#not only is it the most humane thing to do but think about it. you can't kill him. imprisoning him clearly doesn't work...

[bluegiragi]

I really don’t care if I’m considered an annoying luddite forever, I will genuinely always hate AI and I’ll think less of you if you use it. ChatGPT, Generative AI, those AI chatbots - all of these things do nothing but rot your brain and make you pathetic in my eyes. In 2025? You’re completely reliant on a product owned by tech billionaires to think for you, write for you, inspire you, in 2025????

“Oh but I only use ___ for ideas/spellcheck/inspiration!!” I kinda don’t care? oh, you’re “only” outsourcing a major part of the creative process that would’ve made your craft unique to you. Writing and creating art has been one of the most intrinsically human activities since the dawn of time, as natural and central to our existence as the creation of the goddamn wheel, and sheer laziness and a culture of instant gratification and entitlement is making swathes of people feel not only justified in outsourcing it but ahead of the curve!!

And genuinely, what is the point of talking to an AI chatbot, since people looove to use my art for it and endlessly make excuses for it. RP exists. Fucking daydreaming exists. You want your favourite blorbo to sext you, there’s literally thousands of xreader fic out there. And if it isn’t, write it yourself! What does a computer’s best approximation of a fictional character do that a human author couldn’t do a thousand times better. Be at your beck and call, probably, but what kind of creative fulfilment is that? What scratch is that itching? What is it but an entirely cyclical ourobouros feeding into your own validation?

I mean, for Christ sakes there are people using ChatGPT as therapists now, lauding it for how it’s better than any human therapist out there because it “empathises”, and no one ever likes to bring up how ChatGPT very notably isn’t an accurate source of information, and often just one that lives for your approval. Bad habits? Eh, what are you talking about, ChatGPT told me it’s fine, because it’s entire existence is to keep you using it longer and facing any hard truths or encountering any real life hard times when it comes to your mental health journey would stop that!

I just don’t get it. Every single one of these people who use these shitty AIs have a favourite book or movie or song, and they are doing nothing by feeding into this hype but ensuring human originality and sincere passion will never be rewarded again. How cute! You turned that photo of you and your boyfriend into ghibli style. I bet Hayao Miyazaki, famously anti-war and pro-environmentalist who instills in all his movies a lifelong dedication to the idea that humanity’s strongest ally is always itself, is so happy that your request and millions of others probably dried up a small ocean’s worth of water, and is only stamping out opportunities for artists everywhere, who could’ve all grown up to be another Miyazaki. Thanks, guys. Great job all round.

[xjulixred45x]

Imagine an adult Yuu who arrived at Twisted Wonderland PREGNANT.

This could be considered part of the Yuu! Parent variables (?). Perhaps the poor woman was returning from an early ultrasound (at 2 or 3 months old) when the black carriage hit her, scaring her to death upon her appearance in TWST. She must have thought she was about to be sacrificed to a cult.

I can definitely imagine the Squad characters being much more understanding/soft of this Yuu, especially Ace and Deuce. Ace wouldn't be so malicious at the beginning of the game (I'd like to believe that not even he would be capable of laughing in the face of a pregnant woman), and instead feels obvious guilt because Crowley has entrusted her with a mediocre job.

Deuce, my sweet boy, will set off all his alarm bells. He's the most outraged that the headmaster is forcing a pregnant woman to work ALONE, and if his dorm leader hadn't been so strict in the beginning, he definitely wouldn't let Yuu sleep in a dorm that's falling apart. Has Crowley gone crazy? Does he have no shred of decency?!

Grim probably thought at first that Yuu had eaten her baby, haha, and had to receive the wonderful "birds and the bees" lecture (much to Ace's amusement at Grim's horrified reactions). Let's just say Grim now insists on standing sentry in case Yuu decides to do anything too "dangerous for the baby" (humans are fragile even with magic; he has to take care of his minion!).

Jack, bless him, also tries to help make the ramshackle dorm safer alongside Epel, whether by removing the most rotten parts of the structure, helping clean, assisting with Yuu's errands, etc. Especially when she starts showing more of her bump.

GOD, IMAGINE THE DORM LEADERS!

Riddle was probably the only one who didn't realize Yuu was pregnant until the events of the Savanaclaw episode. And when he found out he almost seriously hurt a PREGNANT WOMAN? Trey and Cater practically had to keep him from banging his head against a wall for half an hour out of embarrassment and shame. He also drafted a LONG apology for Yuu, which was delivered with a giant strawberry cake (and one of those exaggerated bows I KNOW Riddle would do).

Thanks to his mom (for once in his life), Riddle is the most knowledgeable about useful pregnancy stuff! Whenever Yuu goes to Heartslabyul, she has access to calcium- and iron-rich meals (prepared by Trey), and teas that boost her immune system and combat morning sickness. Riddle is careful not to give her things like black tea or rosemary tea, knowing they could have negative effects (if it were up to Riddle, Yuu probably wouldn't walk unaided).

Leona is much more respectful to a female Yuu, we know that, but I don't think he has the energy to be rude, or be especially , well, Leona, to a PREGNANT woman. This ends up bringing out a side of Leona no one thought existed: an almost delicate side. Sure, he's still lazy and sarcastic, but he doesn't say no to Yuu when she asks for help with something, whether it's bringing something to her dorm or dealing with a difficult situation. he dosent even COMPLAIN. what did he do to the real Leona??

We all know Crowley doesn't give Yuu and Grim enough money to live comfortably, let alone considering they could soon have a new member on ramshakle. Yuu is now surprised to find extra money in the dorm after certain visits. Not that he'll admit it, but it makes everyone feel more at ease.

Again, I want to believe Azul wouldn't be capable of leaving a pregnant woman homeless, at the very least he offered her a place to stay in Octavinelle. It turns out the twins (especially Floyd) quickly took a liking to Yuu.

A cute scenario I came up with, when Yuu already has a prominent baby bump, is that she tries to joke with the Leechs that the nickname "shrimpy" doesn't suit her anymore, and that maybe they should change it to "whaley."

AND FLOYD IS LIKE, "Why are you saying that, Koebi-chan? :( Is someone calling you that? Come on, tell me :)"

I think the Octavinelle folks genuinely don't know how human pregnancy works, so they're surprisingly gentle and caring with Yuu (even when the baby is born, I can see Monster Lounge having a kids' menu for them).

Kalim, my god, Jamil is going to have to stop him from giving Yuu a completely equipped nursery for both her and the baby. Ironically, the one who's the most normal about pregnancy (the guy has 30 younger siblings, so he KNOWS about these things) and genuinely knows some home tricks that helped his mother when she was pregnant.

offers to organize a baby shower/gender reveal party! The bad thing is that it ends up being a whole festival with all of Scarabia participating. But hey, it's the thought that counts.

There's no way Yuu, who's already 6-7 months along, will wear the school uniform simply for comfort, so if you need help finding comfortable AND cute clothes, Vil will gladly help! Obviously, he's not as strict or harsh with Yuu due to the circumstances, but he still wants the best for her. Who knows, maybe they can pick out some clothes for the baby in advance.

Idia is afraid to get close to Yuu, not only because of social anxiety, but because of the thought that he might "ruin" the baby in some way. He needs a lot of support from Ortho and Yuu to even allow himself to have normal physical contact with Yuu, and just as he does, the baby kicks. Idia's heart is gone (everyone wants to feel the kicks now, especially Ace, Floyd, and Malleus).

They probably use some STYX or Ortho equipment for some of the baby checks, and he even gives an approximate due date, which feels bittersweet. Even if everyone does their best, Yuu still hoped to have his baby at home, but he doesn't complain when the boys do all this for them. It feels like Home.

Malleus is another who doesn't fully understand human pregnancy and is incredibly intrigued. It doesn't help that Lilia's answers to his questions are even more confusing, so he ends up going straight to the source of his intrigue, Yuu. Malleus is completely mesmerized the first time he hears the baby's heartbeat, completely fascinated by what human life is like compared to fairies/dragons.

That said, he proceeds to "scold" the baby when it kicks Yuu for "hurting its mother," not quite understanding the concept, but he has the spirit. Malleus is very scared of the idea of childbirth once he's educated on it (WHERE will the baby come out? HOW!?) and will probably try to improve his healing magic SOLELY because of that.

All I can say is that if the baby is born in Twisted Wonderland, they'll have a wide array of adoptive siblings, father figures, babysitters, and weird and eccentric uncles who will take very good care of them and its mother. So you can rest easy.

__________

(ESPAÑOL)

Imagínate una Yuu adulta que llego a Twisted Wonderland estando EMBARAZADA

Esto podría considerarse parte de las variables de Yuu! Parent(?)Talvez la pobre mujer estaba regresando de un ultrasonido de los primeros meses (2 o 3 meses) cuando el carruaje negro le paso por encima, dándole un susto de muerte cuando apareció en TWST. La pobre mujer debio pensar que estaba a punto de ser sacrificada a un culto.

Definitivamente puedo ver a los personajes del Squad mucho mas suaves con esta Yuu, especialmente Ace y Deuce. Ace no sería tan malicioso al principio del juego (digo, quiero creer que incluso el no seria capaz de reírse en la cara de una mujer embarazada) y más bien siente una obvia lastima de que Crowley le haya metido en un trabajo mediocre.

Deuce, mi dulce niño, le disparan todas las alarmas. Es el más obviamente indignado de que el director haga trabajar a una mujer embarazada SOLA, y definitivamente si su líder de dormitorio no fuera tan estricto al principio, no dejaría que Yuu durmiera en un dormitorio que se cae a pedazos ¿¡que acaso Crowley perdió la cabeza, no tiene el mínimo de decencia?!

Grim probablemente al principio pensó que Yuu se había comido a su bebe lol, y le tuvieron que dar la maravillosa charla de las “aves y las abejas” (para diversión de Ace por las reacciones horrorizadas de Grim). Solo digamos que ahora Grim insiste en actuar como centinela en caso de que Yuu se le ocurra hacer algo demasiado “peligroso para él bebe” (los humanos son frágiles aun si magia ¡tiene que cuidar a su secuaz!).

Jack, bendito sea, también trata de ayudar en hacer el dormitorio destartalado mas seguro junto a Epel, ya sea quitando las partes mas podridas de la estructura, ayudando a limpiar, ayudar con los mandados de Yuu, etc. Especialmente cuando empieza a mostrar mas la panza de embarazada.

DIOS, IMAGINENSE LOS LIDERES DE DORMITORIO.

Riddle probablemente fue el único que no llego a darse cuenta que Yuu estaba embarazada hasta los eventos del capítulo de Savanaclaw ¿y cuando se enteró que casi lastimo gravemente a una MUJER EMBARAZADA? Trey y Cater tuvieron que físicamente detenerlo de que se golpeara la cabeza contra la pared por media hora por la vergüenza, también redacto un documento LARGUISIMO de disculpa a Yuu, que fue entregado con una gran tarta de fresa (y una de esas reverencias exageradas que SE que Riddle haría).

¡Gracias a su madre (por una vez en la vida), Riddle es el que sabe más de cosas útiles para el embarazo! Cada vez que Yuu va Heartslabyul, tienen acceso a comidas nutritivas en calcio y hierro (hechas por Trey), Tés beneficiosos para el sistema inmune y para combatir las náuseas matutinas, aparte de que Riddle es cuidadoso de no dar cosas como Te negro o romero, sabiendo que podrían tener malos efectos (si fuera por Riddle, Yuu probablemente no caminaría sin ayuda).

Leona es bastante más respetuoso con una Yuu mujer, eso lo sabemos, pero no creo que tenga la energía para ser grosero o especialmente, bueno, Leona, con una mujer EMBARAZADA. Esto termina sacando un lado que nadie creía que existía de Leona, un lado casi delicado. Claro, sigue siendo perezoso y sarcástico, pero no le dice que no a Yuu cuando le pide ayuda en algo, ya sea llevar algo a su dormitorio o con una situación difícil.

Todos sabemos que Crowley no da ni de lejos el dinero suficiente para que Yuu y Grim vivan bien, mucho menos pensando que PODRIAN TENER UN NUEVO INTEGRANTE PRONTO, por lo que Yuu ahora se sorprende después de ciertas visitas, aparece algo de dinero extra en el dormitorio. No es como que lo vaya a admitir, pero todos están más tranquilos de esa forma.

De nuevo, quiero creer que Azul no sería capaz de dejar sin hogar a una mujer embarazada, aunque sea le ofrecería una estancia en Octaville, ya que, además, resulta que los gemelos (especialmente Floyd) se encariñaron con Yuu muy rápido.

Un escenario lindo que se me ocurrió, ya cuando Yuu tiene una panza de embarazada prominente, es que ella trata de bromear con los Leech de que el apodo “camarón” ya no le queda bien, y que a lo mejor tendrían que cambiarlo a “ballena”

Y FLOYD ESTA COMO “¿Por qué dices eso Koebi-chan?  ¿alguien te está diciendo asi? Vaaaamos, dímelo ”

Creo que genuinamente los de Octaville no saben muy bien cómo funciona el embarazo terrestre, por lo que son sorprendentemente gentiles y cuidadosos con Yuu (incluso cuando nace el bebe, puedo ver el Monstre Louge teniendo un menú infantil para ellos).

Kalim, dios mio, Jamil tendrá que detenerlo de regalarle a Yuu absolutamente toda una guardería completamente equipada tanto para ella como para el bebe. Irónicamente el que es el mas normal al respecto del embarazo (el man tiene 30 hermanos menores, el SABE de estas cosas) y genuinamente sabe algunos trucos caseros que le sirvieron a su madre cuando ella estaba embarazada.

¡ofrece organizar un baby shower/ fiesta de revelación de genero! Lo malo es que termina siendo todo un festival en el que participa todo Scarabia. Pero hey, la intención es lo que cuenta.

No hay forma en la que estando ya en los 6-7 meses Yuu use el uniforme de la escuela por simple cuestión de comodidad, por lo que si necesitan ayuda en encontrar ropa cómoda Y bonita ¡Vil le ayudara con gusto! Obviamente no es tan estricto ni duro con Yuu debido a las circunstancias, pero sigue queriendo lo mejor para ella. Quien sabe, talvez puedan elegir algo de ropa para él bebe de adelantado.

Idia tiene miedo de acercarse a Yuu, no solo por la ansiedad social, sino por la idea de que podría “arruinar” al bebe de alguna forma. Necesita mucho apoyo de Ortho y Yuu para siquiera permitirse tener contacto físico con Yuu de forma normal, y justo cuando lo hace, el bebe patea. A Iidia se le salió el alma del cuerpo (ahora todos quieren sentir las pataditas, sobretodo Ace, Floyd y Malleus).

Probablemente usan algo de equipo de STYX o Ortho para algunos controles del bebe, incluso el da una fecha aproximada de nacimiento, lo cual da una sensación agridulce. Aun si todos hacen su mejor esfuerzo, Yuu esperaba poder tener a su bebe en casa, pero no se queja cuando los chicos hacen todo esto por ellos.

