#so they’re forced to cling to each other for fear life

[tyrianlynch]

Ronan and Hennessy and “I’ve been alone a long time” and “please don’t let me be the only one” and “why do you even care?” “I don’t know I just do” and “don’t let me fall too hard lynch” and “she’s a dreamer, like me” and “no one else gets it, this is what we live with” and “he’ll be drawn to you more than to me” and “I’m not a doll Ronan lynch” and “Hennessy. He had forgotten he could know people. And how he knew her!” and “they didn’t say sorry they didn’t have to” and “if I told you I was going to help you get out of this, would you believe me?” “you’re one of the very few people I would” and “now they were just two ex dreamers made fearless by life” and “don’t be only human just now Ronan lynch”

[thedelicatearcher]

finnick odair alphabet fluff

h - hugs

finnick odair finds peace in holding you in his arms. his heart swells with quiet joy whenever his arms are tightly wrapped around you, with his face nestled against your hair as he breathes in the familiar scent of you. with his arms wrapped around your torso, he savors the closeness of your warm body pressed against his, a rush of excitement running through his veins. finnick has always thought of you as his safe space, there’s nowhere else he feels more at peace than in your embrace. though the self-deprecating thoughts are always roaming through his mind, it’s with you that his mind grows a little quieter. 

as the next hunger games looms closer, knowing he will be forced to return to the capitol for weeks, he needs you. anxiety takes over his mind as the days go by, and he spends the days previous to the reaping battling the overwhelming urge to run away with you. 

finnick knows deep down that any attempt to leave district four in search for a better life anywhere else, even hiding and trying to live in the isolated woods, would only lead to ruin. yet, he can’t stop daydreaming about it. a quiet life far away from the capitol, finding an old abandoned cabin in the forest that it might have belonged to a rebel many years ago. he pictures a life where his only concerns would be hunting to put food on the table and keeping you safe. he dreams of how your lips would be the only ones to love on his skin, how his mind would probably be quiet if the gentle, serene sound of a river nearby joined him in his everyday, where the two of you could bathe. 

finnick has to force himself to stay grounded. he tries to be realistic and think about the harsh reality of what would happen if the capitol ever found you. he knows they would tear you apart, separating you from him, leaving him to endure months of not knowing if you’re safe, if they’re hurting you, or even if you’re still alive. he would move through each day like a lifeless shell, carrying the weight of your absence. but he can't bring himself to think about the worst scenario. tears well up in his eyes at the mere thought of them torturing you to hurt him. he accidentally spirals into panic at the idea of them cutting out your tongue, and turning you into his personal avox. a torture designed to make the strongest one crumble. that’s the only thing that keeps him from running away with you.

so, you spend the entire month before the games taking care of him. you hold him close while you lie together on the couch, whispering soothing words in his ear meant only for him. as his shaking figure clings to you with his life, your arms get tighter around him. your heart aches for him, wishing you could ease his pain, though you know it’s beyond your power. you discover that gently rubbing his back while sharing stories from your life helps him relax. his weary eyes brighten and he chuckles softly as he hears you describing how you got denied entrance to the career training academy after accidentally falling on top of one of the men in charge at the auditions. you never voice a single complaint about the weeks leading up to the games, when he needs to sleep draped over you for comfort. your fingers caress his sun-kissed cheek as the room fills with his soft  snores, ignoring the numbness in your arm pinned beneath his body.

on the day of the reaping, you wait for him at the train station, staying out of sight of the cameras that are trying to capture the tributes fearful or, on the other end of the spectrum, arrogant expressions. when he arrives, he greets you with a hug before you can finish registering in your mind that it’s him. “honey,” his shaky voice captures your ears. even though he is taller than you, he leans down to be completely enveloped by your arms like a cocoon. finnick immediately begins to ramble about his concerns for the tributes, worried that one of them might actually have a chance to win. he buries his face in your neck, seeking for your sweet scent to calm him down. when the train speaker announces that departure is imminent, he holds you tighter. out of habit, you cup his face in your hands and rest your forehead against his as you always do in private. “i’ve got you, honey. just come back to me,” you whisper softly, wishing you could go with him. “i love you so much,” he breathes out in reply, his hands tightening around you as if reluctant to let go. “don’t take any risks while i’m gone,” he rambles, anxious about what could happen in his absence.you let him give you his instructions, even though most of them are obvious, knowing he won’t be at ease until he’s said them all. finally, he pulls away, giving you a soft but desperate kiss before boarding the train. your only wish is for him to come back to your arms.

[aldryrththerainbowheart]

Guts NSFW alphabet

Fandom: Berserker

Note: I don't even what this is. Feels kind of half-assed compared to my other works. No, I will not apologize for the picture.

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

Not really good with aftercare. Asks you if you’re good and that’s it. You have to tell him if you need some extra help. If you’re a clingy type you have to grab him and bring him close. At times he’s feeling vulnerable he holds onto you after sex on his own. Guts us flexible in these things and like everything else in the intimacy department, he needs to ease into this. Some times, when he uses sex as a trauma dump he clings to you almost desperately, and you learned to take it in stride.

B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Certified ass man. Guts like to look at a cute butt and likes to hold onto it even more. Drive-by smacks to the butt once you’re a couple. Likes to tap your ass from time to time to show affection. The bigger the better. Also loves your hair, long or short it doesn’t matter to him, but if it’s fluffy, the better. He likes to bury his face in them when no one is looking and take in their softness and your scent residing in them. Speaking of softness, Guts likes to absentmindedly play with your hair and ran his fingers through them when you’re sitting next to him or talking to him.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person)

Guts comes in loads, so you better be prepared that there’s gonna be a mess. Although the messiness is what turns Guts on. Watching you covered in his cum does things to him. If he could choose, he likes to cum on your stomach and thighs.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He ponders from time to time what would it be like if Casca were to join the two of you, but he never voiced this thought of his around in fear of what reaction it would provoke in both of you. It just so happens that the two most important people in his life happen to be both very attractive and they get along quite well either. On your travels, there were many situations where the three of you were forced into positions that are more than friendly. Sharing lodging, rooms in a bathhouse, treating each other’s wounds and warming each other up whilst sleeping outside. It’s times like these when the line between lover and friend gets muddled.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

Guts do not crave sex that much he doesn’t feel the need to experience sexual intimacy often, nor does he feel curious or want to experiment. I headcanon him as someone who cannot have sex without assessing it with intimacy and vulnerability. Probably has one or two partners in a lifetime.

F = Favourite Position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual)

he’s a ‘let me hit it from behind’ type of guy. Occasionally he likes to do it as you lay on your side. He also likes when you wrap your legs around his waist as he’s carrying you while simultaneously thrusting into you. He’s always open to trying new positions but for the most part the man knows what he likes and how he likes it.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

Yeah, haha, no. Guts is as goofy as a piece of concrete. He does, however, appreciate a goofy partner. In and out of the bedroom. Don’t ask him why, but he always felt naturally drawn to cheerful and whimsical people, out of nothing more than wonder. Things in a bedroom can get a bit too intense with him, and not the good kind. It’s good when he has a partner who can lighten things up.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

You probably need to have a talk about The bush between Guts’ legs. I headcanon him as way hairier than he’s portrayed in manga and it gets worse (better?) as he gets older. When you nag him enough, Guts tells you gay or sex worker to groom himself down there (like wtf man??).

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

To the surprise of many, sex is an intimate affair for Guts. For him it’s a moment of great vulnerability, hence one of the reasons he avoided it for most of his younger years. It’ll surprise his partner how intense Guts is during these moments.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

Occasionally rubs one out to let out some steam. He’ll start to masturbate more once there’s someone on his mind. Considering how long it’ll take him to confess and admit to himself and everyone involved that he has feelings, there’ll be a long ass period of his life when he spends his nights fucking his fist. To the point where one of his mercenary buddies will tell him to fess up and confess already cause they’re running out of bedrolls and rags that are not crusty, which will earn them a punch in the face.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Say it with me. Size Kink, Size Kink, Size Kink! Guts likes the fact his partner is shorter than him way too much. Most people are shorter than him but if there’s a considerable difference…ufff. You can’t stand how smug he is about it. Overall, not much of a kinky guy. His bedside manners are as simple as other aspects of him.

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do)

With his occupation, Guts learned not to be picky about where he fucks. As long as there’s not someone right next to you and can’t watch, he’ll do it anywhere. He doesn’t mind if you want to do it in bed only.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

Touch him, it’s that easy. Guts is a simple man. A few well-aimed words and touches is enough to get him going. The man gets literally hard with an order. Glide your fingers along his collarbone, bite his lip, bite his neck. God please, bite his neck. Also, caressing his thigh gets him going easily, to the point where you cannot put your hand there in public, or else he’s gonna have a problem. Once you were sitting next to each other and you placed your hand on his knee. You didn’t even want to start something, just to touch him. He didn’t pay any mind to it, not even when you unconsciously moved that hand up and slowly unassumingly petted his leg. Until he had to stand up and noticed the massive tent in his pants. You never let him live that down.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn-offs)

Hitting, injuring, or insulting his partner. He has a serious problem with degradation. It’s too triggering and personal to him. Being submissive to his partner doesn’t sit well with him either. He naturally takes a dominant role in most life situations.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

At first, Guts preferred to have you suck him off rather than another way around. Again, he perceives kneeling near someone’s crotch as subservient and he’s not used to that role. Not to mention you look so good with your mouth licking up his length. He would watch you all day if he could. When you go down on him, Guts is surprisingly gentle. He knows there’s a lot to deal with in terms of his size, so he lets you go at your own pace. Usually has a hand petting your hair or holding your neck. When he gets close, he uses that hand to push and pull you on his length the way he likes. As mentioned, Guts preferred to receive rather than give, unsure how he would feel about putting his mouth on his partner. However, once he put his fingers, staining with your juices in his mouth. After that, he got more curious about tasting you. Now, he does it almost like an afterthought, a means to kill time constructively and pleasurably. You could be anywhere, lying under the night sky in the forest with other mercenaries, at the royal court during one of their festivities, out in the woods hunting, when suddenly Guts would look at you, something sparking in those dark, dangerous eyes. The next thing you know you are pressed against the nearest flat surface, desperately trying to muffle your moans as Guts ravages you with his mouth. He likes to overstimulate, just to bully you, and always ignores your protests and pleas with a sadistic grin.

