#rat writes :3

[vampyre-rat]

you ever write something and just sit there in complete shock at what just slipped out??? yeah bc idk where the hell this came from

[jadecantcreate]

little shepnax doodle because i had a Vision

the vision in question^ (freeform crashed so i left it at that lol)

[strawberry-hachi]

Out of all the Blue Lockers, Chigiri is probably the only one who would choose you over football. It's not unknown to anybody who looks close enough that even people like Nanase or Isagi would toss aside someone if it came to their dream. That's simply the nature of Egoists and those that persist in Blue Lock. Even if they are kind and generous off the field, nothing will ever take the place of their dream. Yet Chigiri with all his boldness, confidence and outright selfishness can take one look at all of that and still choose you at the end of it. He's seen what it's like to lose his dream, lose his passion. He knows intimately what it's like to lose everything and be left a husk. Yet in the face of that, he has learned a lot. He's learned that even if he loses his dream, he is still loved regardless and he can always find other ways to nurture his dream. He's learned there are other paths if it truly comes down to it. Football means a lot to him but he is willing to sacrifice it if he has to. After all, he already has a time limit, right?

[tonberry-yoda]

rats ask for kisses from the spider boys and girls.. i wanna kiss Hobie and Pavitr

AS YOU LITERALLY SHOULD BECAUSE I WANNA GIVE THEM ALL LITTLE KISSES TOO AHHHH! And my two favorite boys??? Heck yes!!! <333 I hope you enjoy the little smooches and have a great day rat anon <3

You couldn't look at Hobie without blushing. I mean GOD, how could a man be born so.... beautiful?

"What're you lookin' at, love?" he asked you with a smirk.

You quickly looked away and felt your face heat. "Sorry."

"Nuthin' to apologize about," he sat next to you and tilted your chin up.

"You're just-"

"Really hot? I know."

You gave Hobie an unamused look and he just laughed at you before wrapping his arm around your shoulder.

"I don't get why you're so nervous around me all the time," he said, pulling you closer. "I mean, we are together, right?"

"We are?" You turned to him. "But I thought you didn't like labels."

"I don't. But we're together all the time and I wouldn't mind... you know."

You did know and that brought you a smile. "Dating?"

"Sure. Whatever you want to call it."

You two had been sort of dating for a long time, sharing kisses and going on "dates," but neither of you ever put a label on it, so it was nice to finally know what was going on between the two of you.

You gave Hobie a quick peck on the cheek, but he turned to you with a chuckle.

"Lame," he said before cupping both sides of your face and pressing a long kiss to your lips.

God, how could a man be so perfect??

"Race you to the top!" you said, barreling away from Pavitr and up a flight of stairs. The two of you had always wanted to see the top of the tallest building in your city, and because you weren't afraid of heights around him, you were going to do just that.

"No, y/n! Wait for me!" he giggled, running after you. The echoing stomps from every step you took filled the stairwell and your laughter could be heard from outside.

You finally slammed through the last door and looked behind you, sticking out your tongue. "I win, Pavitr! You lo-"

You were interrupted when you lost your footing and before you knew it, were falling to the streets below. You went to scream, but were suddenly stopped. You looked up to find Pavitr sticking a piece of his web to you, terrified out of his mind.

"Don't do that, y/n." he said, pulling you up, panting from being out of breath. "Scared the crap out of me."

You wrapped your arms around the back of his neck and pressed a bunch of kisses to his face. "You saved my life."

He blushed and smiled. "Next time, be more careful when we're racing, okay?"

~~~~~

into the spiderverse masterlist | pinned post 2023 @tonberry-yoda – do not repost or claim ANY of my work as your own! likes, reblogs, and comments are not only welcome, but appreciated

~~~~~

[tiny-minecraft-rabbit]

Please do Rats Treebark #4!!!

"Captain! Look out!" Martyn shouted, shoving Ren to the side. The snap that resulted turned everything into blinding white fire, an explosion going through his leg.

