#under a read more bc it got big lol

[shoceted]

Hello, this is like... months late but you were one of the only English KeiwaxAce writers I actually liked and seeing that you've dropped the series is devastating (but understandable, they've been ruining Keiwa since Bullfighting Game and I'm devastated, on the edge of my seat and have a lot words/feelings about it too). Could I ask what was your turning point for the series? Or, I guess, what was the straw that broke your back.

If you don't feel like it, that's fine too. Thank you for sharing your Geats fics at the start of the series.

(Anonymous cuz i'm shy af but mostly because haven't used tumblr in years how does this website even work anymore help-)

firstly, this is an incredibly kind thing to say about my writing, and i appreciate it a lot! i kind of miss being that inspired — like including the ex-aid crossover i wrote, seven things??? that's impressive, actually, go me. the first 16 episodes of geats provided a lot for me to be inspired by, i guess. (i think my heart's always going to do something when i think about the phrase "the tycoon i know", tbh.)

the last straw... well, for one thing, the lack of keiwa focus after episode 19 did bug me, because he was my favorite character and i liked seeing him. people say "oh he got focus during the first dgp" but i don't think that's really the case; i went more into this on my personal twitter account, but him being the audience surrogate for the first arc doesn't mean he's the focus of those episodes. like 1-2 are establishing ace, 3-4 are establishing neon, 5-6 are establishing buffa, and then it's only 7-8 that keiwa gets focus... and he's eliminated. at the beginning of the next dgp, he's not even a contestant, he's just a device used to show the fact that being eliminated without dying gets rid of why you wished for what you wished for. it's not until episode 12 that he's even back.

now, i thought the direction they were going with him — he still wants world peace, but in a more realistic way, wanting to bring all the dead contestants back — was really good, too. and i liked him and neon both developing into characters who could trick ace by the time episode 16 comes around! (i actually still have a kace wip that i might finish someday for the sake of finishing it that takes place between episodes 16 and 17, sorta; like, i have 5k of it written and all it needs is the smut that sure is a part of it, so i might go back to it eventually? who knows.)

and thennnnn the dezastar arc starts, as does the decline in keiwa's writing.

i don't mind characters being comic relief now and then, but having a previously-serious character relegated to just comic relief doesn't sit well with me. 19 was a great episode for keiwa, and that conversation with ace he had over dinner made me lose my shit, and i foolishly thought that maybe they'd take him seriously from there on out.

but, no, they sidelined him. for 12 weeks. waiting for my favorite character to have proper focus episode for 3 straight months really bugged me, tbh, though i didn't say anything for fear of stirring the pot. and we finally get to episode 31 and he gets kicked into a pit. this made me really upset.

the fan reaction to this also didn't do me any favors; i was pissed at buffa (the character, not the actor — i do not care about mokudai kazuto in any direction, though i was accused of hating on him, which was fun) for the whole pit-kicking thing and made this clear, which i realize in retrospect was a mistake, because all of a sudden being a fan of keiwa was not the move. (and fwiw, i don't want to hate buffa; i just get a way with characters who hurt characters i love. i'm the same way about him that i am about kylo ren and sangwoo from squid game, and i do not like this trait about myself.) it reminded me of a bunch of shitty experiences i had in a toxic fandom in 2020 and 2021 that sunk me into a deep depression that it took a long time (and the existence of kamen rider revice, which a lot of geats fans abhor and make clear that they abhor, which also didn't help) for me to get out of. that's when i stopped watching geats live, at least. (i also want to state that this had nothing to do with any ship i like, not even kace. apparently people have this idea that kace enjoyers are really angry folks and it's just like... no? this isn't a popular pairing. nobody is going to get mad at you if you don't like it.)

neon's writing during this time also made me angry; i do not like any of the sponsors at all, and neon's character development coming from a man — and a man who is a toxic fan of hers, at that — didn't sit well with me. on the topic of sponsors, jean felt like forced ace shipping bait, and i didn't like his character much, either. (which also makes me feel bad, since i know the actor's such a huge fan.) it was actually him coming back, as well as punkjack's return (by all means i should adore punkjack, because am i ever a sucker for a flop musician, but nothing about his character has ever worked for me — especially since he unnecessarily flirts with tsumuri and clearly makes her uncomfortable in a setting where she can't complain about this, which, ew), that made me drop geats entirely.

the direction the writing is going right now is also not good. the misogyny of fridging sara and damsel-ing tsumuri, the way they've completely fucked up keiwa's character, it's so frustrating — i honestly want to move zero one up on my toku list for this year so that i can see if ex-aid, which famously gave me a disease, was some kind of fluke. hell, in ex-aid, we have a character who acts illogically because of his grief, and those episodes are perfect to me. doing this with keiwa 40something episodes in doesn't hit the same.

buffa's storyline was supposed to be something similar, i know, but that never worked for me either. much like punkjack, it should have. but his non-reaction to the toru jamato's death when toru's death and his anger over it is supposed to be his entire character motivation... didn't make me feel like hiiro did. his rivalry with ace is also no kaito/kouta. it feels like geats is trying to do a lot of things that worked in gaim without understanding why those things worked in gaim. (and i do hate to be an annoying gaim stan, but... come on, geats.)

maybe i'm missing something because i'm not watching every week, or maybe i just have bad taste, but all of these things piling up makes me want to have nothing to do with geats at all anymore. i've actually considered orphaning all my geats fic in frustration, but i've decided against it because that would mean interacting with my geats fics again. it wouldn't provide catharsis. i'm just done.

so tl;dr: around the dezastar arc i became frustrated with keiwa getting sidelined, the fan reaction to episode 31 as well as its contents brought up bad memories and made me stop watching live, and the return of two characters i just don't see the appeal of made me drop the series entirely.

[wuntrum]

can you speak on your severance s2 opinions? i promise this isnt in bad faith or anything, im just anon bc im shy lol, im genuinely curious

i'm gonna put this under a read more because it's gonna be long but...yeah [scratches head] if YOU the person reading this looooved this season and see nothing you didn't like about it, thats awesome and i'm happy for you. i also liked things in this season, and also its normal to be able to critique things you like, love and light <3 its literally just television

generally, yeah, i found myself disappointed with it. i think the writing this season, both the dialogue and then the actual character/world writing, fell flat and/or seemed like it was completely incongruous with the characters and world that we had seen in season 1. i think something i really appreciated about season 1 is that yes, mark was our main character and the lens we got introduced to both the inside and outside world, but both felt so much BIGGER than just him.

season 2, the entire plot and world and characters bend and contort to make mark like, the center of the universe lol. it's kind of ridiculous, the extent to which the world revolves around him now. it makes the world feel SOOO small. parts of my favorite worldbuilding aspects are seeing how the outside world feels about severance--i think the part where we see how working as a severed employee makes it almost impossible to work anywhere else is great! and in concept i like seeing other towns that have been devastated by lumon's industrialization, though i don't love the execution that we got. so like...everything lumon does is about mark? ALL of it? i know we don't know exactly how long lumon has been operating but like...they've been working on this stuff for longer than two years, lol. like, how many files have dylan completed? irving? petey? that girlie who wrote the lexington letter? is all of their work literally meaningless? like i get that there were people before gemma who failed the tests and they died, sure, but what about when mark started working there? what about the files that irving started and didn't finish, why don't they care about those? ohhhh right, because that's not the one that mark's working on. i get that it'd be a big deal if they got it to work fully once, but surely they'd want to make it work AGAIN, right??? like a science experiment?? i just wish we got like, A nod to other people on the testing floor, because i think the implication is that all of them are working on files connected to…different people, but maybe they're all just different versions of gemma?

honestly all of the innie stuff this season just felt so…idk, aimless? it feels like parts of the building only exist when the writers want them to, and just generally are not interested in exploring anything outside of the romantic aspects for all of these characters. like sure, after the season 1 finale, their asses are not gonna wanna work (EXCEPT FOR WHEN THEY DO? TO MOVE THE PLOT ALONG?), but where's the camaraderie? what about all those other people in O&D, they literally export things to the testing floor, maybe they know about gemma? fundamentally i think the thing that's the most frustrating about innie mark is that they keep telling us that he doesn't care about gemma. which, sure, outie gemma, he doesn't have that same connection with as helly, whatever. but also, he DOES care about her, he literally knows that that's ms casey and that lumon was just going to do what they always do when they fire people????? like s1 mark cared soooo much about his coworkers, ALL OF THEM, even the ones that weren't there anymore—seeing petey and then ms casey get removed was like, a HUGE deal and vital to his growth as a character!!!! and the way that they constructed this whole season basically to remove everyone that isn't mark and helly by the end. lol. i'm honestly shocked that they didn't make a new version of the desk that was just two chairs, like dylan was just excluded from the finale except for when they needed him to come in and hold the door against mr. milchick. again. lol

i don't inherently have a problem with exploring the romantic stuff, i think that could have been done well, but i just don't think it was. and that's primarily because, i think the writing this season for helly was ass! they took away her agency and subjugated her to be just the love interest for mark! especially with the finale, i just feel like the helly i know would've been like mark, what are you doing??? go?!? like she wants to take down lumon, THAT's what will take down lumon! like whatever, mark made the choice that he did, but helly playing along with it makes no fucking senseee. like they want us to think that it's the same ol helly we know and love, they give us crumbs of her anger, like when she's rallying the marching band people or whatever, but again, only when it's plot convenient. WHY WOULD SHE NOT ATTACK JAME? he's like 90???? and helly doesn't like this man???? she has nothing to lose???? fucking THROW something at him helly!!!! the helly that tried to chop her fingers off and hang herself and gave that speech in the s1 finale is not in the room with us. and i don't mean this in a way where i think it's helena again, it's not. they've just completely fumbled her character because they want mark and helly to be together at all costs. and honestly, i think it's so reductive to make this show just about ships, but textually it feels like that's what they want us to do, and i think that's sad. again, it makes the show feel so SMALL, when the world within it used to feel so BIG and like we would want to learn more about it. i care about mark and helly--before they kissed!! i think it was rewarding to see the ways they challenged each other and grew as people!! them as a romantic thing could work but they haven't put in the work to MAKE it work. and, it feels like of redundant even to say, but i do think it's fucking ridiculous to write a story where we get kissing and fucking for allllll the straight characters and then the one gay couple doesn't even get a kiss before separating them completely and writing irving out of the show, basically. like what are we in, hayes code era television?

but yeah, the information they chose to reveal vs what they didn't was also frustrating. i honestly wish they revealed less! there's so much TELLING this season. it feels like they think we're stupid (which, i can't speak for the entire population watching the show, maybe some people literally do need mark to look at the camera and explain everything, idk). like there's sooo much clever storytelling in the first season that just, completely gets snuffed out from overexplaining. i understand in the finale that oMark needs to tell iMark about why he did all of this but like, WE as the audience already know??? we don't need to see this?? and cobel confirming stuff i feel like we already knew about how the numbers work and like, i just don't knowwww. like you can just show me it, i was picking up on it. like we know about the four tempers, you show it to us all the time, cobel having to look dead in the camera and explain it just made me feel like there was a better way we could've done this. i do think some stuff benefits from a "hard" confirmation. like i'm glad they confirmed the helena thing, BECAUSE it backs up and supports all of the lovely and subtle things they had already shown to prove that it WAS helena! like i've known since the first episode LOL, so they do KNOW how to do subtle storytelling. and i think the gemma episode was great, i loved seeing her as a character and thought it gave her so much depth. but again, i think allll of the explaining they do this season not only snuffs out the fun of speculating on the viewing end, but from a writing perspective it just kind of writes them into a corner. i think they're focused too much on making these elaborate set pieces and events take place without thinking of how they fit together, not only on like a writing/episodic level but just the world of lumon at large.

i think a great way they showed story in the first season is through the paintings, and through irving and burt bonding over the paintings! like it not only establishes the lore of kier and then we get to learn more about them as characters through their reactions to the paintings. the paintings this season, honestly, were weak, they were so heavy handed. love and light to whoever painted them, but they were nottt doing the job for me.

(this is a small thing, but like…the intake questionnaire asks them to "name a US state or territory," so they KNOW that delaware is a state. so why would they think the equator is a building? again its just like. a cutesy moment for mark and helly to banter but they could've done it in a way that isn't contradictory to like, our understanding of what information crosses over the sever and what does not).

i keep thinking about the ORTBO, and it just seems fucking CRAZY to me that they aren't freaking out about SEEING THE SKY? BREATHING FRESH AIR? FEELING FIRE? SLEEPING?? WASN'T THE WHOLE THING THAT THEY COULDN'T FALL ASLEEP???? i guess my impression of how the chip works is that the technology doesn't know how to handle when they enter a subconscious/asleeep state, so the innie and outie memories begin to bleed together, hence why dozing would be a bad thing on the job. but again, they clearly had this idea of how they wanted irving to reveal that it's helena in the waterfall, and yes, i did enjoy the spectacle of the episode, but its another example of how they'll build these moments and only focus on what they want to see. like there's so much interesting stuff that they could explore and just choose not to, because (usually) it doesn't involve mark, or mark and helly.

also, i'm just gonna say it, i feel like the writing for the women this season all was kinda bad! it's, again, a byproduct of the world revolving around mark now. reghabi is brought into the story when mark needs her, and cast aside when he doesn't want her anymore. devon has been completely reduced to mark's lackey, like i guess ricken and the baby are fucking fine or whatever??? because she only exists when mark is around, and her only job is caring about mark (which obviously yes, they're siblings, of course they care—but s1 devon had a life outside of mark as well). cobel is only brought back into the story to explain to mark how cold harbor works. i said this before but honestly i like the concept of her little solo episode, though the execution wasn't great, because at least she was doing something on her own (except for when she needs that guy to help her. heaven forbid a woman does something of her own accord without a man to help). and again, helly is completely flanderized to be mark's love interest. i think there's a way to have mark and helly be together and them be their own people, but for the length of the season they did not have the proper time to unpack all the shit from the ORTBO episode so everyone just…conveniently gets over it very quickly, like in the span of a day. like i do think it's a jump to go from "i don't trust you, are you even you?" to missionary under plastic tarps that quickly, i'm sorry. and i think even gemma suffers from this fate as well. i think with hers it makes more sense, like she fucking loves her husband, but i wish she was given opportunities to like…want things for herself, too. like she hasn't been outside in two years! i bet she misses her job, her students, her family, devon, ricken, like anyone outside of mark? but she has to be the tragic love interest that can't be with mark but can't run away from mark, either. she's reduced to set dressing for mark and helly by the end.

they constructed this season i think, with the hopes and knowledge that they'll likely get a season 3. which yes, we know now that it's been confirmed and approved or whatever, but they didn't know that when making season 2, and it feels like no one got a full character arc. it's all start and no follow through. we've had the same "mr. milchick experiences racism in the workplace" moment like what, five, six times, and yet we haven't even started to see him DO something about it yet? like sure he told mr. drummond to eat shit, but then to play along with the minstrel show cold harbor shit, they just didn't care about giving that plot line any action so it'll just get brushed along to season 3. (and while there's intentional commentary about race in the show, it also feels like there's unintentional consequences to their writing choices that upholds the whiteness. like, natalie is just forgotten about, reghabi is dropped as soon as mark doesn't want to play with her anymore, ms. huang barely gets to do anything before being written off and sent away, and yes, i do think having gemma suffer as mark and helly skip away is part of it. it leaves a bad taste in my mouth, sorry!). i think dylan is maybe the closest we get to an interesting arc, and i enjoy the inclusion of his wife, but even he's reduced to JUST this story, only getting to talk to mark or helly when the writers need him to, i guess. and the stuff with burt and fields is so nothing, like it feels like it should be going somewhere but they're just leaving it open for season 3 (i guess??? even though it seems like irving isn't going to be in it at all, so why would we be following burt and fields??? and also don't even get me started on how the outie irving stuff is just NOT EXPLORED AT ALL. like whatever sure who the hell cares, sorry for wanting to see that go somewhere or whatever).

it's too early for full reintegration to happen so, we'll just finish that in season 3. (then why introduce it so early in season 2? ohhh right, we need cliffhangers to end every episode on). it almost feels like they don't have faith that people will keep watching without introducing these dramatic moments, but it's all just gasps of breath, there's no actual momentum. like, i've already watched the first season, you don't need to bait me with the prospect of seeing meaningful progression and then take it away from me when the next episode starts. the structure of how episodes speak to each other is that they…don't? like obviously i don't need every episode to pick up on the exact moment the last left off, but the timeline of this season is just soooo strange. the first two episodes are in the same span of time, and then there's gemma and cobel's episodes back to back…it genuinely just feels like they didn't consider the season as a whole which, considering how much money and time it took to make it happen, makes no sense.

and to continue on the timeline aspect, it feels so confusing as to how much time has really passed. it feels like the wanted the structure of the first season, but the pacing mechanic of the first season (working up to the end of the quarter to get to the waffle party) makes the pacing of the second feel even worse. like a.) mark's completed like 3 files a quarter (if we assume he's worked there for 8 quarters, i.e. two years), so making THIS file the super special final one truncates the possible time by at least a third.but then also, b.) he's been at like 95% complete since like, episode 5..? again, i just think it should've been considered more during the planning stages. and it kind of boggles my mind that the creative team views the marching band in this finale to be analogous to the waffle party in s1 when, it's way closer to the music dance experience? (they said this in the like behind the scenes for the finale ep). and in that regard, it really does kind of feel like a retread that doesn't work as well because, again, it's all about mark! especially after the shit with the kier statue, why would mr. milchick play along with the song and dance, like it just feels like they wanted to use tramell tillman's dance experience again, and they wanted to use the colored lights again. he could've just stood by the door to make sure mark and helly stayed there, which was obviously the goal of having all those people there. and yeah, i get the work is mysterious and important or whatever, but the implication that they have ALL OF THESE PEOPLE whos sole job is to be a marching band makes no fucking sense, i'm sorry. i find it hard to play along with the worldbuilding, again it makes lumon seem like its run by like dr. doofenshmirtz or something, it's so cartoony. like are they a global and successful company, or are they incompetent and leave gaping holes for their employees to undo everything? this is THE MOST IMPORTANT DAY IN LUMON HISTORY and they couldn't…shut the door to MDR like they had before? the goat sacrifice room is directly outside the exports hall door? the music dance experience works so well as a catharsis moment because everyone has their own shit going on, and we get to see the guy who hasn't really disobeyed yet (dylan) finally snap, and we see the others come and support him as a TEAM. it's just spectacle for us, the viewer. and especially the thing where they make the panels with mark's face on it—HE CAN'T SEE IT???? i don't need fan service winking moments like that, i dunno, that just annoyed me lol.

anyway, i feel like i have more to say probably but i gotta go do things so, i'm gonna leave it here. in conclusion, i'm missing my friends from s1 MDR sooo so bad, i feel like i haven't seen them this season at all. i did like parts of this season, but overall it was not what i was hoping it would be. (i don't even really KNOW what i wanted it to be, and of course it doesn't matter what i "want," but i feel like what i "want" lined up with what they wanted to do explore with season 1 so…maybe that's where the dissonance is coming from). and whereas at the end of s1, where i left it being like "where are they going to go from here?? (as in, theres so many possibilities", this season finale has left me asking "…where are we gonna go from here?" because i'm left like, inherently incurious about the people we have left and the choices they've made. and, i feel like THEY (as in the executive team making it) must feel this way too, because apparently they've completely scrapped the writers room from this season and added on two new showrunners. good luck to whoever that executive story editor is LOL

[rosenclaws]

Kitty and Marie || Worst!Logan x Single Mom!Reader

summary: Logan finds a little girl who's lost in the store and apparently she's chosen him to help her

warnings: fem!reader, she/her pronouns are used and the reader is referred as mom

a/n: Single mom reader x logan is here rahhhhhhh. The idea was too cute not to expand on soooo here's the fic!! I want to do more I have some ideas in mind lol. Obvi its worst Logan bc I love him and I think Logan would be so funny with kids. Like bro is not a kid person but they always seem to be obsessed with him.

This...really isn't what Logan pictured what his life would be like if you had asked him a month ago. You know, pushing a shopping cart around a grocery store trying to find the specific flavor of poptarts Wade wrote in fucking crayon on his grocery list.