P = Pace (Are they fats and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

There’s nothing quite like good, hard fucking after a battle. Generals and other mercenaries Guts met said this often, and he has to agree with them. There’s just something about pressing you down on bedroll, the adrenaline of his most recent victory pumping through his veins, still riled up from all the fighting. Sometimes you had a little trouble walking the day after, and I say the day after because you won’t be able to do anything after Guts is done with you. The swordsman is not completely merciless though, he knows he’s big and strong, so he makes sure not to completely brutalize you, but anything besides that is game for him. Throwing you on his cot as he wrestles you down, your hands above your head or your ass in his hands as he lifts the entire bottom half of your body to meet his hips. After that be prepared for hours he pounds into you, pushing you around the bedroll. Other times, sex with Guts is a lazy languid affair. You were taken aback the first time he’s taken you like this. It dangerously resembled making love, although you’re sure he would vehemently deny it. His hips rolled into yours with unhurried passion, his lips finding yours every time you keened into his mouth, his hand never leaving yours the whole time.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

Guts sees them as a quick way to let off some steam and calm his mind. As long as you are at least partially covered before someone’s eyes he’s game for it anywhere and anytime.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

Guts is pretty vanilla in this. He does not feel the need to experiment in the bedroom or discover new things in the bedroom. He thinks it’s overly complicating something that is meant to be simple fun.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

This man is a beast. There’s no stopping him when he’s in the mood. You better be prepared to handle five rounds minimum. If you leave it after the first orgasm, he wouldn’t demand anything of you, but he’ll still feel that thrum in his blood, indicating that he’s far from done.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

Not big on toys. Again, he’s not partial to any enhancements and tricks during sex but if his partner wants to try them, he’s willing to try.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

The man has a bit of a sadistic streak. He likes to push you past your limits. To see you writhe and whimper while you try to babble out pleas and demands, it’s cute honestly. You think you can intimidate him, little thing? Well, if you struggle and put up a fight even better. He’ll make you pay for it double twice as much.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

Mostly just grunts and growls kind of guy. He holds in his sounds a lot, you have to put in extra effort, but it’s worth listening to his throaty groans. He even makes an effort to muffle them by kissing you or burying his face in your neck.

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

Guts don’t sleep with a person unless there’s some sort of connection. He doesn’t have to love them, just like them enough to let his guard down. He honestly considers sleeping with total strangers weird, and dangerous.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

Girl, if I tell you this man is packing some heat…The guy is well over seven feet, of course, he’s no sucker. He’s over eight inches and a grower. Thick straight and meaty, skin darker than the rest of him. It doesn’t matter how experienced his partner is, there’ll always have to be a little prep.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

Guts’ sex drive is reasonably high, but he doesn’t really feel needy for sex unless there’s someone for him to mess around with. His drive is connected to his mood. Strong emotions, not necessarily positive ones, can enable him into a state where he looks for an outlet for them. Mans gotta learn some healthy coping mechanisms other than blowing his partners back out.

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Considering that he’s often using sex as an outlet and a way to calm down, Guts fall asleep quickly afterward. Oftentimes you rolled over for some pillow talk and found him snoring loudly. Other times he either backs quietly in the afterglow while he lets his mind wander.

[honourablejester]

I’m idly reading through 5e’s Guildmaster’s Guide to Ravnica, mostly the section on the ten guilds, because I enjoy reading about factions. And at the end of each guild section, they have a little box with the standard guild opinions on each of the other guilds, and some of them are fantastically bitchy. Like. Exquisitely bitchy. Each of the guilds has other guilds that they view either as ‘somewhat useful but just not us’ and other guilds they view as legitimate, competent threats, and then they all seem to have a couple of guilds that they’re just bitchy about. It’s fantastic.

Some of my favourite comments:

Azorius:

On the Golgari: "Their underground structures break numerous building regulations, but at least they fulfill their duties as garbage collectors."

(At least you’re doing your job. Your filthy, horrible job).

On the Rakdos: "An absolute blight on Ravnica. They are clowns who know nothing of culture and exist only to torment the functioning members of society."

(No pretences here, just seething hatred and condescension).

Boros:

On the Azorius: "Legalism. Arrogance. Hot air. The law in their hands is a bludgeon, and they use it to seize more power than they deserve."

(I just love ‘hot air!’. Arrogant douchebags who don’t do shit!)

On the Selesnya: "I almost envy the naiveté that leads them to retreat into their little communes and pretend they've built a just society."

(Wow, the condescension!)

Dimir:

On the Boros: "Not inherently dangerous. The true danger is that they'll drag down all we've worked for while chasing some romantic crusade. Continue to direct their righteous fury toward our strongest enemy—until the Boros threaten to become the strongest."

(Yes, yes, dear, just … go on a quest over there for me, would you?)

On the Izzet: "Even an overloaded, sizzled clock is still right twice a day. When Izzet experiments succeed, they can have unpredictable consequences for active missions. Their activities must be monitored at all times."

(Unfortunately, they don’t always blow up *just themselves*, and then we have to deal with it).

Golgari:

On the Izzet: "Perplexing. They are attracted to whatever flashes brightest and booms loudest. Their fascination with their toys will only hasten their own end."

(Idiots with ADHD who are distracted by the sparky boom booms).

On the Selesnya: "Their reverence for nature is the mark of immaturity and naiveté. They fear death, so they can't understand life. They can be dangerous when they fervently cling to their narrow-minded and inadequate view of life."

(Oof. Lots of people considering the Selesnya immature and naïve over here).

Gruul:

On the Rakdos: "The guild of fools. They waste their potential on acts of mockery while the real work of razing the city remains undone."

(Useless wastes of space who *could have been useful* if they put their minds to it).

On the Selesnya: "The Selesnya would coddle a wolf, teach it to fetch sticks, and call it a dog. We prefer to starve the wolf, let it hunt for its food, and make it a stronger wolf."

(Literally none of the other nature-based guilds have anything nice to say about the Selesnya, it’s amazing).

Izzet:

On the Boros: "All too often when we're on the verge of setting off a little explosion or a spell that tears a hole in reality, the Boros show up to spoil the fun."

(Just general spoilsports! It was only going to be a *small* explosion! Lighten up!)

On the Rakdos: "Steer clear of these senseless riot-fiends. Their enthusiasm is best appreciated from a distance."

(Just … leave them alone over there and don’t bother with them).

Orzhov:

On the Golgari: "Admirably resourceful and elegant, but tragically unhygienic. The swarmers may persist, as long as they don't try to force their aesthetic sensibilities on us."

(… ‘tragically unhygienic’. Wow. Lots of the guilds do condescension, but the Orzhov are *good* at it).

On the Gruul: "They know nothing of order and dignity, and therefore they serve little purpose as an organization."

(Again, just utterly useless. Just don’t bother).

Rakdos:

On the Dimir: "They crave secrets, but there's nothing they can get by eavesdropping that we won't freely scream at the top of our lungs. They lurk in the shadows trying to look mysterious, practically inviting our mischief."

(Aw, sweetie, would you like a trench coat so you can play spy some more? They’re just so condescending here).

On the Izzet: "Every performance benefits from prop masters and pyrotechnicians. They can be useful backstage, but they lack the charisma for the spotlight."

(Oof. Nice toys, darling, but you mustn’t let yourself be *seen*, you know.)

Selesnya:

On the Golgari: "They wallow in filth and rot, too preoccupied with death to appreciate the bliss of life's connections."

(The Golgari just get generally shat on, both figuratively and entirely literally, by basically everyone. They have a dirty job! That doesn’t mean they’re worthless!)

On the Gruul: "They are a desperate echo of what they should be, reaching blindly toward something greater. Such a waste. And a smelly, unreasonable, destructive one at that."

(Amusingly, the Selesnya, despite being a nature guild, just don’t seem to like dirty things. I love that with the Gruul, they start out all philosophical, and then just devolve at the end into ‘and they’re smelly and I don’t like them’).

Simic:

On the Azorius: "An absurd and inelegant construct, forever trapped in a maze of their own making. They would outlaw evolution if they could. And if any of them truly seek utopia, the rest are far too busy shuffling papers to notice. Avoid their attention at all costs."

(‘Far too busy shuffling papers to notice’. Oof.)

On the Izzet: "The Izzet have spent ten thousand years mimicking the appearance of research, producing more pyrotechnics than progress. Surely that is a performance to rival the Rakdos."

(… Ouch. The Simic are *bitchy*. Shots fired in science-land over here!)

-----------

It is just fabulous. The amount of seething contempt and condescension and generalised disdain in these sections is amazing and so much fun.

[bratspike]

nat initially latching onto travis after the crash bc she knows what it is to be the outsider on the team and suddenly there was someone even more outside than her. like at first she’s trying to be a bridge for him and then she’s like oh we understand each other. oh we see each other. oh i love you i need you we are a team. we exist outside of them. we try to provide for them but we expect no thanks and comfort each other.

everyone else is like sure whatever there go natandtravis. but lottie sees them drifting away and says no come back to us (me). we’re going to need more than food to make it through this winter. she calls them back with a blessing. and travis listens because lottie helps him, sees him. listens to him. nat doesn’t want to hear it, doesn’t want to let lottie see her. she skips the blessings

nat feels like she has to either pretend she believes in the bullshit like tai and let lottie drag both her and travis into the group (cult). or she can try to keep travis all to herself and cling to their outside but together strategy. and she tries. she tries so hard to protect (keep) him, from the uncertainty of javi’s disappearance, from what she views as lottie’s bullshit. and in doing so she gives the forest what it wants. she spills her blood and they get jackie cooked for them

but the forest wants to work through lottie and nat both. natalies blood, lotties connection. travis as the link. later, lottie gives her blood but they’re not in sync, they’re in opposition to each other. natalie is punished by losing the moose, lotties life is nearly taken. but it forces them to come to an understanding. that post that was like belief and disbelief together is sanity. nat and lottie are two sides and whatever thing is out there wanted them in balance. travis’s every act including his last was about being the bridge between them. tell nat she was right, he says to lottie.

and it kind of worked, didn’t it? travis’s death brought them together again. nat is crossing over to belief while lottie is still saying hallucination not villain while she’s upping her meds. and in that moment where natalie believes fully in the face of lotties fear and doubt? when she feels vulnerable enough that her teen self seeks comfort in lottie’s lap? that’s when the antler queen appears

[gvfgal]

*New* 17. Edge of the Throne

Barbarian. Biker!Jake

*18+ series, minors DNI

A/n: Sorry for the delay, I’ve been quite busy, new job, new house, etc. But I’ll save the Drabble and we’ll get straight to it! Hope you guys enjoy this one, questions and comments are appreciated 🖤

Content Warnings: criminal activities, language, a little fluff, a lot of angst.

Word Count: 4.1k

Thursday

Jake thought he’d never see the day the end of this operation would be so close. Yet here he was, standing in Bobby Thompson’s office with Ace and a few high-ranking Barbarians by his side, the weight of the club’s hard-fought survival also occupying the room. The stacks of cash in front of him were almost intoxicating—their final cut, the money that would close the book on this whole mess. He had dragged the Barbarians out of a grave, every hard-fought victory bleeding Bobby dry of everything he had left. Jake could feel the power shift, the satisfaction of control burning steady in his chest.

The feeling was almost enough to distract him from the chaos his life had become. Here, with Ace beside him and Bobby under his boot, Jake felt fully in command. Call it a power trip if you wanted—but after everything he’d been through, maybe he deserved one.

Once the money was counted, a few men set to work bagging it up, each movement precise and practiced. Bobby sat back, watching with a thin smile that didn’t reach his eyes, his every gesture laced with bitterness. He reclined in his leather chair, crossing one leg over the other, eyeing Jake with the sharp, insincere look of a man who’d lost but refused to accept it.

