture of reverent apology. “Mor, about what I said—”

She crashed into him again, arms looping around his neck and squeezing him so tightly he felt his ribs crack. And she was… laughing?

“You have a mate!” She giggled through happy tears, bouncing on her feet. Her heels clicked against the granite tiles. “My best friend finally has a mate!”

She kept repeating it over and over again, like she couldn’t quite believe it herself. 

“Mor, please. Keep it down.” They were attracting attention and Azriel wordlessly summoned his shadows to hide them from view.

Mor finally let him go, covering her mouth with her hands. “I’m sorry I just—” She squealed. 

Azriel let out a long, heavy sigh. This was closer to the reaction he should have had when Mor and Emerie announced their engagement. Instead he’d gone cold and silent. 

He should have known Mor preferred females, and maybe he had known all along that Mor could never love him the way he’d once loved her. But he’d done what he always did when it came to love and ran forward with a blindfold on, hoping his aim was true but never bothering to check. 

Mor furrowed her brows. “Are you upset by this? Why do you look like that?”

“What?” Azriel hissed like the question physically hurt him. “No. No! I’m not upset, I’m—” He clenched his fists and said in a small voice, “I think I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.” He took a deep breath and winced, “And I’m thinking that you must have felt similarly when you got together with Emerie, and that I royally fucked up by reacting the way that I did.” 

He could picture it clear as day — Mor’s radiant smile slipping off her face, left hand dropping behind her back to hide the glittering ruby, the tears that gathered in her eyes when all Azriel did was remain stiff as stone before dropping off the balcony at her engagement party. 

Mor hesitated then tucked her honey-gold waves behind her ears like she did whenever she was uncomfortable. “I should have told you sooner.” Azriel knew she was referring to more than just her relationship with Emerie. “I knew you loved me and I let you believe for so long that there might be a chance I could return those feelings. But I was scared because… because I wanted to know there would always be someone waiting for me if…” She pressed her hands over her stomach. The nails may have disappeared from her body without a trace, but they’d been hammered elsewhere in her soul and she hadn’t managed to take them out just yet. “It was wrong of me to use you like that. To keep you waiting for so long.”

Azriel rubbed her shoulders. “I think you gave me more than a few hints that it wouldn’t work out. Chief among them, Cassian.” Mor’s gaze dropped to her feet, but all Azriel did was press a gentle kiss to the crown of her forehead. “I still love you, Mor, and I always will. It’s just a different kind of love now. I’m happy for you and Emerie. Truly.” 

“Yeah?” She looked up hopefully. 

Azriel nodded. He pulled Mor close, wrapping his wings around her to block out the sounds of bartering happening in the square. They stayed like that for a long while, until the shadows on the wall had dropped another inch. 

Mor sniffled and pushed him away. “Ok, enough of this now.” She carefully brushed away at the corner of her eyes, “You’re ruining my makeup.” 

Azriel’s shoulders shook with silent laughter, and Mor noted how it seemed to come easier to him now.   

The whole day you’d felt that something was amiss, but it wasn’t until a flustered artisan carrying bolts of spider silk fabric crashed into you that you realized what it was.

You stumbled into Azriel’s sturdy arms, feeling the strength and power beneath his leathers as he propped you up against his side. 

“So sorry, miss. Please forgive me.” The artisan blubbered. His cat eyes glowed a pale orange as they flickered over you from head to toe, “Can’t see with this.” He lifted the bolt. There was something about his gaze that unsettled you, like he was searching for something. Like he was hungry. Or scared.

“It’s alright.” You adjusted your clothes, tucked the book behind your back so it was pressed up against Azriel’s hip. 

That look in his eyes disappeared and he huffed in relief before continuing down the cobblestone streets, too much in a hurry to notice the Shadowsinger glaring at him.

“Are you ok?” He let you find your footing, keeping his hand at the small of your back. 

You stared at the male’s retreating form. “He didn’t… he didn’t bow to you. To any of you.” You blinked at Feyre and Rhysand.

She wore no crown, no jewelry except the ring on her finger and the diamonds in her  ears, but the male must have known he was in the presence of his High Lady. And there was no mistaking Rhysand and his brothers.

“Like Azriel said when you first arrived here, we take the casual approach.” Feyre said, and as if to make the point, Nyx shoved his hands in his pockets, tilting his head to the side in a manner so like Rhys that Azriel and Cassian burst out laughing. Rhys looked down fondly and brushed back his hair. 

Feyre drifted to your side, watching with amusement as Nyx disappeared into the forest of color that was the Palace of Thread and Jewels. Every inch of fabric was too precious to be wasted, and so the weavers collected the scraps and tied them together, end to end, until they became one long chain. They hung from the entrances of shops, from the arches criss-crossing overhead, and from hand-painted signs. They wrapped around doorways and caught on the shoulders of passerbys, whispering of the time and effort spent crafting them.

Nyx weaved in and out of these strands, chased by Cassian and Azriel as they pretended to be tricked by the little boy’s lithe footsteps. You gasped as he turned invisible, then reappeared four inches to his left, jabbing at Azriel’s side before disappearing again.

“He can wrap light around himself as much as he can weave darkness,” Feyre explained, staying close to your side, “I think he might have gotten some remnant of the Day Court’s power from me. It made him an absolute nightmare for about three years when he couldn’t control it. Can you imagine having a toddler waddling around and wreaking havoc that you can’t even see?”

Nesta let out a sharp breath of laughter. “I think that’s an experience unique to you, Fey.”

You had to agree. You’d never turned invisible as a child, although you had to admit it would have been a very useful power to inherit from your father.

“Gotcha! You little rascal!” Cassian said triumphantly. 

You heard Nyx shriek with laughter. Cassian and Azriel both had one arm raised above their heads and with a little shake the boy came back into view, dangling upside down from his ankles.  

“Don’t break the boy, Cass.” 

“I won’t break him, Rhys. Gotta let him grow old enough to beat all those bastards at Windhaven, don’t I?” 

Rhys and Feyre’s smiles slipped ever so slightly. 

Nyx was lowered to the ground. He kept his arms out and balanced on his hands for a brief moment before walking over onto his feet with a flourish. 

“Gwyn taught me that last week. She’s part river nymph. Very flexible.” He brushed invisible dirt from his shirt and continued on, leading the way towards the Sidra like he owned the place — which in some respects he did.

<- Previous Chapter Next Chapter ->

______________

Author's Note:

Just another little chapter with more slowburn antics between Y/n and Azriel! And! Mor and Emerie are here! I am slowly but surely collecting characters like pokemon cards because you know I want to have my favorites in Velaris when shit starts to go down...

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: A Departure.

Commissioned by the very lovely @ohsotearful.

Pairing: Yandere!Scaramouche x Reader (Genshin).

Word Count: 1.3k.

TW: Spoilers For Sumeru's Story Quest, Unhealthy Relationships, Mentions of Physical/Psychological Abuse, Themes of Forced Codependence, and Maladaptive Coping Mechanisms.

You arrived at the door of his shrine with no less than a dozen guards in tow – an even mix of Fatui soldiers and Akademiya matra. The most brazen among them attempted to follow you inside, but you dismissed them with a quick shake of your head, a pointed look to the more senior members of the mismatched legion. This was a well-trodden routine, by now, although one you never dared to come with the same entourage more than once. Your husband’s recent distance had not softened his jealous edge, and although you weren’t fond of those most complicit in the newest stage of your captivity, no mortal crime could be worthy of the wrath of such a violent god.

Your footsteps echoed – clipped and solitary – against the bare walls of the stone chamber. The architects of his divinity have already been sent away for the night, leaving you alone with the half-finished mess of wires and metal that was your husband’s fixation. The Shouki no Kami, you could remember the Doctor calling it during his first visits to your estate. A ridiculous name for a ridiculous machine that would only serve the ego of a ridiculous man. Bile rose into the back of your throat at the sight alone, but you swallowed your anger. He’d never been able to react to your rage with anything but his own.

You paused at the monstrosity’s feet, and his voice came to you – reverberating in the back of your mind like the final tones of a chapel bell. “Beloved,” he whispered in the back of your mind, sending a pang of pure agony through your skull. “You aren’t supposed to—”

“I will not hold a conversation with a mumbling voice.” You cut him off swiftly, teeth grit and eyes narrowed. “Either I will speak to my husband's face or I will not speak to him at all.”

A moment passed without a response. Then, stiltedly, one of his monstrosity’s hands tore free from its scaffolding, lowering itself to the ground beside you. With some reluctance, you stepped into his palm and allowed him to raise you to the frontmost panel of his abomination. You refused to call it a face, because to call it a face would be to admit it was his face, which would be to admit that this strange machine was in any way an extension of him. The metallic panel raised and disappeared into some unseen cavity, revealing the hollow, unit chamber behind it. Revealing your husband.

Or, rather, revealing the mess he’d made of himself.

He had never been the pinnacle of beauty, but his pale skin now seemed bleached and colorless, his lithe form limp and crumpled. Glass tubes filled with a pulsing, violet substance had been drilled into the nape of his neck, the base of his spine, the curves of his shoulder bones, and the smile he paid you as he came into view was labored, a fight against some artificial exhaustion. Before you could think better of it, you stepped out of his palm and into his chamber, falling to your knees beside him and wrapping your arms around his neck. “You are,” You pressed your lips into his temple. “the biggest idiot,” Then again, into his cheek, the curve of his jaw. “I have ever met.”

He let out an airy chuckle, melting into your chest. “It used to take a vat of water and thirty minutes of electrocution to make you kiss me like that.”

You ignored the phantom rope that coiled around your lungs at the reminder of the first decades of your relationship. You tried to think of it as little as you could, but his vision had always been more rose-colored than your own. “Can’t I show my husband affection?” You raked your fingers through his hair, resting your lips against his forehead. “It’s not as if I’ll be able to kiss the metal coffin you’re locking yourself inside.”

Another laugh, this one more labored than the last. “You could, if you wanted to. Just wait until it’s finished. It’ll be more glorious than you could possibly imagine – a vessel befitting of the most powerful archon this wretched world has ever bowed to.” He attempted to straighten, only to collapse under his own weight. “It’ll be an improvement to this form, at least.”

“I quite like your current form. It’s only a shame it has to house such a rotten personality.” You looked outward, to his empty shrine. At the time of your last visit to Inazuma (meaning, at the time of your last successful escape from your husband), his creator had still been locked inside a similar cage, or so another yokai had told you over bottles of sake and a game of cards. That visit had been one of your shortest. He knew you too well, by then, and it’d only taken him a few weeks to realize you’d run where you always would - home. “I suppose I’ll be left in the care of your doctor, when you’re finished.”

His response was immediate, purely reactive; a sudden snarl paired with a flash of bared teeth. “Dottore should be thankful to so much as breathe your air. You’ll be the paramour of a god.”

“I’ll be left alone while you turn yourself into a monster.” Your voice was hollow, distant. Even now, months into his transformation, it was difficult to describe the flavor of your devastation. He’d taken you from the place where you belonged and kept you as a trophy. He’d denied you any companionship aside from himself and cut away parts of your world until it revolved solely around him. He tucked dried flowers into the letters he wrote you near-obsessively whenever he couldn’t be at your side. He carved open your skin then demanded you keep your own mutilation out of his sight. He used to read you myths and fairy tales for hours every night, when human language was still foreign to your tongue. He was the closest thing to a friend you’d ever had.

And he was leaving you.

You wondered, briefly, if this was how he felt whenever you tried to get away from him, but discarded the thought quickly. It was your heart that ached the most in the wake of his betrayal, and your husband never did have one of those.

“I can’t remember the last time I was on my own,” you admitted, a pained smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “I won’t ask you to stop. It’s just, when you’re done, I—” The air snagged in your throat. You inhaled sharply, then rested your head on his shoulder. “I’d like your permission to return to Inazuma, my lord.”

Silenced lapse, thick and heavy, between you. He was the closest thing you had to a friend, which meant he knew just how where to plant his knife and, more significantly, just how to twist the blade.

“No.” Stern, stiff, unyielding. Rather than softening over the centuries you’d spent together, he only seemed to grow more callous. “There’s nothing for you, there. You’ll stay here, with me, and I will rule this rotting land with you at my side.”

You opened your mouth, prepared to protest, to argue the way you hadn’t since the first years of your imprisonment, but closed it just as quickly. You buried your face in the crook of your neck, and your husband let you, eager to soak in the touch you so often denied him. Fire, despair, anger bit and thrashed inside of you, but it was all you could do to hold him, to keep him near.

