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yellowjestertfs · 10 months ago

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Spare Parts

Al untucked his shirt, then tucked it in again, then quickly untucked it before landing on a French tuck—a mix of both that suited him worse than either. He had never been so nervous about going out with his friends. In the past, he was the life of the party, staying out clubbing until the witching hours, getting drunk, and ending up in some stranger's bed the next morning. That was before he made the fatal mistake of jaywalking drunk and got hit by a bus, which flung him into the path of another bus, which sent him off a bridge and into the water, where he was run over by a boat. Honestly, it would have been a pretty comical way to die—only he didn’t die. He should have died; he broke every bone in his body and turned his organs into a smoothie. The wonders of modern medicine intervened. He still didn’t quite understand exactly how, but the doctors had used stem cells, like those regenerating cells babies have, to essentially bring him back from the dead. A miracle, yes, but even miracles had their limits. The recovery process was long and hard, and even now, recently released from medical custody, he was not the same man he’d been before the accident.

Getting hit by two buses and a boat does that to you. His face was mangled—not to the point of being monstrous, but not attractive either. His body had also suffered from the accident, practically wasting away as he recovered. While the old Al partied with abandon, this new Al was self-conscious of his appearance and absolutely terrified to cross the street. Now, he stood at the crosswalk, fidgeting with his short-sleeve button-down shirt, thinking about why he had asked an old lady to help him across. He clutched her tightly as they crossed, ready to throw her in the way if a bus came barreling toward them—luckily for both of them, none did. Despite her age and his current condition, the woman actually made a pass at him, calling him a “handsome lad” and asking if he wanted to go back to her place. It helped his confidence, if only a little, and gave him a strange tingling feeling.

Finally, after detaching himself from the woman, he reached the club. Despite the relatively early hour, the place was bumping; the bass-boosted electronic music and a flashing rainbow could be seen and heard from the outside. A quick check of his phone informed him that his friends were already inside, so he joined the short line and waited to be let in by the bouncer. As he neared the front, he realized he recognized the bouncer. Back when he frequented this place, he was friendly with the muscular man. Now, though, he doubted the man would recognize him, and he honestly hoped to keep it that way. Back then, he was sort of a legend, a position he doubted he could live up to now. As the bouncer—Rod, he thought—waved him forward, Al couldn’t help but admire the man's physique. It seemed that while Al recovered, Rod made some serious gains. His arms were particularly impressive; Al found himself feeling bad for the man’s sleeves as they tried and failed to contain his massive arms. Their sheer size was only enhanced by the web of veins that patterned the muscles.

“ID, please,” Rod said, indeed not recognizing Al as he had predicted. Al handed over his card, suddenly realizing the picture on the ID was pre-accident.

“Had a bit of a glow-down,” Al said awkwardly, trying to flash a smile but only managing to lift one side of his mouth—the other’s nerve endings were damaged beyond repair. Rod grunted but returned Al’s ID; even despite the discrepancies in the photo, there was little doubt that Al was of age. As Rod handed back his ID, their hands touched just slightly, and for a second, Al felt a slight tingling in his upper arms. Then it was gone as quickly as it came.

“Have fun, man,” Rod said, “and nice guns.” Al laughed at that, thinking the man was making fun of his twig arms.

He lifted his arm, expecting the usual sight of his scrawny limb. But when his gaze landed on it, his breath caught. His bicep had swollen under the skin, somehow in the span of a heartbeat his twig arms had become tree trunks. Al’s fingers traced the now firm, rounded muscle, a mix of fear and fascination flooding his mind. The sheer size and hardness of his new bicep felt both alien and irresistibly satisfying, a forbidden thrill coursing through his veins at his arms meaty massive things they now were. They looked like almost exact copies of Rod’s, only instead of the man's olive complexion, the biceps had the pale look of someone who had spent the last two years in a hospital bed.

Al felt light-headed. How was this possible? Was he having some sort of mental breakdown, a delusion? He needed to find his friends. No, he needed to find a drink. The bar was right where he remembered—just to the left of the entrance. Unlike Rod, the bouncer, he didn’t recognize the bartender—a short, slightly pudgy man who looked to be in his mid-40s, with a strong square cleft chin that didn’t particularly match the rest of his average features. Al walked up to him, trying to hide his now-massive arms to little avail. He found he couldn’t stop flexing and feeling them, equal parts concerned and turned on by the mysterious new muscles.

“I'll take a vodka soda,” Al tried to say casually, although the words came out more as a question than a request. Luckily, the night was still young enough that he managed to get the man's attention, although the fact that he wasn’t a pretty girl kept him from making small talk. As he worked, Al saw the bartender occasionally glance up at his biceps, which he had crossed in an attempt to hide them. They looked a little ridiculous with the rest of his scrawny body. Wordlessly, the bartender placed a garnish on the drink before handing it to Al. Just as with Rod, their hands innocently touched, and again Al felt a strange tingle, this time centering on his chin. Lifting the glass to his lips, Al quickly lowered it, uneasy at how strange the sensation felt. Years of drinking had made him familiar with the feel of a glass against his lips, but something felt off now. His bottom lip somehow felt more supported, stiffer. A quick exploration with his finger revealed that his chin was causing the offense. But that couldn’t be—his chin had been round and soft even before the accident. Whatever this new chin that had somehow attached itself to his face was, it felt like a block of stone, the bone protruding in a harsh, strong way completely foreign to his face. The deep cleft was also new, creating a valley in the mountain that was his chin. Pulling out his phone, he saw what his fingers had felt: his face now somehow sported a strong, masculine chin almost identical to that of the bartender.

Al wasn’t the brightest, but even he began to put the pieces together. Somehow, he was absorbing the best qualities of every person he touched. His mind raced, trying to figure out what could be causing this. The stem cells he received might be the explanation, but why now? Al needed to get out; he needed to see a doctor. Panicked, he looked for the exit only to find a crowd had congregated between the bar and the nearest door. There was no way he could make it to the other side without touching anyone. Could he risk it?

His contemplation was cut short as a woman sauntered up to the bar, her stumbling gait indicating she was already a few drinks deep. That was hardly the most noticeable thing about her; put bluntly, she had massive boobs—the type that could never fit in a top without being the center of attention. As she stumbled her way toward the bar, she tripped on one of her own feet. Al’s eyes widened as he realized too late that her fall would take her directly toward him. He tried to move out of the way, but as she fell, her arms reached forward for support, landing on his own. For a brief second, he hoped he might absorb her winning smile, but judging by the tingling in his chest, he wasn’t so lucky. Horrified, he glanced down, expecting to see breasts pushing out of his shirt. Instead, he found different mounds there—equally large, yes, but the lumps on his chest weren’t boobs; they were too firm and square. No, instead Al had somehow gained massive pectoral muscles from his contact with the woman. Their growth had unceremoniously demolished the first three buttons of his shirt, which was having a bad day trying to contain his massive chest and arms. The muscles looked downright strange on his body, the rest of it still emaciated from the accident. In fact, Al struggled to support the weight of his new mass, his shrimpy legs and shoulders straining under the sudden load.

The woman pulled away from his arms, drunkenly apologizing before reaching out to grope one of his now-massive pecs. Luckily, no tingles followed, confirming Al’s suspicion that he could only absorb from a person once. Now, Al felt torn about what to do. On one hand, he still worried about the changes and their possible repercussions, but did he want them to stop? If he went to the doctor now and they fixed him, would he be stuck in his current disproportionate form forever? This could be a blessing—a way to heal from the damage caused by the accident, to become the ultimate version of himself—or rather, of the people around him. So far, none of the changes had been bad. Deciding not to look a gift horse in the mouth, Al scanned the room for someone with a feature he wanted to absorb. The choice became easier when a cute guy walked right past him, his clothing tight on his lean, muscular body, and he looked well-groomed. Before the accident—in fact, before tonight—Al had never paid much attention to the appearance of other men. Maybe it was the fact that he now saw their features as ones he could have, or perhaps it was something else, but for whatever reason, he found himself checking out the other men in the club, including the one walking by. On instinct, he stuck his foot out, tripping the man, their bare ankles making contact for a second in the process. The man stumbled and then turned to face Al, his face red with anger, which quickly cooled as he took in Al.

“Hey, I like your hair, dude,” he said. Al had hoped that he might absorb the guy's cute, tight ass or maybe his strong Roman nose, but his hair worked too. It was silky, thick, and coiffed attractively—definitely an improvement over his current thinning hair.

“Thanks, man,” Al said, reaching up to find that he indeed had hair identical to the man he had just tripped.

“Do you go to Clarice?” the guy asked. The question sparked a brief conversation in which Al lied through his teeth, pretending they went to the same barber rather than admitting that he thought his stem cells had magically copied the guy's hairstyle to a tee. Eventually, Al excused himself, claiming he had seen his friends. This was true; as they chatted, Al had located his friends huddled close to the DJ booth on the dance floor. Steeling himself, he made his way over to them, trying to avoid physical contact. His efforts were only somewhat successful. An accidental brush of a college-age girl’s hand lengthened his eyelashes, while a hip bump into a man with rolled-up sleeves thickened his forearms, so his arms were now somewhat proportional. Once he reached the dance floor, however, he lost total control. Falling arms and thrusting hips assaulted him from all sides. An accidental step on a foot caused his lips to buzz as if they had momentarily fallen asleep, puffing up to appear pillowy and soft. A hand brushed across his back, causing a tingle in his shoulders, widening them and only making his progress more difficult. The elbow wedged awkwardly into the crevice of his pecs by a sheepish-looking man earned him a short, coarse beard across his jaw—a jaw that had become wider and sharper thanks to the impatient shoving of a male model behind him. Al quickly lost track of exactly what features he had gained from whom. A sudden numbness in different parts of his body was the only indication that he continued to change. At one point, a gigantic man who had to be some sort of pro basketball player moved next to Al. Al indulged himself, letting his hand “accidentally” rub against the tall man's leg and feeling his whole body lengthen. The constant shifting of the dance floor meant no one noticed Al or the way his features shifted. As he neared his friends, a twink dressed only in a leather harness and thong approached him and started to grind up against him. Even more shocking was the rock-hard abs that formed from their contact and the boner that Al inexplicably developed from the experience. The twink started to unbutton the last few remaining buttons on his shirt, and he let him, not wanting to deprive the world of his body.

At last, Al reached his friends, finally finding a pocket of relative emptiness near the loudspeakers.

Al reached out to tap one of his friends on the arm before thinking better of it and just stood there awkwardly, waiting for them to notice him. Eventually, the song ended, and his three friends turned to face him. Only with a pang of shock did Al realize they didn’t recognize him. How could they? He had become a sort of Frankenstein’s monster of different features from the various patrons of the club. Where they expected their scrawny, balding friend fresh out of an extensive hospital stay, instead before them stood a 6’5” bodybuilder with a face, a hodgepodge of features from various people, somehow working together to give him a handsome and exotic look.

“Hey, have you seen our friend? Short, skinny, looks like he might have been hit by a bus or two,” his friend Jordan asked. It was a simple question, but for maybe the first time in two years, Al noticed not a trace of pity in his friend's voice. No, rather it was admiration. Al’s previous intentions of coming clean to his friends and seeking help melted away as he realized the opportunity he had. He could finally escape the shadow of those busses; he could have a new start.

“Nope, haven’t seen anyone like that,” he said in a voice much richer and deeper thanks to the vocal cords of some unknown stranger.

“I’m Jordan, by the way,” his friend said, raising his voice to be heard over the music.

“Al.” Shit. So much for a fresh start. Jordan glanced at his other two friends but didn’t say anything. Instead, one of his other friends, Sergio, grabbed Al’s hand and pulled him into their dance circle. The contact made his whole body tingle and, glancing down, he saw that his skin had darkened to the same ruddy tan as his friend's. Luckily, the flashing lights and the general darkness of the club made Al fairly sure no one noticed the transformation.

Throughout the night, he became reacquainted with his own friends and found innocent ways of making contact with each of them. From his friend Marge, he gained her show-stopping ass, the muscular butt complementing the thick thighs he had gained sometime during his mad rush. Contact with Linsey copied her perfect Barbie blonde hair. The stylish haircut and scruff he had grown sometime during the night bleached itself instantly while all his body hair, limited as it was by various tingles, turned the same gold color. His friend Jordan took a special interest in the new Al, and Al found himself reciprocating the attention, for the first time noticing just how hot his friend was. When at long last they touched, Al grabbed the man and brought him into a passionate kiss. He swore he felt tingles but couldn’t notice any change on his body. After long hours of sweaty dancing, a round of shots, and many more kisses between the two former friends, the group headed over to Jordan's apartment. Al nearly blew his cover by heading straight to his friend's door, but the excuse of “lucky guess” seemed to satisfy his non-sober companions. After a few more hours of chatting and more alcohol, everyone left but Al and Jordan.

Jordan used the classic “let me show you something in the bedroom” line, which led to more kissing and Jordan feeling up Al’s new muscular body. Eventually, as both men removed their pants, Al discovered what he had picked up from his friend. Long and thick, Al’s penis was identical to that of his lover, which Jordan seemed delighted by, claiming he had never been with someone with a tool as big as his. It took a moment for Al to get over the surprise of his friend packing so much meat and the fact that he now did as well, but once he accepted it, he used his new member to the fullest. After hours of fucking, the two fell asleep, not waking up until the afternoon the next day. Al politely said his goodbyes and awkwardly avoided giving Jordan his number, not wanting to explain why it was the same number as Jordan's sickly friend.

Exiting the apartment, he noticed the same elderly woman from last night and to his chagrin, she once again hit on him, asking to hold his bicep while they crossed the street. When he touched her, he felt no tingles, which he thought strange until he remembered she was the first person to induce that sensation upon him last night. Could it be that he had somehow absorbed her sex drive or sexuality? Was that why he had a sudden appreciation for men? The thought amused him as he made his way to his car. But before he could dwell on it too much, his attention was abruptly pulled back to the present.