Malleus es otro que no entiende el embarazo humano completamente y esta increíblemente intrigado, no ayuda que as respuestas de Lilia a sus preguntas son aún más confusas, por lo que termina lleno a la fuente de su intriga, Yuu. Malleus se queda completamente hipnotizado la primera vez que escucha los latidos del bebe, totalmente fascinado por cómo es la vida humana en comparación a las hadas/dragones.

Eso sí, procede a “reprender” al bebe cuando patea a Yuu por “lastimar a su madre”, no entendiendo bien el concepto, pero tiene el espíritu. A Malleus le asusta mucho la idea del parto una vez que se educa al respecto (¿Qué el bebe saldrá DE DONDE? ¡¿COMO!?) y probablemente trate de mejorar en magia curativa UNICAMENTE por eso.

Solo puedo decir que si el bebe nace en Twisted Wonderland, tendrá un vasto abanico de hermanos adoptivos, figuras paternas, niñeros, tíos raros y extravagantes que lo cuidaran muy bien a él y su madre. Así que pueden estar tranquilos.

Shares, reblogs and comments are very welcome!

[pukefactory]

︶꒦꒷ NOCTURNE COLLECTION ꒷꒦︶

ྐ✚ Summary: A Compilation of Headcanons Featuring Ken The Butcher X Reader

ྐ✚ Character(s): Ken The Butcher (The Gaslight District)

ྐ✚ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

ྐ✚ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

ྐ✚ Image Credits: @MemuroPage on Pinterest

꒷꒦ You met Ken the same way most people meet death—with a sharp hook around the ankle and the smell of blood in your throat. You weren’t supposed to be in the Whale Belly. You got lost. Or maybe something worse brought you there. But instead of slicing you open like a slab of meat, Ken squinted at your face, muttered something about “wrong time, wrong place,” and offered you a job as a server. With one condition: “You breathe a word to anyone, and I’ll use your ribs for soup stock.” You think that was his way of being sweet.

꒷꒦ Ken doesn’t do affection. He does inspection. He yells at you for not wearing gloves. Yells at you for talking to Mud. Yells at you when you slice onions wrong. “What’re you doin’, lettin’ yourself bleed like that? What if the virtues sniff it out, huh? You tryin’ to die?!” You never realized love could look like a hulking butcher shoving gauze against your palm with shaking hands. Like a man who screams because he doesn’t know how to cry.

꒷꒦ The moment he realizes he’s in love with you, he panics. He tears apart a whole freezer full of pork trying to cool down. What the hell is he supposed to do with this? You—this soft, living thing—liking him? Choosing him? That’s not normal. That’s not safe. So he does the only thing he knows how to: “Stay in the back. Don’t talk to nobody. Don’t look at Mud. Don’t breathe unless I say so.”…And when you do all that anyway, just to stay near him, he nearly bursts a vein.

꒷꒦ He takes “overprotective” to mythic levels. You tripped once and got scraped up. Within the hour, Ken had six gangsters lined up with broken kneecaps, screaming, “WHICH ONE OF YOU PUT A CRACK IN THE SIDEWALK?!” It was a pebble. Doesn’t matter. They’re still cemented to this day.

꒷꒦ He can’t bear to let you out of his sight, so he makes you a butcher’s apprentice. Now you’re stuck in the Whale Belly, learning how to clean knives while Ken critiques your slicing technique with the intensity of a drill sergeant. “No, no, you’re butcherin’ the cut wrong! And not in the good way! Look—like this, you see? Precise. Surgical. Delicate, like open-heart murder.” You can’t tell if he’s flirting or teaching, but either way, you’re sweating.

꒷꒦ When he thinks about the future, he sees red. Not in the angry way. In the wedding veil soaked in blood kind of way. He doesn’t think he deserves a happy ending, but sometimes he imagines one: you in some nice white piece (with a Kevlar vest underneath), him walking you down the aisle (or slaughterhouse hallway), Breadhead officiating. “I’m just sayin’, … if this dump ever goes quiet, and Mel don’t hate my guts, and I ain’t dead yet… maybe we find a chapel. Or a ditch. You pick.”

꒷꒦ He makes you breakfast every morning: eggs (not human), toast (slightly charred), and coffee so bitter it feels like chewing sin. He won’t let anyone else near your food. “You want cyanide in your pancakes? No? Then you eat what I cook.” You tell him it’s perfect every time. He grumbles. But he starts setting the table for two anyway.

꒷꒦ Ken doesn’t trust easily, but he gives you the key to the back freezer. No one has that key. Not even Breadhead. It’s where he keeps the real things. The sacred things. The broken things that still hurt. You found an old photo once—of a baby with a familiar curl in her hair, held by someone Ken tore out of the frame. He saw you holding it and went silent for the whole night. Next morning, he gave you a necklace made from a butcher’s hook. “Wear it. If the virtues come for you… you’ll swing before they do.”

꒷꒦ He doesn’t say “I love you.” He says “Don’t die.” He says it a lot. After arguments. Before raids. When you go to sleep. “Don’t die on me. Not before I do. Not before I finish what I started.” You don’t say anything back. You just hold his hand—scarred, raw, shaking—and hope it says enough.

꒷꒦ If anyone ever hurt you, there wouldn’t be a second time. There wouldn’t be a first time, not really—just a blip before Ken’s rage blotted out the sun. He’s not subtle. He doesn’t bluff. If someone touched a hair on your head, he’d go full monologue: “You touched somethin’ that didn’t belong to you. And now, I’m gonna peel you like garlic and use your spine as a meat skewer.” You asked once if he’d really go that far. He didn’t answer. Just wiped his hands, kissed your knuckles, and muttered, “Only if I’m feelin’ merciful.”

[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤCATCH ME, KEEP MEㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Wally West x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : How Would He Be When He's Obsessed?

☆⁠ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

Wally doesn’t fall hard at first.

Not really. He’s a people person, used to talking to everyone. Charming, fast-talking, always the loudest in the room—but when he meets you? You don’t flinch at his confidence. You look him dead in the eye, half-bored, half-amused, and say, “You talk a lot.”

And that’s it. That’s the moment.

The silence you leave in your wake buzzes louder than his speed ever could.

He starts noticing you everywhere.

You aren’t trying to stand out, and that’s what kills him. While the world is screaming for attention, you just exist—quiet, steady, untouchable. You don’t need to chase validation, and that burns something unfamiliar into Wally’s chest.

He tells himself it’s just a crush. One of many. He’s had dozens. He’s charming like that, right?

But no. This one sticks.

He starts moving at your pace.

Literally. Wally West—the Fastest Man Alive—slows down just to match your steps. You walk? He walks. You take the long way home? He memorizes every corner of it. You like quiet places? Suddenly, Wally knows every hidden rooftop in the city.

He starts showing up in places he swears he was “just passing through.”

He’s lying. He calculated every path to run into you.

The obsession sneaks in like a thief.

He remembers every little thing: your favorite snack, the way you tie your hair when you’re irritated, the exact inflection in your voice when you’re sarcastic. He collects those details like trophies, files them away like a case he needs to solve.

And god help the guy who flirts with you. Wally’s smile doesn’t falter, but there’s an edge to it. A twitch in his fingers. A flash in his eyes.

Fast as he is, he’s even faster when he’s angry.

He gets possessive in ways he can’t explain.

He doesn’t mean to sound jealous. But when you talk about other guys? Other heroes?

“You think Nightwing’s hot?”

“He’s got nice hair, I guess,” you shrug.

That’s it. Dick’s getting his shampoo swapped out and his uniform ‘accidentally’ burned.

He knows it’s irrational. He just doesn’t care.

He doesn’t need to be around you all the time. But he wants to.

There’s a difference. He’s still Wally—funny, fast, loyal—but something about you makes everything else dim.

You become his constant. His gravity. His anchor. The world could end, but if you're safe? He'll laugh through the apocalypse.

And if you're not?

Well. That’s a problem no one wants to see the end of.

He watches you when you’re not looking.

Not in a creepy way (okay, maybe a little). But he stares. Long, intense, unwavering. Because when you’re not paying attention, you’re real. Soft. Human. And that’s when he wants you most.

You once caught him doing it.

“Why are you staring at me like that?”

“…Like what?”

“Like you’re hungry.”

He grins. “Maybe I am.”

You laughed, but it wasn’t a joke.

When he touches you, it’s always gentle.

His hands are made to break the sound barrier, but when he brushes your skin, it’s like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. He touches you like you’re sacred. Like you’re the only thing that makes him feel human in the blur of the world.

He wants to be close. All the time. Arm around your waist. Pinky brushing yours. His jacket on your shoulders. His heartbeat synced to yours.

It’s not enough. It’s never enough.

He gets scared of how much he loves you.

Because it’s not just a crush anymore. You’ve carved your name into the core of him. Wally would tear the world apart for you. He’d time travel, bend physics, throw away the League, burn everything just to keep you close.

He’s terrified of losing you. Of you not loving him back. Of you realizing what he really is underneath: a boy who never stops running because he’s scared of standing still.

But with you? He wants to stand still.

He confesses in a way only he could.

He grabs your face in his hands, eyes wild, chest heaving like he just ran to the ends of the Earth.

“I’ve never wanted anyone like I want you,” he blurts out. “And it’s driving me insane. I’m not good at this—waiting, wanting—but if you told me to slow down, I would. If you told me to stop, I would. Just—don’t leave me behind.”

And when you kiss him?

Time. Stops.

After the kiss, he changes.

Not in the loud, obvious way. Wally still jokes, still grins, still makes the room warmer just by being in it—but something in his eyes shifts. He looks at you like you’re not just his girlfriend—you’re his reason.

And he tells you that.

Not once. Not twice.

Every single day.

“I’d die for you,” he says like it’s a fact, not a metaphor. “And if someone tries to take you from me—well… they’d better be faster than me.”

His obsession turns quiet. Dangerous. Protective.

You don’t notice the little things at first.

Like how your co-worker suddenly transferred the day after he got a little too flirty.

Or how your phone never dies anymore, no matter how often you forget to charge it.

(He swaps batteries in your sleep. Replaces your charger. Monitors the voltage. You don’t know.)

Or how your ex texts you, and the message deletes itself before you can open it.

(He’s been in your phone. In your cloud. He’s faster than any firewall.)

You never feel unsafe. You just feel… watched. But it’s Wally, right? Your Wally. He wouldn’t—

He doesn’t trust anyone with you.

Not your friends. Not the League. Not even Barry.

He masks it well, with smiles and sarcasm, but under the surface, he’s seething. Every time someone makes you laugh, every time they touch your shoulder or stand too close, he catalogues it. Keeps score.

And later, when no one’s around, he whispers,

“You know you don’t need them, right? You have me. I’m all you’ll ever need.”

He’s not asking. He’s reminding.

He has nightmares. About losing you.

They start slow—harmless, even. You walking away. Forgetting his name. Laughing with someone else. But they escalate quickly.

You dying. You screaming. You reaching for him as he’s too slow.

(He’s never too slow.)

He wakes up drenched in sweat, vibrating from head to toe, fists clenched hard enough to bruise his own palms. Some nights he just stares at you sleeping, watching your chest rise and fall, whispering—

“I won’t let it happen. I promise. I promise. I won’t lose you.”

He starts testing you.

Little things. Subtle.

“What would you do if I disappeared?”

“Would you still love me if I wasn’t a hero?”

“Would you run away with me right now? No questions asked?”

He watches every flicker in your eyes. Measures your every breath.

You always say the right thing. But he’s waiting. Waiting to see if you’ll betray him.

He hopes you don’t. He prays you don’t.

Because if you do?

He already has a plan.

He starts talking about the future.

But not in the dreamy, romantic way. Not with rings or white dresses or picket fences.

No. Wally’s version of forever is you and him against the world. You don’t need a big house. You don’t need anyone else. You just need him.

“We could disappear,” he murmurs into your skin one night. “I could take you so far no one would find us. Ever. Just me and you, baby. Nothing else. Doesn’t that sound perfect?”

You laugh, a little unsure.

But he doesn’t laugh back.

If anyone hurts you? Even emotionally?

They. Vanish.

He doesn’t kill. He doesn’t need to. He’s smarter than that. Faster.

But you better believe they never show their face again. Maybe they get blackmailed. Maybe they’re framed. Maybe they wake up halfway across the country with no memory of how they got there.

You ask Wally if he knows anything.

He just kisses your forehead and says,

“You don’t have to worry about people like that anymore. I’ll always protect you.”

And god help you, it makes you feel safe.

He keeps something of yours with him. Always.

A strand of hair. A necklace. The first note you wrote him. The chapstick you lost. He keeps it in a little box, hidden in a place no one can find. A shrine, almost.

When he misses you (which is always), he opens it. Smiles to himself. Breathes you in.

You are his god. His everything.

And he loves you too much to let you go.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[makishimu]

Just some observations I made about Megane's latest Rota Fortunae crumbs after going back to it over and over again (if you haven't read it yet, go check it out first). Maybe you'll already have noticed most of it, but hopefully not everything. Either way, I really just feel like rambling.

First of all, this is clearly set before their trip to Sunday's shelter. In fact, it's most likely the earliest part of the timeline we've had so far. It's noticeable through the fact Aven just got the glasses and doesn't appear to have the earring he has on his ref sheet and during the animation.

About the earring, if you look at this panel:

You'll notice that Human!Aven (let's call him that for now) has a peacock feathers earrings. It's not exactly the same Android!Aven has, but it's a similar style. Now, there's two conclusions you can make of that: either Android!Aven bought it himself because it fits his style and he most likely subconsciously remembers his past to an extent, or Ratio gave it to him because it reminded him of the one Human!Aven used to wear.

Now, onto this Human!Aven if you will, because how do I know he's human? It's somewhat easy to guess, but there are still some signs: first, his eyes. As an android, Aven's eyes become magenta and cyan when behind glasses, but here it's a reflection. It would seem his human appearance naturally had the Avgin eyes (if Avgins even exist in the Rota Fortunae lore). But there is a second sign that this Aven is human: his wrist.

If you look at this panel, you'll notice Aven's wrist has a joint (weirdly enough, there doesn't seem to be any joints on his elbow, but it's hard to see so maybe Megane just didn't feel like drawing it?) that isn't here on Human!Aven. Now, how did he go from being a human to being an android? We can only speculate on that, but the general guess seems to be that Aven died and Ratio transferred his consciousness in an android body. I love that theory, but only time (and Megane) can tell how right it is.

But I'm not done with my observations! Let's talk about Ratio! Though, I'll keep aside all the speculations about why he refuses to repair Aven himself. It's most likely out of guilt, but we can't know more than that for sure.

Just a silly little thing I noticed about him is that his hair curls when wet. It's such a small detail, but it's really adorable.