It was all you could do to think of what you would become, after he was taken away from you.

[kurokawaia]

❛ PUSHY ❜

Yandere! Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez X Fem!Reader

WC; 1.8k+ | !MDNI! | TW/CW :: manipulation, obsession, x fem reader, afab, she/her pronouns, stalking, pet names, thoughts about kidnapping, non-consensual physical contact, pushy, threatening behaviour, violence, reader is somewhat timid and goes through emotional distress + probably more

⋆·˚ ༘ *𝑅𝐸𝒬𝒰𝐸𝒮𝒯 :: (filled request) Hiiii !! Love your work btw can I request a yandere grimjow with fem reader who's part of Ichigo's group ?!! - @rxsesss

A/NOTE :: This contains 700 words of headcanons and 1.1k words of scenarios :)

M.LIST | BLEACH M.LIST |

𝒽𝑒𝒶𝒹𝒸𝒶𝓃𝑜𝓃𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓂𝑒𝑒𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔

It all began in the midst of the fierce battle of Ichigo's group against the Espada. You fight with valor; at every attack, your Reiatsu flares. Even in the fight, Grimmjow's piercing blue eyes lock onto you. There is something about your fierce determination that piques his interest—no, more like your strength that he wanted. After the battle, you could not shake off that feeling of being watched. You shrugged off the paranoia, but in your mind, Grimmjow's interest in you was already planted.

Grimjow becomes your unseen guardian. He looks after you from afar, ensuring that nothing bad happens to you. When you're training with Ichigo and others, his jealousy rises. He despises the sight of you with them, especially Ichigo. He begins to attack whoever gets too close to you during a battle, not from duty but due to jealousy. His eyes always seem to linger a little longer on you than the rest.

You start seeing Grimmjow more often. He's really got a habit of popping up at really bad times, just to let his presence chill your bones. He's starting to get personal—getting in contact with your group. His eyes meet yours in every fight that would happen. There's something in those eyes that churns at your stomach—anger, and something else you can't quite describe.

Grimmjow begins to corner you when you're alone. He enjoys watching you squirm, his words laced with threats and twisted compliments. "You’re too good for them, you know. They don’t see your true potential."

He knew you found him intense, and he was going to use that. These encounters leave you shaken. There’s an unsettling intensity in his eyes, a dangerous mix of desire and obsession.

Even with his crass temperament, Grimmjow comes across as your ruthless protector. He kills off anyone who threatens you with vengeance near to the point of madness. You realize enemies targeting you end swiftly. He never said it, but through his actions, you know. "No one touches what's mine," he would growl after dispatching yet another Hollow that dared attack you.

Grimjow slowly starts bending situations to alienate you from your friends, planting seeds of doubt about their loyalty, what their intentions really are. "You think they really care for you? Face it, you're nothing but a tool for them."

He preys on your moments of uncertainty, giving you protection and understanding that you never wanted yet find yourself begrudgingly dependent upon. You are locked between fear and this weird sense of intrigue. Grimmjow's obsession is terrifying, but something raw and honest about his feelings makes you not help but not ignore it.

Grimjjow, too, is torn. His lust to have you clashes with the fear of vulnerability. He has never felt this way for anyone, and it scares him. "Why do you make me feel like this?" he growls on one of your more heated encounters.

His fixation reaches such a height that he begins to have visions of whisking you off to Hueco Mundo to be safe from the dangers of the Human World and the interference of Ichigo and his friends.

Grimmjow knows you can handle yourself, but something inside of him wants to render you useless. So that you have no choice but to turn to him. He imagines life, with you all his own, and separate from the mess of battle. But he knows this is near impossible. "One day, you'll see that you belong with me," he whispers, more to himself than to you.

Grimmjow would start leaving you unnerving gifts, tokens from defeated enemies or objects he thinks you might like. Every present reminded one of his existence, of his claim on you. They range from beautiful, exotic flowers to the remains of his defeated enemies. "A token of my affection," he says, smirking, his eyes daring yours to refuse his 'gift'.

The tension between you and Grimmjow finally culminates when the two of you have an intense battle. His obsession, your defiance, grows into a confrontation that will leave both you and him different. You turn around, anger overflowing, mixed with fear. "Why can't you just leave me alone?" you scream at him. Grimmjow's response is angry. "Because you're mine!"

Whether it is finding an out from his clutches or meeting him in some twisted type of understanding, you were afraid and confused. His fixation may never subside, but how you react to it will create your destiny.

𝒮𝒸𝑒𝓃𝒶𝓇𝒾𝑜𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓂𝑒𝑒𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 (𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝒾𝓃 𝑜𝓇𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓁𝓁𝑜𝓌 𝒶 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓅𝓁𝑜𝓉)

1 - The next encounter ::

The sun had begun to set over Karakura Town, and long shadows were coming across the streets. Your body bore the strain of exhaustion, not long after having trained with Ichigo and the rest. Just as you began making your way home, that feeling of being watched overcame you again. It was a sensation all too familiar and unwelcome.

There was not going to be any of that, not if you had anything to say about it. You picked up your pace, hurrying away from there and home before that thing even thought to put in an appearance. Still, before you could round the corner, a strong hand clamped down on your wrist, mercilessly yanking you into a dark, narrow alley.

"Going somewhere, princess?" Grimmjow purred lowly in your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

You tried to pull away, but he was holding tight. "Let me go, Grimmjow," you demanded, trying to keep your voice from shaking.

He chuckled; there was that dangerous glint again in his blue eyes. "Why would I do that? We've got unfinished business."

2 - The next confrontation ::

You glared at him, refusing to show the fear that churned in your stomach. "What do you want from me?"

Grimmjow's eyes darkened with an intensity that made your heart race. "Isn't it obvious? You're mine. I won't let anyone else have you."

You scoffed, trying to hide your growing fear. "I belong to no one, especially not you."

His grip tightened, making you wince. "You think those weaklings you hang out with can protect you from me? You're delusional."

Despite the fear, anger flared within you. "Ichigo and the others care about me. They’re my friends, something you wouldn’t understand."

Grimmjow's expression twisted with jealousy. "Friends, huh? They don’t see you the way I do. They don’t know your strength, your potential."

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your skin. "But I do. I see everything."

3 - Growing obsession ::

You struggled against him, but it was futile. Grimmjow's eyes bore into yours, filled with a possessive hunger that sent chills down your spine. "You belong with me," he whispered, his voice a mix of desire and determination. "I’ll protect you, keep you safe. No one else can."

You shivered at the intensity of his words. "You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re just obsessed."

Grimmjow's lips curled into a sinister smile. "Maybe I am. But it doesn’t change the fact that you’re mine."

He released your wrist, but before you could react, he cupped your face in his hands, forcing you to look into his eyes. "I won’t let anyone hurt you. Not even those you call friends."

Tears of frustration and fear welled up in your eyes. "Why can’t you just leave me alone?" you pleaded, your voice breaking.

Grimmjow’s expression softened for a moment, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his features. "Because I can’t. You’ve gotten under my skin, and now I can’t get you out."

4 - Not only your own breaking point ::

The tension between you reached a breaking point. Your heart pounded in your chest, a mixture of fear, anger, and confusion swirling inside you. "Grimmjow, this isn't right. You can't just force me to be with you," you said, your voice shaking.

Grimmjow's eyes narrowed, his grip on your face tightening for a moment before he let go, stepping back slightly. "I don't care what's right. I care about keeping you safe. And the only way to do that is to keep you close."

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. "And what about what I want? Have you ever considered that?"

For a moment, Grimmjow seemed to hesitate. His eyes flickered with something almost like regret, but it was quickly replaced by his usual intensity. "What you want doesn't matter. Not if it means putting yourself in danger."

You took a step back, shaking your head. "You're wrong. I have a right to make my own choices, even if they're dangerous."

Grimmjow's expression hardened, his jaw clenching. "Then I'll just have to make sure you don't get the chance to make those choices."

5 - Decisions ::

Realizing you weren't going to get through to him with words, you knew you had to act. Summoning all your courage, you focused your reiatsu, ready to defend yourself if necessary.

"Get out of my way, Grimmjow," you warned, your voice steady now.

He smirked, clearly enjoying the challenge. "Make me."

Without another word, you launched yourself at him, using the techniques you'd learned from your training. But Grimmjow was fast, blocking your attacks effortlessly. The alley echoed with the sounds of your struggle, a blur of movement and flashes of reiatsu.

Despite his superior strength and speed, you refused to give up. You fought with everything you had, determined to break free from his grasp. But Grimmjow was relentless, his obsession driving him to match your every move.

Finally, in a desperate bid for freedom, you managed to land a powerful blow, knocking him back. Seizing the moment, you darted past him, racing towards the end of the alley.

But Grimmjow recovered quickly, his hand latching onto your wrist once more. "You're not going anywhere," he growled, pulling you back.

6 - Exhaustion ::

You were too exhausted to continue struggling, and so you sagged into his hold, frustrated tears streaming down your face. "Why can't you just let me go?" you whispered, breaking your voice.

Grimmjow's expression softened just a little, his grip loosening enough to make his touch gentle. "Because I can't lose you," he finally admitted in a low voice, full of vulnerability as he hadn't ever seen. "I won't lose you."

You searched his eyes for that ruthless Espada you had grown to know, but in their stead, you saw a glint of something almost human—a gnashing, desperate need for connection and control.

You took a deep breath and then decided it. "Grimmjow, if you truly do care for me, you will let me go. You will trust that I can handle myself."

His eyes widened with surprise, but he did not let go. "I can't. I won't."

Gently, you placed a hand on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart. "You have to, or you'll ruin what you profess to love."

For a moment, Grimmjow almost appeared to wrestle with himself. He finally sighed grudgingly and released you, stepping back. "Fine. But don't think this is over. I'll be watching."

You nodded at him, feeling a wash of emotions within you, ranging from relief to apprehension. "I know."

You couldn't help but feel that this was far from the end when you turned and walked away. The obsession Grimmjow had for you had been tempered, but you knew it wouldn't be long before he was once more watching and watching.

Deep down, you couldn't help but wonder if you ever would be free of him once and for all.

Do not copy, steal, modify, etc. Relogs and like are appreciated.

M.LIST | BLEACH M.LIST |

[or0ch1maru]

hiiii do you have any smut headcanons for grimmjow from bleach?? love ur work! 💕

fuck yeaaaaa💕 let’s get into it

Warnings: 18+, minors & ageless blogs DNI. This is pure porn

•

-Grimmjow’s arrogant, cocky, and a bit of an asshole. But that rarely follows him into the bedroom. Of course he KNOWS what he’s doing

-for starters, he loves your pussy. Eating it, fucking it, even just looking at it. Which is what he does. He’ll have you bare beneath him, his eyes gazing at your folds, wet with slick, even when you try covering yourself up, he’ll swat your hands away, tellin’ you to stop hiding from him

-now when it comes to eating you out, he’s messy. His tongue deep in your walls as his nose bumps against your cute little clit

-his hands pushing your thighs apart as far as they physically can go without hurting you. His eyes never leaving your face. Taking in every expression and sound you make

-he loves fingering you, stuffing you full with as many fingers as you can take, watching the way you suck him in. Squirting and making a mess all over his hand and wrist

-before he fucks you, he teases you, he’s mean about it. Like come on, can you expect anything less outta him? Hell no

-he’ll push his cock in before pulling it out, rubbing his swollen head against your clit before tapping it, eliciting adorable mewls outta you. This will go on and on until you’re crying, begging him to fuck you

-and that’s when he’ll give you a mercy. Shoving his cock into you all the way to the hilt, letting you get accustomed to his thick length before picking up his pace.

-he loves when you bite down on him, scratching at him, leaving all sorts of marks all over his body. If he bleeds, he bleeds. He doesn’t care. He’ll proudly show that shit off

-same goes for Grimm. Your neck, chest, collar bones, cute lil tummy, and thighs, will be littered with hickeys and teeth marks

-he pulls hair. Using it to guide you into a new position or to simply cram his cock down your throat

-he loves being the one to do all the work, seeing you go dumb on his dick, tears down your face, that fucked out expression you have after he makes you cum for the first time, the way his name falls from your lips like a prayer

-but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t welcome you when you wanted to ride him. Course he’s gonna look up at you with that wolfy grin of his, his calloused hands on your hips, waiting until he sees you falter, just to help bounce you up and down on his length

-“what’s the matter baby? My girl can’t handle it anymore? Hm? That’s okay, daddy’s got you.”He’ll coo towards you before wrapping his arms around you, pulling you against his chest, absolutely ramming into you from below.

