#clamp…..please…..someday…

[sarellathesphinx]

Having never read the vol18.5 chapters of X until now, I am……….so sad this manga never got finished. It was maybe a handful of chapters from the end. Like literally less than 10 from what I could guess. I hope someday it does get finished….

[osachiyo]

ʚ ᴅᴏᴜʙʟᴇ ᴛʀᴏᴜʙʟᴇ ɞ | fyodor d. & dazai o.

† ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅᴇs : fyodor dostoevsky & dazai osamu x fem!reader

† ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs : nsfw content (mdni), rough sex, deepthroating, hair pulling, edging, uses of sex toys (dildo), pussy slapping, face slapping, spitroast, fingering, oral (f & m), unprotected sex (please be careful irl), fyozai is a warning in itself, degradation etc

† ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ's ɴᴏᴛᴇ : HAHA I TOLD U GUYS I'D DO A FYOZAI FIC SOMEDAY!! finally done with this, I wanted to make it longer but felt like I was holding it up for too long. happy reading & I hope you guys enjoy <3 not proofread!!

"aren't you just adorable?" Dazai smirked, cheek resting on his palm as he took in the view you offered them.

Tears dripped down your swollen and puffy cheeks, making your skin glisten. The two men infront of you merely chuckled, clearly enjoying your suffering.

You were beyond frustrated, being edged for god knows how long, thighs starting to ache from the squatting position as you rode that god forsaken dildo you used to fuck yourself earlier that night, behind Dazai and Fyodor's backs. You just couldn't help it, so so needy everytime they leave you alone. You were just a dumb little girl after all, their stupid little plaything. "are you enjoying yourself, dear?" Fyodor cooed, thumb wiping the salty water from your eyes as you shook your head vigorously. A hand wrapped itself around your hair, tugging on it harshly, "good," Dazai's tone was low, an edge to his usually cheery sing-song voice, making you shudder.

It was all so lewd, the way they could see everything, pussy squelching as your juices drip down the dildo, coating the cheap silicone with your essence. "does this feel better than our cocks, my dear? you did look like you were enjoying yourself quite a bit when you were pleasuring yourself like a little whore behind your masters' backs," Fyodor hummed, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his eyes holding a mysterious glint. His voice was flat and he held a perfect pokerface, making you unable to figure out if he was upset or not. You sniffled, cheeks puffed out into a pitiful pout, "n-no! I swear—!" you were cut off by your own gasp when the dildo started vibrating. You didn't know it could do that. The two men snickered between themselves, dangling a remote control infront of your dumbfounded face.

"what? cat got your tongue, sweetheart?" Dazai laughed, turning the vibrations up, making your whole body jolt as your eyes crossed slightly, pussy clamping down on the dildo so tightly that it almost slipped out, jaw slack as you tried your best to hold yourself together. "we knew all along, just wanted to test you," the brunnete cooed, tilting your chin up with his thumb to make you look up at him with those puffy, teary eyes that he grew to love. He leaned closer, wiping the tears dripping down your heated cheeks before squeezing them harshly, his breath tickling your ear, "and you failed."

You couldn't keep count of how many times they had denied your orgasm, making you beg, beg and beg, only to laugh at your face for being so pathetic and needy. Eventually, you became too tired from bouncing on the dildo. Now with your back against Fyodor's chest as he worked the toy in and out of your battered cunt while Dazai busied himself between your spread legs. You could feel his hot breath fanning against your clit as the ravened hair man fastened the pace of the pretty pink toy inside of your gooey cunt. "такая непослушная девчонка, да?" Fyodor's deep voice woke you from the trance you were in. You didn't understand a thing he said but god, him speaking russian made you clench harder on the vibrating toy, making Dazai's breath hitch as more of your sweet juices gushed out. You threw your head back when Dazai's lips wrapped around your clit, swirling his tongue around the aching bud, making you gush all over the place from the overwhelming pleasure. Fyodor only scoffed, pulling the toy out of you with a wet 'pop!' before you could fully enjoy the orgasmic bliss. "I thought I had made it clear that you are forbidden to cum without my permission, without our permission?" Dazai pulled away from your cunt begrudgingly, strings of your arousal sticking to his lips, "looks like our dumb little slut can't even follow simple rules now, huh?" He landed a swift smack to your clit just as you were about to protest, a pathetic cry escaping your plump and swollen lips. "now, why don't you apologize and beg for our forgiveness, my dear?" Fyodor cupped your breasts from behind, twisting and pulling at your hardened buds as you hiccuped, nodding. " 'm so sorry, I—!" you were cut off by dazai burying his face back into your pussy, licking and sucking on your lower lips. "continue," Fyodor sighed, rubbing small circles into your hip as you tried your best to collect yourself. It was so fucking hard to focus with Dazai between your pretty legs, his bandaged hands gripping your thighs apart as his nose bumped your clit everytime his tongue slipped into your warm, sticky hole. " 'm sorry that I..touched myself w-while you two were busy— mm!— and for- for being such a bad girl," you sniffled, fat tears dripping down your cheeks like two waterfalls, gasping when Dazai shoved two of his slim fingers into your cunt, curling them just right to have you seeing stars. "and— oh!— and I'll never ever d-do it again! just please— pleasepleaseplease let me cum! I'll be a good- good girl, I promise!" you sobbed, toes curling as the chestnut haired man's pace got faster, drilling his fingers in and out of you at a rapid pace while his tongue worked wonders on your pearl. Fyodor's hand smoothed down your bare back, chuckling when the faintest goosebumps appear on your skin from his unusually cold temperature, "apology accepted. cum." And that's all you needed to squirt all over Dazai's face with a high pitched squeal, soaking his brown locks along with the collar of his shirt as he tried his best to swallow all your juices, not leaving a drop behind. "atta girl, did so good for us, yeah?" Dazai hummed between your thighs, voice muffled from your pussy. His voice was smooth, and an octave lower, dripping with arousal and carnal hunger for you, to ruin you beyond repair.

You were now on your hands and knees, worshipping Dazai's cock as Fyodor played with your oversensitive pussy. His cold fingers ghosted over your clit before cracking down a harsh spank on it. You cried and gurgled around the brunnette's cock. "easy now, darling. wouldn't want my pretty girl to choke," he cooed, wiping a stray tear from your eye. Your makeup was absolutely ruined, mascara running down your face in streaks along with your seemingly unending tears as your lipstick smudged and formed rings around Dazai's throbbing cock, from the tip to all the way down to the base. Fyodor wasn't at all happy with all of your attention on his rival, meanly pinching your clit between his thumb and pointed finger before landing another harsh smack on it. You jolted and tried to look back at him, but Dazai's grip was firm, locking your head in place as he thrusted up into your awaiting mouth. It was astounding how much strength he had, despite having being on the leaner side. He wasn't called the 'demon prodigy' for no reason. Your attention went back to the man behind you once again, when you felt something hot circling your entrance; his cock. It was so pretty, he wasn't on the girthier side but the length made up for it. You could see beads of precum pearling at his slit, letting you know that he wanted this just as much as you.

Your eyes rolled back in your skull when he finally, finally pushed into you, pussy sucking him in deliciously. Fyodor felt his breath hitch, his grip on your waist tightening as he tried his best not to moan from the feeling of your cunt gripping him so nicely, he couldn't, not infront of Dazai. The said man only chuckled, knowing exactly what was going on in the raven's mind, "feels good, huh?" Fyodor merely ignored him, focusing on the euphoric feeling of you wrapped around his cock. God, he didn't even realize how badly he had been wanting this, too intent on punishing you. Lithe fingers found your aching clit once again, rubbing the delicate pearl gently as he slowly rocked into you. You could feel him inside your tummy, setting your insides ablaze as he makes himself at home inside that sweet, sweet heaven between your legs.

Dazai, on the otherhand, was anything but gentle; fingers tangled in your hair as he held you in place, thrusting in and out of your mouth vigorously. Your jaw started to hurt, it'll most definitely be sore tomorrow but you didn't care. Not while getting pounded so nicely by Fyodor, as Dazai deepthroated you ruthlessly.

Fyodor was now slamming into you with much more force, blunt fingernails leaving small indents on your supple skin. His cock felt like it was about to burst, a creamy white ring forming at the base of his cock, while his eyes slightly rolled back from your pussy tightening around him. Your focus was now solely on Fyodor and the way he ruined your pussy so additively, and Dazai was not having any of that. Your eyes widened when you felt a sharp sting on your left cheek, before his thumb smoothed it down, "focus on this cock, yeah angel? god, fuuck— you're taking me so well," he moaned, yanking your head up and down by your roots, snot and tears dripping down your face at the roughness of it all.

The inside your lower tummy kept getting hotter and hotter, before bursting into flames as your orgasm hit you like a truck. " 's good— so goood—" you slurred, unable to think straight as the ravened man came inside you with one last thrust, slim hips flush against your ass, while he shot his load inside of you with a guttural groan. Dazai came shortly after, pulling out at the last moment to cum all over your face, some of it even got in your hair. You were utterly exhausted, eyes about to close— "now, how about..this time, fedya takes this little mouth, while I ruin that pretty pussy of yours further?" "I think that is a wonderful idea," Fyodor agreed, still breathless from blowing your back out.

you were so in trouble.

©sachiyoh — do not copy, plagiarize and repost my works to any platform, reblogs are very appreciated ♡

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[nizhspo]

lover, you should've come over.

chapter three: too deaf, dumb, and blind

m.list | next

pairing: toji zen'in x f!reader

synopsis: you were a nurse with a steady hand and a soft heart. he was a killer who kept coming back with blood on his shirt and your name in his mouth.

you don’t notice anything wrong at first.

you’re half-asleep by the time you reach your floor, fingers stiff, keys clumsy in your grip, shoulders slumped forward under the weight of exhaustion. another night shift, another sunrise. your scrubs are wrinkled. your eyes burn. your badge swings loosely from your hip as you fumble with the lock and nudge the door open.

you’re already toeing off your shoes when you look up and freeze.

because there’s a man on your couch.

legs spread, arm slung over the backrest, your remote in his hand like he’s lived here for years. the tv’s on some old tokusatsu rerun, volume low. the second his eyes meet yours, you drop everything. bag, lunchbox, phone. they hit the floor with a thud.

you don’t even have time to scream before he’s behind you.

his palm clamps over your mouth, his chest against your back, too close, and in the half-second that your lungs seize and your body locks up, one thought slams into your skull:

this is how you die.

helping people is going to get you killed.

oh god. oh god oh god oh—

he exhales, a low noise near your ear. “don’t scream.”

you struggle, barely, just enough to make your panic known. but he doesn’t squeeze. doesn’t hurt you. his hand lifts a beat later, slow and careful.

and you spin around, chest heaving.

“please don’t kill me,” you gasp, half-sobbing. “i didn’t tell anyone anything, i swear, i didn’t even know your name until two weeks ago, and i actually really wanted to adopt a wiener dog someday so—”

“i’m not gonna kill you,” he says flatly.

you blink, heart still hammering in your ears. “…you’re not?”

he raises an eyebrow, like really?

“i already told you: if i wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead.”

that was not comforting. not even a little.

but his voice is calm, and there’s no weapon in his hand, and when you look down, you see it: a faint, seeping wound along his ribs, raw and faintly glowing. your throat tightens.