Yeah, a far cry from hopping from bar to bar and getting into scrap fights. Logan picks up a box and stares at it.

"Hot Fudge Sundae?" Logan scrunches his nose in disgust. He can already smell the artificial through the box. He tosses it into the cart shakes his head.

Suddenly he feels a harsh tug on his pants.

"The hell?" He looks down and to his surprise sees a little girl holding onto his pants for dear life. Tears streaming down her face. Logan looks around for a parent, anyone who might be missing their kid.

"Um. Can I help you?" He asks awkwardly, unsure of what to do right now.

"I can't find my mommy." She cries, the tears coming faster as she clings onto Logan's leg.

"Woah there," He tries to gently push her off of him but she won't budge.

"Okay don't cry, uhh..." He looks around for a worker but there's no one in sight.

"Shit." He says before quickly covering his mouth, he looks down at the little girl who was staring at him with big teary eyes.

"You didn't hear anything okay kid? Now let's go find your mom." She reaches up with her arms making grabby hands at Logan.

"I don't think that's a good idea." He tells her, trying to walk towards the front of the store to customer service.

She won't budge. Logan doesn't want to hurt the girl knowing his own strength so he just sighs and gives in to her demands. He picks her up with ease. Her tears stopping the moment she's in his arms. He carries her in one hand and drags his cart with the other.

"You're real bossy you know that?" He says with the shake of his head. She rests her head against his chest, her tears soaking through his shirt but Logan doesn't mind.

"What does your mom look like kid?" Logan asks but she doesn't answer, her fist curling into his shirt.

"A name?" Still silence.

"Come on, you gotta give me something." He begs but she won't budge. As they reach the front of the store Logan pushes another guy aside, ignoring his cry of protest.

"I got a lost kid asshole, beat it." He growls before turning to the worker.

"She can't find her mom." The worker nods and tells him to wait. Logan sees the little girl staring at the candy on the shelves under the desk.

"Attention please, we have a lost girl at the front of the store. Please come get your child thank you." The worker announces over the intercom.

"It's okay sweetie your mom will be here soon." The worker, Helen as Logan reads on her name tag, says. She smiles at the little girl and walks around the desk to try and take her from Logan.

"Thank you sir, I can watch her until her mom comes."

"Thanks." Logan grabs the girl and tries to hand her off to Helen. To his shock she bursts into tears again, screaming the moment Logan lets go of her.

"It's okay sweetie, don't cry." Helen tries to soothe her but she's inconsolable. People start to stare as she sobs loudly.

"Dammit." Logan just sighs and takes her back from Helen. Like magic her sobs turn to a quiet cry.

"I'll watch her." He tells the worker.

"Bossy." He grumbles. She cries despite being in his arms once again.

He tries to ignore it, knowing that she won't be his problem in only a few minutes but he can sense everything. From the shaky breathes, the sniffles, the quivering lip. It's killing him. He looks around for something to try and make her smile.

What the hell do kids even like these days? He would just play with sticks as a kid. He sees a few stuffed animals sitting on the shelf and he grabs one of them. He shoves it into her arms and prays it works.

"Kitty." She sniffs, wiping her eyes she holds onto the plushie which happened to be a cat one.

"Thank god." Logan mumbles. He looks back to Helen and sighs.

"Can you put the stupid cat toy on my bill?" She just smiles and nods.

"Marie!" Logan perks up at the sound of a frantic voice.

He turns around to see you looking around, panic written all over your face. The first thought in his head is how damn gorgeous you are. Then he scolds himself for even thinking that. Not the time or place Logan.

"Mommy!" The little girl, Marie apparently, squeals. Squirming in Logan's arms as she sees you.

"There you go kid, see I told you we'd find her." He sets her down and she runs to you.

You've never felt more relieved in your life than to see her. It was one second. You swear just one second. You let go of her hand to reach something on the top shelf and when you turn back she's gone. You ran through the store but you just couldn't find her. It was too damn big.

"Oh baby, never scare me like that again." You hug her tightly. Not wanting to let go ever again.

"I'm sorry mommy." She cries, holding onto you tightly.

"It's okay baby, you're not in trouble. Just make sure you don't run off again okay?" You pick her up in your arms and it feels like you can finally breathe.

"Thank you so much." You gush to the man in front of you. He looks vaguely familiar, though you would think if you saw someone like him you'd remember it more. Suddenly it clicks.

"Oh, you live with Wade." Logan tilts his head, trying to figure out how you know that.

"I live in the same building. I'm a floor below. I can hear...things." You don't know how to explain exactly the sounds that come from Wade's apartment but its never loud enough to be annoying. You had seen this man in passing. The elevator or leaving the building. That's really it. Marie must have seen him too.

"Logan." He shoves his hands in his pockets, realizing that you must be the family down below.

He could always hear a kid in the apartment below him. Especially during her tantrums. Now that he thinks about it your voice does sound slightly familiar.

"Kitty!" She says happily.

"I know baby, that's a kitty cat." You say, thinking she's talking about the plush in her hands. But she shakes her head pointing at Logan.

"Kitty!" She giggles.

"Sweetie he's not...That's Logan." You look back at Logan with an embarrassed look on your face.

"We just watched Monsters Inc the other day. I think you remind her of Sully. Plus..." You trail off, eyes drifting to his hair. They're short but the little tuffs of hair do strike a resemblance to cat ears.

"Kitty huh? That's a new one." He smiles. Reaching up and petting the plush cat making Marie laugh.

"Thank you again Logan. I owe you."

"It was nothing, she's a cute kid. Even cuter mom." He flirts boldly making your eyes widen. You try to hide your smile, it's been a while since someone's made you so flustered so easily. Especially someone who looks like Logan.

"Please, let me at least invite you to dinner." He glances down at your hand noticing the lack of a ring.

Once again, not the time Logan he scolds himself. The last thing you need in your life is a man like Logan. But dinner sounds nice. It's just dinner, nothing more.

"Pleaseeeeeee." Marie adds, her little lips forming the perfect pout. Now that Logan can't say no to.

"Alright, I'll come for dinner as long as you quit making that face." Marie scrunches up her nose and sticks her tongue out at Logan. It makes you smile seeing her so happy. She's usually shy around strangers but she must have recognized Logan from the apartment building.

"Alright miss, we have to get home. Say goodbye to Logan."

"Bye Kitty!" She waves.

"Bye Logan, see for dinner. Stop by any time." You give him a small wave, turning before he can see the stupidly happy look on your face. You remind yourself it's just dinner.

But maybe, just maybe it could be something more.

[catiuskaa]

*cough cough* no, me kisses.

SUMMARY: he may have lost his opportunity to ask you to become official, but boyfriend or not, there’s only one thing Hannie wants needs: your kisses. All over his face. Right now.

WC: exactly 1.3k baby!

CW: it’s too fluff!! ahhh!! (scared) lol, mentions of the usual sick thingies like headaches and mucus (ew!), mentions of lipstick stains (because YES), use of petnames.

REQUESTED! by pookie dookie @4ln-stay8 right here. I owed you one for reading my angsty fics, so I gave my best with this one. tysm for your support, my love! <3

A/N: inspired on the jeekies bc this singlehandedly changed my brain chemistry (melts n giggles)

[☆★🧣★☆]

Jisung wanted to groan.

Meanwhile, you only wanted to giggle and take millions of pictures of him.

What for? Well, first of all, little Hannie was cutely hiding under his duvet.

Only Jisung’s big boba eyes blinked repeatedly as he sniffed, not because he was crying, but because the poor little thing couldn’t even smell anything. He kept the half down of his face under the blankets of his bed, as he surely knew he was blushing due to you being in his room.

He hadn’t been expecting you, and he wanted to groan and put on a tantrum —or however you use that word in a sentence— because you had to be there at that moment.

“Aw, Sunggie,” you melted at the sight of him, holding back the need to coo and pet him and treat him the small and cute hamster he so was. “Lix called,” you clarified with a toothy grin. “He said you were sick, and buzzed me in before he left.”

Jisung made a note to himself to remember to tickle Felix to death for that.

There was one thing he wanted, and while it was you the one who could give it to him, he felt quite shy from asking, as far as refraining from doing so just yet.

Because it was not like you two were dating officially. Yes, the big, fat crush he had on you was as obvious as shit, to put it in elegant words, but he hadn’t asked you yet.

He was going to ask you, but he got sick.

And that one thing he wanted from you was your sweet pouty lips peppering kisses all over his face.

You sat next to him, and sheepishly shook your head. “Let me tidy up this place for you and bring you some medicine and more tissues, yeah?”

Your voice felt soothing, he wanted to use it as a blanket and stay wrapped in it for the rest of the week.

His heart sent more blood to his cheeks. As if there wasn’t enough, he thought with a huff, big eyes watching your movements as you picked a plate that had been left there since the night before and started picking up the used tissues from the floor.

“…hi…” Jisung mumbled, his voice hoarse and his throat dry.

Was he sick? Sure. I mean, his head hurt, his eyelids felt heavy, his nose was runny and he had surely filled the floor of his room and a decent part of his bed with used tissues.

But despite all that, the thing he wanted the most was to cuddle you to his hearts content.

“Hi, gorgeous,” you snickered softly, and he couldn’t help but smile with you. “Want some water too?”

He coughed in response, and you giggled. He cracked his knuckles underneath the bed sheet, his hands tingling, wanting to take you by your shoulders and hug you like a boa constrictor.

“Guess we have to cancel for tonight,” you mumbled with a small smile, your hand tenderly stroking his hair away from his forehead. “I’ll go leave my coat and bag in the living room and I’ll come back, yeah?”

He pouted without realizing. “Mmhhh…” he hummed with a small frown, almost like a whine.

You were about to mumble a soft ‘what’s wrong?’ before he shoved the covers away from his face as he gingerly raised his hand to grab your wrist and settled your palm back on his forehead. He sighed in small relief, melting into the coldness that lingered in you from being outside.

“Headache?” You said almost in a whisper, hearing the butterflies’ wings going crazy in your stomach.

He nodded. If he had been a cat, he would be purring, even if your hand had already turned warm against his skin.

“C’mon, Jisung-a,” your voice felt even softer than before. “I’ll come back before you know it.”

He sniffed. “…you will…?”

Your heart crushed, unable to handle how cute Han looked. It was too much, so much that even the butterflies in your stomach started to have their own butterflies in their stomachs.

And with a smile, you moved your hand to his cheek and planted a shy tender kiss on his forehead.

“I will. Pinky promise.” You chuckled softly, a blush slowly creeping up to your cheeks.

His eyes widened, and his heart skipped a beat.

Oh, no. Now he knew what one of your small kisses felt like.

Now you couldn’t leave. Not before… oh.

He grinned slyly, making you raise your eyebrows, wondering what could he be thinking in that cute little head of his.

“…we’ll… make a deal…” he stated as firmly as he could.

You shrugged lightly, secretly enjoying the faint pink hue of your lipstick that had stained his forehead.

“Sure, Hannie.” Your smile only made the fact that you’d leave for, like, ten minutes —or God, maybe even more— feel a lot worse.

“I… want… more of those…” he blushed deeply.

“More of those?”

He took your hand and covered his eyes with it.

“I want more kisses.” He sniffed again.

Your mouth quickly formed the shape of an ‘o’, as your blush quickly turned a deeper shade of red, as if to compete against his.

You giggled, moving your hand from his face.

“You want my kisses, jagi?” You teased with a smirk.

He felt his heart going crazy in him, a tight feeling in his chest that turned his ears red.

“Aww, but aren’t you too sick for that?”

Oh, no.

You weren’t just going to give him a small kiss and then not continue all morning and all evening… right?

That couldn’t be allowed. Was it? He tsked at the thought. He had to make sure it wasn’t.

He coughed, pouting.

“No.” He coughed again. “Me. Kisses.” He sniffed. “Now.”

You laughed loudly, a sort of laugh that went right in Han’s little heart and filled it up with energy. He didn’t feel that gloomy sensation that being sick could cast over someone.

Instead, he squinted at you playfully.

“You have ten minutes, missy.” He said, already looking much better, emotionally wise at least. “Or else.”

You giggled, sheepishly pecking the corner of his lips.

"You can set up a timer, you cheeky idiot."

He moved his hand to his heart in an overly dramatic gesture that made you cackle, as he chuckled too, trying to ignore how fast his heartbeat felt under his hand.

Nine minutes and forty three seconds later —forty four, forty five...— you had settled a plastic bag next to his nightstand, had stolen a tissue box from the living room, and right now, you were smiling, walking one step in front of the other, carefully so to not spill over the soup you had made for him.

"It's amazing. You have to try it, I've outdone myself." You chuckled as he sat up on his bed, gingerly waiting. You left the tray on his crossed legs, moving his desk chair and nonchalantly taking a seat close to him.

"C'mon." You snickered. "Eat up." He finished it without a single complaint.

"Good boy." You teased, cackling loudly when you saw him blush.

"That's not fair," he mumbled with a pout.

"Scooch aside, Mr fairness."

You moved the pillows and laid next to him, shyly putting your arm below his neck, and then passed the other over his chest.

His face was practically in front of you.

"Hi." You grinned cheekily.

"...oh, h-hi." You giggled at his shyness. You hid the fact that you had reapplied your lipstick in the kitchen before bringing the soup, and started peppering soft kisses on his forehead, his cheeks, his nose, the corner of his mouth...

Oh, you were surely going to catch whatever he had.

[☆★🧣★☆]

~Kats, who doesn't understand why tumblr won't let her stack pictures when answering asks, reason why I post them separately, lol. Thanks for the request, gorgeous!

[ebodebo]

Be Quiet and Drive (Far Away)

—thinking about meeting the big bad arkham knight for the first time…consume at your own discretion.

current warnings: 18+ SMUT MDNI, dark themes, fem!reader, dubcon, p in v, angst, some biting (literally just one lol), jason being a little meanie, ooc bc it's hard for me to write him being overly mean, no aftercare, blindfolding, depictions of violence, orgasm delay & denial.

please heed the warnings before reading!

When the Dark Knight himself called on your help, you never imagined it would involve sitting on the edge of an abandoned shopping mall on Founder's Island, of all places, to keep an eye on a new vigilante whose name you didn't even know.

You had been sitting quietly on your perch for what felt like an eternity, your muscles ached slightly from remaining so still, but you knew that patience was key.

You glanced down at your watch waiting for the slightest signal from Babs—heart racing with anticipation, hoping for the moment she would finally give you the signal to proceed.

"You find out anything else about him, Babs? You speak through the intercom in your mask to Barbara, unable to deal with the dead silence any longer.

"Negative," she mechanically says.

"Does anyone know anything about this guy?" You question, eyes glazing over some military militia fililing in and out of the mall.

"His background is fairly limited, which is why you're there—to gather more intel," she says, tapping away at her computer. "Sources can't seem to agree on much more than his name," she briefly pauses, "The Arkham Knight."

"The Arkham Knight? Who calls themselves that? Must be a fuckin' lunatic," you remark, narrowing your eyes to get a better look at the figures.

"If only that were the case," Babs sighs. "He's shrewd and sharp. More importantly, he appears to have a vendetta, which makes him particularly dangerous. He seems to understand Bruce thoroughly—he's done his homework."

"Could it be an well-adversed escapee who made it into the city? Maybe Bruce left a bad taste in his mouth after being thrown in the asylum, so now he holds a grudge against him?" You prob, the uncertainty hanging in the air.

"Highly unlikely. No one within the asylum would have the capability to organize, let alone lead, such a massive assault," Babs states firmly, her conviction unwavering.

"Well, one things for sure, this 'Arkham Knight' may think he knows the ole' bat, but nobody really knows him," you say, making a conscious effort to ease some tension.

"His militia is heading to the north side," Babs states decisively. "Approach from the south side to avoid detection."

"Gotcha," you aver, using a grappel gun to maneuver yourself off the side of the building, and into the gritty dirt beneath you.

"Be careful. He's—he's dangerous. Stay alert," Babs warns, her voice wobbiling ever so slightly.

"I will. Over and out," you affirm, with a nod.

You make your way to the south side entrance, staying low and quiet to avoid the militia thugs patrolling the area.

As you approach the stairs leading to the generator that Babs disabled earlier, you climb up and squeeze into the vent, positioning yourself just under the entrance of the department store.

Peering through the grates, you spot several armed thugs escorting someone into the building.

Gripping the voice synthesizer strapped to your thigh, you bring it to your mouth and quietly issue a command.

"Got another three out by the front gate. Three more by the other. Need backup out here," you say, your voice altered to sound like a guard's.

"Affirmative," one of the men responds, signaling to his comrades where they need to go.

They acknowledge him and shuffle out.

"It's almost too easy," you think to yourself before dropping through the grates and sneaking down the maintenance corridor leading to the upper floors.

Bruce had already done the bulk of fixing the broken elevator.

All you need to do is press the panel behind the elevator door to reveal the large shaft below, where the fans, thanks to Bruce, are now stationary.

You ease your way down the elevator shaft silently with your grapple gun. You find your way down with ease, feeling a little overly cocky.

Turning to your side, you see two thugs that are sprinting over to you, weapons in hand.

"Shit," you curse, propelling yourself up to kick one of their weapons out of their hands, before swinging your foot across his face with much force, sending him to the ground.

The other is more stubborn.

He shoots at you, but he misses.

You kick the weapon from his hand, but he swings at your face, sending you back before he slams your body into the ground.

You use what strength you have to rock yourself up, slamming your head against his, catching him off guard, and sending him back off of you.

You haphazardly stand as he sprints back towards you. You swipe your leg across, tripping him and making him fall to the ground.

You hit him in the head with your grapple gun, so he'll pass out. You exhale deeply, catching your breath, eyes catching sight of a hazy figure to your side.

"Ah. Look what we have here. A stray bat," a modulated voice spoke.

You turn to face the person wearing a militaristic version of a bat suit. "Who the hell are you?" You gruff, spitting some blood out.

"Who the hell am I?" He retorts, sounding amused, before his voice turns cold and distorted. "No. Who the hell are you?"

"A fuckin' fairy," you dryly say, spitting more blood out.

He lets out a gravelly, mirthless chuckle. "Got jokes. Huh?"

You narrow your eyes at him. "I'm not a bat."

He hums, inching closer, his heavy boots making a metallic thud with each step. "It's in your best interest to not lie to me," he leers.

"I'm not," you hiss. "I'm just helping him."

He hums, low and ominous. "Didn't think the big bat needed help," he sneers. "Guess I was mistaken."

Before you could speak, a low voice echoed around the room. "Commander," a militia thug says, addressing the man you were speaking to, not sparing you a glance.

"What do you want?" The modulated voice grits, clearly agitated by his intrusion.

"Someone's hacked our communication system. Impersonated a guard," the militia thug says in a reverent tone.

The Knight lets out an irritated sigh, eyes darting to the militia thug. "Little late on the heads up," his tone cold and calculated as he gestures to you.

The military thug draws his gun up to point at your head.

The Knight holds his hand up. "Don't bother. I'll take care of her," he exasperates. "If anyone else slips in these walls under your watch, I'll kill you."

The militia thug nods, dropping his gun to a resting position.

"Get out of my face," the Knight spits, striding the thug out of the room.

"You're him," you state with complete certainty. "The Arkham Knight."

"The one and only," his tone is smug and oozing confidence.

This doesn't make sense.

Bruce said he never comes to lower floors, especially with so little protection around him.

"What? Cat got your tongue," the Knight jests in a sarcastic, mocking tone, boots clunking as he inches closer.

"No. I'm—I'm just in awe of how ridiculous that suit looks," you sputter without realizing what you're saying, anxiety clawing up your spine as he steps in front of you.

He lets out a condescending laugh. "Was gonna go for black, but I didn't want Bruce to get all jealous," he drags out his words lazily, sarcasm apparent in his tone, before grabbing you by the arm.

You knew better than to try and fight him.

He had a whole militia on his side and you, a mere grapple gun.

He moved you through several corridors, passing several militia men strapped with weapons.

He had converted the once cheerful, bright mall into a military base with sandbags, barricades, and checkpoints around the area.

"Must have cost a fortune," you murmur under his tight grip as he leads you through another dark corridor.

