#poor fuchsia :/

[tep-the-conjurer]

[mischeviousmew]

A special flower for @metalmewtwo-kxb author

[harrowscore]

fuchsia really said "it doesn't make sense..... compels me tho" about steerpike lmao

[savage-rhi]

Fuchsia 😭💀

[moonlit-trolls]

oh yeah btw if u

A) Throw food away in front of caldea she is going to beat the shit out of you

and

B) Don't say thank you to whomever cooked said food she will beat the shit out you

And

C) Say that her goals are stupid and yours are better or say your life is tough when you're standing a solid several cuts above her, she will beat the shit out of you

[tggardens]

More before pics.

[starryhutcherson]

━━ A NEW FAMILIAR

author's note: crawled out of my hole for this one guys. sorry for being so ghost mode im working on putting out more stuff, apologies if this isn't of the highest quality as i'm running on sugar free redbull and three hours of sleep ! love my life hahahahaAHHHH

'୧ ‧₊ pairing: best friend!mike schmidt x reader warnings: 18+ sexual content! oral sex (f!receiving), p in v, unprotected sex, dirty talk, swearing word count: 4600+ ⋆ ✩‧₊

Mike’s expression always glooms when you bring up the next date you’ve arranged. He knows how this story plays out; he knows the truth behind the men you’ve matched with on whatever sketchy website you’ve wasted your time on. They’ve molded themselves into the embodiment of perfection, through falsified photos and fabrications buried in their bios. His patience crumbles like fireplace ash as you skip around his living room and drone on about whatever dickhead you’ve set your poor, precious heart on.

He knows, always, the the outcome is running makeup and salty cheeks, sobbing on the floor of his living room in a creasing satin dress and his welcoming arms, a bitter exclamation of “you were right Mike” leaving your lips in the knowing silence and him gritting his jaw and pretending that it doesn’t bother him the the only habits you ever find yourself falling back into are the bad ones. 

It’s no different today. 

Mark or Matt or Mitch – you really were killing him, because it should be Mike. It should be him. Him that you’re getting ready for, him that you’re daydreaming about. And it’s an odd feeling, like a movie where your favorite character dies and then movie finishes and you have to accept that they aren’t coming back, no matter how long you sit glued to the reclinable chair, popcorn crunched beneath your sneakers and the credit-scene reflected in your shrinking pupils. 

Mike’s not the type to be happier with the hope – he’d let the truth swallow him up, sink into his creaking bones, he’d live with the loss. But he still has hope for you. He has hope that your eyes will open and you’ll seep into his brain and his breath and his bed. He hopes you’ll start seeing him instead of just looking. Maybe it's wishful thinking. Ignorant optimism.

It feels like it. 

It feels like it, right now, when he’s leaning against the doorframe of his bathroom and watching you get ready, your animated chatter reverberating around the small space between coats of mascara. He offered to give you a ride before you’d even asked, and he’ll tolerate the sting of watching you get out of the car looking all pretty for someone who isn’t him, just to make sure you get there safely. It’s the type of sacrifice he’ll make for you. 

“I can’t even feel my face, I’ve been smiling so hard all day!” You squeal, powdering your cheeks with more purposeless product – he thinks it’s all pointless. You’re radiant, even in the harsh lighting of his bathroom. 

He offers a low grunt. What is he supposed to say? He’s not happy. And he’s not gonna pretend he is. 

You either don’t notice or choose to ignore, continuing to doll yourself up to whatever standards you have for yourself. “I mean, he says he’s been skiing since he was 6. He’s practically an olympian.” 

Mike scoffs. 

“What?”

“Nothing,” he grumbles, shaking his head. “Can you hurry up?”

“Alright, grumpy. Calm down. I gotta do my lips and then I’m ready. Plus, nobody told you that you gotta stand here.” 

A fleeting flush of fuchsia permeates his cheeks, but he looks down at his worn shoes to hide it. It’s true. He didn’t have to stand here. But if an angel was populating your bathroom you’d want to take a peek, would you not? That’s how he thinks you look. Angelic. Glowing from your soul, a content smile knitted on your lips. You might as well have a halo and wings – that heaven-sent aura is reinforced when you douse yourself in lingering washes of that sweet perfume that’s branded itself to you. He’d recognise that floral aroma anywhere, the way a shark detects a drop of blood amongst saline scattered seas. 

“Okay, I’m ready. How do I look?”

Cruelest question of them all. “You look… fine. Good.”

A knot forms in your brow. “All this effort for that terrible answer?” Playful, but with a truthful undertone. Why do you value his opinion so much? He doesn’t want to assume anything. 

“Well I’m not the person you’re dressing up for.” I wish I was. He doesn’t say the other words, but he thinks them so hard he’s half convinced if you were listening in the right spot, or looking into his eyes for long enough that you’d hear it anyway. 

“Okay, okay, whatever. Let’s just get going, don’t wanna keep Mack waiting.” 

Two letters. That’s all it would take. That’s all he’d have to swap to make it him.

“Yeah, let’s go.”

✩‧₊˚

Even if you aren’t aware, even if he did offer, he drives begrudgingly. He focuses as much as he can, on the road ahead and not your glistening figure beside him in the passenger seat, the very definition of temptation. 

The mall parking lot is barren, a few gleaming cars scattered amongst the otherwise desolate area. He pulls into a space, sets the car in park, rakes in a greedy sigh of air. 

“If anything happens, call me.” 

You sneer teasingly. “Don’t be so pessimistic. It’s gonna be great, he could be my future husband, y’know.”

Yep. Mack, the 35 year old you've met online, who’s only notable talent seems to be skiing and his greatest life achievement to date is shooting a deer, whose head is mounted to the wall in his bedroom, typically visible in the background of his many instagram posts which involved his shirtless figure straining to flex his overly pronounced bulk. A match made in heaven. He wants to scream. 

And how can you even tell him to not be pessimistic? How can you look him in the eyes and act like this moment hasn’t happened time after time, the point of no return before an evening spent crying in his arms as he reassures you that your failed dates are never your fault, even though by now it seems like you must be seeking out the same genre of shitty man if you’re this good at getting your heart broken. He’s sick of picking up the fragile little pieces of his bathroom floor, cutting himself on the shards of a heart that’ll never be his. You deserve more than these half-baked, single night romances. He could show you that. 

“Yeah, sure,” he grits. “Future husband. Just call me, seriously.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll call you.” 

And with that, you’re off, disappearing into the gaping mouth of the mall’s entrance, and he watches with an alkaline feeling growing in his stomach. Your hair is caught up in the wind like clothing on a washline and he thinks his hope is all drained out. 

✩‧₊˚

Mike spends a good two hours back at his house. His movements feel vacuous, staring ahead at the screen, barely processing the raging garbage that masquerades as reality TV. The rain has picked up outside, licking at the window panes with a growing intensity. 

He’s not happy about the jean skirt and tiny little tank top you’d clad yourself in prior to leaving, you’re probably frigid by now in the cold. You did however reassure him that Mack was gonna drive you home, or even worse, take you back to his place, so his stupid fucking elk head trophie could watch with it’s empty eyes while the pair of you fuck on the bed that his mom still has to make for him because he never can quite manage those fitted sheets, can he? Fucking manchild. 

Shit. Mike’s feeling so so bitter. Maybe it’s because he’s finally realized that this is the dreaded pattern he’s going to have to endure with you until death. Or until he braves up and actually tells you that he’s been in love with you since the fifth day of second grade, when you mouthily confronted Jerry Murdoch and told him to give Mike his crayons back.  

With a weak sigh, he turns the TV off with a click of the remote still encaptured in the loose hold of his fist, and decides to see if he can melt into any form of sleep – but the knock on his door prevents him from doing so. 

He arises lethargically, not having much on his mind but the denial of his slumber as he shuffles over and turns the handle, but then, it’s you. 

Fluttery lashes melted to black smudges beneath your eyes, a mixture of rainwater and tears, completely drenched and dripping all over his doormat, your body is trembling and you’re wracked with tiny little cries and he’s feeling so many emotions he believes he might implode. 

He pulls you inside and into his arms, stroking your back in gentle, soothing motions, and it kills him that this has become routine. He’s angry. He’s sick of this. 

“What happened this time?” He grunts softly. 

“He didn’t even show up. He couldn’t even send a message as to why, Mike,” you sniffle into his warm chest, drunk off the even echo of his heartbeat. 

A moment’s silence rots like aged fruit. He draws a breath in, then out, then in again. 

“Why didn’t you call me?”

You crane your face upwards to meet him, instantly bathed in a nervous shiver when you see how serious he looks. 

“My phone was dead.” Is all you can manage to mumble. 

“What?” He’s pissed. “Why didn’t you charge it? You could have charged it there, they have outlets at the mall. Or you could’ve used someone else’s, so you didn’t have to walk home in the rain, because you’re drenched.” 

“I don’t–”

“Y’know how dangerous it is to walk around alone in this shitty neighborhood? Half the street lights don’t even work, and I don’t even know any of my neighbors, or what kinda people walk around here at night.” He grumbles. “I shouldn’t have to tell you all this, I’m sick of explaining all this to you.”

You roll your eyes irritably, releasing yourself from his arms and crossing your own across your dripping wet torso. “How was I supposed to know he was gonna stand me up? You’re telling me I should just expect it?”

He blinks like a deer in headlights, silence settles into his flesh.

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

You scoff. “It’s what you implied.” 

“It’s not what I—” He grumbles weakly under his breath, cutting himself off, deciding reasoning with you is somewhat of a useless attempt. “Why can’t you just listen to me?”

“What, charge my phone next time? Bring a raincoat? Yeah, great help, seriously, don’t know where I’d be without you,” your sarcasm hits like gunshot wounds to the teeth. 

“Or maybe you should try to meet actual people, instead of fake ones from some stupid website.” 

After a cold shiver bites up your spine, your expression deepens with defense. What is his fucking problem? “At least I try to get out of the house! At least I don’t spend every hour of every day moping around and feeling sorry for myself!” 

The pair of you fight, sure, every good relationship, friend or romance or family or whatever should, but nothing like this. This is stone-set, it’s been coming for a while, the wild gesticulations and the pacing and the raised voices. It shakes the bones of the weakened house. 

“Don’t,” Mike says with a furious edge, fists tightening and untightening like he’s about to take a swing at the wall, like this is going to end with bleeding knuckles nipped with shards of worn plaster. “Don’t throw that in my face, I do everything I can, for you and Abby. It’s not like I have a choice.”

“So what, you’re so fucking miserable in your own life that you have to try and control mine?”

“Control? You’re like my child! You don’t even know how to take care of yourself half the time, so yes, I try to help you not to make such shitty decisions!” 

You scowl. “You’re not obligated to do anything for me, y’know Mike. Why do you keep me around if I’m that much of a chore for you!”

He snaps, the tension in his fists bleeding up into his throat, his mouth, the words clot behind his gums and suddenly they tumble out in a fury-fueled shout. “Because you’ve got no one else!” 

You deflate, wilting like a flame without oxygen, and Mike deems the silence to be more cruel than anything else you’ve said to him tonight. He’s feeling everything and nothing all at once, the quiet crumbles around him like a burning building and he fears he’ll become rubble beneath the debris. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I just… god, just–” His eyes flick to you, and then retreat back down to the faded living room carpet. He can’t swallow his guilt this time. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped like that.”

“It’s fine,” you say coldly, knuckling away an angry tear. The salt water is the trick of nostalgia, you’ve cried like this so many times. Your breakage of those promises to yourself. It’ll be different. And it never is. 

“No. It’s not – I’m a dick, I just… I hate watching other people ruin your life. You deserve better.”

Better. What is better? Some twisted fantasy that some people are indulged with and others are left longing for. That you’re left longing for. You know he’s tired of the same bullshit that you force yourself through, convincing yourself of change, painting yourself up to be fit for presentation, and hoping that whoever you’ve leeched onto likes what they see, so you don’t have to feel so alone anymore. You’re oblivious, painfully so. Because Mike could plaster together the cracks in your splintering psyche, if you’d just let him in. 

“Whatever, Mike. It’s true anyway.”