“just a scratch,” he mutters, tone light, like he didn’t just break into your apartment bleeding again. “bit tricky, though. not the kind a regular nurse could patch up.”

you stare at him. at the slow seep of cursed energy from the gash along his ribs. at the half-dried blood darkening the hem of his shirt. your stomach twists.

“why do you need me?” your voice wavers. fists tight at your sides. “can’t you just use reverse cursed technique?”

his eyes flick to yours, unreadable. “not my thing,” he says simply. “can’t heal what i don’t feel.”

then he adds, a little dry, “and i’m not in the mood to owe any sorcerers a favor.”

you don’t say anything for a beat. you just look at him, really look. this man who slips through shadows, who kills people and shrugs like it’s weather. and still came here.

still came to you.

“toji,” you say, and the name feels strange on your tongue, heavier than it should be, sharp in the back of your throat. you’ve never said it aloud before. never even let yourself think it like something real.

“i don’t think you’re understanding.” your voice trembles. quiet. not angry, just tired. raw. “you kill people.”

he doesn’t move. doesn’t blink.

“you killed my neighbor.” your fingers twitch at your sides. “you killed one of my patients.”

still nothing. his face doesn’t change, but something behind his eyes flickers. you wish it didn’t make your stomach twist.

“i’m not like you.” you shake your head, slow, like it might help hold the panic down. “i don’t support this. i don’t want to be part of this.”

your breath catches, not because you’re choking, but because it feels like there’s no room in your chest anymore. like fear has filled your lungs and pressed everything else out.

“i can’t be complicit,” you whisper. “i can’t.”

your eyes don’t leave the floor. you can’t look at him. not now. not like this.

because it’s not just fear anymore. it’s guilt. it’s grief. it’s knowing you put your hands on a monster and healed him. made it easier for him to leave. to walk away. to do it again.

and worst of all, it’s the fact that he’s standing in your living room like it means nothing at all. like the blood isn’t still under your nails. like the body of that boy isn’t still burned into the back of your mind.

he watches you. lets the silence settle between you for a second, then two. then he says, quieter than before: “i get it.”

your lip wobbles.

his voice stays low, rough around the edges but not unkind. “you don’t like what i do. you don’t have to. but that night, you saw what was on me. you felt it. and you didn’t turn away.”

you hesitate, something caught in your throat, and his eyes don’t leave you.

“you’ve seen what most people can’t,” he goes on, watching your face. “so don’t act like you’re just some nurse who got dragged into shit by accident. you helped because you knew it mattered.”

your breath stutters, and you hate that it helps, hearing him say that. you hate that your shoulders ease, just slightly. that the worst of the tremble in your hands goes quiet.

he nudges you gently, just enough to jostle your arm. his skin is warm, tan and veined, the muscle beneath it firm from years of violence, and the contact sends a strange shiver up your spine.

“just think of me as your patient,” he says, mouth twitching. there’s a teasing lilt to it, but his voice stays quiet, almost careful.

and so you do what you always do. the thing that keeps you walking through these hospital halls, the thing that’s made you kneel beside bleeding strangers in back alleys and fix wounds you don’t want to understand.

you breathe deep. bite down the fear. nod once.

because you help people. it’s stupid. it’s reckless. it’s going to get you killed one day.

but you don’t know how to not try.

“fine,” you say. “but you owe me.”

he hums, something soft and amused in his chest. “money’s tight,” he says. “but i can cook.”

you stare at him, genuinely trying to imagine it: this six-foot-something fucking mass of a man, all muscle and menace and bad decisions, standing over a stove in an apron or something equally domestic. flipping eggs with a knife. stirring soup with maybe a glock tucked in his waistband.

“…cook?” you echo, dubious.

he shrugs, casual. “what, you don’t like liver and onions?”

you scrunch your nose. “gross.”

he chuckles, low and raspy, like he’s actually entertained by the disgust on your face. you sigh, stepping past him toward the kitchen, your shoulder brushing his chest as you pass.

“sit on the couch,” you mutter. “but no blood on the cushions.”

“yes, nurse,” he says, and you can hear the grin in it.

you dig around in the cabinet above your sink, fingers closing around the half-empty emergency kit you keep for car crashes, and drunk guests. it’s already looking thin, gauze running low, half the antiseptic gone, and you sigh, knowing exactly who to blame for that.

when you walk back over, he’s lounging too casually on your couch, one arm draped along the backrest like he’s been here a hundred times before. just as you’re about to kneel down beside him, you catch the tail end of something, a mumble, low and nearly swallowed.

“hm?” you glance at him, crouching.

he shifts, eyes on the carpet, almost sheepish. “just—like, you’re making me feel bad,” he mutters. “you should at least get comfortable first. i did kinda barge in right after your shift.”

his voice is rough like always, but quieter now. his shoulders sink back against the cushion like some of the weight’s been let go. and hearing it—the awareness, the way he even noticed, makes something tilt in your chest. makes your stomach twist in a way that isn’t quite fear, but isn’t safety either.

you blink. straighten a little. “oh,” you say, half-choked. “yeah, uh. i guess.”

you get up, legs stiff, mind fuzzed, and make your way to the bedroom to grab the sweats and t-shirt you wore before your shift. as you’re walking away, barefoot on the creaky floorboards, the thought hits you.

“wait—” you pause in the doorway, turning back. “how did you get in here?”

he doesn’t look up from where he’s watching horses racing on the muted TV screen. “your lock’s shit.”

you stare. “great,” you mutter. “that’s comforting.”

he snorts. you grab a banana from the counter, and shuffle into your room.

the sweats are old. the shirt’s huge. you feel slightly homeless. slightly like a college dropout. slightly like you shouldn’t care what you look like in front of a murderer.

but when you come back out, hair down, scrubs traded for soft cotton, and you feel his eyes skim up, linger just a second too long, your throat goes dry.

you don’t say anything.

just kneel beside him again, open the kit with a snap of the latch, and pull on a pair of gloves, pretending your hands aren’t trembling just a little.

“i don’t… really do reverse cursed technique often,” you admit, fingers twitching near the wound. “so if you came to me thinking i was some kind of miracle worker—”

“nah,” he mutters. “you’re just.. the only person i can go to.”

you pause. “…lucky me.”

you start with the normal wounds. the human ones. the shallow cut near his ribs, the scrape across his knuckles. they’re barely more than bruises, really. he doesn’t flinch when you clean them. doesn’t move at all, just watches you with that same unreadable look, like he’s trying to figure out what kind of person would willingly sit this close to someone like him.

you take your time. stalling. but eventually your fingers hover over the deeper gash, the one running jagged along his side, still pulsing with residual curse energy. it glows faintly, sickly, like something trying to burrow deeper.

you press your palm over it, slow, gentle, and immediately, you feel it:

the wrongness. that buzz. that static tension. like the air before a storm, like something hissing between your fingers. it prickles at your skin, fights you, presses back.

you draw in a breath.

steady.

then you let it the reversed flow start, slow and dragging.

it stings. not like pain from outside, but from somewhere deep, buried. like dragging heat backward through your own veins. like forcing your body to move against its instincts. it burns through your lungs, your ribs, crawls up your throat before it settles into something quieter. a hum. low and steady, deep in your palms.

you keep your hand there and his body stiffens under your touch. your breath shudders. “does it hurt?”

he shakes his head. but his eyes are locked on you.

you don’t meet his gaze. you just focus on the way the energy shifts under your touch, on the way the wound begins to close, slow, careful, imperfect. but healing.

you don’t know if it’s enough, but it’s all you’ve got.

for a second, it’s silent.

the kind of silence that wraps around your ribs and squeezes. the kind that feels like something’s watching, even if it’s just him.

your breath stutters in your throat, shallow and quick, and you try to hide it. the taste of reversed energy still lingers in your mouth, bitter, metallic. your fingers shake just a little when you pull them back, resting them against your own thigh like nothing happened.

he doesn’t say anything, so you fill the space, quiet, unsure, too tired to dance around it any longer. “so what do you actually do?”

he shifts, eyes still on you. then lets out a slow breath, like it’s not even a question to him.

“i’m an assassin.”

simple. clean. horrifyingly casual.

you flinch. your lips part, just slightly, but no sound comes out. your mind scrambles, tries to line that up with what you already knew, but hearing it out loud still sends a pulse of cold through your chest.

you open your mouth. close it again. then, finally— “why do you keep coming back here?”

his mouth twitches. not quite a smile, though. “first three times were mostly coincidence,” he says, voice low. “bad aim. rushed job. bad timing.” a pause. then his gaze softens, almost imperceptibly. “after that…”

he doesn’t finish, but his gaze lingers, dark and steady.

you look back at him this time. really look.

his features are sharp in that almost unfair way, the kind that aren’t softened by time or made handsome by effort, but carved into him like violence left its signature behind.

his brows are heavy. his cheekbones could cut glass. his nose is crooked, but not enough to ruin him, just like it’s been broken more than once. there’s a scar curved like a lazy grin at the corner of his mouth, dragged through the stubble shadowing his jaw, and it should make him look rough, should detract from the rest, but somehow it doesn’t.

he’s handsome the way knives are. unapologetically sharp.

his beauty isn’t gentle or clean. it’s not the kind that was ever complimented in school photos or coaxed out with cologne and good lighting. it’s effortless. masculine. dangerous. the kind of face that belongs to someone who’s never had to try.

and then there’s his eyes.

green. dark. unreadable. not cold, exactly, just distant. sharp in a way that feels deliberate, like everything he sees gets sorted and catalogued in his head for later. they’re on you. watching. like they see more than they should. they flick over you, not curious, but knowing. like he already understands more than you do. like he’s already decided what to do with you.

you swallow, and then, instinctively, you yawn.

it catches you off guard, mortifying in its timing. your cheeks warm as you try to smother it into your sleeve, glancing away like it didn’t just ruin whatever odd, strangely suspended moment had started hovering between the two of you.

he huffs a sound that almost resembles a laugh. “you should get some rest,” he says. “i’ll cook for you later.”

you blink, still foggy. “are you gonna be bleeding in my kitchen?”

he shakes his head, standing. “nah. i’ll show up when i get a day off.”

you push yourself up, legs stiff, body heavy. your knees pop when you walk him to the door, not because you trust him, but because it feels weird not to.

you open it. the hallway’s empty when he steps through and you hesitate.

“…bye, toji.”

he glances back, one brow raised, lips curved just slightly. “don’t get into too much trouble.”

you shut the door before you can smile.

and then just stand there, forehead pressed to the cool wood, breath stuck in your chest.

your heart’s hammering like a schoolgirl’s, and you can’t tell if it’s because it was the first time a man’s been in your apartment , let alone the first time you’ve touched one since college—or if it’s because fifty minutes ago, you really thought you were gonna die.