“You know, Jake,” Bobby drawled, voice low, mocking, “I can’t help but look at you and see your old man. Same scowl, same swagger… but you,” he shook his finger with a smug chuckle, “you think you’re different. Better. You think you’re doing a better job leading this club than he was, that you’re on top. But the truth is, you’re barely hanging on,” he leaned forward, his gaze narrowing. “You don’t belong at the top, boy. You’re not the iron-clad ruler Rex was. You don’t have it in you.”

The words hit like a spark to gunpowder, igniting a slow burn inside Jake. Ace shifted beside him, as if sensing the storm building. Jake stepped forward, the heavy thud of his boots against the polished wood floor a silent warning. He took a slow breath, steadying himself, and when he spoke, his voice was a deep rumble.

“That’s the thing about men like you and my old man, Bobby.” Jake’s gaze bore into Bobby, his voice gravelly, each word carrying a lethal edge. “All you think about is control, fear. You think power is the prize. But that’s where you’re dead wrong.” He stepped closer, his every movement deliberate, forcing Bobby to shift in his seat. “I didn’t come back here to sit on some throne, to cling to a damn title. I never wanted any of it. I know what that kind of power does to a man.”

He paused, letting the words hang heavy between them, before continuing, his tone darkening. “I watched it turn brother against brother. I watched it twist loyalty into something sick, something that chews men up and spits them out empty. I know what this life costs, Bobby. I know what it did to my best friend, to the men who put their lives on the line. And despite everything, here I am. Because the Barbarians? They’re in my blood.” He nodded to Ace, then looked back to Bobby. “These men are my brothers. I came back to stand beside them, not to rule over them in fear. That’s what makes me better than Rex ever was. That’s what you could never understand.”

A dangerous quiet settled over the room, the weight of Jake’s words sinking in, each syllable like a punch. “And maybe I know I could be a better leader than Rex. Maybe I know I could rebuild the club he tore down, do right by the brothers he left behind. But that throne? It’s no gift. It’s a curse. It’ll turn a man into something he doesn’t even recognize if he’s not careful. And I know what that kind of power demands. It devours men like my father, men like you, men who think they’re untouchable.”

Jake leaned in closer, his gaze like steel. “So here’s the truth: I know what I’m capable of, and I know I could take that throne if I wanted to. But what’s it gonna get me? Power for power’s sake? That doesn’t mean a damn thing to me. I’ve got a family to think about now—a life outside of all this. And if that throne, if this club, if you,” his voice dropped to a whisper, ice-cold, “if any of it comes between me and my family, I’ll burn the whole thing to the ground and make sure anyone in my way burns with it.”

Bobby’s face paled, the thin smirk wiped clean, his composure crumbling under the intensity of Jake’s stare. Ace stood by, expression unreadable, but the glint of approval in his eyes was unmistakable. The message had been delivered, clear as day: Jake wasn’t some son trying to live up to his father’s legacy. He was a man willing to fight for what mattered, even if it meant tearing down everything in his path. And Ace admired that.

The last bag of money was zipped up, handed over to the Barbarians, and the air crackled with tension, an electric reminder that they had crossed a line that couldn’t be uncrossed. But Jake didn’t care. He’d laid his cards on the table, faced down his past and the weight of Rex’s throne, and made his intentions clear.

With a final, piercing look at Bobby, Jake turned toward the door, the weight of the duffel bag and the world heavy over his shoulder. As he stepped into the neon glow of the casino parking lot, the harsh pink and blue lights cast jagged shadows across the rows of motorcycles and high-end cars, illuminating the line that had been drawn that night.

Outside, Nicky and a few of his guys were already at work, loading the bags into the back of a black SUV. Jake noticed them huddled close, whispering with heads bent, their conversation urgent. A flicker of suspicion sparked in his mind, but he dismissed it, brushing it off as the remnants of the confrontation with Bobby. Still, something about their exchange didn’t sit right, but he pushed the thought away—for now.

“Alright, fellas,” Ace’s voice rang out, gathering the crew’s attention. “We’re set. Get the money squared away, and we’ll meet back at the tavern. Got some more business to discuss.”

Ace shot Jake a look, one that was loaded with unspoken meaning.

Jake mounted his bike, casting one last look at Nicky and his men as they loaded up the SUV. Whatever they were whispering about, Jake couldn’t shake the sense that there was more to it than he could see.

Once every member had filed into the meeting room, Ace brought the gathering to order, his voice booming through the room, commanding everyone’s attention. Jake sat among his brothers, but his mind was miles away—back to you, to the life you were building together, to the fragile peace he was clinging to. He’d been texting you throughout the day, an unspoken need to hear you were okay. Your reassurances helped, but he still felt like he had to be near you, to see you with his own eyes to believe it.

“Alright, men,” Ace’s voice cut through Jake’s spiraling thoughts, snapping him back to the present. The room fell silent, all eyes fixed on Ace, waiting to hear his next words.

“As you all know, we’ve been in the process of choosing the next Barbarian King,” Ace began. “I’m not in the running, but I’ve been watching, along with a few of our most trusted members. After months of observation, we’ve narrowed it down to three candidates.”

A few men let out whoops and cheers, the excitement building as the thought of new leadership became real. But Jake felt the anticipation twist into dread in his gut. This wasn’t a crown he wanted. But he had a feeling that it was something he couldn’t run from much longer.

“We’ve given this a lot of thought,” Ace continued, raising a hand to silence the crowd. “The Barbarians need someone strong, someone fresh. We need a leader who’s got the guts to take us into the future with dignity and strength.”

Ace scanned the room, his gaze sweeping over each man, though he didn’t linger too long on anyone in particular. But he felt Jake’s eyes on him like a weight, a silent expectation that pressed against his chest.

“Voting will take place Monday,” Ace continued. “After we handle the last of our business with the EDS.”

“Yeah, yeah, just tell us who’s in the running already!” one of the members called out, earning chuckles and a few more shouts of agreement from the others.

“Alright, alright,” Ace replied with a grin, pulling a small slip of paper from his vest. He adjusted his reading glasses—a motion that usually sparked a laugh but now only added to the gravity of the moment. His tone turned serious as he looked down at the list.

“First up, we’ve got Madcap,” Ace announced, nodding in Madcap’s direction. A handful of men cheered, and someone gave Madcap a hearty slap on the shoulder.

Jake sat unmoving, knowing full well that while Madcap was capable, he wasn’t the leader the Barbarians needed. He was loyal, reliable, but he lacked the edge that could steer the club through whatever storm awaited, and there was always one waiting.

“Next…” Ace’s voice deepened, and he lifted his gaze, his eyes landing squarely on Jake. “Jacob Kiszka, the Barbarian Prince.”

The room erupted, a chorus of cheers and shouts echoing around Jake. The title “Prince” sent a chill down his spine, a constant reminder of the weight, the legacy, and the expectations he’d spent his life running from. He expected his name to come up, but it didn’t make hearing it any easier. It was a rush of pride and dread, a dangerous mix that made his pulse thrum with anticipation and anxiety. He knew what it meant if he accepted this path—what it meant for his life with you, for his future.

And then, as Ace read the final name, a hush fell over the room, heavier than the roar from before.

“Our last candidate…” Ace paused, the hint of a frown betraying his feelings. “Nicky.”

The reaction was divided—half the room erupted into cheers, led by Nicky’s friends, who slapped him on the back as if he’d already won, while the other half sat in uneasy silence. Jake’s jaw tightened. The very thought of Nicky leading the Barbarians made his skin crawl, and he shot a pointed look at Ace, who did his best to avoid Jake’s glare.

As the room quieted, Ace removed his glasses and cleared his throat, his tone more somber now. “Voting’s on Monday,” he reminded them, his gaze sweeping over the room. “Take the weekend to decide who you believe is best fit to lead this club into its next chapter.”

Jake’s heart hammered in his chest. This was it. A decision that would change everything—for him, for you, for the Barbarians. But as much as he’d loved this club, he was already halfway out the door. He’d returned for his brothers, not for a throne. Not for a legacy he’d never wanted.

“Any questions?” Ace asked, his voice betraying a hint of unease as he glanced in Jake’s direction.

No one spoke, the silence heavy with tension.

“Good.” Ace nodded. “Meeting adjourned.”

The room emptied slowly, the weight of the announcement still settling over them all. As Jake moved through the crowd, congratulatory slaps on his back barely registered. His eyes found Nicky’s across the room, and the smug, almost taunting smile on his face made Jake’s blood boil. Nicky wasn’t looking at Madcap. To him, this was a showdown between him and Jake, and he looked eager for a fight.

When the room was nearly empty, Jake pushed through the lingering members to reach Ace, barely holding back his frustration.

“What the hell are you thinking, Ace?” Jake’s voice was low, laced with barely restrained anger. “Nicky? Really?”

Ace glanced around, ensuring no one could hear them, his face impassive as he met Jake’s glare. “It wasn’t just up to me, Jake,” he replied, his tone flat, unyielding. “And Nicky’s been doing good work. You can’t let personal grievances cloud your judgment.”

Jake let out a harsh breath, following as Ace turned toward the door, unwilling to let this go. “This isn’t about personal fucking grievances, Ace. Nicky as president? He’ll drive this club straight into the fucking ground.”

Ace stopped abruptly, turning to face Jake, his composure slipping for just a moment. The controlled facade cracked, and for the first time, Jake saw a flicker of real concern in Ace’s eyes.

“You think I don’t know that?” Ace’s voice was quiet but sharp. “That’s why you need to win, Jake. Nobody’s going to vote for Madcap, and we can’t let Nicky have that power.”

The gravity of Ace’s words hit Jake like a punch to the gut. He understood now—if he wanted to keep the Barbarians alive, if he wanted to prevent the club from collapsing under Nicky’s reckless leadership, he had no choice. He had to win. He had to take the throne.

But every instinct in Jake’s body screamed against it. You and the baby needed to leave Genoa, to get far away from this mess, from your mess. The last thing he wanted was to be trapped, shackled to the very legacy he’d spent years trying to escape. Yet here he was, between a rock and a hard place, knowing that if he didn’t step up, the Barbarians he’d fought so hard to protect would be lost.

As the silence settled between them, Ace placed a heavy hand on Jake’s shoulder, a quiet understanding hanging in the air like smoke. His voice softened, almost a murmur. “I know you’ve got a lot on your plate right now—with Cherry, with the baby on the way,” he said, his words threaded with an empathy Jake hadn’t expected. “And I can’t force you to make any decision. But whatever choice you do make, Jake… make it wisely.”

Jake nodded, the weight of his reality settling like stones in his chest. This choice was no longer just about him; it was a delicate balance, a life on the razor’s edge. Whatever decision he made would be a turning point, and he felt the gravity of it pulling at him, hard.

Ace sighed, breaking the heavy quiet with a question that came out as half a chuckle. “You staying for a drink?”

“Nah, man,” Jake shook his head, the words coming out more like a sigh than an answer. “I need to get home to Cherry.” He could feel his pulse in his temples, the weight of everything piling on top of him, each decision another stone added to the load.

“Alright.” Ace’s voice was understanding, though Jake could hear the unspoken sentiment lingering underneath. He watched Jake for a moment, a look of resigned respect crossing his face, as if they both knew this would be the last quiet moment between them for a long while.