There’s a hole in his heart in the shape of your name. He begs you. Fill it. A part of him shatters at the defeat in your words — he’s crumbled you to the bone, to the marrow. He’ll build you back up. You deserve it. 

“No it isn't. No it isn’t. You have me. You’ll always have me.” 

A silence pervades; the look in his eyes is one of pleading, that you’ll stop and see what he’s offering you, that you’ll stop chasing your own tail, that you’ll stop the cycle. 

“Mike…”

“And Abby.”

You indulge him. 

“You have me. And you have Abby. And I know that’s… not much, but she loves you. So much. And I’m sorry, ‘cause I know I don’t say it enough, I don’t…. I don’t say how much you mean to me, but I just—”

“Mike.” 

He wallows in the waters of your rain kissed eyes, the way your pupils pulse and the words are falling before he can swallow them back down. 

“I love you.”

He gives you that stare. That stare that’s the color of black coffee, the look that you can feel, unearthing the graveyard of wilting feelings you’ve tried to bury, the heart that beats for him him him, lodged between the ivory bars of your ribcage. He maps you out with his eyes, he looks at you the way the sun hungers for daybreak. 

He’s waiting. He’d wait forever. 

“And… and seeing you with these… shitty people who don’t even care about you, it just…” He sighs exasperatedly, dragging a sweaty palm down his face. 

His sentences can’t seem to finish themselves. This is harder than it looks in the movies. Harder than when he’s practiced in the mirror, when Abby’s walked in and giggled at him and told him to just fess up. 

“You love me? Like…”

He looks up at you like a kicked puppy. “Yeah. I do.”

You’re beyond bewildered. He loves you. He loves you. 

“What– but… you—”

“You don’t have to… say anything. I just, I can’t… I can’t pretend anymore. I can’t do it.”

You reach for his hand. It’s a little clammy, a little trembly, but it’s a perfect fit. Just like you. 

“I love you too, Mike.”

What?

“You… do?”

He’s skeptical, but he’s also swooning. A stone man is slowly cracking. 

“I just didn’t… didn’t think I could have you. I mean, you’re so… you’re everything, y’know? You’re a good brother, and you work so hard, and you’re… I’m just… I don’t think I deserve you,” you whisper, confessing. With a newfound stroke of confidence, he approaches, one hand snaking around to the small of your back, another on your cheek. He’s gentle. In his eyes, you’re porcelain. Precious. Fragile. At least, at this moment. But you love him too and that’s all he needs. It’s all he’s ever needed. 

“You deserve everything.” He says it so quietly it’s barely audible. And then, nothing is audible because he’s carefully pulling your lips to his, linking you in every way, his hands tangle into your damp hair and he’s kissing you. 

His lips chase yours in messy, uncalculated movements. He’s starting small. It’s been a while. And he’s gonna take his time with you. He’s gonna show you what you deserve. Soft sounds squeak past his lips as they flutter against yours, and you’re closer and closer and closer still, impossibly so. 

Within moments he’s whisking you off to his bedroom, his hand tangled with yours, an interlace tight enough to cause ropeburn. His skin chafes with yours, and then he’s kissing you again atop his navy comforter. 

He’s gentle, respectful, but you understand what he’s trying to tell you, what he’s been trying to tell you. He speaks through silken drags of his tongue, through the hand that holds your cheek steady— he feels as though he’s gripping the very cusp of a constellation. You taste like stardust. You glow like the waning moon. 

He breathes heavily in the expanse of his throat, his pants have become tight and wet and filthy; he’s been subconsciously grinding down into your lap. You’re a little shaky and your pupils have darkened with lust and he is going to show you what you mean to him. What you’ve been missing. 

His hand falls lower, into the slope of torso that dips into your hips. His eyes travel back and forth, searching, hunting for the desire that he feels mirrored back at him. Do you want this, the way he does? Do you? His hardened stare doesn’t speak loud enough. He elaborates.

“Can I… uh… do you wanna…?”

Do you want to? You need to. 

“Shit, okay,” he croaks out, jaw tense and tight as he traces you beneath calloused fingers. You didn’t realize you said that out loud. 

He’s endearingly awkward – you know from languid late-night conversations that he hasn’t done this a lot. Maybe even at all. But he’s sweet, so sweet, like lapping up sugar and feeling it dissolve on your tongue, feeling him dissolve on your tongue, giving you comfort and cavities. 

“Can I take this off?” He asks nervously, fiddling with the hem of your camisole. A short nod, and he’s sliding it over your sweat-pricked figure, admiring your contours in the whisper of evening moonlight that bleeds through holes in his moth-eaten curtains. You’re perfect, and he knew you would be. 

He caresses your skin gently, drunk on the mellow feeling of your bare stomach beneath his fingertips. Your bra is black, a little lace peering along the straps, your breasts spilling into the fabric. He reaches around your back, fumbling at the clasp. When the garment drops, his hands are replacing it before you can even blink. 

“Beautiful,” he manages to get out, thumbing over your nipples. 

“Mngh, Mike—”

“Sh. Just let me… just let me. Let me make you feel good. Please?” He grunts out under his breathless voice, and how could you deny such a request?

The moment you agree, he’s grabbing you by the thighs and tugging you towards him slightly, so your back is nearly flat against his mattress and he’s settling himself in the gap that you create for him. 

Your skirt comes off first. Your panties are undeniably soused, his fingers trace the big wet spot that’s dripping all for him, teasing you through torturously thin cotton. 

“Mike,” you mewl gently, fingers settling in his nest of chocolate curls that are damp with sweat. A firm tweak and he’s groaning, his voice melting away into nothing like hot tar. 

“You’re so wet,” he mumbles to himself, like he’s never seen anything like it. Probably not in a while. His finger hooks beneath the waistband, pulls it out gently, and lets it go. It slaps against your hip bone and another fresh sound seeps from your lips.  

“Mike, shit, please just do something—”

“Okay,” he whispers, more to himself than you, carefully sliding your panties from your waist, down past your ankles, and he’s tossing them to join the pile of clothes that has begun to collect on his bedroom floor. 

You’re here, before him. The girl he waited for. Your soft flesh is glistening, clenching painfully around nothing, and he’s salivating at the sight of you. He pries your legs out further with his warm hands, leaving them to linger on your bare flesh for a few drawn out moments, before he claims what’s rightfully his. 

He presses a trialing kiss to your clit, and your back curves delicately, fingers tightening their grasp in his hair. He moans into you at this action, and you, in turn, moan as well. Confidence creates itself in him with each little whimper that he gets you to release, and he’s answering back, hearing your cries, your calls of his name with his own unabashed exclamations of pleasure. This is just as good for him, as it is for you. 

“Mike,” you whine gently, and he’s mumbling weak praise right into your cunt. 

“Fuck, you’re so pretty. Wanted this for so long.”

It’s barely audible between his languid sucks; he’s lapping at your drooling entrance, fingers subtly creeping closer, up and along your thighs and settling right above your throbbing clit. He presses his thumb against it, tracing sinful circles against your bud— once, twice, and then you’re far too close to the edge. 

“Oh, Mike I’m gonna come,” you choke out between gasps. 

“Do it. Please.”

He’s begging you. 

And you oblige. With a trembling sob, your thighs tense around his head, keeping him locked in place, capturing him and making sure he finishes the job, and oh does he plan to. When you soar, he’s still holding you in place, soothing the electric sparks pulsating throughout your body. 

He savors your sounds, and when they stop coming, he presses a lingering peck on your inner thigh, stubble scraping at the sensitive dermis. He then raises his face to your level, the light coruscating off the filthy souvenir etched all over his face, your glittering arousal that he wears so proudly. 

He steals a proper kiss from you, rubbing your side as a gentle comfort. He’s completely hard now, tenting his sweats, leaking against the fabric. You gingerly reach out, tracing what you assume to be the head of his cock, and he sags, boneless, against your touch. 

“Fuck, baby I—”

“Baby?” You chuckle softly, still hazed from the candy-coated afterglow of your orgasm. The first of many, he hopes. 

“Mngh— g… got a problem?” He grumbles softly, almost quivering as you begin to palm him with purpose.

“It’s out of character,” you tell him gently. 

“Shit, can I be inside you?” He asks you, voice ripped raw. 

And once again, Mike Schmidt leaves you breathless. 

“Yeah. I need it. I need you.”

He groans, slipping off his pants and boxers without so much as another word from your swollen lips. He’s hard, angrily so, his cock pulses violently and a little whimper escapes through the crack in his bitten lips when it slaps against his stomach. 

He’s stroking himself slowly, base to tip and then back again, collecting the pearls of precum that dribble from his slit. He’s never been so ready for something. For you. It’s all for you. 

He’s holding you, thumbing your hip bones and gently nudging himself into your hole, cooing at every cry that crawls from the crevices of your throat. When he bottoms out, finally, it’s safe to say that he gets a little dumb. “Oh, shit, I’m not— not gonna last long, you’re so tight, shit…” He’s rambling a little. It’s cute. 

A few wandering kisses land on you the way dandelion spores decorate a skyline – your cheek and your chin and your jaw, as he waits for you to let him move. You’re squeezing him for all he’s got and he’s three seconds away from spilling before he’s even so much as thrusted. You do this to him. 

All those days, staring into your eyes and wondering if you’d ever see him the way you do, all those nights, stroking your hair and softening your saddened sobs after failed date after failed date. They’re all worth it. 

You’re clamping down on him, warm and wet and wavering, and you’re exhaling softly through your nose and telling him to move, begging him to move, to make you feel good, and it’s what he does. 

He pumps into you with passion, magnetized to your every movement. He’s satisfying a decade worth of insatiable craving, he’s chasing your hips with his. You end where he begins. 

The headboard creaks and slams against thin plastered walls, one hand grips onto it with alabaster knuckles and the other one holds your hips for better leverage. He doesn’t need to say it, but each knocked kiss of his pelvis to yours is a silent I love you I love you I love you. 

“Oh my god Mike,” you sob, and he slides himself deeper, hitting everywhere he wants to reach. Everywhere to make you quiver beneath him.

“You d—don’t know how long I’ve wanted this,” he moans lowly. “How many times I’ve imagined you like— like this.”

He’s blabbering, every stray thought that passes through his head is already blossoming on his tongue and out into the air before he can even think twice. Admittedly, you’re too blissed out in your own mind to really respond, but it’s arousing all the same. 

“You’re so… so beautiful,” he’s flushed and he’s faltering, and you know he’s close before he even announces it. 

“Shit, baby, I can’t— can’t last much longer,” he stammers, his bruising pace beginning to shake. 

“Do it in me, Mike, please, please,” shit, are you trying to kill him? Your word is the only law he knows, and he’s wrapping his arms around your torso and diving his head in the elegant slope of your collarbone, biting down into the skin and spasming somewhere deep in your welcoming walls. 

He tries to keep himself quiet, but it’s really a futile effort. His hips jut sporadically as he empties himself inside you, and the sudden flood of subtle heat is all it takes for you to topple over as well. 

Bliss teeters back into reality after a seemingly ceaseless moment. He peels his head from its previous position to admire you, to stroke a stray lock of hair from your forehead and nervously greet it with a kiss.

He doesn’t let go of you. Not now, not ever, he thinks to himself. His arms snake around you tighter, and somehow it’s even more intimate after the fact. His bare chest collides with your back, his nose rests comfortably against the crown of your head. The pair of you follow each other into a dreamless sleep, safe in the sanctuary of a warm bed and an even warmer embrace. 

He’s found his new familiar. 

masterlist

✩‧₊

[kurooandkenmasslut]

TENGEN UZUI X WIVES X PREGNANT!READER !!

Cake!

Notes: s/n means 'sons name'

"Don't you dare move a muscle (name)!" Tengen, your husband called. He has been keeping his eyes on you for the past 8 months, especially since you were expecting in a few days. You didn't cook like you always did with hinatsuru, your co-wife, and cooking for others seemed like it was her and your kinda thing.

Hinatsuru told you to lay down and not to stand to hurt your 'poor legs.'

"Hina, what are you making for dinner? Im kinda cravin- argh-" "(name), are you okay?" "(NAME)!" your co-wife called you in alarm, suma, asking if you were okay, even though it was painfully obvious that you were indeed not okay since your hand was gripping on tightly onto the couch and sweat dripping down your temple.