Lost in thought, he didn’t see the bus careening down the street, heading right for him. The blare of the horn hit him a second too late, and everything went black.

The next thing Al knew, he was waking up in a hospital—a horrifying déjà vu of two years ago. A young doctor stood over him, clipboard clutched in two massive, masculine hands. His eyes fluttered as he tried to make sense of his surroundings, the cold sterility of the hospital room bringing back memories of his long, painful recovery. Blearily, Al glanced down at himself. His perfect, hunky form was now a mess—bones broken, muscles flattened. All except his hands, which looked larger and callused, suspiciously identical to the doctor standing above him. It seemed that Al’s luck with public transportation hadn’t changed, but now he knew how to build himself back up. A minor setback, sure, but nothing a few spare parts wouldn’t fix.

Wrote this a while ago but thought i would post it here with images and some small edits. Not my best but think its still a fun story.

#straight to gay #musclegrowth #tf #male tf #male transformation #ai image

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azen13 · 1 year ago

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To Gaze at Polaris

Description: After you manage to escape Jing Yuan's home, the General chases after you to Aurum Alley, intent on bringing you back.

CW: Yandere Themes, Non-Sexual Nudity, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Bathing Together

Pairing: Yandere!Jing Yuan x GN!Reader

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It is a cold night on the Luofu when Jing Yuan strides through Aurum Alley.

By this time, all the shops, restaurants, and homes have gone dark. There is the faraway din of starskiff traffic, and the quiet buzz of cicadas in the moonlit neighborhood. As he walks through alleys lingering with the scent of day–the smell of tea leaves in particular lingers in his nose–there are no signs of you.

You are good at this, Jing Yuan thinks sadly. He wishes you weren’t.

“Y/N,” Jing Yuan calls quietly, though his voice carries. He does not need to be loud or aggressive to have a presence. “Please don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

There is no response.

He sighs. There is no anger in his voice, no vitriol or rage. Jing Yuan–as you have learned by now–is not prone to fits. In fact you’ve never seen him mad, or without at least a fleeting trace of a smile on his face; it's as if he was blessed by Aha THEMSELF. Because whenever he sees you he cannot help but feel light glimmering in his heart like starlight, making it bloom like pink morning glories. They have tender stems, delicate petals and grow in soil that is rocky and dry, but they are growing nonetheless, guided by your light.

He enters a different alley knowing you are hiding in the dumpster. Trivial really, but impressive nonetheless. Your determination is one of the things that attracts him to you most. It is a double edged sword. It comes in various shades and hues. He sees it in your eyes when he challenges you to a friendly game of Star Chess. Or when you’re cooking a new dish.

Or when you are shouting insults at him like if you curse him enough, you can make him disappear. In a way, it has the opposite effect. Every time you sob and plead he coos and reaches out for you, pulls you in tighter with comforting embraces and sweet, cloying words.

For a few moments, he simply stands there. A part of him wishes that you would just come out. His footsteps are perfectly audible, and you are entirely perceptive enough to know that he has stopped in front of the alleyway. You know that he is there, waiting for you to surrender to his comfort and charm.

But you don’t.

It drapes his heart in darkness, those flowers wilting when you don’t. He steps forward slowly, eyes fixed on the dumpster, his expression forlorn. “Dearest…please come out. I won’t hurt you.” It’s a promise, and it is one he cannot break. He hates seeing you in pain. He loves your smile. It is radiant in an infinite number of ways: the upturned quirk of your lips; the soft crinkling of your eyes; the way your irises seem to glow. You are a star of glass in his hands, and he is afraid he has shattered you.

But, he thinks, as he continues his slow conquest forward, nearing the dumpster, would that be so horrible?

His mind flashes to the art of repairing broken pottery–kintsugi–where broken pieces are glued together with a lacquer mixed with gold powder; it is not meant to not hide where the breaks have occurred, but allow them to shine. He could bring you back together, multiply your luminescence by a thousand suns, and he would want you even more. The flowers in his heart would grow and bloom until his veins have become xylem and his tissues petals, every cell in him wanting your light. Craving it. Needing it.

When his hands–gentle and calloused from centuries of spars and fights–lift you from the dirty dumpster, you scream and wriggle in his tight embrace. His heart is flooded by rainstorms, flooding the flowers.

It has been raining for countless months. It feels like dying.

“Shh…it is alright my love,” he murmurs, his arms squeezing tighter around your torso; it’s not enough force to hurt you or bruise you, but enough to keep your squirming contained. “Let’s return home. I think this has been…enough excitement for one night.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

He runs you a bath. You smell like trash now, and that won’t do. He wants the best for you. The best food, the best clothes, the best life. Because when he sees your happiness, even if it is as ephemeral as a shooting star, it rejuvenates his soul.

The gentle smell of jasmine fills the bathroom as he quietly works shampoo into your hair. By now, you have lost the battle. Is it a sacrifice, though? Or have you truly blundered a piece away on this grand chessboard? Jing Yuan has played you enough times to know your strategies and tactics, the most inner machinations of your mind. You lose to him every time, but always put up a good fight. He hopes that pattern holds true for this game you and him seem to be playing every waking moment.

Water cupped in his hands is brought to your head, washing the suds out of your luxurious hair. Gentle kisses are peppered on your bare shoulders and neck, before his hands reach to massage your shoulder blades. This is what Jing Yuan longs for: days spent in pure domestic bliss. The kind of sunlit silence that leaves him warm and sleepy, craving an afternoon nap next to his lover.

He hums a song. You lean a little more against him, exhausted from your little escapade. He smiles, careful not to chuckle, lest he scares you away like one of his sparrows. Later, perhaps in the morning Jing Yuan will have a conversation with you about this. But for now he is content to enjoy this honeyed moment, bathing in your incandescence, enjoying these brief moments of sunlight before the deluge begins again.

When your fingers start to wrinkle like prunes from the water and your eyes are beginning to droop, he knows it is bedtime. He wraps you up in a fluffy towel, letting you get ready for bed as he does the same; his eyes watchful but fond as he brushes his teeth and lets his hair out of its usual ponytail. Searching for the first signs of wind picking up or darkening skies.

The two of you cuddle in bed, though it’s more like Jing Yuan cuddles you, and you tolerate his embrace. His arms wrap around you, loose enough not to hurt but tight enough to anchor him around you. Drift too far away again, and Jing Yuan doesn’t know if he can recover. He needs you.

He is tired, too. But he is tired in a different way. His fatigue is like that of a mountain carved in twain by the river of time. One day, both sides of that once-mighty peak will collapse. But you give him strength. You are his guiding light. His North Star. His sun. His Polaris.

His breathing begins to even out and he pulls you closer against him, sweet dreams of you and him begin to dance behind his eyelids. Hopefully, he thinks as he lets himself slip into slumber, one day you will forgive him for ripping you from the sky and placing you in his chest, in the space right next to his heart.

#yandere #yandere x you #yandere x reader #yandere hsr #yandere jing yuan #yandere jing yuan x reader #yandere imagine #this probably has so many grammar errors sobs #oh well

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urfavnewgirl · 1 month ago

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waitwzitwzit i'm obsessed with the way you write jason and i saw you wanted more jason requests SOOOOO what about a fic of some nighttime kitchen activity and there's some slow jazz playing somewhere, maybe the window's open and the music from a club is drifting in and reader starts dancing and jason's like okkkk ily i will dance too and they dance togzther and it's ugghhhhh

this is kinda short im SO sorry but here u go bb! thanks for giving me an excuse to listen to strangers in the night on loop... also nawt proofread im afraid.

it's seven pm on a friday. normally, he'd be out on patrol by now, embraced by the night sky and the eerie air of gotham. normally. except nothing was normal anymore, not since he met you. breaking his usual routine, he's sitting in your cramped, tiny apartment kitchen, eyes fixated on your form. you had insisted he take the day off. it took a lot of convincing, but he had complied, partly because of the ever present fatigue plaguing his mind, partly because he could not deny you, not when you were looking at him all pouty and doe-eyed.

the room smells like herbs, tomato sauce, and you. if someone asked him to describe the latter, he would not be able to. what he knew, however, what he was certain of with every fibre of his body, was that you, present in three out of his five senses, was the most comforting feeling he'd had felt in a while. you, effortlessly moving from the sink to the stove, to the cabinet and all the way back. you, taking care of him. you, in general.

“you do know i'm capable of stirring, right?”

you squint your eyes at him in response, waving the sauce-coated wooden spoon in front of his face. “nope. not happening. i am cooking for you tonight, end of discussion. besides, i'm almost done, anyway.”

“are you ever not stubborn?”

“are you ever not incapable of letting people do things for you?”

he sighs, shaking his head. “you do too much for me.”

rolling your eyes, you simply ignore his statement and continue working. the noodles are bubbling away on the stove, the sauce is simmering, and you're in the middle of it all, walking over to the kitchen window to allow some fresh air in. eight minutes pass in silence, and you drain the pasta water, carefully slipping the spaghetti into the pan to finish cooking in the red liquid.

that's when you hear it. the music, coming from the small bar situated in the building next door. it starts simple, your spoon following the movements of the song. he notices, of course, but he does not react immediately. it's only when your body sways as well, when you lift up the wooden instrument, use it as an impromptu microphone, that his eyebrows heighten in amusement. you turn to face him with an overdramatically serious expression.

“what? never heard of the man, the myth, the legend, frank sinatra? or are his ties to the mafia too problematic for you?”

he shakes his head in disbelief, tries to resist it, but ends up grinning. stupidly. when you notice his reaction, your dancing exaggerates even more.

“you're an idiot.”

“yeah. i am,” you walk to his side of the counter, slyly pausing in front of him, “but you love me, so,” your hand grasps his, and you pull him off the chair with no difficulty (because he's putty when it comes to you. basically play dough. kinetic sand.), “you're dancing with me.”

he rolls his eyes, but at the same time, he wraps both arms around your waist with no hesitation, leans his forehead against yours, and as always, you cannot tell whether you're suddenly running a fever, or if the warmth embracing your every cell stems solely from his soft touch.

the song changes, and you nearly stumble from excitement. he catches you before you fall.

“sweetheart,” he mumbles, voice low, “you don't even know how to waltz, do you?”

you break away from his face to meet his eyes. “you can waltz to jazz music?”

that gets a laugh out of him. a real one, one you can't scowl at, even if you momentarily want to.

he pulls you closer, adjusts your stance. one hand on his shoulder, another resting in his grasp. “just let me lead.” he does exactly that, and he does it with surprising smoothness. his grip is just firm enough to guide you, but it is gentle enough to still be reminiscent of a lover's touch. somehow, he always manages to find that balance with you.

when the music quiets down, you pull back to ask him a million questions, but you stop at the sight in front of you. the kitchen is dimly lit, the sky has given way to complete darkness, and your beautiful boyfriend is staring at you as if you are the finest work of art exhibited in the louvre, his pupils wide enough to reflect the moon through the window.

“jay?”

“about what you said earlier, uh...”

“what? you mean frank sinatra and the mafia? you know i don't condone all that, but chicago is a really good-”

he huffs out yet another laugh. “no, baby, not that. you,” he clears his throat, eyes briefly flickering to the floor before finding yours once more, “you said i loved you, and-” he sighs.

“i do. love you, i mean. yeah.”

once you register his words, your entire face softens. you reach forward, cupping his face the way he likes it, and kiss him. its soft, slow, and he returns it just the same way.

“i love you too.”

he smiles, leans in once more, but you pull back, nose scrunched in discomfort.

“FUCK. the food. it's burnt.”

he sighs. “...we're getting pizza.”

#STRANGERS IN THE NIIIIIGHT EXCHANGING GLANCES #jason todd #jason todd x reader #red hood #red hood x reader #jason todd x y/n #jason todd one shot #jason todd fluff #jason todd imagine #jason todd headcanon #dcu fluff #dcu x reader #dividers by elleisdesigning

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zeke-fanfucs · 3 days ago

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Guess who’s back? Sorry for the whole going missing for a couple of days I’ve been writing a lot so I have decided to finally post and thanks to @soup-sloth for helping me to choose how I’m going to be posting the many stories I made so just a little warning cause I’m so so nice. It’s going to be angst gutwrenching sobbing you need therapy stories and then we move onto happy sweet, comfy stories.

He Grows

Somewhere between machine and miracle, a child is loved again.

⸻

Colt had never thought he’d hold Oriel again.

Not like this.

Not in a quiet room full of tinctures and vials and the faint scent of crushed mint.

Oriel slept now, curled up on a spare cot in Rowen’s shop, a blanket tucked around his half-withered frame. His hair had grown out, thin and matted in places. One hand clutched the edge of a candy wrapper. The mechanical beetle Colt once gave him rested on his chest, wings twitching faintly from the faint thrum of energy in Oriel’s chest.

Colt watched, unmoving, as the boy breathed—uneven, but alive.

Rowen, arms crossed, leaned against the doorframe. His expression was unreadable. But his eyes never left the child.

Then he spoke.

“He’s not like the others.”

Colt didn’t respond.

“He still has… self. Memory. Emotion. You said he died.” Rowen’s voice stayed even. But there was something beneath it—confusion. Awe. Suspicion. “The other risen? They don’t do this. They don’t cry. They don’t eat candy and ask for their dad.”

A pause.

“When I checked him… his cells are partially mechanical. But rooted. Not cold. There’s biology—real, but modified. And that… shouldn’t be possible.”

Colt slowly sat on the floor near the cot. His tail curled tightly, protective. His voice, when it came, was tired. Broken.

“It’s because he wasn’t… born. Not in the usual way.”

He rubbed his face, dragging his palm down like it might hold him together.

“Meksha and I… we couldn’t have kids. And we didn’t want a clone, or some vat-grown thing. So we… built him. But not just built. Meksha… he was brilliant. Smarter than any scientist who ever put a bolt in my spine.”

Rowen stayed silent.

Colt kept going. Quietly.

“He made a seed. A plant-based neural stem with nanotech properties. A core. We called it the Heartleaf. Organic enough to grow like a normal child. He had cells. Nerves. Blood. A mind. And a soul.”