"The cost is irrelevant. What matters is the results," his tone is dismissive and arrogant. "And soon Gotham will see the true value of my investment."

You nod weakly, turning to look forward as he leads you into a room heavily guarded by more militia members. Your eyes glaze around the room he pushed you into.

The room was sterile.

It had a bed to the side, maps, strategic plans scattered across the walls, and various gadgets.

If you had to guess, it was a bedroom.

Though it was devoid of any personal touches.

Seemingly serving only as a place of respite.

"What is this room?" You ask curiously, staying stationary as he closes the door behind him.

"Rest room," his voice is dry.

"Why so sterile?" You ask, feeling a surge of confidence.

He hesitates a moment, deciding how much to reveal. "This room...serves its purpose. It's a place to rest and recharge. Nothing more," he says in a guarded tone.

"Why'd you bring me here?" You question with caution.

"You're a liability," he rasped. "I should eliminate you for the sake of my mission."

As he spoke, he closed the distance between you, his face inches from yours.

"What?" Your eyes lock with his, bile rising up your throat. "You're just...going to kill me?"

"I might," he answers, cold and dark. "If you prove to be resourceful to me...perhaps I'll let you live."

You let out a shallow breath. "How do you mean?"

"How do I mean?" He dryly chuckles as he retorts your question. "How do you think I mean?" He questions, already slightly irritated.

He bends down next to you to pick up a loose piece of fabric. "Put the blindfold on," he says hastily, ripping off your mask.

You jerk your face to the side as he does so.

"Why?" You timidly question as he presses the fabric to your chest.

"Stop asking so many God-damn questions," his words were icy and clipped. "You want to leave?"

"Yes," you whisper.

"This is the price of your freedom," he asserted.

"Put it on."

You hesitate for a moment before taking the piece of fabric and placing it over your eyes, tying it tightly in the back. Then you stand there, fingertips playing the hem of your shirt to try and suppress your uneasiness.

All you hear is a faint hiss from what you assume is his mask as he pulls it off his face, revealing a simple black mask that covers the majority of his face except his eyes and mouth.

You can hear your heartbeat in your ears, inhaling a deep breath.

"What's wrong? Nervous?" He taunts, his voice unmodulated, gloved fingers coming up to trace down your jawline.

You pull away slightly, not expecting it.

"Ease up," he says, his hand coming back up to brush up on your skin.

You don't move under his touch this time, letting his hand explore your body.

"Never touched a woman before?" You sarcastically question, as his hands skim to the bottom of the shirt, easing it up a little.

"What business is that of yours?" He asks, his voice a little defensive.

"Need to know what I'm working with," you jokingly say.

He jerks you towards him by your hand. You squeal at his harsh touch. "Make no mistake. I am in control. I can kill you or have you killed with the snap of my fingers," he snarls.

"Do not test my patience."

You release a shaky breath at his sudden change.

"Nod, so I know you hear me," he adopted his signature authoritative tone.

You nodded fervently to not piss him off again.

"Good girl," he praises, fingers gripping the hem of your shirt again, pulling it over your head and throwing it on the ground.

The tension was palpable as you stood before him in your simple bra and pants.

You were at his mercy.

The thought didn't scare you as much as it should have. Instead, you found a strange thrill in the unexpected, a pleasure in the unknown.

He steps closer, the metallic clank of his boots giving away his position. You can feel his warm breath on your skin. The feeling made your chest tighten and palms clammy with disquiet.

You jumped a little as you felt his lips press into yours with a blazing kiss, though your lips moved with much haste against his, moving a mile a minute.

What the hell were you doing?

Your mind was a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts, but your body seemed to have a mind of its own.

This was a recon mission, and yet here you were, kissing the very same guy you were supposed to help take down.

The internal conflict was tearing you apart.

This was you bartering for your freedom, you try to rationalize.

But then, why were you so hot and bothered?

You couldn't help the knot that twisted in your stomach at the fiery exchange and the pool of wetness you're sure had gathered in your panties.

"Take your pants off," the words fall off his tongue in a mumble into your lips, almost as if it was an ask.

But you knew it was an order.

Your hands move quickly to the waistband of your pants, tugging them down rather quickly. Then, you step over them to push them to the side.

He hums a sound of satisfaction. "So obedient."

You release a sigh, notably unlike your previous ones out of apprehension.

This one was all pleasure; there was no mistake about that.

His lips press back to yours briefly but powerfully before his hands tug down your panties.

"Christ. Do you like this?" His tone is incredulous and skeptical as he sees some of your glistening arousal.

You don't answer, only swallow hard.

"Answer me," he commands, firm and detached.

"Yes," you swiftly say.

He huffs at your revelation, outwardly revolted though internally pleased. You feel his hands push you back until your legs hit the edge of a bed before forcing you to lay back.

You lay docile as you hear the soft hiss of seals releasing as he shed his suit. The creak of armor plating echoed around the room, followed by a rustle of fabric and wiring as the suit's inner layer was exposed.

His fingers skim your thighs, eliciting a whine from you as he maneuvers himself on top of your body. Without warning, his cock slides into your aching cunt.

He grunts at the contact as he slips himself deeper into you.

Your body jerks forward, mouth hanging wide open as he pumps himself in and out of you, gripping your thighs tightly.

He moves quickly and has no plans to slow down anytime soon, and you need to come.

So, you slowly move your fingers down to rub small circles around your clit, moaning loudly.

He scowls, leaning down to bite your shoulder in warning.

You hiss as his teeth sink into your flesh.

"Behave," he instructs, pulling your hand away from your aching clit.

He grips your leg so it lays flat against his chest, letting him hit a deeper angle that has him groaning.

"What would the Dark Knight have to say?" His tone is venomous as he continues. "Huh?" He urges. "His latest project getting fucked by me?" He grits, fingers digging deeper into the fat of your thigh.

"Should I make you ask him?"

"Ask him your fuckin' self," you grit out, trying to concentrate on the orgasm blooming in your lower stomach.

He lets out a harsh, menacing chuckle.

"Won't have time to ask when I kill him where he stands."

You lean your head back, mouth agape, feeling yourself on the cusp of relief.

"Don't come," his voice booms around the small room, clouding your ears.

"I can't—I can't hold it," you whine, squirming with desire.

"You can and you will," he spat, pumping into you faster—testing you.

You let out a strangled moan as you grip the sheets under you tight, feeling your nails dig into your palms through the fabric, attempting to think about anything other than your raging need to come.

He lets out an anguished groan.

You could tell he was painfully close—as were you.

While he comes, certainly feeling euphoric, you are left with the feeling of tightness and a looming release.

"Can I—please," you beseech.

A twisted smile you can't see overtakes his face hearing you beg.

"Go on then," he stoically says—like he's being generous.

Your fingers reach down to rub your clit with speed; it doesn't take much time until you're moaning loudly, and your arousal coats your fingers, even dripping onto the sheets beneath you.

Legs shaking, you pull your fingers away, trying to recuperate.

You aren't sure you've ever had a better orgasm in your life.

"Flip over. We aren't done here," he issued in a low tone, just as you were coming down from your high.

You paused briefly before weakly flipping your body over so your stomach lay flat on the bed.

He grips your hips upward, positioning you so your hands and knees are pressed into the mattress, making you hiss due to soreness.

Pulling you by your hips back, he positions his cock into your entrance, slipping inside you with ease again. You wail at the contact, still delicate—he doesn't care.

He pumps faster and faster with no regard to your sensitive state, fingers digging into your hips as he pushes you back onto him.

You're already starting to feel a tightness in your stomach, signaling your impending orgasm.

You won't last long with him drilling into you so rapidly, and the groans that fall from his lips have you panting and wailing.

Since he appears to like a beggar—you beg.

"Please. Can I—can I?" You plead, feeling your cunt start to tighten around his cock.

"Oh. You're not coming again," he spoke, his voice gravelly and breathy. "This one is just for me—just for me."

You let out a whine as you feel him come, cursing under his breath again as you are left with the feeling of tension and longing.

His breathing is labored as he shuffles to put his gear back on. You stay in the same position he left you in until he orders you to do otherwise.

"Get dressed," his voice is modulated again.

It's colder.

You slowly get off the bed, stand, and attempt to skim for your clothes with the stupid blindfold on.

He rips it off. "Leave. Now. Before you find I'm not so merciful the second time around," his tone was eerie.

You nod feebly, gripping your clothes and slipping them on impetuously, not even checking if they are inside out or facing the right way.

Turning on your heels, you head for the door you came in, looking over your shoulder when you hear his voice again.

"And remember, you owe me for not slaughtering you," his voice dripped with malice.

You turn back, forcefully pushing the door open as you walk with intention and speed toward the back exit.

He knew you wouldn't tell the Bat anything.

What could you tell him?

That the Arkham Knight fucked you so good you're going to be sore for the weeks to come.

You slip your mask on to alert Babs that you are leaving the area.

Her voice booms through the intercom in your mask.

"Find anything of interest?" She questions, none the wiser.

You continue to walk, half listening.

"You there?" She implores.

"Huh? Oh, no. Nothing worth noting," you suspire.

"Are you alright?" She asks with a concerned tone.

"Yeah. Just...tired. Talk later," you hurriedly say, cutting the line and making your way over to your vehicle a bit away from the facility.

The sex was transactional, you remind yourself.

Though, that reminder didn't stop the Arkham Knight's presence from lingering on your skin for days after the interaction, a haunting reminder of the forbidden thrill you'd shared.

Gotham's darkness had never felt so alive and so painfully tempting.

a/n: so, anyways...it's back lol

divider!

[withleeknow]

i think you'll do well with requests bc they seem to be popular in the fanfic side of tumblr! but even if it doesn't take off that quick, at least that'll be less overwhelming bc some ppl can be so demanding....anyways, i hope the best for you in this new journey haha 💝

me personally, i'm not very creative so i'll leave the details to the professionals (aka you) but i'd like to req something from minho's pov. i think those type of stories are SEVERELY lacking in the lee know fics department lol 🥲 it could be a childhood friends to lovers where he is pining for oc but he has a lot of self esteem issues and thinks she's not interested in him. also a big softie and just all around head over heels for her. you can add your magic! (if this is even remotely interesting enough to write lol i just want a minho pov tbh shsjjfjdjdj 😭)

light years.

summary: three times minho bites his tongue, and one time you don't let him.

pairing: minho x f!reader genre/warnings: childhood friends to lovers, fluff, angst; kissing, cursing, so much pining i could hurl. could this have been more edited? oh absolutely lmao but i actually don't hate it sooo this is what we're going with :p word count: 4.2k note: to the first anon, thank you so much for your kind words! :') and i'm sorry that this took me longer than expected. i was trying to figure out what i wanted to write for your prompt but then i got the second request with the song and i thought they would go nicely together hehehehe i hope the both of you enjoy thissss

as always, i’d appreciate any thoughts or comments you may have, and please drop a like and/or reblog if you enjoy reading ♡

navigation / request masterlist / ko-fi

I'm not sure what it means to love But I blink kind of slow around you I'm not sure what it means to love But I'll grow wherever you do What that means, I don't have a clue

I'm Not Sure - Margeaux Beylier

One.

Minho is 18 years old, and he doesn't know what love is, doesn't really care for it at all.

While his friends are out there wrapped in the clutches of young love - the kind that blooms with stolen glances in classrooms and sticky notes passed in secrecy, Minho finds it simply unnecessary. He doesn't understand it whenever Hyunjin whines about not having a girlfriend because they're still young, they've got all the time in the world for romance later down the line. It's not the end of the world like Hyunjin laments it is.

Minho has his own life to prioritize. College is starting after the summer and he still needs to figure out how he's going to cope with the absence of his cats once he moves away. He's got dancing and he's got his other hobbies to keep him fulfilled and occupied.

And above all, he's got you.

You're getting ready for your sister's wedding when it happens for the first time. Or rather, when it doesn't happen.

You step back into the room where Minho is waiting for you on the sofa, his gaze resting idly on the screen of his phone, scrolling absentmindedly through his friends' group chat even though he has no interest in whatever they're talking about. You cough lightly to indicate your return after disappearing into the bathroom minutes prior to change into your dress. He looks up upon your soft announcement, and when his eyes settle on you, he swears it feels like an invisible force has collided with his chest and knocked all of the air from his lungs.

Throughout all his years of knowing you, inseparable from childhood until now, Minho has never seen you like this - all dolled up with your hair falling over your collarbones, cascading over your shoulders in soft waves that beckons him to run his fingers through. The light blue dress hugs you beautifully, the silky material catching the light from outside the window every time you shift on your feet under his steady gaze.

"So...?" you ask, moving your arms awkwardly behind your back like you're not sure what to do with them. "What do you think?"

What does he think?

Minho thinks you might just be the prettiest girl in the world. He thinks he must have been an idiot his whole life, to have spent most of his waking hours beside you and not once has he noticed how truly breathtaking you are. He thinks about the feeling that spreads in the pit of his stomach, sends warmth throughout his body and makes his heartbeat race a million miles an hours.

Your best friend blinks slowly as he savors the warmth that he's never experienced before. It's similar to the feeling you get when you're sitting under the shade of a big tree on a summer's day. It's comparable to the satisfied tranquility you get after you've just finished a hearty meal. A little hazy in your contentment.

It's not until you probe with a pointed Well? that Minho realizes he's been staring at you in silence for a few minutes now. He swallows thickly, willing away the words that he wants to say but they get lodged in his throat. He reckons it's weird to verbalize them, because it's not how the two of you function. You don't often utter that kind of sentiment out loud and he doesn't either. Never have and likely never will.

In the end, he bites his tongue. "You look presentable," is what he settles on.

You roll your eyes, then reward him with a laugh.

Minho doesn't care about love. He only cares about you.

Two.

Minho is 21 years old, and he's gotten used to his heart beating erratically whenever he's in your presence.

Three years flew by in the blink of an eye, and graduation is just around the corner. You've always done well in school, straight A student with a track record that most could only dream to have. You put in the hours, you do the work. You deserve everything that you've achieved.

But it's been a challenging few months for you both, being seniors and all. He's had to watch you struggle to stay on top of your classes while also having to slave over a thesis 24/7 until you were sure it was perfect. It reduced you to tears a few times, and Minho was there to hold your hand through it all.

He held you in his comforting embrace when you wanted to give up. He made you dinner when you were too immersed in your schoolwork to notice that you'd forgotten to eat. He was your biggest support system; if it weren't for him, you don't know if you would've made it through.

It's hot outside today, a little unbearable but not uncharacteristic for June. Minho waits in a familiar hallway, the same hall that he's walked past for hundreds of times over the past few years, the same hall that he won't see again once he holds a degree in his hands in only a few weeks' time.

As he sits on an old wooden bench, he bounces his leg as if he's one of the people in the classrooms that line the hall. He doesn't have to be on campus today, but here he is regardless because you're scheduled for your thesis defense this morning. You're in one of those rooms, probably also bouncing your leg from the overwhelming nerves. Minutes feel like hours; you went in there a while ago after he had sent you off with a pat on the head and an encouraging Godspeed.

He's nervous for you, but he's sure that you'll do great. Years of hard work accumulating in what must be the most important moment of your academic journey. You even stayed up all night last night, refusing to sleep a wink just to revise your arguments and talking points.

Minho's head snaps up instantly as he hears a door creak open, the sound of it reverberating throughout the empty hallway like a gong announcing your return from battle. It takes you a few seconds to step out of the room and into his line of sight. He can't see you very well with all this distance between you, but he can still make out the way your frame is visibly shaking with every step you take. He rises to his feet, and you break into a sprint.

He opens his arms wide - a hug of consolation or congratulations, he doesn't know yet - but he still can't seem to brace himself for the collision. You run straight into his embrace, your warms wounding around his middle tightly. Minho feels your tremors, hears your sniffles from where you're pressing your cheek against his shoulder.

"How did it go?" he asks gently.

You start crying then, and he doesn't know if the tears that his shirt is soaking up are those of joy or of grief, but he holds you through it anyway. He swears he can feel every single beat of your heart, hammering so wildly as you're pressed against him like you could sink into him if only you'd push just a little bit more.

"I passed," you say in between sobs. "I got an A."

Minho heaves out the breath that he's been holding ever since you entered that classroom, but it's not like he had any doubt about it to begin with. He hugs you tighter than he's ever had before, and he loves you just the same.

You two must look so dramatic, all wrapped up together in your own little bubble, but who the fuck cares? Although, when another student passes by and coughs, you do break away from him, a little embarrassed for a second.

Even with your hair all mussed up and your flushed cheeks stained with tears, he still thinks you look the same as you did when you were 18 at your sister's wedding. The prettiest girl in the world.

Minho wipes away the wetness on your face with his sleeves, then swipes with gentle thumbs at the moisture that's gathered along your lash lines.

"Holy fucking shit," you breathe out, your shoulders sagging with evident relief, so much more relaxed now that you've done it. "I can't believe it's finally over."

Your best friend can't entirely agree, because he's always believed in you. He's had faith in you since the beginning, since you were mere children laughing and crying together on the playground. You were meant to do great things, this was always crystal clear to Minho.

I love you, he thinks as he smooths a hand over your hair, his chest swelling with nothing but pride and fondness for you. You did so well.

But it's not what he ends up telling you. He swallows it down, washes it away with a dose of regret and longing. He's still not the type to express sappy sentiments, and he's grown accustomed to adoring you only in secret.

"Let's go," he says softly. "I'll buy you dinner."

Minho is still young, he's still got his whole life ahead of him, but he knows what love is now. He knows that it's you.

Three.

Minho is 24 years old, and he finds it hard to make peace with the fact that you're starting to get out there, that you're finally going on dates now that academics aren't taking up most of your time anymore.

To be fair, none of the guys you've seen have been graced with a second date, and Minho thanks his lucky stars whenever you return from a night out and text him a simple Not it. He knows that it wasn't your decision in the first place, that your mom and your sister have been setting you up on blind dates because they want to see you bring a boyfriend home.

You complain about it all the time, whining about how you're not interested but your family is adamant on it. Minho is well aware, and yet, there's a part of him that's a little shaken, because what if? What if the universe miscalculates and the stars misalign just enough in his misfortune for you to cross paths with someone who's absolutely perfect for you? Someone who's a good man that can give you what you've always deserved to have.

He really doesn't know what he would do if that happens. When it happens?

He doesn't know why you're here tonight either, sitting on a chair on the other side of his kitchen island in a pretty dress when you're supposed to be going on a date in half an hour. The guy apparently works for a big record label, some producer that your sister knows through a friend of a friend.

You look indifferent, kind of bored, as you watch Minho makes dinner for himself. "You seem miserable," he comments, taking a quick break from chopping vegetables to glance up at you. You do look a bit miserable, but you're still the most beautiful in his eyes.

You throw your head back and groan loudly, "Because I am. God, I don't know why they keep making me do this. These guys always give nothing."

"Please elaborate."

"They're all boring suits with tedious routines." you say, and as absentminded as your tone is, it sounds a little pointed to Minho's ears. "They don't make me laugh."

Do they not make you laugh, or do they not make you laugh more than I can?

"Then don't go," he snickers, though there's no humor in his voice at all. "These guys sound like duds. Just tell your sister to fuck off."

"Do you mean that? Do you really think I shouldn't go?"

And there's something in your gaze, something so suddenly expectant in the way you're looking at him that makes Minho wonder. If he says yes, would you listen? Would you stay here with him? Would you stay here for him?

I'm serious. Don't go. You can have this and I'll make myself ramyeon. Just be here with me.

You both stare at each other on either side of his kitchen island for an infinite stretch of time. He feels like your eyes are trying to tell him something that he can't decipher, as if they're sending him signals in a language that he never learned how to read.

For a second there, he indulges himself. He pretends that you're only asking because you want to hear him say it. That you want him to put up a fight and not let you go.

But he bites his tongue because it's become a bad habit. A habit that he can't shake because he simply doesn't have the courage to do so. Because if you stay here tonight, looking like that under the cozy lighting of his living room, he might just spill his secrets and he wouldn't be able to take it when reality comes crashing down and you end up telling him that you've never felt the same way.

"I'm kidding," he musters up the words, and tries to plaster on a smile for your sake, even though he's not sure if you really believe it. "You're dressed up anyway. Go and get a free fancy dinner, if anything."