"I'll call tengen! TENGEN!!!" suma screamed, but then got hit on the head by your co-wife, makio, and told her to stop yelling and to just go get him. Tengen, his presence known as the 'Sound Hashira/Pillar' had heard your grunt of pain from a mile away and has been running down the stairs quickly.

"U-uhm guys? I-I think.." you stammered. It was happening. You were gonna give birth to you, tengen and your wives baby. Tengen put his arms under your legs and his other arm on your back. "Girls, I have to take her to the butterfly estate, quickly." He said, his voice wavering in slight worry for what your about to go through. He sent his flashy, fast, and serious crow to the butterfly estate, notifying his presence. He was deadly fast, almost flying to the estate.

"Tengen!" You groaned. "Yes yes I know my dear, we're almost there, just a minute and then we'll be there!" He said, his legs moving faster than he's ever did before. He stayed true to his word because you two did arrive less then a minute later, the doors slammed open, shinobu's lavender eyes searching for something, and that something is you and tengen. As soon as she saw you, she called the other nurses working there and they rushed into the room they prepared for you. The pain was bad, you were groaning non stop, and tengen hated seeing you in pain. He'd do anything to spare you some pain.

He bit his lip nervously, they took you out of his arms and laid you down onto the bed. You clutched tengens hand tightly, slightly prepared for what's about to happen.

"Just a few more pushes (name)!" Shinobu said, it was so overwhelming for you. You yelled, screamed out in pain. "Push (name)! You can do it!" "You can do it honey! Just keep going!" All the yelling stopped and for a second, it was quiet. But the silence ended with a baby crying loudly. You groaned out in relief.

"It's a... boy!" Shinobu announced, everyone cheered in the room while you mentally cheered, too exhausted to even speak, nevermind a cheer. "I'll go wash him now and give you some time alone." She said, smiling eith her eyes closed. You two nodded before all the nurses left the room, one asking if you needed anything just to call.

You were exhausted, but you opened your eyes again and looked at tengen, his face showed love. His eyes glimmered with tears, his mouth pointing upwards showing his gorgeous white teeth. His thumb gliding over your knuckles softly. His fuchsia eyes looking- no, admiring your face. He took his other hand and wiped away your tears.

"You did amazing, my love." He mumbled, which made you have a silly smile on your face. Shinobu came back with your baby washed, him sleeping soundly. You softly gasped at the small baby, although you never seen him until now, you've always loved him. And your sure you and tengen and your co wives do too.

Talking about them, someone knocked on the door three heads popping out of the door once tengen said that they could come in.

"(Name)!!!!" Suma cried, your sure she cried more tears then you did. Makio slapped her arm and she yelped and ran to tengen. Hinatsuru calmly walked over to you and sat on the edge of the bed, her violet eyes filling with tears once she saw him. The sight of you in a hospital gown (don't ask me how you got in it) and the newborn in your arms just made her tear up. Suma and Makio walked over to you and also took in the sight. Suma tried to hold in her cries while makio teared up. Suma laid down next to you cuddling to your side.

"Tengen." "Yes my dear? Do you need anything?" Tengen got up, ready to go out and ask the nurse to whatever you wished.

"Do you wanna hold him first?" That question shocked him, it made his legs weak. He nodded firmly before taking his trembling legs and over to you where you were lying. Your wives had moved out of the way, watching the most important moment of their lives happening before them. Tengen reached his arms out, and you placed your son into his arms. He brought him over more closer to him.

"Hey little guy.." He cooed. "So this is the little troublemaker that has been making my wife distressed huh?" He scolded in a whisper way. He looked up at his wives, they already knowing what they mean. Hinatsuru was first, he placed him into her arms, and he started waking up.

"Hes got your eyes, tengen." Hinatsuru mumbled and Tengen grinned. "Well of course, he's my boy after all." he bragged and you laughed. Tengen looked over at you. Suma was next, and she cooed and cooed over him. "Awhhh!! Just look how big and adorable his eyes look! Kyaa!!" She squealed. And last but not least, was makio. He started playing with her fingers. Suma was beside her and looking closely at his face. Big mistake. He then poked her eye with his small finger, making suma recoil. "I like him!" Makio grinned, and suma sulked.

Then tengen looked over at you. "Dear, you should rest, your exhausted." He mumbled and kissed the side of your head. You nodded before drifting off into a deep slumber.

TIMESKIP!

Your son, s/n, was 2 years old today, so you and your wives started decorating the house before tengen and your son came back. Hinatsuru was a few months pregnant, so she couldn't do much, but you and your wives were still very appreciative of her effort.

The plan was that tengen would take s/n out in the town and do some fun stuff with him for a few hours and then you and your co wives would decorate and make the cake.

"oi! Suma! Your doing that wrong dumby! You aren't supposed to put that in yet!" Makio scolded suma and hit her on the head, which made suma cry out in pain. "Ladies, please stop yelling, hina is sleeping." You said, you took the role of hinatsuru on trying to get them to stop messing.

Suma clutched onto your arm. "(Name) (name) (name)!!!! MAKIO'S BULLING ME!!" she squealed. You just patted her head and told them that the cake needed to be in the oven now. You and makio started decorating the cake while suma did some touches to the house decoration.

You heard some ringing, sort of like beads clashing together. But to your relief, it wasn't tengen, it was his crow. "Message from tengen uzui! Ahem.. I am on my way home with s/n! I know as soon as I enter our flashy home, it's gonna be even flashier! S/n is very excited!" The crow read aloud. As soon as you heard that he's coming home, your mind started a small panic and you rushed into making the writing for the cake.

The front door opened. And s/n looked about in darkness and hung onto tengens neck. Tengen entered the kitchen and turned on the lights, and him and s/n got a fright because you, suma, makio and hinatsuru were hiding behind the counter. Makio and you laughed at their reaction.

"Yayayayaya! This cake is delicious! I love cake, I love cake, I love cake.." suma sang and it seemed like s/n seemed to catch on because..

"Cake!" He squealed. Silence. You all stared at him in shock. "C..Cake?" You mumbled and teared up. You then rook s/n to your side and started smiling as teared rolled down goir cheeks. "He said his first word! He said it!" You weeped. You were happy but then a tad bit sad that he didn't say mama first.

S/n smiled and giggled. "Cake Cake cake cake cake!" He ranted and you all laughed. Tengen went close to your ear. "Wanna make another one?" He whispered silently and grinned, making you all red. "OI I HEARD THAT!" suma and makio screamed. "Hey hey hey! I was joking!" But was he really? He glanced over at you and winked, yep, he definitely was not joking.

[short-and-ugly]

Canon irken eye colors

All the time I see all these fancy ocs with really bright ass eye colors and a wide variety of them too!!! And it got me thinking...

Do we even actually see all of these colors in the show?

So I'm gonna compile a list of all the eye colors we actually do see in irkens :-)

Starting with four images:

1) Is all of the irken invaders lined up together! Look at all those eyes just ready for conquest. No. no not really ANYWAYS here you can really only see a few colors: Magenta, maroon, fuchsia, and surprisingly, a pale red, a dirty orange-red, dirty yellow, and a lavender from Zee! Honestly the magenta and fuchsia are kind of a stretch because. The show irkens eyes are all really dark and dim compared to the movie. They get super duper saturated there.

2) Redrick and Ourp themselves... self-explanatory. We actually see a shitton more purple irkens than we do red ones!! At least main-character-for-single-episodes irkens. Sizz-Lorr and Tak <3 then there's also the Tallest's advisor, who has muddied green eyes!!!

3) Very light blue/teal!!! I'm not attributing the brightness to shading at all because the skin looks normal-colored. I'm fairly certain this is the ONLY guy with this color of eyes.

4) All the navigators together because they're all beautiful <3 If you look at the green closely you'll notice that it's all actually leaning more towards blue than yellow.

Now, what do we do with this information?

Speculate :3 it's what I do best!!

Bear with me though for these poor edits. I'm on my phone at four AM making this post.

Here's a color wheel where I blotched out all the colors that I don't believe exist for irken eyes :-) We don't see a lot of dark shades of colors so even the dark reds or magentas might be a stretch but we also really don't see any bright yellows or oranges. They're all really muddied and shaded when we do see them! And we also don't see any saturated or dark blues -- opposite to yellows, we only see tinted blues!

This wheel is notably missing cyan but. I'll go out to say that that's probably not an irken eye color either. Or it is, but it's super duper rare for an irken to have that color.

It's also missing the really saturated fuchsias and magentas that we know are there because of the movie irkens... but shh......

Anyways. What did we get out of this ramble?? Idk. That having shit stain brown eyes is more common than having baby blue ones and that Miyuki probably didn't have cyan eyes.

I'm gonna go back to sleep now and contemplate changing my orange-eyed irken to be rust colored :) goodnight

Edit: ITS COME TO MY ATTENTION THAT THERE IS THIS GUY

His eyes are blue! But again, it's a very tinted/washed out blue.

(I'm on a computer now)

So... strong vibrant blues are still likely a no-go. But you could still make a cute little guy with what's available.

[bits-and-babs]

I just read Playboy and... Oh boy. Damn. Bashful Joel is *the best.* Also, I'm so curious if they woke up Ellie lmao that would be horribly, deliciously awkward

𝐅𝐥𝐮𝐬𝐡

pairing: Joel Miller x Reader

word count: 819

warnings: awkward. Very subtle references to smut. Not proof read.

note: I loved this ask so much that I had to write it just for funsies. I think I try really hard (too hard) sometimes to be a serious writer when sometimes I’m in need of a little bit of fun! See the fic that inspired this ask here. PLEASE NOTE: at the end of this there are two dashes ( - - ) there is a glitch removing the last paragraph of my fic so this is the only way I can curb it!

Fuchsia blurs across Ellie’s cheekbones, encroaching on the skin of her throat and exposing her obvious discomfort in the silvery reflection of the wing mirror. You chew on the inside of your cheek raw as you watch her for hours, her eyes staring into the obscure image of the passing evergreen outside the window as though she was experiencing shell shock.

“You’re uncharacteristically quiet, Kid,” Joel speaks up through the silence, his eyes drifting up to the wing mirror glass and assessing the image of Ellie’s reflected mortification. Outwardly cringing, she glances forward at Joel and shrugs awkwardly.

“Yeah, well, you were ‘uncharacteristically’ loud last night,” she mumbles under her breath, and you swear you feel your insides curdle. Joel’s eyebrow arches slightly in question, but you know exactly what she’s touching on, swallowing back your urge to explain and apologise.

“Gotta speak up, Kiddo. Can’t hear you on that side,” Joel reminds Ellie of his deaf ear, and you find yourself closing your eyes in mortification at his insistence to find out what was bugging the poor, tortured girl.

Ellie clears her throat with a shake of her head, sprawling out across the back seat in a dramatic flop.

“It’s not important.”

Joel, frustrated now, aims his scrutiny at you. His bronze eyes study your discomfort; his eyebrows pinched together when you form your lips around the words ‘she knows.’

The result is almost instantaneous—Joel’s grip on the leather steering wheel creaks, his knuckles white. You can practically see his stomach drop, and he lets out an awkward chuckle that lacks humour. Resting your elbow against the curve of the door, you hide your eyes behind your fingers.

“… Ellie,” Joel speaks tentatively, and you swear you can feel the almost nauseous discomfort radiating off the teenage girl in waves, “… Uh… When-“

“‘A man and a woman love each other very much’? Are you fuckin’ serious, Joel? Are you about to give me the birds and bees talk?!” Ellie scoffs, shaking her head, “You really are shoddy at this.”

“I didn’t-… I ain’t had to talk about this before,” Joel grumbles, teeth gritting as he rubs at the back of his neck to wipe the nervous sweat away.

“You don’t have to. You were both so noisy I got a pretty clear picture!” She pointed out viciously, and you swear you wished a Bloater would just run at the truck and flip it over, knocking you out and putting you out of your misery. You’re cringing so hard you swear you’ve tied your intestines in a knot.