His voice cracked.

“We raised him. He was our son. Real. Loved. Every fucking molecule of him.”

Rowen’s gaze dropped to the boy, now softly snoring.

“I was raised to believe artificial life is a mirror. Not a fire. It reflects. It doesn’t burn.”

He knelt. Looked closer. At the soft curve of Oriel’s cheek. At the uneven rise of his chest. At the tears crusted on his lashes from hours ago.

“But he’s warm,” Rowen murmured. “He’s still burning.”

Colt nodded.

Then Oriel stirred.

He blinked slowly, disoriented, that light grayish-blue gaze glassy but focused. His voice rasped:

“…Dad?”

Colt moved fast, instantly beside the bed. His hand cupped his son’s face, thumb brushing a smudge of oil-dirt from his temple.

“I’m here, bud. I’m not going anywhere.”

Oriel’s lip trembled. “When’s Papa Meksha coming back?”

Colt stilled.

Rowen looked away.

And for a moment—just a moment—Colt looked like he might shatter all over again.

“I’m sorry,” Colt whispered, voice barely holding. “I’m so, so sorry, Ori. He’s… he’s not coming back. I didn’t protect him.”

Oriel cried softly, curling into his dad’s chest, and Colt clutched him like salvation.

“I didn’t protect you either,” Colt breathed into his son’s hair. “But I swear—I swear on every life I’ve ever taken—I’ll never let anyone hurt you again.”

Rowen stood.

His face had returned to its usual stillness, but something inside him had shifted.

“That boy cannot exist,” he said quietly. “Not legally. Not here.”

Colt lifted his head, defiant, protective.

But Rowen shook his head.

“I don’t mean he should die. I mean… he needs to become someone else. A new name. A new story. No one can know what he was. Not the undead part. Not the Heartleaf. If Springrock authorities find out… he’ll be torn apart. Dissected. Or worse.”

Colt was quiet. He pressed his lips to Oriel’s temple.

“I know.”

“You’re agreeing fast.”

“Because you’re right.”

He looked up at Rowen, eyes shining with something bitter and resolute.

“I won’t lose him again. I’d burn this whole planet down before I let anyone take him from me.”

Rowen grunted softly. “Then we’ll give him a new name. You’ll need papers. And I’ll tweak his pulse signature.”

Colt blinked. “You’re helping?”

Rowen looked away, scowling.

“I lost siblings once. Too young. Too soft. Too bright. You see that look in his eyes? That innocent kind that only kids have? Yeah. I see ghosts when I look at him.”

He turned to leave.

“But this stays between us, Colt. No one. Not even the gang. Not unless it’s life or death.”

“I swear.”

Rowen paused at the door.

“I’ll call him ‘Meeka,’ for now,” he muttered. “Short for his late father.. Meksha right?.”

Colt turned to his son—who, despite all odds, had fallen back asleep against his chest. For the first time, there was color in his cheeks.

Colt held him tighter.

Meeka.

His son.

A miracle born twice.

This time, he wouldn’t let go.

#IM BACKKKKKKKKKMMMMMMMMMKKKKKKKK #goodboyaudios #gba bvz #bastard vs zombies #goodboyaudios Colt #goodboyaudios rowen #goodboyaudios Meeka (formerly Oriel)#angst

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exeggcute · 2 years ago

Text

well it's been almost six months which I think is long enough to break my posting embargo, so, uh: guess what! I got liposuction lol. specifically hip/thigh lipo to quell some pretty wicked dysphoria that stemmed from having such a feminine silhouette… and I have to say I'm really, really pleased with the results.

tbh my initial plan was to keep things under wraps for good which is why I haven't said anything about it yet (and even as I'm typing this up I keep debating whether to post it or trash it)—partly because I was/am worried people might Act Weird about it and partly because I get a little embarrassed talking about bodygendershit in general. but here we are. one reason I do feel compelled to finally share, other than being super happy about how everything went, is that I haven't encountered a lot of discussions about body sculpting as a possible avenue of gender-affirming care (although, to be fair, maybe I just haven't been looking in the right places) and I figured at least one person out there would be interested to learn about what I did and where I've ended up so far.

anyway. pics/details under the cut—nothing even remotely risqué (or yucky), I just know that body image stuff is fraught + not everyone is eager to hear surgery talk.

to be precise: I got tumescent liposuction of the inner and outer thigh, plus this ultrasound thing to help the skin shrink. a different surgeon who I consulted (but ultimately did not go with for a number of reasons) said that even if I got the results I wanted from lipo, which he claimed was unlikely, the affected skin would look loose/baggy/weird forever... and that surgeon was wrong on both counts lol. my elasticity was great bitch!!!!

they didn't take out that much fat overall, only eight pounds or so, but it's way more about the Where than the How Much. my actual surgeon (who kicks ass btw) said lipo isn't that great for weight loss per se, and what it's really good for is sculpting targeted areas—so basically exactly what I did. six months post-op I actually weigh about the same as what I did pre-op, but the distribution has held steady; more weight goes to my stomach now and less, proportionally, goes to my hips since there are fewer fat cells in that area now. so my silhouette retains its new shape!

the overall change is admittedly on the subtle side, since I'm pretty short and have wide hip bones (and you can't change your literal skeleton) but it's still gone a looooooong way. the main thing I requested from my surgeon was "I want to fit in men's pants" and boy did he deliver.

also a good place to note that if you're in the las vegas area looking for a plastic and/or cosmetic surgeon—this guy is board-certified in both btw—then I absolutely have the guy for you. feel free to DM me for details. lipo is clearly his specialty (and it shows!) but he also does a lot of breast revisions/mastopexy (i.e., fixing implants that other surgeons did a bad job putting in), regular implants, and face work (particularly facial feminization surgery). one thing that sold me on this guy was an enthusiastic yelp review from a local stripper who said he hid the incisions for her breast lift in her armpits so none of her clients would notice that she'd had work done... a true master of his craft

okay you've scrolled enough so I'll give you what you're here for lol. I don't have many pre-op pics because I was obviously unhappy with how I looked and was not taking full-body selfies on a regular basis, but here's a few I took ~2 weeks beforehand:

these super thin men's joggers were my go-to dysphoria pants, to the point where I bought five pairs in different colors, but now they're so baggy on me that they have the opposite effect and make it look like I have wider hips than I do. so I retired them from my wardrobe...

...except not immediately because I had to wear compression garments 24/7 for the first three months post-op and these joggers were just loose enough to comfortably wear a medical girdle underneath them at all times, 110° degree temperatures be damned. (not that I was going out much for the first month since I was soooooooooooo fucking bruised and sore lol.) here's a few post-op pics in the same style pants:

(first pic is less than 24 hours post-op, about to go to my follow-up appointment, looking greasy as fuck because I wasn't allowed to shower yet; second pic two days post-op and also post-shower, thankfully; third pic is about a month post-op.)

so, like, CLEAR improvement already. I will not be posting pictures of my black-and-blue-and-swollen-all-over legs but considering how puffy I was from getting internally pummeled with a cannula it's wild that I still saw improvement literally as soon as I came home.

recovery was obviously not a blast in the moment but I got off easy, all things considered. I was supposed to get drains put in and was Not looking forward to that at all lol. the first thing I asked when I woke up after surgery was "how many drains?" because they weren't sure if I'd end up needing two or four, but it turned out the answer was zero. no drains!!!

I did have to lie with my feet elevated for the first two weeks straight, and had major bruising that receded over the first month (you could barely see my regular skin underneath all the mottled spots), but little to no nerve pain, no weird complications, and I was more or less back to normal after six weeks. also noelle took very very good care of me and was brave about injecting me with blood thinners so I wouldn't get clots and die :)

when I went into it I was fully expecting to get huge vertical scars up and down the sides of my legs (and had made peace with it!) but instead I wound up with four tiny incisions like this, each less than two inches long:

what's totally crazy is that the scars are basically Gone now. like even when I'm trying to find them I struggle to locate the ones in the front. I joked to noelle that if someone did an autopsy on me they might not figure out that I'd had cosmetic surgery, especially since the skin on my thighs is back to its normal color and texture. (in this scenario I like to imagine that it's dana scully giving me the autopsy and I'm in an x-files plot where instead of regular lipo I got alien lipo and mulder figures it out purely by accident.)

with lipo it can take up to a year to see the full results but I already feel so much fucking better in my body that seeing old pre-op pics throws me for a loop. and I can absolutely wear men's pants now—pants for short and stocky men, to be fair, but actual regular men's pants and not exclusively Pants For Men With Huge Butts And Legs. which is the only style I could even hope to fit in before. and even then it was a stretch.

big pic dump of shitty mirror selfies taken over the last few months:

(also I really debated sharing this one but I already included it in the yelp review I left my surgeon so fuck it: here's a tasteful before-and-after in my undies where you can see my bare legs for easier comparison. left pic is one week pre-op, right pic is about five months post-op. including it as a link instead of embedding it in the post in case your boss happens to be reading over your shoulder at this very moment. also this is the one and only time you will ever see me stripped down on tumblr dot com so don't get used to it lol.)

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anjelicawrites · 2 years ago

Text

Respite

Paring: Michael Gavey x reader

Synopsis: you and Michael are swamped by finals, when you realize he needs a hand to unwind from all that stress.

Warnings: daddy kink, public sex (blowjob in a, university library), degradation, hair pulling, skull fucking, fingering.

A/N: reader is AFAB but not described. Where needed, they/them pronouns used.

A/N 2: this stemmed from this question. It can be read as following piece to Fun to be had or as a standalone piece.

You know Michael, you’ve witnessed how obsessive he can become while studying, how hard he works himself. And how frustrated and tired he ends up being.

It’s the little things that alert you: the tapping of the foot on the floor, the huffs of impatience when his mind isn’t working as fast as he wants it to, his fingers tapping on the ancient wood of the table you two are sharing.

You lift your head from the book you’ve been studying when his hands leaves yours.

It’s a stupid thing, but you always hold his free hand while studying (you two are facing one another all the time). He had huffed a bit, the first few times you reached towards him and curled your fingers with his, as of late, he’s been the one to take your hand, without saying anything.

You follow his movements with your eyes and see the nervous way his fingers are tapping on one of his tomes. Oh baby, you think. This exam is particularly hard, for this reason he’s been slaving in the library, because this class is one of the few that truly pose a challenge to his bright mind and he’s enrolled in with his academic rival (yes, your boyfriend is the kind of smart idiot who has an academic rival), which means he has to be the best and get the highest mark. To achieve is goal Michael is focusing everything he has on this exam, studying more than what’s on the syllabus, and he’s burning himself out.

He’s so busy he doesn’t even hear you stand up and walk around the table to stand by his side; when your hand, lightly, touches his shoulder, he jumps out of his skin, surprised, biting on a curse.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper to his furrowed brow. “Come on. Let me help you.”

For a second you see that he doesn’t understand, this level of math being too complicated for you, therefore how can you help? Then his mind makes the connection and he realizes with what you’re offering and hand with; yes, he definitely needs you.

On swift feet you two hide in the darkest corner of this side of the library. Since you two have almost risked to be caught, you are both trying to play it safe. No one comes here and, since that faithful night, there’s only one table left, which has become unofficially yours. Yet, there’s the librarians and the nook where the table is, doesn’t offer enough cover for what you’re about to do.

You can feel how warm Michael’s hand is and a bit sweaty, a light tremor coursing through the muscles. Your poor baby is reaching the end of his tether and you can’t wait for this exam to be over; he has some more, none of the remaining for this semester is as hard as this one, and then the holidays await.

Michael follows you, his fingers in yours, his eyes drawn by the gentle way your hips sway as you pull him to your most hidden corner, the one where nobody comes, but you two, and not for reading the old tomes.

With a fluid movement you fall on your knees, your hands going for his fly, swiftly unzipping it to let his half-hard, clothed cock out: your mouth waters.

You’re probably setting feminism back a few centuries by enjoying sucking cock the way you do, but it’s the truth: having your boyfriend use and abuse your mouth drenches your core and helps you unwind from your own tension, there’s nothing wrong with that!

“My cock is not even in your mouth and you’ve already lost all brain cells, haven’t you, pretty thing?”

Michael’s voice is a low rumble that goes straight to your core, you can feel your slick pooling there, your hole clenching around nothing.

“I’m sorry daddy.” You answer, eyes downcast, your hands falling on your thighs.

“And why should I let you suck my cock, uh?”

Michael’s hand is in your hair, his hold strong to stop you from moving, his eyes cold behind his glasses. You whine, like an animal.

“I’ve asked you a question, or are you too stupid to answer?” He adds, pulling your face backwards and away from his cock.

You have to wet your lips for a second, buying time for your brain to come up with an answer.

“Because I am very good at it.” You manage to blurt out. “And I am the best you’ve ever had.” You add, a pained moan follows when his hand tightens in your tresses.

Your Michael is not happy with your answers; with his free hands is closing the zipper, to your absolute panic.

“Because I need it!” You barely manage to keep your voice under control. “I need to be used. Please fuck my skull, daddy!”

His hands rests on his, partially, closed zipper, his eyes zeroing on your tongue lolling out of your mouth. So pretty and debauched, your hands grabbing the thick material of your own trousers to stop yourself from reaching to him, your hips canting against thin air; it would be a shame to waste your needy mouth, wouldn’t it?

“That’s better, pretty thing.” His free hand slaps your cheek lightly and you moan. “What a slut you are. Do you want my cock that bad? Take it.”

Your hands fly to his zipper and you hear him hum unhappily. You stop and stare at him with a dumb expression all over your face.

“I never said you could use your hands.” He says coldly, as if his cock isn’t swelling painfully in his briefs.

You want to cry in frustration: you need him to fuck your skull and you need him now!

Desperate your teeth grab the zipper and, laboriously, start lowering it, fighting against his growing cock, your need making your impatient and clumsy.

When your teeth lose their hold for the third time, you hear him huff exasperated and your blood turns into ice.