Minho knows what love is, but his love has always lived in the shadows, his longing has only existed in the dark that it terrifies him just thinking about it meeting the light.

Four.

Minho is 26 years old, and he's been a coward for the better part of a decade.

Maybe he's loved you for even longer, but he has spent the past eight years head over heels in love with you, and not once has he done anything about it. Never been able to gather enough courage to ask you out, never even hinted at his feelings for you. He loves you from his place by your side and yet, you've never known.

He loves you the most, but he loves you in the worst way that a person can love another - he loves you in silence.

You're the prettiest girl in the world, and Lee Minho is a pathetic coward.

All these years, he's kept quiet and for what? There's always a spot reserved for him right next to you and yet, it feels like he can only watch you from the sidelines, far away from where it really matters, because he doesn't think he can fit into your life the way he truly wants. You taught him what love was, and love, to Minho, is unattainable. Something he can spend the rest of his life yearning for but won't ever have.

Love hurts. Sometimes, all love does is hurt.

"I would've taken you to a nice restaurant if you asked, you know," he says, putting a chocolate cupcake on the coffee table in front of you before he sits down next to you on the fluffy carpet of your living room. He pulls out a candle next, placing it right in the center of the sweet treat.

Your gaze follows his hand has he lights the candle, your eyes glinting with excitement as though you're a child again and your favorite day of the year is still your birthday. The tiny flame curves and bends, dancing to a rhythm that looks like only you can hear. You watch the candle like it's magic, while Minho just watches you, thinking the same thing.

He watches as you close your eyes and clasp your hands together for the theatrics, then you blow out the flame seconds later with a swift breath.

You turn to him with a smile, "I don't need a nice restaurant. This is perfect."

He blinks, and there's that warmth simmering in his belly again. He first felt it when he was 18, and he feels it now. He feels it almost every moment that he spends with you, and he reckons it's only reasonable, because you're his home personified and love can still be beautiful even when it hurts. There's his heart racing again, but that's nothing new to Minho.

He muses over your words. Perfect. Just one simple word is enough to get his hopes up in a way that it really shouldn't.

Your definition of a birthday well spent is in your cozy apartment, eating takeout pizza with your best friend. Perfect, to you, is him baking you a singular chocolate cupcake upon your request and being with him within these four walls, where his fingers occasionally brush yours when you sit next to each other.

Oh, Minho would follow you to the ends of the earth if you asked him to.

He clears his throat lightly, breaking away from your gaze that's full of gratitude and childlike wonder. "What did you wish for?"

"I'm not gonna tell you. It won't come true then."

Wishes don't come true anyway, he thinks, but obviously he won't say it out loud to you, and on your birthday no less. Instead, he diverts his attention to the cupcake, subconsciously tonguing his cheek as he takes a small chunk of the sweet and offers it to you.

You let him feed you even though your eyes are narrowed. "What was that look?" you ask.

"What look?"

"You had a look."

"No, I didn't," Minho insists.

"Yes, you did. You wanted to say something, didn't you?"

He shrugs, popping a piece of cupcake into his own mouth. The answer is yes, he did want to say something, but if you want to get technical about it, then he's wanted to say something for years now. He asks you the same thing every birthday, What did you wish for?, and you would refuse to tell him every time.

"Wishes don't come true," he verbalizes it this time, with a voice that's lighthearted on purpose despite knowing that you wouldn't take it that seriously either way.

You roll your eyes. "Now you're just being pessimistic."

"What? I'm speaking from experience."

"You've never had a birthday wish come true?"

"My birthday wishes haven't come true since I was 18."

Minho feels your eyes on the side of his face, and when you remain quiet for a beat too long, he turns his attention back to you. "What?"

"How do you know they didn't come true?"

"Because..."

Because you've been my wish for almost a decade now. I didn't use to believe in wishes but I always believed in you. Every year, I wish for you to look at me the way I look at you, but it never comes true. Every year, I wish that you would love me back, not just as a friend, but you never do. You are my wish, but you're also the very reason why I know wishes don't come true.

Then he's laughing, but nothing is remotely funny about this. It's your birthday and suddenly all he can think about is how much it stings to be reminded that you're the only thing he'll ever wish for, and still, maybe this simple wish is absurd enough that the universe will never grant him what he truly wants.

"Never mind," he says. "This whole thing is silly."

There he goes, biting his tongue again. Coward.

"No, what were you going to say?"

"You're so bossy today," Minho pretends to complain.

"It's my birthday. Tell me," you press on, and suddenly he can't find any appreciation for your stubbornness that he's adored all his life. You keep your eyes fixed on him when all he wants to do is hide from you.

What is he supposed to say to you? What can he even say? That he's spent more than a third of his life hopelessly enamored with you? That the second he utters any of this out loud, he knows it will be the end of your friendship?

And Minho can't afford to lose you. Even if it hurts, he would rather let love hurt than live in the absence of you.

"Eat your cupcake," he says instead. "I'll get some ice cream."

He makes a move to get up, and the bad habit further cements its place in his subconscious. He's always running away from you when you're supposed to be the person he can be the most open with. This is how he knows he doesn't deserve you.

But you reach for his wrist and it makes him still, the feeling of your hand sliding downward to hold onto his fingers. He's used to the feeling of your smaller hand in his, used to how he can hear his heartbeat in his ears whenever you lace your fingers together.

What he isn't accustomed to, is the look on your face this very second, akin to the one you wore two years ago as you sat on the other side of his kitchen island, asking him if you should go.

Expectant and hopeful; you're holding something back too.

The words that slip from your lips are ones that he never imagined you would say to him.

"I've waited for you long enough."

His poor excuse of retrieving ice cream is all but forgotten as he stares at you, doe-eyed and despairingly confused. "What is that supposed to mean?"

You take a breath, and Minho wonders if this is how he looked every time he wanted to say something only to back down in the end.

Then it all comes rushing out.

"For a while, I thought there might've been something between us, something more than just friendship. I don't know why I thought that, I just had a feeling. On the day of our graduation, I thought you would finally kiss me or at least say something, but you didn't. Whenever I went on dates, I wanted you to tell me not to go, that I was wasting my time with those guys that couldn't make me laugh because they weren't you. You never said anything, you never did anything. I waited every birthday just like I waited tonight. You're still holding it over me and I'm starting to wonder if you really love me too or if I imagined everything this whole time."

Your voice gets smaller toward the end, almost as if the uncertainty takes over you the longer he remains silent. He doesn't have the words for it, doesn't really have the mental capacity to process all of what you just professed. Years and years of longing, of hoping that you would come running into his arms the same way you did on the morning of your thesis defense, and it turns out that you were always the one waiting for him to reach you.

If you really love me too.

Your fingers start to loosen around his but Minho doesn't let you get away, not now and not ever again. Not when he finally knows that he's burnt up enough of your time just because he was too stuck in his head to see that you were holding a hand out for him all along.

He pulls you into his orbit and he likes to imagine that somewhere out there in the infinite universe, two stars collide when he kisses you for the first time, long overdue but still heavenly nonetheless.

He's crying but you don't seem to mind the tears. You're kissing him back and it's really all that matters. He can't think straight but he adores you to the point that his lungs ache.

"I love you," he mumbles against your lips. The sentiment comes out clumsy, half coherent but wholeheartedly sincere. "I'm sorry. I love you, I love you, fuck, I love you."

You're the one who breaks the kiss first, with your hand on his chest gently pushing him away. Panic instantly shoots through him like a lightning strike. These are the words he's been holding back for years, did he not even say them right? Did he fuck things up yet again?

You brush the tears from his cheeks, your voice so impossibly soft when you ask, "Do you mean it?"

Minho splinters into a million pieces, of course he does.

Your name falls from his lips, sounding like a prayer, like the most tender plea that's ever been uttered, "I love you the most. I'm so in love with you that it hurts. I've been yours for so long and I never said anything. Fuck, I-I'm sorry. I love you so much. I'm sorry. I-"

You bring his face to yours once more, shushing him with a kiss that makes him putty in your hands. You tell him that it's okay, and you kiss him like you forgive him. The world could be ending right now, and he doesn't think that either of you would even care very much.

Because you're the only wish of his life, and you kiss him as though you want to make up for the lost years. Because Minho feels like he's 18 again and you're the most beautiful girl in the world, wearing a smile that leaves him breathless in the most wonderful way possible.

all rights reserved © withleeknow. reposting, translating and/or modifying is not permitted by any means. [posted 06.05.2024]

[vyoleya]

hihi here's some more stuff of my complicated DR au!! here's a big ramble + a doodle of their designs

annd here's a more detailed + more dramatic version of them :)

okay.. huge ramble/lore dump under the cut. you have been warned

all parts of my au

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

in a desperate attempt to find his parents, arin ended up joining ras and becoming shattered. arin justified everything that he (and ras by extension) was doing all in service to reverse the merge. his last mission was supposed to be killing lloyd that way ras could become the new conduit, only for arin to discover what ras's true intentions were with his master. (which was nothing short of a celestial takeover.) arin never wanted to kill anyone, especially not lloyd, and feeling very ashamed of his actions, he purposefully attempted to rile lloyd up and give him clear openings for lloyd to kill him instead.

lloyd, not really wanting to kill arin & not taking the bait, kept trying to get him to come home. arin's whole plan backfired as arin got more and more desperate and riled up for lloyd to kill him, and ended up doing object shatterspin which killed lloyd .

in his last moments of consciousness, lloyd clung to the fleeting life inside of himself and (somewhat) merged with his element . due to being a conduit and having carried divine energy by not only the source dragons, but also the FSM, lloyd was able to sort of become a divine guardian . (ill talk more about him later but this is just a summary lol)

lloyd then used his power of life to protect arin, essentially making arin (very reluctantly) immortal. (the drawing of arin is what he looks like when he's close to death, as lloyd expends a lot of energy to keep him alive, and his 'guardian angel' wings become visible, and everyone can kinda feel lloyd's presence watching everything. hence the eye)

sora, after finding out that arin was responsible for killing lloyd, who she saw as a father, she began to believe that the arin she knew died once he became shattered. eventually, after many encounters where she'd beg for him to be 'good' again, she began to search for ways to kill him and free lloyd's spirit.

they both started wearing these wooden masks with painted moons on them, very much inspired by the whole 'the fool who let the moon go' post. arin started wearing his first after he first started getting serious injuries that weren't being healed very quickly. arin found that sora preferred him wearing it, bc then she didn't have to see her best friend's face in her enemy.

arin goes by the name 'z' whenever he can, based on the scar on his cheek that actually looks like the letter z in ninjargan! (he also does because he believes that going by arin is an insult to who he used to be.)

sora, with the help of jordana, ended up tracking down the reversal blade. because if she can reverse lloyd ever dying and arin becoming immortal, then with lloyd's conduit powers, they can stop ras's plans and Everything Will Be Okay Again!

she was planning on taking both herself and jordana to the past, but due to the merge being reversed sooner than planned, sora didn't have time to take jordana with her, leaving her behind.

after… a lot of nonsense on z's end (like the world ending, but him being the sole survival due to lloyd's energy… yikes) (oh and also him recreating the merge despite everything thanks to lloyds conduit-ness + the oni and dragon in him) and he also ends up in the past. now both sora and z are wandering around in the past trying to stop the world from ending :)

(to make it more dramatic, neither of them knows that the other survived. it's a very big jumpscare when they run into eachother.)

anyway. i may draw them more + post drabbles about them on ao3! so .... consider this your backstory guide to my overly complicated au . if you read this far then congrats !! (because yes, this is just the backstory)

(also if anyone has any questions feel free to ask .. . it'd be fun to answer them)

doodles and jokes here !

[s-rosie]

TIG CHILDHOOD HCSSSSS

you ask, i deliver. here are some tig childhood hcs that me and my fever delusions made. enjoyyyy 💖

grayson used to look up to nash so he attempted to ride horses but ended up hating it bc it got him dirty so he stopped

in early middle school this girl had a crush on grayson and since him and jameson we’re besties at that point so jameson kept running up and down the hallway passing notes for the girl and grayson and being their messenger so they would hold hands at recess

thea stole her moms makeup in first grade for picture day and did her makeup and she thought she looked amazing but in reality it was terrible and her mom didn’t realize until she got home and she was livid and pictures turned out terrible

avery loved coloring and whenever her mom would have a little extra money she would buy her a new coloring book and new crayons and ave thought she was a princess

xander loved the board game mousetrap and would force everyone to play it with him

grayson would write poems and songs but always threw them away because he was worried they weren’t good enough

thea had a huge 1d obsession and would sing their songs in the mirror with the hairbrush as a microphone (she even read those quirky y/n “she’s so different, let’s invite her on stage” and being kidnapped and sold to 1d fix’s even if she won’t admit it)

rebecca loved jellybeans and would always try different kinds of them whenever she could

jamie loved musicals but eve said they were dorky and made fun of him so he stopped liking them (he eventually got back into them tho bc ave told him it was cute he was a theater dork)

lyra would watch angelina ballerina and dream about getting her big-girl pointe shoes

xander broke multiple beds by jumping on them

gigi and savannah would wake up early and watch cartoons and eat cereal on the couch and sav would always be so careful not to make a mess but gigi would never fail to spill her milk on the floor

max read wattpad and a03 and write fics of her fav book series under her blanket on a secret account so her parents couldn’t see her activity bc they were 🌶️ SPICY 🌶️ and her religious and strict parents would not approve

libby would dye her hair with household items (food coloring, kool-aid, etc.) before she was able to get it died with real hair dye

alisa would doodle nash’s name and write love notes to him in her diary with pink sparkles and a little lock during recess

ave would have to kiss her mom good night every night or else wouldn’t be able to sleep

eve would take other kids toys and when confronted she would cry and manipulate them because “she’s sick” and her parents would just enable her

jameson would always be the try-hard during pe and always do the most at recess and had all of the ladies swooning

i hope you enjoyed theseeeeeee 💖 please let me know if you have any ideas for the future im always open and don’t hesitate to give me feedback i love hearing from y’all nothing makes my day more then a notification that someone commented something positive on my post lol. have a blessed day/ nightttt 💖

[shaiyasstuff]

hiii, I love your writings so so much and every time I open the app I hope to see a new post of yours <3 usually I don't ask for stuff because I know writing is difficult and demanding, I write for myself sometimes just for fun and it takes a lot of brain working that I do not have lmao but if you do something similar to what I'm craving for I would be really really happy!

Basically I'm just a big nerd woman, I love anime and video games the most, it's the joy of my life besides doing art, and recently I've been thinking of my past bcs my birthday is in 8 days and reminding how bullying was a thing for girls like me (I'm over it now I'm almost 26 lol but some scars are permanent) and I would love to know how you vision the lads man enjoying/inserting themselves in their partner world of likings, maybe thrilled with how much knowledge you have about it all? bcs again, I'm reeeally into it and I love knowing/reading everything lol lore obsessed for sure (if possible something with valorant/league of legends/star rail if you know some of them but it can be anything seriously, and please nanami from jujutsu kaisen especially for zayne because they are my husbands 4 life and I love them the most ><) also I love your pfp, frieren is AMAZING!!!

Anyways, thank you very much for sharing your hardwork and beautiful mind, you're amazing and I hope you never stop writing what is in your heart <3 love you

SKSKSK ANOTHER FRIEREN FAN!! Hot take: Frieren deserves AOTY i dont care what others say XD Thank you so much for requesting this!! This was so much fun to write and honestly so so so so cute! I giggled a little too much imagining our boys just being with us (not mc, US, the real us)

So here is your request written below!! Do tell me if it’s not satisfactory >.< (I don’t play Star Rail so I did some research, if it isn’t accurate pls dont kill me) @goddamn-it-girl

Sylus

Sylus never really got video games.

“Why waste time in virtual battlefields when the real world demands strategy?” he’d say with a dismissive wave of his hand, like he was too good for flashy pixels and keyboard tapping.

But then one night, you’re in your usual spot, headset on, deep in a League match. You mutter under your breath, almost without thinking—

“God, I wish Sylus was more like Kayn’s Shadow Assassin form.”

And just like that, he’s behind you.

No warning. No hello.

Just standing there, arms crossed, eyes glued to your screen.

He doesn’t say much at first. Just watches.

“Hm,” he hums thoughtfully as your fingers fly across the keyboard—Q, Q, D—blink forward, another kill.

“It doesn’t seem that hard.”

Next week, you walk into the room after a long day—bag dropped, shoes kicked off—only to find him hunched at your desk.

Your computer’s on. He’s wearing your headset.

You watch, amused, as he furiously taps keys with a strange kind of intensity. His brows are furrowed.

And then you catch his champion.

You cross your arms, smirking.

“I cannot believe you got jealous over a video game character.”

Sylus scoffs, not even turning away from the screen.

“I wasn’t jealous. I’m learning to jungle. That way I can protect your lane.”

You laugh, falling into your spot beside him like it’s second nature now.

Because you know that’s not really why.

He just likes the way your eyes light up when you win.

Rafayel

Rafayel shares your love for video games.

He gets your obsession with Star Rail.

He’s the type to sit right next to you as you ramble about lore for the hundredth time, nodding along like it’s the most important story he’s ever heard.

“I’m telling you, Natasha is literally the coolest—like, hands down.”

“Hm. No,” he says, already smiling. “Himeko’s the coolest.”

Cue the dramatic banter.

You clutch your chest like you’ve been wounded. “How dare you.”

“Hey, I don’t make the rules.”

So you fake a cry, full-on pout and teary eyes.

He sighs dramatically, hands in the air. “Okay! Okay! Natasha’s the coolest! The best! The queen!”

You flash him a smug smile. Victory.

Then, one afternoon, you finish cooking lunch—something warm, something he usually comes running for the second it hits the air.

But today? Nothing.

Frowning, you head to the bedroom.

The door creaks open and—

There he is, slouched over the study table, completely zoned in. His brows are drawn together, pencil in hand, the quiet scratch of graphite filling the room.

“What are you doing?” you ask, curious.

He jumps like he’s been caught red-handed and slams the sketchbook shut, hugging it to his chest.

“Nothing!” he says way too fast, flashing you that boyish grin. “Is lunch ready?”

You laugh, shaking your head, and motion him to follow.

But back in the room, the sketchbook still sits on the table, forgotten in his rush.

One page left open—just enough for you to see it.

A carefully drawn sketch of you, soft and radiant, dressed as Natasha.

Of course he thinks she’s the coolest.

She looks a lot like the person he loves.

Xavier

Xavier would be insanely good at Valorant.

He saw you play once. Literally once.

And the next weekend?

There’s suddenly a whole PC setup right next to yours—dual monitors, custom keycaps, matching chairs.

He’s ready.

You blink at the setup, suspicious.

“What is this?”

“I figured we could grind to Immortal together,” he says like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

And he means it.

The first time you watch him play, you’re slack-jawed.

“How are you so good at this?”

He just shrugs, smug. “I’ve got good hand-eye coordination.”

Cheeky bastard.

But he’s not just good at the game—he’s good at being with you.

He’ll pull you into his lap on the couch after a long match, your legs draped over his, your hands gesturing wildly as you talk about Omega Earth lore like it’s gospel.

And he’s right there, nodding along with genuine interest.

He treats your passions like art.

When you draw your Reyna and Gekko ship, he’ll lean in over your shoulder, voice soft.

“You know what would be cool? What if Agent 7 wasn’t Reyna’s little sister, but actually the real founder of Valorant?”

You pause.

“You can’t just—drop lore like that—”

“Oh, and did you know if you wallbang that corner on Lotus with a Sheriff—”

“That makes so much sense!” you gasp, and then immediately groan. “No wonder I’m hard stuck Gold.”

He just grins. Because he doesn’t just drop into your world for the weekend—

He builds a home in it. Right beside you.

Zayne

Zayne wouldn’t just support your love for anime—he’d understand it.

He’d see the depth in it the same way you do.

You’d spend nights curled up on the couch, Jujutsu Kaisen playing on loop, your eyes wide and shining with every fight scene, every emotional beat.

He’s right beside you, always—arm slung around your shoulder, fingers tracing lazy circles on your arm as he watches with quiet attention.