With a final nod, Jake turned and made his way to the door, each step feeling heavier than the last. As he slipped out of the meeting room, he paused for a breath, taking in the cold night air. The stars overhead were distant, indifferent, a sharp contrast to the storm of choices raging in his mind. He fished his keys from his pocket, a familiar weight in his palm that suddenly felt foreign.

He climbed onto his bike, the engine rumbling to life beneath him. The ride home stretched before him, dark and winding, but somehow, heading back to you felt like the only solid ground he had left. He tightened his grip on the handlebars, the cold steel grounding him as he revved the engine and took off, the roar of his bike cutting through the silence.

The road blurred past, but his thoughts were razor-sharp, tracing the edges of what his life would look like if he went through with this. The choice between keeping the club afloat or walking away. Between the loyalty he felt to his brothers and the future he wanted to build with you. The words he’d spoken to Bobby echoed in his mind, the weight of their truth only sinking deeper.

By the time he reached the house, the heaviness in his chest hadn’t lifted, but he knew one thing for sure: he needed to see you, to feel your presence next to him. As he parked the bike and stepped toward the front door, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He could make the hard choices, he could carry the weight. But as he crossed the threshold and saw you waiting for him, a small, weary smile touched his lips—because for now, he could let it go, even if just for a moment.

You heard Jake before you saw him, the slow, labored thud of his boots on the floorboards sending a small wave of relief through you. By the time you’d have been able to sit yourself up on the couch, he was already there, standing in front of you.

The sight of him—even with the weariness in his eyes, the weight he carried so clearly visible on his shoulders—eased the anxious buzz that had crept over you in his absence. You felt a smile pull at your lips as he let out a tired sigh and plopped down beside you, leaning back into the cushions.

“Hey, baby,” you greeted him softly, your hand reaching instinctively for his. His answering smile was faint, tinged with a heaviness that made your heart ache a little, knowing whatever was on his mind was eating at him. He settled his gaze on you, quiet for a beat, his eyes flickering with something unspoken.

Without a word, his hand drifted to your belly, fingers tracing gentle circles over your bump as he leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to your cheekbone. “Hey, Cherry.”

You placed your hand over his, a silent reassurance, feeling the tension in him through his touch. His eyes were on your belly now, distant, like he was a thousand miles away and struggling to bring himself back.

“Long day?” you asked, keeping your voice light, though you knew there was a weight to his answer.

He exhaled, his breath stirring your hair as he nodded. “Yeah,” he muttered, “long day.” His jaw tightened as he fell silent again, letting the quiet settle between you like a fragile truce.

Before he could disappear too far into his thoughts, he pulled back and gave you a soft, almost boyish smile, the kind he saved for moments when he needed to mask what was haunting him. “Really, I just missed my girls.”

Your smile grew, welcoming the change in his tone. “You know,” you teased, brushing your hand over his, “we still haven’t picked out a name for her yet.”

A thoughtful look crossed his face, his brow furrowing slightly as he went quiet. He seemed to be weighing something, sifting through thoughts and memories before he finally looked up, a quiet certainty softening his gaze.

“What about Lorelei?”

You repeated it in your head, letting the name linger in your mind before you nodded, your smile widening. “Lorelei Kiszka,” you murmured, testing it aloud, savoring the way it felt. “I like it. Where’d you come up with that?”

Jake shrugged, a flicker of a grin lighting his face. “Just sounded right, honestly.”

“Most people don’t hit a home run on the first try.”

He smirked, nudging you lightly. “You’re talking to me here,” he joked, and you playfully shoved him, the ease of the moment lightening the air around you.

“Lorelei,” you repeated, savoring the name, and he leaned forward, glancing down at your stomach with a softened gaze.

“Lorelei,” he murmured again, almost like a promise. “What do you think, little one?”

A stillness followed, just long enough for anticipation to build before a sudden kick answered him, strong and certain beneath his hand. You winced slightly at the force, but the joy in his face, the wonder in his eyes, made any discomfort worth it.

“I think she likes it,” you giggled, and his hand remained over the spot, feeling the connection, the reality of his family, sink in.

Alright, I’m claiming victory on picking the name first try,” he joked, giving your hand a gentle squeeze.

“Don’t let it go to your head, tough guy,” you teased back, but your own smile was radiant, bright with hope. Despite everything that lay outside these walls, you could still see a future with him—a future that felt as solid as the warmth of his hand in yours.

“You mind if I clean up a bit?” he asked, his voice softened with the same quiet warmth. You nodded, watching him as he headed down the hall, feeling a fresh wave of gratitude wash over you. Even as you watched him disappear into the bathroom, the sound of the running water was a reminder of his presence, grounding you.

A short while later, he returned, his hair damp, the scent of soap mingling with the familiar leather and smoke that seemed to cling to him. He settled back beside you on the couch, sliding one arm around your shoulders as he tugged you close, and you felt yourself melt into his embrace.

“Movie?” he asked, reaching for the remote.

“Yeah, let’s see what’s on,” you agreed, curling up against him as he scrolled through the channels. You finally settled on an old favorite, Forrest Gump, something lighthearted and familiar, a film you’d seen a dozen times before.

Jake leaned back, his gaze on the screen, but it was clear his thoughts were drifting. As the scenes flickered by, he kept getting pulled back into the maelstrom in his mind. The weight of the upcoming vote settled over him, heavy and unrelenting. He hadn’t told you much about it, not wanting to add to your worries, but the reality of it was gnawing at him. He knew it was likely he’d win, especially with Ace pushing him forward. If he took on the role, he’d have an army behind him, resources, the protection he might need to secure a safe future here for you and Lorelei.

But as he felt the warmth of your body nestled against his, saw your growing belly rise and fall with each breath, he knew that wasn’t enough. You and Lorelei deserved better than the chaos Genoa brought. Yet, a part of him couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that maybe this was why he’d been drawn back, maybe there was a way to finally do right by the club, make it something less corrosive, less of a trap for the men he’d grown up alongside.

Just as his mind began to wander deeper, he glanced over at you. You had fallen asleep, head resting on his shoulder, your breathing soft and even. The innocence of that moment pulled him back to the present, grounding him in the reason he’d been questioning everything. His thumb gently traced your knuckles as he watched you sleep, realizing how fragile and precious this calm was in a life that had known so little of it.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, snapping him from his reverie. Careful not to disturb you, he pulled it out and read the message from Ace:

“Everything’s in place for the last drop with the EDS. Saturday, 9 p.m.”

Jake let out a long breath, the weight of the message settling over him. It was almost over. If all went smoothly, he could start carving out a real future for the three of you. But if he knew anything, it was that nothing in this life ever went as planned.

He tucked his phone away, his arm still wrapped around you as he glanced back at the screen, not really seeing it. His hand found its way back to your stomach, resting there protectively, as if he could shield you from the uncertainty that lay ahead.

Taglist: @edgingthedarkness @earthgrlsreasy @wetkleenex-gvf @hollyco @dannys-dream @slut4lando @josh-iamyour-mama @gretasfallingsky @takenbythemadness @scoreofinfantryvines

[oliolioxenfreewrites]

Residuals

They don’t remember how they got here. There isn’t really a “they”—just scattered voices, a splintered awareness drifting through endless, twisted neon walls that pulse and flicker like a heartbeat. The maze stretches out in every direction, woven from raw thoughts, hidden fears, and secrets buried so deep that even the mind itself recoils. The air is thick, pressing in on them, as colors throb like exposed nerves, pulsing bright and dim, flickering just enough to keep them on edge. Every sound they make comes back hollow and warped, as though the mind itself mocks every step forward.

Ghosts? Hallucinations?

Those labels don’t matter here. Only one thing feels certain: somewhere in this mess, there must be a way out.

A hand—does it even belong to either of them?—presses against a wall that feels disturbingly warm, pulsing with faint, sickly heat. It shifts under their touch, crumbling away like sand even as it resists them.

“This isn’t real,” a voice murmurs, distrust simmering in every word.

“But that doesn’t make it safe,” another voice replies, sharp and bitter, cutting through the silence.

“Feels like some kind of trip. Trauma, self-loathing. Think there’s an exit?”

“…Or are we just meant to walk these halls forever?”

Nothing answers. The silence is thick, swallowing up their words. They have no choice but to press on, minutes blurring into hours, hours into days—time has lost all meaning. Only this suffocating rhythm remains, broken by the occasional light pulse and the hollow echo of their voices.

The walls start flashing with scenes of overwhelming heartbreak, unrelenting shame, the sharp twang of small betrayals, and regrets. Each memory is jagged, unyielding, like shards of a mirror reflecting someone else’s life. And yet the memories claw at something deep inside, as if fragments of their existence are embedded into the broken glass.

The boundary between self and other has now shattered, leaving them tangled in memories they know aren’t theirs but feel within their bones—do they even have bones?

The memories hover, taunting them with glimpses they can almost—but never quite—grasp. Each time they reach out, the scenes slip away like shadows in the light, just beyond their touch. Still, they keep moving, forced to absorb layer upon layer of shame, regret, and guilty fear. In one flash, they see a hand reaching out, fingers trembling with longing; in another, they feel the raw ache of abandonment, the hollow sting of a love lost. These emotions cling to them and press into their thoughts until they feel like drowning in someone else’s sorrow.

Now and then, something draws them toward the walls—a desperate urge for something solid, something real. But just like the memories, the walls shudder and recoil each time, shifting away as if alive, rejecting their very touch. The wrongness of it ripples through them, a reminder that nothing here belongs to them. They are the intruders, yet somehow, this place feels like it’s been waiting for them all along.

Then, out of nowhere, a door appears. Its frame pulses with a frantic, uneven beat, like a trapped heart thumping erratically, vibrating with a strange, desperate hope. The edges glow, alive and tense, shimmering with an energy that almost feels… safe? They hesitate, hesitate once more, then finally reach out, pushing the door open, bracing for release.

But there is no escape. They’re right back at the beginning, staring at themselves, exhausted reflections thrown back in distorted neon light, faces etched with emotions they know aren’t truly their own.

“Alright, I’ll just say it. Is this hell?” a voice murmurs, cynically resigned.

“Worse,” another voice replies, thick with bitterness.

“It’s the inside of a mind that doesn’t want to let us go. Or maybe it can’t. We’re the shit they tried to bury—the doubts, the regrets, all the festering truths it doesn’t want to face. We’re clawing through memories, trying to break free from a mind that can’t handle us here.”

The ground trembles at the words, a faint warning, as though the mind resists their revelation.

They’re forced into a slump against the walls, side by side, each tremor echoing the painful realization that there is no escape. This was never a maze they stumbled into; it was a prison they were created to inhabit.

The voices are merely fragments, forgotten parts, pieces meant to be buried. They are the persistent guilt, the unrelentinug fear, the inescapable shame that the mind has tried to shove into its darkest corners but can never erase. They claw their way back to the surface, forced to relive each jagged moment, each flicker of memory, as the mind struggles to bury them again.

Slowly, painfully, coming to understand that there is no escape because they are the labyrinth.