"Lieutenant!" Ren's voice was distant despite him being right next to him.

Martyn couldn't think. Martyn couldn't see. His world had narrowed to the pain that was moving in waves across his body, centering from the place where the trap had snapped around his leg.

His leg. Thank goodness it was his leg and not the rest of him. Thank goodness it was him and not the Captain. The Captain that had been too focused on backing away from the cat to see the trap in the first place.

Oh FUCK the cat-

"I got you. I got you Lieutenant," Ren's voice was near his ear. He could barely register the Captain's arms wrapped around his own and pulled them further under the cabinet they had slipped uner.

His eyes blinked away the spots just enough to see the cat's paw reaching under. It's claws just barely grazed the trap still snapped around his leg- he quickly closed his eyes when it processed in his brain that that was his leg that was smushed in the trap that was dragging with him.

"You guys okay over there?"

That was.. That was Owen, he had going on the supply run with them. He was on the other side of the room, he thinks, the three of them serperating when the cat had entered.

"No!" Ren's voice was screechy with panic, octaves higher than his voice actually allowed, "Martyn's leg- we can't- we can't leave like this."

"O-Okay. I'll get the cat out the room, lead it away for a bit. Do you think you can get to the tunnel out when I do?" Owen asked, taking charge of the situation quickly despite his own panic.

He could feel Ren's chest heaving. Ren must of sat against the wall and pulled Martyn into his lap. That was nice. "I- I don't think- It's still in the trap! Juice, his leg is still in the trap."

"Shoot. Right, okay. I'm leading the cat out and I'll circle back around. Hang tight you two. Be right back."

Martyn heard the telltale squeak of a rat hitting the floor running and then the skittering of cat claws on a wood floor.

The blinding pain had reduced some, it was still throbing all through out his body, but at least there was some space to think now.

Ther was an arm wrapped around his torso, holding him in place against the Captain, and a hand wrapped around his head and fingers scraping against his ear. It was probably meant to be comforting but Ren was too panicked himself and was scratching a little hard and fast. Not that Martyn minded, it certainly wasn't the worst thing he was feeling at the moment.

"What were you thinking?" Ren muttered, head dropping and resting against Martyn's.

It took Martyn a few deep breaths to get his answer out, fighting against the fog. "You were backing right into it. Would have- Would have been a lot worse than a leg if I didn't do something."

"You could have died," Ren hissed, the hand around his ear unintentionally squeezing. Not painfully. Ren couldn't hurt him.

"My life or yours, Captain? Yours. Every time."

Ren was silent for a moment, "We will be talking about this later. When you're not delirious with pain."

They wouldn't.

Martyn wasn't changing his mind on this. He was a selfish man. A very selfish man; and if potentially dying to a stupid human trap meant he never had to see the end of Ren's life, then so be it.

[nulltune]

ME @ U ALL......! YOU ARE ALL SO LOVELY BTW UBUBUU.... 2025 WILL BE MY YEAR OKOK. am thinking of a soft restart (?) kinda thing bc i have an insane backlog >_> 200+ drafts..... oh my hoarder ass.... and i have not been here for 💀 A While. will make a proper post asking if anyone would want dynamics/plots to stay tho! :3c

[seriowan]

BREAKING NEWS: THE RELUCTANT FATHER FIGURE TROPE HAS HIT FULL STEAM AND WE ARE GETTING SUSPICIOUSLY HEARTFELT CONTENT THAT MAY OR MAY NOT SUGGEST POSSIBLE PERIL IN THE FUTURE. IF YOU OR YOUR LOVED ONES HAVE FALLEN FOR THIS TROPE BEFORE (i.e: the last of us), YOU MAY BE ENTITLED TO FINANCIAL COMPENSATION.