-he’ll let out a chuckle when he hears a strangled moan, feeling your drool on his shoulder. Making a complete and utter mess outta you

-I personally believe that Grimmjow’s favorite positions are any that he can see your face, cowgirl, missionary, mating press, etc

-he thinks you’re so pretty, how can he not wanna look at his girl and marvel in the fact only he makes you like this

-he loves watching you suck on things, his cock, his fingers, lollipops, hell even a dildo. The way your lips wrap around them so perfectly, it kills him

-when he’s jealous is when he truly gets mean about things. Using and abusing your throat, fucking into you roughly until he fills your throat with his cum. Watching your mascara running down your cheeks as spit dribbles down your chin, the lewd noises only fueling his desire to ruin you

-part of him would love to have someone walk in on him fucking into you, just so they can see how good he treats his baby

-but another part of him doesn’t want anyone else to see you this way. Only grimmjow gets to watch as his baby gets ruined by his cock

-doesn’t give two fucks if anyone hears you screaming, let alone his name

-has a high stamina, so expect multiple rounds, or longer sessions

-gets hard at literally everything you do. Especially if he irritated you and you give him that particular look. He’ll fuck into you messily as he apologizes

-“‘m sorry mama, you just look so fuckin’ pretty when you’re mad at me. Let me show you how sorry I am.”

-he whimpers, groans, talks shit, talks dirty, praising. The whole works right

-“fuck ma, suckin’ me in so fuckin’ deep”, “cant get enough of this pussy, feels so fuckin’ good.” “My pretty baby’s so filthy, look at you. Takin’ my cock to the hilt. Fuckkkk, you feel me here don’t ya doll.”

-he’ll coo as he watches the bulge in your stomach with each thrust, pressing down on it, causing you to squirt, covering him in your juices

(Grimmjow is so daddy omfg)

[heavenbloom]

🇵🇸 BEFORE YOU READ: DONATE • BOYCOTT TLOU • MUTUAL AID

⏾ — 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐲 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧 | 𝐞.𝐰.

song: smoke - gia margaret

synopsis: you watch ellie as she sleeps and let your mind shape the weight of a future with her — one that could never be.

warnings: 18+ mdni, angst, nsfw themes (descriptions of sex but not outright explicit), mentions of cigarette smoking, typical situationship that wants more trope, profanity, not proofread

a/n: sorry, all i’m motivated to write rn is angst 😭 based loosely on the song mentioned above and this playlist i made

There’s something about this closeness that plucks at the animal-tender chord within you. The moment where the blaring tones of fucking dull into a single note — the hushing, isolated strain of violin strings that melt into the end of a concerto. The aftermath of frenzy.

You refuse to call what this is ‘lovemaking’, but you couldn’t deny the sweetness that blurs the edges of it. Where red bleeds into purple and then into blue. A calm.

Blue like this night. Dusk has long since passed, and the rich darkness of the sky is laced with the silver of the moon. Its celestial light spills into the room through the open windows. Over the bedside, to illuminate her phone and keys resting there. They are an inky stain upon the white wood.

The pale light extends to Ellie’s figure that lays leaden in the midst of sleep. Spindly limbs outstretched even as the cold breeze pours over her. Auburn hair splayed over the silky grey pillowcase, the colour of a bough caught ablaze.

You’re used to her features twisted in ecstasy, eyes diluted like moss-rimmed rocks. This stillness is something not often tasted, a rare delicacy that only twists, knife-like, in your chest.

Was it a foolish thing to search for love in a mirage? Domestic bliss had no place here.

But then… why were her clothes crammed up against yours in the gaps of your wardrobe? Why did a plastic toothbrush lean against your wooden one? Why did all your favourite scents linger on her now? The freshness of your shampoo in her hair and your favourite perfume at her wrists.

Her presence was a haunting, something to seal the empty cracks of your life that sagged, heavy with nothingness.

But was this not also a sort of nothingness?

This relationship was a skeleton, a meatless husk in which the absence of i love you’s whistled through sun-bleached bone. It was a timeless rhythm that moulded its structure, but no life pulsed within it.

Even so, you allow yourself to ignore the bone-shard reality in favour of the pulp of fruit, to tear it apart, sticky with the ambrosia of what-if.

A makeshift wooden bookshelf lined with hefty classics and comic books alike. Waking to the smell of charred, buttery toast and the too-sugary jam that she adores. Waxy green plants in hand-painted ceramic pots. The sound of a pen whispering against paper in the noon and the warm strum of guitar strings in the evening.

And the mornings; The absence of haste, the slow rise as the sun shines in just as the moon does now. The smiling green of her eyes and freckled cheeks flushed pink from waking. No tiptoeing in the purpling hues of dawn in order to leave, no overstayed visits or turned-away gazes. Just proximity and quiet care.

The unabashedness to stay.

⏾ ☀︎

You know, when you next open your eyes, that these shining images are mere fiction. They are golden and warm unlike the vacant right side of your bed.

Your hand smooths over the crumpled sheets to feel the fabric already cooling beneath your fingertips. Wraith-quick and cruel.

All that lingers now is the veil of smoke that hangs over the room. The half-finished cigarette, its end a glaring ember.

It continues to churn out soft tendrils of white. Ghostly. Intangible.

What choice do you have?

With steady fingers, you snuff it out.

[therealcocoshady]

Kinktober - Day 9 - Costume

Kinktober 2024 Masterlist

A/N : Here is the one shot for the Costume prompt. I decided to keep it SFW but I hope you enjoy it. ❤️

CW : Slim Shady Costume - Flirting - Making out

It had only been a few weeks since you had moved to Detroit. Everything still felt new and unfamiliar—the towering buildings, the way the cold seemed to creep into my bones, and the constant buzz of a city that never seemed to sleep. You’d come here seeking an opportunity for your career. It was a fresh start and, even though it was a nice perspective, it was a little intimidating. You hadn’t made many friends yet, but you were lucky enough to meet a few people through work who invited you to a Halloween party. They were the outgoing type—knew everyone, knew all the spots—and somehow, they convinced you to come along. You weren’t too sure about it. I wasn’t really that girl, the one who easily fit into a crowd of strangers at a party. But still, you thought you’d give it a try.. New city, new you and all that.

The party wasn’t anything like you expected. It was in someone’s house, but it was incredibly elaborate for a house party. You didn’t know the host personally. It was some dude named Nate, a friend of your friends. You didn’t know too much about him, except that he had the house to himself - something about his wife and kids being out of town - and decided to throw a cool event for Halloween at the last minute. He had a pretty cool place and, by the looks of it, he knew how to throw a great party. The music pounded through the walls, and people were packed into every room, laughing, dancing, and filling the space with the kind of energy you were still getting used to. Your friends disappeared into the crowd as soon as you got there, but that you told yourself.

You had dressed up, of course. It was Halloween, after all. You wanted to go for something kind of bold, something that felt like Detroit. So I went as Slim Shady—a sexier version, at least. You even went as far as bleaching your hair and decided to go for some vintage jeans overalls, with some sweet lingerie peeking through. You even drew the tattoos on your arms. it was fun, a little tongue-in-cheek. Honestly, you didn’t expect anyone to even notice. You were wrong. As soon as your friends saw you, they opened wide eyes and arbored grins. “You’re really wearing that ?” one asked. “I mean… Yeah. What ? Is it… Too much ? Inappropriate ?” you nervously asked as you saw their reaction. “No ! Don’t worry about it. It’s very fitting to where we’re going, actually” another replied with an enigmatic smile. 

As you stood there, awkwardly holding your drink, trying to ease yourself into the party, you started feeling this strange sensation, like someone was watching you. My heart picked up a little, but you ignored it. Probably just one of the guys at the party being... well, a guy. Or, even more likely, you being a little nervous about being at an event full of strangers. Then, you glanced up, and immediately froze.Standing across the room, leaning against the wall with a casual ease, was Eminem. Eminem. The actual Slim Shady. Your heart nearly dropped into your stomach. He was looking right at you, his eyes locked onto yours. There was no mistaking it. It was him. And he was staring at you. 

For a second, you wanted to disappear into the floor. You’d come to this party thinking you’d just blend in, maybe make some new friends. You hadn’t expected this. All of a sudden, you felt incredibly out of place, like you weren’t in the right room. You’d listened to his music growing up, knew all about Slim Shady, and here you were... dressed as a ridiculous version of him, no less. You were sure you looked like an idiot. And that was the best-case scenario. In the worst one, you looked like some creepy stalker. Of course, now, you understood your friends’ reaction. However, you wished they’d had some common sense and told you to change. 

Before you could even think about slipping away, he started making his way over. Each step he took felt like a heartbeat in your ears. You couldn’t move. What the hell were you supposed to say to Eminem ? “Hey,” his voice cut through the music, low but loud enough to hear. He was standing right in front of you now, and you could barely breathe. You swallowed hard, trying to pull yourself together. “Uh, hi.” His eyes flicked over your outfit, and you felt your cheeks burn. You must have looked ridiculous. He smirked, though, and tilted his head slightly. “So... you’re me tonight?”. You let out a nervous laugh, wishing you could sink into the floor. “Uh, yeah, I guess. It’s, uh, Halloween, so... why not?”. He chuckled, the sound softer than you  expected. “You pulled it off.”. You blinked. “What?”. He gestured to the outfit. “The look. You got it pretty close. Even the tattoos.”. You glanced down at the fake tattoos you had drawn on, feeling suddenly embarrassed. “Oh, yeah... I mean, I tried. But it’s probably, uh, not great.”. “No, it’s good,” he said, his voice still calm, almost reassuring. “Not bad at all.”.  You stared at him, completely unsure of what to say. He was right in front of you, just casually talking like this was no big deal, but your mind was spinning. How was this real ? Out of all the parties, in all of Detroit, he was at this one. And he was talking to you. 

He smiled again, and your heart nearly stopped. “So, what’s your name ?”. “Uh...” you stammered, feeling stupid for being so nervous. “It’s, um, Y/N.” “Y/N,” he repeated, nodding. “Alright, Y/N. You from Detroit ?”. You shook your head quickly, desperate to stop sounding like an idiot. “No, I just moved here. A few weeks ago.”. “Yeah?” His expression softened, and for the first time, you noticed how he didn’t seem as intimidating as you thought he’d be. “How’re you liking it so far?”. “It’s... different,” you admitted, feeling a little more at ease now. “Still getting used to it.”. He nodded like he understood. “Takes time. Detroit’s got its own thing, you know?”. You nodded, even though you still didn’t feel like you  knew what Detroit’s “thing” was yet. “Yeah, I’m figuring that out.”

You stood there for a moment, the conversation hanging between you. You kept expecting him to get bored, to move on, but he didn’t. He stayed, just casually talking to you. It was kind of surreal. He looked you over again, that same smirk on his face. “So, sexy Slim Shady, huh?”. You felt your face go a bright shade of red, and you let out a nervous laugh. “I... yeah. I thought it’d be funny.”. “It is,” he said, his voice warm. “Looks good on you, though. Better than me, probably.”. You blinked at him. Was he complimenting you ? You  didn’t quite know what to do with that. “I, uh, didn’t expect you to be here,” you mumbled, trying to keep your cool. He shrugged. “Didn’t plan on it. Just showed up to say hi to my brother. Guess it was the right party, though.”. You weren’t sure how to respond to that, so you just smiled awkwardly. “Yeah, uh, I guess so.” He chuckled again, glancing around before his eyes came back to you. “You’re doing alright, though. New city, big party. Not bad.”. “I’m trying,” you said, surprised by how much easier it was to talk now. “It’s kind of overwhelming.”. He nodded, like he understood. “Yeah, I get that.”.

The air between you seemed to change after that. It was subtle, but you could feel something shift. His gaze lingered a little longer, his smile a little more playful. You felt your own nerves start to tangle with a different kind of energy. Was he... flirting with you ? “Want to get out of here for a bit?” he asked suddenly, his voice low. You blinked, caught off guard. “Oh, uh—". “Just for some air,” he added quickly, smirking as if he could read the confusion on your face. “It’s loud as hell in here.”. “Yeah, sure,” you said, trying to sound casual, though your heart was racing. He nodded, then gestured for you to follow him. You moved through the crowded house, weaving past people dancing and laughing, and ended up in a darker, quieter corner at the far end of the house. It was like the rest of the party faded away as soon as you reached it. You leaned against the wall, feeling more nervous than you had all night. “So, uh... quieter out here.”. He chuckled softly, leaning beside you, his arm brushing yours. “Yeah. Better.”. There was a brief moment of silence, just the muffled sounds of the party echoing from down the hall. Your heart pounded in your chest. The tension between you was thick now, hanging in the air like something unspoken.