Each twist and turn is an integral part of them; each flash of memory is a fragment of their essence. They aren’t merely haunting this mind—they are the mind’s most unwanted parts, the echoes it desperately tries to silence yet can never fully destroy. Their voices are bound to these walls, whispers of regret and doubt that this mind will never escape.

Having no choice the voices pdrift on, through endless hallways, voices circling back, filling the silence with their fractured presence.

And this is how it ends—or continues: forever circling, forever haunting, trapped in a cycle of repression and rumination

a flash fiction i wrote for daily prompt my profile is here if you wanna check out more of my writings :)

[whumpinthepot]

Hamster Interactive Story

Chapter 8. Threat

Prev - Masterlist

Content: CYOA format, poll options, Being watched, physical restraint, verbal threats, cages, pet trope, Giant/Tiny, Selective Mutism, poor vision, drug mention (in poll), no medication for pain, fear for ones life, dehumanization, female cast, ableism,

Pov: Hamster, then switches to Ashley for the poll.

Poll winner: Rub your eyes and crawl closer to see if they’re real

—-

You rub your eyes and clumsily crawl closer to the blurry image that stands across the bars. You fall into your shoulder a couple of times but lucky enough the padding in the cage cushions any pain it might have caused. The figure does look like one of Ashley’s prop dolls, and you start to relax. 

Until it talks- “You really are blind, aren’t you, Pet?” 

You scream immediately, kicking backwards from reflex, and the voice becomes shrill, “Hey! Shut up- Stop screaming!” The figure is opening the cage now to get to you. They force the door to stay ajar by shoving a pencil into it. 

They storm towards you, and you don’t stop screaming. In fact you scream more from terror. Until he’s shoving a hand against your mouth and you’re face to face with someone who is the same size as you, “Stop screaming before something bad happens to both of us!” His hand shoves against your lips, and grinds flesh into your teeth. It hurts, and you want it to stop. 

You stop screaming in hopes he’ll let go of you. It doesn’t stop the tears though, and when he takes his hand away you continue to back up to distance yourself from him. 

The man closes the distance and towers over you, “Does the human know about me?” He asks. You stare at him in disbelief, and he says it again, “Does. The. Human. Know. About. Me?” This time you shake your head quickly. 

“You don’t talk do you?” He tilts his face sideways.

Once again you shake your head. You’re not going to say a word to him. 

“Then you won’t tell the human you saw me, right?” 

You keep shaking your head, though you’re not sure if you’re supposed to nod at that last question. It doesn’t matter, because he understands it anyway, “Good.” He seems satisfied enough. 

You both stare at each other for a second, then he takes off. The cage door slams shut, and he’s gone. 

You’re left shaking like a leaf, and you need Ashley to come home NOW so that she can protect you. The medicine in your system dies down mid day, and your arm starts to throb against the inside of the cast. You feel miserable. 

Once Ashley finally comes through the front door, it's late, and you’ve already cried your heart out from fear and pain. 

When she puts her hand in your cage to check on you, you cling to her fingers immediately for safety. Ashley startles, but she scoops you up with no problem, “Oh Honey, does your arm hurt? It's okay, Mummy’s home. Here-“ She puts you to her chest where her heart thumps against you as she chucks her purse onto the counter. She then takes you to the bathroom to get more medicine syringed into your mouth. It’s bittersweet but you swallow it. 

When Ashley tries to put you back down you latch to her thumb, and refuse to let go. You’re still terrified of the tiny man killing you in your sleep. You’ve never done this before, and Ashley seems rightfully worried. She brings you back up to her chest and looks around as if lost. 

—

(Top two or three poll winners may be used) 

Taglist under the cut:

Tag list: @frogkingdom @verkja @whumpsday @octopus-reactivated @marvel-gt @rsitb-second-account @fallen-grace-smd @winged-wolf-s-collection-of-arts @kyp-the-spacekiwi @dramat1ques @ilasknives @hollowgast1 @whither-wander-whump @redd956 @zobodahobo @alittlewhump @blackrosesandwhump @angst-after-dark @sandygarnelle @copperyote @kim-poce @mayisreallygay @smoll-stace @demondamage @vickytokio @sunshiline-writes @whump-in-the-closet

[yandere-kokeshi]

Hello! Could I please request poly dabi & shigaraki x villain! male reader headcannons?

I absolutely love your writing esspecialy with dabi!

Also don't forget to take care of yourself! ❤

Warnings: yandere behavior

A/N: hiii!! Tysm!! You're so sweet ;((! YOU take care of yourself! Stay well :]!

Sorry this is short, I tried my best!

They’re both extremely protective and possessive. At best, one of them is always near you. Even the members of LOV get annoyed by how much they follow you.

Dabi has his hands always around your hips, waist, or shoulders; giving anyone the fiery look to back away.

Shigaraki tends to connect one of his fingers with yours, making sure to squeeze it while he’s anxious or upset.

Incredibly touch-starved. After doing business outside, the two of them will follow you and cling to you like koala bears; pet names being thrown around, Shigaraki whines about how he wants you alone while cuddling and Dabi yelling at him to zip it or else. Quite hectic if you see!

Speaking of cuddles, the embraces are very tight and comforting. The two of them fear you’ll get hurt — especially by them. While they do know you’re a villain and capable of taking care of yourself, just like them, it pains them to see you get hurt or think of you fighting. That being said, when on missions, at least one of them is always with you.

They fight… a lot. So much so, that sometimes you have to cut your time with them alone equally. But, that doesn’t stop them from working well with each other! If someone even looks at you or talks to you with disrespect, you have two growling men behind your back who are ready to set the world on fire for you.

Super duper fun date nights! The three of you tend to go to a market just to steal candy and slushies.

Purposely, getting sour candies to prank Shigaraki or simply switch the candies out with Twice. Or, some quiet nights, sitting on a tall rooftop, hearing police sirens all night while looking at the stars, talking about life and trauma of all things.

While in the public eye, they both are seen as intimidating people who are extremely sadistic and evil; but in the presence of you, they let their guard down almost completely and let you do things that other people definitely wouldn’t be able to.

Kisses all day and every day!! Dabi’s kisses are very hard and swift; extremely forceful that will leave you wanting more.

But Shigaraki is soft and somewhat slow. His chapped lips have the most of it. He makes sure to put a lip balm before kissing you.

They both suffer from deep insecurities. While they won’t show it, they do give clues. Dabi being his scars and rough personality; fears you’ll leave him when he teases too much or simply gets irritated too fast. You will see a slight look in his eye in the mirror, purposely ignoring his form while he holds you. Or how he’ll re-pick at his skin, talking to himself while sitting on the bathroom floor.

Shigaraki, on the other hand, is complicated. It's his rough skin and paranoia; he constantly suffers from anxiety, possibly thinking of worst scenarios when he’s with you. His skin is always roughed, and he fears you’ll hate him for not being like ‘someone else’.

Fights are interesting. While Dabi won’t hold a grudge, he will ultimately ignore you to make sure he doesn’t say anything rude or hurtful again; he rarely apologizes due to his ego. But, if he does see that what he said was mean, he will go ahead and buy your favorite snacks, dinner, and drink; possibly give you a kiss with a small “I’m sorry.”

Shigaraki, on the other hand, holds grudges. He will not talk to you, unless you apologize; even if it’s his fault. Sure, at rare times, he will get up front and apologize, otherwise, he will make you do it. When you do, he will look at you and pull you into a hug; promising to let you play some video games and eat snacks with him.

Sleeping is chaotic. Since they both love to be held and want to hold you, they practically lay on you for attention. Mostly, Shigaraki is either pushing himself into your lower stomach, and laying on you as Dabi is laying his head on your shoulder. Or, Dabi lying behind you as you coddle Shigaraki to your chest.

—

Masterlist || Please consider reblogging and commenting instead of liking, stay well!!

Do not plagiarize, repost, modify, translate or copy my work.

[otomes-and-tears]

♦ Colour Swap ♦

► tags/warnings: 

► words: 944

► a/n: This is a very, very late birthday gift for my bestie, @dreamtydraw ! It's based on this post by them. They love the color swap au so much I just knew I had to write something special for them based on it <3 So... yeah! Happy birthday, Al. Hope you like my gift. Thank you for being such a wonderful friend!

► Masterlist

Cove was eight when his life changed forever.

He was wearing a pink cast, crying his eyes out in a poppy field. Lost in a town he didn’t know, the distant crashing of the waves on the shore acting as his only reassurance.

Then, she appeared.

Like an angel. Like the answer to all of his prayers.

He could swear her eyes almost glowed under the moonlight. Orange blazing in the dark like fire. The only light in the dark night, the lighthouse leading him home.

Cerise was his soulmate. He was certain of it. There was nothing his little heart believed in more, not when she understood him, so wholly and truthfully.

But there were no new marks on his body when he arrived home, time didn’t stop, touching her didn’t make colours spread in her skin like ink and he didn’t have any words written on his wrist.

It was disappointing. Cove was no stranger to crying, but it felt different. It felt wrong.

His dad tried to reassure him— Cove was young, and soulmates rarely found each other in childhood. He can’t force it. His connection will manifest with the right person at the right time, when they’re both fully ready to be together.

But why couldn’t it be now? Why did he have to wait?

What was the point of being with someone if it wasn’t his best friend?

The years passed and the uneasiness only grew. 

Cove and Cerise only got closer, and with each passing birthday, he became more fearful of the day their bonds would manifest.

Because what if she wasn’t his match? Cove was sure that he’d love Cerise regardless of who his soulmate ended up being. She was so wonderful, so sweet and kind. 

He yearned for her, something deep within his bones ached for her. He couldn’t imagine feeling this way for anyone else, he didn’t want to.

But what if her feelings for him changed? What if they grew apart after she met her soulmate?

Cove didn’t want to lose what they had, but he wanted nothing more than for her to be happy. Even if it meant he couldn’t be with her in the way he so desperately wanted to.

When they started dating, he pushed these thoughts to the back of his mind. 

It wasn’t fair to Cerise to feel this way, he knew it. He was being so selfish and self-centred, wishing for time to stop and things to stay static to preserve what they had right now.

Cerise had chosen him, regardless of what fate might’ve said.

She chose him. That meant something. That meant everything. 

Cerise’s love wasn’t fickle, her trust and love were precious gifts that weren’t given away easily. But Cove couldn’t stop his thoughts— couldn’t stop the way that ugly feeling of jealousy would bubble up when he was alone in his room when he panicked about making sure he’d make her happy enough he’d have a fighting chance, or even any chance at all, against the cruel hands of fate.

Deep down he knew Cerise thought of it, too. By the sadness in her eyes as their eighteenth birthdays neared and the way she held him just a little bit tighter when they said goodbye for the day as if clinging to the familiarity of him and what they had. 

Once he wished for the day he’d meet his soulmate, now, he dreaded it.

Cove knew it had happened before he even looked at himself in the mirror:

It tingled and itched, barely perceptible, until the feeling overtook his whole body in a way that was hard to ignore.

Strangest of all was the feeling of change. By the time it was over, and he stared at his ceiling, trying to catch his breath, he knew something had changed.