“Shit-… ‘M sorry, Ellie. You shouldn’ta heard that…” Joel mumbles, and it’s like he’s getting his knuckles rapped with a ruler by his maths teacher. You’d never heard the gruff, unapologetic man sound so meek.

There’s a long stretch of silence, and it almost tempts you to peek through your digits and see what is happening. So quiet and tense is the atmosphere that the running engine of the ageing vehicle sounds like a mountain avalanche, rumbling within the contents of the van’s metal shell. You suppose a huge rock hitting you head on would be more optimal than this utterly humiliating conversation.

Joel damn near stalls the truck when Ellie speaks up, catching you both off guard with what she chooses to say next.

“… So… *Is* he smaller than the average American dick length?”

“Ellie!” You and Joel yell out in shock, and Ellie almost falls off the seat in her intense laughter, clutching at her stomach at the evident shame that decorates Joel’s expression.

“I’m just fuckin’ with ya! I don’t wanna know that shit!” She giggles, wiping tears from her waterline with her knuckles.

“Oh, fuck you,” you scoff, shaking your head and leaning it back against the headrest.

“No thanks, that’s what Joel is for.”

“Ellie, I swear I am gonna kick you out of this truck and make you walk to Wyoming,” you insist, pointing towards the door handle beside you with zeal.

“Got it, got it,” she chuckles, sitting up again, “But don’t think I’m lettin’ you off that easy. I hear anything nasty? I’m screaming so a runner comes and kills us all. It’s less painful than listening to what I heard last ni-…”

When you dare to look, poor Joel is staring vacantly ahead of him as he drives, looking as though he’s really wondering just why the *fuck* he decided to take this job from Marlene and whether or not Ellie would be able to find her own way to Wyoming if he dropped her off on the roadside and abandoned her. Surely scrappy little Ellie could deliver herself with a map and a single cereal bar for protection?

-

[rotworld]

15: For Your Own Good

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

in the midst of the chaos and destruction of a word bearers invasion, you are singled out for a specific purpose. can you outlast the appetites of a being who knows nothing but desire?

->warhammer 40k. original slaanesh daemon/reader. explicit; contains non-con, graphic descriptions of violence, invasion/mass destruction/mass death, non-human genitalia, manipulation.

.

.

.

You’re in a bedroom, remembering again—

How the sky quaked. How blood spilled like rain, how it trickled and poured and filled the corpse pits, congealing so each stone fissure glistened like a gaping planetary wound. How it burned for miles. How the smoke rose up in swirling, soot-black clouds and stung your eyes. Death so vicious, so constant, so incomprehensibly vast that you no longer understood it. Do planets die? Can they be killed? So many voices screamed and wept in those open graves, those world-wounds, that you began to believe that the ground beneath your feet was wailing.

But not you. No, not you, pushed and pulled and led away by monstrous, blood-soaked hands. Not you, paraded down the shattered charnel streets between the dead and dying. No festering in a terrestrial scab. No slow, oozing torment upon a sacrificial altar. They dragged you through the mud, the ash and all the suffering, up the jagged steps carved of bones so fresh they were still pale pink and wet. 

Not you, they said, because you were chosen. But for what?

You jolt awake and stumble, finding yourself already on your feet. Were you sleepwalking? You’re in a bedroom. It’s not yours and it’s not familiar. And it’s changing, you’re sure of it. It’s not just your bleariness or imagination. The floor was cold, bare hardwood but now there’s a tasseled rug beneath your feet. Colors trickle and soften like mixing watercolors, bold reds and garish golds fading into more restful hues. When you walk by the four-poster bed, it sprouts a canopy, the magenta curtains open and waiting. The far wall curves into a bay window to reveal an alien sky, splintering tendrils of atmospheric lightning and auroral ouroboroi flickering in a prismic maelstrom. 

“Love?” 

The voice is rich, warm and sweet as honey. You turn and find a stranger standing across the room. A stranger, you’re almost certain, but you feel that you know him and he knows you. From the port? From your hab-block? He’s dressed in the same drab, grungy attire everyone does around here, shirt hem unraveling, work pants tucked into scuffed leather boots, but you can’t remember meeting someone so beautiful. Not pretty or handsome in a normal way. Beautiful like the luminescence of a poisonous rad-slug, nature’s warning sign. Beautiful like the shimmering slag slick atop a still, tranquil lake choked with so much chemical runoff that if you stick your hand in, all the skin up to your wrist will slough right off. Beautiful like the skin-taking bogeymen in Underhive children’s bedtime stories, too perfect strangers with their too perfect smiles. 

Dark, silky hair spills over his shoulders. Fuchsia eyes gaze at you with a lover’s knowing fondness. “Are you alright?” he asks. “Did you have a nightmare?” 

Did you? You look around the room again like the answers will be here somewhere, tucked into ornate wooden furniture or inscribed on the lurid oil paintings hanging in golden frames. No. No, it wasn’t a nightmare. It was real. It happened. You’re remembering it in glimpses. Mountains of corpses. Rivers of blood. And the sky, how it twisted and quivered like a sick animal, how the stars flickered and the night peeled like the singed, scabbing flesh of a burn, and everything behind it was—

“You poor thing. Why don’t you sit down?” He runs his hand up and down the wooden frame of the bed, caressing the intricate carvings in the wood with his palm. “Just relax. And let me take care of you.” 

“Who are you?” you ask. You step back in hasty, frightened retreat but there’s nowhere to go. You don’t see a door anywhere. 

“Don’t you recognize me?” His smile stirs fluttering warmth in your stomach like love at first. “You do, deep down. You can feel it. Do you remember that little shipping mixup a few years ago? All those crates of food meant for a faraway pleasure world, sitting forgotten in a warehouse at the port. You held a peach in your hand and it was like nothing you’d ever seen before. Soft, lightly fuzzed, and so tender, so mouthwateringly sweet…” Your heart hammers in your chest. He shouldn’t know about that. No one is supposed to know about that. “No, darling. Don’t be afraid,” he coos. “It’s alright. I was there. I watched you. I saw light, cloudy peach juice dribble from the corner of your mouth, and how you licked it from your thumb.” He comes closer, each step slow and graceful like the slinking dance of a wolf cornering a hare. 

“I don’t know you,” you insist. “I’ve never seen you before.” 

“Yes,” he says, “you have.” And like lampshade at the bedside table that keeps shifting, paper to stained glass to bead-tasseled cloth, like the squirming patterns on the rug and the suggestive writhing of the paintings, he, too, changes. Ragged work clothes morph into a glittering evening gown. Short, blunt nails become long and lacquer-polished. The woman in front of you wears scarlet lipstick and black eyeshadow, small crystals embedded in the skin beside her eyes. 

She has the same long black hair and the same haunting eyes in a vibrant shade of pink. She has the same alluring smile that makes your heart race and your head spin. 

“Do you remember the music?” she asks, slinking closer. You see her thigh through the slit in her dress, clad in a stocking of black lace. “That night those musicians came? Those sweet strings and woodwinds, how they dazzled you! Such beauty trickling all the way down from the upper hive. You did not even wonder how much more lovely it would be to hear properly, seated in the theater. You were too awestruck to even consider it.” 

You don’t back away from her as quickly as you did before. You hesitate. Your foot scuffs against the rug. Your back hits the edge of the bay window and you feel a cushioned seat that wasn’t there before, plush pillows that your palms sink into. Her hands fall on either side of you, trapping you there. Her breath warms your lips. 

“I was there,” she whispers, stroking your cheek with the back of her hand. “I saw your eyes wide with wonder. What a sad life you’ve lived in this terrible place, love of mine. So deprived of pleasures great and small.” 

You push her away. You’re remembering. Those stairs you were forced to climb, feet dragging, knees bruising as they dragged you into a chamber of stone. What was it? A building? A cave? You had never seen such a place before. It felt ancient—older than you. Older than everything. It thrummed and pulsed with unseen life. It was built wrongly, impossibly, the floor twisted and the walls crawling. It knew your name. That room, that wanting and hungering place, knew your name and whispered it. It had her voice, and his voice, and every voice you’ve ever loved and every voice you’ve ever missed.

You’re remembering the butcher-priest in blood red, thorny armor, with horns upon his head. You’re remembering his outstretched hands. His beatific smile. He called you “blessed child.” He said you were chosen for a greater purpose. 

“No,” you say, your voice trembling. Everything burns away but dread and terror. “No. No, no, no. Not again.”

“Yes,” she hisses, her smile sharp and cruel. “Again. And again. And again. As many times as it takes.” She backs you into the wall, one beautiful, long-fingered hand resting on the wooden panel beside your head. “You sweet, stubborn thing.”

You feel lightheaded with fear. “You keep doing this. Keep making me forget—”

“And you keep remembering. But that’s alright. I enjoy this panicked realization each and every time it happens.” She cups your chin, the pad of her thumb tracing the shape of your mouth. You would bite her, but you know she’d just enjoy it. “Is the room to your liking? You can change it, if you’d like. You can change me, too. I can be anyone your heart desires.” 

You’re remembering—does she urge you to, or does your mind fly back with such eagerness on its own? She’s fucked you in this room more times than you can count. She’s been everything, has worn countless faces, has had every imaginable appendage, human and inhuman. On your back, knees over her shoulders, hands tangled in her flowing locks; on your belly, legs spread, panting into the sheets as clawed hands cover yours; seated on thick, muscular thighs and pinned against the wall by a strong, enormous body and opened gradually on a long, snaking tongue—

“You’re thinking about it,” she murmurs. She presses her knee between your legs and grinds it hard against your sex, making you shudder in pleasure and pain. “There’s no shame in enjoying it. No shame at all, my love.” 

You want to argue that you don’t enjoy it, that this is cruelty and torture and you’d be a fool to make a deal with a daemon. But then she tilts your chin and kisses you, and you don’t think at all for a moment. Euphoria floods your veins. It’s the peach meant for a rich noble and the echoes of a symphony from the hive’s highest tower and every good thing, every pleasant, perfect, wonderful thing you’ve ever experienced, magnified to brain-searing extremes. Before, there was only spilling blood and unspeakable torments of the flesh—and death, even before all of this, grueling, slow death from smokestack fumes and skin-melting waste and exhaustion and never having enough, but this is pleasure. Unspeakable ecstasy. You can’t stop yourself from kissing her back, horrified and humiliated when she pulls away with a giggle leaving you gasping with slick, swollen lips.

“What did I do to deserve this?” you ask her, your voice quivering with tears. 

She changes—the man again, now wearing only a long purple loincloth and golden jewelry. He caresses your side and your clothes slither apart, unraveled into dissolving string. You want to blame it on him but part of you knows he can take away all of this fear and weariness. Just for a moment. Just for a minute. The wall feels carpet-soft behind you, undulating with breath behind your back. 

“Is that what you’ve been taught, precious?” he sighs. “That joy is your just reward for unending, thankless service and that misfortune is punishment from He Who Knows Not Love?” His hands smooth down your back, squeezing your hips on their way to your backside. He pulls you into the slow rhythm of his hips, a leisurely grind that lets you feel the hard, throbbing shape beneath the loincloth. “No. You don’t really believe that. You did once, but I see it waning. So why deny yourself this perfection?” 

Chosen, said the butcher-priest, for a greater purpose. And in that living chamber of flesh like stone, the whispers called to you, sang to you, begged for you. “The death of the old for the birth of the new,” it said, cajoling. “Together, in one flesh. Together, in nuptial bliss. As we could never be alone.” 

You’re turned around, shoved into the wall and held there with the daemon draped against your back. “I need you,” he sighs into the side of your neck, kissing and licking at your pulse. “I need you more than anyone has ever needed you. I cannot walk the world of what is real without you. I cannot even exist.” He keeps up the same sensual pace, a thick, achingly hard cock draped in fine cloth rubbing against the curve of your ass. He’s changing again. The legs bracketing yours thicken with muscle and end in cloven hooves. The hands braced on either side of your head grow larger, the fingers lengthening and ending in vicious claws. 