“So,” he said, his voice a little lower, his eyes glancing at your lips before meeting your gaze again, “What do you think? How do I look as... you tonight?”. You blinked, caught off guard by his teasing tone. “Wait, what?”. He grinned, stepping a little closer, his hand grazing your arm. “I mean, you’re rocking my look pretty hard. Think I could pull off yours?”. You laughed, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. “I... I’m not sure you could handle it.” He raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the game. “You don’t think so?”. You shook your head, biting your lip, the space between you growing smaller and smaller. “Nope.”. In a flash, his hand slid lightly to your waist, pulling you closer, and before you had time to think, his lips were on yours. The world around you seemed to disappear. His kiss was slow at first, gentle, but there was heat behind it, a current of energy that made your head spin. You felt his other hand cup your face, deepening the kiss, and you melted into him. Your nerves, your doubts, all of it vanished in that moment. There was just him and somehow, it felt right. When you finally broke apart, you were breathless, your heart racing as you looked up at him. He was grinning, his face inches from yours. “Damn,” he said, his voice low and teasing. “I think I’m starting to like Detroit a little more now.” You laughed softly, still trying to catch your breath. “Yeah?”. He brushed a strand of hair from your face, his touch gentle. “Yeah.”. For a moment, you just stood there, caught in the intensity of what had just happened. Then, with a smirk, he leaned in and whispered, “You wanna get out of here?”. 

You swallowed, your pulse still pounding in your ears. “Like... leave?”. He nodded, his eyes gleaming with that same playful edge. “Yeah. I’ve had enough of this party. What about you?”. You hesitated for only a second, then nodded. “Yeah. Let’s go.”. Without another word, he took your hand again, and you slipped out the back of the house, the noise of the party fading behind you as you stepped into the cool night air. The city seemed quieter now, almost peaceful, as you walked side by side down the street to his car. The night air was cool, crisp against your skin as you left the house behind. The sound of the party faded into a distant hum, swallowed by the quiet streets of the neighborhood. Your heart was still racing, every nerve in your body alive from what had just happened inside. Marshall was walking beside you, his hand still loosely holding yours. You reached his car, an understated black SUV parked a little ways down the block. You hesitated for a second, glancing over at him, still trying to process everything that had happened in the last half hour. It felt surreal, like a dream you hadn’t expected to be living. He looked over at you, catching the uncertainty in your eyes. With that same smirk that had been throwing you off all night, he opened the passenger door for you. “You coming?”. There was something playful in his tone, an edge of confidence that made your pulse quicken again. You nodded, slipping into the passenger seat. The second you sat down, the cool leather sent a shiver up your spine, and before you had a chance to settle, he closed the door and walked around to the driver’s side, climbing in next to you.As soon as the door shut, the quiet of the night felt even more intense. The space between you in the car was charged, and your breath hitched when he turned to face you. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence building with a heavy anticipation. He leaned in, his eyes flicking to yours, then to your lips. “You good?”. You nodded, your voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah. I’m good.”. He didn’t need any more confirmation. In an instant, he closed the gap between you, his lips crashing against yours. The kiss was hotter this time, more urgent, like the tension between you had been building to this point all night.

You felt  his hand slide around the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and you instinctively reached for him, fingers tangling in his shirt as you kissed him back. The inside of the car felt small, intimate, like your own private world. You could feel the weight of him, his presence filling the space between you as the kiss deepened. His hands moved down to your waist, pulling you into him, and you found yourself melting into him again, completely lost in the moment. Then, without breaking the kiss, you felt his hand trail up my side, his fingers brushing the fake tattoos you’d drawn earlier in the night. You tensed for a second, pulling back just enough to catch your breath. He smirked, his lips still dangerously close to yours, his voice low and teasing. “You really went all out, huh?”. You laughed, still breathless. “What do you mean?”. He raised an eyebrow, his hand moving back to trace the ink on your arm. “These. The tattoos. You even got the placement right.”. You felt a flush creep up your neck. “Yeah, I, uh, did some research.”. He laughed, leaning in to kiss you again, but this time his lips trailed down your jaw, brushing your neck as his hand moved to your side, touching your bare skin under the overalls, just under your lacy bra. His breath was warm against your skin when he asked, “So, did you... draw all of them ?”. You blinked, trying to piece together what he meant as your mind raced from the feeling of his lips. Then it hit you. He pulled back slightly, that teasing smirk firmly in place. “You know... the one on my stomach ?” His hand ghosted over your belly, right where the infamous "Rot in Pieces" tattoo would be. Your face went red, and you laughed, shaking your head. “No... I didn’t, uh, go that far.”. He laughed too, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Good, ‘cause I was about to say—if you did, I’d need to see the accuracy.”. You let out a giggle before looking into his eyes. “Maybe I should have, then.”, you whispered teasingly. Before you could say anything else, he closed the distance between you again, kissing you harder this time, hands moving to your hips. You felt yourself lean into him, the heat between you building as the kiss deepened. His grip tightened slightly, pulling you closer, until you were practically in his lap, your movements growing more intense. It was like everything outside the car disappeared—the city, the cold, the uncertainty you’d felt earlier in the night. All that mattered in this moment was him, the feeling of his lips on yours, the warmth of his body against you. He gently unhooked the buckles of the oversized overalls you were wearing, brushing your skin in a way that made your heart race even faster. You could feel the desire, the playfulness in every touch, and it was intoxicating. When you finally broke apart, both of you breathless, he grinned, his forehead resting against yours. “You know,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, “you’re gonna have to teach me how to pull off the ‘sexy Slim Shady’ look.”. You laughed, still trying to catch your breath. “I’m not sure you could handle it.”.  He grinned, his lips brushing yours again, teasingly soft. “Oh, I could handle it. Trust me.”. There was a pause, a moment where you just stayed there, pressed together in the dim light of the car, the air between you still electric. “So,” he said, his voice playful but with a certain edge to it, “What do you say we get out of here? Find somewhere quieter.”.  Your heart skipped a beat, your breath catching in my throat. “Yeah,” I said, my voice soft but steady. “Where do you want to go ?”.  With one last kiss—slow, lingering—he pulled away just enough to turn the key in the ignition, the engine roaring to life. “My place.” he suggested with a grin and you felt yourself nodding. As the car pulled away from the curb, you glanced over at him, head still spinning from the intensity of the moment. This wasn’t how you expected the night to go, but you weren’t mad. And you thought to yourself that you were really starting to really like Detroit. 

[drmaddict]

Spooky Girl

Summary: Ghost, Soap, Rudy and König have a girlfriend who just likes things, that are a bit spooky. (Just a few little scenes that my brain spit out.)

Wordcount: 2.497

Ghost

"Are you growing your hair out, L.T.?" Johnny laughed and flicked Simon's wrist.

Simon reacted as expected. Not at all. He stared at Johnny motionlessly.

"Fits the look, after all.", the sergeant winked at him.

Simon rolled his eyes and pulled his sleeve over the hairband on his wrist.

Johnny continued to grin. "My sisters say these scrunchies are best for the hair. There's less friction. So no split ends."

 Simon continued to stare at him.

"Are you going to tell me why you've got that thing on?", he grumbled.

"No.", was Simon's simple answer before he turned back to his food. It was nobody's business. (Y/n) was nobody's business, or what was between them.  It was still too fresh anyway. This was his first mission since they had met. He wasn't sure what to make of this relationship yet. He liked her. It wasn't because of that. He was just too used to being alone. It scared him. His therapist would probably have found a bigger, more important-sounding word for his emotions, but fear seemed appropriate enough to Simon.

She was weird. He was weird too. He had started to like the weirdness. He was probably too old for her. Maybe he wasn't. He'd never been in a relationship. He'd never had to discuss the fact that his hoodies were actually HIS hoodies until a few months ago. She had only told him that they were hers now, as if that was the most normal thing in the world. But she looked really cute in them. She'd beamed at him when he'd unceremoniously thrown three of his hoodies on her bed. 

"Until I get back.", he'd mumbled.

She had then pulled her hairband off her head and put it around his wrist. The black satin with the little skulls on it was soft and had immediately clung to his skin.

"So that you'll really come back.", she had said and kissed him on the forehead.

"Always.", he had mumbled.

 "Who is she?" Johnny asked him directly. He looked at him with gentle playfulness.

Simon snapped out of his memory. He looked into his friend's blue eyes.  "You don't trust me with a 'he'?", he grinned under his mask.

"Well then HE definitely has long hair."

Simon shook his head in amusement. "A little one from home. It's still fresh."

"Photo?", Johnny continued to grin.

Simon shook his head.

"Oh come on!"

"No Johnny."

Johnny looked at him like a petulant puppy. "At least describe her.", he sulked.

Simon sighed and rummaged for a small photo in his pocket. The boy wouldn't stop anyway. He plonked it in front of the sergent and stared at it.

Johnny stared at the photo. "A goth chick?" Johnny reached for the photo, but Simon immediately pulled it back to him and put it away. Johnny looked at him in surprise. "Hot.", he grinned.

Simon just grumbled.

"Yes, I get it. I can see it. You fit together."

Another grumble.

 Johnny grinned like an idiot.

"What?", Simon snapped at him.

"Does she have a friend?"

Simon just rolled his eyes. His cell phone buzzed.

A message from (Y/n). When he opened the message history, he saw a picture of a rabbit skull.

'For your collection?' it said underneath.

Simon looked at the picture. He had been glad, that she didn't see his little hobby as disgusting. But that she was now also participating in it. It was a beautiful bone. Completely intact.

'Beautiful. Where did you get it?‘

'Judas picked it up on our walk.‘

Judas was her dog. A stubborn but tough creature. It was probably her type. 

'Put it on the ant farm. I'll bleach him when I come back next week.‘

'The three of us are waiting for you. ;)'

When he looked up again, Johnny was still grinning at him.

"The little one really has you wrapped around her finger."

Simon just raised an eyebrow.

"Good for you L.T."

Simon grumbled in agreement.

Soap

"What magazine did you cut that out of?" Kyle laughed.

Soap pulled off his boots. "Huh?" he groaned and looked at his friend.

Kyle pointed to Johnny's locker page and the photo hanging in it.

Johnny followed Kyle's suggestion with his gaze and immediately furrowed his eyebrows. "That's my girlfriend you douche!"

"That's never your girlfriend! She's far too pretty... Apart from the fetish make-up."

Johnny threw his boot at Gaz. "Don't talk about my girl like that!", he growled.

Gaz raised his hands defensively. A grin stretched across his face. "Oh come on."

Johnny continued to scowl at him. Simon came into the changing room and looked at them both wordlessly. Without another comment, he went to his locker.

"How can you always train with that thing on your head?", Johnny asked him.

"Habit.", came the curt reply.

Johnny rolled his eyes as Gaz clapped his hands with a laugh. "So you've got a type!"

Johnny looked at him in confusion. Simon paid him no attention at all. 

"Dark and intimidating," Garrick winked at him and nodded towards Simon.

Johnny followed his gaze and a blush immediately appeared on his cheeks.

"I don't have a type!", he barked.

Gaz chuckled in amusement. "Sure."

Simon slammed his locker shut conspicuously loudly and disappeared just as wordlessly as he had come.

The two of them looked after him.

"She's very different from him.", Johnny grumbled immediately.

"Is she?"

"Yes, she's very reserved, but when you get to know her better, she's really funny. She likes to tell jokes, you know? Even if she's more into dark humor. And she likes her order, but accepts my chaos and she's not immediately put off by my job. Well, she goes to therapy, but she's actually really tough."

"Where did you two meet?"

"At a shooting range for my brother-in-law's stag party. She's really amazing. She could almost be a sniper and..." Johnny eyes widened.

Gaz grinned knowingly.

"Oh God! I'm dating L.T.!" Johnny exclaimed, overwhelmed.

"Really, how did you notice?"

Johnny threw his second boot at him. "What if I'm just trying to replace something with her?", he asked anxiously.

Now Gaz looked at him, confused. "What now?"