Maybe something about him, maybe fate itself. It felt like a point of no return.

With shaky hands and trembling legs, Cove stumbled to the nearest mirror. He hated the unknown, but something compelled him to move. To rip the bandaid off and confirm his fears once and for all.

But when he looked at his reflection— something was different. Instead of ocean blue eyes, wet with unshed tears, the colour that met him was a warm orange. His hair was different too, the colour of sunset, of warm fires and fall leaves.

His hands were shaking again. Cove brought his fingers to his hair as he brushed them against his beachy waves, trying to assess if this was real or just the result of another one of his wish-fulfilment dreams. 

But it seemed too real, the softness of his hair, the coldness of the mirror underneath his fingertips and the way his legs ached when he broke into a run, following the familiar path that would take him to the poppy hill, where it all started.

There, on a warm summer night, staring at the ocean, as the waves crashed on the shore, was a girl with long, seafoam hair and a loose t-shirt.

She turns towards him as soon as she hears the rustling of the grass beneath his feet, blue eyes widening as she looks up to see him— in an expression he knows mirrors his own.

He reached towards her, tears rolling down his face. He needed to touch her, needed to feel the warmth of her skin to reassure him that, after all these years, his eight-year-old self was right. Cerise was his other half.

As he smiled, warm and filled with indescribable joy, Cove noticed how, despite the different colours, her eyes still seemed to glow under the moonlight.

[chaoticxrobotic]

Here are some prompts for you to choose from! ^^

'What was that? You winced.'

https://at.tumblr.com/cero-sleep/685511719452393472/f4navb4l8qwn

"It hurts so much. Why does it hurt so much? I just want it to stop."

"Whatever you do, do not close your eyes."

https://at.tumblr.com/cero-sleep/693774981006508032/ddw2hbtza534

Here it is, over a month late! Sorry for the delay Cero <3

"It hurts so much. Why does it hurt so much? I just want it to stop."

Angst, very slight Hurt/Comfort. Content warnings for: Body horror, mention of severe burns, medical trauma? Kind of.

Thick. Heavy. Choking. 

Smoke billowed through the air, urged upward by towering pillars of flame, as a figure dragged itself on staggering limbs through the debris. In their arms, a loose jumble of limbs and a heaving chest, breath ragged and desperately clinging to life. Silicon fingers brushed against a pulse, finding it weak and wavering. A fluttering eyelid offered a startling flash of white as eyes rolled, unseeing and agonized.

“No. No, no-”

“Help them. We can still help them.”

A fresh burst of panic caused their circuits to pulse with newfound energy, forcing the figure to surge forwards. They forged a clumsy path around plummeting pillars and fire-warped mounds of plastic, sparking eyes focused on the haze of lights that blinked in and out of existence. The lights marked the twists and turns of each hallway, guiding them through the inferno.

The tannoy followed them through each room. Its tinny words were slowly warping from the heat, voice fading in and out as it looped the emergency announcement.

“An announcement for all esteemed guests at the Pizzaplex. For your safety, please make your way to the marked emergency exits. Our friendly staff will be there to personally escort you. Fazbear accepts no responsibility for any trampling, severe burns, smoke inhalation, or death that may be sustained during your evacuation attempt. Hope to see you again soon, and have a Faztastic day!”

Fallen pillars/planks of wood stand between them and the door, making a frantic hiss of static burst from their faceplate. Hands grasp at the material, fingers digging and cracking the cement and steel, as two other arms keep the fading form cradled close to their chest. A desperate wrench and twist of muscles. A slow, almost-wet rip and crack from the pillar. It split messily down the middle and was tossed aside by restless arms.

They step inside. 

The sealed halls of parts & service are refreshingly clear of the hazy smoke that rolls through the pizzaplex, but the doors are already beginning to breach up ahead, flashes of molten orange and red shimmering through the weakening seals. The figure pauses for only a moment to take in the destruction before they press forward, unoccupied arms grasping fitfully at the crevices of the walls, hauling themselves onwards with ardent desperation. 

Anxious fingers can’t keep themselves from tracing over ash-dyed hair, from flitting across glistening, weeping burn wounds. Like a moth drawn to a dying flame, they keep searching for that sweet, slowing pulse. Every time they find it, it’s a little slower and softer. The fear of that alone is enough to keep them going. 

A final barrier, the door to the inner chambers of parts & services open with minimum resistance. The figure spills inside, almost dropping their precious cargo on the floor. Limbs fumble and a voicebox hisses as they right themselves, clenching tight enough around soft, smarting flesh to earn an agonised whine.

Their core lurches.

“Sorry- So sorry, starlight-”

“It will be alright. They’ll be safe, soon.”

There is no resistance as the body is placed on the leather chair, straps hissing softly as they’re tugged and tightened into place. 

There’s plenty to work with, here. More than they could have hoped.

But even with nothing, they’ll save you. 

They’ll save you.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A gasp wrenches itself from your lips as you wake with a start, bolting upright.

Agony is the first sense to seize you, crawling in lava-hot pinpricks up raw, tender nerves. You feel like you’re locked in a horrible vice, your entire body shoved into a suit ten sizes too small, biting and nipping at your body.  It’s unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before. Every pulse of pain that courses through your veins is somehow more brutal than the last. 

Blue and orange sparks of light arc across your vision as you wrench your eyes open, left unable to speak from the pain that rips every last breath from your lungs. You try to fling yourself off of the chair, animal instincts screaming at you to run from the source.

A twitching hand holds you fast. Their touch barely breaches the numb wall erected around your nerves, and it takes being brought to a sudden stop to realize it’s even there. You cry out, fighting against it until someone hisses your name in a burst of static.

You freeze. Your eyes shift to the source of the sound.

A trembling, shock-numbed mouth fumbles around the words “Sun..? Moon-?”

The animatronic that hunches over your form, keeping your hand clutched tightly between their own, is a sight to behold. A roughshod amalgamation of parts, each twitching joint and creaking bolt seemingly at odds with itself. A half-singed nightcap swings from sparking sunrays. Oil drips from the spiderweb of cracks and fissures all over their chassis, wires exposed, dragging and pulsing and visceral, steaming guts in technicolor. 

They hang over you, poised and purposeful. As if you were a precious thing, fragile and liable to fall apart the second their watchful gaze falters. The coiling stretch of their smile brims with a raw, earnest kind of relief, and you find your own lips twitching in response. Their delight at seeing you alive and whole is palpable. Despite the pain, despite the horror of seeing them like this, as gnarled and twisted as you feel on the inside, you feel slightly more at ease. 

“I…” A wave of brain fog rolls over you, the relentless press of light boring right into your eyes. You screw up your face against it, gathering the strength to continue. “Where are we? What- What happened, here?”

A jagged purr, servos clicking as they lean closer to respond. The sound that seeps out from them coats your ears in inky black, sickly and stifling. Twin voices wind and twist around one another, churning and choking each other out in turn, distinct and distorted all at once. 

“Nothing to worry about, Sunshine-”

“Worry not, Starlight-”

“You’re safe now”

“With us-

“With us-”

“Nothing can hurt you-

“There is nothing that can hurt you-”

“Not while we’re here.”

“Here with you.”

But something is hurting you. Your shock-addled brain is sending insistent pulses through your body with every heartbeat. Slowly, despite your brain trailing a stream of protests, you look down.

Tears fill your eyes.

You work your lips soundlessly, unable to vocalise the mounting horror that digs with ice-cold fingers into your chest.

The rusting metal encases your limbs like a beetle’s carapace, embedded deep and greedy in your skin like swollen, skittering parasites.  

“What did you do?” The words tumble from your lips in a clumsy avalanche, your untouched left hand tracing a trembling path over the metal coating of the right, trying to feel something- Anything- Any kind of sensation that wasn’t dulled and inhuman. The roiling panic in your gut swiftly heats into anger, overflowing your chest until it explodes outward into a roar 

“What did you do?” 

You look down at yourself, abject horror already beginning to seize your gut. The creeping path of metal is an invasion, claiming quarter over the soft flesh that was once healthy and whole but is now marred with scars and discoloration from the burns.

It is devouring its way up your arms, and your legs - it has even completely replaced your right hand. You have been invaded by silicon and steel, and your body no longer feels as it once did. You are not wholly robotic like the watchful presence beside you, but even worse - you are no longer human.

You are adrift between two natures. Lost in a sea of ambiguity and violations of the natural order.

And the pain…

Oh, the pain.

You could not find the words to describe it.

It is beyond sense. Beyond measure. It is so abject it pushes through the limitations of sensation itself, crossing the borderline between pleasure and pain until it becomes almost a relief, a reprieve from its own agony. It coalesces and coils on itself like ouroboros, devouring and being devoured in measure. it is transcendent.

It leaves you screaming in a thin, reedy wail, lungs still feeling the impact of smoke inhalation. It is too much for you to bear, and four metallic hands hold you in a loose vice of a hug as you rock back and forth against your bindings, wailing piteously, begging for a relief that simply refuses to come.

"It hurts", you moan.

"We know," they reply. "We are sorry. We are sorry it hurts."

"It hurts," you cry again, their very touch burning your skin even more than the flames did.  Terse static fills the air around you, almost seeming to dig into your nerves like burrowing beetles in carrion.

"Star-"

"Sunlight-"

"You have to understand", they purr in unison, voices laden with regret. With an agonized sorrow that should be unnatural for them. For those two voices. "It was the only way to save you, to keep you from harm-"

"Save me?" You howl, “Save me?” 

"You call this saving-? Look at me." A shaky hand gestures over you, fingers coiled, stiff, and gnarled like dead leaves. Your other fist clenches, heavy and useless as a stone in your lap. 

"Look at me." You say it again, raising your eyes, still swimming with that blue and orange light as you glower at them once more. Their hands clench uselessly in their lap, unsure of whether to touch you or to retreat. You grit it out for a third time, each syllable laced with a desperate, distraught venom.

"Look at me. I'm a monster. I'm- I don't even know whose body this is. Did you scavenge this? Is this- Some other bot? Am I wearing someone's corpse, right now? Is that what this is?"

"No, no-!" they both rush to say it, voices rolling and running over one another as they fight to be the first to speak out. "Not at all, star- You're no monster. You're still- You, still our dear friend, so kind and good-"

You can only coil away from them, your body rigid and set. Stiff.

"Get away from me."

The sound of frantic clicking, like someone trying to clear a clenching throat.

"Friend, please, we-" 

Their head twitches to the left, torn nightcap danging pathetically from fragmented sun rays. "No.” This voice is softer, speaking in a rustling, silvery sigh. “They’re right, Sun. Look. We’re hurting them.”  

The fractured faceplate shifts from one side to the other, rocking in an invisible tide. The light in their eyes has dimmed, gaze distant, looking at something just out of your field of view. Fingertips tap together nervously, jerking once or twice as if wrestling with the urge to pull you close again, to soothe you where words could not.  

The weight of an entire world rests in your lungs. Your chest rises against it, fighting to draw breath. Through the persistent chittering scratch of raw nerves, you can feel something else. A thin, faint thrumming. The whisper-song of servos, coursing through the alien parts of you. Searching for a nervous system made of wires and code, instead of veins and grey matter.