Something hard and sharp, bone-like and pincer-shaped, closes around your waist. The inner edge is lined with fine serration that pricks your skin, making every flinch and moan a razor-sharp, painful sensation. You whimper and low, rumbling laughter vibrates against your back—neither the man’s voice nor the woman’s but a warped melding of the two speaking in harmony. The daemon grows. The cock now sliding between your thighs is obscenely long and thick, transformed into something distinctly inhuman. It’s lavender at the flared, blunted tip and deep violet further down its length. A bulging ring around halfway down the shaft haunts your imagination with how it would catch and pull at your insides. 

“Why so afraid?” they ask. “You needn’t be. You have taken me before. I have ensured that you can.” They grind between your legs one last time before they pull back. The tip, wide and spongy, prods against your entrance. One of their large hands pushes down on your shoulder, forcing you to bend over, palms pressed against the wall to steady yourself. 

You tremble at the dull pressure of slight, teasing thrusts, the head of the monstrous cock pushing with slightly more force each time. Your legs shake and your nails scrape the wall. It shouldn’t go in so easily but your muscles unclench and your body opens as though welcoming the daemon. You’re thinking that you will let yourself have this—this pleasure. This mindlessness. This moment of respite from the end of everything you’ve ever known. Just a little longer. 

Then the daemon snaps their hips and you’re not thinking at all. Your eyes roll back in your head as you’re forced onto your toes by the strength of the thrust. You can feel it all the way inside of you, deeper than anything is meant to go. You can feel throbbing veins and ridges and small, soft nubs, textures designed to drag on your inner walls in perfect, agonizing pleasure. You’re hardly aware of the way you arch your back and raise your hips until the daemon makes a rumbling sound of delight, sharp fingers squeezing the swell of your ass. 

“You think you can taste me and resist the temptation for more? Shall we test that, my love?” 

You shouldn’t be alive with the way they fuck you. You should split in half, brutalized and impaled on their massive length, but somehow your body takes everything and pushes back against their thrusts for more. The daemon smooths their hands up and down your back, reaching around to flick your nipples between their claws. That punishing pace never falters and never stops. You cum just like that, practically hanging off their cock while it pummels into you, and the daemon hisses praise. You are stunning, they say, you are splendid, you are divine, you are beauty incarnate, you are love made flesh. 

“And I would do anything for you, beloved,” they say. “Anything at all. A binding born of mutual desire is more fruitful and long-lasting than any other, and so I will strive to please you always. Be my feet upon solid ground and I will be the shield that keeps you from harm, the honey that keeps you nourished, the lover that keeps you forever.” 

You have no answer now. You have nothing but lust and sensation, pushing your hips back against every vicious thrust. The daemon encourages you with purrs and caresses and a hand sliding between your legs, working your sex with talented fingers. Orgasm and orgasm leaves you limp and gasping. The room changes. You’re taken against the window, bathed in the swirling lights of a planet dying. You’re held up in powerful arms and fucked like a toy, watching your belly bulge and distend with their girth. You’re pounded into the bed and only then do you glimpse the daemon through blurring, dizzy vision—luscious hair and great, curling horns, teeth like daggers, eyes like pink will-o’-wisps beckoning you to certain death.

“Do you accept me for all that I am?” speaks the daemon—the room—your lover. “Do we become the perfect flesh at last?” 

You can’t speak. You can’t think. You can’t do anything but writhe and cry for more. But there is an unease deep in your soul. Among spreading tendrils of sickening sweetness, there is a stubborn spot of reluctance. The daemon tastes it, mild and unappealing. They rumble with displeasure and delight. 

“Very well, my love,” they say. “Not now. Not yet. But I have all the time in the world to change your mind.”

And then you’re full again, trapped against a body that keeps changing. Scales and chiton and slithering tentacles, forked tongues, aphrodisiac-filled stingers, and a voice that says your name like a holy mantra. You are licked and bitten and fucked, engulfed in snaking coils, filled in every hole, driven to the edge for hours, for eons, forever…

“Darling?” 

You gasp. Someone shushes you gently, a hand stroking your cheek in the dark. “Wh…” Your voice is a hoarse croak. Have you been crying? Screaming?

“Hush. It’s alright. Deep breaths.” A light flickers somewhere in the room; a lamp turning itself on. You see a bed. A magenta canopy. A stranger who isn’t, a person you know without knowing how, lying beside you. Long black hair spills across their pillow. Eyes of hypnotic fuchsia drink in your hard swallow and trembling shoulders. “Did you have a bad dream?” they ask with a knowing smile. 

You’re in a bedroom, remembering again.

[random-brushstrokes]

Thea Proctor (Australian, 1879-1966)

Alethea Mary Proctor's life as an artist encompassed more than half of the twentieth century. Born in Armidale in 1879 to parents who were soon to divorce, she weathered a disrupted childhood and a choppy education before beginning art study under Julian Ashton in Sydney when she was sixteen. At the Ashton school her fellow students included George Lambert, with whom she was to be closely associated in public and private over the next thirty years. In 1903, burning with a need to learn to draw, she travelled to London, where Lambert and his family were established. She became one of his favourite models, a regular in his household, and his pupil. Although she was desperately poor, her beauty and livery nature allowed her to meet many of the leading figures of the fin de siecle art world, and all her life she was to carry with her the modernist precepts and influences she absorbed from figures such as Clive Bell, spectacles such as the Ballets Russes and exhibitions such as the post-Impressionist show at the Grafton Galleries in 1910-11. Aside from a return to Australia in 1913-14, she was to remain in England throughout her twenties and thirties. Upon her return to Australia in 1921, which coincided with Lambert's, she immediately came to occupy a significant role in Sydney's volatile art world, and to disseminate her very strong ideas on modern art, interior decorating, fashion, costume, ballet and matters of taste in articles, lectures, formal classes, sketch clubs and at all conceivable social and artistic events. Strikingly beautiful, she never married, but supported herself into her eighties through art alone. She lived in a tiny rented flat in Double Bay, but until the early 1960s she was also able to maintain a studio in George Street, where she had lived before World War 2. In the inner city and the Eastern suburbs she became a familiar figure as immaculately dressed in brilliant purples, fuchsia and petunia shades she made her stately progress, parasol in gloved hand, seeking out the beautiful. (source)

The scenes of female intimacy in many of Proctor’s works have always been open to lesbian and queer readings. Women gaze intently at each other holding unfurled fans or proffering roses, symbols associated with female sexuality. Proctor moved in queer circles in Sydney in the 1920s and 1930s and was a valuable ally. JS MacDonald, the Art Gallery’s extremely conservative director from 1928 to 1936, wrote in 1934 of ‘the emergence of numbers of what the Americans call “pansies” … They rule the art world today, and, unless real painters speak up for themselves and right art, the women and their near-men abettors will ruin both.’ (source)

[nyxnightshade7656]

Hooked

I'm not dead, I swear, things have been insane irl. Here's what I guess would be the first chapter of something that was NOT meant to be a multichapter thing. But, ya know. I have no self control and here we are.

She looked around the hallway to make sure she was alone and would have ample time to accomplish her goal. When she saw that the coast was clear, she made a mad dash for her target. She very carefully shut the door behind her before she spotted her target. Storm’s bed. With no fanfare, she placed a handmade, crocheted, stuffed kitten on Storm’s bed. The yarn it was made out of was soft and fluffy, as well as easily washable and durable. She had picked out colors to reflect Storm’s X-Man uniform but had given the stuffed kitten bright blue eyes to match Storm’s.

Once the precious cargo was delivered, she darted from the scene of the crime. She hid in the library for a while, before she made her way to the common area. As she crossed the threshold from the hallway into the room proper, she paused.

“It seems I have been graced by our reverse thief as well.” Storm’s voice was full of warmth and amusement. It made her heart flutter with joy and a smidge of pride.

“Oh? What did you get?” Instead of answering, Storm held up the little kitten that had been stealthily delivered.

“Someone is puttin’ an awful lotta effort into this, ain’t they? Jean gets a phoenix, Logan got a wolf, Cyclops got a labrador, Hank got an owl, Kurt got a racoon, I got a tiger, and the professor got an elephant. Why ain’t they tryin’ ta take credit for this?” Rogue’s voice sounded both appreciative and annoyed. Clearly, Rogue didn’t like not knowing who was sneaking the handmade gifts into their rooms.

She was just starting to think that she should make herself scarce; not trusting herself to not give away her little secret, when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She nearly jumped out of her skin in surprise, a startled squawk escaping her without her permission. She whirled around, only to be greeted by fuchsia and blue chest armor. She gulped and looked up, up, up to see the mirth-filled red-on-black-eyes of one “Gambit”, or Remy LeBeau.

“Whatchu up ta, Chere? Sneakin’ ‘round like ya t’ink y’a’int ‘sposed to be here.” His tone was teasing, but his question, she could tell by the emotions rolling off him, was very genuine. She flailed, hands flying as she tried to deny, without words, that she was sneaking around. In her enthusiastic pantomiming, that could best be described as ‘frantic, spastic vertical seizing’, she tripped over her own feet in a spectacular display of clumsiness. There was a cacophony of noise, she didn’t see what was happening since she had closed her eyes the instant she’d started to fall; and then suddenly she felt something warm wrap around her wrist. Then she was yanked into something hard and warm.

“Woah dere, Petit, wassamattah, ol’ Gambit scare ya? Didn’ mean to, ya know ol’ Gambit’s harmless.”

Harmless. Yeah, sure. Tell that to her rapidly beating heart and her near full-body blush that had to be redder than Jean’s hair. Just as she was about to try and charade her way out of an explanation, Storm came to her rescue, “Now, Gambit, stop teasing the poor child.” Gambit gently released her, but not before making sure her feet were solidly planted on the ground. As soon as she was released, she squeaked, and bolted. She could hear the others calling for her, but she just ran to her room.

She all but slammed into the door of her room, stumbling across the threshold, and kicked  the door shut in her haste to just disappear. She had the stupidest crush on the card-slinging mutant, and it seemed like everyone but Gambit himself knew it. Kurt was relentless in his teasing of her about it, even Rogue poked at her a bit. Logan had brought it to her attention, asking her ‘Of all the mutants here, the Cajun? Really? I guess it could be worse. You could have a crush on Scott.’ To which she had thrown about twenty stuffed animals at her father in retaliation. Logan had been nice enough not to use his claws on the fluffy projectiles, though he had grumbled at her about it.

She flopped onto her bed, which honestly was more of a nest of the softest blankets she could find, a mass of about ten pillows of varying sizes, and more stuffed animals than should be able to fit in one space. Most of which were hand made. She had a guilty little secret that only her adoptive father, Logan, knew. She loved to crochet. And she loved to give gifts to people she cared about. As evidenced by the mass of stuffies on her bed and flung around her room. She also had an entire wall in her room dedicated to bookshelves. But those shelves were not filled with books. Instead, they housed her yarn collection. Logan liked to joke, privately, that she had two hobbies. Crocheting, and collecting yarn.

Originally, she had been kept away from the life of the X-Men in an effort to try and keep her safe and unknown. But being kept away from the school did not mean she was not watched. Logan had learned she’d been attacked by both anti-mutant extremists and some not so nice mutants on more than one occasion and just about lost his mind. He had single-handedly packed up her entire life and moved her into the mansion. The X-Men, to their credit, hadn’t even batted an eye and had taken her in without a second thought. Kurt, Rogue, Jean and Scott were almost like siblings, and Storm was the mother that she never had. As such, she had set about learning what animals were their favorites, or if she couldn’t figure that out, she made something that she felt represented them. Like the wise owl for Hank whom she looked up to like an Uncle. But the one person that she was struggling the most with what to make, was Remy.

She groaned into her pillow. One of them anyway, and flopped over to stare at ceiling, “I am SUCH an idiot.” She mumbled, her voice hoarse from lack of use. Her room, when no one was there, was the only time she spoke, and even then that was rare for fear of someone walking by her door. The last thing she wanted to do was accidentally charm someone with her power. The fear was very real, and had an iron grip on her. That fear was what drove her to be silent. Not even Logan got to hear her voice. She shook her head and looked around her room, before she heaved a sigh.