[backpackingspace]

Do we think odysseus started pranking Athena and her temples at some point? Because I do. He argued that it was good for sneaking and evading training. And you know what Athena couldn't argue that. Her chasing odysseus across the island was good training.

[chiropteracupola]

"What Grows on the Oak," 2024.

it's the time of year, once more, for an original spooky story!

The oak trees lie across the hills like low smoke, soft and near, and the road dips down into the valley, as inviting as any road has ever been, but the girl on the bench of the buggy on the hilltop makes no move to follow it.

Rose looks out down the road and over the hills, and taps her fingers beside her on the bench. It’s a quiet enough afternoon that there’s little other sound but the high thin sound of insects, and the wind in the long grass, and Rose’s fingers, tapping. The horse, still in harness, looks up and flicks its ear, as if in protest at the sound, and Rose sighs and forces her hand still.

There is a girl in the nearest tree, Rose notices — the fact of it is idly categorized, without true interest. All the same, the light is catching in her hair, dashing shadows over her face as she sits draped across the curve of a branch, and Rose cannot look away from her.

The Fosters, at whose door Rose waits, have no daughter — no children but the one still-toddling son, who Rose remembers as a colicky, twitchy boy. Besides, this girl looks nothing like Mr Foster and his wife, for her hair stands out about her head like a bundle of mistletoe, pale as sun-worn wood. She is, perhaps, their hired girl. Rose is struck by envy, suddenly, that the Fosters’ hired girl had the time to shinny up a tree in the last light of evening, and still would be paid for her work…

Rose sighs, leaning her chin on her hand. Perhaps it is enough for her to be her father’s driver, and to have bed and board in his house — perhaps some day there will be money for school again, in San Francisco or even out east. And perhaps it is not enough, and perhaps there will not ever be.

“Hello, doctor’s driver,” says a voice at Rose’s elbow. Rose yelps in surprise, then turns. It is the girl with the mistletoe hair — dry moss hair — hair like a cloudy day in August.

“No, you’re his daughter, are you not?” asks the Fosters’ hired girl, and Rose nods. “Miss del Llano, that’d make you.”

“Just Rose, please.” She’ll be Miss some other day — not now, in her too-short skirts and with her plait hanging over her shoulder.

“May I come up?” asks the girl.

“Surely,” says Rose, and the girl has swung herself into Rose’s father’s accustomed seat in a fluttering of pale skirts.

“Your father is the doctor — what does he do here? “He is a leech, then? A bloodletter?”

“Don’t be silly, he’s not medieval!”

“Hm-mm, I shall believe you when you prove it me,” says the girl, laughing, and leans her chin on her hand to make herself Rose’s mirror. Side by side they sit for a while, and the dark gathers in across the hills until oaks and grassland alike are made one mass of shadow. Somewhere in the trees beyond the road, a horned owl utters its deep, melancholy cry out into the dusk.

“If ghosts had telephones, I should think they’d sound rather like that,” says Rose, the early chill of after-sunset driving her quite easily to a morbid sort of cheer.

“How the times change,” says the girl, with an odd, but not entirely unhappy, look in her eyes. “No, my dear; ghosts use the same telephones as you and I, as you well know.” Rose does not know, well or otherwise, much at all about ghosts, so she nods, and feels a little more of the girl’s weight settle on her shoulder.

“You have very cold hands,” says Rose, and the girl from the oak tree smiles and taps at Rose’s cheek with clammy fingers.

“I always have, I’m afraid.”

“It’s no bother, really.” And so they sit and watch the sky, the falling-dusk and the distant fog that creeps over the hills, until there’s light, sharp as a door opening.

Rose turns, and it is only Dr del Llano, leaving his patient with his hat in his hand. She turns back, and the Fosters’ hired girl is gone.

“How is Mrs. Foster,” Rose asks, without any particular feeling in her voice, and her father shakes his head in reply. But the road down into the valley, where lies the town, is before them, and Rose is pleased enough at the journeying that she asks no further questions.