But what I mostly wanted to talk about is his tattoo (or whatever it is) because there's something really interesting about it. Let's take these two panels:

If you look closely at how far the tattoo reaches up his neck in the second image, you'll most likely notice that it doesn't appear to be there on the first image. Of course, maybe he just had it tattooed later, and it's a plausible explanation. But there's just something odd about the way Ratio uncovers that specific shoulder in that scene:

Maybe I'm just over interpreting. It's entirely possible. But the way he uncovers his tattooed shoulder like that kind of makes me think that it might be uncomfortable to keep covered. Kind of like when you have a healing scar and you don't like the sensation of the fabric rubbing against sensitive skin. In that case, maybe it's more than just a tattoo? Maybe it holds more meanings in relation to the Android rebellion? After all, there are some laurel symbols on the walls of wherever they are in that scene:

It's most likely linked to a faction such as the Intelligentsia Guild or the Genius Society (I'd lean more towards the former) as Megane suggested in the comments of that thread, but it's still interesting to note that tattoo wasn't there before the rebellion.

Now, a final observation about Aven and his eyes and it's that the brightness of his pupils seems to change depending on the situation:

Funnily enough, it appears to always brighten whenever he looks at Ratio (smitten much) at the exception of that one panel where he plays with Numby. This leads me to believe it might be some sort of emotional response (bright red eyes mean positive emotion and dark red eyes mean negative emotions. If I recall, the androids in the Rota Fortunae animation had dark red pupils) and it's just kind of cute to see how differently he looks at his Doctor.

Anyway, that's enough rambling for now (if only I could come up with that many words when I write my essays). I was supposed to be writing my fanfic's next chapter but I guess that won't be for tonight lmao. Of course, credit for all the images used in that small analysis goes to Megane. Go check out their work if you haven't already, it's definitely worth it.

Thanks for reading!

[amalg-em]

Okay, I think there is, though.

Let me explain it this way: having children is a thing people do sometimes, that some people find rewarding/enriching. It's not for everyone, but neither is, say, running an animal shelter, or traveling all over for rock climbing, or working the night shift. However, like all those things, if someone wants to do it and can do it responsibly, they should be allowed to.

If reproducing/raising children is a behavior that some humans seek out for enrichment, then there should be an available outlet for them to do so. Yes, less people are having children now, and largely that's people who wouldn't want to have children anyway - but it also includes people like me, who WOULD like to have children, but are prevented from doing so.

You can't just look at the statistic "people are doing x thing less." You also have to check whether people are WANTING to do the thing. And, in this case, many of us do! I would love to be able to help support & shape the next generation of humans. I have valuable wisdom and experience to pass down and I enjoy working with children, so I would be an attentive and enthusiastic parent.

However, I also grew up in a toxic and sometimes abusive home, and I've seen the factors that contribute to that: isolation, poverty, fundamentalist religion, untreated/unmanaged trauma and health issues, etc. Most of these factors are present in my life, meaning that it would be unwise for me to have kids, or at least not until the issues are mitigated.

All of the factors I listed aren't unique to me - trauma is common, doctors not taking chronic illnesses seriously is common, isolation is common, poverty is common. There's also current or impeding climate disaster, spreading global fascism, and uncontrolled capitalism. All of these things are going to make it less likely for people to want to have children, even if they would otherwise, because they rightfully don't want to bring a tiny, helpless, fragile new person into a horrible situation.

My point is, looking at the data that shows people aren't having kids is useful if you're following it up with the question, "WHY aren't people having children?" Because if something is a normal human behavior that a certain percentage of people will want to engage in, but they're not doing it, that's a potential indicator that society has broken down somewhere and people aren't getting their needs met. And this is factually true in this case.

From what I've read, many people have concerns like mine, where they don't want to bring a child into a bad situation. Also, lot of research that polls people of reproductive age comes up with the answers "It takes too much time" and "it costs too much money." And these, too, are red flags for society not functioning as it should be. Does it really make sense to dump the entire childrearing process onto one or two people? Especially when that's not the only option, and communal childrearing has been the norm in other places and times? If children are the future and necessary for the continuation of society, doesn't it make more sense that the entire community should be pitching in to help raise children, both monetarily and otherwise? Why DO we make things so expensive for parents? Why does every parent have to spend so much money buying new baby gear, new clothes, new shoes, etc for every child? Why are parents saddled with exorbitant daycare costs when it's in the vested interest of an entire community that it's next generation reach adulthood successfully? (The answer to nearly every one of these questions is capitalism, BTW. Exhausted and isolated people spend more money and are easier to exploit.)

"you shouldn't care about x" isn't really a useful sentiment. We can get all kinds of information about what's going on in the world humans have created and how to fix it by looking at data like this and asking questions. That's the entire basis for critical thinking, in fact; asking questions like: what is happening, why is it happening, what are the mechanisms driving it, who benefits from it, who suffers, etc. "There is no progressive way to care about this topic" is just as reactionary and counterproductive as "Oh No, Women are become Actual People instead of Baby Factories, This Will Detroy Society"

Sorry not sorry but there's no "liberal" way to care about collective fertility rates

[lazysoulwriter]

you said my name on live tv! - pedro pascal.

requested! thank you for sending, honey. hope you enjoy.

---

Pedro wasn’t supposed to say your name.

You both knew the rules — or at least, the one unspoken agreement that had kept your relationship safely under wraps for the last six months: no public mentions, no soft launches, no clues. You weren’t famous, and he liked it that way. Liked the quiet normalcy of it. Liked how no one in your world cared about red carpets or premiere dates, only if you were free for brunch or needed help picking out plants for the apartment.

But today, during a perfectly standard interview for a late-night show, Pedro forgot.

It started innocently. The host had asked a string of questions about Pedro’s chaotic schedule — something about jetlag and coffee addictions — and then, mid-laugh, the host joked:

“So who keeps you grounded when you’re not off being the internet’s daddy?”

Pedro, in all his charming glory, chuckled, eyes sparkling. “Oh, Y/N does,” he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “She reminds me to sleep like a human being.”

The studio audience didn’t catch it. Not really. Just a name dropped in a sea of Pedroisms.

But the internet did.

The clip hit Twitter before the show even ended. Zoomed-in, subtitled, slowed down.

“WHO IS Y/N AND WHY IS PEDRO PASCAL SMILING LIKE THAT WHEN HE SAYS HER NAME??”

“y/n… you better treat him right i swear to GOD.”

“do we think y/n is someone we know? a celeb?? no info anywhere. queen’s in hiding.”

“you guys she’s not famous. i did a deep dive. she’s just. a person. and he’s in love.”

—

Back in your shared apartment, you’re sprawled on the couch, one leg thrown over Pedro’s, a big hoodie drowning your frame and a bowl of popcorn slowly going stale between you.

Pedro looks sheepish, his phone buzzing non-stop. “I really didn’t mean to say it.”

You’re giggling, face tucked into his shoulder. “I told you that interview was live.”

“I forgot, baby. I was tired and they were being funny and then your name just… came out.”

You poke his side. “So now the whole world knows Pedro Pascal has a girlfriend named Y/N who tells him to go to sleep.”

He flips the phone so you both can see the flood of TikToks and tweets. One fan made a slideshow of blurry Pedro candids captioned “thinking about her” set to a Phoebe Bridgers song. Another user made a fake "Y/N Pascal" Vogue cover. Someone even made a fan edit of your blurry Instagram pictures that you thought were private, matched up with Pedro's, like they were connecting some conspiracy.

You both dissolve into laughter, tears welling up in your eyes from how ridiculous it all is.

Pedro wipes a crumb from your cheek and grins. “Should I post a picture of us now? Since it’s out?”

You raise an eyebrow. “What kind of picture?”

He shrugs. “Just… us. Normal. No face filters. No drama.”

You hum, pretending to think it over. “Okay. But I get to pick the caption.”

“And what are you gonna put?”

You grab your phone, snuggle back into his side, and type it out slowly.

“yes, it’s me. no, you can’t have him.”

Pedro bursts out laughing. “That’s evil.”

“That’s iconic,” you correct him, and press post.

The internet loses its mind again. But this time, you’re not just laughing from the sidelines. You’re in it. Together. On the same couch, eating popcorn, letting the world fall in love with a version of what you already have.

Just… a little more out loud now.

---

[leyavo]

| The Bite | 4

Part 4

Previous parts -> [series Masterlist]

Johnny confronts Human!reader and you try to figure out your place in the 141 pack with new found information. Confused about the new dynamic, Gaz steps in to help you.

[18+] MDNI

Ever since you got the alpha’s bite, it felt like lightning surging through your veins. The blood pulses in your ears, heart beat drumming against your chest faster than you’re used to, as if it was trying to escape. The withdrawal symptoms Price had warned you of. Something that would calm down and return to your normal human self soon.

“You reek of him.”

The beta in front of you though, you don’t recognise. His nose scrunched up,lip curled in disgust as he flinches away from your outstretched hand. You know something’s missing though, not just his soft gaze whenever he used to look at you but your chest feels like there’s a gaping void that cannot be filled. A part of you missing. Him.

You’ve been ignoring the crushing weight on your chest for days, chasing whatever high with Price or Ghost. In hopes of finding that feeling again. You don’t think that’s possible anymore though, not as you blink back at Johnny.

“Do you realise what you’ve done?” He snarls, jabbing a finger to your neck. A growl tearing from his throat and you stumble back, head dropping in submission. Something you’d never done in his presence before.

He releases a deep breath, dropping his duffle bag to the floor. “You’re not mine anymore, you’re his. I can’t just bite you and override an Alpha’s mark or your instincts.”

Your tongue heavy, mouth dry as you let his words sink in. Johnny had never called you his, vowed not to treat you like an object or someone to fill his needs. The complete opposite of Price and Ghost.

You glance at the one bag by his boots. “I can’t come home with you?” Home, the MacTavish’s had been your only safe space since you’d left the human collectives behind. You didn’t know any different. Didn’t want to.

“No,” he snaps, snatching his duffle from the floor and slinging it back over his shoulder. “That’s not your home anymore or your pack. You stay here with your Alpha.”

“Huh?” You blink, willing yourself to stand as Johnny stalks towards you.

“Price will tell you to jump and you’re wired to ask how high. That knot in your stomach,” he pokes the area, his other palm resting on your hip. “That’s your bond, every time he looks at you, that knot tightens and it’ll tug you towards him. There’s no fighting an alpha, even I can’t.”

“Please,” you beg, fingers grasping the fabric of his hoody, but he shrugs you off. Won’t even look you in the eye as if it’ll anger her even more. It’s like he’s trying not to breathe around you, the space increasing as you stumble back.

“You’ve made your bed, now lie in it.”

Oof, that hit you in the gut. He might as well as hit you because it hurt just the same.

He grabs you by the elbow and guides you out of his bedroom, touch brief as he lets go to lock his door.

“Don’t want your scent in my room,” he mumbles, he taps your chin as if second guessing whether or not Initiate a hug but thinks better of it. “Be good for your Alpha.”

Alpha, you hated the way Johnny spat the word at you. Not used to his harsh side.

You watch Johnny disappear down the hallway, your finger tracing your stomach and the new bond that tightens. Nothing felt real, your whole being numb. How the fuck were you going to navigate Johnny’s world without him? He was the one that brought you into it.

You’re not accustomed to the cold, the radiating heat that rolled off Johnny used to keep you warm.

Now, you were forced to seek that warmth from Price or Ghost. Hopping in and out of their beds, leaning into the bond to ease the knot in your stomach and satisfy them. You’re out of your depth and they’re making the most of teaching you certain things.

You sit on the edge of Price’s bed, the tapping of his fingers clicking the keyboard of his laptop as he hunches over his desk. A pile of paperwork calling his attention, but every now and then his large hand reaches back to you, pawing your knee, his knuckles tracing the side of your thigh. You hate to admit it, but you find yourself edging closer to him each time, chasing the heat of his touch.

Different from the relaxed nature you had with Johnny. No, you could lounge around whilst he did his own thing. With an Alpha you now understood the way the beta had described the bond to you. How Price would say something and you were quick to act, no push back or whining. You couldn’t understand how Ghost managed to pique your interest though, how he knew what to say and how to command the tug.

It’s like there’s an invisible string and they’re pulling on it whenever they’re near. There’s no tug of war though, you can’t help but want to follow, to figure out what an alpha really is. You’d heard stories as child from the humans about how they tore apart villages and hunted those wandering their lands.

“Why don’t you go rest tonight,” Price grumbled, not looking back at you as he nudges your leg off the bed. You linger for a second before he nudges you again and exit his bedroom, closing his door behind you.

Rest, you don’t know where exactly you’ll be doing that as you stare at the open closet of the hallway. The one thing you were allowed from Johnny’s room was your pillow, his scent still clinging to fabric. You hugged the lumpy pillow to your chest and pressed your nose to that last scrap of comfort.

Johnny’s been gone nearly a week now and all you want to do is lay with him. You don’t deserve that though.

“Take it you’ve never been around alpha’s till now?”

You flinch, those damned shifters too silent that you couldn’t hear him creeping down the hallway. Another pack member, Gaz who thankfully has given you space to settle in before approaching you.

He raises his palms, slow and deliberate steps as he inched closer. “Night off?” Like your some frightened deer, maybe you are in their eyes.

Nodding, you glance to Johnny’s door wishing for someone to just open it so you can sleep without any interruptions. That and because it has been home for you these past few months whilst at the residential house. Johnny used to be home too.

“Come on,” Gaz says, taking your pillow and scooping your hand up in his. You don’t know why, but you let him guide you to his room savouring the heat of his palm on your cold skin. There’s something soothing in the way he holds you, a whisper telling you to trust him. So you do.

He peels back the thick duvet on his bed, flinging one of his pillows to the floor so he can place yours there instead. He begins to plump the feathers, but pauses and looks back at you.

“I don’t want anything from you,” Gaz says as he climbs over the mattress and slips under the covers. “We just sleep, nothing else.” The first shifter you’d met who remained gentle and soft when it came to you. And didn’t want to bite you.

You crawled under the duvet, Gaz tucking you in beside him. “Thank you,” you whisper, lying on your side, eyes fluttering shut as you get a whiff of Johnny.

“It takes a while to get used to an alpha’s overpowering presence…” Gaz whispers, his pointer finger smoothing your furrowed brow. “Probably why you’ve got a headache too, well that and…” his words trail off, teeth sinking into his bottom lip.

“You can just say it.”

He shakes his head. “I’m a delta, I don’t need all that.”

“A delta?” Alpha, beta, omega how many more were there? Johnny never did quite run through the whole ranking system of a pack with you. You knew some, but not in detail. Your lack of knowledge going against you.

He tilts his head, hazel eyes flitting the curves of your face. “Goddess, did Johnny not teach you the fundamentals? The basic biology and hierarchy of a pack?” Gaz sits up in bed, leaning over you to flick the lamp on. He rests his back on the headboard, the shake of his head telling you he was annoyed.