He’d chuckle softly whenever you’d throw yourself back dramatically, clutching your chest and declaring, “I can’t do this,” after every tragic death.

He’d never mock it—he’d just pull you closer.

Then one night, he wakes up to an empty bed.

It takes him seconds to notice your absence—your warmth, the subtle weight of your presence.

He pads into the living room quietly, finding you exactly where he expected.

Curled up on the couch, legs drawn to your chest, your face softly lit by the glow of your phone screen.

You’re scrolling through endless fanart of Nanami—

Nanami glowing with cursed energy.

Nanami, suit wrinkled, tie loose.

Nanami, unwavering, standing tall even as the world tries to break him.

Zayne doesn’t say a word.

Just walks over and gently lifts you into his arms, settling you onto his lap like you belong there.

Let’s be honest, you do.

You hesitate, then murmur, almost shyly, “He reminds me of you.”

Your fingers toy with the hem of his shirt.

“Not just the suit thing. It’s the way you carry yourself. How you protect the people you love. Even when it costs you.”

He’s quiet for a beat, then nods.

“I see myself in him too.”

You giggle, already scrolling to show him more—

“Wait, look at this one. And this one. And oh my god this—”

He just smiles. Soft. Reverent.

Because he doesn’t just tolerate your love for anime—

He sees the soul of it reflected in you.

And maybe, just maybe, in him too.

[complete-clownery]

Not me deciding that I wanna figure out how does Macaques dojo work, cuz I couldnt seem to find any ideas of it on the internet lol

Okay so long long LONG rant:

Ik that in canon the whole place looks kinda-- moldy and shit and I get the lot of hc about how Macaque probably doesnt even live there since its in a very industrial outer neighborhood of Megaplois, and also it probably isnt really decorated or looks like someone is living in there at all, but I like to think that he has standards and they put like 272636373 nois cancelation seals on their bedroom so he can sleep camly when he actually can sleep (since in my hc Macaque suffers from insomnia (its a pretty common hc tho, but you get it)) and I think the outer circle of Megaplois is even tho industral and under constructuion on most parts, its probably more quiet than downtown

And I also like to imagine, Macaque even tho if not commited to a place will make it more homy. But looking at my reference pictures, in the dojo there were also a lot of posters and paintings (and in MKAGC Macaque did mention he might have a poster of wukong soooo~~)

For the layout I went after whatever felt right, since I had like 4 pictures to piece together a two-story house with a gallery(??) so its actually just me deciding what I want and where I wanna put it

(Here are the screenshots from lmk s1ep9 I used:)

Okay Okay if you couldnt tell, for some reason im really hyped about this stuff so im going to lead you trough my thougtprocess, when imagining this whole thing, in order from ground level to gallery

1. Ground level:

Ahh yes ground level: the problem child

(Im going to keep it somewhat brief here cuz I wrote a shit ton of explanations for it, but that somehow got deleted which I am super pissed about btw)

So I saw that a lot of hc with Macaques place are mostly that first floor is the dojo and the second floor is the living area, buuut~~ based on the screenshots of the series that doesnt make any sense. My reasoning? Simple really, its bc you can see the ceiling If you are standing in the dojo. This could lead to the conclusion that:

"Okay maybe then there is no second floor just a gallery in there somewhere and thats it".

Sure we can say that, but then you would ignore the fact that you cant see the front door of the building when Macaque slams Mk into a weaponstand.

"Okay then its on the other side of the room that we never got to see in the episode"

I mean maybe sure but to me from an animation point of view it just doesnt make sense, just why would they flipp the camera angle like that (I mean anyone can think whatever they want, everyones opinion is valid, its not like anyone would ever argue me on this one ((or read this whole brainrot trough in the first place lol)))

Haha anyways regardless of anything, let's go back to talking about the first floor, shall we?

Everything is pretty self explenatory: when you come in on the front door youll see a little shoe rack where you can but your shoes, and one stair to seperate the ante-room from the rest of the house

Then theres a long hall that leads to the enterence of the storageroom, the random room and the staircase that leads to the second floor

I couldnt decide on what to put in that big room-- I had no clue -- I was thinking maybe Macaque could let other people rent it for a few days of maybe theres a shop with an owner whos ranting the place from Macaque (I think thats an interasting concept, but I didnt explore any of them) oh well thats that tho

"""somewhat brief""""

Second floor:

This was probably the easiest, since 90% of it is the dojo

But before that when you walk up to the second floor you can see a big boubel door that opens to the dojo, and a normal door that opens to the bathroom, which is strategicly placed there by yours truely. There is big brain logic behind it,, it might be inconvinient for Macaque to walk down the stairs from his bedroom trough the dojo to the bathroom (but also he can just shadow portal there--), but when ocasionally he mentors Mk, he might have to go to the bathroom while hes at Macaques place and I dont think Macaque would apritiate someone stomping trough his personal area, and thats why the bathroom is conviniently placed next to the dojo and not that far from the bathroom I know im a genius (**read everything in the bathroom part with a lot of sarcasm**)

Anyways, we couldnt even see all four of the dojos walls so that was also a 'gamble', but I went with a simple bouble door that I mentioned before and two weapon stands (yes those are weapon stands) and other than that you can see the rest of the room on the screenshots, theres also the staircase and that has some closet underneath it, but thats about it

The gallery (my personal favorit):

Looking at my reference pictures i could see that the dojo took up a lot of space almost taking up the 1/2 of the building, which I think is reasonable and kinda cool, but that means small living area which I think is even cooler (I am a huge fan of small practical spaces, they feel so so cozy)

So Yeah the living space: mostly two rooms that I also illustrated on top of this post, (you probably saw it) with a balkony thingy before the enterence of the rooms, where you can look down and see the entirety of the dojo, good for observing.

When you go in the door (actually havent decided if I want to put a door there or curtains for style but meh who knows who cares), youll enter the small but spacious kitchen. I dont see the Six Eared Macaque as a homecook, more of a fake cooking guy (only making basic foods like eggs or toast, maybe ocasionally pancake), hints there is no built in stove or owen just a portable stove, a kettle and a toaster and a small fridge that has MKs drawing (that he drew for them at the end of season 3) magneted there :]

Other than that theres a sink and an old television, he got from the randomest place ever, maybe he fished it out of the trash idk, but he put it on top of the cabinets (rarely watches anything on it)

On the baseplan you can see that there was supposed to be a small table next to the sink with a chair, but it didn't make it to the final drawing cuz let's be honest: drawing interior in correct perspective without a reference picture is just not my strongest artskill I posess, so I got pissed and put a trashcan in there, Macaque can eat in his bed

Talking about bed, let's move on to the Six Eared Macaques room:

It is very small but pretty comfortable with a small bed but a shit ton of pillows for a good nights sleep, other than that there are a nightstand that has the Lantern on it (I know it sorta got lost/destroyed after defeating LBD but I wanted to put it there) and a drawer.

The nightstand probably doesnt have a lot innit, just some nick-nacks and tissues and maybe snacks, or a book or something, the drawer stores some of his clothes, but since I like to think that Macaque is a fashion icon that wont be able to fit most of their clothes, so maybe he stores them in a pocket dimension of shadows, and only has some esentials there when he needs to get ready quickly.

And we could talk about the posters plastered around the room, but most of them are kinda self-explanatory, but there are the poster of his shadowplaly of the hero and the warrior, some drawing, a "Hang in there babygirl!" Poster with a cat on it hanging in there, a poster of the monkey king (heh), phantom of the opera poster and a-- well--- that ones for my bestie hope she'll notice it, its a spies are forever poster (really fun musical a of spies, go watch it its on youtube), and a drawing he brought( maybe)

And thats about the bedroom

And we are still not done, how are we feeling about that?? Huh?? (You dont have to answert, this shit took me about 2 hours to write :] )

LAST PLACE: the corner of the windows opposit the kitchen and the bedroom. Its just a chill little place with pillows and blankets, where someone can bundle up and enjoy some tea or read a book or brood, whatever the monkey prefers. The special thing about it, is that you cant access the place without knowing how to levitate, fly, jump high, or use portals, not that much of a game changer since more than half of the lmk cast could get up there, but still a bit of a barrier in my opinion

AAAAAND~~~ thats it omg

Hi hello if you read this trough could you please comment or reblog with this: "🐵" cuz I wanna know about the brave soilders who went trough this immense amount of clownery,,, holly mother---

If you read this all 👏👏👏 you are amazing thank you for appreciating my work this much, have an amazing day or night ✨🪲

[aviradasa]

Hi hi again ! I just wanna say I ABSOLUTELY ADORE the chubby reader x Larry n' Sal hdcns you wrote !! It's very nice and comforting, and really made my night - I can't stop re-reading them :') . THANK YOUUU 👹🖤‼️

Anyway, I was wondering if you could do something similar to the chubby reader hdcns, but with an ADHD!reader ? Just some Larry n' Sal with an adhd having gf hdcns ! Pls & ty, ilyyy <3

(also, if you're not comfortable with writing these, or don't know abt the symptoms of adhd [with depression & anxiety symptoms, bc it's a big struggle for me personally lol], no pressure abt writing these hdcns !! Remember to eat and stay hydrated <333 !!!)

Heyyy I actually loved writing this as I've struggled for years with depression as well and me and my family have been unsure if it's Adhd or autism since I was a kid lmao So here is

Larry,sal x Adhd!Girlfriend!Reader (separate)

Sal:

Sal is really good with you

He's a really calming person to be around, so if you're really struggling that day, he's got you

If you're too hyperfocused and forget to take care of yourself, he will find a way to pull you away without bothering you. Even if it's just for a bit so you can eat or something

But if you have trouble focusing? Well, sals next to you and talking you through whatever you're trying to to.

He will even help you.

One day, you started frantically cleaning your room. Pulling stuff from the drawers pulling the stuff out from under your bed. Unloading your desk.

But then once you saw the amount of stuff, you kinda froze up. not sure where to even start.

You were honestly so overwhelmed you almost had a breakdown, but then sal walked into your guys' room, looking confused as shit asking you what's going on.

He waited patiently as you explained, and then he sat on the ground with you and started helping you organize everything,talking you through the process the entire time to keep you from getting more overwhelmed.

He's a damn angel

And once you guys got done and the room was back in order, you guys put on a movie and just passed out

If it's a day where you can't seem to sit still. He won't try to stop you.

Naw, he's saying ok come on, let's go to the apartments and run around checking on the ghost.

He doesn't try to hold you in place or stop you he tries to encourage you to do what you need to in a healthy way.

Also, if losing or misplacing things is a struggle for you, that's fine, don't worry.

Cause either he knows where it is or he's looking for it with you. And sometimes, when he sees something in an odd place, he will just grab it and put it where it should be.

And then when you need it, you don't have to go on a scavenger hunt.

On days where you can't seem to drag yourself outta bed or you're just not doing good with racing thoughts

He's with you. If you both have class that day, he will coax you out of bed,

and while you guys are driving there you guys will talk about it, and if you can't put it into words, he will just tell you stuff to get your mind off it

If you don't have class, he will lay with you, and you guys will just put on a show and chat, which makes you feel a bit better

He's like your other half at this point, and it's nice to have some calm when things get crazy

Overall, you both have a pretty good system, and if he's having issues, you help him out too, so it's a pretty win-win you

guys are great together

Larry:

Well, now Larry, I think, has a bit of it to but a little different. He's more on the hyper focus end.

He will get to painting or playing a game, and he's not moving from that spot until it's done, and if you are also hyper focused at the same time it can start off good but then can get a bit unhealthy

It's whoever comes out of it first that will snap the other out of it

But if you're having trouble focusing, he will do his best to help, but let's be honest, you both will probably end up distracted

One day, you were trying to work on a project for one of your classes and you were stuck because you had so much to do and didn't know where to start.

So you tried to put on some music. We'll that didn't work too well because now you're sitting there watching MTV music videos.

By the time Larry got back, you were spaced out at the screen with your project forgotten sitting next to you.

He asked you what it was, and when you told him, he asked if it was done and you ended up explaining that you got stuck.

Well, he sits down with you and takes a look at it and also kinda blanks. Then you guys started talking, and the conversation ventured off, and yall ended up rushing it the night before.

At least he tried lmao.

Now, if it's a hyper day for you guys and you're running around trying to do a bunch of stuff, he will probably roll a joint and give it to you like.

Smoke this.

After you do, it can have one of two reactions

1 you actually slow down and are able to chill for a bit, or 2 it just makes you wanna go on an adventure.

If it's the second you guys end up in a gas station getting snacks and then heading over to sals to bother him and his girl it's cool they don't mind lol.

Now, when it comes to misplaced objects it really fucks with larry. Like I said in my general Larry HCs, he's messy but in an organized way.

So if he's digging around trying to find a certain paintbrush and he ends up finding it in the living room instead of in his art area he it really fucks with him.

But he's not mad he's just more confused and like what the fuck I didn't put that there.

And if he asks you and you don't remember, then you guys jokingly blame the ghosts. You both know it probably wasn't them but it's a Lil inside joke.

Now, for days, you can't get up, he stays with you. He's either in the same boat or he just feels bad and understands. Sometimes, he will lay with you, and you both might smoke and talk to each other. Or he will put on a show or music and paint while you do you.

It's just nice to know he's there and that he cares.

Overall, you guys got a lot going on, but you guys manage it as well as you can and what's important is that you do it together 🖤

[hughiecampbelle]

Autopsy (Will Graham Oneshot)

Character/s: Will, Hannibal mention

Word Count: 1,363

Tag List: @locke-writes

A/N: Heavily inspired by the freezing temperatures that have come on suddenly :) I just love the winter and the snow. Something about it makes me feel alive lol. Anyways, I am having so much fun with these fics!!! I was really afraid I wouldn't be able to stick with it, and ik it's only the second day, but I have a good feeling. I have a lot more to watch lol bc I want to write for Hannibal too, I just feel like I can write Will better, if that makes sense? I know him better. Idk lol. I hope you enjoy! Feedback is always appreciated!! ❤❤❤❤❤❤

WRITING EVENT 🔪🩸

I still think of you. The words come to his mind as they have constantly, consistently, since the day you died. Not dead, he corrects, but murdered. The day you were murdered. Taken from him with violence, with cruelty, without remorse. Small things. Big things, too. Reminders. Lately, the change of the season, autumn to winter. The long, dark nights he searches in the linen closet for an extra blanket. The way the stars seem a little brighter. How the leaves, what remains of them, shudder in the wind. The hot water he shivers under, trying to warm himself up. The air is sharp, nipping and biting at his skin as he stands in the yard, in the road, in the woods. Shivering. The frost in the grass, on the pavement, sparkles, threatening to melt in the sunlight. The apples of his cheeks growing rosy, his face shielded by the collar of his coat, by the frame of his glasses, by the knit hat he wears that belonged to you. 

I still think of you, he chants. A quiet, naive, foolish part of him hopes you know. I Hope you can see him, feel him. He doesn’t bow to a higher being. He does not break his back and contort his spine in a manner of prayer. He does not step forward between the doors of a church, a temple, a house of holiness. This is as close as he’ll get to believing, to worshipping. Standing here, the temperatures dropping, the sky a watercolor painting of pinks and oranges, purples and blues, trying to stop his teeth from chattering. He can crawl into the minds of killers, of degenerates, of the insane. That is easy. The crime scenes spell it out for him in a language no one else seems to speak, to read, to understand. He can watch as they stab and slice and suffocate without flinching. A witness to the filth of humanity. What he cannot do, what he cannot understand, is your perspective. He has studied the autopsy reports. He has memorized every inflicted wound, every mark of self-defense. He has touched the objects, the weapons, that were used against you. But when he tries to get into your head, your mindset, there is a blankness that mimics untouched snow. 

Were you scared? Did you beg for your life? Did the infinity that is death creep up on you while you slipped away or was it thrust upon you like a white hot pain? Did you cry? Call out for your mother, your father, for him? They found you in the snow. A shallow grave dug before a storm, a blizzard. It made things harder. Slowed decomposition. You were missing for two weeks. That’s all. Fourteen days. He smiles despite himself. The absurdity of it all. He should have fought harder. He should have threatened until he got his way. Of course he had a bad feeling. They all did. But he wasn’t prepared for this. You didn’t come home. Your side of the bed sat empty, undisturbed. Your boots, your coat and hat and gloves hung with care by the front door, left on the mat so you wouldn’t track in slush and snow. The books you were reading, the case files you were analyzing, all waited on the coffee table, expecting you home at any time. Even the dogs, unaware of the situation, slept soundly. They knew where you lived. They stalked you for weeks on end. It was their pattern, their modus operandi. They wanted you. They loved you. And that is why they had to kill you. 

Killed because of him. His therapist disagrees. It wasn’t anything he did. It wasn’t anything he could have prevented. That’s a lie, he thinks, but doesn’t vocalize. A nervous habit: bringing your engagement ring to his lips, holding it there, before dropping it back on the chain around his neck. He waited a long time to get it back. Finally, Jack agreed. He hasn’t taken it off since. He tucks it under his shirt, the cold of the ring against his skin. You haven’t been sleeping, Hannibal states, and Will has no choice but to agree. Bruise-like circles painted beneath his eyes. How can he? How can he when the bed is so large and there is a gaping wound where you used to lie? How can he rest when he knows how you’ve suffered? The instruments used to hurt, to kill. He ends up downstairs, on the couch, his eyelids heavy. The image of your body on that metal slab. You must’ve been cold, that much he knows. You ran out without shoes, your socks, mismatched with silly patterns, thick with frozen mud. Without your jacket, without insulation, your thin shirt torn and ripped. Cut open. They were in your house. They watched you. How can he sleep when he sees a pair of eyes, bright in the dark, staring him down. Watching him. Waiting. 

It should have been me. The thought never leaves him. He can shun it away for a few fleeting moments. Between sips of coffee, tea. Before and after he spits his toothpaste in the sink. As he cleans his glasses on the hem of his shirt. Should, Hannibal points out, is a dangerous word. He nods, but does not comprehend, does not care for. The killer learned your routines. They knew when he would be out, when you were alone, when you were at your most vulnerable. He never should have. But how could? Don’t. This is my fault. The idea is sickening and, strangely, comforting. He ruminates. He sits for hours in the morning, at night, in the time between lectures and crime scenes. He goes over what he could put together. The house, your home, littered with investigators, with yellow tape and analysts. Collecting hair, fur, fingerprints. He has nowhere to go. Him and the dogs staying with Hannibal. Just until they’re done, he assured him, but he didn’t mind. When the time came to unlock the front door, to walk through and re-enter the life he’d put on hold, he couldn’t do it. Backed away from it like it was wielding a knife. Just recently has he been able to face it. It was as if nothing had ever happened. Your things right where you left them. Even the dishes, a glass, a mug, a plate, exactly as before, nestled in the sink. Dirty. Unwashed. Begging to be scrubbed clean.  They wouldn’t come after him, that he was painfully aware of. They got what they wanted. He was of no use to them. Not anymore. He could bloody his hands and knees, begging and pleading, but they are gone. Looking for their next victim. Their prey. If they’re not going to hurt him, hunt him down as they had done to you, he will punish himself instead. He will stand in the cold, the frozen temperatures, and wait. He will watch his own breath until it’s too dark, until the night takes over and the sky, inky black, mocks him. Another day you have not seen, experienced, lived. He will shed everything until the thinnest layer. He will put himself in your place, laying in the snow, waiting for his skin to grow numb. If he could he would bury himself. Dig his own grave. But the ground is too thick, too hard, and so he must wait. He must imagine. He must be patient. When it’s become too much, when he is sure he can no longer feel his limbs, he will drag himself back to the house, the dogs, the lonely bed. And he will try again the next night, thankful the winter lasts as long as she does. Dreading the days the sun waits to set and the snow melts, when the wildflowers bloom and the cold dissipates. It’s only been a year and yet, it’s felt like a lifetime. How much longer can he carry on without you? How much longer can he live this life where he cannot sleep, he cannot eat, he cannot find your killer? I don’t know, he shrugs. I don’t know.