It’s in the hills and on the road that Rose meets, again, with the oak tree girl, the mistletoe girl, the girl with hands like marble in the shade. Once again, Rose is waiting for her father while he attends a patient, and, lazing in the sun, Rose has pushed the sleeves of her shirtwaist up to her elbows.

And then the girl is there again, with her shock of cobweb hair moving, ever so faintly, in a breeze that doesn’t seem to reach as far as the buggy-seat.

“Hello, my pretty-lovely,” says the girl, putting her hand out to the horse still in its traces. Though usually affectionate, the horse puts back its ears and pulls its head away.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into her,” says Rose, half-laughing. “Save your sweet words for someone who wants them, all the same.”

“Has she a name, then?”

“Other than Morgan, for what she is? Not at all,” Rose replies. Neither she nor her father have ever thought of one, for all that they’re fond of the hardworking little mare. “And have you a name, then?” For she’s remembered, now, that her oak-tree girl had never told her of it.

“I’m called Saro,” says the girl, and again swings herself up beside Rose. “What does your father do here, my Rose?”

“Oh, I oughtn’t say,” and Saro looks back at her with a stare of please? and Rose laughs and says anyway. She shouldn’t gossip, but she leans in close anyway, and whispers that “Old Man Lucas has got the clap, and him a widower these ten years!” Saro’s mouth twitches at the corners — she can’t hide her laugh for long, and it bursts, bright, out from her.

“I shall tell, I shall tell!” says she, and Rose coughs on her own laugh with a still-merry “Don’t!”

“You’ll have to catch me and make me, first!” and Saro leaps down from the buggy and runs, her skirts, her hair a flash of white in the golden-dry grass. And Rose, her spirits raised beyond what a grown girl such as herself should permit, follows. She’s less fleet-footed than Saro, earthbound still, stumbling on furrows in the land, catching her heels in ground-squirrel burrows.

Saro, she’s sure, is holding back for her benefit — letting herself be caught. And Rose does catch her, knocking her off her feet and into the grass. Saro’s laughing-merry still, her hair stuck full of grass-seed and foxtails. Close-to, Rose can see the freckles that dapple her cheeks and nose, the squint of her dark eyes when she smiles. Saro flicks Rose’s cheek, the snap of her fingers like a prickle of frost, and Rose lies there in the dusty field, entirely lost.

But Saro’s on her feet again before Rose can blink, before Rose can reach out to her, and Rose is standing, blinking in the sunlight, stumbling back to the buggy as she dusts bits of dry grass from her skirt. She buttons the sleeves of her shirtwaist again, the cuffs of which don’t quite come to her wrists anymore, and laughs when her father hands her up into her seat like a lady.

“The best whip I ever had,” he says, perfectly straight-faced.

“Gee-up!” says Rose, holding the reins in one hand and imagining herself perched atop a stagecoach. But even for all her imaginings, she’s as good a driver as her father says, and draws the horse into a gentle trot to see them home. It’s hill and dale down into the valley, hill and dale again like a song, and in the inner slopes lie trees in amid the dust-golden grasses of summer. Beneath the sparse, spreading branches, it is suddenly cooler, then warmer again, as the horse steps evenly onward and back into the sun.

“That’s mistletoe, you know,” says Dr del Llano, as he’s said a thousand times before, and points up at the gray-green mass that clings among the summer-sparse branches of an oak.

“Isn’t that for Christmastime?” asks Rose.

“It’s an odd thing we bring it in for the Nativity,” muses her father, still looking back at the tree as they pass it by. “Poison, that — and it chokes the life out of the oak tree, too. Not a kindly thing, mistletoe, but we hang it up with the flor de Nochebuena all the same…”

He doesn’t speak after that, but sings instead, an out-of-season hymn of sons newborn and deaths already foretold. If the verse telling of tombs ought to be grim, Dr del Llano doesn’t make it so, and so the story of gloom and gravity is nothing but a blithe eventuality, predicted all light-hearted by a man very certain of the truth of it.