At you, you weren’t sure. He turns his body to face yours and waits for you sit up too. Least with Price and Ghost, you could feel the bond pulling you to them. Gaz didn’t give you much to go on though and it reminded you of the human connections you left behind years ago.

“Alphas have way more energy, they need a pack to guide and you know, they also have to give into those instincts more,” he glances down to your hand, fingers twisted in the sheets. “You’re familiar with Beta’s though, as Johnnys family, the pack you were first in were yours and you theirs.”

Yeah, the MacTavish’s were all beta’s. They flowed easily and you settled in with no problems. A family pack a whole lot different to one like the 141.

“There’s a reason you felt called to the Alpha, it’s natural. Johnny forgets that even though you are human, you’re not immune to their influence. He should have prepared you more. The moment Johnny joined this pack, you also did unknowingly too because you had his mark.”

You wondered if Johnny had known that in bringing you here, you’d have this fate.

“You know that bites don’t turn you humans into one of us,” he says, smile tugging his lips as you nodded. “The intent behind the bite makes all the difference. Johnny, a beta he marked you to protect and look out for you. Price did it to overrule his beta, alpha’s don’t like being told what they can’t have and Johnny said you’re off limits.”

Your heart skips a beat, “I can’t say no to the alpha?” You whispered. Shit, maybe you should have listened to the humans more growing up. Why did Johnny have to be so nice when you were younger? Kinder than your human family.

Gaz scoffed, “of course ya can! Although the bond with an alpha makes it harder to do so. You’re gonna have to explore it in order to control it.”

If you can learn to control it maybe you could manipulate it to go in your favour. You can’t override an Alpha’s bite, nor can you fight it.

“Great,” you mumbled, scooting closer to Gaz who’d squeezed himself against the wall trying to give you space. “I’m so cold can I?” You asked, still moving closer. He nods, lifting his arm and draping it over your hip, the heat of his body washing over you.

“I’ll talk to them in the morning, what I’m for. A delta balances out the stronger energies and keeps them in check. The moral compass of the pack.”

Human!reader 🤝 Delta!Gaz teaming up…still lots for them to figure out.

I’m dyslexic so there might be mistakes/errors even though I do edit multiple times -Leya

[7x0]

any characters of your choice reacting to tongue and nipple piercings :p I look forward to your writings

♯┆ TEAM TONGUE PIERCING OR TEAM NIPPLE PIERCINGS .ᐣ.ᐟ ★

★ 𓂃 CHARACTERS: rafayel, sylus, zayne, xavier ★ 𓂃 A/N: 18+, mdni. FIRST REQUEST ON THIS BLOG FULFILLED LFG!! been itching to write for the lads boys so i'm hoping you like them fjshgglgjs thank you for the request! i defaulted to a gender neutral reader since you didn't specify. also, caleb isn't included because i just got introduced to him in the story, and i also apologize if characterization might be off; i am also relatively new to writing the lads boys and to the game ૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა

୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ RAFAYEL

he’s batting for team nipple piercings! as an artist, he has a fine eye and aesthete’s appreciation for human anatomy, especially yours. he not only loves your mind and personality, but your body as well. no matter your size or whether you have cellulite or stretch marks, he will remind you time and time again that he still loves every inch and curve of yours regardless. he would love to watch the way the metal of your piercings would catch just right in the light as he pounds into you. if you have tits, he’s definitely grabbing at them and admiring the way your piercings accentuate them. planting kisses all around them, maybe even cooing to them just to fluster you. “you complement them so beautifully, don’t you?”

rafayel is staring so hard at your chest, you think he’s committing the shape of it to memory. there is a blank expression etched onto his features. “so uh… do you like them?” you ask cautiously, starting to raise your hands to self-consciously cover your now pierced chest. “don’t.” he stops you, grabbing your hands and pulling them away, gaze still glued to your pierced nipples. finally, after about what felt like an eternity, his eyes flicker up to meet yours halfway and he nods approvingly. “the human figure is already a marvel as it is, but this? you’ve somehow managed to make it a sight to behold.” . . . “rafayel…” “mm?” “stop talking to my nipple piercings as if they’re re— ahh!” at that precise moment, your cheeky boyfriend decides to ram right into your core, feigning obliviousness. “what was that, love? couldn’t quite hear you over how pretty your nipple piercings are.” “that doesn’t even make sense!”

୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ SYLUS

this man is going right for the nips, baby. he already knew you were going to get them, as he does most things. it seemed like a very you thing to get—so naturally, he figured you would. absolutely goes feral over how they look on you, by the way. terribly down bad, even. he can’t resist licking his lips whenever he catches them protrude through your shirt, or when you’re riding him. definitely one of his favorite piercings on you, he thinks it suits you well. sylus would also playfully tug at them when you’ve been a bit too mouthy with him, and would even lick at them. he wouldn’t mind the metallic taste so much; blood was no different, anyway.

“oh? what’s this, kitten?” sylus asks, groomed brow arched as a smirk begins to curl upon his lips. “surprise!” you exclaim as you proudly show off your newly pierced nipples, beaming ever so cutely up at your boyfriend. “it was only a matter of time,” sylus’ deep chuckle spurns confusion onto your face. “what do you mean?” “i knew you were thinking of getting them.” a pout forms on your mien as you cross your arms across your chest. “no fair. it was supposed to be a surprise…” . . . your sweet, sweet moans were always a symphony sylus could never tire of hearing. they were all the more sweeter now that your nipples were no longer bare. he was immensely pleased that you would wear the jewelry he’d custom order and buy for you, and it would be a treat for him to get to watch them as you bounce up and down on his leaking cock. “so gorgeous, my beautiful baby,” his voice would drip with lascivious desire. looking at the little dual charms with his initials engraved upon them jerk around as you lose yourself on his lap would never fail to be one of his favorite pastimes.

୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ ZAYNE

tongue piercing enjoyer, though was neutral about it at first. didn’t quite understand why you would undergo the process to have metal pierced through your tongue—but being the considerate doctor he was, he’d ensure that the healing process went smoothly for you. his tune would soon change once he sees the way you’d lewdly gaze up at him as you slobber all over his cock, pierced tongue on full display. merely thinking about it would even get him hard, so he was secretly grateful it was in a less conspicuous place than other piercings.

“babe, look!” you singsong as you run over to your lover’s desk as he was finishing up his paperwork before going on break. “yes, lo—” he’d start saying as he takes a moment to organize the papers, cutting himself off when his stare finally shifts to your face. you were lolling your tongue out with half-lidded eyes, even wiggling it a little for emphasis on the stud now perfectly nestled within the center of the muscle. zayne was speechless for a moment before a frown and furrow in his brows appear on his visage. he exhales as he sets the papers down, concern flashing in his eyes. you falter a bit. “what’s wrong?” “you know you can’t perform oral intercourse or do any kissing for at least three weeks, right?” a look of horror dawns on your face. “what?!” his lips twitch, fighting a smile as he watches you panic adorably. “standard aftercare procedure,” he says, voice warm. “but don’t worry… once you heal properly, i’ll make sure it’s worth the wait.” . . . the three weeks were definitely worth the wait, zayne thinks to himself while you had a mouthful of his cock underneath his desk. he groans, deft fingers carding themselves through your hair. he wasn’t expecting that the added cool sensation of the metal would heighten his arousal, and yet here he was, head thrown back against the back of his office chair with his eyes shut in bliss. “just like that…” perhaps the three week abstinence period you also instated just so the experience of the piercing during a blowjob had helped. either way, zayne would take a liking to your new look; it grew on him the more and more you’d swirl your tongue around the base of his cock.

୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ XAVIER

wouldn’t have much of an outward reaction to your newest body modification, if his prolonged silence over your messages were to say anything. it disappointed you, but little did you know internally, xavier’s brain was actually steaming from how sexy he found you with it. he just wasn’t sure how to articulate this to you due to his awkwardness—but his sudden increase in requesting for blowjobs would tell you everything you needed to know. (his breath had also hitched in his throat when he initially saw it, but you wouldn’t have known.)

xavier looked at his phone, blinking a few times. you had sent him a rather risqué selfie with a wink and your tongue stuck out just enough for your new piercing to be caught on camera. you mistake his silence for disinterest, as he wouldn’t respond for fifteen long minutes later. first, he had to refrain his hardest from relieving his newfound problem in his trousers as he had an important UNICORNS meeting to attend in the next few minutes. but, the poor boy couldn’t wait till the meeting was over; he’d excuse himself for a restroom break where he’d lock himself in the nearest janitorial closet and hastily pull his pants down to fist his cock in his hand. images of you on your knees before him would flash through his mind. he made sure to send you a more than risqué selfie back without a single word. . . . thrilled your boyfriend eventually had assuaged your fears of him being turned off by your new tongue piercing, you were quick to greet him excitedly once he got home. xavier would curtly greet you back, before demanding you lay on your back so he could hurriedly slot himself in between your legs and piston relentlessly into you. he’d make sure you had your tongue hanging out too; with his phone in hand, he’d take a few photos to commemorate the day. to this day, they’re some of his favorite nudes of yours to date.

© 7x0 — do not repost, translate, feed AI, or plagiarize any of my content. please refrain from sharing or recommending my work on other platforms outside of tumblr such as tiktok.

[hoiststowline]

Hello! Thank you for answering my question about male readers :D

I would like to request tfp!ratchet and Optimus x human!reader (male or gn) relationship headcannons

(If you do anons may I be ✨️ anon)

_tfp!ratchet, tfp!optimus prime hc's

[a/n: hi!! anytime! so sorry that these took me a while. & of course you can, you shall be ✨️ anon!]

ratchet may appear reluctant, but he mistakes trepidation for hesitation. to him, a poor oversight that leads to unnecessary confusion, trying to navigate through a sea of concerns when it comes to relationships. in the very least that’s how he rationalizes it, trying to be a little more relenting when it comes to his tendency to be overbearing. ratchet is a worrier, though some translation is required at first. you’re confused by his propositions, and some natural unwillingness, feeling torn in two trying to figure out which way is up. it takes some lengthy conversations and exchanges to discover he’s trying to please you, focusing on you to ensure your happiness in such a companionship.   

public affection will only arrive if it can come across friendly, something that could pass by without anyone batting an eye. but is most often that the two of you have an abundance of alone time, something that is rare occurrence in such a relationship. sure, ninety percent of that time is at the autobots headquarters, but it's better to have the space to yourselves [even if he is working] than feel restricted in vocal and physical affection amongst company. ratchet knows that he can’t always be there for you, as you schedule likely has to conform to his, not the other way around. if he's wrangled into a break, he'd rather take a nap with his s/o.

your biggest fan, truly. and constant check-ins as well, especially if it's been a hot minute since the two of you have seen each other. i think i've said this before but ratchet loves the idea of texting/messaging, it's an easy way to keep conversation with you throughout the day. while he'd much rather you be physically present, he's reluctant to admit he knows you have daily responsibilities just as much as he does.

if ratchet is a worrier, optimus wrote the book on worrying. he's more absent than most, so being away from his s/o is not the easiest task in the world. sure, it makes moments together all that more special and sentimental, but the pain it causes isn't immediately cancelled out upon reuniting. there's long stretches of time where he can't physically be with you, and gently, but firmly makes that very clear when the relationship begins. optimus is also very careful about keeping the relationship a secret, finding that the target isn't so big on your back that way.

he's likely very good at reading body language, specifically his s/o's. optimus is a quick study, there's very little to hide from him, down to the inflection in your words, even over the phone. he can tell when you're not yourself, and if you deny anything's wrong when he asks, there's no convincing him otherwise. he isn't going to pressure you to share, but it remains and lingers on his processor until the next time he sees you. he's empathetic, one thing he truly desires is for you to be happy.

he's probably very good at surprises. he has a good poker face and deadpan, so when he tells you he won't see you until later in the week, you tend to accept it, albeit impassively. because you listen to everything he says and are inclined to without a moments hesitation. though, to him, a small bending of the truth is worth it to see your shocked expression at his unexpected arrival. optimus finds that moments like these to ease some of the guilt he has, but it likely won't ever dissipate entirely. he has so much love, and throughly relishes instances where he can be alone with his s/o, a moment of peace.

[muletia]

✧˖° 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆 — 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄

mer!optimus x human reader

summary: optimus waited for his mate for a very long time. but just when he was starting to lose hope, you decide to save him from loneliness. after so many years you finally heard his song. his mate. you.

word count: 5200

optimus is barely in this chapter btw. but don't worry, he will get more desperate later ^^

oh, and I couldn't resist throwing two polish easter eggs somewhere in the middle hehe

The first thing you hear upon waking is the rhythmic murmur of waves gently striking the shore. The soft sound soothes the initial flickers of disorientation, cooing deceitfully so your body doesn’t sound the alarm just yet. Unfortunately, you fall right into the trap.

Your eyelids seem to weigh several tons as you try to lift them, alarmed by the cocktail of not knowing where you are, why you’re here, and how you got here. With great effort and after several attempts, you finally manage to do it, but the blinding white light sabotages your success, forcing you to shut them again.

Each blink seems to shake off a few more kilograms from your eyelids, and eventually you manage to regain some control. Just enough to squint them into a narrow slit, a poor defense against the light, but enough not to go blind within seconds.

The view before you says little. Grains of sand, losing detail with every further centimeter, form a bleached-yellow stripe that stretches all the way to the horizon, the only part of the landscape you recognize. Just above the sand, a luscious blue sky announces fair weather, interrupted only on one side by faint streaks of green. Palm leaves, you conclude, as your brain sluggishly processes the gathered information.

Did we already land on the beach? you wonder, because you really do feel like you're on vacation. The pleasantly warm sand heats your torso, while the ocean mercifully cools your legs up to the knees, whispering with the sound of the waves that you don’t have to do anything anymore. No worries about corporate work. No stress about endless traffic jams right when you’re rushing to the office, or hot water getting turned off on a chilly day, or another cockroach infestation in your kitchen.

Hmm. This is nice. Wrapped in comfort, you close your eyes again, wanting to enjoy your vacation for as long as you can. You wonder why you chose to lie flat on the sand instead of using a beach chair, but you blame it on being tired. You didn’t really miss the chair all that much. The sand was nice, warm. And so clean, almost impossibly so. You wouldn’t mind lying here for your entire vacation. All five days of it.

Probably couldn’t be bothered, you think. It was a long trip, and you don’t have many days to rest. You have to make the most of every second of doing nothing before you’re dragged back into the chaos, chronic stress, and confined spaces. It’s nice here. Wonderful. You just hope someone wakes you in time for the return flight. You wouldn’t want to waste your already-paid tickets, and the plane definitely won’t wait for latecomers.

The plane.