“What a dumb whore you are.” Michael’s voice is cold. “Do you think I have all the afternoon to waste?”

Angry he pushes your face away, his hands make a quick work of his jeans and briefs, his hard cock in his hand, the tip already leaking.

“I should solve this issue myself, maybe I’ll come all over your face. What do you say? Any input from your stupid brain?”

Your eyes stare at the ground, your whole demeanor is as submissive as possible as you try not to cry.

“Whatever you want makes me happy, daddy.” It’s so difficult to say the words when the only thing you truly need is to be used, until he’s satisfied!

Michael’s warm hand cups your cheek, his thumb caressing the soft skin is gentle.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it, pretty thing?”

Is voice feels like a hug and you moan: you just want to make him happy and proud!

Without even noticing, your face nuzzles his palm; you can’t see him, he’s smiling at how cute and needy you are.

“Open up. Keep your hands on your tights.” He orders with a gentler voice.

“Yes daddy. Thank you daddy.” You murmur.

Your lips part and you stare at him with glassy eyes, your tongue already out to lick his reddened tip with quick strokes that steal a moan from him. He’s so aroused he’s afraid he’ll come down your delectable throat in no time.

Both his hands cup your face, pressing against your cheeks to make you open up more, which you do gladly, a moan half choked when he starts pushing his cock in, slow strokes as his fingers travel to your hair, to control your movements.

Leisurely, he pushes inside of your waiting mouth as you hollow your cheeks to offer him more friction, he whimpers when your tongue sneaks out to tease his balls and you start humming around him, trying to take more than he’s giving you.

You try to scream around him when he pulls hard on your hair, his cock out of your wanting mouth.

“Dumb bitch that you are.” He spats at you. “I wanted to go slow, for you. Savor your mouth, but you had to think with your useless cunt, instead that using your brain.”

One hand tightens in your hair, pulling painfully, the other grabs his cock to use it to slap your cheeks.

“You’re lucky we’re out and about.” The hand in your hair grabs the strands better, immobilizing you. “Now open up again. Show me you can follow a simple order.”

With that, any gentleness is gone, your mouth invaded ruthlessly by his cock, his hands forcing you down his length without finesse, his ears deaf to your chocking on it, his bulbous head pushing against the back of your throat, until you open up and he can fuck you with abandon, grinding against your face as lewd sounds leave your lips and breathing becomes harder and harder.

He doesn’t care, the tightness of your throat is delicious, the sounds you are making spur him on even more, one hand around your neck to feel himself fucking you, the fingers curling with every push in, your face a mess of tears, make up and spit.

He releases you and you almost fall against him, lost as you are in the pleasure you have been giving him, your lungs desperate for hair don’t register in your brain, the fact that he hasn’t come yet and that you need him to fuck your throat even more, does.

“You are supposed to be smart.” His voice is cold and cruel. “Yet, when your mouth is full of my cock you become a desperate cumdump.”

You are still too confused to string an answer, you can barely nod, mouth open, spit seeping out.

“I’ve asked you a question.”

Has he? Your brain is floating a bit; it’s only thanks to his fingers smearing the mess of spit and precome and makeup all over your face, that you start to come back to yourself.

“Shall I come on your face or shoot it down your throat?”

“My chest, please daddy?” You ask, voice sweet and pleading.

Michael has to lean against the heavy bookcase: the idea of you going around the rest of the afternoon with his come all over your skin blanks his brain and turns his knees into jelly. Everyone will see you prim and proper again, and your clothes will hide your dirty, little secret, the knowledge makes his head spin.

“For a dumb slut, you are pretty smart.”

His words are cruel, his voice holds his appreciation for you, and you preen, hands flying to your shirt to bare yourself to him.

You are wearing a simple cotton bra, yet he has to curl his fingers around his base, or he’ll come without control just imagining his seed all over your breasts.

“Suck me, pretty thing.” He orders, breathless.

And by God you do! Cheeks hollowed to offer him as much friction as possible, one hand caressing his balls, the other jacking what you are not fitting in your mouth, his fingers guiding your movements against his jerking hips, your eyes never leaving his as he’s losing himself in the lewd, wet sounds you are making, for him and him only.

“Mine.” Comes out like a growl. “All mine.”

You want to tell him that you are, that you belong to him and him only, but his hands force you again down his length to fuck your throat raw, fast pushes as you hum, fingers playing with his heavy balls.

With a grunt he exits your mouth to jack himself fast, before coming all over your chest with a low moan, ropes and ropes of come adorning your skin like sinful pearls.

Breathless he falls on the floor and you find refuge in his arms, your lips seeking his in a searing kiss, his own taste mixed with yours has him moan and whimper against your mouth.

You remain like this, huddled in one another, on the cold floor, until his legs stop trembling and you are capable of talking again. Gently he cleans the mess on your face and closes your shirt with slow fingers.

“Thank you.” He manages.

“Do I look like I’ve been sucking cock?”

“No. You look radiant.”

And you do, even when you grimace the second you register the wetness in your panties; Michael groans inwardly: all that sweet nectar he can’t taste, not before your finals are over, following your request. He can’t wait to drown in your juices: he’s going to give back, with interests, until you are so overstimulated that it hurts to keep going, that’s the gift you’ve promised him for his hard work.

“Can you walk?”

Gone is the cruel inflection of his voice, now he’s just your boyfriend, who loves you more than anything and will gift you the stars, if only you asked.

“Yeah. Hold my hand?”

Those fingers that so cruelly had maneuvered your head and pulled your hair, now are gently entwined with yours as you two walk back to your table, your legs still a bit wobbly and your knees sore, but it’s worth knowing that now Michael is more focused, and you are as well.

You’re going to spend the weekend at Michael’s, because your roommate is going to have people over and party on Saturday night, and you don’t want to have to deal with that, not when you have so much to study. And you would never pass on the opportunity to spend time with your boyfriend, even if it’s just to sleep and hit the books, the two of you dancing too close to the knife edge of burnout to care about having full on penetrative sex; at the moment, you sucking him it’s just a mean to and end for you two: decompress.

When you exit the bathroom, wearing one of his oversized jumpers and loose gym bottoms, Michael is already in bed, his glasses folded on the crammed bed side table, his face illuminated by the small lamp perched on top of a column of books; his eyes are closed, but you know he is not asleep, not yet, his breathing not shallow for someone already in Morpheus’ embrace.

Gently, you pull down the covers and slide into the too small bed for two people, thanking God Oliver is not coming back and you and Michael can have have this sliver of peace.

Michael’s arm sneaks around your middle and pushes you as close as possible to his body, his long nose breathing in the smell of his shampoo in your hair.

Slowly, his hand makes way downwards, his fingers finding the hem of your bottoms to slide where the warm skin of your thigh is, and move over your clothed mound.

“Michael…” You moan, a shiver coursing through your body.

“Shh, pretty thing. You need this, I can feel how tense you are.”

And he’s right; you exams this semester aren’t awfully hard, there’s just a lot of them, to the point you feel like you’re playing whack-a-mole: you pass one, other two more pop up!

You move your leg over his to grant him more space, his fingers slipping under the cheap cotton of your briefs. And he doesn’t move.

“Daddy!” It comes out more whiney that you thought.

“Tell me what you need and I might give it to you, pretty thing.”

For the longest second you feel embarrassed to ask, after all, you’ve been raised in quite the strict household, where sex education didn’t exist. As much as you’ve managed to shrug off your upbringing, some things are difficult to overcome.

“Please, touch me?”

“But I am touching you, sweet thing.”

Oh God, the mirth in his voice makes you quiver. His hand moves to the junction of your thigh and you panic.

“See? That’s what I am doing. You need to be more specific than that.”

You close your eyes, the warmth of embarrassment spreading all over your body.

“Please, fuck my pussy with your fingers? Daddy please?”

Michael’s lips find your neck, where he leaves a small kiss that makes you shiver with pleasure.

“It wasn’t that hard, was it, sweet thing?”

Agonizingly slow his long fingers move back to your cunt, goosebumps exploding on their path, wetness already forming at your entrance.

"Your cunt is so hungry I don't even need to touch it and it's ready for me."

There's no mirth in his words, he's in awe of your body and what it can do.

His index finger touches your clit, a gentle clockwise motion that has you moan, hips following his movements.

"So wet, sweet thing." His voice is a low rumble in your ear.

"Only for you. Ah!"

You whimper when his index and middle finger find your hole to scoop your juices there and then return to your clit, his motions now slightly faster now that you are absolutely drenched.

"Daddy!!!"

"Shh, sweet thing, feel me."

And God you do! All your attention, all your nerves seem to converge to your engorged clitoris, his touches spark light bolts of pleasure everywhere in your body. Your center so slippery it's easy for his fingers to enter your hungry hole, thumb on your clit, the motions rougher there now that he's found your g spot as well, rubbing the rougher patch, scissoring his fingers so that you'd whine, your wetness leaking on his palm.

Your hips move without your control, your whole body curling around his hand, begging, desperate sounds escape your lips as he eggs you on, his voice fucking with your brain as his fingers fuck your cunt hard and fast, the squelching sounds your cunt makes, add to the coil in your tummy, your hand grabs his wrist, nails scratching the skin there, until you come, chocking on a scream, breathless as he helps you come down from this incredible high.

Michael's body curls around yours as you shake, his long arms around your middle, legs interwoven with yours, lips kissing your nape gently.

"Thank you, sweetest."

He says with gentleness and awe in his voice. He's so beyond lucky to have you.

When's he's positive you're back to yourself, he exits the bed, making sure you're safe under the covers, to retrieve a small cloth and clean you up, mindful of how sensitive your lower lips still are.

"I love you Michael."

"I love you too."

And he does and despises that the English language can't truly carry how he feels about you, how important you are for him, how he would crumble without you by his side.

Sleepily you hug him, your head under his chin, his arms tight around your body; you feel like you're surrounded by him, the love of your life.

You're safe here, in the cocoon of his bed sheets. Finals be dammed!

#michael gavey #michael gavey x reader #michael gavey x y/n

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oddballwriter · 2 years ago

Note

can i get something with DadKnight being the designated parent to play tooth fairy when your child loses their first tooth and they have to sneakily hide cash under their child pillows in the middle of the night 😭

The Tooth Fairy

Summary: Marc takes on the mission of being the tooth fairy and making the switch with the tooth and money when you daughter is asleep.

Warnings: None that I know of honestly

Author’s Snip: Wholesome indeed, thank you, anon.

I’ll shut up now. Enjoy! And don’t be afraid to request.

Word Count: 933

“Okay, that’s the end of tonight’s chapter.” Marc concluded as he closed the book that the system have been reading to Abi before bed, looking over to your daughter.

“You nice and comfortable?” He asks, to which the little girl nods as she picks at a part of her mouth. “Don’t pick at your gums, sweetheart. If you do your adult teeth grow in funny.” Marc says as he gently pulls her hand away. “How about that tooth? Where is it? The tooth fairy’s gonna be coming tonight for it.” Marc asks.

He’s mostly asking because this is her first lost tooth and one of the kids in her class told her that means the tooth fairy is coming when it first started getting loose, so now he’s gotta do the whole act for her.

Abi sits up and lifts up her pillow showing the little tooth in a plastic baggie that was used to hold the snacks in her lunch box. Marc nods, knowing where exactly the tooth is meant to be.

“Dad.” Abi was looking towards him and getting a simple “Yes?” in return. “Do you think the tooth fairy is real?” she questions. Marc blinks in surprise but keeps a normal face “Why do you ask that?” he asks. “Well, because, no one ever actually sees her and she also visits all the kids who lose their teeth. But there are a lot of kids losing teeth, so how does she get them all?” she explains.

Marc thinks of something to say and settles on one thing. “I used to wonder that too. But I figured that maybe there was more than one tooth fairy and they’re all meant to take care of the kids in different places. And maybe they’re all shy and don’t want people to bother them.” Marc says. He can see Abi think about it before she nods with a smile “That makes sense.”.

Marc smiles and is about to say goodnight but Abi asks another, less explainable, question. “Why do they collect teeth? And why is it only kid teeth?”. Marc gets up from the end of Abi’s bed upon hearing that. “No idea. But how about we head to sleep so the lady can do her job, yeah?” Marc says as he carefully tucks Abi into bed, kisses her on the forehead, and says good night. He closes the door gently as Abi shuffles in her bed to get comfortable and fall asleep. Marc walks to the living room where you are. "So what's the game plan again?" he asks as he sits in the armchair next to the sofa you're seated on. "Just the normal thing you do when you play tooth fairy. You go in when she's asleep, so maybe about an hour from now, take the tooth, quietly replace it with the quarters, and then get out." you explain matter of factually. "And I have to do it why?" Marc asks.

You shrug "I don't know I figured that you would like to do the honors of doing the first tooth.". Marc looks at you for a second with a puzzled look, "That's a weird honor to do." Marc comments. "Well, I can do it if you want." you say, but Marc quickly says "No, I'll do it." which makes you do a smug thats-what-I-thought look.

"Okay, but we aren't going to be one of those gross parents who keep the teeth as creepy souvenirs, right?" Marc questions. "We are keeping her teeth, but that's for if she develops anything and they need stem cells. Baby teeth are good for that." you clarify. Marc smiles at you for a second and says "That was Steven's idea wasn't it?", you look away with a blush and remark "It's a good idea. Just in case she needs it down the line.".

After about an hour since putting Abi to bed, Marc stands outside her bedroom door. He feels a nervousness in himself that feels similar to when he goes on missions. It feels silly but he finds that thinking about this process like a mission helps him feel more confident. He goes over the plan in his mind before taking a breath and quietly opening the door.

He peaks in and finds Abi soundly asleep and cuddled up in her covers. The light from her rotating lamp, the one Steven bought for her that cast stars around the room, provided enough light for Marc to see and navigate around her room. He carefully made his way to her bed, avoiding the creaky parts of the floor, quietly kneeling down to be able to make the switch more clean.