Nothing was going to really help in here, she knew. Thankfully, she was mostly left to her own devices, not being an ‘official’ member of the X-Men, she didn’t have to participate in the Danger Room sessions, though she had snuck in to watch a couple with the Professor. It was easy to interact with Xavier, since he was a telepath, she didn’t have to speak, or resort to her phone’s text-to-speech app. But she tried to keep even that to a minimum since she didn’t want her other mutation to potentially affect anyone hanging around in her head. She struggled living there most days as it was, no need to torture others with it.

She grabbed her phone and earbuds, threw on some flipflops, and then, in an ill-advised move, she opened her window and vaulted over the sill and onto the ground about five feet below. She put her earbuds in, turned on her Spotify to a random saved playlist, and went walking, hands in her pocket. Being raised by Logan, she knew how to track. She was shit with directions, but she could navigate fairly well with landmarks or distinct features. She had been grumpy and annoyed with the lessons growing up, but now she was grateful for them. It helped her find places to hide away from the overly loud and overwhelming mansion.

Once she was far enough away from the mansion that she couldn’t feel the oppressive feelings of the other inhabitants pressing in on her, she let out a deep sigh of relief. She loved her dad, she did; and she knew that he meant well. But she had lived alone, or only with him, for a reason. Too many people were overwhelming for her. She had learned that she and Rogue were similar, in that neither of them could turn their power off like most mutants could.

The difference between them was that Rogue’s power centered around touch. Hers affected the mind. As an Empath, she could feel other people’s emotions as if they were her own; or push her emotions into someone else and make them feel what she wanted them to. The trade off to that was that too many emotions coming from too many people could overwhelm her. Or, the more concerning option, someone’s emotions could influence her into behaving completely differently than what she normally would, because she couldn’t always tell the difference between what she was actually feeling, and what someone else’s feelings were causing her to feel.

Combine her Empathy with her secondary mutation, the Siren’s Song, and she was a walking disaster waiting to happen. Her Empathy she had been born with, but the Siren’s Song she had developed when she hit puberty. Just like her Empathy, she was unable to turn it off; as long as she made sound that required her vocal chords, her Song was active. Like the Siren’s in Greek mythology, she could charm with her voice, be it just speaking or singing, anyone and anything with the ability to hear her, or with even base instincts, would fall under her thrall. She despised it.

She rubbed her throat in remembered pain as she finally came to a stop somewhere deep in the woods surrounding the mansion. She had found this place shortly after she had been moved into the mansion, desperate to get away from the swirling chaos of emotions. This also was one of the few places that she felt that she could let her voice free. It affected the animals around her, but animals she could make sure not to hurt. Humans were considerably harder since their minds and emotions were more like webs, instead of the simple little creaks and streams that belonged to creatures that operated more on instinct than ‘intelligent’ thought processes.

She spent hours out in the forest. So long, in fact, that the sun had set and her phone and ear buds had ended up dying. She began to make her way back to the mansion, hoping that the majority of the inhabitants were sleeping. She had learned that the emotions of people sleeping were far easier to deal with. When the building came into sight, she could instantly feel the emotions coming off of everyone inside. A few seemed to still be awake, if the intensity of the emotions were to be believed.

[talleyuh]

i don’t think anyone was waiting at the edge of their seat for descendants: rise of red, but i feel like the premise had a lot of potential and a few small changes could’ve made the movie a lot better.

1. if the movie started with a cold opening with red causing some trouble around wonderland with a few friends, it would’ve shifted the tone of the movie to set it apart from the past descendants movies. we could’ve seen red, her friend maddox, and a few other people all acting like a version of robin hood and the merry men: thwarting the queen and causing minor chaos as rebellious acts. we could’ve seen that red has a desire to be good by stealing food for the poor, creating diversions to get people away from the guards who plan to execute them, or even releasing prisoners. that way it would’ve shown that even though she thinks of herself as good, she doesn’t have the most noble methods of carrying out good.

1.5 i think if they made the queen of hearts actually care for red deep down would make her more dynamic. even though she’s extremely controlling over red and wonderland, it would be to prevent red from ever experiencing humiliation or insecurity like she did.

2. by establishing that red has friends, being sent to auradon alone by her mother to take over would’ve cut off her emotional support system and be essentially forced to do what her mother says or be stranded in a strange land alone.

3. before the orientation day ceremony, we could see red and chloe butt heads while moving in their dorm or something. red is obviously in a very tormented place and one theme they tried to explore with chloe is performative kindness, so red could’ve seen right through chloe and ignored her.

4. when they eventually go back in time, we could see the nuances in the older characters and not everyone being as perfect as they seem. for example, ella could’ve been going to auradon on an academic scholarship instead of paying for tuition like everyone else, so she really tries to keep her head down and stay out of trouble. she only befriends bridget out of pity, since she’s either ignored or outright bullied by everyone else. bridget could struggle with forgiving people or moving on from being mistreated even though she’s naturally peppy.

i think charming’s character could’ve been a bit of a player (cliche i know) which is why ella originally rebuffed his advances, but then have him genuinely pursue her. also it would’ve been so fun if ella asked fay to help her with her outfit and have her hesitate to talk to charming at castlecoming since she has to go home at midnight and then they played “so this is love” to show the moment they fell in love. plus we’ve never seen someone’s fairytale play out on screen.

5. i think that we should’ve gotten a get ready montage for castlecoming, specifically with chloe and red finally getting along as they got glammed up for the dance. they should’ve both been in ball gowns (not the high low ones we kept seeing in the earlier films). the costume designers could’ve even added purple motifs to show how the two characters were coming to finally get along and see each other. like chloe could’ve worn a dress in a lavender-periwinkle color, or a deep royal blue that looked a little indigo. red could’ve worn a red-fuchsia to show her coming to a common ground with chloe with the purple and a pink to show her growing closer to her mom.

6. i think the prank at castlecoming should’ve played out, so we could see red, chloe, and ella be there for bridget. i think it would’ve made more sense if bridget was pranked at castlecoming and ella wasn’t there for her bc she was hanging out with charming, and after that bridget was angry so she stopped being friends with her. that would explain why she hates her so much all those years later.

7. as cheesy as it would’ve been, we should’ve gotten a scene where they supported each other and bridget stood up for herself against her bullies and that’s when red and chloe went back in time to see the changes that they made.

*the movie wasn’t all bad, i liked that they gave chloe a more nuanced view of goodness after spending time with her mom who did not grow up with as much privilege as she did. i feel like they could’ve had a scene where red learns that she can’t cause chaos because she thinks she’s helping. i think we should’ve gotten more from the villains, especially malifacent and hades. also if we saw red’s internal struggle between good and evil more (aka her wants vs her mom’s wants) and how that affected her relationship with chloe.

[laurel-finch]

'I Don't Bite' S1.Ch01: Blue House, Black Dog

Summary: The Winchesters meet a new face, one who is not entirely human... Referenced Episodes: None CW: Minor gore. Change from 3rd to 1st person POV. Female reader -- no character description other than age. Lots of exposition :( Word Count: 5944 Recommended Song: Hungry Like The Wolf -- Duran Duran Series Masterlist -- Next Chapter

The motel room was eerily quiet. There was no bickering, no laughter, no witty comments. Only light snores from one bed and the gentle clicking of laptop keys from another. The screen glared on a shadowy figure, reflecting on the wooden backboard of the bed and spreading softly around the room. The figure would pause in his typing every few minutes to glance at the sleeping figure in the next bed. He would stop and his eyes would flash towards his brother, as if to check that the sleeping figure was still there, and then return on his mission.

The room was oddly barren and tidy for two young men to be staying in. The only loose item happened to be a long forgotten lacy, fuchsia-colored bra tucked neatly behind the TV stand, out of the sight of the younger brother. The curtains were drawn to allow minimal light into the room, though the occasional moth-eaten hole would ruin the effect. The sounds of cars could be heard on a distant highway if one strained hard enough to listen for them.

The younger brother rubbed his eyes in exhaustion and turned once again to glance at his comatose older brother. In just a few hours, he would be awake and they would be on the road again – whether the younger brother liked it or not. He laughed grimly and averted his gaze back to the computer.

A news headline for a rural Alabama city flashed at the top of his screen, showcasing a sizable town somewhere in the 'Black Belt', a rural farming district of the state. The district boasted smaller towns and massive, old plantation homes off the beaten path. The headline spoke of several recent animal attacks, with the carcasses ranging from ravished to nearly intact. They all lacked one key component – hearts. The younger brother chuckled again.

No less than three hours later, the two brothers were sitting in a shabby diner in Omaha, dim lighting reflecting off of their clean plates.

"You find anything about those coordinates yet?" The oldest brother questioned, a fork hanging from his mouth, not bothering to keep his voice down.

"The website says it was animal attacks. Coroner says all of the hearts were missing," his younger brother replied. He sighed and spun the laptop to face his brother. "If it really is a text from Dad... he might be onto something. Looks like maybe a werewolf."

The older brother raised a brow as he took another bite. Of course, his dad was onto something. "Great, a werewolf in the swamp. Go figure."

"You're thinking of Louisiana, Dean."

Dean dropped the fork from his mouth and leaned towards his brother, taking a swig of black coffee. "They're practically the same thing, Sammy. Both in the South, so both are swamps." He replied, his eyes still blurred with sleep.

Sam grinned and pulled his laptop towards him. "So far there have been nine victims. I've done some research, and I can't find anything they have in common. It looks like some wolf went on a feeding frenzy."

"Good. They're always the most fun to kill," Dean said enthusiastically, with a mouthful of food. Sam cringed. "I'll bring the car around, you've got the bill, Sammy."

Dean stood up from the booth as his brother started to protest and clapped him firmly on the shoulder. "Towns only a few hours away, you can sleep on the way.”

"Great," Sam grumbled. "Then we can get a motel room tonight and talk to the witness in the morning."

"Witness?" Dean inquired, stopping in his tracks. "You never said anything about a witness."

"Just some guy named Raymond Chavez. The police interviewed him, but they couldn't get anything good out of him. Thought maybe we could take a crack at him."

"Poor guy probably saw the monster and didn't even realize what it was."

"Probably. That's why I thought we'd talk to him tomorrow."

Dean nodded in understanding and continued on his way, the door to the shabby diner shutting behind him.

—

Sam rummaged in the glove compartment of their car, searching through a mess of fake IDs, finally withdrawing the pair he wanted. He snickered upon seeing the names. "Hetfield and Ulrich? I thought we were passed the Metallica names."

Dean snatched the IDs from his brother's hands, "Shut up. Like a grocery store worker is going to recognize Metallica."

Sam chuckled. "Whatever. You want to get us caught, be my guest," he said, hopping out of the car. Dean frowned and grumbled to himself, exiting the car.

The brothers walked up the steps of the shabby house. The blue-gray paint was peeling off the sides of the house, leached by the constant sun. The lawn was overgrown and unkempt. Christmas lights still hung from the eaves, though they weren't plugged in.

The boys got their badges out and Sam knocked on the door. There was a crash from inside the house and the brothers glanced at each other. Sam reached out to knock again, but the door was flung open in a hurry.

The man standing before them was just as unkempt as the house itself. A wore a white shirt, stained by obvious beer stains. His jeans were unbuttoned and his belt was undone, as though he had just hastily thrown them on. His hair was a mess and he wore no shoes.

Dean grimaced and flashed a National Forest Service badge. "Mr. Chavez?"

The greasy-looking man nodded, pulling a toothpick from his pocket and sliding it in between his teeth in a failed attempt to look put together. "Tha's me," he grunted, with an obvious accent.

"Mr. Chavez, we wanted to talk to you about the animal attacks," said Sam.

Chavez's eyes went wide for a quarter of a second, then his brows furrowed. "I already talked to the police about tha'." He scratched nervously at his pitiful attempt at a beard, bristled whiskers poking out from his chin.

"We just have a few follow-up questions," said Dean . Chavez thought for a moment, then shrugged. "C'mon in then. Sorry 'bout the mess."

The brothers glanced at each other in surprise upon entering the man's home. The house was surprisingly clean, with only the occasional item loose. The place was even dusted.

"Were you expecting company or something?" Dean asked, scanning the place.

Chavez tensed, hardly even noticeable unless you were looking for it. He whipped his head around and glared at Dean. "Do ya have questions or not?" he snapped, sitting down in a worn old chair.