You furrow your brow, not understanding why the mere memory of a flying machine caused a sharp jolt of pain in your head. Perfect. Just what you needed on vacation, a completely unnecessary pounding in your skull, disrupting your lazy lounging on tropical beaches and sipping coconut drinks surrounded by handsome men and beautiful women practically begging for a quick, steamy vacation fling.

But wait… if you were lying on the beach at your resort, why weren’t you hearing the usual mix of foreign languages and broken English? Why aren’t you hearing anything at all besides the waves and your own racing heartbeat?

Something’s not right. Something is ver much not fucking right. You would never venture alone onto an unmarked beach because why would you? Why take the risk and ruin your vacation?

Where are the people? Where’s the laughter of children and the occasional drone of small plane engines?

Where… are you?

With a speed worthy of light, you lift your head, and then your torso, supporting your weight with your arms. Only now do you realize something is pressing into your neck. You’re choking, some unknown object is tightening around your chest more and more with every second, like a constrictor snake robbing you of precious oxygen.

You have to get rid of it. You have to claw it off, throw it away. With clumsy, chaotic movements, your hands fumble around your neck, fighting the strangler, digging in your nails just to make it let go. Just so you can breathe again.

The enemy relents after a few desperate attempts, when you finally decide to pull it over your head, a task far from easy, considering how tightly it clings to your body. You throw the snake with all your might, and it lands in the sand several meters in front of you. At least now you can breathe again, celebrating the return of this rather useful skill with several deep breaths.

But the sense of freedom and relief doesn’t last long. It abandons you once more when you finally dare to look at what was robbing you of air.

And your entire world stops. Your heart ceases to beat, your lungs freeze mid-motion. Every microscopic process down to the atomic level defies the passage of time.

What you threw off was a life jacket.

And suddenly, everything comes back to you, like a high-speed train, knocking all the air out of your lungs.

Looking out the window and seeing the plane’s engine on fire.

Screaming, chaos.

“We ask that you remain calm and put on your life jackets.”

Getting slammed into the hard walls and something sharp grazing the front of your shin.

And then being swallowed by the ocean. How easily you disappeared into its depths, fighting helplessly against gallons and gallons of water until the jacket pulled you up to the surface, where the situation was just as tragic. The burning plane slowly sinking into the sea, bags floating around you.

And bodies. So many bodies.

You tried to swim to one of the floating bags when a stronger wave dragged you underwater again.

The memories come alive all at once. They catch up to you, enveloping you in a storm of sensations. Falling from the plane, crashing into the cold, churning ocean.

Swallowing water. You must have involuntarily gulped down quite a bit. Eventually, even your lungs remember the uninvited guest, now coughing up traces of nonexistent water in a rattling wheeze, still recalling the vile, wrong feeling of salty water washing through the inside of the organ.

Trying to piece the story together, you come to the conclusion that you lost consciousness just below the surface, already preparing to extinguish your lungs that burned from lack of air.

And then you woke up here. The life jacket was kind enough not to let you drown, and the ocean merciful enough to spit you out onto some island, though you don’t feel particularly grateful, not when your odds of survival still hover dangerously close to zero.

You feel like you're about to explode.

“Oh no, no, no. Please,” you sob. “I want to go home.”

You consider curling into a ball and crying the stress away right here, but when a particularly strong wave soaks your already-wet shorts, bringing a new wave of discomfort, you find the last bits of strength in you to crawl further inland, tail tucked between your legs.

Your thoroughly soaked sneakers, one with its shoelace untied, leave marks on the wet sand before sinking into the dry stretch, where you decide to stay for your meltdown. You drop onto your butt, pulling your knees close to your chest, and break into sobs, finally letting go of all the nightmares haunting you.

You have no idea how long it takes for you to pull yourself together. How much time you needed to cry before your mind began analyzing the situation? Half an hour? Five hours? Ah, if only your watch had stayed loyal instead of falling to the bottom of the ocean. And you can forget about your phone, once glued to your pocket.It divorced you the moment the fight for survival began on that plane. That’s exactly how your luck plays out.

“Well, I just had to fucking go on vacation.”

You say aloud, though the only recipient is the endless horizon of the now-calm ocean. You envy its peace, its ability to tame rage. If only it had used that power during your flight, maybe you wouldn’t feel the urge now to charge the largest organism on Earth with your bare fists. Maybe you wouldn’t be throwing handfuls of the cleanest sand you’ve ever seen just a few feet in front of you, your bare feet digging into it, skin still wrinkled like a raisin. Your sneakers and socks are drying nearby, but you bitterly suspect they won’t be fully dry by the time you need to wear them again.

Even the wind dares not show its face, as if sensing your grief, your fury, your despair, and all the other emotions that should never have appear during vacation. The sun doesn’t scorch; it hides shyly behind a few thin clouds, looking for an excuse not to show up today.

Perfect weather. Too perfect not to mock you.

Hey, see how beautiful your vacation could have been? Too bad, you get to rot on a deserted island instead.

You’re barely holding yourself back from screaming, crying, curling up into a ball, and kicking sand with your feet. All at once.

Just the thought of moving makes you want to cry. Actually, any thought does. You tried to get a grip and focus on what matters most, survival, but it’s still too soon to muster any resolve. Or maybe you’re just too weak? Too used to comfort, to the ease of city life, you’re not ready to let it go.

The truth is, you’re scared. No, you’re terrified. Fleeting sparks of reason urge you to release your primal instinct, to return to the wild animal within, struggling to survive in untouched nature.

But you don’t want that. You don’t want to be an animal, not yet, clinging desperately to the remnants of your old life, warding off thoughts like fire against wolves snarling for food, drinkable water, shelter, warmth. Things so trivial and easy to come by before, you never even imagined you’d need to fight for them, with your steady job and uncomfortable apartment, but at least four safe walls.

You lower your head onto your knees and pull them closer. You want to remain modern, not primal, so you chase the wolves away again. This time they retreat into the dark as you close your eyes for a moment, but you know they’ll return. And soon.

Despite your still-swollen eyes and nose clogged from crying, another sob shakes your chest, drawing out a deep, ancient human stress, long forgotten by many.

More precious minutes burn away doing nothing, but even in your hazy state, you notice the shift of the palm shadows on the beach. Your quiet alarm bell. You need to move, you tell yourself. Now.

Just get up. That’s all. That will be your first success.

Desperation flickers to life again as you consciously swallow, your saliva sluggishly dragging down your throat that now feels like sandpaper. Suddenly you realize how badly you need water. When was the last time you had anything in your mouth that wasn’t saltwater?

It’s not enough to make you embrace your current predicament, but it is enough to get your pampered city ass off the ground. Which your long-unused legs do not appreciate. Forced into bending, then suddenly straightened, they refuse to cooperate, stiff and tingling from inactivity. Thankfully, after a few wobbly steps, you regain control of your body, grab your sneakers and socks, and begin walking along the shore, where the waves gently devour the sand, tracing a path and border for your feet to follow.

You’re a long way from being a survival expert, but you try to follow logic. Or at least what’s left of it.

First, you check for injuries. Something you really should’ve done immediately, but upon waking up... well, you were a little preoccupied. You extend your arms, turning them slowly, bracing for the worst, broken or dislocated bones, but feel relief seeing only a few bruises on your forearms and a dull ache in your shoulder, likely from the chaos on the plane. Nothing alarming, nothing to worry about yet.

Your legs seem to be fine, too. Also peppered with bruises of all sizes, but your joints haven’t been swallowed by swelling. The only new feature is a long but shallow wound down your shin, already sealed with a black scab.

Great, you think. You can now focus mainly on finding  water.

You briefly lift your gaze from the shoreline littered with shells and tiny scuttling crabs fleeing from the two-legged intruder, and peer into the island’s thick jungle.

You know you’ll have to go in there eventually. Face nature head-on. Face the wild. You’ve been putting it off for too long. Curling into yourself was just an excuse, a way to nurture the hope that this is all just a cliché nightmare you’ll wake up from any minute now. But deep down, you know it’s not a nightmare, not a dream. It’s something far worse because it’s real.

The wolf of thirst bites at your throat again. You push it away one last time, continuing your slow walk along the shore.

Soon, you tell yourself. Soon you’ll head in there, find water, find something to eat. You start laying out a plan, praying it’ll be as simple in practice as it seems in your mind. Surely, there must be some exotic fruit here, right? The island looked far too big not to grow anything edible.

Ugh. You just want to go home already.

You turn your head toward your new nemesis — the ocean — scanning the waves for familiar shapes of suitcases, bags, or backpacks, proof of civilization, but the ocean senses your hatred and hides its treasures from you. You see nothing. The water has swallowed your hopes.

Your expression drops, sours. You promise yourself that you’ll never set foot on a beach again. Yeah, next vacation, you’re going to the mountains. So many choices. The Alps, maybe the Tatras? You’ve heard the Bieszczady Mountains are beautiful this time of year. Just you, trails stretching for miles, a cozy cabin in the middle of nowhere, and zero sand.

But first, you have to get off this island. If I even make it off, you think bitterly.

You will, you convince yourself. You definitely will.

Someone will start looking for you eventually, someone will notice that an entire plane disappeared in the middle of the ocean. Mhm, just a few days of survival. Once you’ve figured out a source of drinkable water, found some food and a safe place to shelter, you’ll draw huge SOS signs across every beach. Yes, you’ll get out. It won’t be easy, but you will.

Your auto-pep talk fills you with new determination. It’s just a few days. You’ll manage, definitely. By the end of the week, you’ll be asleep in your comfy bed again, you think with enthusiasm. With that boost, you keep walking another dozen meters along the shoreline, scanning for any loot among the waves but quickly give up, as the rhythmic crashing of water only sharpens your thirst.

Drinking water. Now.

You glance toward the green mass of vegetation swallowing most of the island. It makes it hard to gauge the island’s shape or size, but you can tell it’s not small. The beach stretches endlessly like a runway, paralleled by a line of coconut palms heavy with their armored fruit. You make a mental note to return to them later with an exceptionally sharp rock.

You slide on your still-damp socks and sneakers, wincing at the unpleasant wetness enveloping your feet, then take a cautious, tentative step into the wild, into the unknown and the primal, and the green of exotic flora swallows you whole.

At first, navigating the sparse greenery is easy. You just have to occasionally push a leaf aside or duck under a branch. The problems start later, as the vegetation thickens and spiderwebs begin appearing everywhere, always with eight-legged residents at their centers, along with a variety of beetles and ants. The last two don’t make you want to catapult out of your own skin in fear, at least.

Finding your bearings doesn’t come naturally. Large and small leaves blur into one endless shade of green, but now and then you manage to spot a landmark to guide you back. An odd-shaped tree, a big rock. To be extra sure you won’t get lost in this breathing green labyrinth, you find a dry stick and start scratching an X into every third tree, marking the path in both directions.

You’re just about to give up hope of finding anything useful when suddenly the thicket begins to thin, tempting you with open space and pumping new energy into your legs, urging you to speed up. The dryness in your throat is unbearable now. You’ve soothed it a few times by forcing yourself to lick drops of water off leaves, but honestly, you’d rather never do that again.

You know survival on a deserted island means doing weird things. But still, you feel… humiliated, french kissing leaves for a single droplet of water. This is not how you imagined your exclusive vacation.

“It’s no longer vacation, you idiot.” you hiss.

You part a leaf blocking your view and can’t help the smile forming on your face.

“Or maybe... it kind of still is?”

A large lagoon greets you with open arms, framed by a beach of pristinely clean sand. The pool in the middle glistens with dark, but clear water, surprisingly deep for a lagoon.

You let out a quiet, appreciative whistle.

“Wow. It’s beautiful” you say aloud, only to purse your lips into a thin line.

Really? You’re already talking to yourself? Bit early to be going mad.

You scan the length of the lagoon with your eyes, wishing you could be here under completely different circumstances, when your gaze locks onto something... familiar. You squint, slowly moving toward one corner, where sand fades into solid ground, and with each step it becomes clearer. The mass of green you took for ivy and bushes is actually shaped like something man-made.

That “something” turns out to be the crumbling remnants of a stone house. Cracked and neglected, finally caught by the passage of time, merciless even to the strongest of materials.

The house has no roof and is missing one wall, but the remaining three offer tempting shelter from wind and potential rain, should you plan to (which you definitely don’t) stay here more than three days.

The problem is, if you want to get off this island, you’ll need a clear view of the ocean, something the narrow lagoon outlet doesn’t provide. But surely there’s no harm in spending one night here, right? You can already picture a fire in the center of the ruins, the warmth, grilled fish over the flames...

And you’re not sure if you’re successfully gaslighting yourself or if some ancient force is now in charge, but suddenly the cracked walls, floor overgrown with moss and weeds, and a massive branch sneaking in through what might have once been a window seem... cozy.

Honestly, your apartment back in the city wasn’t much better.

That thought convinces you to settle here for at least one night. And when you look toward the corner where a tree has also sought refuge, you spot several large papayas growing near its trunk, and you know: this is your camp. Your lips curl into a smile as you realize the fruits are ripe and hanging low enough to grab. Just a little jump and you are now clutching two plump fruits to your chest. You even kiss one in joy, unable to believe how fucking lucky you are.

You won't die of hunger! And you'll quench your thirst a little while you're at it. Really, it couldn't be better.

But, alas, you’ve just never had good timing.

The sound of water breaking pulls you out of your bliss. Before you even have time to process what’s happening, you press yourself tightly against the cracked wall, right beside a rectangular cutout that probably once served as a door, and you cover your mouth with your hand, forced to hold the large fruits with just one arm, which, practically speaking, is no easy task.

You hear dripping water and loud splashing sounds, the kind you associate with a large body leaving the water, but it’s the volume of those sounds that worries you the most. You have no doubt that whatever just crawled out of the water is big. Huge, even.

A whale? An orca? You try to guess, unconvinced that it's worth risking your life just to satisfy your curiosity. But you instantly disprove every guess with what you already know about those animals.

Still, you want to look. You know it’s stupid and it could end in disaster, but you want to. Just for a moment, for a second. You’ll peek out gently, careful not to make yourself an easy snack or target, and you’ll slip back to your beach silently.

Mhm, you’ll even let that thing have your (when did it start being yours anyway?) little corner, you won’t hold a grudge.

But you have to peek. Just for a second.

Undecided, you gently bite your lip.

You’ll look. But just for a millisecond.

But the very moment you stick out even a millimeter of your head and eye, you know you’re a liar. The millisecond is gone. Then a full second. Then a second more. Then a third. And you can’t move.

He’s beautiful, unearthly. Not belonging to your world, ripped straight from fairytales and legends, teasing your brain just enough that it no longer knows whether what you glimpse from the corner of your eye is even real. Or maybe such a drastic relocation into entirely unfamiliar conditions was enough to start seeing things?

A merman. A real merman.

Your jaw nearly hits the floor, but you shut your mouth just in time before a startled squeak can betray you.