Marc always wondered just how nerve-racking it actually is to be Indiana Jones when he's making the switch with the statue and the sack in the temple as a kid, now he actually knows as he carefully worms his hand under the pillow and pulls out the baggie.

That's one part complete. Now he has to make the replacement. So he takes the small sheer pouch that holds her tooth fairy money and carefully maneuvers it under her pillow, freezing when Abi stirs slightly, but continuing and moving his hand out once he knows she's still asleep.

Marc quietly leaves and closes the door behind him a second time, this time having done the most high-stakes switcheroo he's done in his entire life. He takes a second before quietly pumping his fist in success knowing that in the morning Abi's going to come running out of her room excited about her prize at breakfast time.

#moon knight #moonknight #moon knight x reader #moonknight x reader #marc spector #marc spector x reader #dad!marc spector

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firequeenofficial · 3 months ago

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Again and Again and Again and Again and Again and Again

Another extra prompt for @mcyt-soulmate-sweepstakes ! The prompt for this one is hope (or rather, the lack thereof).

(Tw: death, blood, gore)

AO3 link: [x]

When he arrived at the gold level once again, he didn't go for the armour stand immediately. It was dangerous, he knew - it put Tabi at risk, it put his guard friend at risk, it threatened his entire mission. But it had been so long since he'd last had a chance to breathe.

He missed his days at the iron level, before it all fell apart. He missed just spending time peacefully with Tabi, enjoying the fact that no one wanted them dead.

How quickly that had changed. Now, Tabi was locked up, at danger of being killed, all because of him. Because he'd wanted a friend. He wished he could tell her he was sorry, it would be okay, he was going to get her out. He wished he could see her one last time.

He wished a lot of things.

Evbo approached the armour stand and raised his sword. His arm was shaking. He was tired, so tired, and so so scared. He just wanted to wake up back in his bed with his wooden sword in hand and realise this was all just a bad dream.

He should have died in that duel. He was supposed to die, that was the entire point. He was meant to die and then stay dead. Why hadn't he? Why hadn't that lunatic just hit him and gotten it over with? One swing was all it would have taken.

Now, he was trapped in this endless loop, dying over and over, again and again and again and again and again, every failure mercilessly tearing his last shreds of hope from his hands. Before long, he would have nothing left.

Why hadn't he just killed Zam when he had the chance? He could have spared himself so much trouble, so much pain, if he'd just done what he was supposed to as a sword and killed anyone he came across. Why couldn't he just have been better?

With a sob, he let his sword drop, slashing the armour stand. A single step to the side revealed the robot guy had returned. He'd been fighting and dying to him every single time he came down here, and he was still no closer to finding a way to stop him.

Evbo wiped his eyes, trying to stem the flow of tears so he'd be able to see his opponent.

"Let's- let's just make this quick," he murmured.

The guy moved, rushing at him. Evbo barely had the time nor the strength to lift his sword and fight back. In seconds, he felt the now-familiar sting of a blade slicing through him, and he woke up with a gasp in his bed, wooden sword in hand.

Unable to hold it back any longer, Evbo doubled over and sobbed, his breaths coming in panicked, desperate howls.

There had to be some way out of this, surely, but he couldn't see it. Prince Zam was too strong to fight, he cared too much about Tabi to just stay here, he would never be able to defeat the robot on the gold level. It was hopeless, entirely hopeless.

When he managed to pull himself back together, he got out of bed, eyeing the armour stand. What if he just didn't hit it again? What if he let his next death be his last?

But he could never do that to Tabi. She wouldn't abandon him, so he wasn't about to abandon her, either.

He imagined the armour stand with Prince Zam's face, and attacked it until he could barely feel his arms anymore. Then he turned and left.

He barely saw the wood or the stone level as he passed through them. When he arrived at iron, the guard was waiting for him.

He sneered. "You took your time. You scared, kid?"

Evbo managed a half-hearted scoff. “You wish,” he mumbled.

Unimpressed, the guard started pushing him down the corridor, towards his cell.

"Welcome home," the guard taunted, and shoved him.

Too tired to catch himself, Evbo landed on the floor of his cell with a gasp, accidentally nicking himself with his sword in the process. His own blood already covered the floor, splashing when he collapsed in it, the iron of it mixing with the iron of his sword in his nose.

The door slammed shut, devouring every vestige of light.

Evbo dragged himself to a corner and curled up, shaking. He never knew how long it would be before someone came for him, for his durability. It could be minutes, or it could be days.

The dread, the waiting, was almost as bad as the deaths themselves.

Where was Tabi? Was she okay? Were they feeding her, opening her door once in a while to let her see some light, maybe even allowing her to walk up and down the corridor once in a while to stretch her legs? That was a nice thought. He was lucky, he knew: every time he died, he was granted freedom. He got to visit the other levels, got to walk around, run, let out his energy. He hoped Tabi was granted something like that as well.

He was just letting himself relax, imagining the two of them sitting under a tree on the stone level, just talking, when he was wrenched back to reality by the sound of footsteps on the other side of the door.

No, no, no, no, no, please, he just wanted to rest, why couldn't they have waiting longer, he wanted to sleep, he was so so tired, they were here, they were coming for him. He curled up tighter, whimpering like a puppy - pathetic - and shaking more than ever. Please, let them pass, let him rest, please, just a few more hours, just so he could catch some sleep, he'd just died, please he wanted more time.

But, inevitably, the footsteps halted outside his cell and the door opened.

Prince Zam stood on the other side, looking cheerful as ever. Evbo wondered if he'd ever be able to see a smile the same way again.

"Well, look who it is!" Zam announced, like he hadn't been expecting him, like he hadn't been keeping him trapped here for weeks on end, with no sign of release. Like they were old friends meeting unexpectedly.

Evbo sniffed, trying to muffle a terrified sob.

Zam stepped into his cell, grimacing at the gore covering the ground. "Look at this place! You should really clean up, it's disgusting!"

A shudder ran through Evbo as Zam crouched beside him, getting into his personal space. His iron sword pressed lightly against the side of Evbo's face, and he recoiled, closing his eyes so Zam couldn't see that they were drowning.

"You're shaking, kid. Is something wrong?"

Please. Please, he just wanted to rest.

His clothes were torn and stained, his hair a mess, his eyes cushioned by dark bags, his right hand covered in calluses from gripping his sword, his entire body criss-crossed with barely-healed wounds from all of his previous deaths. Every movement hurt. Every twitch was an effort. Every breath felt like there were swords in his lungs. And he was so, so tired.

Zam chuckled and dug his sword into Evbo's cheek, drawing blood. Evbo whimpered, a single tear making it past his eyelids.

"Please," the word passed from his lips before he could stop it.

Please just don't make it last. Please don't draw it out. Please don't turn every second into an agony-filled infinity. Please make it quick, make all the pain come after he respawns, when it'll be muted a little. Please make it stop.

His face still inches from Evbo's own, Zam moved his sword, pressing it instead against his side. Evbo whined as slowly, so painfully slowly, the sword was pressed through his skin.

"The little lamb begging to the lion. What is it you're asking for, kid? You want me to spare you? To let you go?" Evbo cried out as the sword was twisted. "Do I need to remind you why you're here? Perhaps hearing the girl scream will convince you again, hm?"

"No!" Evbo gasped and opened his eyes, jolting and making the sword press deeper into him. He choked on a sob, forcing himself to speak through the pain. "No, leave her alone! She doesn't deserve that!"

"Are you saying you do?"

"I-" Evbo squeezed his eyes shut again. "I can't do anything right. I can at least do this. For her."

"Aww, how sweet. Such a lovely sentiment. Too bad she'll never know about it."

The sword was slashed upwards, piercing his lungs, his heart, in just the right way that he had time to scream before dying.

#I.#Have no defense.#I wanted to write this from the moment I saw that scene #It's done now #It's out of my head #I'm free #<- liar #Anyway #Ashlley writes #pvp civilization #pvp civ evbo #pvpciv #prince zam #pvp civilization prince zam #Ferre #pvp civ ferre #Evbo #Zam #mine

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tashs-stories · 1 month ago

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If you write for TWD, would you mind doing a sweet little Carl Grimes × older reader story? From like S2 or whenever the prison is introduced. Nothing serious—just a harmless, adorable crush! Carl thinks she’s super cool and really pretty, and maybe he tries to impress her in funny ways. Of course, she sees him more like a little brother and treats him with kindness and affection. Just something lighthearted and wholesome!

I just thought it would be cute.

Of course I can! Honestly, I think this is absolutely adorable—I hardly ever see things like this, no matter the fandom, so it’s such a fun surprise!

Just A Child's Crush <3

Young Carl Grimes × Older Reader.

When Carl Grimes first saw you walk through the prison gates, he was sure someone had taken a character out of a comic book and dropped them into the apocalypse.

You were tall, confident, and had this sharp look in your dark green eyes like you could take on ten walkers without flinching. Your long brown hair was pulled back into a braid, and your army-issued jacket was faded but still intact. You had a knife strapped to your leg and a backpack that looked like it had been through war.

Rick said you'd been in the Army before things went to hell. Alone for months. Quiet, but skilled.

To Carl, you were the coolest person in the world.

He was thirteen. Practically a grown-up, in his mind. He’d fought walkers. He’d lost his mom. He had a gun on his hip and a permanent crease between his brows. But the moment he saw you casually flip a walker with one hand and stab it clean through the skull, his voice cracked when he tried to say hi.

---

You were kind from the start.

Even though you noticed him following you around cell block C like a stray puppy, you never teased him. You’d smile and say things like, “Hey, sharpshooter,” or “Need backup, Carl?” and his face would turn red every single time.

One day, you caught him sneaking glances at your knife while you cleaned it.

“You wanna hold it?” you asked, lifting a brow.

Carl nodded quickly.

You handed it to him, handle first, and warned, “It’s sharp, but it’s balanced. Used to be my favorite.”

He held it like it was made of gold. “Did you, uh... take out a lot of walkers with this?”

“Plenty,” you replied with a smirk. “And two bad guys who thought I looked too small to fight.”

Carl’s eyes widened. He grinned like a kid at Christmas. “That’s so cool.”

You gave him a playful wink. “Don’t tell the others. Gotta keep some of the mystery.”

That was the moment Carl decided he was going to impress you.

He started wearing his sheriff hat more often, tipping it down low over his eyes when you walked by.

He practiced his aim daily, asking Daryl to time his shots, hoping you'd notice.

And he’d always, always be nearby when you were helping clear walkers, ready to step in with his pistol like a hero in training.

You noticed. Of course you did.

And you thought it was the cutest thing ever.

---

“Someone's got a little crush on you, huh?”

Maggie had whispered it to you one afternoon when Carl brought you a half-squished flower he'd “found near the fence.”

You’d laughed quietly, twirling the stem between your fingers. “He’s sweet. Brave, too.”

“Yeah, he is,” Maggie agreed, smiling. “And you’re like a superhero to him.”

You glanced over where Carl was sitting on the steps, pretending not to look in your direction. “I know. That’s why I don’t tease him. He’s already grown up too fast.”

---

One day, Carl found you in the yard, sharpening your blade. He shuffled up awkwardly.

“Hey, um... I drew you something.”

You looked up and smiled gently. “You did?”

He held out a folded sheet of paper. On it was a cartoon sketch of you and him standing back-to-back, both holding weapons. You were smiling. Carl had a huge cowboy hat on and a serious frown drawn across his stick-figure face.

Above it, he’d written:

“Y/N & Carl: Prison Defenders”

Your heart swelled.

“This is awesome,” you said genuinely. “You even got my braid right.”

Carl grinned. “Yeah, I, uh… practised.”

You leaned over and gave him a gentle side-hug. “You’re my favorite sidekick, Carl.”

His cheeks turned crimson. “I’m not a sidekick! I’m like... co-leader.”

You laughed. “Alright, co-leader. Just don’t steal all my glory.”

---

That night, as the prison quieted and the sun dipped behind the fences, you found Carl on watch duty.

He looked tired—older than he should—but still had that spark in his eyes.

“Mind if I join?” you asked, settling beside him.

He shrugged like it didn’t matter, but his smile said otherwise.

“You know,” you said after a moment, “I think you’re gonna be a great man one day.”

Carl looked up, startled. “You do?”

“I know it,” you said softly. “You’re smart, brave, loyal… and you care about people. That matters more than anything in this world now.”

Carl stared at the ground, then mumbled, “Thanks, Y/N. You’re the coolest person I’ve ever met."

You smiled and nudged him gently. “And you’re the best little brother I never had.”

Carl tried not to sigh too loudly. “Yeah… little brother.”

But then you added, “And if I had to be stuck in a zombie apocalypse with anyone? I’d pick you every time.”

Carl straightened, pride beaming from every inch of his thirteen-year-old frame. “Really?”

“Absolutely. Now scoot over, co-leader. Let’s make sure nothing gets past us tonight.”

And under the stars, behind the cold bars of an old prison, Carl sat beside his hero.

Not just someone he had a crush on—

But someone who made the world feel just a little less broken.

I hope you enjoyed it. This was really fun to make.

If you liked this as much as I did, please interact in anyway, anything means so much.

#the walking dead #twd #carl grimes #rick grimes #prison era twd #carl × reader #childs crush #tashs-stories #zombie apocalypse #walkers

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h50europe · 2 years ago

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MERTHUR BLOODLUST - Chapter 1

MERTHUR - BLOODLUST (a Merthur AU where Merlin is a vampire and a sorcerer, living under a roof with Arthur, who knows about his secrets. The prince left the family castle after a fallout with his father, who hates all supernatural creatures. Uther let his demon hunters terrorize the entire town. The friendship between the prince and the vampire stems from the night Arthur left the castle. Wasted, he ended up in a dark alley, where he would almost get killed by a bunch of were creatures if it weren't for Merlin, who protected him and took him in until he sobered up. Since that night, they have looked after each other and tried to deal with their growing feelings for each other.) Steampunk era (therefore mentioning of modern stuff like a fridge, cell phones, apps etc.)