…

you’re not expecting a knock two days later.

it’s your first day off in a week. you’re in your usual non-workday uniform, and oversized t-shirt, logo nearly faded off the chest, shorts barely visible underneath.

a blanket’s wrapped half around your legs. love island’s on the screen. you’re spooning cold rice straight from the container and contemplating if it’s worth getting up for water when there’s a knock at the door.

not loud. not rushed. just… there.

you pause.

the knock comes again, light, steady. not the frantic kind. not the kind that signals danger. just… patient. like it knows you’ll answer.

your fingers flex at your sides. heart already picking up. you push the blanket off your legs, pad barefoot across the apartment. every board underfoot seems louder than it should be. you reach the door, hesitating for just a second before leaning in to peer through the peephole.

and there he is.

toji.

black hoodie drawn up around his neck. grey sweatpants low on his hips, loose but clinging just enough to confirm what you already know: he’s big. solid. built like a threat. and he’s holding grocery bags in both hands, one looped wrist lifting slightly as if he’s just a neighbor stopping by. as if he didn’t kill a woman two doors down months prior. as if this is normal.

your breath catches.

you unlatch the lock slowly. open the door halfway, arm braced against it like it might shield you from whatever this is.

his gaze drops the second he sees you.

down your bare legs, stretched long under the hem of the t-shirt. your thighs. the shorts that might as well not be there. back up over the tired lines under your eyes. his stare isn’t lascivious, it’s quiet, observational, like he’s memorizing.

his expression doesn’t shift.

“hope i’m not interrupting,” he says, voice low. level. like it’s his doorstep, his apartment, his evening.

you blink, too many thoughts colliding. “uh. no? just—no. what the hell are you doing here?”

his mouth twitches. not a smile, just a flicker of amusement. his stance is casual, but not relaxed. one shoulder leaning just slightly into the doorframe, hands still curled around the bags like he’s waiting for permission to step in.

he lifts a bag. “well i did agree to cook for you on a day off, and i figured you might still be low on food after last time.”

your stomach tightens, remembering the spilled groceries from months ago, the smell of sour milk, the blood in your tub. you glance at the bags. onions. broth. some kind of meat wrapped in butcher paper.

“brought liver and onions,” he says, stepping inside like he’s done it before. “but the face you made when i mentioned it last time told me you wouldn’t be into it, so i got backup.”

you back up, barely noticing you’re doing it, watching him move across your space like it belongs to him. he toes off his sneakers. drops the bags on your counter. pulls open your fridge without asking.

“…how did you know i was off today?”

he glances at you over his shoulder. “i’m an assassin,” he says dryly. “what do you think i do all day?”

you frown. “that’s not an answer.”

he closes the fridge with a soft thud, the hum of it returning to fill the quiet. then he leans back against the counter, arms loose, one ankle hooked over the other like he owns the place.

“fine,” he says, voice unbothered. “you wanna quiz me?”

you squint at him. arms cross defensively over your chest. “…what’s my full name?”

he doesn’t hesitate, and your stomach drops a little, but that’s also not exactly hard to find information.

“okay,” you say, slow. “what college did i go to?”

he raises a brow, amused. “keio. nursing school. class of…” he tilts his head, pretending to search, even though you know he already knows. “twenty-twenty. graduated on time. graduated in the top ten percent of your class, actually.”

you shift your weight. the questions were supposed to throw him—make you feel in control, but he’s breezing through them like you’re on some kind of date-night trivia game.

“…where did i live before this?” you ask. you don’t even say it like a challenge this time. more like a test you already know you’re going to fail.

he snaps his fingers. “dorms your first two years. then that shitty four-floor walk-up near the metro line. barely any hot water. this is your first solo lease, and your landlord’s a dick. doesn’t fix the heat on time.”

you blink. that’s… too much.

your chest tightens, a little unsettled, a little impressed, and definitely unsure how to feel.

on one hand, maybe it’s a good sign: he’s done his research, knows you, sees you as someone worth keeping tabs on, which could mean he trusts you.

on the other hand… he knows you. too well. and you still don’t even know his last name.

he shrugs at your expression. “you asked.”

you stare. “you know way more about me than i do about you.”

“that’s kinda the point.”

“…do you always do that? with people you might need to kill later?”

he tilts his head. “just the ones i like.”

you open your mouth to argue. then shut it again. because somehow that is not the most unhinged thing he’s ever said.

instead, you shift awkwardly in place, arms loose at your sides, fingers twitching like they want something to do. the couch is still warm from where you were sitting. the tv hums with paused drama, a frozen frame of two people arguing on love island. your thighs stick slightly to the fabric of your shorts when you move.

he’s in your kitchen. like this is normal. like this—him standing in front of your stovetop, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, head tilted as he reads the label on a sauce packet, is something that happens. like he belongs here.

and it’s not like you’ve never seen him up close before. you’ve stitched his wounds. pressed your hand to his ribs while your own lungs burned from reverse cursed technique. you’ve seen him shirtless, bloodied, breathing through gritted teeth while perched on your couch.

but this feels weirder.

not because it’s domestic, though that’s part of it. it’s the fact that he looks comfortable. too comfortable. like he’s done this before, like he expected this to happen.

you clear your throat and shift again. “so… should i, like… go sit down? or help? or…?”

you trail off.

he doesn’t turn around, just lets out a soft exhale, amused. “you always talk this much when someone’s cookin’ for you?”

you stare at the back of his hoodie like it might offer a translation.

“i just—” you exhale. “i don’t know what to do with myself right now.”

he finally glances over his shoulder. raises a brow. “didn’t seem to have that problem when you were playin’ block puzzle.”

you blink. “you remember that?”

he shrugs one broad shoulder. “was cute. figured you needed the stimulation.”

and just like that, you’re left flustered. again.

you sit on the edge of the couch, awkward, suddenly hyperaware of how bare your legs feel under the lamplight. this is insane. absolutely fucking insane.

you’ve met him three times.

one of those times, you were pretty sure he was about to kill you. another, he definitely did kill someone else. and now he’s in your kitchen, cooking dinner.

you don’t know what to do. you don’t know what this is. you just know your hands miss the steadiness of medical tools. of bandages, of gloves, something to give them purpose. something to help you forget that the man currently humming under his breath and seasoning broth like a bored househusband is a murderer.

and he’s standing over your stove like he’s done it a thousand times.

his gaze catches on your thighs, bare above the hem of your shorts. lingers just a second too long. not crude, just noticing. like he’s logging it away for later.

he pulls ingredients from the bag, shallots, butter, some thick dark greens. the meat isn’t liver this time. looks like steak. thin, marbled. the kind that’ll melt once it hits the pan.

he moves with ease. rolls up his sleeves, washes his hands. he’s got broad forearms, and callouses at his knuckles. everything about him screams danger, but the way he handles a kitchen knife is… disturbingly competent.

your apartment starts to smell like garlic and soy sauce. something rich. earthy. he adds something to the broth on the stove and stirs it with long, careful strokes. you try not to stare at his back. the way the hoodie stretches over his shoulders. the way he moves like nothing can touch him.

he glances over once. “you eat eggs?”

you nod. “yeah.”

he cracks two. drops them into the broth without looking, and for a second, it feels so domestic it makes your skin prickle.

he ladles the broth like he’s done it a thousand times, movements smooth and practiced, the steam curling soft through the low light of your kitchen. the smell hits first, rich, savory, the kind of deep umami that clings to the back of your throat and reminds you you haven’t eaten since this morning.

he walks it over, bowl warm between his hands, and stops in front of you, brow tilted, lips twitching at the corners. “open.”

you blink. he’s holding the spoon up, angled toward your mouth. your spine goes stiff. arms tucking in. “…is this poisoned?”

he snorts, not moving the spoon, but shifting his weight to one leg, hip cocked. “you think i need broth to kill someone?” his eyes flick lazily down to your bare thighs, then back up to your face. “i’ve had better opportunities.”

you sigh, grab the spoon from his hand, quick and clumsy, and bring it to your lips yourself. because you’re not gonna be spoon-fed by a goddamn assassin.

the broth touches your tongue, and your whole body stills. you chew slow. swallow slower.

“…it’s good,” you say finally, like it’s a confession.

he grins. doesn’t say told you so, but the smugness radiating off him says it anyway.

he disappears into the kitchen again, and comes back with another bowl, for you. then brings the whole pot to the coffee table and sinks into the couch like he owns it, slouching deep into the cushions, one leg sprawled wide, the other tucked under him. he grabs the remote and, just like last time, turns it to the channel with horse racing.

you shoot him a look.

he shrugs, spoon already halfway to his mouth. “a man has to make money somehow.”

you’d argue, but the truth is, you haven’t even glanced at love island since he knocked.

he eats straight from the pot like an animal, you think, except there’s something graceful about it, too. the way his forearm flexes when he lifts the spoon. the way his jaw ticks as he chews. the way the soft lamplight sharpens the edges of him, turning muscle and bone into something sculpted, brutal, almost beautiful.

you wonder if that’s how he maintains all that mass. the broad chest. the carved abs. the tall, dark, and terrifying thing he’s got going on.

the conversation flows easier than it should. you don’t talk about death. or blood. or jobs. just things. you find out he hates cats. not in the playful, allergic way, either, but something deeper. says they’re “shifty little bastards.” you tell him you tried joining archery club once and nearly broke your foot.

and then, quietly, almost offhand, he talks about the heavenly pact. his eyes stay on the bowl as he says it. like it’s no big deal. like saying it is the same as saying “i don’t like olives.”

he mentions his clan. the abandonment. the whole i can’t see curses but i can kill them twist of fate that makes him a weapon in the shape of a man.

he says it flat and detached, but you see it. the twitch of his brow. the flicker in his gaze when he talks about them like they meant nothing.

you’ve seen that look before, in the parents in the hospital who swear they don’t care. who laugh too loud and say fuck ‘em when talking about kids who won’t visit them on their deathbeds.

the same look when you offer to hold their hand and they’re shaking.

you don’t say anything. just eat another spoonful of broth. you don’t know what this is. but for now, you just let it happen.

and when he leaves that night, it’s quiet. easy. your house smells like miso and seared beef. the dishes are washed. the couch is still warm where he sat.

and your heart won’t stop hammering.

you’re not sure if it’s because he’s the first man who’s been inside your apartment in two years.

or because you’re starting to forget that he’s dangerous.

[zenaidamacrouras1]

I did a new version of History of American Capitalism! This time with a 19th Century typography vibe. Inspired by old maps and books from the 1850s.

This fic has two small sequels so I bound the three together and made coordinated title pages. The title pages and chapter headers were made in Canva with my very limited yet stubborn graphic design abilities.

The tiger fabric is by Tula Pink, a fabric designer, who has many whimsical wonderful animal fabrics. I was gonna do a whole ornate gold foil situation on the front, but I like this fabric so so much so I let it do the talking. (The fic is a College AU and the college football team is the Tigers).

I've been working on painting the edges gold (using tutorials by Duranbinding on instagram), I should have sanded way more for a smoother edge but I got bored and they are mostly fine? I also should have clamped them tighter before painting because there is some annoying gold bleed onto the inside of the page but the thing is sometimes I just don't care and it's fine, probably.

Other lazy things I did was not care about how rounded the spine was or making proper shoulders, which I did meticulously for my first couple books and at this point it doesn't bother me but might someday.

The pages turn beautifully because I used proper short grain paper and a lovely quality vellum paper at that and it really does make a more pleasing book.

I love the tigers so much.