Your next words come out far more raggedly than you would like.

"It hurts so much. Why-? Why would you do this to me?” 

A keening, frayed whine is their only response. Your head slumps back against the unfeeling leather of the operating chair, sending another pulse of pain through your patchwork body.

“I just want…. I just want it to stop. Please.”

Your searching eyes fall on them, on the way they lurch to their feet, a hand reaching out to you in abrupt panic before remembering itself. You ignore the stammering buzz of protest, the warning growl, as you spare another glance down at the mess they’ve made of you.

A body that is not yours stares back, each bolt and seam of silver and steel hissing that this is wrong. It should never have been yours. Flesh and aloy were not made to meet, not like this, crossing boundaries with a kind of brutality that makes you feel sick down to your bones.

A tear slips down your cheek, wet and warm, cresting over the plate of metal grafted clumsily over your jaw. You swallow. It echoes through your skull. Your voice comes out in a hoarse whisper.

“Please, make it stop.”  

The pain in their eyes almost seems to match your own.

Their next words take a moment to register, vibrations trying to push through the pain that buzzes through your entire nervous system.

"No, little star. We can't do that. We're sorry."

Your next breath freezes in your lungs.

"What-? What do you mean, no? You can't leave me like this." You thrash against your bindings once more, shackles jingling like the chain on a trapped dog. "You can't do this to me! Please, please- Don't leave me like this!" Your voice is the hysterical trill of a bird with a broken wing, dragging itself fitfully on the ground as it thrashes in fresh throes of agony.

They speak over your ragged sobs, as your head slumps over your chest. A shaky, sparking hand reaches out to tilt your face upward, stroking away the tears that continue to fall.

"We won't lose you, Starlight. Not like this."

"We can't let you go. Not while you're still breathing. Still so bright, so full of life-"

You spit out your words in a broken hiss, each syllable sizzling hot and sour.

"You don't understand- You can’t understand how much this hurts. The kind of hell I'm living in. You can't do this to me. It isn't living, it's- It's-”

The words are slipping from your tongue, slipping from your mind. Sparks and static fill the empty space, crushing any semblance of self under each rolling wave of pressure. 

Sun- Moon’s- Both of their fingers tip-tap together again, punctuating the brief, frantic ticking of their servos as they struggle to assemble some desperate, miraculous reassurance that will save your mind from spiraling. 

"We would do anything to keep you with us, little star.”

The guilt-laced words ring through your head like a klaxon, almost drowning out the growled promise that follows. 

“Anything.”

Torn asunder in the burning wreckage, you weep. You can’t even feel their warmth on your cheeks anymore. 

Ripped apart and cobbled together again, lost in the bowels of a destroyed empire, you mourn yourself. The life you once had, that you’ll never see again. And through it all, those arms hold you. 

They’re the only thing keeping you from falling apart.

[misscrazyfangirl321]

jess/wyatt: I understand. It's ok.

“I understand.” He lowers his gun, bowing his head slightly. “It’s okay.”

It takes her just a few heartbeats to realize his meaning, heartbeats that stretch out between them. He thinks she’s going to kill him (and she should, shouldn’t she? They’re on opposite sides of a war, and if she doesn’t take the shot now, someone else will, or he’ll put someone on her side in the ground), and he’s not even going to fight her. 

Tears prick her eyes, chest tightening. Rittenhouse may be her family, but she loves this man, and she cannot-she cannot-

She’s lowering the gun before she even realizes it, closing the distance between them. He looks up, a question in his eyes that she doesn’t give him a chance to ask, and she presses her lips to his. 

He should hesitate, should flinch-for crying out loud, he should push her away-but he falls into her easily, a broken noise slipping from his lips as he returns the kiss. And for a moment, there is nothing else: No Rittenhouse, no fear, no wars. There is only her husband, and the way they kiss each other as if they might never get another chance. His fingers are in her hair, she’s clinging to his shirt for dear life, and she can’t be sure if the salt she tastes is from her tears or his.

The sound of footsteps drawing near shatters their hastily-constructed bubble, and he releases her, looking around, fingers once again resting against his gun. Reality is flooding in, and she hates it, hates it so desperately she could scream. 

“Join us,” she says, and her voice shakes, but she doesn’t care. This is no recruitment pitch; it’s a plea to the man she loves to please, please not force them apart. 

He swallows. Meets her eyes, pain shining in his. “I can’t.” And of course he can’t; she knows that. His loyalty, his unwavering dedication to what’s right, no matter the cost, is only one of the many things she loves about him. “But you could come with us.” And oh, that same desperation drips from his words. “It’s not too late. You can do the right thing-” 

But it is too late, and she knows it. She’s chosen her side, just as he’s chosen his. If she came back now, it would be in handcuffs; what sort of life is that, for her or her child? Besides, she owes Rittenhouse more than she can say. They saved her brother. They gave her purpose. And all they want to do is make the world a better place (don’t they?). That’s what Wyatt and his hopeless band of rebels are fighting, and Jessica could never be a part of that. 

“Wyatt.” 

One word is all it takes. His face falls, but he looks no more surprised than she feels. This is far from fair, but it’s how things are, and they can be no other way. 

“Okay.” He squares his shoulders. Sets his jaw. “Okay.” 

The footsteps draw closer still, and with them, voices: Lucy, Flynn, and Jiya. Any one of them would shoot her without hesitation. And if she tries to shoot first, Wyatt will protect them. He’ll never forgive himself, but it will be instinct: the soldier protecting his teammates. 

So she nods, turns, and runs, vanishing into the night. Her heart is pounding in her chest, and she grits her teeth, steeling herself. All she wants to do is run back to him, but that’s not an option. There is only forward.

[ladysternchen]

headcanon: Elmo and Elwë, part 1

Yeah, you’ll get A LOT of them, I’m afraid. sorry.  I originally planned on doing the relationship-headcanons only after I’ve written about all the people concerned, but this just fits in rather well with my Elmo-headcanon, so here goes: The birth of Elmo was cause for rather different feelings in his two brothers, for while Elwë was downright smitten from the moment their parents told them they’d have a sibling, Olwë was much more reserved. Not that he disliked the idea, not at all, it just felt VERY strange to him, so he rather went to assist Nowë with his shipbuilding-experiments than watch Elwë stick one finger into each of Elmo’s tiny fists to try and help him stand despite their parents doubts (”That won’t work, he’s still too little!”- “Oh, leave them at it, love. They’re having fun at least!”). At roundabout a year of age, it is said, elflings can talk, dance and walk, and Elmo was no exception, loved and pampered by parents, brothers (Olwë shed his reservations quickly once Elmo started to make himself understood), cousins. Also by Elmo’s turning a year old, the three were orphans, their parents snatched by the Shadow. Their mother was never found, and guessing her fate (correctly) was even more terrifying than realising that the maimed body on the forest floor was all that remained of their father. Maybe Elmo had stayed quiet and was overlooked. Maybe it was for his sake that their father had fought so determinately against a foe far beyond him. Maybe they just weren’t interested in babies. But by the time Elwë and Olwë found Elmo, he was screaming at the top of his lungs, terribly traumatised. Later in life, he would be unable to remember anything before that point, or at least claim so. The others remembered, though, both brothers haunted by nightmares for hundreds of years, Olwë by what he had SEEN, Elwë by the feeling of helplessness as he had held a writhing Elmo in his arms who was screaming for their mother, while he could do nothing. Nothing at all. For the time (call it weeks?) after that horrible incident, Elwë would hardly ever let Elmo out of his arms. At first, it had been solely to comfort him, no force within Arda would have been strong enough to tear Elmo off his brother then, anyway. Later, Elwë realised that his little brother, alive and warm and trusting and loving was what kept him from losing his mind. At last, there was blunt defiance. Elwë loathed the whispering (the friendly ones being around the terms of “he’s much too young to be burdened with this”, the more sceptical ones “who would let someone who’s hardly more than a child raise a baby?”), loathed being watched. It didn’t even matter whether the watcher was worried on his behalf or Elmo’s. Stubborn and determined to prove himself, he rose to the task of replacing their parents for both Elmo and Olwë (wherever he still needed it), and did it well. It was he who combed and braided hair, fastened cloaks, told bedtime stories and sang lullabies. The mental exhaustion of doing so having the huge benefit to keep his sleep free from dreams, so that was by no means selfless love only. When Oromë took Ingwë, Finwë and Elwë with him to Valinor, Elmo missed him terribly, all the deep seated fear of loss crashing over him. Olwë found to his cost then that he had probably not given Elwë enough credit for handling Elmo’s antics, but they got through it. Elwë on the other hand was torn between the wonders of Aman and the knowledge that he had left a child befind that needed him, Elmo’s clinging to him when he returned painfully proving that. He promised, then, never to leave Elmo again, a promise that proved in hindsight to have been given too lightly, but no one could have known it then. Back at Cuiviénen, Elwë was again torn. Much as he longed for the light and bliss of Aman, he was still only too aware how much he would miss the stars. But how to convince his people (that term still sounded downright stupid in his ears) to follow him when he himself had those doubts? But he would make the journey, for one thing because Finwë was determined to go and urged his people on with a fire Elwë knew could become dangerous if left unchecked, and he would not be parted from his best friend anymore than he would be parted from his brothers or Círdan, for another because Aman meant healing. There, his brothers would be safe, his task done, there they could all start anew.

[dingus-dog-935]

AU TIME!!!