Mrs. Foster dies soon after. Rose sits in the church as the priest says the first of the masses for her, the first of seven that her widower has paid for. She waits at the door while her father makes conversation — how she wishes he would hurry up! But the doctor in his black coat and the priest in his cassock are two crows alike, and so she is there in the doorway until her father says ‘good-by, Padre’ and comes to join her. Rose hardly has the time to shut her hymnal closed over the catalog tucked inside before he bustles past her, eager now to be on his way.

“Damned quiet place now that the mine’s shut up,” he says on the walk home, and Rose nods, though she does not remember the mine-town as her father does. She knows that there is no more coal to be had here and no more sand, and that with the mine has gone much of her father’s custom. Without black-lung and burns and broken bones, there is far less for a doctor to do in these hills.

But there is no other doctor than Juan Soto del Llano, with his limping step and his rosary about his neck and his rattletrap of a horse-drawn buggy with his only daughter to drive it, so he goes on as he has, and mends up broken bones and offers fever-cures to farmers and their wives, and to the valley townsfolk nearer home.

Henry Freeman is twenty-two, the bright young son of a new-money farmer. He is sickening for something, he is grey-faced and cold and his eyes do not focus.

Dr del Llano is at his door with hat in hand — money passes from the elder Mr. Freeman’s worn hand into his, and the doctor closes the older man’s hand over the coins. Out on the bench of the buggy, Rose scoffs and shakes her head. The fog-touched night is cold even through her coat, and she shivers involuntarily.

“He oughn’t to do such things,” she says, to no one but herself. But all the same, Rose turns her head, and Saro is there beside her, smiling.

“What oughtn’t he do?” asks Saro, with the questioning merriment in her voice that Rose has come to like so well.

“He doesn’t ask for payment, when it’s hill sickness,” and, seeing Saro’s quirk of the mouth, the way the question lurks in her well-dark eyes, Rose continues. “Father doesn’t know what it is, still, and he can’t mend it. It cannot be consumption, for it doesn’t settle in the lungs, but all the same — it is as if something is drawing out the life from them, every one.”

“So your Henry Freeman shall die, then,” says Saro, blunt.

“Don’t—“ says Rose, and stops, cold. “Who are you?” she asks, and looks Saro in the eyes, the brown of them so dark that Rose can barely find her own reflection. And the girl with the mistletoe hair reaches out, and pulls her hand across the golden curve of the hill as if she is stroking the grass that lies like dry cowhide on the ground.

“You know my name, doctor’s daughter, is that not enough?”

“Saro—“ Footsteps, and Rose’s head turns without her willing it. Doctor del Llano still has his sleeves rolled up, the edges wet from scrubbing. He doesn’t let them down again as he drags on his coat, hauling himself up to the buggy-seat as if held down by a great weight.

“Father—“ says Rose, and looks to Saro beside her, but even as she turns back, Saro is gone again.

“I’ll not talk of it,” he says, and hauls his bag into the buggy. It might well weigh as much as all the world. Rose huffs, and pulls her arms against her chest, and sets them on the road again.

And so it goes, over and over again — the Misses Hayward, unmarried, a few years older than Rose herself — Martin Foster, only three — the widow Ruiz, whose husband died down the mine before Rose was born. All of them greying, cold, dying quick. There is sickness in the hills, and it is sickness that the doctor cannot cure, and Rose — Rose finds that she barely cares. She stands in the church, once more, at Lillie Hayward’s funeral, and cannot look at the coffin, but only turns her head to search for wild light hair among the townsfolk in the pews.

But Saro doesn’t come to town; that’s not the place for her, Rose knows. How could she stay anywhere else but where the wind drags the points of oak leaves down the sky, where the tall grass parts under her hands like water?