The creature is enormous, roughly the size of an orca, though you know that the tail hidden beneath the lagoon’s surface could easily stretch your estimation by another meter or two. What draws your eye is the exotic palette of colors decorating his smooth skin. Muscular arms sunken into the clean, wheat-colored sand blaze red, though the crimson is interrupted by streaks of grey that trail down his forearms to his neck, where they fan out toward a white underbelly. His head, adorned with a crest rising from the center of his forehead and extending into a long dorsal fin, suddenly bursts into a pastel navy blue that flows down his back to the massive tail — a mishmash of the entire color wheel.

Humanoid. Too humanoid. Toying with your understanding of human beauty’s uniqueness. And yet here it is, just a safe dozen or so meters ahead of you, breathing. If you squinted, he really could pass for a person.

To keep yourself from going insane and to chase off intrusive thoughts, you pinch your forearm. Ouch. You’re real. But that also means he is too, giving you one more reason to go crazy.

Unable to tear your eyes from the siren monster, you decide to examine him more closely. You focus on his face, bizarrely human, yet ancient. Nothing like the stony mugs of instinct-driven animals. You feel like deep thoughts are swirling behind that blue skin, thoughts that also brim in those enormous, azure eyes. The distance between you is small enough that you can even make out the emotions running through him.

He looks sad. Pitiful, even, if you could compare the size and glint in his eyes to a sorrowful puppy, which your brain tries and fails to reconcile with the scarred body, head, and a face bearing the marks of a long life. You know instinctively this creature has years of survival behind him, every second of existence spent fighting for access to basic needs.

Which might also mean he's well-versed in the art of hunting humans, you realize with dread. You can only guess what makes up his diet, but judging by the sharp claws on his long webbed fingers, you suspect he’s not a peaceful herbivore.

Not that you’d risk an interaction with him just to test your theories. No, you'd really like to get back home in one piece.

Great. So now you’re stuck between a rock and a hard place. There’s no way you’re getting out of here without catching the siren’s attention. In fact, no matter where you go from here, there's a chance of encountering him again, and you really, really didn’t want to find out if he’s a man-eater.

Or worse — a hungry man-eater.

You glance around, looking for a wide enough gap in the foliage for a silent escape, but you're not even given the chance to take a single step. Your shoes are nailed to the earth by...

Singing.

A siren's song.

Mournful, pleading, and so raw that you hold your breath, afraid of it interrupting his piece.

It reminds you of the whalesong you’ve heard in documentaries, but each chirp, whine, and groan is loaded with sorrow and bitterness, bombarding your heart, even if you don’t understand the lyrics. You don’t need words to grasp the melancholic message, one that cuts through interspecies barriers.

The siren doesn’t stop singing, feeding his hidden audience new verses, each as depressing as the last. Like a newly discovered song, you can’t stop listening. All your senses retreat to make room for sharper hearing. You inhale his song, fill yourself with sad sounds, experiencing his suffering as if it were your own. Even if it’s just a trick to lure a tasty human snack out of hiding.

That slightly tempers your emotional response.

Right. Of course.

Maybe he knows you’re here. Feels you. Smells your tasty human flesh and is trying to coax you into the open like you were some kind of takeout.

You blink a few times, shaking off the last traces of compassion, proud of yourself for seeing through the sad facade of those puppy-blue eyes and the angsty concert. In the blink of an eye, you remember you need to get back to the beach, your only chance of spotting a ship or a plane in the patch of sky not covered by trees, because he already won the fight for the cozy shelter.

You return to searching for an escape route when suddenly, you freeze.

Your entire body blue-screens, and it must have rearranged every organ inside you too, because now you can feel your heartbeat in your ass. Because to your left, right by your head, a giant brown tarantula is slowly crawling along a cracked wall. So close you can see every hair on its abdomen.So close you can hear the soft tippy taps of all eight legs.

Oh, fuck.

“AHHHH!”

Your body reacts faster than common sense can remind you that the real predator, the one that could actually kill you, probably shouldn’t know it has company. You leap right, springing through the remains of a door straight onto the warm sand surrounding the lagoon.

Still clutching two papayas tightly to your chest, you try to stay upright on your wobbling, jelly-like legs, but it’s no use. You drop to your knees, the soft sand cushioning the pain. You know you should be running, right now, immediately. You urge your legs into action, begging silently but desperately for your own body to cooperate, but your rapid, ragged breathing drowns out your pleas.

When you realize that an immediate escape is no longer an option, all you can do is curl into the fetal position, forehead kissing the warm sand.

Hmm. Nice feeling, you think. You wouldn’t mind dying surrounded by the softness of this tropical, clean beach.

You hear nothing but the whistle of air sucked through your lips.

Nothing else.

Nothing...

You freeze.

You don’t need a mirror to know your eyes are now the size of dinner plates.

For a moment, you wonder how the hell you’re still alive. How come you don’t feel claws and teeth ripping through your flesh like a piece of paper? The agonizing pain of muscles tearing and bones shattering while you’re eaten alive, disappearing into the siren’s jaws. Bite by bite, until the last memory of your existence belongs to him.

But nothing like that happens. All your tissues are intact. You are neither bitten, nor scratched, nor swallowed alive.

Why the hell are you still alive?

Out of stupidity or curiosity, though you suspect it's more the former, you decide to make eye contact with the predator.

Slowly, you lift your head, gradually rediscovering his form. Milky white belly, swirls of red and grey skin on his chest, and finally, his head, flanked by small, bristling navy fins.

Still beautiful. Majestic. Enormous.

But as potential prey, can you allow yourself the pleasure of such hidden compliments? You wonder if deer also think like this before being devoured by wolves. Do they finally recognize the predator’s beauty only moments before death?

The humanoid face is turned toward you, expression frozen in comforting, familiar shock. The enormous eyes, adorned with remarkable white pupils, have doubled in size, and his mouth has fallen open, giving you a limited glimpse inside.

Teeth. Sharp teeth, undeniably those of a meat-eater.

For the second time that day, you feel some incomprehensible force rearranging your organs.

A flicker in the blue eye. A twitch in the human-like torso. A subtle lean in your direction pulls your heart from your ass back into place, and with it, apparently, the feeling in your legs, because suddenly, you’re ready to care about your own survival again.

You never believed those myths about time slowing down in the face of mortal danger. You thought that was a tired trope from action movies, overused to the point where you physically rolled your eyes whenever you saw it on screen.

But apparently, it’s very real.

Because there’s no other way to explain how slowly the creature’s expression morphs a few meters in front of you. His brow furrows, jaw opens and closes again and again, chewing, analyzing.

As if wondering what to do with you. If this pitiful, miniature oddity before him was even worth using as a toothpick?

To eat or not to eat? That is the question but you don’t want to know his answer.

Your body gambles on the oldest bet known to humankind.

You go all in on running.

Faster than you've ever moved in your entire life, you bolt toward the green thicket.

You could swear that the pathetic, almost pleading howl behind you and the shifting sound of something slithering across the sand belong to the siren, but you don’t have the courage to turn your head and confirm it.

You disappear behind massive leaves, blindly trying to make your way back to the familiar beach.

And ever after a long while, you can still hear the lamenting wail creeping up behind you.

[imagine-darksiders]

Old Habits.

Nick Valentine X Sole Survivor. Set during Get a Clue.

--------------------------------

There are a lot of things Nick Valentine can’t help about himself.

He can’t help the way he looks, all peeled apart at the seams, and full of holes like a cadaver stuck in a state of perpetual decomposition.

He can’t help the way people react to him when they get their first glimpse of his big, ugly mug, be it with contempt, aggression, or simple curiosity.

And perhaps above all else, he can’t help but worry.

Ellie says it’ll be the death of him, that he’ll worry about the wrong person one day and wind up six feet under. And Hell, she was half right, wasn’t she? Went and worried himself straight into an ambush, and an Overseer’s office with a shoddy lock that he couldn’t pick from the inside.

And now, here he is, doing it all over again as if he’s never been burned a day in his life.

But the woman sitting across from him on the other side of his desk - all beleaguered and owly-eyed – is currently stoking whatever mechanisms cause his brow to furl and his empty chest to give a slow, hollow squeeze.

Belatedly, he realises he’s lifted his metal hand to prod a few, curious fingertips against the front of his shirt, as if he might find something there that’s amiss.

Echoes, he supposes, from a bygone life he never technically lived.

Ah well.

Maybe he’s softer than he realises, softer than Ellie accuses him of being all the damn time. Then again, maybe he wouldn’t be so worried if his fresh-faced new friend wasn’t giving him every reason to be.  

---------

The warm inner wall of your cheek tastes like iron between clenched teeth, and you realise distractedly that there’s going to be a nasty ulcer there in a few days if you don’t stop chewing on it. But worrying at the spongey flesh is currently the subtlest way you can think of to distract yourself from that old, familiar sting building behind your eyelids.

You have to be subtle. Because there’s a luminous, golden gaze scrutinising you from beneath the brim of a tattered fedora, and you’d really rather not let on that you’re teetering on the World’s thinnest tight-rope – composure if you fall one way, hysteria the other.

With rigid fingertips, you’ve been clinging to that pre-war poise you used to pride yourself on, actively benumbing yourself to the tragedy of losing far more than your family. You very much abhor the notion of letting your guard down now, all too aware that even the smallest slip might cause a crack in the dam that’s been keeping you upright and placing one foot in front of the other for the last few days.

And so, here you sit, perched politely in the hard, plastic chair on one side of an untidy desk, whilst on the other, leaning forwards attentively in his own seat, is Diamond City’s resident Detective. Nick Valentine.

He had been…. a surprise.

A synth. Strange and uncanny and human and alien all at the same time.

You’d damn near let out an undignified shriek when he stepped from the shadows of his makeshift cell in Vault 114, and it was only thanks to years of practicing how to most effectively bite your own tongue in the court room that you managed to wrestle the sound back down your throat.

Awkwardly, you even thrust a hand out at him in greeting to try and cover your almost faux-pax, and he’d blinked those inhuman eyes at you, uttered the gentlest chuckle you’ve ever heard from a man, and taken your hand in his.

For a synth who seemed only too pleased to trade quips during your escape from the vault, he’s been awfully quiet since he brought you to the agency, evidently content to sit back and allow you some time to gather your thoughts.

Save for the near-undetectable ‘clicks’ and ‘whirs’ of his internal mechanisms, and the ceiling fan whooshing overhead, the office is deafeningly silent.

The girl – Ellie, you seem to recall – has opted to stand at his side, a clipboard tucked against her stomach and a pen balanced delicately at the top of the page. She’s very pointedly trying to keep her eyes on the paper, a direct contrast to Mr Valentine, whose stare is as dogged as a bloodhound’s nose, searching your face for… something.

You’re making a concerted effort to level your expression so that it mirrors his.

Neutral. Safe.

You’re concentrating so hard on controlling the rise and fall of your chest that you flinch when he finally shifts in the chair. Privately, you reprimand yourself for jumping. He’d only raised an arm, moving it from his lap to drape it on top of the desk, but he pauses at your response, holding the limb perfectly still in the air as he studies you, the strange, malleable ‘skin’ on his forrid creasing little by little.

Finally, for the first time since you entered his agency, you clear your bone-dry throat and speak.

“Sorry,” you croak, offering him the sheepish tilt of cracked lips, “Suppose I’m still a bit jumpy.”

An easy hum rumbles up from somewhere deep inside his chest, and you wonder if whoever made him took the time to fashion synthetic lungs in there, or if they just stuck a couple of speakers in his gullet and called it a day. You don’t miss the way those eerie, amber eyes wander down to the collar of your blue jumpsuit either, as if he knows only too well how jumpy you’re bound to be.

Ellie is the first to come to your defence.

“Hey, it’s okay,” she soothes, her voice light and friendly, breaking through the room’s stagnant atmosphere, “Heck, anyone would be in your situation.”

Situation…

That’s one word for it.

The smile pulling at your lips is starting to strain the muscles.

“Speaking of….”

At the sound of his voice, your gaze drifts back over to the mechanical man.

Beneath the rim of his tatty fedora, he meets your eye and ducks to give you a searching look. “You sure you’re feeling up to this?” he asks, reading between the lines of your reticence. Before you can reply, he raises his metal hand and pinches the brim of his hat, tugging it down to half cover his eyes.

It only occurs to you later that he might have done so to try and offer you some reprieve from his unnatural stare.

“Look, if you need another few minutes to collect yourself-“

“-No!”

Now it’s his turn to recoil, and Ellie’s.

The pair of them tilt backwards at your outburst, the latter’s eyes wide and uncertain while Nick simply cocks a brow, and you’re immediately mortified to find that you’ve risen halfway from the chair, not angry, but desperate.

“Sorry!” you blurt, blinking in surprise at yourself, “Sorry – I… I’m just-“

Sucking in a deep breath, you let yourself sink down to the seat beneath you once more, making a show of folding your hands neatly over one another on the desk. “I just… can’t afford to waste any more time coming to terms with what’s happened,” you explain diplomatically, avoiding the piercing stare of the Detective as it bears down on you all over again.

Instead, you try to focus on the faded, black tie dangling from his neck. It’s obviously been tugged loose by his idle hands, sloppily folded to hang below the open collar of his shirt. Your fingers twitch at the memory of helping Nate with his own tie, sliding it up to fit snugly against his throat so as to avoid a reprimand from old Mrs Parker at the neighbourhood parties.

A mist starts to descend over your eyes, so you give them a harsh blink and force your head up again, aiming another smile at Mr Valentine whose downturned mouth is halfway open, on the cusp of saying something before you bulldoze over his response.

“Please,” you gesture loosely towards him, “Ask away. I’m all right.”

You’re not the most convincing liar, and if the Detective’s ever-deepening frown is any indication, you’re not fooling anyone.

But if he has sniffed out what might be the biggest exaggeration of the century, he’s at least decent enough to keep it to himself.

“Well… If you say so,” he concedes, giving you a final once over before he sighs, leaning his elbows on the desk and subjecting you to a businesslike stare, “Now then, why don’t you start from the beginning. Back at the Vault, you said you’re looking for a missing kid?”

“My kid,” you nod solemnly, fighting to keep your voice even, “My baby boy, Shaun. He was… kidnapped right in front of me. I… couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it.”

“Oh, Hon,” Ellie utters, her tone soft even as she scribbles something down on the clipboard.

Nick’s gaze wanders to the side, and he lets out a gentle sigh, or what constitutes for a sigh from someone without lungs. Then, roving his eyes back to yours, he murmurs something that causes your breath to hitch.

“I’m sorry, Doll.”

A chip in the dam… Your lip starts to quiver, so you stuff the flesh of your cheek back between your teeth and clamp down. Hard.

“I just… don’t understand,” you breathe after a moment, slowly releasing the tender sore, “He’s barely a year old. Why would someone steal him?”

“Good question,” Mr Valentine appraises, “They’d be taking on all of his care. And a baby needs a lot of it… Were they after anything else?”