Chapter 1

"Holy Christ, you are bleeding!" Worried, Arthur dropped to his knees beside Merlin, who groaned as he applied pressure to the nasty gash in Merlin's side. Not because of the pain, but Arthur smelled delicious. Merlin's eyes focused on the throbbing vein in his friend's neck. Merlin wanted nothing more than to grab him by his silky blond hair and drag his throat to his mouth. Merlin's jaw ached as his fangs snapped free. Arthur's eyes widened. Of course, he knew his friend was a vampire. Only, until today he'd never seen him like this. Usually, Merlin was a master in disguising his true identity.

Merlin felt his undead life draining from him as he cast a pleading look at his friend. "Please help me inside."

"Merlin, I..."

"Please."

Arthur never did what Merlin asked, and Merlin never said please. So that was a night of firsts. Arthur's heartbeat thundered in his chest as he grabbed him under his armpits to drag him over the threshold. Merlin could hear it but also smelled the blond's angst.

"Tell me what to do," Arthur said, ready to pull up his sleeve. Another first.

God, this man would die for him. Merlin shook his head. "I would kill you my noble friend in my current state, because you can't stop me from drinking. I would drain you to the very last drop."

Shame barely broke through his thirst, as he licked his lower lip, teasing the tip of his fangs with his tongue.

"There is blood in the freezer," Merlin whispered.

On his way to the kitchen Arthur almost tripped over his own feet. The artificial glow of the freezer light illuminated his silhouette that was wrapped in a cloud of condensation. Merlin's vision blurred. The next thing he knew, Arthur was shoving a bag of blood into his face. Every instinct in his undead body screamed to drag Arthur down and suck him dry. God, he smelled delicious, the warmth emanating from his body was more than tempting. Compared to his friend the packaged blood smelled like garbage.

Merlin tried to lift his arms. Due to the loss of blood his limbs disobeyed him. Humiliation paired with relief burned in Merlin's chest.

"Sorry, you have to feed me."

Raising one eyebrow, Arthur took the bag of blood, twisted the cap, and placed the nozzle in Merlin's mouth. Starving, Merlin closed his lips over it and also Arthur's fingers and sucked greedily. At the first burst of blood on his tongue, his hands shot up and he grabbed Arthur's wrists like a lifeline, forcing him into a half crouch as he swallowed. Merlin felt the energy flooding back into his body, counteracting the paralyses caused by the immense loss of blood. He didn't realize he was still sucking Arthur's fingers until the blond tried to pull his hand out of the crushing grip.

"Sorry," Merlin muttered, releasing his friend as his sanity returned.

Arthur sat back on his heels. He looked at his hands, unable to meet Merlin's gaze.

"Wanna tell me what happened?" he asked before clenching his jaw, still not looking at the vampire.

Merlin sat up slowly and tugged the ruined vest and shirt out of the way to watch his wound closing. The torn skin changed its color from black to pink and finally white. The scar was barely visible and would have disappeared in a few hours.

"Obviously someone wanted me dead."

"Care to elaborate?" Arthur kept digging.

"I got stabbed by one of your father's men. One of those useless vampire hunters." Merlin made a dismissive gesture.

"How in the world did he know you were a ..."

Arthur trailed off, the unspoken word hanging in the air like the sword of Damocles. To this day, Arthur had never uttered the word vampire in Merlin's presence. Merlin couldn't tell if it was denial or fear that kept him from saying it. Either way, it hurt.

"I bit him."

Arthur's brows shot up to his hairline. "I beg your pardon. You did what? But you told me you don't bite people."

"Well, in his case ... He asked me to," Merlin clarified.

Trying not to be insulted as Arthur leaned away from him. Because he didn't want Arthur to see the hurt look on his face, Merlin climbed to his feet, holding on to the wall to keep himself upright. His head swam.

Arthur remained kneeling in front of him. His hands were on his knees. It shouldn't have been sexy, but damn if he didn't look like a servant, his blond unruly hair tickling his forehead, his full lips slightly parted. If he wanted, he could unbutton the fly of Merlin's trousers, slide his fingers into the crease of Merlin's boxers and wrap those sinful lips around his...

Merlin shook his head, banishing the bloodlust. Arthur wasn't interested in Merlin sexually, and the vampire decided not to act on his silly crush. He was relieved when Arthur finally stood and walked into the kitchen to toss the empty blood bag into the bin and wash his hands. Any distance he put between them was a blessing.

"Why in the world would anyone ask to be bitten?" Arthur tried to sound curious. Only, the tension in his shoulders betrayed his disgust.

"Because it feels good," Merlin offered.

Arthur gave him a skeptical look in return. "Seriously?"

Merlin snorted, "Dear friend, you are doing a helluva job making me feel like a monster. But then thinking about how easy it had been to tear this asshole apart, I probably deserve to feel like one."

"You could have enchanted him," Arthur suggested.

"Nope. Not with the amount of vervain in his system. I could smell the stank of it. Unfortunately, too late."

Arthur dropped the dish towel next to the sink.

"I don't get it. How could being bitten something worth craving for?"

Merlin sighed. Was he really about to have the vampire equivalent of "the talk" with his oblivious flatmate? Merlin approached Arthur. The moment their eyes locked, the vampire knew that, yes, that was exactly what he was going to do.

(Chapter 2 here)

#merlin #arthur and merlin #arthur pendragon #merthur #colin morgan #bradley james #missing merlin #merlin forever #modern merlin #merlin reloaded #my manip #my edit #photoshop #digitalart #merthur fanfic #vampire

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tired-loaf · 10 months ago

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A muffled noise drags him to consciousness, his foggy mind unable to make out what it is. Fuck, my head. He attempts to open his eyes, only to flinch them shut against the bright light over head. It felt like knives driving into his eye sockets. The noise cuts through again, this time louder. Where am I? His shoulder burns and it feels as if there’s an elephant sitting on his lower half. What happened? Why’s my back cold? What is sitting on me? Thoughts racing, Angel tries to shove off the weight with his hands. It sends a spike of pain up his left arm, making him yelp. There’s another loud noise-

“Angel!”

Who’s calling me?

He tries to open his eyes again and this time is able to squint due to a fuzzy black blob blocking the light. As his vison comes into focus the blob slowly forms into the bloodied, worried face of his colonel.

“Angel can you hear me? Angelito!”

Head still throbbing but eyes getting used to the level of lighting, Angel tries to look around. Where..? Angel is only able to glimpse gray concrete walls before his head is forcefully pulled back to to look at his colonel, worried eyes search his face.

“Hey, look at me. Can you breathe niño?” He asks, voice filled with worry. Angel tries to reply but all that comes out is a breathless wheeze. “Mierda, hold on” Alejandro says as he leans back and yells something over his shoulder, sounding angry. Angel flinches at the light once again hitting his eyes but barely registers the pain once he realizes the position he’s in.

The coronal is the heavy weight at his hips.

Holy shit Alejandro is in his lap! Did he just say my name? Did he say Angelito, he hasn’t called me that since I was little! Oh god my hands are on his hips- Angels racing thoughts are interrupted by a shooting pain from his shoulder. Right I was shot, fuck. The events come flooding back to him, Graves turning on them, Alejandro grabbed by shadows, and Angel getting shot when he tried to get to him. Angel looks around to take stock of his surroundings. He sees cracked and damp concrete walls, a bucket in the one corner, and a few bugs crawling around on the floor. We’re in a holding cell, he realizes. Angel feels his colonel shift and the pain in his shoulder get worse, making him cry out in pain and grip harder at Alejandro’s waist holy shit my hands are on Alejandro’s hips- the colonel hushes him.

“I know, I know I’m sorry Angelito it hurts but I have to try and stem the bleeding. Stay with me” Alejandro says trying to keep the worry out of his voice, and failing. He needs to stay calm for Angel. Angel was hyperventilating and looking at Alejandro with wide frightened eyes.

Unbeknownst to him though, the hyperventilating and frightened expression were actually unrelated to the wound gushing an alarming amount of blood. Angel was really in disbelief at the fact that the colonel said name! Finally! And the man was in his lap! This was the best day of his life, a dream come true. He’s finally looking at me!

A loud bang sounds from somewhere off to the left. Then the coronal is leaving his line of sight. His comforting weight lifting from Angel. Wait! He wants to shout but all that comes out is a garbled noise. Angel tries to sit up and pull Alejandro back but the room is spinning and his head and stomach protest the sudden movement. Before he can do anything else his body doesn’t like, Alejandro returns, kneeling down by Angles side. Holding something in one hand, he pushes Angel back down to the floor.

“No, stay down, you're wounded,” he says. “This is going to hurt, but you need to stay still. I have to stop the bleeding.” The colonel starts to unwrap the gauze in his hand and quickly starts to press it into the hole the bullet left in Angel's shoulder. “There's no exit wound. I think the bullet caught on bone.”

“You called my name..” Angel croaks out. His foggy mind is having a hard time focusing on anything but the man before him. The pain in his shoulder be damned. He finally had Alejandro’s full attention.

“What? You get shot and we’re taken captive, and your surprised by me saying your name?” Alejandro says, sounding exasperated. “How hard did you hit your head when you went down?”

Alejandro had seen Angel launch himself at the shadows when they had grabbed him. He hadn’t seen Angel get shot but he had heard multiple shots go off. There had been too many bodies in the way to see how Angel went down when he’d been hit. There’s a good possibility Angel has smacked his head on the pavement and given himself a concussion.

“You never say my name” Angel says between pained breaths. Alejandro slows at applying the gauze. “You haven’t said my name since I’ve joined”. At this, he stops his fussing and looks at Angel's face. He’s met with big brown dazed eyes staring into his own. The unguarded expression on the young man’s face makes Alejandro uncomfortable to the point where he has to look away. He forces himself to focus on the situation at hand instead of what the rolling feeling in his gut is.

“Save your breath and focus on staying conscious. I got the wound packed but I still need to keep pressure on it” he says. Alejandro goes back to pressing down hard onto Angel’s shoulder, he hears a pained gasp and then there's a hand gripping his wrist tightly. His eyes flick to Angel’s face which has gone a sickly white shade. Alejandro ignores the twinge he feels at seeing Angel in pain, and looks back to the wound. He watches as the gauze slowly turns pink then red as the blood soaks through. After a few stiffening silent minutes, Alejandro feels Angel's grip slacken at his wrists. He looks back to his face and sees Angel’s eyes starting to slip shut.

“No Angelito stay with me! Eyes open!” Alejandro cries as he grabs Angel jaw with one hand and shakes till his eyes flutter open again. “No closing your eyes, understand? That’s an order.” Alejandro releases Angel's face and tries to wipe off the blood he’d gotten on the young man’s jaw, but pauses when he notices the other man is smiling.

“You haven’t called me Angelito since I was twelve” Angel rasps.

“You do realize you have been shot right?” Alejandro says as he shifts a bit to keep pressure on the wound. Angel never ceases to baffle him. He is bleeding out from a gunshot wound on a cold prison cell floor and he’s smiling about Alejandro saying his old nickname?

Angel winces at Alejandro’s movement and lets out a small whimper. “Bedside manner Ale, don’t remind the patient that they’re wounded” a voice says in his head. It sounds like Rudy. Distraction. He needs to keep Angel distracted and awake till help arrives. If it ever does. Don’t think like that, help will come, they didn’t get Rudy and the others. Scrambling for something to distract Angel with, Alejandro hooks onto the name.

“I’m surprised you still remember that. You hated being called Angelito. You would insist you weren’t small, that you weren’t a kid.” Alejandro feels a small laugh from Angel. He raises an eyebrow at him.

“I didn’t want you to see me as an annoying helpless little kid.” Angel responds to the questioning look.

Alejandro shakes his head “I never thought of you as helpless. I watched you stand up to bullies and defend other kids your age from the older ones trying to pull them into being mules for the cartel. You had more guts than most of the adults.” Alejandro sighs at the memory of pulling little Angel from many fights over the years, before he smirks to himself and says, “you really were little though. Alejandro feigns a look of thoughtfulness before continuing “ You stood just above my hip when I left for the military with Rudy. Hardly recognized you when you pushed your way to the recruitment table to beg Rudy and me to let you join.” Alejandro laughs at that, thoughts caught up in the past. “Rudy recognized you first and had to whisper it to me.” Alejandro looks down, pulled out of his reverie by the hand gripping his left wrist.

“You truly thought that?” Angel practically whispers, a look of hope on his face. Alejandro softens.

“Of course I did. You were- are loyal and brave to a fault. I’m proud of how you resisted and fought against the cartel. Even when it was difficult, even when it landed you in the hospital.” Alejandro grimaces at the memory. Rudy had told him that he’d seen a large scar across Angel's back. A reminder of how they had failed to keep their sweet Angelito safe from harm. Alejandro takes a deep breath before continuing. “I still feel guilty over not being there when the gangsters got to you. You shouldn’t have been alone. It was wrong for the others to leave you to defend yourself. You were just a kid. I know Rudy feels the same.”

@valiants I wrote this in response to your comic with Angel. Specifically the one where Angel meets the 141 is what inspired it. But also referenced your other comics. Wrote this mainly cause I was too sick to stand and had nothing else to do and got distracted by brain worms from your art. Figured I should post it and share cause it’s been in the back of my mind since I wrote it.

#first post #writing throw up #sry for the abrupt ending I ran out of steam

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iraeyah · 8 months ago

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A MAD SCIENTIST MET A PRETTY GIRL IN HIS LAB FOR EXPERIMENT. (This is chat ai, im just putting it here cuz it sounds yeahhhhhh In the dimly lit corners of his underground laboratory, Dottore was, as always, immersed in his work. The rhythmic beeps of his machines filled the silence, each one a note in the cold, mechanical symphony he had created for himself. Long tables were cluttered with flasks and strange, bubbling chemicals; complex blueprints of the human body were tacked to the walls, their illustrations torn and faded from years of his obsessive handling.