So life goes on as it did before — the spiders building their webs across the age-grey clapboards of the doctor’s house by the old mine, the oak leaves stuck by their prickling edges to the drying wash, Rose’s father singing softly in his parents’ Spanish as he stocks his black bag at his desk in the front-room.

Rose leans against the desk, chipping at the varnish with her fingernails. In concession to the afternoon heat, the eastward window is flung open, and the thinnest breeze flicks at the pages of the last Sears catalog laid idly within her reach. She has begun to resent the sun — she closes her eyes, hunting darkness for darkness’s sake, and thinks of Saro in her white skirts, standing candle-slender in the dusk between the hills, Saro’s hands that are always cold, pressed softly against Rose’s face, her neck, her chest.

Telephone, its jangling sound sharp in the late-summer quiet — her father’s soft noises of questioning and assent — the practiced movements of putting harness to the horse. But for all that the interruption is sharp, there’s a pleased rise in Rose’s heart nonetheless, for if she is lucky, she will see Saro on the road.

She reins in the horse when her father tells her so, and hands him his bag as he jumps from the buggy — once he’s gone, Rose allows herself a secret smile. It’s early in the evening now, with the light all golden, her father’s horse with its dark mane a-gleaming in the last of the sun. Rose has a flask of coffee with her, brewed black as her father’s coat. She drinks most of it, hot and bitter, never mind that it had been meant to be shared. It doesn’t keep her awake — she drowses, head on her arms, and feels a breeze like soft hands stroke along her neck.

Today she has a headache. Her face is hot, even with her collar unbuttoned and her hat laid aside in her father’s seat. The day is warm, and the air tastes of dust, hot and dry in Rose’s throat. Saro’s hand on her cheek is as sweet and cold as anything Rose has ever snuck from the ice-house. Saro’s mouth against her neck is a cool draught.

“My dear sweet Rose,” says Saro, quiet, with only the barest hint of her usual merriment. “You’ve been ever so patient, even while I took my time with others.”

“Mm,” says Rose, and lets the weight of her body press up against Saro’s cold frame. Perhaps — perhaps that cold could leach the heavy heat from her head, the feverish blur from her eyes.

Saro’s fingers are at the buttons of Rose’s shirtwaist, now, the full breadth of her hand an ice-print on Rose’s chest. Saro from the oak tree, Saro with her hair like mistletoe. The hills rise golden around them, the wind rushing in Rose’s ears without touching her skin.

“May I?”

“Please,” says Rose, at the last, and lets Saro draw away the last of her living warmth.

[vampyre-rat]

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski Rating: Not Rated Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion Characters: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion, Dudu (The Witcher), Dainty Biberveldt Summary:

After his confrontation in the market with the shapeshifter Tellico (known to his friends as Dudu), Geralt is a bit frazzled. Having seen the doppler take the shape of Geralt's best friend Dandelion, he can't stop thinking about the small details of the bard's appearance and personality that the doppler mimicked perfectly and those he didn't quite get right. Some of the things the shapeshifter said and did while impersonating Dandelion have lead Geralt to start to rethink some aspects of his relationship with his bard, in particular the feelings of affection towards him that he's denied for so many years. (Inspired by the short story "Eternal Flame" in The Sword of Destiny.)

[firefly-factory]

WIP Wednesday <3

Thanks for tagging me @skyrim-forever @changelingsandothernonsense @nyarevar - loved seeing what y'all've been up to <3

No pressure tagging @emicat1159 @thequeenofthewinter @edgy-dragon-trash

Ive been working on a bit of story stuff today (with plenty of unhinged Astor ofc) so that's what I'm sharing :D

And a writing snippet:

He fell to his knees, tangled dark hair falling into his face as he bowed down in disbelief. His circlet fell to the ground and rolled a few paces away, its gold band warped where he had taken a blow to the head. He still felt dazed, as if the entire world kept tilting away from him. The feeling that had been haunting him for weeks only grew stronger as he looked at the heroes before him. They seemed to flicker before him, two brilliant, blinding echoes of each other, and he tore his gaze away as nausuea rose in his stomach. He focused, instead, on his own hands. Long fingers, pale against the ash-marked ground; his nails were torn, seeping blood and marred with soot. He trembled, confusion warring with pain as he mumbled, then screamed, “How? The Great Calamity Ganon . . . selected me!”