[rush-the-stars]

AFFECTION'S EDGE: PART III

━─━────༺༻────━─━

|| alpha!suguru getou x omega!afab reader || E/18+ || wc: 6.8k || ao3 || <- part ii || masterlist ||

minors and ageless blogs do not interact, 18+ only

━─━────༺༻────━─━

“You’ve got it all wrong,” he murmurs, “but what am I to expect from a stray like you? You’ve lived off scraps and abuse your whole life; of course you don’t know what to do now that I’ve given you food and shelter.” Suguru’s fingers ease up towards your neck as he continues, “a warm bed to lie in. Toys to play with. A collar—so you’ll never be lost again. No one’s ever given you this before, hm?”

***

Suguru tries to tame you.

━─━────༺༻────━─━

✧ SPRING FEVER collab ✧

cw: omegaverse, brat taming, mind games, toxic behavior, yandere suguru getou, yandere reader, biting, blood, marking, one slap from the reader to suguru and he sorta likes it, fainting, fainting from lack of food, reader refuses to eat because she doesn't want getou to feed her, getou does not let reader eat unless he feeds them; forced feeding. forced bathing, smut; masturbation, dirty talk, voyeurism, a blurring of boundaries, consent as punishment?

a/n: happy mother's day to alpha suguru getou <3 this is the third and final part of this lil series for @lorelune 's spring fever collab! pls mind the warnings, i added some! i will be honest this part feels like a fever dream to myself lol...,.not beta read..,.i barely read it back bc im terrified of my own smut JFDKLSK enjoy LMAO but on a real note, thank you to everyone who has reached out and been so kind ab this fic! i hope you enjoy this last part! let me know your thoughts <33

━─━────༺༻────━─━

When Suguru first offers you food from his own hand, you push it away. He cooked it for you and you refuse it, turn your nose up at him and shut your mouth resolutely, feel your lips cage your teeth like a muzzle

“I’ll do it myself.” You tell him firmly. 

But then he holds the food away from you. 

You go nearly a day and a half, feverish and woozy, without eating. 

You do not plan on conceding, but end up fainting not long after. Your body is under too much stress; you need sustenance. You need food and water. 

So he begins to feed you as your lashes flutter and you are too weak to deny him this time. 

It’s easier, when you can hardly keep your eyes open. His hands are impossibly gentle. You feel his fingers against your lips, careful, and loving. 

When you’re feeling better, you glower at him. 

He is rather pleased, though. 

The next time he tries to feed you by hand, you turn and bite his hand, sink your teeth into the meat of it. 

He laughs warmly, fondly. 

“Feel better to get that out of your system?” He asks, when you finally pull away. 

You don’t respond to him.

He grabs your face swiftly then, big hand fitting around your jaw and bearing down. This time, he holds you steady, and brings the slice of orange to your mouth. 

You squirm, but he says, “I will not have you fainting again.” 

“Let me feed myself then.” You manage to get out, but he holds you tighter, presses at your jaw to get it to unhinge. 

The orange pops into your mouth. 

“You’re insufferable.” You say around it, cheek puffed with the fruit. 

Unfortunately, it’s good. Sweet. A little cool. Refreshing. You do want more. 

“This doesn’t have to be so difficult.” He responds evenly, peeling away the next piece of the orange. It looks so small in his hands. 

You swallow the piece in your mouth. 

“You’re right,” you respond stubbornly, “it doesn’t.” You reach for the next piece but he holds it away from you. 

Frustration overcomes you, chokes you like thorny vines strangling out the softer plants around them. Heat hits your face again and you have to wonder if you’ll ever get over it all. If he’ll ever stop making you feel this way.

Tears prick your eyes again. 

You turn your face away from him. He sighs. 

“It isn’t so bad,” he says softly, “if you’d just give in.” 

You sniff. “I could say the same of you.” 

“I’m trying to take care of you,” he says, “and at every turn, you are still trying to refuse it.” 

“I don’t need—”

“But don’t you want it?” He asks gently, hand reaching out slowly, knuckles first, so they skim your cheek. “It’s okay to want.” 

Stubbornly, you remain silent. 

“You’ve been so alone, for so long, my little stray. It’s okay to be taken care of.” He consoles softly, voice just a rumble that warms to your ears. 

“I’ll not think you any less strong, if you let me feed you now.” He promises, “if you let me care for you this week.” 

You don’t know why, but a tear slips down your cheek. There’s a lump in your throat, hard and aching, and threatening your resolve. 

He catches your tear with a thumb. “Poor thing, so torn up.” 

You sniff hard, trying to hold everything in. It’s trembling and tender, though, your heart. The ache in your chest.

You don’t think you’ll win this one—

Your head is foggy and throbbing. You don’t even know what you’re winning or losing. Or what you’re fighting for, when he puts it that way. 

You feel silly for denying him.

Perhaps worse for agreeing.

Finally, in a voice smaller than intended? you ask, “can I have another piece?” 

Suguru studies you for a moment. 

He lifts the curved bend of the orange up to your lips, testing. Waiting. It's a half moon curve, ripe and tempting.

You give in and part your lips, accept the crescent into your mouth like holding the moon on your tongue for him. 

He presses it inside, on your tongue, and you accept the crescent like holding a soft, tangerine moon in your mouth for him. His fingers skim your teeth, placing a world there, on your tongue.

“Good girl,” he says, pleased and warm, when you close around the slice. 

And then you obediently swallow it down—worldeater that you are, hungry dog that you are. 

Another tear slips free as you chew it slowly. It’s tangy and sweet and lovely. You feel the well of emotions inside you open up, threatening to drag you down into its depths—you think if you start to cry now, you won’t ever stop.

Suguru dutifully peels off another piece of orange, making sure it’s free of rind or unwanted seeds. 

When he lifts it to your mouth, you open readily for it now. Close your lips around his fingers gently, around the sweet orange.

With tears in your eyes, you look up at him, through wet lashes. 

His scent has darkened, pungent and spicier. It lingers in the back of your mouth. It’s—it makes your head spin.

And there's a strange look in his eyes now. 

Almost hungry himself, if you didn’t know better. 

A cramp rolls through you, hips and lower back churning, and you whimper, reaching for him. 

He takes hold of you easily. 

“Hurts?” He muses softly.

You nod, tense and quick. 

“Breathe,” he urges, shifting between your knees from where you’re sitting perched on his counter. 

Instinctively, you cling to him.

You let yourself pull him closer, fit himself to you—

“Breathe,” he says again gently.

But you can feel him between your legs, you can feel his own desire, and it strikes you like a bolt of lightning. Like crashing to earth.

He’s hard and heat sweeps through you in a whirlwind, so fast it makes you feel dizzy. Your head spins as you sink your nails deep into him, bear down with your strength like a bad dog, like you could get him to stay. 

Distantly, you think he’s such a strange, awful man. 

Is he so turned on from feeding you? Or from the fight? 

“Suguru,” you mewl, clinging to him desperately. And he holds you, keeps you close, until your hips twitch. 

You seek friction and he denies you. 

Frustratingly, tears spring to your eyes again. 

“You’re so—“ you try to get out, “why are you also denying yourself?” 

“Because I made you a promise.” Suguru responds evenly. He pauses, eyes flickering over you, a lightning flash of violet, “and, perhaps,” he squeezes your waist, “to teach you a lesson.” 

A noise of frustration works its way out of you, a little growl or whine, somewhere in the back of your throat. 

“Won’t you do anything to help me?” You get out, pawing at his shoulders, his chest. 

“I’m feeding you,” he says, “I’m caring for you.” 

And then he draws away, back to the orange, and your fingers grip the edge of the counter until pain presses into them. You have to force air into your lungs, try and make your head stop spinning. 

The wooziness and the aching is perhaps the worst part. You feel out of your mind, wish you could crawl out of your body. 

When Suguru returns, he has another piece of orange between his fingers. 

You glare up at him with glassy eyes. 

“Open,” he says, warm and low.

Pleased.

Turned on. 

Your lips part and you accept the fruit and his fingers into your mouth. You let yourself close around them, feel his knuckles on the inside of your warm, wet cheek. 

You’re slow about it, or maybe he is. 

You hold his gaze furiously. 

Maybe it was time you taught him a lesson, too. You bite down hard into the orange. It bursts in your mouth. 

***

The third day is perhaps the worst.

You’re so hot and somehow both overstimulated and undertouched. Your skin crawls until Suguru touches you. You ache in a way that makes you fear for your own health; several times you start to cry—not just cry, but bawl—from the pain. From the frustration.

At one point, you beg Suguru to take you to the hospital. To help you. To save you. 

You babble that you’re going to split apart. You’re going to lose your mind.

Like a colicky baby, you can’t calm down. 

And this time, he can’t quite seem to soothe you, either.

You twist and turn and pull at your clothes and your hair. You dig your nails into your own skin and drag them down in vicious, curving marks. 

You press and scratch at inflamed, painful scent glands. 

Your jaw hurts strangely in the joints. 

(You realize you want something in your mouth. Maybe you want it between your teeth.) 

Suguru tries to hold your hands away from yourself, tries to keep you from tearing into your own skin, but it only worsens you. It only makes you fight harder and cry harder. You lash out more, using more force with yourself, with him. 

When he snaps finally, pinning you roughly and with a flash of his sharper, greater canines, something inside of you howls. 

All you can do is beg and plead and cry. Press up against him desperately. Sink your face into his throat and inhale and—

Bite.

Your teeth close around the skin of his throat and bear down harshly.

He inhales sharply, spine going rigid with the pain for a moment.

You taste his blood on your tongue and feel your eyes roll blissfully to the back of your head. Darkness as your lashes flutter shut. You whimper into his throat—

“Is that what you needed?” He hisses, slipping his hand behind you to cradle your head to him, to keep you at his throat, “you just needed to get your teeth into me?” 

As if in response, you twine yourself around him, hitching your legs around his waist. Your arms winding around his broad shoulders, as if you could absorb him into your very body, your very soul. 

“Too bad it won’t take, hm?” Suguru muses, unmoving, allowing himself to melt into your vice grip on him. 

You make a soft noise; one that would be embarrassing if you didn’t—if you weren’t so—

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? To Mark me properly?” He continues, voice bedroom soft, “you want to scar me with your own teeth?” 

As if in response, you try and fasten your mouth down harder, grinder your teeth into his flesh until he groans. The sound reverberates through you, rattles around inside your head until you’re mindless with it. 

When you finally manage to unlatch your teeth, he hisses and pulls away to grab your jaw. 

“What a little beast,” he sneers at you, “with my blood all over your mouth.” 

Something inside of you snaps. 

Unintentionally, you shudder into your cursed form—teeth elongating, nails sharpening. Strength rips through your otherwise feeble, heat-laddled body. In a sudden move of power, you shove him hard, and throw him off you. 

In an instant, you are back atop him. 

This time, when your teeth sink into the juncture of his other shoulder, they are far longer. 

He actually cries out in pain. 

The sound sparks beneath your skin, roars to life like a sudden fire and when he tries to grab your jaw and pry you off him, your claws sink into his wrist. 

You struggle with each other, using your cursed energy, using all the strength you have. 

Blood drips down his chest, dampening the collar of his shirt. 

He barks out a pained laugh, “you really are a curse.”

And then he is forcing you off of him, wrenching your teeth out of his skin in a brutal drag, shoving you away from him. 

You hiss, baring your dripping fangs at him and he growls back. The sound low and primal. Warning bells ping around your head, but you lunge for him again. 

This time, he isn’t so ill-prepared. 

He grapples with you on the bed, shoving you down into it with his forearm bearing down hard into your chest. 

You make a noise of pain but he doesn’t let up.

He’s panting and bleeding, his long hair slipping from its usual half-up appearance. 

Something inside of you is quite pleased at the image of him. 

Not so pristine. 

Perhaps unsure, for once in all the time you’ve known him. 

“Calm down.” He says low and soft. Part growl, part purr. “Your aggression is misguided.” 

Your teeth are bared in a snarl, “you are my tormentor.” 

“I am only respecting your wishes.” Suguru says and there is a horrible, smug lift to the corner of his lips. Maybe it’s more a threat of his teeth, which gleam in the lowlight. “I made you a promise and I’m keeping it.” 

“Let me up,” you snap. 

“Will you be good?” Suguru asks. 

Your fever spikes, tears pricking again at your eyes, and you finally lose your transformation. It melts from you, until you are fangless and drained once more. 

So drained, in fact, that your eyes gutter.

Suguru is off you in an instant. Air rushes into your lungs, the pressure from your chest lifting and he lets you heave for breath rough and hard. 

You don’t catch him move, but suddenly a glass of water is brought to your lips. When you can breathe, you drink. You let him guide it to your lips. And this time, when you try to pull away, he stops you. 

His hand cradles the back of your head, keeping your mouth to the glass.

“More,” he presses, “you’re weaker than you know.” 

And for once, you don’t fight him. 

You gulp down the rest of it, some of it slipping from your mouth, down your chin, rolling down your working throat. It’s cool but barely a balm to the oppressive heat inside of you. 

When you finish, Suguru pulls the glass away. He sets it down and studies you.

He tsks softly, “you’re a mess.” 

You take him in, though your eyes are growing heavy, all of that fighting took a lot out of you. It’s catching up with you quickly now. 

But your eyes land on the bite marks you’ve littered him with. The one, specifically, that is still ringed and bleeding, dripping down his chest. 

“So are you.” You reply, words slurring. 

You don’t catch what he says next, muffled, as you fade from consciousness. Darkness sweeps in to cradle you, much the way Suguru is now, and you fall into a restless sleep. 

***

Suguru wakes you at some point. 

It’s pitch black outside the window; there is very little light in the room at all, which adds to your confusion. Your head is throbbing. 

You whimper. 

“Sit up for me,” his voice is a hush, “can you do that?” 

“Let me sleep,” you reply, pushing weakly at him as he forces you up. Everything swims. Your head lolls like a doll and he catches it so you don’t give yourself whiplash. 

“You’re burning up,” he replies, “I need to get the fever down.” 

You don’t have the wherewithal to understand this. 

For a moment, you hope that he means—

“I’m going to give you a bath.” 

You make another noise, this one in disagreement. Fussy. 

He tuts softly at you, the way mothers do at bad children, and then he disappears, allowing you to fall back against the bed once more. 

You’re not sure for how long, but you doze off again, unable to keep your eyes open. You only awake when Suguru lifts you clear from the bed and into his arms. Again, you make a noise of protest, pushing weakly at him, but he pays you no mind. 

You open your eyes and wince against the bathroom light. 

The bath is running, filling with water. You frown and squirm in his hold, just as he gently sets you on the floor beside the tub. 

“Let’s get you out of these clothes,” he murmurs and you push his hands away.

“No,” you snap, “leave.” 

He sighs, “you can hardly sit up right now. I don’t trust you in the bath alone.” 

“I’m not a child,” you protest.

“No, but you’re experiencing a compounded Heat, after years of not having one and you don’t have a knot to soothe you.” Suguru’s voice is cool. His eyes are, too. 

You level him with the best glare you can manage, “and whose fault is that?” 

“I’m only keeping my promise.” He almost sings. 

You swat at him but he catches your wrist easily and pulls you up further as you begin to slouch further and further down against the edge of the tub. “Come,” he says, “don’t make this harder than it needs to be.” 

This time, when he reaches to remove your shirt, you only grumble in protest. He peels it from you carefully, revealing bare skin. Despite how hot you are, you shiver hard. 

You ache. 

This is the worst fever you’ve ever had. Perhaps, this is one of the worst you’ve felt ever. 

You can hardly move enough to allow Suguru to slip your bottoms off and you feel so miserable that you can’t even find it in yourself to be embarrassed or frustrated or angry. 

Tears bead at your eyes again but it’s purely because you are in so much pain. 

Suguru lifts you into the bath. 

It’s lukewarm. Tufts of bubbles smell like lavender. The water is milky and gentle. 

You don’t realize it, but you’ve started to cry again, reaching out for Suguru. You realize he’s cleaned and bandaged his bite mark. He also coos to you, rolling up his sleeves to reach you in the water, stroking at your throat, your cheek.

And then he takes a wash cloth in hand and begins to do the same. He bathes you with a strange gentleness. A gentleness you have not given him. Your tears continue, tracking down your face, which he dutifully washes, too. He wipes away your tears, any sweat and grime, until you feel shining and new.

Eventually, you rest your arms on the lip of the bathtub, folded, and lay your cheek against them. You’re exhausted and still hurting, but at least quiet for now. At least you are cleaned and—

Suguru strokes at your cheek, traces the curve and folds of your ear, gently strokes through your hair. 

“Poor thing,” Suguru murmurs, knuckles drawing across your jaw, down your throat. When he passes along your scent gland, you shiver, you wince a little. 

“Hurts,” you get out and he coos more to you.

Babying you.

And you don’t have the strength to deny him any longer, so you let yourself be babied. You whimper at him and let him try to soothe you, you let him quiet and pet you. 

You’re looking at each other rather frankly, through the haze of your Heat, through all the lust or aggression or fear. In a rare moment of peace, you gaze up at his face and he looks down into yours. 

“Do you hate me?” You ask and your voice is rather raw from all the crying, “is that why you’ve led me here?” 

A strangely fond smile touches his lips, “on the contrary,” Suguru replies, fingers careful along your cheek, “I adore you.” 

“You have such a strange way of showing it.” You tell him. 

“I’m only keeping my promise,” he says again and all you have in you is a deep, dejected sigh. 

“I’m going to make you pay for this, Suguru.” And though your tone is docile, even sleepy, it is a promise. 

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll try.” He agrees, touch growing stronger, bolder, as he pets down your throat, your shoulder. You lean into the touch like a cat, too exhausted to deny it. “And I’ll still be here after—your ire or punishment will not scare me away.” 

You look at him for a moment, long and hard, and only find the truth there. Something strangely raw.

After a moment, you say, “I know.” 

He hums softly, leaning forward to give your burning forehead a rare and gentle kiss, “do your worst, then.” 

You pick your head up barely, tilt your face to his and catch him in a sudden, burning kiss. 

You pull away as quickly as you’d done it. 

You can tell you’ve surprised him only momentarily, it passes over his features like a bird flickering through the sky, there and gone. 

And you say, “no,” soft, and against his lips, “I’ll do my best this time.” 

He pulls away, creating carefully controlled distance. “Come,” he says, urging you up and out of the bath, “let’s get you to bed.” 

“Carry me?” You ask as he bundles you into a soft towel. “Let me wear your shirt?” 

His eyes glint violet, dark and quick, but he says, “of course.” And indulges you.

He even holds you all night and lets you sleep in late. 

The fever only worsens. 

And you can’t tell if your resolve crumbles or strengthens; but either way, you’re born anew with the sun the next day. 

*** 

Suguru woke up before you. He let you sleep in. But now you're awake and waiting for him. When Suguru returns to wake you in the early afternoon, instead of sleeping, you are half-lidded and sun-warmed, laying in his sheets still. The fever has reached a pitch inside you. You’re sure it’s done irreparable damage to your mind and psyche because of how you find yourself.

Because of how Suguru finds you. 

The shirt of his you’d worn to bed is pushed up to your chin, revealing your bare chest, your stomach, flexing and twitching, with your legs spread. Your fingers between them, working messily against yourself, against where you’ve needed since your Heat began. 

For once, you have shocked Suguru. 

Enough that his lips part. 

Just a flash, a ripple of his features, before he smooths them out quickly. Effortlessly. But it is enough to spur you on regardless, to feel just slightly triumphant. 

You keen softly, arching your back, pushing your fingers gently through silken folds. 

“Suguru,” you mewl his name, all soft and broken, arching your hips into your own touch desperately. Beyond your desire for revenge, is simply your desire, the need to feel full, to feel pleasure like this. And you reasoned with yourself, all night, and all morning, that you’d win regardless; either you’d wrestle his tightly held control from his grasp, and get what you so desperately want from him, or you’d still get to touch yourself and find some brief moment of reprieve. 

Beyond either of those two things, you could not think. They ran around your mind like wild, starved dogs hunting down the possibility of a rabbit. 

(Or are you the rabbit? Running around and around your mind, trying to escape the bite? Or are you looking for it?) 

“What do you think you’re doing?” He asks and for a moment, he doesn’t dare step closer to you or the bed. 

You push a finger inside yourself, it goes in easy—so slick and easy—that the next pass, you add a second and gasp. 

What are you doing? You feel half out of your mind. 