[thesassypadawan]

Like Rabbits *part 1* (Hayden x FemReader)

Summary: After realizing that Hay and you share the same desire, you two have been acting like a pair of horny rabbits. ‘Hopping’ all day and night long. (Hope you enjoy the sequel, Maple Flavored Sausage ❤️)

Warnings: 18+ (mdni), because there sooo much of the smut. Breeding and, as always…Hayden’s big dick.

Notes: Hoppy Belated Easter, my lovelies! And Happy First Day of Hayden's (And Mine) Birthday Event! In honor of the man, the myth, the legend; I will be posting nothing but Anakin, Vader, and Hay stories all of April!

- Thirty-two hours. Thirty-two hours of nearly non-stop raw passion, of carnal desire. All in the hopes of…successfully knocking you up.

- After the whole ‘milk someday’ affair, as it came to be known, Hayden and you have a nice long chat. One that makes you both quickly realize that you’re clearly on the same page.

- And, well, since that’s the case, you two have been, um, rather busy. Especially during those magical thirty-two hours when you’re at the peak of your fertility.

- Yeah, let’s just say you’re like a pair of horny rabbits. ‘Hopping’ all day and night long…

- Eyes flutter open and a soft moan escapes you. You’re awoken by his cock pumping slowly into you, fingers playing and teasing your clit. “Haay…sleepy.”

- “Nope, rise and shine, angel. Nap’s over; it’s baby making time,” he chuckles in your ear. Free hand slides to grasp your ass firmly. Pulling your hip over him, so he can thrust deeper.

- You whine a little in protest, but, nonetheless, happily accept your fate. Hand moving up his throat, coming to rest on the back of his head. Fingers tugging his hair gently, causing him to growl…the sound rumbling in his chest.

- Cunt clenches hard in response, which only spurs him on. Pace picking up, dick practically bottoming out with each plunge. “Fuck. How are you still this tight?”

- Whimpering, your face grows flush. Orgasm approaching embarrassingly fast, overwhelming your brain. “Hay… Hay…”

- “Cum,” he mutters. Pinching your clit, sending you soaring. Head tilting upwards, crying out. Chest pressing against his while you clamp down around him.

- Hayden stills, gripping you as your body goes limp in his hold. Face burying into his neck, the fog in your mind rolling in. All you can think of is… “Sleepy.”

- A good smack to the butt jolts you back to reality. “Not yet, babe; we’re not finished.”

- Grasping your sides, he pulls you fully on top of him. Knees instinctively parting, setting on either side of his thighs. Upper body laying flat on his, you let out a small squeak. “Haaayden!”

- Arms wrap around your waist, and he starts to move again. Almost rapidly, eagerly pounding into your soaked cunt. Hips bouncing off his while he smirks. “What? I haven’t given you more of my baby batter yet.”

- Fingers dig into his shoulder; whines fly from your mouth. He’s stretching you out so deliciously, slapping against you so wonderfully. Both sensations overstimulate you further, another release quickly building in your core.

- His grip on you tightens. Rocking back and forth, he bucks up into you wildly. Grunting, voice low and gravelly. “Going to pump you so full…to the absolute brim. Going to stay in this perfect, little pussy…all through the night and into the morning.”

- Walls flutter at his words. Whines now more high-pitched and needy. Clawing and scratching at him desperately. “Yes… Please…”

- “You’d like that, huh?” Hay growls, slamming into that sweet spot deep inside over and over. “Me cumming in you until it takes…until you have your own cute bump to show off.”

- Nails sink deeper into his skin and his hips stutter. Hands grabbing your ass harshly, holding you firmly in place. Cock twitching, shooting rope after rope of hot cum into you.

- While you mewl and pant. Quivering and trembling, back arching in ecstasy. Milking him greedily for every last drop…before collapsing.

- Stroking your back, his heart racing underneath you. He kisses the top of your head, muttering. “You okay, angel?”

- Spent, your body is so spent. Totally exhausted from cumming back-to-back, not counting all the times prior to this lovely session. “Sleepy…so sleepy,” you mumble into his chest.

- Eyes grow heavy and just as you’re drifting off…you feel him start to lazily thrust. “Come one, we only have like twelve hours left until you’re done ovulating. Don’t want to waste a single minute, do you?”

- You hate it when he’s right. Groaning and grumbling, your hips begin to move in sync with him. “Better make it twins then.”

- “Can’t guarantee that,” Hayden chuckles, speeding up a bit. “But I promise to have you round…those tits milky and swollen soon enough. My adorable baby mama.”

Tag List: @espinathena-17, @myheartwillgoon2022, @wifeofasith, @princessswifie, @kenobiskywalker16

[psychiatry-and-poetry]

A Waltz With Magic

AO3 | Nesta Week 2025 Masterpost |

@nestaarcheronweek

Prompt: Day One - Bonds (Nesta has forged many bonds during the series, from the Valkyries, to Elain and Feyre, to even a brotp with Azriel. What do you think of the bonds she's formed with her family and friends?)

A/N: I wanted to write a fic/drabble where she learns to get comfortable with her magic and not treat it like something horrible. I’m also a major Neris shipper, sooooo

Word Count: 1225

Nesta awoke, panting and drenched in sweat, eyes blown wide as she gasped down air into her lungs. Clawing madly at the blankets now pooled around her waist, she scrambled for something, anything, to dampen the odd, otherworldly glow emanating from her hands. 

As soon as she touched the blankets, though, they erupted into a silver fire that had her reeling back with a shout. 

A sharp pain radiated through her shoulder, and when she blinked open her eyes she realised she was on the floor. Hissing in pain and wincing as her shoulder gave another painful throb, she gingerly got up and began making her way to the bathroom in a futile attempt to calm her racing heart. 

Nothing worked, of course. Her head was aching, and her hands were shaking as she fought to regain composure.

No, no, no, she begged to her powers. Please. Not now. She clamped her eyes shut to ground herself, but the action only made her feel more untethered. The darkness had never helped soothe her, and it certainly wasn’t going to help her now. 

She’d always been more suited to fire than she had been to the night.

Something warm and wet landed on her cheek, and rage filled the already uneasy stirring of emotions in her gut. Stupid girl. Why are you crying?

It was a voice Nesta hadn’t heard in her mind for a long time. It was safe to say that she was startled, but she also couldn’t help her hackles raise at the harsh disappointment that brought back unwanted memories of tears and humiliation.

I’m sorry, Grandmamma. I promise I won’t cry again. Her own voice, only fifteen years ago, pervaded her mind. Meek, shy, and so desperate for the dame’s approval, Nesta hadn’t realised the old woman didn’t care for her until it was too late.

What have I told you about making promises? You don’t, because you never know what’s going to happen. I expected you to listen more. 

You’re going to have to do better if you want to get married someday. No decent man will want you if you keep acting like a flimsy, frivolous child.

I’m surprised your mother hasn’t deemed you a complete failure yet. Then again, I suppose she hasn’t tried to improve you the way I have. Be grateful you’re under the tutelage of someone who cares.

A child needs a good beating and they fall straight into line, that’s what I say. 

Each dialogue, delivered with that same, sharp blow dug nails so deep into Nesta’s heart it was a miracle she was breathing at all by the time her panic had abated.

Nearly all of her episodes followed a similar structure: she’d wake up, panting or yelling, her powers would spiral out of control, and she’d fight to keep them contained but to no avail. It wasn’t unusual for sleep to evade her for hours after that, so she didn’t exactly have high hopes this time around.

Indeed, the silver blaze coating her palms hadn’t subsided in the least. If anything, it had increased, seeming to glow brighter as if it was feeding off of Nesta’s self-hatred and anxiety.

“House?” Nesta managed to croak out, throat parched and raw, presumably from screaming. “Can you replace the sheets on my bed, please?”

It obliged without question, and the bed was immediately covered in fresh, perfumed linens smelling lightly of vanilla and lavender.

While some might say they were the most basic, plain scents, they were also the ones Nesta adored the most. There was beauty in simplicity, she’d realised early on, choosing to forgo any gaudy or tacky jewellery in favour of something more modest and established. It was one of the reasons she’d had so many eyes on her as a mortal girl, she knew. That regal, timeless look she managed to exude had enthralled many, far too many of whom had been predators.

Sighing, she lay down in bed and attempted to cleanse her mind of the thoughts ruminating in her head. They were like weeds, she thought to herself. The longer she let them fester, the worse she would feel.

She had to try, even if no good came of it.

✦ ✦ ✦

Nesta didn’t remember drifting off, only that she did at some point in the middle of the night. She’d woken up decidedly groggier the next morning, the dark circles under her eyes long since having taken hold of her face, but she’d also woken up with a mission. 

Venturing to the Library after training and lunch, she sat down in a quieter section where she knew neither Gwyn nor any of the other priestesses would wander. Their work tended to be on the higher levels, usually from six upwards, and Nesta was currently sitting on level four. 

Taking a quill from the inkpots that stood on every desk, and asking the House to summon a piece of parchment, she began to write.

✦ ✦ ✦

It took Nesta an embarrassingly long amount of time, countless scraps of parchment, and more groans and sighs than she cared to admit before she finished that letter. It was disproportionate, really, seeing as the letter wasn’t more than a page. But the courage she’d needed to summon to write it, and the utter shame and relief she’d felt when she had finally managed to get the words down on paper…

“House? I’d like to get this letter to Eris Vanserra, please.” Her whispered request echoed in the silent antechamber, and she cringed internally. Hopefully, no one would think her insane for talking to a sentient structure.

The letter vanished in an instant, disappearing in a cloud of puffed smoke, leaving Nesta with nothing but her swirling thoughts.

✦ ✦ ✦

Dinner had been quiet and almost….civil, considering the way her other meals with the General had gone. They hadn’t talked, but they hadn’t been hostile, either. To Nesta, that was about as pleasant as it was going to get, and she certainly wasn’t complaining.

Indeed, the stars shone brightly overhead as she made her way up to the training ring. It was peaceful, she admitted to herself, having the area all to herself as she sat cross-legged in the center of the arena. All was quiet save for the occasional rustle of the wind and the call of a distant swallow soaring overhead.

But Nesta did not notice that. She had her eyes closed, and was attempting a mind-stilling. The task was proving more difficult than she would have liked to admit.

While the activity had seemed easier when she’d begun it, it was only now she was realising how difficult it truly was. Calming her head on a good day proved to be difficult enough, but on a day when her thoughts were scattered and there was no one and nothing to ground her? She might as well be asking for a miracle.

Come on, she coaxed. Come out. I know you’re desperate to come out at night. But no matter how she tried, her magic refused to answer. 

Cajoling and pleading did not work; neither did threats. Eventually, Nesta left the ring with nothing to show for her practice save for a block of disappointment that sat deep in her gut, and another sleepless night ahead of her.

A/N: The letter Nesta sends will be revealed on Day 3! I hadn’t planned on doing this, but I’m thinking of continuing this drabble as a series where Nesta goes to Autumn to learn more about her fire and scrying powers, let me know what you think!