He pulled himself to his feet, baring his teeth at the princess and her damnable knight. He felt a spark of satisfaction as they flinched away, took another faltering step towards them just to see them jump again. But the knight had schooled his expression back into stoic detatchment, and a hint of pity ghosted across the princess’s fate. No. They should fear him. This wasn’t right. “This humiliation can not be my destiny. It can not be!”

[murdertrashbabyrat]

Deadclaws/Vanessa AU

Vanessa gets pregnant but her boyfriend wants nothing to do with it and kicks her out. She shows up at the apartment Wade and Logan moved into, crying and unsure what to do. At this point Logan and Wade are already dating and they quickly give the second bedroom to her, the one they’d had back at the beginning when they were still pretending they were ever gonna be capable of being just roommates.

Wade of course throws everything into preparing for this baby that he’s always wanted and Logan just tries to hang on for the ride. Wade and Vanessa don’t quite get back together but it’s obvious to Logan that they’re raising a baby they always planned to raise together. He sees himself as an unnecessary third wheel but when he tries to leave, Vanessa tells him he’s just as much the baby’s parent already as either of them are and that he’ll be abandoning an entire family that wants him if he leaves.

“Don’t leave your kid and your home and your Wade…and your me.”

Suffice it to say, Logan stays. The three of them get together as a poly trio and raise their daughter in the most loving home possible full of people who want her. Yukio, Ellie, and Laura are the cool aunts and Al can’t believe she’s a grandma now. Mary Puppins is obviously the baby’s best friend.

[arthur-lesters-spinal-cord]

Divine punishment drawings

[shititsarat]

CW: slightly suggestive themes, (almost) choking?

— ✧ˎˊ˗

Hm... König leaving KorTac and joining Shadow Company. Graves being intrigued by this big guy who normally seems so shy and anxious; who barely speaks and always fumbles with his huge, baggy clothes; who wears a mask to cover the lower half of his face while his brown, messy hair mostly hides the rest.

Getting any words at all out of König is a challenge. The man looks like a unit so it is not hard to guess that he is strong and can hold his ground in a fight, even if his demeanor might not hint at his capabilities and his love for battle. On top of that, when Graves mentions the possibility of them fighting against each other as training, the Austrian's eyes light up and his usual nervousness seems to vanish in an instant.

...

Graves had expected König to be strong but not that he would go down against the taller man this quickly; that it would be so easy for König to trap Graves below his large, muscular body. The Commander's stomach hurts since the new Shadow had rammed his knee into it, and his back aches from having been slammed onto the ground. In addition, Graves' breath catches in his throat now as König's fingers wrap around his neck, holding him in place.

König looks different than before as he stares down at Graves without averting his gaze, now no longer appearing shy and hesitant in front of the Commander but instead staring at Graves almost with belligerence, as if the man is nothing more than König's prey.

And Graves…. Graves feels trapped underneath the giant's body and gaze, small and vulnerable even—despite being on the taller side himself—as he has no way of escaping. His heart beats loud and fast inside his chest because the way König stares and speaks with him—the look in his eyes hungry and oppressive, his voice dark and heavy—terrifies the shit out of Graves…

But it also causes his heart to skip a beat and goosebumps to spread across his skin when König's large fingers squeeze the Commander's neck, a gasp fighting its way over his lips.