Dottore rarely strayed far from his lab. Here, he had control—a power that had been taken from him in his youth, only to be reclaimed now through his own twisted ambitions. He was feared, but that didn’t concern him. The world, he had long decided, deserved to see the monstrous side he’d been forced to become. He was the creator and the destroyer, a mad scientist shaping life and death to his whim. Anyone who entered his domain, whether by fate or force, was a tool for his research.

But today, he felt a strange tension in his hands as he lifted his latest “specimen” from her cell, dragging her into the sterile light of his lab. She was young, perhaps barely out of adolescence. She had been found alone, a mere orphan in a village that had resisted his experiments and was quickly destroyed for its rebellion. She had fought against his guards, her eyes blazing with anger as she’d struggled, clawing her way through their grips. But here, in his domain, her spirit was caged, and her body, as he saw it, was his to study.

Dottore’s eyes traveled over her, sharp and calculating, taking in the dark hair that cascaded over her shoulders, her face dirtied from the struggle yet beautiful in an otherworldly way. Her expression was fierce, a defiance that had yet to be broken by fear. She stared up at him with pure hatred, a fire he hadn’t seen in quite some time. Something about it intrigued him. He was accustomed to desperation and submission from his subjects, but here was a girl who looked at him as if she would tear him to shreds if given half a chance.

Juliah’s voice cut through the cold silence, low and venomous. “You… you destroyed my home. My people… everything.”

Dottore paused, momentarily startled by the intensity in her voice. He took a step closer, his expression cool, calculating. “Your people,” he said softly, tilting his head as he studied her. “A quaint little village, wasn’t it? Hardly anything remarkable.”

Her eyes flashed with fury, and she strained against the metal cuffs binding her wrists. “You had no right.”

He chuckled, a cold sound that echoed in the sterile room. “I decide what rights are in this world, girl. Do you know how many like you have passed through here? Angry, full of purpose—yet ultimately nothing but a means to an end. You will be no different.”

Juliah’s gaze didn’t waver, though her voice trembled. “Do you really believe that? That people are just tools for you to use?”

Dottore’s smile faded, his gaze sharpening. “You know nothing of my work. You can’t understand it. There is no room in science for sentiment.”

The words came out more bitterly than he intended, and he knew, deep down, that they stemmed from the shadowed part of his past. He had once been just like her: idealistic, passionate, hopeful. But the world had shown him the truth. He had been falsely accused, chased from his home by people who had wanted nothing to do with him, blamed for the death of a classmate he had barely known. The memory of those days—the desperation, the hatred in their eyes—was still fresh in his mind, fueling the bitterness that now defined his life.

Juliah watched him carefully, her expression softening slightly, as though she saw something in him that he had tried to bury. “You’ve lost something, haven’t you?” she asked quietly, her tone no longer accusatory. “Something important.”

Dottore’s jaw tightened, and he turned away, trying to ignore the strange stirring in his chest. “It’s irrelevant. You’re here now, and that’s all that matters. I suggest you accept your situation.”

But Juliah was relentless, her voice steady and insistent. “You don’t have to do this. You could stop all of this madness, end the pain you’ve caused… if only you wanted to.”

“Stop?” he echoed, his voice harsh, brittle. “I was cast out, accused, blamed for something I didn’t do. They made me into this. Why should I stop when all I’m doing is returning the favor?”

She didn’t flinch, her gaze never leaving his. “Because if you keep going down this path, you’ll destroy yourself too.”

Her words struck him harder than he’d expected, chipping away at the carefully constructed walls he had built around himself. For the first time in years, he felt something stir within him—a hint of remorse, a glimpse of the person he once was.

But he forced the feeling down, refusing to let it surface. “Sentiment has no place here,” he said coldly, turning away from her, trying to regain his composure.

She watched him with a sad, knowing look, a look that unnerved him more than any defiance she’d shown. Her beauty, he realized, went beyond the surface; it was a quiet strength, a resilience that couldn’t be broken by fear or pain. It was something he couldn’t quite understand, something he found both fascinating and deeply unsettling.

Days passed, and he found himself returning to her cell more often than he intended. He told himself it was to monitor her reactions, to observe her resilience. But each time, he was met with the same defiant stare, the same unyielding strength, and he found himself drawn to her in a way he couldn’t explain. He would speak to her, questioning her, challenging her beliefs, and she would answer with the same fierce conviction that had first captivated him.

One evening, as he approached her cell, he found her seated on the floor, her arms wrapped around her knees, staring into the darkness. She didn’t look up when he entered, but he could feel the tension in her body, the way she braced herself for his presence.

“Why do you keep coming here?” she asked softly, her voice carrying a weariness that tugged at something in him.

He hesitated, his answer caught in his throat. He didn’t know. He couldn’t understand it himself. All he knew was that, in her presence, he felt a strange sense of familiarity, a reminder of who he had once been. She was a reflection of the ideals he had abandoned, the dreams he had once held dear.

“You intrigue me,” he admitted, his voice low. “You’re different.”

She looked up at him, her gaze filled with a quiet strength that both unsettled and entranced him. “Maybe because I still believe in something better.”

He scoffed, though the sound was hollow. “Belief is a weakness. It leads only to disappointment.”

“Maybe for you,” she replied, her tone gentle but unwavering. “But for me… belief is all I have left.”

Something in her words cut through him, stirring memories he had long buried. He remembered the days when he, too, had believed in something better, in a future where he could make a difference. But those dreams had been shattered, replaced by bitterness and anger, and he had built his life on that darkness.

But as he looked at her now, he felt a strange urge to protect her, to shield her from the pain he had endured. It was a feeling he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years, and it terrified him.

“You’re a fool,” he whispered, his voice trembling with a mix of anger and something else—something he couldn’t name. “Belief will get you killed.”

“Then so be it,” she replied, her voice steady. “I’d rather die holding on to something good than live surrounded by hate.”

Her words lingered in the air, challenging everything he had built his life upon. He wanted to dismiss them, to cast her aside as he had done with so many before. But he couldn’t. Something about her had reached him, had broken through the walls he had constructed around his heart.

Days turned into weeks, and he found himself returning to her cell more frequently, engaging her in conversations that left him questioning everything he had once believed. She challenged him, defied him, but in doing so, she awakened something within him that he had thought long dead.

One night, as he stood outside her cell, he looked at her, his gaze filled with a mixture of anger and regret. “I could let you go,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. “I could end this. But what would that mean for me?”

She met his gaze, her eyes filled with a quiet strength. “It would mean you’re still human.”

The words struck him like a blade, piercing through the darkness that had consumed him for so long. He looked at her, his heart torn between the man he had become and the person he had once been. For the first time in years, he felt a glimmer of hope, a faint whisper of redemption.

Without another word, he unlocked the door to her cell, the metal clanging as it swung open. She looked at him in surprise, her eyes wide, but she didn’t move, her gaze fixed on him, waiting.

“Go,” he whispered, his voice filled with a mix of sorrow and resignation. “Leave this place. Forget all of this.”

She took a hesitant step forward, her gaze never leaving his. “And what about you?”

He looked away, his jaw

#dottore #il dottore x reader #dottoregenshinimpact #dottorexreaderinawoom

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dracarialove · 1 year ago

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📄 F it, I'm posting my finished fics here, too 📄

*Check the 'rouge's heart' tag if you haven't read previous chapters

[Chapter 8: Relaxation]

Rouge and Shadow kept in touch for a few weeks after their night at the club. Their feelings for each other grew over texts and phone calls; the bat accepted that she would just be waiting until he was ready to ask her for a commitment, and the hedgehog wrestled with his own pessimism regarding their potential relationship. Shadow laid awake some nights, his conscience jumping back and forth between giving it a shot and worrying that she may still not be over Knuckles.

Not knowing where Rouge's thoughts and feelings truly lay made him anxious, the reserved man hesitant to ask her outright. He continued looking for new work, though nothing was panning out, as he didn't do very well during interviews. The repeated failures began to wear down the hedgehog.

Meanwhile, the treasure hunter used her time being single to work through the broken engagement the way Shadow had suggested. She first ran through the good memories in her mind, mourning each one and crying when she needed to – though, she found it was much easier to keep her eyes dry this time around. Then, she went through the bad memories, mentally pinpointing what made them bad and which ones stemmed from something she could've controlled.

In the process of uncovering her own flaws, Rouge also began to associate Knuckles' face with how the bad memories made her feel. The method caused her feeling of sorrow towards him to steadily evaporate, being replaced with a sense of confidence that she deserved better.

At the tail end of those three weeks, after Shadow had been denied another job opportunity, he called Rouge in a stressed state. Sitting at the dining room table of his apartment, he ran his fingers through his dark quills while letting out an exhausted sigh. The charming woman's voice on the other end of the line was like an angel whispering to him that everything would be alright.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Rouge," he started, trying not to sound defeated. "How are you doing?"

"Oh, I'm fine," she responded casually. Shadow could hear the smile in her tone. "And yourself?"

He almost instinctively replied that he was also fine, something he'd been doing with many strangers multiple times a week. But he caught himself, instead telling her the truth. "Not that well. I still haven't found a new job."

Then he heard the smile drop from her voice, relieved that she wouldn't instantly try to hype him up. "I'm sorry to hear that... are you holding up okay?"

The hedgehog paused, staring at the ring-like patterns on his wooden table. "Not as well as I normally do. Truthfully, it's probably the first time in my life that the stress of searching is starting to get to me."

There was a pause from her side, Shadow assuming she was thinking. So far, the only time she seemed to not have an immediate reply was when she was contemplating something, and he was content to wait for an inevitable bright idea from the clever lady.

"I know," she finally uttered, her tone lifting again. He smirked as she did exactly what he'd anticipated. "Let's go to the beach – just you and me. Some surf and sun might put you in a better mood."

"Sure," was his unhesitant response. "As soon as possible?"

Rouge's perky tone heightened. "Absolutely. It's supposed to be clear and sunny tomorrow. Is that soon enough?"

The hedgehog chuckled, his smile becoming more genuine. "Yeah, that works."

"Great! Come by around noon and we'll go together."

"Alright – see you then."

The bat said goodbye just before they hung up, Shadow then standing from the table and pacing a bit around his living room. Staring down at the plain black cell phone in his hand, he couldn't stop himself from feeling a tinge of excitement tugging at his heart. It was unusual after the aloofness he'd become accustomed to over years of living alone.

Befriending Rouge was the first step to finally opening up to someone; she made it feel surprisingly effortless, like she was genuinely on his side and cared about his well-being. The new, positive emotion remained while he rested on the couch and filled his evening with television.

***

The next day, Shadow drove his motorcycle to Rouge's house, for once appreciating the sunlight as he never had before. The bag of beach supplies he'd packed thumped against his back with every bump in the road. When he arrived, the hedgehog rang the doorbell and stood with one fist against his hip, gazing around her front lawn at the tiny violets sprinkling lush green grass.

The bat answered a moment later, wearing a flowy white sundress with a sunflower pattern lining the skirt. He was less shy about admiring her outfit, realizing that she would want to be complimented on her fashion choices.

"You look great," he said, walking in as she stepped aside.

Rouge smiled while closing the door behind him. "Thanks. I've got to pack a couple more things and I'll be ready to go."

He watched silently as the treasure hunter trotted a few feet towards her staircase, the dress bouncing around her thighs. She pushed off the ground and flew the rest of the way up the stairs, disappearing from Shadow's line of sight, and he slowly meandered around her living room to soak in Rouge's preferred aesthetic. Sleek white and silver were the main color scheme of her walls, furniture, and floors; splashes of color accenting designer pieces to complement the framed art on her walls.

The eager woman floated back down the stairs, a sky blue bag hanging off her shoulder and brown sandals on her feet. "I'm ready! Hope you don't mind me driving."

"Not at all," replied Shadow, turning to meet her at the door.

Walking towards the driveway, she reached out to him and said, "I can store your bag."

He handed it over and she strolled towards the back of her vehicle, using the button on her key to unlock it. The sun reflected off the pure white exterior of Rouge's car, gleaming bright enough to make the hedgehog raise his hand over his eyes.

The young woman seemed not to notice him walking over to the driver's side as she stuffed their bags into the trunk. When she looked back up, pushing the trunk closed, she saw the gentleman opening the door for her – a coy blush crossed the bat's cheeks and she thanked him before climbing in.

The ride to the beach was serene, an expansive blue sky stretching out above the city while upbeat music played from the radio. It wasn't the kind of tunes Shadow would've been playing had he taken control of the stereo, but he was feeling more open-minded towards interests other than his own.

It wasn't so bad, all things considered – not as heavy or serious as the genres he typically enjoyed, but rather carrying an optimistic tone that admittedly fit better with their plans. Rouge tapped her fingers on the steering wheel as they listened. The quiet hedgehog tired of gazing out the window, looking over at his friend and cracking another smile at how happy she seemed.

The sunshine ahead of them enhanced the glow on her glossy lips, tanned skin contrasting beautifully with her snowy white hair. She caught him staring, and flashed a tantalizing grin before returning her turquoise eyes to the road.

It wasn't long before they made it to the beach, Rouge parking in a convenient spot with a view of the shore. She opened her door before Shadow had a chance to do so for her, but he concerned himself more with getting their bags out of the trunk.

The hedgehog immediately put on his sunglasses, then threw both packs over his shoulders and walked with Rouge towards the sand; he noted that she was eyeing his figure, the woman either unsure or uncaring of his awareness behind the dark shades.

After walking along the border of grass and sand for a moment, the jewel hunter pointed at a smooth patch of turf jutting farther out than the rest. "That looks like a good place to rest our things."

Shadow agreed, letting her grab a blanket from her bag and setting the supplies down on the grassy patch. A light gust rushed by just as Rouge whipped up the blanket to spread it out, the pastel sundress pressing against the back of her thighs and flowing in front of her – it was a short moment of beauty that Shadow was glad to have seen, admiring the thin line of illumination around her silhouette.

He looked away quickly, not wanting to be caught staring again, and checked the grass around them for garbage or ant hills. Once the blanket was flat on the ground, he joined the bat and sat with her a while; she kicked off her sandals and leaned back to support her weight on outstretched arms. The pair looked out at the sea, relatively alone save for a family playing along another side of the beach.