[argisthebulwark]

Nothing Left For Me, I Am Pleading

summary: The fallout after you learn he's cheated on you. gn reader, no pronouns or y/n used. feat: Vilkas, Miraak, Farkas, Brynjolf, Cicero warnings: angsty hurt/no comfort. cheating in an established relationship. swearing. reference to sexual acts, nothing explicit. masterlist

Vilkas' fingers are uncharacteristically chilly when they grab your arm. Your stomach churns at the contact - mere hours had passed since they'd touched someone else. "Don't go." You see every muscle in his body tense - does he anticipate you lashing out at him? Your anger is far too cold for that, a detached hatred that drowns out any love you've felt for him. "Give me one good reason to stay." You sniff, glaring up at the man you've loved so deeply that it hurt. Your heart is shredding in your chest but you refuse to show him. After last night, he does not deserve to see you hurt. You will grant him no opportunity to comfort you. "I thought of you the whole time." "Is that supposed to make me feel better?" You seethe, wrenching your arm from his grasp. "How kind of you to remember me while fucking some stranger at the tavern." "Please." His voice is caught in his throat when he steps closer, hand still reaching uselessly toward you. "I - we just lost Kodlak. He's the closest thing I've ever had to a parent and I felt so fucking lost. I didn't know what to do with myself." His nose wrinkles and you know he's fighting back tears. Strangely, you feel no urge to comfort him - all you want is to escape this damned room. "I was there." You curse your voice for wobbling. "Farkas was there. Our friends were right there - we were all there grieving Kodlak. Together." "I know." He mumbles, sucking in a shaky breath. "I should have talked to you - I don't know why I did that. Nothing makes sense." "You should talk to someone, maybe your brother." You press your lips into a tight line, clamping down the sob tearing at your throat. "I hope you can figure things out, Vilkas." You do hope that he can figure things out. Grief is messy but when you turn away from him, there's a sense of finality to it. You clench your fists to stop their shaking and before you can take that first step away from Vilkas, his voice stops you dead in your tracks. "Can we try again someday?" His voice is so defeated, as if he already knows your answer. Why did he bother asking? "I know that Kodlak meant a lot to you." You squeeze your eyes shut against those damned tears. "But I can never forgive this." "I understand." Vilkas sniffs and you're glad you turned away. The sight of him crying could break you. "I'll always love you, though." You can't think of a response that doesn't break your heart.

"It meant nothing, Mal Dov." You smack away Miraak's hand - you know he wants to caress your face, to calm your nerves as he has so many times before. You can hardly think past her fucking voice ringing through your head. "After that, my hopes of being named High Priestess don't seem so far-fetched. Our lord truly is blessed, isn't he? Well, I suppose you know that better than anyone." She'd bumped into you like it was a silly little mistake, dragon mask pulled aside to display the messy state of her lipstick. The thought of what she'd done for Miraak - the thought of him with anyone else, it makes you sick. "Nothing?" You spit the word back at him. You hate that look on his face, the tears gathering in his eyes. He has the audacity to make you feel like the hurtful one. "In my time, it was quite common to maintain a concubine -" "Oh, fuck you!" Angry tears spill down your cheeks, that hot ball of rage fueled with every word that passes his lips. "You would burn Tamriel if another man dared to kiss me, yet you expect me to be alright with some priestess getting on her knees for you?" "My beloved, please allow me to explain." Miraak reaches for you once more, an offer that feels so loaded. You know that if you take his hand he will whisper sweet apologies in your ear and promises that he will spend the rest of his unnatural life with you. He will tell you that a passing moment with a priestess means nothing compared to an eternity at your side. "No." You reject, gulping past the knot in your throat. Drying your tears you turn, hands shaking when they clench at your sides. "No explanation will undo your actions."

Sunlight bursts over the horizon, bright and cheerful. Farkas' snores echo across the hall as your weary eyes wander toward the window to watch. Your throat is raw from swallowing those ugly sobs and your cheeks are stained with war paint and tears. Clutching your knees to your chest you wait, stuffed into the same chair you've been seated in for hours. When the doors creak open your heart leaps into your throat. You've practiced the speech over and over, memorizing the words and praying that you won't stumble but it's all gone when you see her. The woman is half dressed when she scurries through Jorrvaskr, offering you a kind smile when she spots you. "Sorry if we kept you up." Her voice holds no malice - you're certain that she's interpreted you as a disgruntled housemate. "Can you point me toward the exit?" Your voice ceases to function, merely pointing her toward the front doors. Uncertain of how much time passes you remain there, knees tucked to your chest scrambling for the words you'd planned out so carefully. "Gods, it's bright." Farkas' rich voice causes a fresh wave of tears. Through blurry vision you watch him emerge from the living quarters, one hand shading his eyes from the sun. "My love - what day is it? I thought you weren't back until Middas?" "The assignment was easy." You gulp, hating the way he kneels right in front of you. His thumb traces through the mess of war paint on your face and you suck in a deep breath. "Everyone acted so strange when I returned. I thought perhaps it was because I was a bit early - they were all fairly drunk." "We drank far too much last." Farkas moans, still scrubbing at your cheek. "I can hardly remember anything past dinner." "When Aela tried to stop me from going to bed I knew something was wrong." "My beloved -" "I saw you." You sob, shoving at his bare chest when he attempts to hold you. Your heart is cracking deep in your chest, fat tears spilling down your cheeks but you can't let him piece you back together. "I heard you, Farkas -" "It was a drunken mistake. Please," rough hands cup your face but you're shaking your head. You can't see him through the tears but you know he's crying too. "Please don't leave me." "I can't stop seeing it." You hiccup, curling deeper into the chair. "I can't even look at you."

"I would have raised him better than that." Karliah's hand pats your shoulder. "The Brynjolf I knew would never do that." "He did." Your voice sounds scratchy and far away. Whether it's from rage or the alcohol you aren't certain. You're lying flat on the bar, Vekel's infinite patience saving you from the floor as the world tilts and dips around you. "I have some friends in the Brotherhood." Delvin pipes up from somewhere far away. You aren't sure if you're laughing or sobbing at his comment, noises and tears slipping out of you. "Want me to kill 'im?" "I could kill him for you." Vex offers and you bury your head in your arms. You feel sick - you'd hoped that too many drinks would rid that image from your brain but it persists. His lips on her skin, her fingers in his hair, the sound of her sighing his name. "There you are." His voice still sends shivers down your spine. You bury your face in your arms, mind still stuck on the way his hand wrapped around someone else's waist. "I've been lookin' for you -" "To what?" Vex snaps. "Looking to do some more damage?" "Love, gimme a chance." "Get away from me." "C'mon, I know it was fucked up but we were together for years. I told her I'm with you, that we had to stop before things went too far -" "I said get away from me." You whirl toward him, the world spinning and your stomach flipping dangerously with the motion. Warm hands are there to steady you, Brynjolf's familiar scent filling your nostrils as your bleary eyes struggle to focus on him. "Talk to me, love. Just for a bit, yeah?" "We are done." You stare up at him, hating the way his eyes still make your heart flutter. "I'm taking some time off -" "Don't say that. Think of the Guild - we need you, I need you." "You should've thought of the fucking Guild!" You sob, hands smacking against his chest. "You should've thought about me! You don't get to do this, you don't get to make this my fault." "I know sweetheart, trust me I know it's my fault." "You should probably leave for now, Bryn." Karliah taps his shoulder when you devolve into a mess of sobs. His hands slip from your face and gods help you, after everything you hate to feel it. "Give it time." "I'll be here, love. Whenever you're ready I'll be here waitin' for you."

"I'm sorry." Cicero snivels, falling into your lap. "Cicero's so sorry, Listener - please don't leave me, don't leave your awful Keeper." The indecision is paralyzing; so badly you want to comfort him, to comb through the mess of his hair and wipe at his face until he's calmed down but you cannot. You can't stop thinking about the dreamy look on his face after someone else's lips touched his. "Please, Listener." He gasps, fingers screwed up in the front of your armor. You can't bring yourself to rebuff him but do not have the capacity to soothe him. "Please, Cicero is so sorry - they were helping with Mother's rituals and so kind to me, so sweet helping with prayers and honeyed words." He hiccups, a sob breaking up his explanations. You want nothing more than to forgive him, to wipe at his tears and tell your beloved that everything will be alright, but find those words too difficult. "Was I not enough?" Your voice breaks, tears finally spilling down your cheeks. The flood of emotions is too much all at once when Cicero buries his face in your shoulder. God it hurts - you've known hurt but nothing like this, betrayal that cuts down to the bone. "You're everything!" He howls, both your bodies shaking with the weight of his sobs. "Terrible, awful Keeper - I don't deserve that title, the Listener deserves someone much better." "Calm down." You urge, unable to resist rubbing a hand down his back. The sensation of his body curling into yours is so familiar but there is no warmth, no love in the way he clings to you - only guilt. His voice is torn as he mumbles your title over and over, apologies mingled in as he professes his guilt. "Love you, Listener. Love you, love you, love you..." he trails off, wet kisses placed along your throat. "Silly Cicero made a horrible mistake but oh, how I love you." "You know I love you." You choke on the words, shocked at how hard it is to say. You do love Cicero, you always will. "But my beloved -" "Don't, Listener - please, your Keeper begs you." He sniffles, breaths finally evening out. "Don't leave poor Cicero. Anything, I'll do anything, just don't leave." "I don't think we can get past this." His arms tighten around your middle, tears streaming down your face as the raw pain pounds through your body with each beat of your wretched heart. "You know I love you, my Cicero, but I don't think there is any mending this." You sit there, clutching Cicero to your chest and crying until your lungs threaten to give out. You are both painfully aware that as soon as you let each other go that is the end. When he slides from your lap he will no longer be your Cicero, you will simply be two Brotherhood members who cannot look each other in the eyes. So you hold him, allowing him to cry into your armor and shedding endless tears over the love you've both lost.

[flightyalrighty]

whats your favorite arc from the archie comics? also what are your thoughts on the idw comics? i really liked the metal virus arc

It's pretty difficult to choose just one tbh! The very first Archie Sonic comic I read (that wasn't the Free Comic Book Day one of that era) was the Hedgehog Havoc arc where they introduced Silver, so I feel almost like I GOTTA say that one? But the one I always go back and re-read is the post-SGW Unleashed arc, specifically Control. I think that's when Tyson Hesse started working on Sonic professionally as a penciler, so there's a ton of super good art throughout that one. Plus I'm a sucker for the werehog.

If we're counting Sonic Universe, then I'm stuck between The Shadow Saga (the first Sonic Universe arc) and Shadow Fall, because both have some of the best Team Dark writing ever, like it's SO good, PLEASE read those two if you haven't.

But then there's also The Secret Freedom Fighters!!!! Shard's in there!!!! Shard!!!!! Shard my beloved!!!! My very favorite ever Archie character!!!!!!! And he's working with Silver!! And Elias Acorn I guess!! And Larry Lynx ? ? ? And Leeta and Lyco! Yay!!!

---

So anyway let's talk about IDW!

I also really liked the Metal Virus arc! I really like when IDW Sonic dabbles with horror (Like with Scrapnik Island too). I guess that's not surprising coming from me.

There are some artists that work on that series that I like more than others. Not gonna name names, but the inks are sometimes being done too thin, and it can really hurt the readability of the art against those bold colors when that happens. Otherwise! I think the art is some really top-notch gorgeous stuff. You can really tell that everyone on that team isn't just there for a paycheck. There's so much love put into this series, and every new issue makes me smile so so big.