Dean scanned the chair, noticing tufts of hair on it. "Do you have a dog?"

"No. I was pet-sitting."

Sam paced the room, inspecting everything, while Dean questioned Chavez. "So you told the police you saw an animal attacking one of the victims," Dean clarified, pulling a small notebook and pen from his pocket.

"Yeah, tore right into his throat. Saw it rip out the poor guy's heart," he said, unfazed. "What time of the month was it?"

"I weren't on my period or nothin' if that's what yer asking." His irritation was obvious at this question and his voice slipped into more of a southern drawl. He shifted in his seat, crossing his legs loosely.

Dean looked taken aback by his comment, "No – I just meant, was it close to a full moon or anything like that?"

Chavez thought about it for a moment and then said, "I s'pose it was. Say, what kind of Forest Service guys are ya, anyway? What's a full moon got to do with any o' this?"

Sam and Dean glanced knowingly at each other, avoiding Chavez's questioning gaze. "We're just tracking down a particularly nasty wolf," Sam said. "It likes to hunt around that time."

"Not all month?"

Dean shrugged, "It's a weird one," he chuckled. He pursed his lips and met Sam's eyes, nodding almost imperceptibly, motioning for him to do something. Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver ring, glancing at Dean and showing it to him. His older brother nodded again and Sam slipped it onto his finger.

Chavez ignored the exchange, his fingers twitching nervously, and stood up. "If you fellas don't got any more questions, I got's to get to work," he said, stretching languidly.

Sam approached from behind, "We just have a few more questions for you." He placed his ringed hand on the man's exposed shoulder.

A sudden sizzling noise echoed in the room and Chavez shouted, breaking away from Sam and clutching his burned shoulder. Both boys reached behind them and drew their guns, aiming for the man. Chavez snickered, and shrugged with one arm, his other still covering his now charred wound. "Figured you two would be dumb enough to pass me by." He smirked and his once brown eyes flashed a dark forest green.

"Not likely. Take a seat, Raymond," said Dean, gesturing towards the chair. Chavez grimaced, but sat, glaring at the brothers.

"So here's how it's going to go," said Dean. "You play nice and tell us where the other werewolves are and you won't get hurt. Otherwise," Sam cracked his knuckles and Chavez glanced at him in fright, Dean grinned and continued, "- otherwise, I'll let my brother here do what he wants."

Raymond gulped and glanced between the brothers, back and forth obviously pondering his best course of action.

Finally, he gulped again and stared at Dean. "There's only one more. A girl."

"Where?"

"Not far out of town. Jes' take the highway north, it's the third turn off on the left. She lives there."

Dean scoffed, "And you're willing to sell her out that easily? You disgust me. You animals are meant to be a family."

Raymond smirked, yellow teeth showing. "She means nothing to me."

Sam glanced at Dean, and the older brother nodded. Sam raised his gun towards the werewolf's head. "Wait, wait!" shouted the werewolf, shuffling away from Sam. "I told you what you wanted, now let me go! I'll skip town, I won't come back, I'll even stop feeding! Just let me go!"

The brothers glanced at each other. Dean shrugged. "Might as well, not like he can do anything 'til the full moon. He's someone else's problem then."

Chavez breathed a plaintive sigh of relief. When he opened his eyes again, the boys were already gone, the roar of the Impala's engine speeding away into the distance.

Chavez smiled.

—

The Winchesters turned off the highway down a beaten dirt road, the tires easily slipping into the worn grooves in the road. They rounded the corner of the road to come face to face with a large, pale blue, ranch-style home in the middle of a large clearing. A sizable barn and another building, which looked like a bunkhouse, were positioned behind the house and painted in the same blue color. The clearing was wide and full of light, surrounded by many towering trees. The trees blocked the view of the house from the road. The house and property were well cared for and decorative flowers littered the area.

"A werewolf lives here?" questioned Dean skeptically, glancing up at the house as he got out of the car.

"According to the other one-" Sam started, but promptly cut himself off. Dean glanced over at him and opened his mouth, but Sam immediately shushed him, withdrawing his gun from his belt. Sam pointed to the side of a beaten old pickup truck, where a bag of groceries lay on the ground, the contents spilling out.

Dean drew his gun and paced towards the truck. He placed his hand over the hood and quickly withdrew it.

"Still warm," he whispered to Sam. The younger brother gestured towards the house, gun still raised, and together they moved silently towards the structure. The front door was slightly ajar, and Sam pushed it open, gesturing for Dean to go first. Dean rolled his eyes and stepped into the house.

They entered into a well-decorated living and dining area, with expensive furnishings. The ceilings were tall and dark oak beams held the ceiling up, giving it a cottage sort of feel. Several large-scale windows lined the left wall of the house, bright light filtering in. To the right was a staircase heading up towards a sizable loft.

Dean lowered his gun and turned to Sam, "I don't think anyone's home-"

A large black mass fell from the loft and flattened Dean to the ground, his gun falling from his hand. He shouted in shock, attempting to get the mass off of him before it crushed his chest.

"Dean!" Sam shouted, raising his gun and taking aim.

"Shoot it Sam!" Dean shouted back, desperation in his voice. The thing snapped its jaws at Dean's throat, the elder Winchester doing his best to keep it away.

"I can't, I'll hit you!" Sam screamed.

The thing clawed at Dean and a spray of blood hit the back of the couch. Dean yelled and pushed the thing off of him. He attempted to stand, claw marks raking down his right arm.

"What the hell is that thing!?" he exclaimed, dodging as the thing flung itself at him and onto the front porch. The thing kept running down the steps and paused a few yards from the front steps. It turned, its furious golden eyes piercing the brothers. Sam held his brother and both of their eyes widened.

"It's a wolf," Sam whispered, lowering his gun.

"What the hell is a wolf doing-" Dean didn't get to finish his sentence. The wolf charged towards them again, tackling Sam to the ground, snapping its monstrous jaws at Sam's throat and his gun slipping out of his hand. "Sam!" he shouted.

The wolf howled, sinking its claws into Sam's arms. He screamed and threw the animal off; it collided roughly with the wall, tumbling to the floor. On shaky legs, the beast stood and shook out its dark fur, standing to its full height. Its head was easily shoulder height on Dean, standing at about five feet tall.

"That is not a normal wolf!" shouted Sam, regaining his breath. Dean lunged for his brother's fallen gun, realizing with panic that they hadn't loaded their weapons with silver. He raised his newfound gun towards the wolf as it snarled at him, lunging for his throat.

The gun went off.

The wolf howled and fell back, its now injured leg flailing wildly in the air. A horrendous snarl escaped its lips as it hobbled to a standing position, leaning against the wall, yellow eyes blazing with hatred and fury that the brothers had never seen in another animal's eyes. Dean raised his gun again, aiming for the wolf's head. His stony features morphed to shock as the wolf's face began to change. The snout shortened, the ears shifted and the warm gold of the animal's eyes dampened.

His eyes widened as the wolf's form took the shape of a young woman, no more than twenty-four years old. Her eyes seemed to glow a bright shade as they locked with him. Before either brother even had time to register what had happened, the woman lunged for Dean's gun still laying in the doorway, and aimed it at Dean.

"Don't... move..." she said breathlessly. Blood stained her shirt from where the bullet had pierced her skin, though it appeared to have only grazed her. She hissed through gritted teeth and Dean's eyes widened as the skin around the wound trickled with blood, already thickening into a thin scab. She slipped one foot behind her and held her gun with a sense of confidence. She held the weapon in an easy, practiced grip.

Sam shifted his weight and held his hands up in mock surrender. He leaned his weight against the wall and slowly stood. She whipped to the right to face him and shot a warning shot over his shoulder.

"I said don't move!" she screamed, chest heaving with fury and anticipation.

"Woah, hey!" Dean shouted, waving his hands in front of him. "Listen lady, put the gun down, and let's talk!"

"Why would I want to talk to a couple of hunters that are trying to kill me!?"

Dean chuckled and shrugged, offering a charming, almost apologetic smile. "Well... we aren't trying to kill you now?" He smiled hopefully.

Her brows furrowed and she lowered the weapon slightly, staring over the barrel. "I've never done anything to warrant hunters coming after me. Why are you here?" she spat, finger resting loosely on the trigger, barrel aimed for Dean's chest rather than his head. Truthfully, he wasn't sure if that was an improvement.

"We figured there was a werewolf in the area,” Sam explained calmly, eyes flicking between the monster and his brother. "We tracked it here, then found the witness. Turns out the witness was a-"

"Shit!" she exclaimed, causing both men to jump in surprise. She lowered the weapon until it was aimed at the ground at her feet. "Weaselly looking guy, goes by Raymond?"

Sam blinked twice in confusion. "Yeah, how-"

The girl cut him off again, laughing. "Are you two new at this or something? You never trust the monster!" She laughed again, clutching her stomach. "First of all, you're not hunting a werewolf."

The boys glared at her and Dean rolled his eyes, pursing his lips. "Yeah, no shit. Mind telling us what we are hunting?"

Now it was her turn to roll her eyes, frowning at the brothers as though she couldn't believe they were that stupid. "You boys ever heard of a skinwalker?"

Sam quickly glanced toward Dean in confusion. His brow creased with worry as he watched his brother's sarcastic features morph into shock. "I thought skinwalkers were wiped out?" Sam questioned, looking between the two.

"No," Dean said, glaring at his brother. "No, dad hunted one years ago. You were barely out of diapers," his voice was dripping with awe and shock. "Don't think dad ever managed to get it- always thought it was one step ahead." He narrowed his eyes in suspicion and folded his arms over his chest, finger tapping the trigger of the gun. "Last successful skinwalker hunt I heard of was- what, maybe eighty years ago? Bunch of hunters think they're extinct."

"Skinwalkers aren't common," the girl interjected. "We like to stay hidden."

Sam snapped his gaze up to meet hers. "You're a skinwalker?"

She rolled her eyes again. "How else am I supposed to turn into a wolf? Magic?" She threw up her hands in exasperation, then clutched her bleeding arm, gun resting loosely in her hands. She wasn't too worried — it wasn't a silver bullet, so she would heal quickly.

"So you're buddy, Raymond-" Dean started.

"-He's not my buddy-"

"- is also a Skinwalker? Why'd he sell you out?"

The girl paused for a moment, thinking about her answer. "There's a pack near here, set up shop about six months ago. They only started killing people recently though. Used to hunt animals, kept a low profile."

"And you're not part of the pack?" Sam questioned, knowing monsters like werewolves tended to rove in groups. Skinwalkers were thought to be cousins to werewolves, as they had similar qualities, such as a vulnerability to silver and an infectious bite. He assumed the pack mentality would be the same.

"No," she snapped bitterly. "I'd never hurt people. I hunt animals, try to stay out of people’s way, y’know? Besides, I was here first; this is my uncle's place. I moved in with him a few years ago, and he left the place to me." She brushed a lock of hair behind her ear and her eyes quickly swept over the house.

"Where's your uncle now?" Sam inquired, a tinge of concern in his voice.

"He's dead. Died a little over a year ago, on a wraith hunt."

"He was a hunter?"

"One of the best. So was my mom, before she got bit," she frowned at the brothers and threw her hands up in a gesture that was meant to say 'obviously.' "So yeah, I was kind of raised to not eat people."

She hung her head a bit and placed her hands on her hips, eyes fixated on a now-distant past. The brothers watched her for a few moments, taking in her appearance. Her dirty jeans had scuffed knees and were frayed around the edges, by her ankles. Roughened combat boots were tied tightly to her feet and an oversized denim jacket rested loosely over her shoulders, one sleeve now stained with blood.

Dean took in a nervous breath. The girl glanced up at him and the light highlighted the bags under her eyes. "Why does the pack want you dead?" he asked.

The girl paused again as if wondering how much to give away. She furrowed her brows in thought before once again meeting their eyes. "Packs have a hierarchy. Biggest dog is in charge. You only get to easily be the biggest if you're a pure-blooded skinwalker." Her eyes jumped between the boys, gauging their reaction. They still looked as confused as ever. She sighed and began picking at the bloody fabric of her jacket. The blood from her wound already seemed to be clotted.