With a shake of your head, you reply, “No, I… I’m pretty sure they were only there for him… We were, um, in a vault when it happened.” Letting out a humourless laugh, you gesture at yourself, more specifically at the suit you’re wearing – have been wearing for centuries. “Obviously.”

Ellie purses her lips, another note scribbled on the clipboard.

“Yeah, figured as much,” the Detective says, “Even without the suit, you got that fish-out-of-water look about you.” Catching himself, he shoots you an apologetic grimace. “Ah, hope you don’t mind me saying. Kept staring at the world around you like it was your first time seeing it.”

“First time seeing it like this,” you admit, waving his apology aside with a flap of your hand.

At that, both he and Ellie perk up, undoubtedly curious.

Seeing the shift, you rub your temple and blow a noisy breath through puckered lips. “Wanna know what year it was when we went into the Vault?” you ask flatly

The Detective’s eyes narrow as he starts to survey your face, calculating your age through looks alone. Deciding to spare him the effort, you heave a worn sigh and say, “Twenty-seventy-seven.”

“……”

You could hear a pin drop in the silence that ensues.

“Excuse me?” Ellie blurts out at last, forgetting about the notes on her clipboard in favour of gawking openly at you instead.

“The year the bombs fell…” Nick realises as his expression opens up in awe. The glow of his eyes seems brighter when he darts them all over what he can see of you, giving his head a slow shake. “But how is that possible?”

It’s remarkably touching that he doesn’t call your claim into doubt straight away.

“Vault Tec,” you try not to spit the name from your lips, “They were running some kind of experiment down there… They had these… cryo pods ready for us all, told us we had to go in them to get ‘decontaminated.”

Huffing out a breath, you give a hard sniff and snatch your eyes from the Detective’s, hoping he hadn’t seen the tell-tale gleam of tears behind your lashes. “I was so stupid… I didn’t even....Huh. Guess they were banking that we’d be too shocked about the bombs to ask questions.”

“Bombs?” Ellie pipes up, swallowing roughly, “You mean they’d only just…?”

Neither she nor Nick miss the haunted shadow that passes across your face.

“Skin of our teeth doesn’t even begin to describe how close it was,” you whisper.

“That’s…” Unable to come up with a suitable word, her mouth opens and closes like a goldfish for a moment before her expression turns grim and she finally settles on, “That’s awful.”

“It is,” Nick agrees distastefully, “Everyone knows Vault Tec's hands ain't exactly squeaky clean but that's.... Well. It explains a few things. Twenty-seventy-seven, huh?”

A gear in his neck spins audibly as he leans more weight against the desk, propping his chin on sharp knuckles and giving a thoughtful hum. “So, you’ve been on ice for over two centuries-"

A pill that never gets easier to swallow, no matter how often you hear it.

"But more importantly," he continues, "You were underground. Most vaults’re sealed up tight. It’s hard enough breaking out of one.” He nods at you indicatively. “Let alone breaking in. That’s a lot of obstacles to go through just to take one person. What else can you tell us about the kidnappers?”

“They weren’t just kidnappers,” you croak, “They were murderers.”

There’s a catch in your voice on the last word, and while you try to swallow, Ellie once again steps in to fill the silence.

“Take your time,” she says, prompting an agreeable nod from the Detective.

It’s hard not to scoff at that. You’ve been taking your time. Every second spent ‘taking your time’ is another second that Shaun isn’t safe at home in your arms. Once you’ve found him, then you can worry about taking your time to breathe, to start building a life here in the Commonwealth. But trying to build that life without your son, without Nate…?

“My husband…” you utter, idly picking at a loose bit of skin on the side of your thumb, “Nate. He was holding Shaun when we were put in the pods. He was the one still holding him when that… that man came in and opened it. Nate tried to stop them from taking our baby, and they… they just…”

A gunshot echoes somewhere at the back of your mind, so clearly that you dart a glance between Nick and Ellie, wondering if they’d heard it too. You know it’s in your head when the latter only pinches her eyebrows together and cuts in, “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything else…”

Catching her lip between her teeth, she worries at it for a second, looking you up and down before she adds, “You’ve really been through the ringer, huh?”

Your gaze lingers on her, then moves over to Nick, then up at the room around you, taking in the cracks in the walls and the general rundown state of things that seems to be so par for the course in this wild new Commonwealth you've woken up in.

“No more than anyone else has in this place, I’m sure,” you reply quietly.

The Detective’s amber stare hardens, though you’re too busy looking at the empty mug on his desk to notice.

‘Downplayer, huh?’ he muses, ‘Oh, kid.’

“So,” he says out loud, “We’re talking about a group of cold-blooded killers, but they waited until something went wrong to resort to violence.”

Placing the tip of her pen back on the clipboard, Ellie asks, “What’re you thinking, Nick?”

For a few moments, he just sits in contemplative silence, mulling over the information you’ve been all too forthcoming with. Until at last, he gives his head a tiny nod and glances up, meeting your gaze across the desk and holding it tightly, unwilling to let it go.

“I’m thinking…” he starts, “That this wasn’t just a random kidnapping. Whoever took your baby had an agenda. And I don’t want to jump to any conclusions yet, but my caps are on the Institute.”

The tiniest flicker of recognition sparks in your eyes, a far more subdued reaction than he’s used to when people are brave or blasé enough to bring up the Institute.

“I’ve heard them mentioned,” you say, “Uh, the news lady… Piper? She said if people go missing, it’s because of the Institute.”

“Well, they are the Boogeyman of the Commonwealth,” Nick responds darkly, “Something goes wrong, everyone blames them.”

Suddenly, your stomach flips, and for a split second, you dare to let yourself hope.

A name. You have a name, and a new lead. It isn’t much, but it’s a Hell of a lot more than you had to go on five minutes ago.

“Do you know where I can find them?” you bleat, eagerly lifting yourself halfway out of your seat again. A little too eagerly, judging by Valentine’s grunt of disapproval and the very pointed way he flicks his chin down at the chair, wordlessly asking you to sit.

“Now, just hold your horses, Doll,” he tells you sternly, eyeing you until you’re seated once more, “I’m afraid it’s not that easy.”

“Nobody knows where they are,” Ellie chimes in, “I don’t think anyone has ever found their headquarters. We don’t know who’s running things, why they’re doing it, or what they do with the people they… take.”

“Well, somebody must know something,” you stress, trying so hard to ignore the uninvited burn in your chest where the flutter of hope had just gone to die, “The trail can’t go cold here! I need to find Shaun.”

That’s all there is. That’s all you have. Anything beyond that is so hard to think about, you’ll probably have an aneurism if you let your mind stray from the Goal.

Mr Valentine is staring at you again with those ever-probing eyes, yet his tone maintains its low and easing lilt as he nods and says, “You’re right. Someone knows where they are, and I’m betting that if we can identify the perps you saw, we’ll be one step closer to finding your kid.”

You don’t pick up on the emphasis he packs behind the word ‘we,’ but he sure as shit took note that you’ve been using ‘I’ far too much for his liking.

It’s a tough job to toe the line between being patronising and being rational, and Nick has learned to walk that line with the grace of a seasoned acrobat. He learned fairly quickly after catching hell from Ellie when she realised he'd been doing background checks on the men she’d taken an interest in.

But he’s not about to outright tell you that he doesn’t want you doing this alone, so he simply won’t present it as an option. He’d have to be some kind of cad to turn a wet-behind-the-ears, prewar woman out into the Wasteland all alone to hunt down the shadiest, most unscrupulous organisation the Commonwealth has ever churned out.

He already figured you weren’t a fighter, even before you managed to sweet-talk Darla into going home. By your own admission, you couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with any type of firearm, so you have no choice but to be an up-close-and-personal kind of gal.

The old, mahogany baseball bat normally slung over your shoulder now rests on its end at your side, leaning against Nick’s desk within easy grabbing distance. There’s dried blood seeped into much of the wood, harder to see against the darker grain.

And yet despite the amount of crimson liquid you knocked from the skulls of Malone's goons, Nick had instantly noticed something quite peculiar as he watched you fight.

You’d pulled every single one of your punches, even when the thugs tried to swing their submachine guns around in time to riddle you with bullets.

It seemed only by sheer, dumb luck that you beat them to the kill every time with one hard crack across the cranium, sending them all down like sacks of bricks.

And yet, he also noted that you never did it, not once, without a frantic grimace tugging the muscles of your face back, like you hated doing it. Hated having to hurt someone who wouldn’t think twice about killing you.

He remembers the heaving sigh you let out when Skinny gave the pair of you ten seconds to walk, remembers the way you’d all but shoved Nick in front of yourself to get him moving, not harshly, but urgently, your warm palm trembling against his back for those brief seconds before you withdrew it, and he lead you from the vault’s entrance and back through the station.

He knew then that you weren’t built for the Commonwealth Wasteland, even had the suit not been a dead giveaway, he’d have known. So, why then, he’d asked himself, was this frazzled young dame cavorting through a subterranean vault to rescue him?

Seems the answer just became obvious.

You’re a woman quite literally out of time, fixated on one noble yet do-or-die goal.

To save your boy, you’ll dive into ominous vaults to follow a lead, you’ll take on raiders, super mutants and feral ghouls, you’ll face the wasteland and all of its horrors. And the tragedy, he realises, is that you’ll do it because right now, you think it’s all you have left to live for. He doesn’t need to be a detective to work that out.

Guilty recognises guilty, and all that.

But he’s beginning to wonder if you’re not going to dig yourself into an early grave before you even get to see Shaun again.

You’ve been so focused on finding the kid that you haven’t done much of anything else. Don’t even have a cap to your name.

Nick only discovered that sad fact when you both got back to Diamond City and he asked if you wanted to grab some noodles from Takahashi before going to the agency. He didn’t say anything at the time, but he’d noticed the quaver of your hands, your unsteady footfalls and, more pressingly, the numerous gurgles from your stomach that had been complaining at you all the way back from the vault.

‘When was the last time you ate, kid?’ he’d fretted privately, uncertain whether voicing the question aloud would be received well by a near total stranger.

He watched as you stood there and turned out the shallow pockets of your jumpsuit in search of something of value. He saw your carefully placid expression quiver for just a second before you clenched your jaw and looked up at him, offering him a shrug and a half-cocked smile. Then he saw that smile vanish from your face when he marched over to Takahashi and tried to buy the noodles for you.

‘Tried’ being the optimum word.

Short of slapping the caps out of his hand, you did everything you could to deter him, nearly screamed in his face when he waved Takahashi over. And it was that crack in your frightened voice that gave him pause. Were you afraid of owing someone? An understandable concern in this world. Owing a favour to the wrong sort can get a person killed out here.

Nick knows he isn’t the wrong sort, but you don’t. Not yet anyway.

He can’t be sure why you’d rather stay hungry than take his caps, but he’s damned determined to find out. So, against his better judgement, he pocketed the measly change and elected to try again at a later date, perhaps after you’ve had a moment to collect yourself in his office and get your head clear enough to remember that you need to eat.

And sleep, now that he thinks about it. Those eyelids of yours have been drooping more and more with each passing minute, lashes fluttering against your cheeks only to spring open again as if you've been startled.

Right, back to business then, before you conk out on him and he has to find a way to get you horizontal without Ellie waggling her eyebrows at him.

“Really, Nick?” he can already hear her sly teasing, “Always been a sucker for a damsel, haven’t’chya?”

With a grunt, he scrubs the image of her smirking face from the forefront of his processor and zeroes in on the face right in front of him instead.

“Okay,” he begins, “Let’s talk about those kidnappers. Is there anything you can tell us about ‘em? Distinguishing features? Even if you don’t think it’s important, the smallest detail can crack a case wide open.”

It’s like watching a radstorm sweep in and smother lovely, clear skies, the way your eyes darken underneath testily-furrowed eyebrows.

If he had flesh, he might have shuddered at the out-of-place glower aimed at him by a woman like you, but he doesn’t and he knows the expression isn’t meant for him anyway.

If he had to guess, you’ve got the faces of those villains seared like a brand in your mind’s eye.

And sure enough…

“One of them came right up to me,” you bristle, mouth twisting at the edges, “A man. Middle-aged, I guess. Had some stubble but was otherwise bald, and there was this scar - big and nasty – went right down through one of his eyes.”

Recognition sparks like a bolt of lightening through Nick’s wires. He sits up straight, hands moving to brace against the edge of his desk like he means to push himself away from it.

From the corner of an eye, he sees Ellie twist quickly to face him.

“Couldn’t be…” he murmurs softly, raising his voice to ask, “You didn’t happen to hear the name ‘Kellogg’ at all, did you?”

In the blink of an eye, that overcast storm swirling around your face suddenly lifts, and you’re back to looking lost.

“I… don’t think so?” you say, screwing up your face in a way that reminds him of little Natalie when he nags her to wear a coat, “Everything was so muffled after the gunshot…”

Nick pretends he doesn’t see those soft, uncalloused hands of yours curl into fists on top of his desk.

Once again, he mumbles under his breath before addressing his assistant directly. “Say, we still have those notes on Kellogg?”

Ellie has already spun around and marched for the old filing cabinet sitting flush against the far wall, her clipboard abandoned on top of it. With practiced ease, she rifles through the middle drawer, muttering, “Kellogg… Kellogg… Ah! Here.”

Almost of its own accord, Nick’s gaze drifts back towards you, and he finds you suddenly looking far more awake. Alert even, staring hard at the back of Ellie’s head with sharp, unblinking eyes, not unlike a shark that’s just smelled blood in the water.

‘Easy, kid,’ he tries to convey through a slight furl of his brows, tapping a fingertip on the desk, but there’s no pulling those eyes of yours off his assistant’s hands when she finally extracts a worn, manilla folder from the drawers and turns back, leafing through the flimsy papers with her index finger.

“Well, the description certainly fits,” she hums, pulling one from the bunch, “Bald... Scar... Reputation for dangerous mercenary work. But nobody knows who his employer is.”

“He bought a house here in town, right?” Nick ponders aloud, “And he had a kid with him? Quiet, never let ‘im outside to play with the others.”

The last word is barely out of his mouth when there’s the screeching scrape of chair legs against the floor, and before he can even turn towards you, you’re already out of your seat again and slinging your bat over a shoulder.

“Where?” is all you ask in a surprisingly even voice despite how you teeter sideways as the blood rushes to your head.

Nick hardly registers that he’s vacated his own seat and is halfway around the desk with his arms held aloft to steady you by the time his words catch up to him.

“Now, just hang on a second,” he reprimands gently, pulling up short of grabbing your elbow, “I can tell you right now, he hasn’t lived in that house for about months now, and the kid wasn’t an infant. Gotta’ve been at least ten years old.”

“So he kidnapped someone else’s kid!” you exclaim, letting your carefully curated composure slip a few inches, “All the more reason for me to get out there and find this place!”