I do think the world, as it is right now, is very tightly contained? It needs more years. Archie had a VERY long history and a TON of world-building that got added to it for 24 years.

IDW Sonic is 6 years old, a baby compared to Archie. On top of that, IDW is MUCH more heavily restricted partially because of Sega clamping down on its IP and the writers that work within it, and partially (related to the former point) because IDW Sonic is now canon to the games. They must stay within a certain Status Quo bubble now. Nothing can contradict the games.

It's sad, but it is what it is.

I'll always mourn Archie, but I'm happy with what we have now. It's fun! It's a fun series! The new characters are fantastic, and Surge is my favorite of them! She's so fucked up! I love fucked up characters!

Maybe someday we'll get another massive arc like with the Metal Virus, too. I can't read Ian Flynn's mind, or Evan Stanley's for that matter. I do think that whatever comes next for IDW Sonic, it'll probably be a hoot and a half.

[nomstellations]

Tales from the Isles- Bounty

Mangri checked the bounty poster in her hand. The disheveled yet all-too pleased grin of her target stared back, fangs on display with dark hair covering their eyes. A thief stealing from the Cove's mayor had some serious guts...Mangri herself would have liked to do the same thing, someday! But she was all too happy to settle for secondhand loot- they were hiding out in one of the canyon's mystery dungeons, so she tracked them here.

As a master thief, lining her own pockets meant more to her than whatever justice that sheriff wanted to uphold. Hopefully this job would be interesting...

Chomper's Canyon had plenty of little nooks and caves, she wasn't surprised a thief would make their hideout somewhere around here. Her target was a Deino who had made off with a pretty chunk of change, and the town's sheriff had a decent reward for whoever could bring in the thief. She had no plans on returning the loot, of course- but they didn't have to know that, did they? Their hideout should be somewhere on this floor...

Mangri found it sooner than she expected. Turning a corner, the dragon was met with a wide room full of gold, treasure boxes, and...food? Resting atop a smaller pile of gold was her target- a thin and lanky young man snoring loudly. As soon as she stepped in he awoke, looking around frantically as if he could actually see anything.

"Whuzzat?! Whozit? Who's there?!"

She smiled. This was too easy. "Your time's up, buddy. Come with me back to town and they might let you off easy."

He sniffed at the air for a moment, then licked his lips. "Hey...y'smell real fruity. You some kinda grass type? Heh heh, and you think you can take me in? I eat folks like you for breakfast! The only thing gettin' turned is you into food!" Suddenly leaping off his hoard, the Deino did a blind and reckless charge at what he thought was his misguided prey. But instead of clamping his open mouth down on his quarry, he found himself slamming into the large gut of a dragon type that vastly towered over him.

"Mmm...that's where you're wrong, shrimp." Hoisting him up by the back of the shirt, the larger dragon studied her catch in smug amusement. "See, I hate it when people underestimate me because of my typing...and I'm afraid you're overpowered and outmatched. Now let's see who's food, hmm?"

Her catch wriggled and shouted a few colorful expletives she noted for later, but it was all ultimately useless as she hoisted him high above her head. Opening wide, Mangri started slipping his feet into her maw and into her throat. Upon feeling the warmth and slick saliva he started to kick and wriggle, but her powerful throat muscles easily rendered kicking a pointless endeavor. "H-hey! You can't do this to me! I'm a DRAGON, y'hear me?! I'm nobody's lunch!"

Mangri simply hummed, lazily gulping again and letting him sink a bit deeper. She loved it when people underestimated her- she wasn't a little weakling anymore by any stretch of the imagination, and any self respecting thief should know that there's always a bigger, hungrier fish. She'll let this be a free lesson to him- two free lessons in fact. she mused as she began to tuck the arms that were shoving at her face and body into her maw. Lesson two: once a predator has most of you in their gullet, you cut your losses and save your strength.

Gulp, glp, glrk. It didn't take long for his protests to become muffled as he was swallowed down. Mangri's stomach jostled and wiggled a bit as her prey collected inside of it, but ultimately the fuss he made was covered well. He wasn't terribly filling either, which made her consider another snack later...but her biggest priority was right in front of her. The criminal was caught- now how does she make off with all this treasure without tipping the people at the Cove off that she stole it?

[strange-little-spy]

Chapter Seven – May, 1940 – Steve and Bucky’s apartment

Chapter warnings: more angst similar to previous shift, violence without giving away plot,

Word count: 1,800

“Cheers, lads.” Addie raised her Coke with Steve and Bucky. “It is exactly one year since we met.”

“Best year I’ve ever had.” Bucky smiled in his charming way before taking a swig of his soda.

“Ditto,” Steve smirked.

“To the Golden Trio, Rogers, Barnes and Addison.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

“So I have a question,” Addie leaned back in the booth. “I never got a straight answer about the Auxiliary Corps, but now that I’m better I was wanting an answer, plus you guys have had time to think about it.”

“Right…” Steve scratched the back of his neck.

“About that-“ Bucky sounded grim, something uncharacteristic.

“What?” She set her bottle down, looking at them both before meeting Steve’s gaze. “What’s happened??”

“I registered to be called up when the war comes to us.” Bucky admitted, his voice low as he refused to meet Addie’s concerned glare.

“You what?!” She slammed her hands on the table, gaining the attention of the some the others in the diner. “But- Bucky, you can’t!!”

“Adds, please.” Steve touched her hand, his fingers cold compared to her warm digits. “He’s doing what’s right.”

“But-..I know how this ends, James. I can’t just let you walk into this and not say anything!”

“I know, kiddo,” He gave her an understanding look. “And I thought about it a long time, Ma knows about it too.”

“James, please-“ She knew he’d have to do this and she couldn’t stop it, no matter how much she pleaded, begged and asked, he would still go to war and get captured. “You’re not going to just leave us.”

“No, Addison.” Bucky shook his head. “Besides, maybe no war will start and I won’t get called up. It’s not like I’m in high demand.”

“But you will be.” She thought, her vision filling with tears as she remembered his future metal arm wrapped around her throat as she clawed uselessly against the metal.

“Buck’ll be okay.” Steve said as he walked Addie back to her apartment. “He can take care of himself and others.”

“I know..” Addie sniffed. “But I care too.”

“And that’s not a bad thing.” Steve assured, his hand clasping hers. “The fact that you’re reacting the way you are shows you really care.”

“Thanks, Steve.” She forced a smile, knowing it would help. “I just- I know what’s going to happen to him, and I know what’s going to happen to you. But I can’t frickin’ do anything about it. I hate feeling helpless.”

He let out a quiet chuckle at her choice words. “I know, doll. And I wish I could help.”

“Oh, gosh I wish Strange were here.” She sighed, letting her head lean back as she swung her arm outward with his. The skyscrapers really did appear to stretch as far as space would go, like if one was on the top they could just jump up and touch a star. She smiled at the thought.

“I wanna be up there someday.” She mused.

“What do you mean?”

“I want to go all the way to the top, and I don’t want to come down for hours. I wanna be up there when the thunder is all around and I want to feel it, Steve. I want to feel the sound and touch the lighting.”

Steve smiled and squeezed her hand. “You’re pretty when you’re dreaming.”

She looked back to him. “You’re a sweetheart.”

“You call everyone that.”

“You call everybody darlin’..” She danced around him, a smirk on her lips as she sang the chords.

“That’s not an excuse.” He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused.

“Okay then,” She pouted before breaking into a grin and standing between his feet and planting a kiss on his lips. “I don’t do that to just anyone.”

“I suppose I deserve some share of the pie.”

“Steven Grant Rogers.”

“What? I love you, too. Now c’mer.” He shrugged and pulled her collar forward to kiss her.

Unknown Location, unknown time – WARNING: MATURE CONTENT AHEAD, NON-GRAPHIC HINTINGS after “Did I jump again?”

Addie gasped as cold metal replaced the soft mattress under her back, a pain searing her neck as something was clamped around it. It sounded like a massive chain when she tried to move.

She let out a grunt, propping herself on her elbows and looking around. Her vision was hazy but she spied bars separating her from a hallway and another cell where a young woman was watching her.

A cold white light lit the small space and a loud scream echoed between the metal walls from far away.

“Ignore it.” The woman advised. “Besides it’ll end soon.”

“Wh-what?” Addie tried to sit on her knees but the massive bruises on her shins and thighs prevented her.

“You’re new here, aren’t ya?”

“Well- yes…”

“Then you must be awful special if they’re already beating you into submission and chaining you to the wall.”

Addie looked at the item that hung from her neck, a black collar was locked around her neck as a thick chain rested on her chest and traveled to the wall where it was bolted with four large screws onto the wall.

“What the heck?” she peered at herself, there was nothing different about her except the wounds.

“How’d they get you?” The woman prompted, sounding genuinely curious.

“I—I don’t know, I don’t remember anything after falling asleep and then…here.”

“Must have drugged you.” She shrugged and sat back down on the sad excuse for a cot that Addie so enviously wanted as she had no luxury. Just a hard floor and a chain for a blanket.

She sighed and sniffed, looking up when she heard footsteps down the hallway. A guard came into view, his weapon startling Addie. It was an AK-47, a Russian made gun, something that didn’t come along until the 50’s.

“Did…I jump again? Or is this a dream?” She thought, her eyes widening.

“You,” The guard pointed to the woman across from her. “Up.”

Addie watched in silent horror as the light was turned off and a number of gruntings was heard from across her, the sound of clothing being torn and the woman moaning in pain.

“You did so well.” The guard hissed.

Addie covered her ears and muffled her sobs as she waited it out.

When the light finally came back on, the guard was gone and the woman was crying, her legs literally shaking.

“Oh, my gosh that dirty rotten son of a..” She muttered, pulling herself to the bars where she could get as close to the other as she could.

“No, shut up.” She glared at nothing in particular. “Don’t draw attention to yourself…”

“But he’s a fricking coward!” Addie whisper-shouted, obeying the other.

“I know, but that doesn’t change anything.” Then she turned away and didn’t speak for a long time.

Addie huffed and leaned against the stone wall to her left, tucking her hands under her arms to warm her fingers in the cold cell. What had happened? How in the world did she go from 1940 all the way to—whatever year this was? Was she still in the same universe? Or was this another incident like the one with the Winter Soldier-

Had she been taken by HYDRA…?

End Mature Content Warning

It wasn’t till a few hours later Addie heard movements from the woman’s cell. She looked over and saw her stretching to the ceiling. She was tall, taller than Bucky for sure. Maybe 6 and half feet at the least.

“You okay?” She felt obligated to ask.

“No, I just got raped, what do you think?”

“Sorry…”

“Its like this all the time. They come, they go. They use us like toys.” She moped, raising her long leg to one of the higher bars of the cell door and moving back and forth.

“Wait, this could be the Red Room…” Addie thought as she watched the woman gracefully perform some kind of routine that definitely required intense ballet training.

The other woman held her positions for a long time before relaxing and moving on to the next position.

Another bang from the door informed her someone was coming down the hallway, heavy boots sounding on the metal floor.

Addie saw a different guard than the other one who had come in earlier, his hair was dark and dark stubble covered his jawline. His sharp eyes raked over Addie with hate and disgust.