"Pure-bloods... are ones who have two parents that were skinwalkers too. My mom... she was turned before I was born. My dad was pure-blooded. He was second-generation." She met Dean's eyes, a challenging glare set upon her features. "That makes me a third-generation skinwalker. A rarity in the monster world. Makes me top dog in a pack, something I don't want, and certainly not something an insecure alpha would want."

The room was silent. The only sound came from the wind quietly billowing through the open front door. "He's afraid you'll take his pack?" Sam asked, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. She nodded.

Dean glared at the floor, his fists tightened. "Whatever reason he has to kill you doesn't matter. He still needs to be stopped - he can't just keep killing people." Sam nodded in agreement, holstering his gun and wiping his sweating palms on his jeans.

Dean turned to the girl and locked eyes with her, his green eyes cold. "You should leave. You don't want to be here when we take out the pack." He threw the last few words over his shoulder as he turned to exit the house, holstering the gun.

She scoffed at him, "You really expect to defeat a pack of fifteen skinwalkers, maybe more, on your own? Are you two amateurs, or did you hit your heads too hard?"

Dean visibly bristled, his back tensing as he whipped around and snarled, "What do you expect us to do!? We can either take them out or die trying!"

"I expect," she started, taking a few steps towards the porch, a surprisingly menacing glare adorning her features, "for you to take me with you."

Dean's mouth fell open in surprise and his eyebrows raised. "You want to help us?"

She flashed an almost wolfish grin, "Well yeah, how else do you expect to win a fight like this?" She crossed her arms over her chest and smiled widely. "Frankly, I'm tired of that asshole alpha harassing me and killing people. I just want a peaceful life, you know?"

Sam glanced nervously between the girl and his brother as Dean contemplated the pros and cons of the situation.

Pro: Another fighter that could help them win the fight.

Con: She might turn on them and attack them.

Pro: They're less likely to die.

Con: She might turn on them and attack them-

"Alright fine!" he exclaimed, "Fine. You can come with us."

She cheered, throwing her arms into the air in excitement. "About time you two decide to do something smart!"

Dean rolled his eyes, "Whatever Scooby, just get in the damn car. And don't get fur on the upholstery."

"Wouldn't dream of it," her smirk audible in her words.

"Just get in fido."

"It's not 'fido'-" she grumbled, climbing into the backseat. The engine started with a loud purr and Dean rolled easily out of the gravel driveway. He met her gaze in the rearview mirror as her name fell from her lips.

—

I glowered thoughtfully at Sam from my place on his bed in their dusty motel room, legs crossed and fingers drumming rhythmically against my thigh. The brothers were focused on packing, shoving various weapons into duffel bags. The barrel of a sawed-off shotgun poked out of the duffel bag Sam was filling.

The younger Winchester lifted his head and met my cold gaze, fixated on the weapon. His eyes glanced down at the shotgun and he laughed softly. "Not everyone can fight with literal tooth and nail."

I collapsed backward on the bed and splayed my arms out by my sides. The only thing left from my fading bullet wound was a scab. Truthfully, I wished it would heal immediately – this fight was not going to be an easy one, and the brothers would need all the help they could get.

I huffed and folded my arms over my chest, glaring up at the ceiling. I hated fighting. Sure, I was used to it – my uncle had taught me how to fight and I had been on several hunts with him – but that didn't mean I enjoyed it. I shivered at the thought of killing, the taste of blood and malleable flesh all too familiar on my tongue. The kind of food humans ate would tide me over, but it wasn't enough to satiate my hunger.

"I could always bite you," I offered playfully, redirecting my attention away from my thoughts and back towards Sam. "Then you could fight 'tooth and nail.'" I sat up, resting my weight on my elbows. I liked him – he was smart, and to my surprise he didn't blink twice about my situation. The fact that I was a monster meant nothing to him.

"No thanks. I'd prefer to not shed constantly," he joked, a smirk adorning his lips. I scoffed, to which he laughed. "Just a personal preference." 

I don’t shed that much.

The door to the motel room burst open and I bounced on the bed in surprise, yelping at the sudden noise. Dean waltzed into the room, a smug grin on his lips as he dumped a mess of silver weapons on the bed beside me. I flinched and glared at the weapons that could easily kill me.

"Sorry, sweetheart," he said, a comical tone to his voice.

"No, you're not," I growled and shuffled away from the mess of silver. Invulnerability created a sort of superiority complex in most monsters. We were likely to be more reckless, knowing few things could kill us. Seeing one of those few things beside me was not something I relished.

"You're right, I'm not," Dean teased with a click of his tongue and a playful grin. He grabbed a pistol and a rag and wiped off the barrel.

"Fuck off," I grumbled crassly. The silver had certainly put me in a bad mood, making this approaching fight seem more real, more solid. I rolled off the bed and moved to the other side to help him organize. Dean only smiled at my comment, eyes never leaving his silver and white gun. "When are we planning on attacking these mutts?" I questioned.

I was eager to get rid of Chikaltio and his rag-tag pack. Seven months of that bastard harassing me and threatening my life was enough for me. I was so tired of it. Tired of not being able to go into town and buy my groceries without being snarled at. Tired of not being safe in my own home.

I didn't want to fight him. I hated the idea of challenging him, of potentially killing him – I didn't want to take over his pack, and I certainly didn't want to be responsible for another living being's death. Animals were one thing, people were… different. I had caused enough death in the past.

"Probably tomorrow," Sam said, checking his watch. My ears pricked, rejoining the conversation after being lost in thought. "It's already late, they'd have the drop on us at night."

"Not if you mask your scent," I suggested, just wanting the fight to be over. I wanted my life back.

"We wouldn't be able to see them," argued Dean. "We don't have night vision, like you."

I scoffed. "I don't have night vision.” I clarified, pointing a silver knife at Dean in a matter-of-fact way. "Dogs can see about five times better in the dark than a human can. I, no matter what you might think, am not a dog."

"So how much better are your eyes?" Sam asked, curiosity dripping into his voice.

I shrugged and ran a cloth over the blade of the knife. "About three times better."

Now Dean scoffed. "Right, you obviously can't see that much better."

"I never said I couldn't see that much better. I just said I don't have night vision."

"Yeah, whatever makes you feel better about yourself, Scooby," Dean muttered, intending to sound scornful, but he couldn't help the smile that slipped onto his face.

Sam chuckled from across the room. "Aren't you two supposed to be getting things ready for tomorrow?"

"We can multitask, Sammy," countered Dean, tossing a small bullet at his brother. Sam caught it and placed it on the desk.

"Are you two always like this before a hunt?" I inquired, shifting as far away from the flying silver bullets as possible.

"Not always. Dean is usually less annoying," Sam said, brushing another stray bullet out of his hair.

"Dean not being annoying? Is that possible?" I teased, feigning shock and placing a hand over my heart in surprise. I was beginning to like these boys – they were fun-loving and full of life, unlike the previous hunters I had known. Granted, those two hunters had been my mother and uncle, and they had seen some things that would make anyone less cheerful.

"Alright you two, knock it off. This isn't National Pick-On-Dean Day," Dean sneered, running a hand through his dirty blonde hair. My eyes followed his movements, scanning his face, eyes jumping between his freckles and green eyes. I had to admit, he was handsome.

"Shame. I bet that would be my favorite day of the year," I countered. Dean glared playfully and dropped his hand, reaching for another gun.

"Get back to polishing those knives," he ordered jokingly.

"Sure thing, boss."

—

The room was dark except for the occasional flash of lights, signaling a car drifting slowly down the highway. I listened to the passing cars and the voices of people in rooms nearby, furry ears pricked and at attention.

Nighttime was my favorite time. Everyone was finally quiet, peaceful, and no longer bothersome. I didn't feel overwhelmed by the amount of noise and the smells. I didn't need to worry about what people thought when they saw me, a massive black wolf with searing golden eyes, or a battered young woman with scars littering her body.

I could be myself.

My tail thumped quietly on the side of the couch, chin resting on dark paws, claws resting on the leather surface of the couch. I focused my attention on the argument a couple was having six rooms down. They weren't even trying to be quiet.

I hated hearing people argue. It brought a familiar feeling of helplessness up my throat, making it hard to breathe. I had grown so used to arguments in my teenage years that I thought fights and throwing items were completely normal. Now, knowing that was the opposite, I hated the memories it dredged up. I made a low grunting sound in the back of my throat and lifted my head, black fur brushing against the leather couch. At this time of night, I'd usually be running outside, hunting, playing. Just enjoy being in my fur. I couldn't wait until Chikaltio was gone and I didn't need to worry about where I ran or who I ran into.

I hopped off the smooth couch, sharp claws digging into the plush motel carpet. A short run wouldn't hurt, right?

My claws had just barely touched the linoleum by the door when I heard a soft rustling from behind. With languid movements, I turned my furry head to see Dean glaring at me in the dark, his green eyes filled with sleep.

"Where do you think you're going?" he questioned, his voice raw from sleep. I found it odd how quickly he had grown accustomed to my inhuman abilities. It was pleasant, knowing I was accepted when often I didn't accept myself.

My hackles raised as I began to shift, fur receding and bones cracking, rearranging under my skin. I straightened my spine and stretched, feeling my muscles and joints pop from the stress of changing form.

"I was going to go for a run. Is that a problem?" I cocked an eyebrow.

Dean hummed, sitting up. "It's a bit of a problem. How do I know you aren't going to go tell the other skinwalkers about us?"

I rolled my eyes], though I was sure Dean couldn't see the gesture. For him, the room must have seemed pitch black, rather than the gentle shadows I saw. "I'm sure Chavez has already told the pack. You weren't very discrete with your intentions. I bet they also know that you didn't kill me."

"Even more reason for you to stay here," he challenged. "If they know you're not dead, they might be looking for you. You said it yourself - we can't fight them on our own, and you're no help if you're dead."

"I doubt some blockhead mastiff could kill me."

"Doesn't mean I want them to try."

I averted my eyes, gaze dropping to the floor, and picked at the hem of my shirt. Was he saying that because I was just part of the case, or because he really cared? It had been so long since I had met anyone who truly cared for me. I lifted my gaze to meet his green eyes, surprised to find them warm and full of concern.

"For a hunter, you seem pretty charismatic," I murmured. My uncle had held that same gaze when I showed up at his doorstep years ago. Dean, although rough around the edges, seemed to really care for the people he helped, monster or not. I admired that.

"For a monster, you seem pretty human," he countered. I bristled, insecurity fluttering in my chest. If only he knew some of the things I had done. Would he still see me as human?

Finding nothing of note in his steely gaze, I dropped my eyes and once again became interested in the hem of my oversized shirt. I picked at the loose strings of the ragged hem. Dean rolled onto his back, his eyes latching onto the ceiling. "You should get some sleep. It's a big day tomorrow."

"It's hard for me to sleep at night. It's kind of an instinct to want to be out there, to run."

He smiled, tucking his hands behind his head. "You can run all you want tomorrow, after this hunt. But for now-" he locked his eyes with mine, "- for now, you should get some sleep." I pondered this for a moment and then finally nodded.

This time, my feet hit the plush carpet rather than sharp nails. I slid onto the couch, cold leather pressing against my skin and my mind racing with several thoughts. A part of me was eager for tomorrow's fight, knowing that at the end of the day I may finally have my freedom back. But, another, more realistic side of me knew that the day may end poorly. I may end the day cold and bathing in my own blood, the brothers, who I was already so fond of, missing pieces.

"Goodnight," I mumbled, half expecting him to already be asleep.

"Goodnight, sweetheart."

[biomeedure]

[Meanwhile, two trolls find themselves lost in new territory, confused and dazed. A Green Teal looked around for the rest of the squad, only to hear and loud neigh from a familiar Blueblood. Rushing to see the sweet damsel had fallen on someone...hard] - Malara and Asaego @ Dark

SS: AAAA!! WHAT IS HAPPENINGG!!! NYAAAAAAA, HISSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!! =>m<= **Like a cat getting squished out of nowhere, Dark furiously bites and scratches at what is might be crushing her!! Poor thing is very small, only 4'11. But her bites and scratches hurt as much as a fully grown Fuchsia's own bites and scratches would feel.**