"Well... What if I subconsciously just saw her as a replacement. God I'm such an asshole."

"How many times did you try to enroll before you were finally eighteen?", Gaz asked him firmly.

"I stopped counting. What's that got to do with it?"

Gaz shrugged his shoulders. "You're nuts, but you know what you want. You've never accepted an alternative before."

Johnny looked at the photo in the locker. "No I never have."

Gaz nodded. "You clearly have a thing for mentally unstable Halloween decorations, but that doesn't mean you only want the girl as a substitute."

Johnny nodded. "Yeah, you're right. She's really great, you know?"

Gaz grinned. "I'll take your word for it."

"She always makes chocolate muffins, that look like the little coal men from Chihiro.", Johnny smiled at the photo. "And she can cook! I really put some weight on the last time, I was with her. It's almost like the good old times at grandmas.", he grinned to himself. "Even if it scares me a little, how relaxed she is with the house ghost."

"Please what??" Gaz blinked at him in surprise.

"The house ghost. She calls him Edgar. After the guy who built the house. She bought this old victorian house and at night you can always hear the back door banging open and shut and someone running up and down the stairs. But never up to the top floor. That was  built on later. I nearly wet my pants the first night, when I went to see what was going on and this gigantic mirror fell on me. The thing was secured with six sturdy wall anchors! SIX! Well, I didn't set foot in the house for two weeks after that, but she says she's negotiating a deal."

Gaz looked at him with horror in his eyes.

Johnny shrugged his shoulders. "I'm used to it by now. But the noise is a bit annoying."

Gaz gave him a forced smile. "You see. You don't have anything like that with Ghost... No ghosts with Ghost."

Rudy

He was sitting in his small kitchen with Alejandro, listening to everything about Ale's last date, until they were interrupted by a loud noise.

Ale flinched in surprise and looked at the kitchen counter behind him. Rudy immediately ran to the counter and grabbed a cell phone. He wiped the green icon across the display and held it to his ear.

"(Y/n)s phone. Rodolfo on the line. - Yes, you forgot it here. - No, no problem. - Good. See you in a minute."

He placed the device on the kitchen table and looked into Alejandro's shocked face. "What? Was? That?"

"(Y/n) left her cell phone."

Ale looked at him like he was stupid. "What was that sound?"

"Her ringtone?" Rudy replied hesitantly. "Yeah... Her taste in music is a bit...  special," he admitted, looking at the device again.

"A bit? It sounded like a pig had been tormented.", Alejandro said indignantly.

Rudy grinned. "Somehow that relaxes her." He rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. "I think the band was called... I can't remember. Lorna something."

Ale looked at him skeptically. "Wait. Is she coming over? I can finally see the mystery (y/n) with my own eyes?"

Rudy sighed. "Be nice, please."

"I'm always nice."

"Hmph."

Ale gave him an annoyed look. "I'll pull myself together."

"No subliminal threats.", Rudy stated firmly.

Alejandro started to speak, but didn't get the chance.

"And certainly no direct ones!"

The colonel fell back against the back of his chair, annoyed. It wasn't as if he had no manners. If anything, some even found his temperament attractive.

"Fine," he grumbled.

Rudy nodded in satisfaction as he heard the front door open.

"Hey." (Y/n) called down the small hallway.

Rudy stood up and walked towards her.

Alejandro didn't know what he had expected, but somehow he had always imagined her... pinker.

When Rudy spoke of his girlfriend, it sounded like he was talking about the sweetest creature on earth, who couldn't hurt a soul. Alejandro had envisioned a girl in a summer dress with pink lipgloss kissing Rudy on the cheek.

What he saw was a girl dressed in black. Transparent cut-outs, heavy boots and various buckles adorned her body.

Her lips, which Alejandro had always imagined to be pink, were painted black, just like her eyes.

She gave Rudy a quick kiss on the lips. "Sorry, I'm only here for a moment. Sofia got tickets for a concert today. I'd rather not ask how. Oh hi!"

She waved to Alejandro.

"This is Alejandro." Rudy introduced him.

He waved at (Y/n), overwhelmed.

"I'm (Y/n)." she replied quickly.

"You sure?" asked Ale before he could stop himself.

Rudy immediately gave him a warning look before turning back to (Y/n). "Be careful."

She kissed him again on the tip of his nose. "I'll text you when I get home. Bey Alejandro!" she called out and was already gone again.

Alejandro looked dully into the hallway. Rudy looked back with a raised eyebrow.

"Well I didn't expect THAT.", Alejandro said.

Rudy sighed.

"Oh come on! You described a lamb!" He threw his hands up in the air dramatically. "Not a little vampire. No matter how cute she seems to be."

Rudy sighed devotedly and sat down at the table.

"She's just like I told you."

"So... a black lamb?"

The corners of Rudy's mouth twitched. "Yes. That fits."

"To get back to the, let's call it 'music'."

"I don't get it either.", Rudy smiled with amusement.

König

"Little bat?" König asked his girlfriend cautiously. She was sitting in one of his shirts next to his legs in front of the couch, looking thoughtfully at her puzzle, while the movie of her choice was playing on TV.

"Yes Bear?" she asked without looking up.

His eyes darted to the television at a particularly organic sound, before quickly settling back on her.

"Um... I know I said 'My job is war and I can take more than nornal humans'."

(Y/n) looked up and grinned mockingly.

"But I admit that your warning was probably... justified."

She grinned at him openly. "No (y/n)! I've seen and done things-"

"All right!" he interrupted her. A woman on the television screamed. "Is this girl still alive?" he asked in disgust.

(Y/n) pressed a button on the remote control and the movie stopped.

"There's no way anyone could survive something like that," he huffed.

His little bat just took a sip of his coffee. "The lore is, that Art keeps someone alive ,until he's satisfied. He decides when you die."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"It's horror. It's not supposed to make sense." She patted his gigantic thigh. "You held out very well, but you dropped out of the movie. You lost the bet. You have to order today.", she smiled mischievously.

He grumbled and reached for the tablet.

"No! You have to call! That was the bet."

He looked murderously at the phone. He hated ordering food. Which made no sense, considering his job and his career in it. He was a grown man. He made most people afraid, but still. These everyday situations weren't exactly easy for him. It wasn't like it used to be, but it would never be normal either. Nobody had to like him in his job. No one expected him to be polite. In the real world, there were all these rules and unspoken regulations.

"Like always?" he asked her. She just nodded and went back to looking at her puzzle.

Sometimes it was funny. They both weren't the most confident when it came to social interaction, even though the world always thought they should be. Him because of his body. Her because of her look.

They had started making bets. The loser had to make phone calls or tell the waiter in the restaurant that the food was going back.

He ordered the pizza and felt (Y/n) put a hand on his knee. He had started wiggling his legs again. A habit that had always upset his mother. She stroked his knee with her thumb and he brought his limbs back to rest. With a sigh, he tossed the cell phone towards the pillow. It was nice that he didn't feel any anxiety with her. It was nice to have someone who gave him the space to find peace.

"What kind of picture is this going to be?", he asked her, stroking her hair and looking at the dark puzzle.

"Blackness."

"Blackness?"

"Yes. It's just black." She grinned.

"Why?"

"Because we as humans like to play God. The nice thing is... There's a reference picture."

He grinned. He loved how she was amused by little things like that. He loved his little bat. Her and her bloody pointless puzzle.

[reikorun]

KlubOutside Q&A 101-200 [Translation]

Translated by @reikorun

Q101.

2021.05.10

Renji is my favorite character, but my surprise exceeded my delight at seeing him as Ichigo's counterpart on the cover of the JET illustration collection. I would like to know if there is a reason why you chose Renji as the paired character?

A101.

On the contrary, I've never once thought of Ichigo's counterpart as anyone other than Renji.

Q102.

2021.05.10

Are there any recent Jump manga that you find interesting?

A102.

Jump manga have been interesting lately huh? My absolute favorites are Undead Unluck and SAKAMOTO DAYS. And recently, High School Family: Kokosei Kazoku too.

Q103.

2021.05.17

Are Harribel-sama's Fracción (Apacci, Sung-Sun and Mila Rose) modeled after Nocchi, KASHIYUKA and a-chan from the music group "Perfume"?

A103.

A long time ago, I was asked the same question by the individuals in question themselves. It's an incorrect assumption, however I like Perfume so I don't mind.

Q104.

2021.05.17

I have a question about the illustrations published in the Gallery's Guidelines on KlubOutside. Are the numbers noted on the side the Copic color number?

A104.

This is the screentone number (a polka dot pattern film that is cut and pasted onto an analog manuscript.)

Q105.

2021.05.17

Have you ever watched professional wrestling?

A105.

I used to watch WWE (known as WWF back then) quite often around the time The Rock was at his peak.

Q106.

2021.05.17

Did someone give Rōjūrō the nickname "Rose" because it was difficult to call him "Rōjūrō"?

A106.

Rose gave himself that nickname because he thinks it's cool.

Q107.

2021.05.17

Why does Ninny wear suspenders in the BTW anime?

A107.

When they saw her wearing it in the color spread for the one-shot, the anime team said "it's cute so is it okay if she wears it the whole time in the anime?"

Q108.

2021.05.24

I think the illustrations from Brave Souls at this opportune time captures the essence of the original work and is incredibly cool, as the original author, what sort of impressions do you have of the Brave Souls illustrations?

A108.

I think it's getting better with each passing year. The design roughs that are submitted for supervision are also excellent.

Q109.

2021.05.24

Where do you start from when making a drawing?

A109.

When I'm not doing a rough underdrawing, I start from the bone around the eyebrows.

Q110.

2021.05.24

I'd like to know about what you've purchased and found useful recently, or something that you're enjoying.

A110.

A Yogibo Pod, Tom Ford sneakers, JINS PC glasses.

Q111.

2021.05.24

Is the playlist on KlubOutside the list that Kubo-sensei is listening to?

A111.

I'm uploading the songs I often listen to in real time.

Q112.

2021.05.24

Did Kubo-sensei decide the OP and ED songs for the anime?

A112.

Basically that doesn't involve me. Occasionally, I'd receive a demo version, and there were also times when I gave a little input when it didn't feel like much of an opening theme.

Q113.

2021.05.31

Will you ever publish a continuation of your one-shot stories like Rune Master Urara.

A113.

Urara had a story prepared for the purpose of serialization but it didn't get past the serialization meeting because it had a female protagonist in a battle setting and the story was hellishly dark. I'm not interested in drawing dark stories right now, but I might do it if I get a lot of free time.

Q114.

2021.05.31

Kubo-sensei, please tell us your favorite font (like Ming typeface or Gothic typeface etc.)

A114.

During BLEACH's serialization, I liked Impact.

Q115.

2021.05.31

Byakuya-san said that Ichigo was only the second person to ever bear witness to his Senkei, but who was the first person to have seen it?

A115.

I can't answer this here.

Q116.

2021.05.31

Regarding the animation production, you mentioned that it would make your stomach hurt while watching it at home due to discrepancies that arose from your lack of involvement in its early days. But, from approximately what episode did Tite-sensei get his hands involved in the production?

A116.

Starting from the Bount arc, I began to do only dialogue checks in the script for the characters belonging to the original work, just before recording.

Q117.

2021.05.31

Old-man Zangetsu tried to reveal his name while in Kurosaki Ichigo-kun's inner world, but it was blocked out with black ink and he was unable to convey his message. Was this the work of Hyōsube Ichibē.

A117.

That's correct.

Q118.

2021.06.07

Is "Rondanini's black dog" Kotodama originating from the West Branch of Soul Society? ×[1]

A118.

That's right.

Q119.

2021.06.07

Your photos of Uni-chan are very beautiful, did you take them with a digital camera? Or was it a smartphone?

A119.

A smartphone.

Q120.

2021.06.07

Did Captain Hitsugaya and Rangiku-san realize that Ichigo is Shiba Isshin's son when they came to the Human World as part of the Hitsugaya advance team?

A120.

Both of them realized.

Q121.

2021.06.07

It's come to be that Gin's Special Move in Brave Souls is "Shukyoku - Kamishini no Yari, Butō: Renjin." Is this "Shukyoku" an established concept in the original work?

A121.

That's heart Gin isn't it? It's a game original expression.

Q122.

2021.06.07

When you listen to a character's theme song, it can heighten the depth of each individual considerably, so I enjoy having the opportunity to listen to them. At what stage in the development of a character are these theme songs decided?

A122.