Snapping your gaze to Ellie, you only manage to keep yourself from barking sharply at her when you see the conflict in her expression. You have to make yourself take a breath that doesn’t feel like it’s enough to fill even half of your lungs.

“Please, Miss Perkins,” you implore, sad eyes drooping with exhaustion as you tip one palm up towards the ceiling, “… Where do I go from here…?”

Valentine tries not to read too much into that, how such a simple question can make a person sound so lost, adrift, unwittingly sending an SOS and wondering if there’s anyone out there who will receive the signal.

Christ. Maybe he is a sucker.

Conflicted, Ellie presses her lips into a thin line and shoots him a look.

And ‘okay,’ he nods to her. He’ll take the helm, try and steer this wayward ship safely back into port.

Because from the looks of things, you’re going out there whether he’s with you or not, and you’re going now. And Nick would much rather be with you when you do.

“Alright,” he appeases, garnering your attention again as he jerks his head towards the door, “Alright. Why don’t you and I take a walk over to Kellogg’s last known address? See if we can't snoop out where he went.”

There’s the tiniest huff from his assistant, who regards him knowingly as he leans past you and pushes the agency’s door open, gesturing for you to go ahead with a sweep of his arm.

“Security doesn’t really go to that part of town,” Ellie calls after him, biting back a comment about ‘old men’ and ‘chivalry,’ “But still… you should be careful.”

And Nick, ever concerned with everyone’s safety except his own, turns to flash her that signature smile over his shoulder, the same one he gave her two weeks ago before he up and vanished on her and made her sick with worry.

“I always am,” he tells her gently.

And then he’s gone, chasing after the footfalls of the unlucky lady with a kind face but eyes that are plagued by seeing too much, too quickly.

Shit, at least the pre-war ghouls had two hundred years to adapt to the world as it shifted around them.

Thankfully for Ellie, the door has already swung shut, deafening the grizzled synth to her muttered, “My ass you are.”

She doesn’t think he’d really wash her mouth out with soap, precious as that resource is, but… well….

She wouldn’t put it past him.

[sword93]

I don’t think you understand what the point of the comic is with that comment, which comes across badly for you. So I’m gonna give you the benefit of the doubt.

It’s not about being into fandoms or whatever per se. I’m fairly certain it’s about having shit takes, bad reading comprehension, brain rot and acting self righteous online, when you are well past the age of knowing better.

Acting more as a young teenager would rather than an adult with full cognitive abilities.

Also, I heavily disagree with your comment in the first place. “Cringe” is not the opposite of boring. I hate this sentiment with a passion.

So this next rant is not aimed particularly at you.

Most people who consider themselves very quirky and interesting or counter cultural are incredibly boring people because they are purposefully derivative in order to get across a certain image of themselves to others.

Especially if they are heavily involved in online spaces.

Especially if they are constantly doing useless “activism”.

The opposite of a “boring” person is someone who is simply genuinely themselves without trying to be anything or anyone else. Insecure vs Secure.

In this way, a tax accountant whose favorite color is beige and eats nothing but plain butter noodles and steamed broccoli and only watches big bang theory and WW2 documentaries, is more interesting than over half the people on online platforms.

Because if he does not do what he does for anyone else, what people might think is interesting, and does it only for his own happiness, then his identity is secure, and he is genuinely his own self.

That’s what it is to be an adult, to me.

Those who try very hard to not be normal, to be quirky, to brag about being weird and brag about liking strange porn or taking kids cartoons too seriously or writing “spicy” fanfics - it’s not cringe because they like strange things or act “goofy”- it’s cringe because they want so badly to be seen as interesting.

They become the human equivalent of watching neon paint dry.

some days you cannot help but pity some people

[deezee112]

Hey deezee, I hope I’m not bothering you with a request for our fae boys x Yuu/Reader.

Slight Spoiler for the movie Maleficent

In the movie a human throws away his iron ring (his most valuable possession) without a second thought, because it was hurting Maleficent. Could you write a scenario where the reader does the same for our fae boys, please?

A/N : Of course! But I might not be able to write it exactly the way you want since I’m kind of out of ideas right now 😔 But if you end up liking it, that would make me really happy.

Sorry it turned out bad...I just...haven’t felt inspired lately.

The first time I wrote about a character whose name I kept forgetting.

Title : The Ring You Cast Away

Pairing : Yandere!Malleus Draconia x Reader

Word Count : 3200

Warning : OCC??? , I can't think because I'm sick.

Summary : You fled into the forest, wearing iron to keep Malleus away even if it hurt. But when you realize the pain cuts deeper for him than it does for you, you make a choice. One that binds you to him forever.

English is not my first language.

The forest was thick with thorns and silence. You hadn’t meant to walk this far, but something about Briar Valley’s woods always drew you in like the trees whispered secrets only you could hear.

The sun had fallen behind the hills long ago, casting the world into shadows thick as oil, and the wind bit at your skin through your coat.

You stopped walking.

The stillness wasn’t just silence anymore.

It was presence.

He was near.

You didn’t turn around. You didn’t need to.

Malleus did not sneak. He did not stumble. He appeared like mist through cracks in the world, slow and graceful and eternal.

You spoke first.

“ You followed me again. ”

A pause.

“ You knew I would. ”

His voice was velvet and winter, soft and cold in the same breath. Familiar now. Too familiar.

You turned. He stood just a few paces behind you, tall and regal even in the half-light, like the forest was his court and every thorn bent for him. His eyes glowed faintly, green fire flickering beneath the darkness. The sight of him used to startle you.

Now, it just made your chest ache.

“ I told you I needed space. ” you said.

“ You did. ”

“ And yet... you’re here. ”

Malleus tilted his head, as if the concept itself was strange. “ I am always here. ”

You tried to ignore the way your pulse spiked.

“ Because you’re watching me? ”

“ Because you are precious. ”

You flinched.

There it was again. That possessiveness wrapped in silk. That terrifying gentleness. Malleus didn’t yell or demand or trap you with chains. He trapped you with devotion. The kind that suffocates slowly.

“ I wore this to keep you away. ” You said as you grabbed your ring.

Iron.

It was a simple thing. A ring, old and blackened and heavy with heat. Humans told stories of how it repelled fae kept their charms and dangers at bay.

You weren’t sure if you believed in old tales.

But you believed in Malleus.

He stiffened.

“ You still wear that…thing. ”

“ I didn’t want you to follow me. I didn’t want you to come. ”

A long silence. The kind that drags your breath out of your lungs.

When he spoke again, it was lower.

“ You would rather hurt yourself than be near me? ”

You look down the ring has slipped into your skin as you walk. The burn marks are just starting to spread, red and searing beneath your collarbone.

“ I didn’t know it would do that. ” you muttered.

“ I did. ”

Malleus stepped forward once. Then stopped. You saw it the way his fingers twitched toward you, then curled into a fist instead.

“ I felt it burning. ” he murmured. “ From the moment you left the castle. It is agony. ”

You looked up, startled. “ You…you felt it? ”

“ I feel everything when it comes to you. ”

Your throat dried.

That should’ve terrified you.

But instead…it just made you want to cry.

“ I don’t hate you, Malleus. ”

That earned a flicker in his expression. The slightest shift in those ancient eyes.

“ But I don’t want to be your prisoner either. ”

“ You are not. ” he said, too quickly. Too gently. “ You are mine, yes. But not a prisoner. Never that. ”

“ And yet I’m afraid to breathe the wrong way. ”

He stepped closer again. This time, he didn’t stop.

You stood still, barely breathing as he approached one slow, reverent step at a time. When he reached you, he didn’t touch. Just stood close enough that the heat of him tangled with the cold of the air.

“ You are wearing something that causes you pain. ” he said softly. “ Because you thought it would drive me away. ”

You looked away.

“ I wanted it to. ”

Malleus didn’t speak. Not right away.

Then, in a voice that trembled like candlelight.

“ Then why are you crying? ”

Your fingers touched your cheek. Wet.

You hadn’t noticed.

You shook your head, voice cracking. “ I didn’t want to be afraid of you. I just wanted to be normal. I just wanted a walk. I just wanted...to breathe. To live. ”

“ You think life exists without me? ”

That should’ve sounded cruel. But it didn’t.

It sounded broken.

“ You could’ve taken it off days ago. ” he whispered. “ You could’ve burned it. Yet you didn’t. ”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t have to.

Because you’d felt the weight of it every day.

The sting on your skin. The barrier between you. The wall you didn’t even understand. And now, standing here in the dark, you realized something horrible.

You didn’t want that wall anymore.

Even if it meant falling.

Even if it meant drowning in him.

You reach for your finger the chain is so hot it’s almost blistering. It digs into your skin as you struggle with the lock, but you don’t stop. You take pleasure in the pain.

And then, with a snap it fell away.

The ring hit the ground with a dull, lifeless sound.

And the world changed.

Malleus exhaled like he hadn’t breathed in a hundred years.

His hand shot forward.

Not to grab you.

To catch the ring.

You stared as he held it in his palm burning, still glowing faintly with his magic. His expression unreadable.

And then he let it fall through his fingers like dust.

The chain turned to ash before it even hit the dirt.

“ You threw away your protection. ” he whispered.

You couldn’t look at him. “ It was hurting you. ”

Something shifted in the air. Like the forest bowed in reverence.

And then

His hands were on your face.

Gently.

Trembling.

Like you were made of glass and every part of him wanted to shatter you but only so he could piece you back together and keep you forever.

“ Do you know what you’ve done? ” he murmured.

You nodded. Barely.

His breath touched your skin. “ You cannot take that back. ”

“ I don’t want to. ”

His eyes closed. As if he’d been waiting a lifetime to hear that.

And when he opened them again, they burned with something ancient. Something dangerous.

His lips hovered over your forehead. Close enough to feel.

“ I will never let you go now. ”

You didn’t answer.

Because maybe, deep down…

…you didn’t want him to.

[d1gitalwitness]

lesbians yearning across continents? it happened in the wheel of time

I think the one thing we have not appreciated enough about The Wheel of Time is how lesbian desire is so present. It is not only visible in scenes with Siuan and Moiraine, but we also get to see them miss each other and yearn for each other while apart. As Sophie Okonedo has said, the love they have for each other is always there, eternal and transcendent. I haven't never seen anything quite like it on television.

When Moiraine finally returns to the tower after two years, she yearns for Siuan by looking at their matching ter'angreals. Excellent build-up by the writers because we do not yet know what this means yet. (1x05)

Siuan looking at their matching ter'angreals after Moiraine visits her in a dream and bids her farewell. She also looks at a drawing of Moiraine while tearing up. (3x08)

Moiraine whispering Siuan's name while on the verge of death and smiling so stupidly to herself (1x03)

Moiraine in tears while writing a letter to Siuan to let her know that she has been stilled - her failure at the eye of the world is akin to failing Siuan, and breaking her promise to her that they will retire by the river. Yes, it was pride that kept her apart from Siuan. But also mostly guilt. (2x06) // We're going to serve out our time and then we'll retire. Do you mean that? Yes.

Siuan sniffing and rereading Moiraine's letters and smiling to herself ... this scene just wrecks me because Siuan is punishing herself for what she did to Moiraine at the waygate. In the context of this season, when we realise that Siuan's upbringing is a constant cause of disrespect and humiliation, Moiraine is the only person in the world who sees and wants her as Siuan Sanche and not the Amrylin. And Siuan's betrayal means letting go of the one woman who loves her in the way that she deserves. Despite everything that happened, Siuan sees Moiraine and still sees the woman who shared her simple dreams, who promised her a life on the river. There is so much longing and innocence in her smile, which is crushing. (3x05)

Moiraine looking up to the tower to Siuan after their divorce, worried sick about her. Listening in on Siuan's conversation with Nynaeve and Egwene, and the camera pans to her as Siuan indirectly confesses her immense regret at mistreating Moiraine, and laments at a love gone sour. We are always reminded that while these two women still loved each other, what they once had was gone. (3x01)

And this is my absolute favourite one, when Logain asks Moiraine what she truly wants. It is from way before we know about Moiraine and Siuan's relationship and their dreams to be fishwives. Thus far, Moiraine has been unreadable. Cold and ruthless. But for a few seconds, Rosamund Pike transforms Moiraine's hardened facade into something softer - you can feel her sorrow. And in that moment, you want to know who Moiraine truly is. Behind Moiraine's singular focus on the mission lies an undercurrent of piercing sadness that will reverberate across the series. We soon learn that this all ties back to Siuan and the promises they've made to each other, promises and dreams that they know they can't fulfil. There's something so haunting about it. Extremely precise writing. (1x04)

I just love everything about it. Her love for Siuan is always present, always flowing and always defining even when Siuan is not there, and vice versa. At the heart of The Wheel of Time is the estrangement between love, duty and justice. The fissure between love and impossibility begins with Moiraine and Siuan, whose dreams were crushed in the most banal way possible - being at the wrong place at the wrong time. It is so absurdly human and so absurdly tragic. The cruelty of life is so casual, which makes Siuan and Moiraine's love feel even more life-affirming and precious.

[shipfishwrites]

yes -- exactly. what anne is describing is horrifying, as i see it. i can read it as wholesome but my first reaction is squick.

one of my other interests is religious philosophy, particularly in god concepts and proper worship, and it strikes me so clearly as coming from the same place as ibadah in islam or the born again philosophy in christianity. the idea of being suffused with god and submitting to him. it's really core for a lot of people, to be able to go to that place over and over and feel that total encompassing rightness, it provides comfort and security and often serves as the foundation for more head-thinky parts of the religious system. it's weird because i know exactly what that should or ought to feel like, but i don't experience it without a critical eye.

to me, the most natural thing to think after "you will never be alone [again], you will always be supported" is to ask what happened to you to make you so lonely and so unsupported. not to say that the people coming to impression (or confirmation or being born again) can't be open to that connection, can't be lonely and seeking (especially considering the age range of impressees) -- but that anne mccaffrey (and billions of others) frequently make this claim about unchaperoned human nature.

here, anne mccaffrey claims that impression is not only magical and ecstatic (granted, sure) but that it repairs you. you were alone, but now you aren't. you were unsteady, and now you are supported. you were half fleah, and now tou are one flesh. it is "completely in rapport with you" (which is an interesting comment in terms of the use of dragon impression as protagonist picking) which means you are good and right, your ideas are right, your being is right, here is the strength and grace (and submission) to prove it.

i think it's important to point out that in this snippet, the dragonet mind is more the agent than the patient. the things expressed happen to the human, and it's the human who has the response (responsibility?) of "total surrender". but then immediately, after this moment of domination, the human is the agent. except for flights, dragons do not like, seem to be the active agent in the relationship.

(joke) and that is why the real archetype of goldriders isn't women or even "females," it's power bottoms. in this essay i will

Everyone clap for non consensual body modification everybody loves a character whose body has been altered against their will