“Can’t help it—” you get out, “it hurts so bad. It’s—I’m so—” 

You watch a muscle in his jaw feather and tick. His scent is—

It hits you like a blow to the chest, the way he smells. It’s dark and spiced with warmth; tobacco and the oud in his scent has become heavier. You can almost taste it in the air.

“Suguru—“ you mewl again, pleading and cloying. You tilt your hips up towards your hand, towards him. You’re trying to entice him. 

You can nearly hear the way his teeth grind together. 

“You’re a brat,” he hisses but you can sense the way his control has slipped and thinned. You can nearly feel it fraying in his voice alone.

You practically purr, fingers pushing desperately inside yourself. 

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” you simper, “I’ve been so good letting you feed me and bathe me—I’m wearing the shirt you put me in, too.” 

For a moment, you watch as his eyes slowly dip down the length of your body, to where your fingers are. You watch his expression flicker, the tilt of his eyebrows, the slight parting of his lips. You whimper, knowing he’s watching, and try to curl your fingers. 

But they don’t reach as deep as his might—not thick enough, either, and the ache inside you grows monstrously. 

Perhaps only soothed by the way, for once, you’ve rendered Suguru Getou rather speechless. You toss your head back and moan at the thought. 

“Suguru—won’t you help me? Even a little?” You arch off the bed and catch his gaze when his eyes fly back up to your face. 

“No,” he snaps quickly, “I promised you—“

“Then tell me what to do—talk to me.” You beg, “it hurts so bad, Suguru—“

The muscle in his jaw feathers again. But this time, he wades carefully into the room, stepping closer to the edge of the bed.

The moment he’s there, you adjust so he can see you better, move so your foot is just nearly touching his thigh at the end of the bed. And even that small potential for touch has you crying out again. 

“I’m not sure I should, after the way you’ve been acting.” He says and though he’s trying for casualness, you can sense the tension lurking underneath.

“Touch yourself then,” you breathe, your own eyes drifting down to his sweatpants—to the noticeable bulge—

In a bold move, you place your foot on his lower abdomen, looking up at him through your lashes as your fingers gently push in and out, walls fluttering desperately around them.

He catches your ankle before you can move another inch. The way he squeezes you makes a thrill run through you, race up your spine, pool somewhere low and hot in the depths of you. 

“Is this your way of trying to make me suffer?” He asks and despite everything, a hint of a smile flickers across your heated, panting face.

“Is it working?” You ask. 

All he does is hum, thumb stroking along the bone of your ankle.

Even that is enough for pleasure to skitter and flare beneath your skin. 

“Wanna see you,” you get out, breathy and soft, “wanna see what I’m missing.”

Suguru curses and you laugh, delirious and soft.

Pleasure blushes and surges beneath your skin. 

“No,” he says again but he has to grind the word out, pull it and wrestle it from his own mouth. “You won’t get the better of me here.” 

“Don’t you get tired of your tightly wound control?” You get out, twisting a little so that you might free your ankle from his grasp, but he holds firm.

“I should be asking the same of you—but clearly,” his eyes flicker again, “you do.” 

“Need you so bad—“ you get out, almost pouting. 

You can nearly hear his teeth grind together. He inhales sharply, as if to try and steady himself, but you can tell it only worsens him. Your scent must be thick in the air, sweetened and cloying.

Your fingers slip messily, desperately, over your clit, down inside of yourself and back out. You whine, a little frustrated, trying again and again to satiate the ache inside of you. But anything you do, isn’t enough. 

It almost feels as if it’s made it worse. 

“Poor thing,” Suguru finally says and you realize, he’s regained some of his composure, “look what you’ve done to yourself.” 

You curse this time. 

But you press on, unwilling to give up your win yet, “you’ve also done this—because you wanted the upper hand so bad.” You press inside yourself, hips lifting towards your fingers, “you didn’t have to take the suppressants.” 

His brow flickers up, “I did it for you.” 

“Did you?” You gasp, adding a second finger. 

He swallows, eyes falling to the apex of your thighs, watching, as you fitfully try to pleasure yourself. 

“You didn’t have to—you could’ve let me trigger your Rut. Then we both would’ve been like this—” your voice hitches, “then you would’ve gotten what you wanted sooner and you could’ve feigned innocence.” 

“You didn’t want that,” he says, watching you carefully, “who's to say you won’t come out of this Heat and resist me again?”  

“I won’t,” you breathe, “I did—” you mewl, hips arching and falling, trying so hard, working yourself up so horribly. 

You bite off a groan. 

Suguru clicks his tongue, makes a soft, disapproving noise. “And now look at you,” his hand slides along your calf, so large, and—

“Don’t even know how to properly touch yourself.” 

“Suguru—” 

Suddenly, he tugs you gently, so you’re down at the edge of the bed, your legs on either side of his thighs as he stands above you. 

He leans down slightly and you sit up, towards him, hoping, desperate—

“Such a terrible, little Omega. Do you need me to teach you this, too? Do you need me to help you?” 

You cry out, kitten soft, as needy and tender as a child. 

“Please,” you beg, “please, I need you—”

His hand traces up the outside of your calf, up to your thigh and you squirm, hope fluttering, heart racing—

“Don’t move,” he murmurs, “or I won’t help you.” 

“Suguru,” you growl in frustration. 

“Ah, ah, I thought you were being good?” 

Your head spins—you have no idea how he managed to flip it on you so sharply, but suddenly he has, and suddenly you're nearly underneath him, and he’s leaning over you and watching so intensely—so— 

You try to go still for him. Your chest is heaving. 

“That’s it,” he murmurs and his hand slowly arcs over the bend of your hip, and towards your stomach. Your hips twitch and he stills, “careful—” he warns. 

You force yourself to freeze, still panting. 

And then he lays the broadness of his hand on your lower stomach, his thumb just barely brushing your mound. 

“This is as far as I’ll go,” he says and with the way you almost fall into a frustrated groan, he seizes your chin with his other hand, “I’ll not touch you sexually. This is all I’ll give you—be grateful for even this.” 

You sneer at him and he takes his hand away. 

Instantly, you miss the warmth, the pressure, the—

“Be good, or I’ll leave the room now and let you suffer even worse than before—see what you’ve done to yourself? Worked yourself up so horribly, and all for what?”  Suguru’s voice is soft and smooth and so, horribly in control again. When did he get it back? When did he take it from you? 

“My attention? The hopes that I’d give in?” He asks. 

When you don’t respond, he squeezes your face, prompting you, “answer me, pet.” 

“Yes—I want your attention. I want—” the words break over you like a wave, the realization like a blow. You want. 

You desire. 

You want him. You want an Alpha and not just any Alpha but Suguru, despite everything, maybe because of everything. Maybe because you made him chase, and he did. Maybe because you have run your whole life from this—this attention and this desire and this intimacy—and you have finally found someone willing to hunt you down like a fox, and in the face of your gnashing teeth and growling and yipping, to treat you gently. Like you’re a beloved house pet and not a snarling, wild beast. 

“I want you,” you say honestly and his hold slackens on your cheeks to let you speak, “I hate you and I want you and—there’s no one but you—it’s only you and you’re awful but I am, too, and I need—” 

It cracks out of you, voice raw, a half-sob. 

Your tears make him smile. 

He hushes you gently, “oh, sweet girl,” he soothes, and his other hand slowly returns to its place on your trembling, lower stomach, “you’re so torn up about this. How much grief have you given yourself? Hm? Just for wanting?” 

You heave, unable to respond, suddenly reaching with your free hand for him, pulling on his shirt, closer to you. 

He gives in and goes, lets you claw at his back and bury your face in his shoulder. He finally lets go of your face, in favor of letting you fall to pieces beneath him. His knee dips on the mattress. But he holds himself above you still.

“I’ll guide you now,” he murmurs and his voice is by your ear. He turns his nose to nudge against your temple, inhaling slowly. 

You can feel the rumble of a groan through him that he holds back, a soft growl. 

And then, “look at me.” 

You sniffle and with a great deal of reluctance, you pull your face away from the safety of his shoulder to find his gaze. Midnight violet. Depthless. 

“Hate me all you want,” he says, “but I adore you—no matter how you are. Willing and pliant, or vicious and biting. I’ll always adore you. And I’ll always do what’s best for you.” 

Something inside of you cleaves open. Fractures in a way that is irreparable. 

You want to say something but you don’t know what, you have something so tremendous and terrifying inside of you, because of him—all you can get out is a soft cry. 

“Now,” he continues, eyes flickering over your body, and his thumb gently strokes over your lower stomach. “You feel empty, don’t you?” 

A whimper eeks out of you. You nod slowly. Empty and torn apart and open and aching. 

“Use three fingers, not two.” He commands gently, “you want something bigger, hm? I’m sure it hurts so badly—you’re so wet.” 

Without thinking, you obey him. 

You press three fingers carefully inside of you and it’s the first stretch you’ve gotten, the first spark of relief. 

You cry out, clinging to him. 

“That’s it,” he encourages, “in and out for me.” 

You tilt your hips up into his hand, towards your fingers, and he doesn’t scold you. The pressure on your lower stomach makes pleasure bloom and strengthen there. For a moment, it’s just the soft, slick noises of yourself, and it’s so—

Embarrassing. So horrible. 

You must look out of your depth, you must look lost or terrified, because he finally speaks again, “curl your fingers for me, darling.” 

You do just that and moan the moment you press deeper inside yourself. 

“Good girl,” he praises, “does that feel better? Answer me.” 

“Yes—yeah.” You get out, crooking your fingers inside yourself. “I still want—” 

“More?” He murmurs, pressing his hand gently against your lower stomach, “this time, you have to make do with just this.” 

You bite back your whine or complaint, head hazy—fingers moving desperately. But you don’t complain, you don’t fuss. 

He smiles when he realizes how you’ve caught yourself, “oh, look at that,” he purrs, “you can be tamed after all.” 

And before you can ruin it for yourself, Suguru sweeps his thumb just barely over your mound again, and says, “rock your hips now, gentle.” 

The moment you do, the friction against your palm makes you moan, head falling back, baring your throat. 

Perhaps without thinking, he dips forward, nose tracing over the cure of your neck, following instinct. You make another soft noise, and in your haze, wish desperately that he would just bite down—

All you get is the brief skim of his warm, soft lips. No teeth and you miss them, achingly. 

He presses his hand down just a little more and—

Pleasure bursts beneath your skin with enough force that your back bows off the bed, mouth parted. 

You sob. 

You feel your walls flutter uselessly around your fingers, feel your body desperate for something you can’t have this time, and fall apart.

Suguru is there to catch you. 

He coos to you, soft and easy, and even kisses at your damp, tear-struck cheeks. He lets you arch and twist and chase your pleasure, lets you be wanton and shameless and desperate. He lets you claw him and bite him and cry into his shoulder. 

And when you begin to quiet, he suddenly hitches your legs around his waist and lifts you clear from the bed. You lope your arms weakly around his neck and bury your face into his throat. 

You don’t protest or fight him, you are grateful and eager for all the places you touch, feeling incredibly fragile in his broad arms.  

You don’t bother to look where he’s taking you—can’t find it in yourself to care, if you can feel him against your center, feel where he’s hard and aching himself, even with the suppressants—

But between one breath and the next, you’re in the bathtub again, and the water from the shower blasts on from above. 

Ice cold water pours on you. 

You shriek and Suguru has the nerve to laugh, which makes you lunge for him, yanking him towards the spray of water. 

It soaks his shirt, his hair, as he holds himself over you, before stepping carefully into the tub to join you. 

He sits with you, beneath the cold water, and pushes his hair out of his face as you clamber into his lap. 

You pull at his wet shirt and he lets you take it off of him, throw it over the side of the tub in a heap. 

He reaches to do the same to you, ridding you of the only article of clothing you’d had on. 

You grit your teeth, “does it have to be so cold?” You ask, feeling the spray now rain against your back, your shoulders. You lean away from it, into his arms. 

“You needed this.” He says fondly. And then, as he strokes your wet hair, “I did, too.” 

“You’re an awful man,” you curse him, shivering.

“I know,” he agrees with a soft, fond smile. 

You look at him, hair inky and dark, lashes damp against his cheek, and the pleased way he smiles. Like an insufferable, giant cat. You’re aching and furious and freezing and so—so tender. 

“I hate you,” you tell him but it sounds more like a confession, soft around the edges. 

He kisses your temple, lingers there, and you can feel the curve of his smile. You can hear it color his voice;

“I know.” 

***

Something shifts between the two of you after that. And the following day, your Heat finally begins to wane slightly. 

You try to touch yourself again and Suguru forbids it this time. You fight and snarl with him, but you let him hold you and lull you to sleep. You let him feed you. And bathe you. You sleep bare against his naked chest and are soothed by it the way a fussy baby is calmed by the bare skin of their mother. 

You feel infinitely closer to him. 

You lounge with him in bed, in his living room, hanging off him all that you can. 

He indulges this behavior, encourages it, even. 

And on the eighth day, your Heat finally breaks. 

When you wake, still curled on his chest, with his hands stroking tenderly over your bare back, he asks, “how do you feel?” 

“Sane, I think.” You murmur it into his chest. 

“Your Heat broke in the night.” He says and touches your head, your forehead, like he’s taking your temperature. “You’re still a little warmer, but it’s over now, I think.” 

Slowly, you pick yourself up to look at him. To hover over him. 

He looks up at you, too, uncertain. Waiting. You’re sure he’s waiting to see if you’ll return to your usual self, if you’ll snap or snarl or chew him out—will you storm out? Or seethe? Will you fight him still, after everything, even as he holds you in his arms now? 

“Thank you for respecting my wishes,” you say instead and lean down to suddenly press your lips to his. 

You feel his surprise, the way his lips part, the way he freezes and you sink down into it. For a moment, you worry he won’t reciprocate again. 

But then, his hand comes up to cradle your face, and he nudges into the kiss. Hungry. Deep. 

You give into him, you encourage him, coaxing him with soft tongue and eager mouth. 

When you pull away, you grab his face this time, the way he always grabs yours, squeezing his lips into a little pout, “but if you ever make me suffer like that again through a Heat,” your nails dig into his cheek, “I’ll fucking kill you.” 

He laughs, canines flashing, and surges forward to kiss you again. Harder. Meaner. 

It’s all teeth and heat, a little vicious, the way you are. He wrestles you beneath him, kisses you into the mattress. And when he pulls away, he says;

“If you ever make me suffer like that again, you’ll wish you’d killed me first.” 

You feel your own smile against his neck, against one of the ridges of your own bite mark, and with all the satisfaction in the world, you sink your teeth down into it again. 

It’s like a key coming up against a lock, fitting snugly to their own indents, and finding their own, well-worn place. 

It’s like finally coming home. 

[justanothermemestrider]

Nothing Ever Stays Dead - Part 3

Okay.

Is this part basically that one scene from Arcane with Jinx and the flare? Yes. Yes it is.

Did I listen to Guns for Hire by Woodkid nonstop while I was writing this? Yes. Yes I did.

Am I ashamed? Absolutely not XD

Thank you guys so so much for the support this fic has received so far. I've been having an absolute blast writing it, and that's largely because I know you guys have been enjoying it. So thank you :)

Oh also, you missed part 2, all good, you can read it here

As usual, there is violence, angst and general 40kness under the cut, as well as hella lore inaccuracies both for the sake of the story and bc research is hard (I did try, though lol). Apologies for any spelling and grammar mistakes.

Thanks so much for reading and I sincerely hope you enjoy!

"Down there. You see them?"

Ellicent followed Gadriel's outstretched hand with the optical scope. She adjusted the knob on its top, focusing the lens on where his index finger was pointing.

Her eyes widened. "No way."

"Oh yes, " Gadriel chuckled. "I've been following them all day."

Ellicent lowered the scope to look at him. "The hell are a bunch of topsiders doing all the way down here?"

Gadriel shrugged. "Same reason people go to zoos, maybe?"

Ellicent rolled her eyes. "Har har." Crouching on the edge of the rooftop now, she put her eye to the scope once again. The tourists looked like Mid-hivers: merchants, maybe, other some other kind of artisan-type. No where near as wealthy as those who lived in the spires, but compared to what those in the Underhive had, they might as well have been. There are two groups of them- roughly three in each. They're walking on opposite sides of the street, as if pretending not to know each other. With their real-cotton clothing and long embroidered coats, however, they're more than conspicuous anyway.

"Seriously though," Ellicent said. "What are they doing down here?"

"If I had to guess? They want to hit the marketplace."

"You mean the black marketplace?"

"Guess there are still things topside doesn't have that we do."

"Yeah. It's nothing good, though"

"Who knows, then," Gadriel said. From his tone, Ellicent could tell that he had no interest in discussing the topic any further. She rose to her feet, folding the scope up and handing it back to him. "So. What's the plan?"

"Simple pickpocket, I think. Anything too loud, and we risk alerting the Arbites."

Ellicent nodded. "One group each?"

"Yeah. But we'll stagger it. Make it look random, lest they think we're working together."

"Gotcha."

Gadriel smiled. "One other thing." He stuffed the scope in his trouser pocket, then opened his jacket and reached into the pocket sewn into the lining. From it, he extracted two, metal objects. Ellicent thought they looked a little like pistols. She looked at him sharply. "What are those?"

Reading the expression on her face, Gadriel shook his head. "Don't worry. They're only flare guns."

"Flare guns?"

"Yeah. You know, the things soldiers use to signal each other with? They shoot a big bright light into the-"

"I know what a flare gun is, Gadriel," Ellicent said. "What I don't know is where the hell you got two of them from."

"Same place I got the scope from."

"Which was?"

Gadriel chewed the inside of his cheek- the way he always does when he's thinking. "Do you remember... uh... you remember that Arbites supply drop that landed the other day... "

Ellicent's mouth fell open. "You didn't."

He shrugged. The non chalance of the gesture absolutely infuriated her. "Gadriel!" she hissed.

"I know I know," he said. "And before you say it, yes, if the Ultramarines were to somehow hear about it, they'd never let me join."

Ellicent hadn't been about to say that. Now that she'd heard it, though, she couldn't resist. "If that's the case, maybe I should tell them," she muttered.

Anger flushed Gadriel's face. But after a second or two, it fades into resignation. "Ellie," he said. "Can we please not do this now?"

Ellicent clenched her jaw. On her tongue, a retort waited impatiently to be spoken. But in the end, she swallowed it. As grated as she was feeling, she also empathised with him: she didn't want to do this right now, either.

Gingerly, she reached towards him, plucking one of the flare guns from his hands. She held it up to her face, rotating it in her grip as she examined it "What have you got these for, anyway?" she asked. "If their not good for sticking up the top siders, why do we need them?"

A silent "Thank you" flashed across Gadriel's face. Then, holding up the remaining flare gun, he said. "I thought we could use them as warning signals. You know for when we're not together. If you were to find yourself alone anywhere and you needed me, you just fire it in the air, and I'll come find you. I'll do the same with mine."

Ellicent tested the device's grip in her hand. Felt just like holding a pistol, except lighter. "Are they loaded?"

"Yes. But I wasn't able to get any other shells for them. The only one they've got is the one in the chamber."

Ellicent smirked. "So it's only a one use thing?"

Gadriel's cheeks coloured slightly. "It's better than nothing," he replied.

Ellicent rolled her eyes again. But, nevertheless, she decided to humour him and pocketed the device anyway. "Was there anything else?" she asked him.

Gadriel shook his head. "No."

"Time we earn ourselves dinner, then. I'll hit my topsiders first?"

"As always."

Ellicent gave him a smile. Stepping in close, she wrapped her arms around his neck while he wrapped his around her waist. Craning her neck slightly, she kissed him hard on the lips. "Be careful," she whispered.

"You too," he said.

Without another word, they parted ways; Ellicent scampering down to the street while Gadriel followed from the rooftops.

* * * * ** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

That little job had gone off without a hitch. Ellicent had chosen the mid-hiver in the middle of her group: a fat man in a three piece suit and a ridiculously large moustache. She'd pretended to be a beggar, stumbling out of an alleyway and shoulder checking the old man. As he struggled and swore, trying to shove her off him, Ellicent had swiped a purse from the inside of his coat. There'd been an entire handful of gold in there. Between that and what Gadriel had scored from his group, and they'd been fed for two whole weeks.