It depends on the character. Some characters change midway through the drawing process.

Q123.

2021.06.14

What kind of thoughts went into the name "Tite", Kubo-sensei's pen-name? The alphabetical notation has always been "Tite" rather than "Taito", but is there some reason for that? Furthermore, I'm also curious as to why the unusual character "帯" is used in your name.

A123.

It means something like "one's head is always filled with many people." ×[2]

Q124.

2021.06.14

When Kurotsuchi Mayuri's bare face was revealed for the first time, his skin color was dark, but was that the case from the beginning? Also, will Kurotsuchi Mayuri's bare face never be seen again? He was more handsome than I expected.

A124.

This is about the anime? I recall watching the broadcast at the time and saying to my editor "his skin color is different!" The request for editorial supervision didn't come to me.

Q125.

2021.06.14

Which organization assigns names to Hollows?

A125.

There's a guy in charge of naming in the Shinigami Research and Development Institute.

Q126.

2021.06.14

In the final chapter, Orihime appeared as Ichigo's wife, but there was no ring on her left ring finger. Did Kubo-sensei forget to draw it? Or is it establishing that she's pregnant with her second child and her body is swollen, therefore she intentionally took off her ring?

A126.

Huh? You're right! I forgot to draw it.

Q127.

2021.06.14

Why were two Hyōrinmaru born?

A127.

I'd be happy if you could watch the movies as a parallel story rather than considering it part of the official canon.

Q128.

2021.06.21

How do you come up with the subtitle for each chapter? In BLEACH especially, most of the subtitles are in English and occasionally there is Japanese, but is there a particular emphasis placed on that? Additionally, I would be so glad if you could also tell us about any subtitles throughout your entire body of work that you are particularly fond of or any that evoke some special memory. 

A128.

At the time, there was no other work yet which combined Japanese style clothing with the English alphabet, so I deliberately added English subtitles, and in special chapters I made a point of adding Japanese subtitles in order to leave an impression. In that sort of sense, many people may prefer the Japanese subtitles.

Q129.

2021.06.21

I was interested in manga artists' fan clubs and joined one! I started reading BLEACH for the first time last week and am currently on volume 22. I'm looking forward to getting to the final volume! I would really like to know who exactly is sensei's favorite character!?

A129.

Eh? You joined without reading BLEACH!? Is this person real…. I don't have a favorite character. On the whole, I like them all about the same and am equally uninterested in them about the same.

Q130.

2021.06.21

To what extent is Kubo-sensei involved with Brave Souls? Did you ever get to play it again?

A130.

The gameplay mechanics don't concern me, but I oversee the design for the anniversary characters and characters who appear to affect the main story similar to the novel variants. I returned to the game after a long hiatus during BTW, but I was surprised at just how much easier it has become to play.

Q131.

2021.06.21

How did you decide the names of your characters? Do you have some kind of image in mind when you come up with names like "Bambietta Basterbine" and "Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez" etc.?

A131.

Everything is named based on how it sounds and my own intuition. I genuinely love naming things, so I always have a list of names belonging to (or sound like they belong to) various nationalities, enough to accommodate several hundred characters. I often draw out names from there.

Q132.

2021.06.21

A fair amount of difference can be observed in Kubo-sensei's art style when comparing the first volume with the last volume, but did you intend for this change at the time the manga was being serialized? Or did it change over the course of drawing a large number of illustrations?

A132.

It's not so much a conscious effort, but more like a perpetual feeling that this isn't the best style for portraying my characters, and I'm trying to explore that while drawing. In the case of BLEACH, of course the final stages are closer to the ideal, and at present I'm even closer to that ideal compared to back then.

Q133.

2021.06.28

I believe Tōsen can Hollowfy → activate Resurrección, but can Ichigo and members of the Visored do this too? Does this mean that both Bankai and Resurrección are possible if they are in a Hollowfied state?

A133.

It's possible.

Q134.

2021.06.28

Is "Top of Horns" a metaphor for various genres of music? For example, I think Bruno represents rock and roll and Roy represents R&B.

A134.

It's different for Top of Horns, but it was actually like that for the Visored.

Q135.

2021.06.28

Please unveil the mystery behind "Ururu" and "Jinta". Who are they?

A135.

They are both Artificial Souls created by Kisuke.

Q136.

2021.06.28

In the illustrations for BLEACH, the characters are seen wearing western style clothes with various designs, but were these designs drawn independently by Kubo-sensei himself.

A136.

All illustrations in the original work are my own designs, all illustrations from the anime do not concern me.

Q137.

2021.06.28

Sensei, when you draw an illustration, do you draw the figure and such without using any references, like an artist's mannequin?

A137.

I once went to check out an art supply store because I thought it would be cool to have a drawing mannequin in my workplace, like one of those skilled painters, but in the end I didn't buy it since I couldn't figure out how to correctly use it as a reference.

Q138.

2021.07.05

I like Senju Kōten Taihō and often chant it, does sensei have a favorite incantation to chant too?

A138.

I generally always like the newest ones the best, so right now it's probably Blue Spark or Supernal Jail.

Q139.

2021.07.05

Was the BLEACH logo sensei's idea?

A139.

That's correct. I had a logo which I drew myself brought to life by an acquaintance, Shueisha bought it and are using it. By the way, the logo on the first chapter spread of Zombiepowder is hand-drawn, and I had BTW use my hand-drawn logo as is.

Q140.

2021.07.05

When you were contemplating the map of Karakura Town, were there any places that you used as reference?

A140.

I sort of used my local town as reference but it turned out completely different.

Q141.

2021.07.05

If it's okay, I would like to know Hinamori Momo-san's name before the change. Also, besides Hinamori-san, are there any other characters whose names have been changed since the initial stages?

A141.

I changed it because it wasn't very good, so the original is a secret. Additionally, Hitsugaya had a completely different first name too until the very last moment of the manuscript. This is also a secret.

Q142.

2021.07.12

I have a question regarding Kira Izuru-kun's healing abilities and the history of his affiliations. He was first assigned to Captain Aizen's 5th Division, while there he was found to have an aptitude for Kaidō and was recruited to the 4th division, but does that mean that he was later poached by Ichimaru Gin of Squad 3? 

A142.

When he was a member of Squad 4, it was Aizen who recommended the transfer to Unohana.

Q143.

2021.07.12

How was it that Kuna Mashiro came to be appointed as "Super Vice-Captain"? Is her armband official? (Personally, I think it's something she wilfully made on her own, or perhaps someone in her Squad prepared it just to placate her.)

A143.

When Kensei returned to the position of Captain, Mashiro pestered Kensei alone saying it's "unfair", so it's a post that Kensei made up himself without consulting anyone. The armband is also a complete fake made with shiny material in the hope that it would please Mashiro. Though, with a single glance Mashiro was satisfied.

Q144.

2021.07.12

In volume 31, when Grimmjow tried to break Loly's leg clean off, she says "if you stop, wait! We can make this our secret!" What was she trying to say next? I haven't spoken openly about it much since being told that I have a bad personality, but the scenario before and after that scene is one of my favorites!!

A144.

It was "I'll let you have your way with me." Loly's the kind of character who would deliver a line like that when she's in a desperate situation. A famous manga artist friend of mine once told me that he loved that scene too, so I think it's fine to openly discuss it.

Q145.

2021.07.12

I thought that the 5 members of the Bambies from the Wandenreich looked similar to Momoiro Clover Z, but what are the facts actually like? 

A145.

The very first design motif I used for them was indeed Momoclo, but after I had finalized the characters I thought "well then, who is Gigi?" So I decided not to say anything. (I just said it.)

Q146.

2021.07.12

I'm really looking forward to the Ninny-chan and Noel-chan figurines, when will the news be updated?!

A146.

I'm looking forward to it too. I wonder when!?

Q147.

2021.07.12

Kubo-sensei, do you drink alcohol? If so, what kind of alcohol do you like?

A147.

I recently discovered that I'm able to drink if it's "Horoyoi*." I like the white one. (*Horoyoi is a brand of canned, alcoholic beverage in Japan.)

Q148.

2021.07.12

Do you have a favorite YouTuber?

A148.

I don't know if I can classify them as YouTubers, but I sometimes watch YouTube videos of people free diving then catching and eating strange fish.

Q149.

2021.07.19

Why is the Shihakushō, which can also be called the Shinigami uniform, black? Is it so that the Monk can enlist their help in case of an emergency?

A149.

The color was decided upon in the days of first Gotei generation, the reason was "so you wouldn't have to throw it away every time it gets stained with blood." However, your idea about the Monk would also make a good backstory.

Q150.

2021.07.19

How do members of the Sternritter perceive Giselle Gewelle's gender? Are they not aware of it, are they aware but pretending not to notice it, or are they just not interested in it? I would be glad if you could tell us.

A150.

It depends on the person.

Q151.

2021.07.19

I have a question concerning Kusajishi Yachiru. Is it a result of the fact that she was called by the name "Yachiru" that she herself possessed a Zanpakutō called "Sanpo Kenjū", while also being "Nozarashi" - the Zanpakutō of Zaraki Kenpachi? 

Like Hihiō Zabimaru or Fuji Kujaku, there are many scenes where a Zanpakutō not called by its true name was unable to demonstrate its true power. I reckon "Nozarashi" bore the essence of a Shinigami and materialized as a consequence of being called by the name "Yachiru" - a Shinigami who actually exists, and perhaps because it was the name "Yachiru" (*Yachi = eight thousand, Ru = flows/styles), she acquired Sanpo Kenjū which was specialized for the act of cutting. 

I'm quite curious about the true identity of Kusajishi Yachiru, so I'd be overjoyed if you could give us an answer.

A151.

Wow, amazing! It's not even written that Yachiru is Nozarashi, yet you managed to find your way here. You are mostly correct within the scope covered by your question. To go further, Yachiru is a form of Nozarashi's Bankai manifestation separated from its main body, and having received her name from Kenpachi, she harbored the power of a Shinigami. The embodiment of Nozarashi itself takes the form of a grown woman. I think it's easier to understand if I got you to imagine Zangetsu and Tensa Zangetsu.

Q152.

2021.07.19

Why are the names of Chad and Orihime's Fullbring not in English unlike the members of XCUTION? I was intrigued because sensei used different languages for naming depending on the faction. 

A152.

Since these two are in a special category, their abilities were given names in their respective native languages.

Q153.

2021.07.19

With Madarame Ikkaku's appearance in the Fullbring chapters, attached to his right shoulder we see some kind of gold plated equipment with the kanji for "dragon" printed on it, is that his own work? I'm curious because it's established in the lore that he's good with his hands.

A153.

It's Ikkaku's own work.

Q154.

2021.07.19

What kind of person is the manager of ABCookies where Orihime worked?

A154.

I have the concept art for him. I ended up having so much fun while drawing him that he became a creepy old man, but he's a good person.

Q155.

2021.07.26

Did Baraggan not reveal his own rank, nor refer to himself as "Espada" due to his rivalry with Aizen?

A155.

That's right.

Q156.

2021.07.26

Please tell us your favorite places in Hiroshima!

A156.

I don't get to go back that often, but I like Soleil (now Aeon Mall). It's huge and exciting.

Q157.

2021.07.26

Is it intentional that the number of English words used in the subtitle from BLEACH chapter 679 "THE END" up to 683 "THE DARK SIDE OF TWO WORLD ENDS" increases with each chapter? 

A157.

Yes.

Q158.

2021.07.26

Aizen said "From the very start, no one has stood upon the heavens," and while looking at Ukitake he said "not you, not I, nor even gods," but was this "you" here hinting at the connection between Ukitake and the Soul King? 

A158.

That is correct.

Q159.

2021.07.26

The haori, jinbei, and hat which Urahara Kisuke wears in the Human World can probably be described as his only good clothes, did Urahara Kisuke himself purchase them at a Human World draper or something?

A159.

Those are all items Kisuke made himself.

Q160

2021.07.26

To what extent does Kubo-sensei supervise the color scheme of the digital color tankōbon? 

A160.

I'm supposed to give them all a look over around the time of their debut, but since I'm making my checks while busy with other things during serialization, I sometimes find myself wondering "did I really choose this kind of color!?" In Brave Souls, occasionally the color of the skills just happen to change, well that is the reason why. I'm sorry!

Q161.

2021.08.02

Spanish is used for words related to the Arrancar and Hueco Mundo, German is used for words related to the Wandenreich and Quincy, but I would like to know why you chose these two languages? Does Kubo-sensei have a special attachment to both languages? 