Graves is not the type of man who enjoys feeling vulnerable. On the contrary, he loves nothing more than to be in control, to be the one who leads in almost every situation imaginable—it is for this reason that he left the military and created Shadow Company after all. And still, his slightly trembling body and warming up skin betray how this situation causes him to feel, unbeknownst to König though whose focus seems to lie solely on the battle and the life he holds in his grasp at this very moment.

"Why are you not struggling? You want me to choke you to death?" König asks, the dominant and mocking undertone in his voice evoking something inside Graves no one else has ever managed to bring forth.

"Actually…" Graves utters, his own voice somewhat shaky as he speaks—from just having gotten kicked in the stomach, he tries to convince himself, "I'd prefer it if you don't, thanks…"

"Than fight," König demands, his words showing that, despite the position they find themselves in, this clearly is not over for him yet, that he wants Graves to keep fighting, to not give up.

But while a part of Graves tells himself to do as the man ordered, to fight like a caged animal, to struggle, even if it seems pointless considering their size difference, another part tells him that having this big man choke him into unconsciousness would not be the worst outcome of this little training session. And if Graves is honest, he is unsure which option to pick...

[mrghostrat]

I hate au's but I am absolutely FERAL for both of your stories. How did you do this?! Witchcraft? It's the only explanation. Please never stop. You inspired me to write again and I haven't written since rhe heyday of HP. THANK YOU!!!!!!!

[undermattsun]

18+ minors dni!!!

uh oh reader has a new skate rat to torment today <33 just another tiny bite so sadly no real fucking :( it’s mattsun btw and i made him a stupid pussy whipped bitch cus i can !!

“Damn if it isn’t my third favorite boy toy.”

“Who the hell are first and second?” He all but pouts.

“Not you, so mind your own business.” You don’t really have any favorites, and Matsukawa honestly wouldn’t be anywhere near top three let alone top five. Maybe not even top ten.

But you needed some alcohol and weed and if the payment was blowing Mattsun for all five minutes he could last then you could make it work.

“What do you want?” He rolls his eyes, stepping back to let you step into the shitty apartment he shares with a rotation of his even shittier friends.

You watch him kick the door close and cross the filthy living room to snatch a vape off a coffee table with a hole punched into it, waiting for him to look back at you.

“Missed you.” You lay it on thick, complete with fluttering lashes and honeyed tone, knowing full well that the poor dumb desperate fuck would fall right into your hands. Ever since his one that got away finally left him behind for good he’s been off his game.

“You didn’t.” To his credit he tries to shrug you off, but the crease in his brow and the way he immediately began to lean into you was enough to tell you he’s still hurting or whatever. Delectably vulnerable even.

“Issei you’re gonna hurt my feelings.” You grab at his arm, watching as he puffs on a menthol vape you recognize as Iwaizumi’s. “Let’s get high.”

“So that’s why you’re here, can’t, smoked all my shit last night.” He doesn’t look at you.

And you’d be an idiot to not take advantage of that.

“No, you didn’t.” He’s a shit liar, right there next to Kindaichi.

“I didn’t.”

“I’ll blow you.” And you know you’ve got him when you see that telling tick in his jaw.

“Let me put it in.”

“Nope.”

“Just the tip?” It’s never just the tip and both of you know that.

“That desperate?” To his credit he nods solemnly, probably too “heartbroken” to try creeping on some unsuspecting pretty little things in the club like he usually does.

You make a show of tapping your index against your chin, as if you’re really considering your options. You figured there was a chance he’d pull this move, and today you’re feeling a tad generous.

“If you can last longer than five I’ll let you put it in, raw.” You’d be impressed if he makes it to five minutes, the poor guy is clearly pent up.

“Really?”

“But either way I get whatever bottle Oikawa’s hiding in your room.” The idiot always hides his alcohol in Mattsun’s room, for some reason no one else has figured it out.

“It’s Jameson.” He winces.

“So? I’ll take it, cmon big boy let’s see if you’ll last today.” You grab his hand and make your way to his room, trying (and failing) to hide a smug grin when you shove him past the doorway.