“Oh, phew, he won’t use me then.” She thought, she immediately took is back as he yanked the cell door open. “Oh, snap.”

“On your feet.” He demanded, his voice hissing.

“I- can’t, not with this stupid chain.”

Her jaw was on fire again as the back of his hand met her face.

“I said, stand up, wench.”

Addie held back her comment and stood up slowly as the chain weighed her down, whatever they had done to her, she couldn’t feel her muscles working as she tried to straighten her back but the chain felt like a cast iron pan was strapped to all her bones.

“There, I’m up.” She stared at the man.

“Okay, this must be HYDRA. And this idiot is Rumlow.” She mentally swore. “Goodie.”

Rumlow unhooked the chain from the wall and pulled all the slack from it so that she was struggling to keep her balance.

“Move,” He snapped the chain like a whip, catching her shoulders and would definitely be leaving bruises.

She walked forward and out into the hallway. Rumlow moved forward, leading her like a dangerous animal. And maybe she was in this universe, timeline, whatever. She was too ticked off to care.

The HYDRA cells were different as she passed them and risked a glance to each. Inside might have once been a human being, but whatever they had been shoving into their bodies had made something else entirely.

Sometimes there was an actual animal in the cells, but their hateful gaze was just enough to send Addie wondering.

“Ignore it, just walk.” Rumlow snapped, yanking the chain again. It took all of her strength not to fall over.

When they finally reached their destination, Addie spotted Alexander Pierce waiting for them on a balcony of some sorts.

“There you are,” He said, uncrossing his arms and staring at the girl. “It’s about time you got here.”

“What do you want?” She snapped, completely agitated about her situation.

“Well, first off you need to learn some respect.” He took the chain from Rumlow and swung it, hitting Addie in the face. “You aught to be more like your friend here.”

“I don’t have any friends here, I shouldn’t even exist in this world.”

Pierce glanced at the men around him, a silent message passing between them.

“Then we’ll give you a reason. Take her to the serum room.”

The words sent adrenaline through Addie, what was she about to experience??

End Notes: Okay, so I'm screwing with the plot.

thank you for reading 🥰✌️

Dividers by @strangergraphics

prompt by @the-superoriginal

written by yours truly, all relation to actual people are purely coincidental

tag list: @oh-to-be-a-murderer - @fictionalmenjusthitdifferent - @itzzkaylaaa - @crazyinlovewithmarvel - @natt-romanoff - @ohyeah-itssamwilson - @proud-owner-0f-americas-ass - @thebestmerc-1 - @daniel-barnes-the-ghost -

if you would like to be tagged in the upcoming chapters, please send me an ask and I will make sure to tag you!

[athcnawritcs]

WRITER INFORMATION —

Name/alias: Ange

Age: 29

Time zone: EST

Pronouns: She/Her

Triggers: N/A

CHARACTER INFORMATION —

Faceclaim: Ana De Armas

Full name: Nina Aldana

DOB & age: September 4, 34 years old

Zodiac sign: Virgo

Gender & pronouns: Cis-female, She/Her

Occupation: Doctor (Pediatrician)

Neighborhood: Steele

Length of residency: 3 days

3 positive traits: Independent, Compassionate, Selfless

3 negative traits: Stubborn, Proud, Critical

INTRODUCTION —

Trigger warnings: Chronic Illness

- Responsibility. The first time Nina truly understood that word was during her second grade spelling bee. “Can I have the definition please?” She had asked with a wobbly voice into the too-tall mic. She won second place that day because she couldn’t spell it… then she had to pick up her younger sister from pre-k because her parents were too busy at the restaurant. “Responsibility.” She repeated back to her sister as they both sat on the bus going home, Nina vigilantly watching each stop to make sure they got off on the correct one. “R-E-S-P-O…” She enumerated as her sister played with her silver medal. Nina, at the same time, mentally recounted the short list she needed to remind her mother about for groceries. They were out of milk… and toilet paper. “…N-S-I-B-I-L-I-T-Y.” Her baby sister clapped and she smiled. Oh, and her papa needed to pick up his meds from the pharmacy. She’d tell him later. 

- She comes across the word often after that. Her parents crow about how grateful they are to have a responsible and reliable daughter. At 13, she was already running the household while her parents ran their business. It was the least she could do, really. Especially when her mama and papa came home exhausted and bleary-eyed. “We’re so lucky to have you, mija.” Her mother would say, pressing a kiss upon her temple as they all sat around the family table. Nina could only smile. “We’re doing this for you. Someday, when your mama and I are gone, the restaurant will be yours.” Her father said proudly. Nina‘s smile faltered, but she could only nod her head placatingly. She didn’t want to tell them that she had bigger dreams. Dreams that would take care of all of them. 

- At 16, her youngest sister and her mother get into a car crash. Her mother manages to make it out without long lasting injuries… her sister‘s whole leg is shattered. The doctors tell them it’ll be a long and painful journey to a new kind of normal. Her decision to be a doctor solidifies in her brain. 

- Somewhere between age 8 and 17, she falls in love with a boy. His smile is crooked and his laugh is like thunder. Her whole life, she’s had a plan. When she realizes she loves him, she shifts her plan to make sure that he’s a part of it. 

- They break up just before college. She leaves Woodside at 19 to pursue medicine out of state. She stays away as much as possible… You know what they say, when men plan, God laughs. 

- Fast forward a decade and a half. She’s a successful pediatrician in California. She gets to make enough money to keep her parent’s restaurant afloat and then some. Life is moving and more often than not, she goes to bed without the thought of that crooked smile and thunderous laugh. Life isn’t amazing per se, but it was good. She was content. She had made a plan and she followed it... God laughs. 

- She’s 34 when the weight of her responsibility settles on her shoulders. Her eyes are red-rimmed and puffy as she looks out the airplane window above the sparkling lights of the west coast. “R-E-S-P-O…” Her father had passed of a heart attack and her family needed her to come home. Her mother was a wreck. Her sisters had their own problems… and she… “…N-S-I-B-I-L-T-Y.” She clamped her mouth shut as she took in a deep shaky breath. 

- She had to face the music sometime. 

[inkandarsenic]

bloody but unbowed

Synopsis: It's the 290th Hunger Games in Westeros, and the 10th Reaping Day of Robb Stark's life, and Robb is about to be thrust headfirst into a game of survival, one he intends to win.

Pairing: Robb Stark x OC

Tags: Hunger Games AU, Robb POV

masterlist | part one | next

Robb spends the rest of the day with Grey Wind in the godswood. He knows he should be with his family but he just can't... His direwolf doesn’t look at him like he’s going to his own funeral, and no one but the gods is here to bear witness if he cries into Grey’s fur. He stares up at the blood red leaves of the weirwood, hand absently stroking Grey Wind’s head as he thinks. He’s got to give himself the best chance he can to make it home. He isn’t allowed to take his sword with him— tributes aren’t allowed anything from home, actually, not even their clothes. Every tribute is dressed in the same tunic, breeches, and boots before being drugged asleep and left to wake up in the middle of the arena, surrounding a pile of weapons and supplies — he’ll just have to try and get to a sword.

Robb knows that previous victors often impart advice to the new tributes, but… the North’s last victor was Ramsay Snow three years ago, and even if he could get a raven there and back in time, Robb doesn’t particularly want the advice of the man who won his games by flaying most of his opponents alive.

It’s a long while before Robb forces himself to his feet and goes inside, Grey Wind at his heels. Sansa slams into Robb’s chest as soon as he steps into the Great Hall. She’s crying, which makes Robb feel awful about refusing Father’s offer to get him out of the Games, and he hugs her tight. “Don’t cry, Sansa,” he tries to reassure. “You know I’ll do my best to come home.”

In the corner with the royal family, Prince Joffrey scoffs. His father cuffs him around the head, and Robb ignores them.

Sansa sticks close to Robb’s side even after she lets go, burying her face against Robb’s arm. His mother comes close and cups his face. “Please, Robb, accept King Robert’s kindness. You don’t have to be a part of this madness.”

Robb sighs. “Mother. How am I to rule the North one day if I take the easy way out? How can I look my bannermen in the face and ask them to someday give their children up if I myself was too cowardly to do the same?”

“You remind me so much of your father,” his mother said, but it had none of the pride he usually expected with the words. Rather, her voice was sad, as if she could not think of a worse thing to be. She shook her head and stepped back from him. Robb resisted the urge to hug her and bury his face in her shoulder like a child. He was seven and ten years old, and it would hardly be proper in front of the royal family.

“I say you’re a fool, Stark,” Joffrey sneered. The Starks all turned to him. “You should be here preparing to run the North for me someday. If you ask me, I say let the bastard take your place instead.”

All the better no one asked you then, Robb wanted to snap back. To send Jon — or any of his siblings, even Theon — to his possible death instead was unthinkable. He bit his tongue. “We can’t all be as… politically minded as yourself, your highness. I would be a laughingstock in all of Westeros should I need my brother to do what I was too cowardly to attempt.”

“And Bran and I’ll take really good care of Grey Wind for you, Robb,” Arya pipes up determinedly. She was glaring at Joffrey, and probably would have launched herself at him, prince or not, had it not been for Jon’s hand clamped over her arm.

Bran nods along. “We’ll tell him all about you so he knows you when you return.”

Robb faltered. He had not considered… He looked down at the pup at his feet, who looked back at him so trustingly, tongue lolling out in a puppy’s grin. Grey Wind was only a few months old. Would he even truly remember Robb if Robb did manage to make it home? The Games regularly took upwards of three months. How long was a direwolf’s memory? “I had not considered that Grey Wind would not be allowed to come with me,” he murmured quietly.

“Terribly sorry, my boy,” Robert said somewhat awkwardly. “Tributes aren’t allowed to bring anything into the arena, and that beast of yours may as well be a weapon.”

The Queen sighed and drank deep from her goblet. “Let the boy have his wolf,” she said with the air of someone tired of the conversation. “If he wants to get himself killed, why not let him take the beast with him?” Robb wanted to protest against the assumption that he would not survive, but he kept his mouth shut. “It can be a new rule this year — every tribute may bring one thing from home. It will certainly make the Games more enjoyable. The Seven know they’ve gotten dreadfully dull in recent times.”

She gestured for dinner to be brought in, like she owned the place, and that was that. Robb would have the comfort of his wolf as he fought for his life. What joy.

It's just after the hour of the nightingale when Robb is roused from his bed and ushered down to the courtyard, barely given time to dress and eat. The courtyard is bathed in faint grey light, and Robb suddenly feels a sharp ache of grief when he realizes he hasn't taken the time to say goodbye to Winterfell properly.

His family is waiting for him, and Robb finally lets himself collapse in his mother's arms. If it is to be the last time he sees her, he is going to take the comfort of her embrace - his mother holding him is one of Robb's earliest memories. She holds him close and cups the back of his head.

"Oh, my sweet boy," she says quietly, and Robb hates the tremor of tears he can hear in her voice. "You come home to us."