A161.

I think Spanish has a devilish charm, German has a hard-headed sound to it. By the way, when I told this story at an event in Germany, it was amusing to the Germans. It seems that the German people themselves consider the German national traits to be "idyllic and easygoing", apparently they found it amusing because of the disparity between this and my "hard-headed sound" assessment.

Q162.

In the 13BLADEs. "Frank Questions!" segment, you said that you haven't actually drawn a certain character's Bankai up to its final form yet, was that referring to adult Hitsugaya? If so, from what point in time did you decide you were going to draw the concept of a "slightly aged up" Hitsugaya?

A162.

I was talking about Hitsugaya. It was decided when Hitsugaya was designed therefore it was already decided by the time he debuted.

Q163.

2021.08.02

Kubo-sensei, please tell us the reason why you named your dog "Uni".

A163.

It's an anagram of 'inu'. Just kidding. I named my dog "Uni" because it was expected that her fur would become orange as she grew. It turned out to be a burnt mochi-like color though. ×[3]

Q164.

2021.08.02

Taking into account Isshin and Masaki's origins, it seems to me that Ichigo's grandparents do not exist in the Human World, but is "Grandpa Rin", whose name was mentioned in the Lost Agent arc, an individual who actually exists? Is he a relative of Tsukishima-san? 

A164.

Tsukishima Rinshirō. He's Tsukishima's grandfather.

Q165.

2021.08.02

In the past, there was a "Love Bleach" film featured at a BLEACH event, but would you consider launching the actual product for sale in the future?! 

A165.

"Love Bleach", wasn't that supposed to be some kind of dating simulation game? I guess, If a game company can make a profit, I don't see why not. ×[4] 

Q166.

2021.08.02

I went to the opening day stage greeting for BURN THE WITCH! I saw on social media that sensei also came to see it, but where did you watch it from?

A166.

The seats on the 2nd floor are like cozy sofas. It was awesome.

Q167. *Deleted entry from KlubOutside*

2021.08.09

This is a question regarding the origins of the name "Yhwach". In the original work, it was derived from being called "Yū", "ha", "vē", "ha", but does this have its roots in the monotheistic God of Judaism and Christianity, "YHVH" (Jehovah, Yahweh)? 

A167.

Originally the spelling of "Yhwach" itself was like that, but I was asked to change it because it would 100% cause controversy overseas so it's come to be this current spelling.

Q167.

2021.08.09

Has the status of the Shinigami Men's Association improved since Iba-san, its President, became Captain?

Q167.

Isane also became a Captain, so….

Q168.

2021.08.09

In the earliest iterations of BLEACH, the Shinigami wear Western-style outfits and are armed with guns. It seems that in this universe, Rukia was the only one among them to use a scythe, but what was the reason for making Rukia the only one to wield a different weapon?

A168.

The lore was that Rukia was the only one who continued to use an old-fashioned scythe due to a difference in ideology. Also, at the time, the Shinigami characters were all foreigners.

Q169.

2021.08.09

I would like to know the origin of the name "Macy Baljure" (it's my favorite). If possible, please by all means, let us know!

A169.

I don't know the origin, but Macy's name was the one I struggled with the most and I made alterations within the name alone like three times.

Q170.

2021.08.09

Is there any difference between a short release call for a Zanpakutō and a long one like in the case of Kyōraku or Ukitake?

A170.

Basically, the longer ones are often older Zanpakutō.

Q171.

2021.08.09

When drawing manga, do you tend to forget details in the costume blueprints for characters who, for instance, you haven't drawn in a long time?

A171. 

I forget things very easily. Even during the series, I forgot the location of Rangiku's mole.

Q172.

2021.08.16

Did you devise the opening and ending of the BLEACH anime together with the anime staff? I was wondering if sensei's ideas were incorporated as well.

A172.

I'm not involved with the OP & EDs. Each one is good in it's own way.

Q173.

2021.08.16

Why did Hisagi fail the entrance exam for the Academy twice? 

A173.

Because it's Shūhei.

Q174.

2021.08.16

Regardless of whether they were in a higher or lower position, members of the Visored have been quite casual since their days as Shinigami, using informal language and addressing each other without honorifics. Just because they're all together, I don't think that necessarily means that they were at the Academy at the same time, so what could be the driving force for them to have become this close? 

A174.

All of them are diehard individualists, or rather, the type to follow their own rules, so people of that type get along well with each other, and I get the impression that because they're the same type, many people don't care how informal they are with one another. Rather than a 'driving force', it's more like "for some reason, I feel like I talk to this guy a lot."

Q175.

2021.08.16

I love Sado-kun. I would like to know if there is a backstory regarding Sado-kun's tattoo such as when and how he got it inked.

A175.

When his Abuelo died, Sado got it inked in order to keep his spirit strong.

Q176.

2021.08.16

What is sensei's shoe size in cm? Also, if you have any favorite shoes, please let us know!

A176.

My ankles are big, so it's 27 or 27.5. I like shoes but I don't particularly have a favorite brand.

Q177.

2021.08.16

Are you reading what your fans are writing in the comments in the [DESKSIDE] section of your website?

A177.

I'm reading them all.

Q178.

2021.08.23

This isn't really a question, but I hope that the Radio Kon letters segment, which appeared in the early Tankōbon, makes a comeback.

A178.

I didn't want to do that anymore because I had to draw the cutout faces of characters, every volume, just for that segment which was quite exhausting. I planned to do this myself though.

Q179.

2021.08.23

Will sensei's illustrations mainly be done digitally from now on? I'm curious because I love the illustrations that were colored with sensei's Copic markers. Also, which one do you prefer, sensei?

A179. 

Right now, I'm having fun with digital. I'm still not very good at using digital, but going forward, I'd like to be able to switch back and forth between both depending on my mood.

Q180.

2021.08.23

I would like to know what your favorite buildings are?

A180.

"The National Congress Palace, Brasília" by Oscar Niemeyer and Louis Kahn's "Salk Institute for Biological Studies". Oscar Niemeyer is the origin of Nimaiya Ōetsu's name.

Q181.

2021.08.23

Why does Tatsuki want to become stronger? Her name seems strong, though there is some backstory which revealed that Tatsuki herself doesn't like it, so I'm just allowing myself to imagine that perhaps her parents work at a dojo or do something related to martial arts. I'm also very interested about Orihime in her middle school days, viewed from Tatsuki's perspective. Ichigo and Orihime's pasts have points of similarity, being bullied because of their hair color and experiencing the death of a family member, so I wonder if Tatsuki noticed that they have these things in common?

A181.

The karate dojo that Ichigo used to attend is attached to Tatsuki's home. Additionally, in a flashback which I had to cut due to page limitations, there was a scene where Tatsuki draws a parallel between Ichigo and Orihime. You're quite the reader, huh?

Q182.

2021.08.23

I want to be able to draw illustrations like Kubo-sensei so I'm practicing, but whether it be male or female characters, please let me know if there are any points you pay particular attention to when drawing people.

A182.

There isn't much difference in how I depict men and women. I get the sense that I draw each character with a feeling that's like "this aspect of this character is good."

Q183.

2021.08.23

I have a question about the feathers around Yumichika's eyes. When he appeared in the story about Ikkaku's past, and also 10 years later, it doesn't appear that he's wearing any accessories, but is that sort of like ‘his thing’ these days?

A183.

All the things Yumichika wears are fashionable items, so it varies depending on the season.

Q184.

2021.08.30

What is your favorite Doraemon movie?

A184.

It's "Little Star Wars." It's because I like the theme song.

Q185.

2021.08.30

I would like to know the details about the relationship between Mask De Masculine and James. Is it correct to infer from Yhwach's line "James, so you have died?" that Masculine is like a false manifestation and James is his true form.

A185.

James is the true form, and Masculine is James's ideal hero.

Q186.

2021.08.30

Regarding the subtitle of BLEACH volume 6 "THE DEATH TRILOGY OVERTURE", if literally translated, it becomes "prologue to the Shinigami trilogy", I think perhaps this means the prologue of the series is about facing the Shinigami, the second chapter is about facing the Arrancar and the final chapter is about facing the Quincy. Is it that you decided on the overall structure of the story from the early stages, resulting in a title like this?

A186. 

That is so. Since the Lost Agent arc initially wasn't about Shinigami, it was my plan to mix elements of both preceding and upcoming chapters for a smoother transition.

Q187.

2021.08.30

I know this is a terrible question, but I would like to know Kuchiki Rukia's bust, waist and hip measurements….

A187.

It's a secret. All the people asking about BWH measurements and other boob related questions are women…. Well, it's fine then I guess.

Q188.

2021.08.30

Some time ago, I watched you begin to draw an illustration on a Shikishi board by hand and without a rough sketch too for Jigoku no Misawa-sensei, I was in shock thinking "you must be kidding…." When you draw a picture, are you drawing with a clear image of the whole composition already in a completed state in your head? Also, where do you usually start from when drawing a character? I was all the more astonished because I saw Kubo-sensei's craft in a character that was not sensei's own. ×[5]

A188.

From the time I was an elementary school student, I have been drawing Kitarō starting from his toes, so ever since then, the order in which I draw things has always been chaotic.

Q189.

2021.09.06

Ichigo's attendance score is 13 overall and 6 for male student attendance score, these are also the respective numbers of the squads to which Rukia and Renji belong, that is, two Shinigami with whom he shares a particularly close bond. Was this something you set up intentionally?

A189.

It's just a coincidence. 6 is my lucky number so it makes a frequent appearance within the story.

Q190.

2021.09.06

When I look at illustrations, I often look at the fashion designs of the characters, but I am always impressed by how meticulously Kubo-sensei's illustrations depict the structural lines and details of the clothing. I would like to know if there are any fashion brands and the like which you associate with a certain character's image?

A190.

I was about to say that for every character I've never thought "this character would probably wear this brand", but there was actually one individual alone. Äs Nödt would wear Rick Owens. 

Q191.

2021.09.06

Your pen-name in the past was Kubo Noriaki, but why was your name changed to Tite?

A191.

That's because that 'pen-name' is actually my real name and on top of that, it was a misprint.

Q192.

2021.09.06

How old is Ikumi-san from Unagiya Shop?

A193.

She's 33.

Q193.

2021.09.06

In the original story and the novels, it is mentioned that Soul Society has a one million year history, but of the Four Great Noble Houses, if Byakuya is the 28th generation and Yoruichi is 22nd generation, it seems this falls short of one million years, what do you think?

A193.

The history of the Nobles is the history of the Seireitei, not Soul Society.

Q194.

2021.09.06

I remember that Kubo-sensei frequently used an au talby A5508SA cell phone for many years. Is that the same cell phone model that is hanging from Ichigo's waist on the cover of WJ issue 23, 2005, and the same one that Rukia is clutching in her hand on the cover of chapter 298

A194.

That's right. I still have it at home. I love Marc Newson.

Q195.

2021.09.13

Kubo-sensei, do you prefer raw eggs, boiled eggs, or hot spring eggs?

A195.

I like raw eggs. Isn't this dependent on one's eating habits?

Q196.

2021.09.13

"PIPERS" WOVEN JACQUARD MUFFLER was sold on Whiskrs, but does sensei own serial number 1? (*These were sold in a limited number of 99)

A196.

I have it. Personally, I thought it would have been easier to use if it was a little longer.

Q197.

2021.09.13

Ganju who reappeared in the Thousand-Year Blood War arc has, from where I'm standing, gained a butt-chin, but did that just happen over the course of his growth? Or was it the discipline he received from Kūkaku, or perhaps he was influenced by Shiroganehiko who similarly has a butt-chin? I would be grateful if you could tell us.

A197.

Huh? Wait, Ganju wasn't supposed to have a butt-chin!? Well then, let's go with growth!

Q198.

2021.09.13

The name Nīhashi = 15 → 2+1+8+4.

The names Nīha and Ninny = 15 → Nīha: 2+1+8 and Ninny: 2+2.

Is this something you were setting up as a goal? ×[6]

A198.

I happened to see this on Twitter and surprised myself. The person who spotted this is amazing. However, it's just a coincidence.

Q199.

2021.09.13

Hitsugaya always wears something that looks like a brooch, it appears to be a marigold, is this correct? 

A199.

You mean the clip on his sash which held his sword in his earlier appearances? That's a sun motif. 

Q200.

2021.09.13

I would like to see that school parody with the BLEACH cast (the one that was in JET), will it be released somewhere?!