She hadn't need her flare that day. And for all the days that followed, she hadn't needed it either. But she'd kept it anyway. Even after Gadriel left and never came back. Even after her life became the hell scape that it is now, and the last of her hope had shrivelled and died, she'd kept it. Just in case. Just in case she needed it.

Just in case she needed him.

Just like the day he had given it to her, Ellicent stands on the edge of a rooftop. She doesn't know what sort of building this is: only that it's the tallest she could find in the time she had. Her gauss cannon was heavy on her shoulder- the alien gun was almost as big as her- but she couldn't not leave without it. Even if Gadriel didn't come, Severus almost certainly would. He knows about the flare. When he sees it, he'll know what it means, she's trying to do, and he'll want to kill her for it.

It's not worth it, her mind tries to reason. It wasn't even him. You know it wasn't.

That's the thing, though, she argues. I don't know. That's why I've gotta try.

Just in case.

Ellicent clasps the flare gun in both hands. Rests a finger on the trigger. Slowly, almost cautiously, she raises the device above her head.

If you were to ever find yourself alone... just fire it in the air, and I'll come find you.

Anxiety is a serpent in her gut, wet, heavy and slithering. Her throat is dry as sand and as she clutches the flare gun its metal clatters from how much she's trembling.

Just fire it...

... I'll come find you.

Before she has the chance to have a second thought, Ellicent squeezes the trigger.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The flare shines more brightly than any star or ship light. Its smoke is the colour of blood; its light, that of a bleeding heart. It hurts Ellicent's eyes to stare at it, but she can't being herself to look away. Half an hour, it burns for. Feels longer. Like an eternity. Like another fifty years. Hope and despair war within Ellicent's chest as she watches it. She doesn't know which is winning, they're both so evenly matched.

The smoke is the first to dissipate. Shedding layer upon layer until its colour is no longer discernable. The flare hangs on a little longer, spitting and spluttering like a soul clinging onto life. But, eventually, it too runs out of strength. Ellie watches it tumble from the sky, a shrivelled blackened husk of solid ash. The dark of night returns with a vengeance, and all Ellicent is left with is a hazy, silhouetted view of the city's jagged skyline. Tears prick her eyes. Seems the war in her chest finally has a winner.

"Stupid," she whispers. Dropping her arm, she looks at the empty flare gun. Her lip curls with contempt. With all the strength she has left, she hurls the thing off the rooftop. "Stupid!" she shouts after it. The only reply she receives is deafening, sickening silence.

Ellicent covers her face with her hands. Another self-reprimand is already poised on her lips, but when she opens her mouth to voice, the only thing that comes out is a sob.

Stupid girl, she thinks to herself. What were you thinking?

The plating of her necronian hand is freezing against her face. She presses it so hard into her brow, that she reopens the cut that Severus had given her just hours earlier.

It wasn't him. It was never him.

He's gone.

He left you.

He's never coming back.

So consuming is her anguish, that Ellicent doesn't hear the footsteps coming up behind her. Even if she did, though, she wouldn't have reacted. Only person it can be is Severus- if he's going to kill her, she'd rather his face not be the last thing she ever sees.

Then she hears his voice.

"Ellie?"

Ellicent's heart stops dead in her chest. She drops her hands from her face.

It's not him, her thoughts cry. It's not him. It's not him. It's not-

Ellicent turns around.

She has to look up to see his face. He'd always been a little taller than her, but whatever procedure the Astartes use to turn boys into Angels of Death has swollen his body to almost five times its original size. Dust and grime stain his blue armour. The aquillia on his chest is severed down the middle by the particle beam she'd fired at him earlier that same day. The right side of his head is a mottled mess of angry red skin and silver cybernetic studs.

But, just like his voice, his face is just as she remembers.

"Gadriel," she whispers.

His face is a riot of emotion. Shock, disbelief, sadness, joy, everything else in between.

Gadriel walks up to her with hulking steps, heavy enough to shake the roof. They bring Ellicent back to the night's on the roof of his mother's house; how it too, would rattle and shake under his weight. Dropping to one knee, he sets his hands on her shoulders. The ceramite gauntlets they're encased in are cold and heavy.

His expression, though, is anything but.

"Oh, Ellie."

Before Ellicent can speak, he embraces her. Careful not to bruise her on his armour, crouching low enough that her head can reach his neck.

At first, Ellicent doesn't react. She doesn't know how. Her mind is still playing catch up. Trying to process what's happening, what it means, whether or not it's even...

"Is this real?" Her voice is weak and frayed. It feels like her mouth is full of broken glass. "Are you really here?"

Gadriel draws away and slips his thumb under her chin. As gentle as if she were made of porcelain, he tilts her head up so he can look her in the eye.

"Yes," he says softly. "It's me. Gadriel. I'm here. I'm right here."

Ellicent's heart detonates. A fresh wave of sobs rises up in the back of her throat. The first one escapes as something crosses between a whimper and a cry. She throws her arms around his neck. Buries her face in its crook. Breathes in his scent and feels his skin against hers.

It's him. It's really him.

Her sobs return stronger than before; almost enough to knock her off her feet. This time, though, they are not of despair. They are of sheer, unadulterated joy.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Gadriel does not remember the last time he'd been embraced. He doesn't remember the last time he'd given one, either. Astartes do not partake in such displays of affection. Forearm grips and shoulder clasps were common enough, but anything more than that is just simply not done. Such things are for humans- for families, friends and lovers- and Astartes are not human.

That message has been drilled into Gadriel ever since he had joined the Ultramarines; ever since he was eighteen years old. And yet, when he sees Ellie standing on that rooftop- the tears in her eyes, the blood on her brow, the emotion on her face- he wasn't an Astartes anymore. He was a teenager. A boy. Back in the Underhive, on the roof of his mother's slum, staring up at the stars with the girl he loved curled up in his arms. Like his cheek-chewing habit, these are things that his re-education could not stamp out. It may have quietened them, covered them, forced them into the recesses of his thoughts. But they were always there. And while first seeing Ellie had awoken them, the sight of her flare and the sight of her standing before him now brings them to the very forefront of his mind.

Gadriel holds Ellie as tightly as he can without crushing her against his armour. Her tears are hot against his skin. Her arms, both human and robotic, squeeze his neck so tight it actually hurts. But Gadriel couldn't have been happier. He doesn't think he's ever been happier. Not since the last time he had held her; the last time he had been human.

That's it. That was the last time I was embraced.

It had been her...

Gadriel's eyes start to sting. Before the tears can fall, he buries his face into Ellie's hair. But the feel of it, the smell, the memories they both bring flooding back, only chokes him up more.

"I can't believe you're here," he breathes. "I... I thought you were dead."

A shudder runs through Ellie's body. It's difficult to tell, but Gadriel thinks it might be a laugh. "Yeah," she says meekly. "Yeah, I've thought that a few times myself, too."

The quip takes him completely off guard. Despite himself, he lets out a short choked laugh of his own. "I... Throne, Ellie. I can't even..."

"Things changed when you left," she said. The way her voice breaks across the words wrench Gadriel's hearts like nothing he's ever felt before. "I changed."

Drawing away from her slightly, Gadriel frames her cheek with one, enormous hand. Throne, she looks so small. Small and fragile. Nothing like the tough young woman he remembered. "I know, Ellie," he whispers. "I know. But it's not your fault. You did what you had to to survive. I know you did."

Ellie's arms unfurl from his neck and fall to her side. The leather tunic she wears is sleeveless, giving Gadriel a full, unimpeded view of her necronian left arm. The grafting is expert, but untidy. The edge where it attaches to her clavicle, shoulder and chest is ribbed with scar tissue. As her shoulders tremble in time with her sobs, that tissue stretches and flexes, as if they were wires buried underneath her skin.

"Where have you been, Gadriel?" she asks. "You mother and I, we waited for you. We waited and waited, but you never came back."

Gadriel can't bear to look at her. Dropping his gaze to the ground, he winces as a vice closes around his chest. "I'm so sorry, Ellie. I wanted to come back, I promise I did. But..."

His voice trails off. But what? How could he possibly explain it? That he'd been forced to forget her? That his duty had left no room for him to think about anything other than service? That, as part of his transformation, his heart had not only been duplicated, by reprogrammed to beat for the Imperium instead of her?

No. He couldn't say that. Couldn't say any of it. It's not an excuse. Even though they are the truth, they don't justify what he's done. What's happened to her.

Gadriel's tongue turns to sand in his mouth. Without anything to say, any answer to give her, all he can think to do is pull Ellie into his arms again.

She does not return his embrace, this time. It's the most excruciating thing Gadriel has ever felt.

"Sergeant!"

Gadriel freezes. Under his breath, he mutters a curse.

Ellie wrenches away from him with unnatural strength and speed. Her face twists with fear and her hands reach to grasp the gauss cannon hanging from her shoulder. The weapon is too large for her to hold like a rifle, so instead, she holds it like a heavy bolter; down low and aiming from the hip. She points the weapon past Gadriel's right side, at something to his back. But Gadriel already knows what- who- it is.

"Who's he?" Ellie asks.

Steeling himself, Gadriel turns. Titus stands on the other end of the rooftop with his helmet on and his bolter raised. His face is completely hidden behind his visor's permenant glare, but Gadriel knows that whatever expression he's wearing is even fiercer than that.

Eyes never leaving Titus, Gadriel extends a palm towards Ellie. "It's alright," he says gently. "He's a friend."

"He doesn't look like a friend."

"Sergeant!" Titus' voice booms over his vox speakers. "Step away from her now!"

"Titus," Gadriel pleads. "Listen. We can work this out. "

"There is no working with heretics." The lieutenant takes a step forwards. "Get away from her now! I will not ask you again."

"I knew it," Ellie says. "I knew it was too good to be true."

Gadriel whips around. "Ellie-"

"This is a set up!" She steps away from him, levelling her cannon so both he and Titus are now in her sights. Her fingers touch the trigger, and the gaping maw of the alien gun glows a sickly green. "You're not here for me," she hisses. "You're only here for Severus. You're trying to play me!"

"That's not true." Gadriel's voice is thin and desperate. "I couldn't care less about-"

"Watch what you say, Sergeant," Titus warns.

"Damn you, Titus!" Gadriel shouts, throwing the lieutenant a vicious snarl. "Just let me-"

Ellie's shriek cut both space marines off. "Both of you shut up!"

The look in her eye, Gadriel can only describe as wild. Terror, anger, grief, pain, they're all raging within her expression. Twisting her features so terribly that for a second, Gadriel struggles to recognise her.

But he doesn't give up. He won't.

"Ellie, listen to me," he says, striding up to her. Ellie points her weapon at him, but with his forearm Gadriel shoves it to the side. "I'm here for you," he says. "Only you. I don't care about Severus. If I'd known you were here, I'd have abandoned my mission sooner.`

Ellie stares at him with wide, watering eyes. She breathes hard through her mouth. "I..."

"Fire that thing at me if you want, but I'm not going anywhere." As the next words leave his mouth, Gadriel's breath hitches in his throat. "I will not abandon you again."

He reaches for her again, this time to touch her arm. Ellie flinches from him, glaring like she's anticipating an attack, but not before Gadriel's fingertip brushes her shoulder. Startled, she steps away, the grip on her gauss cannon visibly tightening.

Gadriel swallows a mouthful of tears. "Ellie-"

"Did you hear that?"

He blinks at her. "What?"

Ellie shifts her aim away from Gadriel and points her weapon towards the sky. "That noise," she whispers. "Like humming."

Gadriel pauses to listen. She's right. If the night hadn't been so still, he doubts anyone could have heard it; but just beneath the whisper of the moving air, there is, in fact, the a slight, energetic hum. Stranger still, it's a sound Gadriel recognises. From where he isn't sure, but he can't shake the feeling he's heard such a thing before.

"Gadriel!"

He turns at Titus' voice. The lieutenant's visage is unchanged, but his tone is suddenly laced with alarm. "Get out of there, now!"

It's then that Gadriel's mind finally clicks.

The humming... It's the sound of a cloaking device.

Without a second thought, he leaps for Ellie. Grabbing her around the middle and holding her to his chest, shielding her body with his own. The moment he does, hundreds of sharp, heavy projectiles start raining upon them.

The humming sound ceases as the cloaking field disappears. In its place rise the thunder of a spacecraft and the scream of firing weaponry. Gadriel recognises both; not from experience or even from training, but from the mission brief he and his brothers had received just this morning.

"Severus is a known xenos collaborator. Specifically, he has formed some twisted working relationship with a war band of Dark Eldar..."

The thunder is the engine of a combat skiff. The screaming, the sound of shredder weapons unleashing a hellfire of razor-sharp spikes.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

And part 3 is done babyyyyyyy

Hope you liked it ^^

Part 4 should be up in a couple of days

Till then, stay safe out there kids

Taglist: @solspina @beckyninja @egrets-not-regrets @wolf-feathers12 @jaghatai-khock @lemon-russ @moodymisty @hatsubara-8chan @nereidof40k @yanagikou @fyxestroll @yurihasurunbara @lylakoi @justfreakynothingelse

[push1ngup-da1sy]

matt nsfw headcanons!

*these are about sex! if that makes you uncomfy, don’t read it!*

purple is you! blue is matt!

- he’s dominant but he’s not a sadist!! he doesn’t wanna hurt you but he wants to make you feel good so if spanking/choking/biting makes you feel good, he’ll do it

- he’s not afraid of being submissive tho! he’d love to be whimpering under you while you take control

“being such a good boy for me matty”

- loves to overstimulate you, loves seeing you squirm under him, unable to control yourself

- not a huge fan of doggy unless there’s a mirror, loves to watch your face and kiss you whenever he wants

- kinda insecure abt dildos n vibrators, wants to be the only one making you feel good

- always tells you to kiss him when you cum, when you ask him if you can cum, he’ll say kiss me which means yes lol

“mmph, matt can i cum please”

“kiss me princess”

- LOVES talking, praising and degrading you, you praising and degrading him (tell him how good he makes you feel, he’ll go crazy!)

“you feel so good around me baby”

“taking me so well”

“such a good whore for me”

“fuck you’re so deep inside me”

“you make me feel so fucking good”

“you’re such a good toy for me”

- loves when you give him head but he’ll never ask for it, giving gets him off

- doesn’t love spanking, he’s scared he’ll hurt you- he still wants to mark you tho so he’ll give you hickies like crazy

- same w hair pulling but you teach him how to do it the right way so he’s more comfy w it

- loves cuddling with you afterwards, can’t have sex and just leave, he needs the connection at the end or he has a huge drop

- loves when you ride him and use his cock to get yourself off

“look so pretty using my cock”

- cares abt you finishing obvs but he’s not gonna stop till he cums (part of the overstim thing)

- sometimes scared to ask for sex, unless he’s REALLY horny, in which case he will be super clingy and touchy until he’s forced to just ask

- (usually) up to trying almost anything, he just gets nervous

- would literally worship you if you let him, your body (and face duh) is his favorite thing to look at

- ^ it’s not even rly sexual he just thinks youre perfect

- desperately wants to ruin you, have you screaming, crying, shaking, but he’s so scared of hurting you

- munchy munch munch and he’s SO good at it

- ^literally idk what that man does but he always has you coming within thirty seconds

- “look at me” literally don’t try to close your eyes, wants to make eye contact at all times

“open those pretty eyes for me baby”

- NICKNAMES!!!

“be good for me baby”

“do you need me sweetheart?”

“taking me so well my love”

“feel how hard you make me slut”

“you wanna come pretty girl?”

“so good to me princess”

“my perfect whore”

- will send you videos (with sound) of him getting off if you guys can’t get together

- ^ doesn’t expect anything back, except words of praise

- will pick you up, not so much throwing you around bc he’s scared to hurt u lol

- he just wants you as close as possible

- loves when you ask him what bra/panties you should wear (obvs you look hot in whatever but he likes having control over small things)

-^ his fav is dark blue

- shirts off always, loves feeling your chests pressed together

- scratch him, bite him, smack him, he wants it all

- licking you EVERYWHERE

- always wants to cum inside you

-^ uses a condom! homie is responsible

- not rly a hand/feet guy, but he loves how small yours are compared to him

- won’t ask abt anal but if you suggest it he’s all abt it

- safe word is a must! always asks you what it is before hand, even if you’re not doing anything crazy, reminds you it’s ok to use it during

“tell me your safe word baby”

“use your safe word if it gets to be too much”

- loves your boobs!! he don’t gaf if they’re big or small, they’re boobs and he loves them! also big stomach and thigh guy (squishy)

- aftercare, aftercare, aftercare! literally whatever he can do. need water? he’s got it. need a bath? he’ll take one with you. wanna watch a movie? already has your fav on. wanna take a nap? say no more.

- ^ sex debrief!! wants to talk after, what did you like, what didn’t you like, what should he do more, etc. wants to make you feel as good as possible

i definitely had way too much fun with this, tell me how yall feel please, this is my hard launch into smut lmao. also please tell me if you see typos or anything lol. AND REQUEST STUFF, i have two matt fics and a chris one but after that i need ideas :)

[seilnakyle]

hiii! i have a question about selina. I remember during the dickbats era, he met this young girl (I think she was a teenager, I'm not sure) who was kind of a younger version of catwoman, catgirl. I wasn't reading catwoman's comics at the time, so I'm curious if selina ever really "adopted" her as her sidekick. did they have a good relationship? if I recall correctly dick sent kitrina away, but did she ever come back in the catwoman comics?

Catgirl! Her name is Kitrina Falcone, she’s the daughter of Alberto “Holiday” Falcone, and his unnamed dead wife, but she was raised by her abusive uncle Mario Falcone.

Kitrina would often survive on the streets by herself for months at a time, using theft to survive, as she got older, she developed a skill for mapmaking and an admiration for Catwoman. Her uncle was exploiting her skills for his own gain, and soon every vigilante in Gotham was looking for Kitrina.

Her first appearance comes in Batman #692 when Dick (as Batman) fights with Mario Falcone and some of his guys while Catwoman raids their house looking for connections to Black Mask or the false facers. Selina finds maps of some of Black Mask’s hideouts, and as she slips away, Kitrina sees her.

Kitrina decides to attempt to steal back the maps Catwoman took but gets caught,

She tries doing the right thing and handing her off to Dick, but she slips away!

She gets herself into lots of trouble, and definitely reminds Selina of a younger more reckless Catwoman, and I can see how she would look at this young disaster and think she needs to take her under her wing. There was no talking her down, and she did have the skills, just not the experience. She for sure needed a mentor if she was going to survive.

in Batman #697 Selina reports to Dick that she lost Kitrina’s trail and assumes she’s out of Gotham, but this is definitely a lie, bc one page later, we get THIS reveal

She doesn’t stay a secret for long, and soon becomes a point of contention between Dick and Selina. Dick was kinda on a roll at the time for being a hypocrite on the kid sidekick thing since he was also on Babs for training Stephanie while he was training Damian lol. And much like Damian, Kitrina was a loose canon with dangerous family ties. Batman catches Catgirl going after the Reaper for the reward money, and Dick has a talk with Selina.

Kitrina lives with Selina under her protection, but Dick was serious about getting rid of her, and as much as Selina wants to help her strays, she’s loyal to the Bats, and lets Dick confront her in her home. Lucky for her, she ends up being useful for the moment so he lets it go for the moment

But Dick wouldn’t let it rest long, he convinces Selina that Kit would be better off out of Gotham, and Selina can’t disagree that she would have a better chance somewhere safer. Something no one did for Selina when she was young and in danger on the streets, Batman and Catwoman have an intervention with Kitrina.

After some Gotham chaos, Dick gets a note from Kit that Selina passed along, saying Kitrina was headed to the school Dick recommended, marking the end of Catgirl’s short lived time as a sidekick. But, with a promise to return!

Unfortunately her only appearance since this has been a couple bg panels in Catwoman/Tweey and Sylvester (2018)

One big holdback with Kitrina’s arc is the fact that it all takes place within Batman. If we had coinciding Catwoman comics where we got to see Catgirl and Catwoman working together, it would have felt more natural and complete. Kitrina was such an interesting character to just write off so quickly, I still hope she gets brought back someday.