So basically y’know that campfire scene in BO4? Yeah well in that part instead of Nikolai poisoning everyone, Ad accidentally contaminates the liquor with a drug only he can consume, killing everyone who drank it late in the night, Ad and Dempsey being the only to survive, Ad due to being immune and Tank because he first Drink that night. He had his own booze he drank instead. Not wanting to share germs with anyone being his reason. But that was 2 years ago…without Richthofen…the world has gotten worse. Jumping timeline to timeline using a book they can’t understand. Each time they see their “friends” Ad grows more and more paranoid…slowly driving himself Mad with guilt and drowning himself in drugs and alcohol. Tank desperately trying to keep him from dying at his own hands. Ad is simply a shell of what he once was…his words always slurred and his body weak and frail from never eating more then a meal a week. Dempsey is slowly losing hope himself. All they’ve done is look for the timeline where they fit in best…a new home…a better home….but its been years. Ad is on his last leg. Practically Richthofen and Nikolai mixed into one. They’re biggest fear has always been a reality in this case…they’re the only ones left. And there’s no light at the end of the tunnel. Only fire…and the screams of the dammed. More details below

TW&CW//Death, gore, ED, SH, Suicide mention, Drugs

What Ad say that night was nothing but chaos. The infected drink took only a hour to cause the effect it had on the crew. It started with Ultimis Nikolai who had drank the most the night. Small coughs turned into fits of practically puking blood, shaking and trembling as he desperately called out for help. Waking everyone from their slumber. By the time anyone has gotten near him, he was convulsing and foaming at the mouth, having torn his own eyes out and almost torn open his own throat trying to gasp for air. Next to fall was Primis Tank. Collapsing and grabbing at his throat as well, coughing up blood and practically having a seizure, his eyes going bloodshot as his mouth and eyes slowly started to drip red. Joining Nikolai on the floor. Now came panic. Takeo holding the body of Nikolai close, sobbing and trying to determine what had happened. Both Richtofens trying to figure out how or why they were poisoned. In that moment Richthofen fell next, as Ad watched in horror, he saw his love practically tear himself apart before ultimately taking the pain away himself, Then went Edward, though as soon as he felt the pain he went back inside his tent, bot wanting Ad to see him spray blood all over, then went the Takeos. Ultimis tearing out clumps of hair and screaming bloody murder as his heart exploded from the inside. Dying with Nikolai in his arms, soon slumping over and leaving a pule of blood toot surround them. Primis Was holding onto his Nikolai tightly. Both of them crying and making promises. As soon As He saw Takeo start to show pain. He looked at Ad and took Takeo in his arms, walking down the hill slightly to finish the job. 2 gun shots fill the air. Nikolai never returned that night…the only survivors were Ad and Tank…clinging onto each other for dear life, Ad was nothing but a mess of a person. Sobbing and desperately trying to crawl to Richtofen’s body, begging to be let go. It wouldn’t be till the morning when Ad would find the cause. his drugs were laying next to the bottle they drank. after that discovery Ad stopped eating and drinking. Only drinking water and eating once a week. Trying to starve himself to join his love. If Tank forces him to eat, he resorts to trying to bleed out. But is always saved by Tank. He feels nothing but pain each waking moment of his life. He wants to die but Tank keeps him alive. Still hoping to find them shelter. Ad knows he caused everything. But Tank wont let him say it out loud. Every day Ad gets worse. Tank growing more paranoid that one day when he wakes up…all he’s find is a puddle of blood…and a another friend gone in a instant. Please tell me your Thoughts!!

[stormwiitch]

everything about the shot of joel and sarah is so tender, given the circumstances. joel just murdered someone for the first time out of defense and he’s holding her face so gently to reassure her of it, that they’re going to be okay. and the way that she’s holding his arms too, ever so gently but enough to just maintain contact, to know that he’s there, to hold on to him in these moments of fear. his state is intense, but he’s not showing any fear or sign of wavering. he has to be strong for her, it’s what she needs to see.

the shot of joel and ellie is so… desperate. he’s holding her face in the same way as the first shot, but you can tell it’s firmer by the way ellie’s ear and cheek are slightly squished. he’s working hard to steady her, but it’s not overly forceful. she’s grabbing on to his jacket, and once again it’s not a forceful grip but it’s just enough to know that he’s there. and his stare. there is fear and concern written all over it. he’s not hiding anything anymore. he’s showing her what she needs to see, albeit not intentionally. he’s someone who cares deeply for her and was and is concerned about her. he’s desperate for her to see that he is there in that moment and he is there for her, in the way an adult should be. in the way she deserves someone to be.

i’m just in awe at how the shots are so similar but so different and so appropriate to who these people are with each other. it’s parallels 101 but i just think the execution was phenomenal down to the little details and i wanted to appreciate that.

to get even more specific to the father-daughterisms of the shot of joel and ellie: i know joel has had that coat for many episodes and ellie’s been wearing that sweatshirt for who knows how long but i just think that the fact that the colors/tones are so similar that they’re almost matching is so, almost like, family-photo-esque? the way people will wear something similar but different in family portraits to show coordination but also differentiate. they’re not trying to show joel and ellie as being the same, but rather as being connected to each other, being family. i don’t know if that’s intentional but it’s how i see this. the second father-daughterism is the blood on both of their hands. the blood on joel’s hand is slightly older so it blends in a little more with ellie, but it’s still visible. but the blood on ellie’s hands is still fresh and sticks out more. both are a testament to their relationship to violence. the blood on joel’s hands which are holding ellie, show the purpose of his violence, to get back to ellie. but the blood on ellie’s hands that are moreso just clinging to him, clinging to something, because she was fighting for her life. her violence was for survival. yes, the blood was there because how could they not be covered in blood, but it can mean so much more if you choose to see it that way. these two birds of a feather, these beings so different yet so similar with this connection that runs so much deeper than they even know. i just think that depicting their relationship and its intricacies in these subtle ways is so powerful

how it started

how it’s going

[persicipen]

afternoon red ノ kamisato ayato

ৎ୭ — · · 1.4k ノ fem reader — explicitly being called a wife and a girl ノ your first attempted assassination after getting married yay ノ going through shock . hurt comfort . lowkey fear of pda ノ sappy bonding with your new husband ノ i was fueled by @euthymiya and @tetsuskei and their ayato thoughts (i hope you don’t mind being tagged) <3

The commotion sprawling down the stairs of Ritou was not usual at this hour. Just as unexpected in its intensity. It couldn’t relate to any festivals (there were none happening at this time of the year), nor could it be a new batch shipped from across the seas (the earliest arrival scheduled for the next week).

As if interested, red maple trees lean and let their crimson leaves whisper gossips with each other, circling in the warm wind that seems to stop its natural journey in favour of entertainment.

You’re in the middle of all this — a centre of attention, pairs and pairs of wide-open eyes blinking at you and too many hands touching, grabbing you to straighten you up as if not caring that your legs feel like wet cotton or that you still try to look around in shock. It’s hard to focus your vision and everyone looks like vague iridescence of colours. You cling to the image of your newlywed husband as if it’s the only thing keeping you afloat among the hustling crowd, being the raging sea. How long have you two been together? But a short while, no more.

Him. Just him. With furrowed brows, with eyes narrowed, that only enhanced the wrinkles in their corners. A flash of temper escaping the façade of forever calm commissioner. The inside of his arms was safe, but whoever remained outside should face the imminent consequences of endangering your life and angering the lord. This kind of protection, devotion, was unknown to you. It felt almost just as invading and you wanted to push it away.

This sudden emotion sways into your veins, it numbs your tongue and mind — so heavy, it feels almost tangible.

You merely escaped death.

It all happened so quickly you didn’t even get to register the attacker’s face before the city’s patrols dragged them away — unsure if for your sake or to save their life for the interrogation before the commissioner could weigh himself with a crime of murder. And he was more than ready, steeled like a tight string, with his hand resting on the handle of his sword.

“The police officials and the medic should arrive soon, Lord Kamisato.” Someone informs, but you can’t even get a glimpse of their face, tucked snugly against the side of your husband. “Is there anything we can do for you in the meantime?”

“You’ve captured the perpetrator. You’ve done enough, and I thank you for that. Now, if you’ll excuse us, I wish to take my wife somewhere less busy. It’s not a… an expected occurrence for her… yet,” he responds in his usual fashion. Someone else mutters out an order about informing his sister and the rest of the estate too, but all words sound like they come from underwater.

Besides that, there are only his hands roaming up and down your arms, hoping to chase away the chill settling deep inside your bones. Even with the light breeze around and the crowd gathering to see what happened, sweat breaks on your forehead.

As you go down the stairs to the quiet corner, holding onto the safest arm in the world, the air finally clears up for you to catch a breath. Yet it does nothing to stop your head from spinning. Or your stomach churning in an attempt to leave your body. Your eyelids flutter but can’t force themselves shut, vision filled with small black dots that block out pieces of scenery, slowly replacing everything.

“Beloved, I’m here.” You hear his voice, steady and barely above a whisper, securing you in place before you dissociate.

Two hands cup your face. They’re cold without the delicate leather gloves, but they hold you with much care.

“Breathe with me. Slowly.” Your husband closes his eyes, leading you. He inhales and exhales and it doesn’t take long for you to feel at ease, matching your breathing to his.

He only opens his eyes after you exhale deeply, no longer hiccuping for air like a fish out of water. What a tragedy it would be to lose such a pretty koi, so young and not yet held long enough for him to accept being separated from you.

The sun illuminates his features, highlights the contours of his cheekbones and draws sharp shadows along the edge of his jaw.

Even now, in an hour as grey as this, he shines like silver. The most precious being you could ask for.

His thumb grazes your lips in a soothing motion, scooping the tears that gathered in the corners of your mouth.

“You’re safe. And for that, I am so glad. My dear wife is well, merely shaken.”

It becomes difficult to not touch him when the breeze that always blows towards the harbour makes his hair fly back and tangles up strands on the right side of his face. It also screams improper in public, even if it’s just patrols turned their back to your side, probably giving you two some time to calm down before a medic arrives to check for any possible damage.

Your hand, ever so naturally, lifts up to do what you wish to — pulling away the wayward locks, brushing them back behind his ear, locking them between your fingers and admiring how soft they are. The gesture, mayhaps not unexpected, but still devastating in its tenderness, causes him to break the perfectly even breathing, a small hitch of his inhale as he leans just an inch towards your touch.

He presses his lips to your palm, taking his time to place a kiss on each knuckle, relishing in how soft your skin is, the uniqueness of your taste, a bitter tint of fear now cutting through the usual sweetness, and the smallest twitch of muscles wherever his mouth ghosts over them.

He watches as a couple of tears slide down your cheeks and that beautiful shudder he knows so well, bringing about a mellow smile that can only be seen as adoring.

“I’m so sorry, my lord. Please, do not worry any longer. It’s— like you said, I’m merely shaken.” You snivel, trying to get a hold of yourself for it’s shameful to cry again, especially after he had the courtesy of wiping your previously shed tears. You lower your gaze, away from him, in hopes he will let this pathetic side of yours be ignored.

And so he does the exact opposite.

He cups your face again and his slender fingers push your chin up just slightly, leaving no room for hesitation and making it impossible to deny his presence, even if your eyes stay glued to everywhere but him.

“Look at me.”

You follow instinctively, unable to ignore your husband’s command.

In the afternoon light, there are so many details of his appearance that you only catch during rare moments like this — how ethereal he seems when the crimson sunset paints the world in gentle golds and coppers, intertwined yet never merging with the pastel colours of his robes and features.

He hums, satisfied that he got your attention.

You wonder if this act of impropriety, still going on between you two in the secluded corner between the buildings instead of performed behind the closed doors of the bedrooms, is exactly what made his skin burn under your touch, too.

Again, he guides you in deep breaths, lulling you into the security of being together, whole. It’s obvious behind his touches how his resolve stays iron, yet the desperation crawls in each of his movements, denying himself the pleasure of just fondling your face like the most adorable baby animal. He allows you to relish in his gestures until he comes back to his senses, that buzz inside his head louder than the bells at the temple — that this is not what you two should be doing now.

“You’re a brave girl. I wouldn’t expect any less from my sweet wife. Come, let’s meet the medic and talk with the officials. The sooner we’ll be done with formalities, the sooner we can return to the estate.”

He gently leads you away, not breaking the contact as much as possible — holding your hand, supporting your lower back with his free one.

How hard it is for him to control the mere touches. If he could, he would never let you go, for once he let you go run in front of him and one unfortunate accident almost took you away forever. He saw how your pretty robes fluttered in the late summer wind, but instead of being the light, flowy fabric it could have ended stained with dark blood.

And this he will never allow.