"I love it out here," Rouge said, breaking the silence. "Especially during the week, there's hardly anyone around."

"It's quiet," remarked Shadow, throwing one arm over his bent knee. "I've never known such a bright place to be so still."

It was the treasure hunter's turn to look over at him, noting the way he stared out at the horizon through dim lenses and under lowered lids. His dark aesthetic looked a bit out of place among the light blues, yellows, and greens of the beachy area; but he gave off a slightly different vibe than at the night club.

It was more relaxed, more comfortable, and Rouge enjoyed seeing a new demeanor from the gloomy hedgehog she'd met at the coffee shop. Starting to feel the heat of the blazing sun, she repositioned to grab the bottom of her dress, pulling it up over her head and revealing her swimsuit.

The bat was wearing a one-piece colored the same faded purple as her everyday bodysuit, the chest forming a heart over her bust as one side of the thick fabric crossed over the other. She didn't notice him covertly eyeing her as she shifted to sit closer while making her next move.

"You know, I could take you out to do things more often. I don't know how familiar you are with the city, but I know pretty much every place that's worth visiting."

He turned, his head cocking forward slightly in a natural gesture that radiated coolness. The bat continued, "I could show you around, introduce you to new experiences..."

Trailing off, she shrugged in a questioning fashion. For a moment, his expression didn't change, leading her to believe he would decline the offer. But instead, he replied, "It would probably serve me well to get out more often. I'd have no reason to go on my own, but... you make things more enjoyable."

Her cheeks flushed, Rouge overcome with esteem and feeling valued from being spoken of so respectfully. Unfortunately, the moment didn't last long, the jewel thief suddenly hearing her name being called from the parking lot. Her heart leapt in her chest, gleaming eyes darting past Shadow to pinpoint the voice.

In the distance, she spotted a blue figure quickly swaggering towards them, one white glove raised high and waving. The woman nearly jumped up, subtle panic on her face as she sped towards him; Shadow turned to watch with a bewildered expression.

Rouge met the approaching hedgehog halfway, both of them standing in the grass. "Sonic, how nice to see you! What brings you here?"

He shrugged, both hands on his hips. "Was just running by and saw your car. Figured I'd say hi! It's been a while, huh?"

"Yeah, it has been," replied the bat, clenching one palm around her arm nervously. "Did Knuckles tell you...?"

"That you guys broke up?" His lip pulled into a slight sympathetic frown. "Yeah... sorry to hear. Not much to say, I guess – he's always been a knucklehead."

She let out a chuckling exhale as the corner of her own lip curled. "You're right about that."

"Who's your friend?" Sonic asked, motioning with an upward nod towards Shadow.

Rouge sighed, crossing her arms as her eyebrows stressed together. "Someone I met the night I dumped Knuckles. I've been trying to make new friends since the breakup."

"Well, Rouge, you still have me!" the spunky young man blurted, his arms spreading to his sides. "Just because you're not with him doesn't mean we can't be friends!"

At that point, Shadow decided to stand up, approaching the pair to decipher the reason for Sonic's energetic gestures. Meanwhile, Rouge explained, "It wouldn't have felt right, you're too close with him. Besides, it's not like we know each other that well."

"How could you say that?" the blue hedgehog asked, raising one hand to his heart and feigning hurt. "We've known each other for a long time! I helped you find the perfect place for your wedding, didn't I?"

Rouge rolled her eyes while Shadow finally reached them and gained Sonic's attention.

The blue blur grinned and shoved his open hand toward Shadow, who leaned back. "Hey there, friend-of-Rouge! Nice to meet you, I'm Sonic."

"An acquaintance of yours?" the dark hedgehog asked Rouge, rejecting Sonic's handshake.

She nodded, but the beginning of her attempted sentence was interrupted by the speedster. "Hey, you look familiar, actually. I think I know you from somewhere."

Shadow looked back to Sonic, his expression unflinchingly dull. "Most likely from the coffee shop where I used to work."

"Oh, that's right!" One palm clonked against the side of his head, his eyes rolling upward in an exaggerated motion. The grin remained as he pointed at Shadow. "You were the sour barista!"

"And you were the obnoxious one who asked if we had chilidogs and then didn't buy anything," the monotone man replied, his eyes narrowing a bit behind his sunglasses.

"Such is life, my friend. Say-"

Rouge then cut him off, stepping forward to obtain his gaze. "Sonic, listen – we were really just trying to have a relaxing afternoon on the beach. It was nice to see you again, but I think we'd like to get back to that."

She looked to Shadow for confirmation, who gave her a nod. She continued, "I'll stay in touch. But, if you could, don't talk to Knuckles about any of this. He caused trouble before and I just don't want any more of that."

Sonic nodded. "Yeah, no problem. Won't run my mouth on this one."

He started to back away from them, casually swinging his arms as he moved. "And hey, don't forget about the rest of us when you move on from Knuckles."

Before she could respond, the blue hedgehog sped away, dust kicking up into the air as a strong breeze blew past. Rouge looked at Shadow, crossing her arms behind her back and anxiously fidgeting with her pinky finger.

"Sorry about that... I had no idea he would show up here, of all places," she said. "We were friends when I was with my ex."

Shadow turned towards the shore, taking the bat's hand in his and leading her. "Let's not talk about that now. It's not what we came for, right?"

She eased up, a heartfelt smile creeping across her muzzle. "Right."

They walked into the water together, clear blue waves sinking away to then rush forth over Rouge's feet. The hedgehog was more concerned with his company's enjoyment, not finding much comfort in the cool sea but liking the soft smile on her face.

They stood for a while in thigh-deep saltwater, the treasure hunter running her hands along the surface while Shadow ignored the tiny fish brushing against his legs. He got a bit bored, just gazing around, leaving himself vulnerable to a sudden splash from the mischievous woman.

"Gotcha," Rouge chuckled when he turned to her with a surprised expression.

The innocence of her teasing brought an involuntary smile to his face as Shadow flashed her a playfully vengeful look. He splashed her back, more forcefully and causing her to let out a giggly exclamation. When she moved to retaliate, the bat took a step toward him and her leg waded into a bushel of seaweed; the spindly plant instantly tangled around her calf, the momentum sending her toppling further than she intended. The hedgehog was quick to catch her, but his loose footing slipped forward and made him fall on his behind.

The relatively shallow pool of water splashed around them as they both crashed to the wet sandy ground. Rouge was mortified, her cheeks red with embarrassment from tripping so awkwardly; Shadow was simply stunned by the fall, his hands pressed against her shoulders in an attempt to prevent her from hitting the water.

When she managed to prop herself up on outstretched arms, the bat's gaze ran up to his. His glasses were askew, one side laying higher than the other and leaving a single eye unshielded. He took them off once she was stable, the lenses dripping with water droplets, and they shared a long moment of starry-eyed staring.

A faint voice nagged in Rouge's ear, 'Kiss him.'

#sonic fanfiction #ship fanfic #rouge's heart #rouge's heart chapter 8 #dracaria fics #shadouge #shadrouge #rouge the bat #shadow the hedgehog #sonic the hedgehog #writing

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rickgrimesdoingrickthings · 2 years ago

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Carol wasn't at all surprised that Rick had found her out. She felt tremendous guilt for killing Karen and David. She had walked into the solitary holding cellblock and found David barely alive and choking on his own blood. So she did the only thing she could think to do and put him out of his misery. They had no medical equipment to save his life, and they all knew it.

This is when she went into Karen's cell and found her in the same shape as David. She had blood on her hands from when she'd tried to help David and then from killing him. They shook as she approached the bed with a covering over her face that she hadn't removed since stepping foot into solitary.

She lifted Karen's head slightly and jabbed the knife through the softest spot before she made the hasty decision to burn their bodies to try and stem the spread to the others. As far as she knew, these were the only two people who had come down with the mysterious flu.

Now she knew it to be a lie, and Rick had figured her out. She approached him slowly. She had to clasp her hands together to keep them from shaking. "It was a mercy killing, Rick. I swear that's all it was."

"We don't kill anyone from the group, Carol." As he had suspected, as his investigation had led him- he was right. It had been Carol who had done it. Not only the objective signs on the crime scene, such as the way the bodies had been dragged, the height of the blood marks left by a hand, the type of wound the bodies had- it all matched with Carol's height, strength and knife. It also matched a time when she had no alibi, it matched her mindset and her unusual behavior recently, wanting to risk herself, compensate- the guilt was heavy on her voice, on her features, yet, she kept showing apparent indifference- that's what scared Rick the most. While maybe Carol wanted to force herself to look distant, practical and indifferent to seem strong, to feel strong, to be accepted as a powerful member of the group, the inexperienced leader only saw a threat hard to predict. He wouldn't be able to stop her or even foresee when Carol would act again- she was too smart and too determined- she was someone who at the moment, was already more adapted than him, stronger than him- he knew, and that scared him. Rick was still naive, blind to say the least- about the risks and costs, about how morals and obsession with control were nothing more than disadvantages- he still had to experience the terror, he fear in order to understand- in order to be able to see what Carol already could see, what Shane could see, and to be worse, what his enemies already saw. He hadn't awakened yet, and his insecurity, his urge for control, his trembling hands wanting to grip firmly the role of leader- they made him take the wrong choice. "Let's go on a scavenge mission tomorrow. You and me." Rick calmly nodded to Carol and walked away. The deputy was still shocked to know it was her- he didn't want to believe- but the truth weighted and he was tired of trying to live with lies and illusions, even though he was still buried to his neck in so many. The next day, Rick would test her- see if she was an actual threat or not- he didn't want sociopaths in his group, he didn't want unpredictable people he couldn't control- he didn't want people who were stronger than him with a completely different mindset- and he didn't want people making such heavy decisions without him being aware first. Ironically, the decision to ban Carol was pretty much the same- Rick hadn't talked to the others, it was a heavy decision- selfish- he didn't think about the girls, about Daryl- he was absolutely emotional and heartbroken about it- but fear had won- insecurity had won. He felt he couldn't risk it, he felt he couldn't trust- what she had done, to him, was the work of a monster- He couldn't see it yet though, the brutality needed to survive, he hadn't seen it yet how such actions were necessary- and in a near future, once he finally saw, that specific guilty would haunt him forever, make him plead forgiveness- but still, never forgive himself for such mistake.

@wexarethewalkingxdead

#REMEMBER WHEN RICK WAS STUPID?#carol #wexarethewalkingxdead #he later said he would have done it himself

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realityhelixcreates · 2 years ago

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The Morel of the Story: Coprinopsis Atramentaria

2/?

Entropy's pull is inevitable, if not fully felt at first.

Next time turned out to be a week and two days later. Everyone-well, everyone who could behave themselves anyway-had been allowed into the pen outside for a bit of fresh air and exercise. Edward was pretty certain Waller wouldn't have allowed it if she could get away with it, but while Superman couldn't break down these walls, the court of public opinion could. Sure, the people held within were hated worldwide, but there were still those who would advocate, even for the rights of such as them.

He jogged around the outskirts of the pen several times. He wasn't really the type to spend all day doing pushups in his cell, but he had to stay in shape somehow.

Spotting Erosion in a shaded corner, he trotted over to her.

She sat curled up on the asphalt, her fingers poking through the chain link fence, straining towards a sunny yellow dandelion that wavered just beyond her reach. She glanced his direction, then away as he approached, but didn't tell him to leave. To him, that was as good as an invitation, and he took a seat on the ground next to her.

“Would you like me to get that for you?” He offered, after a few moments watching her struggle. She nodded, silent, and he reached his long fingers through the chain link, plucking the little yellow puff by its thin, hollow stem.

Erosion accepted it from his hand, and looked him in the eye.

It wasn't long, no more than half a second, but it was special, and it caught his attention nonetheless. Shining black eyes, striking in her pale face, under the shaggy green hair. She held the dandelion as if trying to count the petals, as if trying to commune with it.

She held and stared at it in silence for several long minutes. Then she tucked it into her hair where it shone like its brothers in the grass.

“I don't know the answer to your riddle.” she said. “I keep thinking about it, but nothing feels right.”

“Keep trying, if you like.” he encouraged. “Take all the time you need.”

“You won't tell me.”

“Nope! But if it helps, remember, I was robbing a jewelry store at the time.”

“Oh, right...” she trailed off back into contemplative silence.

“Why did they put you in here, if all you did was steal jewelry and tell a riddle?” she asked finally.

“Hmmm, because that's not the only thing I've ever done.” Edward said, leaning back against the fence. A few other inmates were looking at them, but as long as they didn't cause any trouble, he didn't care who looked at him. He rather enjoyed it, actually. “Let's see, I've...Oh, I've done a lot. Name a cybercrime. Done it. Breaking and entering, theft, kidnapping, all sorts of hostage taking...Oh don't worry.” He'd seen her eyebrows lifting. “It's not like I've ever killed anybody. I do have standards.”

She turned away from him.

“Erosion?”

“What if-”

“Ey, Nigma! Erosion! Get over here and help with the towels!” a guard demanded.

Damn it. Their time was so fleeting. It would be terribly satisfying to tell the guard exactly where he could stick it in great and long winded detail, but all the guards here had itchy trigger fingers when it came to their pacification collars. And they all just loved group punishment for single person infractions. He couldn't do that to Erosion. She had just wanted to hold a flower.

So he trotted over to the pile of used towels, wearing a glower that the guard just sneered at, and began stuffing them into a waiting laundry cart. Expressionless, Erosion helped. Why they were being singled out, he didn't know; he'd been on his best behavior lately, and Erosion seemed completely non-threatening.

Then again, she had to be in here for a reason. Her file had mentioned a 'destructive meta-powered event' but no other details. For someone being held in a maximum security prison specifically for super villains, her file was surprisingly vague.

But the Riddler thrived on mysteries. This was one he was determined to solve, even if he had to tease each thread out one by one.

#MoS #young justice riddler #riddle x oc

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