A200.

I want to see that too, but it would be hard to draw the manga myself, so I'm thinking of sharing character profiles and maybe someone will draw it for me.

Translation Footnotes:

×1. "Rondanini's black dog" is part of an incantation for a Kidō spell. See BLEACH chapter 21.

×2. 帯 = to wear/ to carry/ to bear | 人= people | 帯人 (Tite) = to bear people

×3. The joke is: Inu = dog in Japanese. Uni is sea urchin, in Japan we eat sea urchin as sashimi or sushi and it is orange in color.

×4. Back in 2005, a BLEACH dating simulation game parody video, known as "Love Bleach" was made by staff for a BLEACH event. The gag involved teasing a TBA dating simulator. The video is available on YouTube: https://youtu.be/0cA-jySdzYE?si=-5OX0MQX1bZKsqws

×5. Tite Kubo drawing for Jigoku No Misawa: https://youtu.be/xRAfswhrQC4?si=6rgKaPK94EbzcBY1

×6. Based on Japanese numerals, Ni = 2, i = 1, ha = 8 shi = 4. 

[velvet-paradox]

Stay (ch. 2)

Fandom: Call of Duty Pairing: Viking!König x Female reader Length: Medium

Meeting some of the KorTac clan - Aiding The Collector - A wrong to make it right

The first night with the KorTac clan was humiliating.

After all the ogling and rude remarks as you were dragged through the street wasn't enough, you were made to sit at The Collectors' feet, while he feasted on meat, bread and ale. You were fed scraps.

As you ate greedily after the whole ordeal, the women of the tribe took pity on you, whisking you away to be scrubbed clean, shedding you of your clothes, given a new dress at least in a complimentary color as you ate and took in your new surroundings. Music was played in their great hall.

Another burly man came to König on the throne, talked about as if you weren't really there. Some toy, some play thing, some pet. You tore off a piece of bread with your teeth in earnest.

"Found a wife, did you König?"

"Hardly."

"How positively sad then, maybe she'll make someone else an honest man."

"Doubt it. No one is to touch her but me, understood?"

You'd later find out that his name was Soap.

He'd be the one to lead you out and around the dining hall, a firm grip on the back of your arm (granted permission by The Collector of course)that left little to the imagination that if you were foolish, he'd put you in the ground without a blink of an eye. He didn't even speak to you.

The room was lit with torches at each of its' four corners, shadows danced and swayed when Soap had opened the door, there was a decently made bed against the wall, draped in furs and blankets of turquoise and deep reds.

" 'at door there, only opens from one side. His side." Soap finally spoke, leaning against the doorframe, leisurely looking you up and down uncomfortably as you examined the room. "I don't know what he plans to do with ye' but it ain't gonna' be pretty or nice. Best stay on his good side, lass. You surely don't want to end up like the last one."

And without another word, he shut and locked the door behind him. You sat on the bed and waited for the unknown future.

….

Some days you didn't even see König. Left alone in that room, thankfully not a smelly cell below ground, left and forgotten about until you were nothing but bones. You made use of those quiet days, you'd found some hay stashed in a trunk and made yourself a broom.

You were given some sort of flat type of shoe that just didn't feel right. You were already wearing foreign clothes, now shoes too?

This was only meant to be a temporary stay and yet the KorTac clan had been treating you well.

As if you'd never see your parents again.

Your parents. Another night of crying yourself to sleep over them was looked promising. And that meant another curious look from one of the women or König, if he decided to collect you.

The next morning the door, from his side, unlocked and eased open with the toe of his boot. He stood at attention once he ducked inside. He took up the entire doorframe.

"We are going out," he stated and threw you your clothes, freshly laundered and stiff. Followed by your boots. "You'll need to be ready for what we are going to do today."

"What are we doing?"

"Not asking questions is one." König remarked, remaining still. Like a statue.

He only turned around when you pulled at the strings of your dress, only looking over his shoulder when you had finished. He watched you put on your boots, you barely had time to fix your hair when he lunged forward and grabbed your wrist. He bound you with that same cordage, leashing you to him.

Soap got a real laugh out of that.

….

Kim 'Horangi' Hong-Jin greeted you and The Collector with warm regards. This guy at least acknowledged you. He had greeted you at the gates of his village, the exposed and bleached bone of a whale welcomed you in. You'd never seen anything like it. It was the ribcage, perfectly displayed like a canopy.

König dropped his hand to your shoulder, keeping you close as you moved from house to house while Horangi watched on, munching on a juicy apple.

The Collector gave his signature knock, one you knew well, but from the outside, watching the behemoth use his forearm instead was something else entirely.

You were now an accomplice, aiding the boogeyman in his rounds. The sack Soap had tossed at you when you left the village was getting gaining weight. The coins clinking together as you two went door to door, these people were absoutely terrified and with good reason.

He was even scary in his sleep!

What sort of dreams did a man like that have anyway?

König thanked Horangi with a personal handshake and headbutt. "You're better than a pack mule." König snorted, chuckling to himself as you two moved on to the next town.

More money, more scared and frightened faces. Children hid, in the last town even the chickens held their clucking when you passed by. A village that reminded you of home made you wince when The Collector grabbed a young man up until his feet dangled and shook him like a cloth doll.

He was vicious and violent and cruel.

Ruthless.

A dangerous individual.

Dinner that evening was just the same as it had been. You'd been gifted a pillow to sit on, yet you still ate at his feet and no longer were tossed scraps but you got a whole plate to yourself. Day eight and not a word from your father, no carrier was sent out to the KorTac clan in your favor.

You started to dissolve your thinking that maybe these people knew more than they were letting on. Maybe there was word from your parents. Maybe they chose not to tell you! Being isolated for so long was weighing down your shoulders like a soggy blanket.

"Oh, sorry pet, didn't see you down there." Another head covered man bumped into you on his hot pursuit to speak with König, his right hand man, covered in wolf pelts and broad.

That's what they called you. Your name was erased. Just pet.

He was the one to find you crying in the hallway just outside your forsaken room after dinner. Again, bumping into you. For the KorTac clan to wear face coverings, one might think their eyesight might be somewhat enhanced.

Kruger bent down on one knee, dared touch your face to make you look at him.

"Why do you cry so much?"

"What?" You sniffled and he still held your face. Maybe he has a death wish, you thought.

"You're always crying."

"That's because I am punished here!" You shout and push away from him and the wall. "Wouldn't you be? König dragged me from my home because he up and decided he wanted to change course of payment days. Without fair notice and now I'm locked here with you people. I don't even know if I'll ever see my parents again!"

With that said, you burst into even more tears. Covering your face with your hands was worse, it just made you hotter and more upset that there was absolutely no one here who would, want or could console you.

"Do you feel like a prisoner, pet?"

"I am one! I don't want to be here anymore."

"Kruger!" König's booming voice seemed to flutter around the entire hall, his boots sounded deafening. "You had better not be the one to bring my pet to tears! I will have your throat."

Kruger straightened up quickly and backed away, adjusting his head covering and the wolf fur that hangs off his shoulders. Not like The Collectors cloak, its as deep and lush as the forest that surrounds the village.

He looks down at you wiping your face, trying to catch your breath.

Your chin jitters.

"No, sir."

"Leave us." Is all he says and you turn to take your leave into your room but are stopped, König's hand is on your wrist in an almost intimate manner. Which is shocking and somehow even more terrifying. "Not you."

Kruger left you in the hallway, made sure he was gone and out of sight before entering your chamber. The gust of wind from him opening the door made your bedroom torches crackle and sputter about as he dragged you behind him. He'd only stood in your adjacent doorway, so to see him and have him here in you, in the room you've been tidying to your liking until your father can pay out was - strange.

"Sit."

You sniffled and did as was asked. Still too afraid to ask what happened to the last ransom captive. You obeyed without question. You wrung your hands together as you watched the big man pace.

"They can't keep seeing you crying, you know? Their going to start thinking I'm breaking you apart every night."

"You might as well at this point. Am I ever going home?"

"That's up to your parents, not me." König said with a scoff, as if this wasn't he whole ensemble, he orchestrated this madness to begin with! He's the one that switched up payday to begin with, this was his fault, his doing and the more you sat there and how could König be so passive about it? Too much. It was all too much!

Without warning you sprung up and shoved him, he didn't move much but he looked down at you with narrowed eyes.

"This is your fault!" You pushed him again and for some reason, or maybe you imagined it, he did move this time. "This is all your fault! You did this to me."

"I did it for your own good!"

"That doesn't even make any sense, none of this makes sense. I'm stuck in limbo," you shouted and shoved at him once more, he allowed you, actually allowed you to move him back towards the wall. "I'm stuck in this room! I'm stuck with your clan a-and for what? A failed payment, on a day that you chose!"

König sighed.

"Is this some sick joke? I've been here for a month now, no word from my father, no word from my mother… have you? Have you had word from them, Collector?"

"I have."

Your lashes clumped together, eyes welling up when he crossed his arms and looked away to one of the torches. "You… you have? When? Why didn't you notify me, I'm losing my mind in here."

"Last week."

"What? What do you mean last week? I was here, I've been here! I did not see him."

"No, pet you wouldn't would you? Do remember when I asked Soap to take you to Keeva the seamstress for some mending?"

You were the on to pace now. Of course you remember, it was the first time you were allowed out of his sight and untethered to another person. Keeva was the sweetest one out of the entirety of the KorTac clan. She was round and full, waddling down the muddy lane with you in tow, both of you carrying clothes from the great hall.

"…yes."

"He came the village, alone. You were right," König shrugged and shook his head. "Times are a little tough for your family, they can barely feed themselves. Your father only had half of what is due anyhow."

"Then… how long did he say? An estimate, even."

"No idea. But he did offer me something far more than its' worth."

You shivered. The hairs on the back on your arms prickled.

König then pulled out a familiar bracelet. It was passed down to your mother from her mother and so on. It was to be treasured, worn with grace and beauty. Carrying on. But now, in all its' emerald glory, still pretty as ever, it looked dirty in his palm.

He held it out to you.

"Why do you have that?" Your voice cracking and watery. Your throat threatening to close in on itself like a dune of sand. Blood pounded in your ears.

The Collector cocked his head and once again urged you to take the jewelry.

"Your father gave it to me," his hold on your wrist was tight, but not forceful. Careful, would be the closest thing you could think of when he slipped it on for you. "To give to you."

"W-why?"

"He can't pay me in gold or coin." The Collectors voice deepened and you've never felt smaller than what came out of his treacherous mouth.

No no nonopleaasenopleasenono…

"What he can pay me in is this. And you."

[valtsv]

What do your ocs reaver and valentine look like? I like them a lot!

YAYYYYYY okay <3 valentine's a decorated mech pilot who wears her mechsuit even outside the cockpit because her body is breaking down under the stress. she's pale, spindly, flat-chested and has poor posture from hours spent hunched inside a hulk of metal. she's tall and long-boned, which gives her an insect-like appearance. her hair is an off-white shade with faded brown strands peppered in; it used to be dark brown but the stress has bleached it. she usually wears it curled in propaganda shoots and television appearances because it looks too thin otherwise. her skin is a patchwork of half-healed, raw and infected, necrotic flesh from skin grafts which haven't had time to heal before she got back in the mech (hence the suit, which she uses as armour, exoskeleton and shield). she has wide brown bloodshot eyes lined with shadows of exhaustion and tension, and she gets an eyepatch later in her story when one of them is damaged too severely to be of functional use anymore.

reaver is a stocky asian-american man with dark hair streaked with grey and matching facial hair that lies somewhere in the liminal space between stubble and beard. he has an appearance best described as both careworn and careless - depression and bitterness weigh heavy on him, and although he's always presentable, he makes no more effort to be than the bare minimum. his clothes are clean, but old, and showing signs of repeated repair. his hair is long enough to tie back into a ponytail, but straggly at the ends in a way that suggests it's the result of a lack of regular haircuts rather than a conscious decision to grow it out. his eyes are heavy-lidded, hazel, and his loveliest feature. his skin is a light golden-brown, but with a pallid, unhealthy undertone that belies how little sun he gets. he looks older than his years, more like someone in their fifties than their forties like he actually is. he has muscle definition, but he's "let himself go" slightly, so it's padded out with a layer of softness and sagging skin that's clearly not from living well. unlike valentine, who gives the impression of someone who was striking but never beautiful, he's got the look of a man who was once handsome but has sunk into despair.