It's a herculean effort to pull back. His arms are immediately full of his siblings, one after another. Sansa crying against his chest and being shoved aside by Arya who makes demands that Robb live and come rescue her from the South when he goes home. Bran edges her out and informs Robb, in a voice muffled against Robb’s stomach, that when Robb comes home, Bran will be able to best him in a spar. Robb laughs wetly and agrees, just as a sobbing Rickon, who seems to have just fully processed that Robb is leaving and might not come home, latches onto him.

Jon stands solemnly to the side, not quite with the rest of the family. Robb crosses to him. His brother plans to leave for the Night's Watch when the king and Father go south, and it eats at Robb that he won't be there to see Jon off. He forces a smile anyway. "Next time I see you, you'll be in all black."

The words are more desperate than he wants them to sound, a prayer to the gods that he'll see his brother again. Jon, thankfully, doesn't comment on it. "It was always my color."

"Farewell, Snow." I will see you again, won't I?

"And you, Stark." If the gods are kind.

Jon reaches out and tugs Robb into a hug, and Robb buries his face in his brother's shoulder for a moment before he has to pull away or risk crying. And he wants to be strong as he leaves - he wants his family to remember him going with a smile rather than tears.

Father walks with him to the gate, where a horse waits with Baratheon guards - the queen didn't trust that Stark guards wouldn't try to run off with Robb. They stand there for a moment looking back on Winterfell. "I remember riding through these gates after the war, and seeing you for the first time. You were so small and I was terrified I'd be awful at raising you to be the heir. I was never raised to be the heir, I worried constantly I wasn't going about it correctly." He sighs, looking more weighed down than Robb has ever seen. "And then you stood your ground and refused to be given special exceptions. I have never been prouder or more scared." He's silent for a beat and Robb tries to find words. "I raised you to act with honor, above all else."

"I know, Father, and I wi-"

Father cuts him off, meeting his eyes seriously. "There is no place for honor in the Hunger Games, Robb. You do what you have to do to survive and come home. I'll be proud of you no matter what, do you hear me? You are my son, and I will always be proud of you."

He claps a hand on Robb's shoulder, then pauses and yanks him into a tight embrace instead. "You are my son. And I love you no matter what."

He crouches to give Grey Wind his own goodbye as Robb mounts his horse. He's still standing there when Robb looks back for one last glimpse of Winterfell before they lose sight of it, and the lump in Robb's throat grows. There stands everything he's ever known, and it feels wrong to be leaving it.

Grey Wind presses against Robb's leg with a mournful whine, as if he can sense that they won't be returning for a long while, if at all. Robb reaches down to scratch his ears, his voice quiet. "It's alright, Grey Wind. We'll come home soon, I swear it."

Robb turns a blind eye to the pitying looks of the Baratheon guards, and rides ahead, swallowing back the urge to snarl at them. It wasn't their fault he was Reaped, it wasn't their fault he couldn't even have the comfort of men he knew surrounding him. He repeats to himself his promise to come home, and ignores the way the words sound more and more like a lie every time he says them.

dividers by @/zaldritzosrose

1.6k words

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

MarchWeres Day 8

Prompt: Blood Play (alt)

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Tabby (oc)

Warnings: Blood play, poorly written smut, mentions of breeding

Tabby was enthralled with the way she was given control of Daryl’s body, the things he would allow her to do. He healed quickly and it was a gift she used to her advantage. He liked the pain, and asked her for it. Begged her for it. He was a groaning, whimpering mess beneath her, blood smeared over his skin as she slowly rose only to sink back down and take the length of him back into her willing body.

“Does that feel good, baby?” The knife sliced through the flesh of his abdomen, blood welling up and rivulets traveling down both sides, soaking into the sheets. Tabby pulled the blade away, using her free hand to smear the crimson over his stomach before bringing her bloody fingertips to her swollen clit, rubbing frantic circles as she began to bounce, riding him in earnest.

“Fuck.” Daryl growled, barely containing the beast trying to take over. Fingernails elongated to claws that pierced her hips, his lips pulling back to display sharp canines.

“Gonna cum for me, baby?” She was breathless, smearing his blood eagerly over her pulsing cunt, from clit to where they were joined. “Cum inside me, Daryl.”

“Can’t—goddamnit, ya know I—” He pressed his head back into the pillow when the knife pierced just below his nipple, not deep enough to scar but the pain was delicious.

“I’m gonna cum, baby. Cum with me, fill me up. It’s okay.” Tabby pleaded. Thighs burning, she alternated between a vigorous circling of her hips and allowed him to bounce her, meeting each downward pull with a vicious thrust she felt in her stomach. “Oh, god, fuck. Daryl, please.”

“M’gonna—gonna cum.” He panted, one final glance at his blood covering her pussy. She cried out his name as her walls clamped down around him. It wasn’t easy but he held out until she was pulsing with the aftershocks, pressing his thumb to her clit to keep her lost in that bliss while he pulled her off his cock, just in time to cover her pussy and thighs with warm ropes, her name a breathless prayer to the universe while he twitched and spasmed below her.

Tabby fell onto his chest, both heaving and greedily sucking in air as they came down from the space between ecstasy and reality.

“One day, you’ll give in and give me a baby.” She chuckled, lapping at a trail of blood from a wound that had long since disappeared.

“I will, Tabby-cat. Ya know I wanna. S’just not the right time an’ we don’t even know if it’ll work.” Daryl pressed a kiss to the top of her head, her wild curls tickling his nose.

“It’ll work. Someday, it’ll work.” Raising her head, she pressed her bloody lips to his, the coppery taste of his own lifeblood filling his mouth. “When you’re ready,” she whispered against his lips, “we’ll just keep trying until it takes.”

[jamorbital]

Mailbag ✉️

@the-andyeah:

A long time ago, years before I started posting, a German artist by the name of GagSnob did a piece showing a series of heads with a step-by-step multi-layered gag. AFAIK that was the first and only instance of anything like that before I showed up. (Please correct me if I'm wrong.) I'm not even sure when it was originally from—I'm guessing early 00's, maybe even earlier. I wish I could find it now.

I didn't see it until some time later, but that was what started it for me. I was like "Wow, this is hot! I want to try!" Then over time, some other artists and I gradually took it further and further and it just kind of became a thing.

Sometimes I wonder who first came up with the idea of layering gags. This is the earliest reference to the concept that I'm aware of. 1994!

@sinknighteye:

Mostly no! At this point I feel pretty free to just do whatever I like.

However, I've long had this very specific idea in my head for a scene with... (more below)

...a character bound, gagged, and bent over a table, getting gangbanged by a group of big mean girls (with dicks!) like the ones from this.

One girl would be ramming her from behind, bent over her, with one hand against the back of her head and the other clamped over her gagged mouth. The rest of them would be standing around the table and stroking themselves, maybe making some lewd, dominating comments in speech bubbles.

I tried drawing it once, but it was a mess. It's pretty hard to get it the way I'm picturing it. Even if I could pull it off, I don't know if my audience would go for something that raunchy, and I'm pretty sure it would violate the rules of most platforms I post on anyway. Maybe someday though!

@maidmarble:

Thank you! It's a weird little point of pride for me when people tell me I gave them a new kink. Hope you enjoy what you find here!

@somespicycheese:

Put that on a piece of paper and I will sign it 💯

@laza-2:

Wow, that's hard. Umm...

Cyndi Lauper - Time After Time Black Flag - Rise Above Breakfast Club - Never Be The Same Nujabes - Luv(sic) pt.2 Mariah Carey - Fantasy

Also, I know most people probably think of it as a meme, but Plastic Love is genuinely such a perfect song. (Oops, that was 6.)

@gayest-of-spuds:

Wow, that's great! I'm really glad you like her. (For people who don't know Dahlia yet, here she is.)

Thank you for the kind word! Hope you have a good day too!

[elfiepike]

maybe someday the enduring interest in clamp manga will mean an official licensed version of the sohryuden manga will come out..... please i love my terrible dragon sons....

[melishade]

Damn! Even my double-checking isn't doing me any good.

Number 99?

This ask game

Maria learning about who her father is in the Peaceful Timeline: Part 21: Maria learning about her Biological Dad

Ymir was quietly digging a hole in the dirt before Optimus' holoform placed a potato in the hole she dug. The two had repeated this process a few times before watering the soil. Ymir had wiped her cheek with the back of her hand, but that only managed to get some dirt on her cheek.

"You have some dirt on your cheek," Optimus remarked.

Ymir used the sleeve of her dress to wipe it off, and when it was clear, Optimus gave her a silent nod to confirm it was gone. The two were ready to plant carrots in their small garden on the right side of the cabin, but-!

"Optimus! Ironspark!" Both had turned their attention to Megatron's holoform walking up to them, giving a fifteen-year-old Maria a piggyback ride. Optimus was about to ask what was wrong, but there was a sullen expression written all over her face that concerned the both of them."

"She has been asking questions," Megatron proclaimed before getting on his knees, "Answer her honestly."

Maria climbed off of Megatron's back before taking a few steps forward. The teen rubbed her arm and gulped, nervous to ask what has been on her mind for so long.

"I...I need to know," Maria began before blurting it out, "Who's my real father?!"

Optimus flinched at the question while Ymir's whole body seize up entirely. Optimus glanced over to see Ymir's hands clenching her dress and trembling. Optimus turned his attention to Megatron, but the former warlord shot him a look.

"She was bound to ask about someday," Megatron reminded, "Now give her an honest answer."

Optimus turned his attention to Maria. "Firelight, could you...please sit down?"

Maria didn't like this. She didn't like the way that Optimus looked so tense, and how scared her Mama looked, but she complied. She slowly sat down on her knees and rested her hands against her abdomen, trying to ease the feeling in her gut.

"Who...is he? Who's my real father?" Maria asked.

Optimus wanted to say so many things. He wanted to answer her question, but he also wanted to reassure her that her biological father was not her true family. But he also knew that it wasn't his place to say. It was Ymir's place, but she looked so frightened to say a words. Should he speak on her behalf? It looked like he had no choice.

"Maria...your father...he-!"

"King," Ymir uttered, fear laced in her voice.

Maria felt her stomach drop and her heart shatter, the last of her innocence burned with that single word. Her throat burn and she clamped her mouth shut, preventing any bile from coming out. She just felt so sick. How could she not? The man who brought run to the world, the man who conquered lands and pillaged villages, the man who hurt her Mama and Oshern and so many others, was her father. It-it all made sense. Why the villagers thought she was strange and unkempt, why her father was never there at all, why...why she just...she was...

"So I really am a monster," Maria spoke without thinking.

Optimus gasped in horror, mortified at the words that came out of her mouth. Before he could retort, Ymir practically lunged towards her daughter and grabbed her face, forcing her daughter to look her dead in the eye. Maria was shocked, never imagining such anger on her own mother. Ymir's own fearfulness had disappeared in an instant.

"Ma-!"

"NO!" Ymir bellowed at her, stunning everyone, "NO! Understand?! No! No monster!"

"But-!"

"Say it!" She commanded, her voice getting sore, "Say it! Maria! No monster! No monster!"

"I'm not a monster!" Maria yelled, even though she wasn't sure if she believed it entirely. Maria yelped when Ymir pulled her close and hugged her so tight she was certain she was going to break something.

"Mine..." Ymir declared, "My...baby...my...beloved...mine."

This time, Maria felt tears well up in her eyes before she hugged her mother back. The teen couldn't help but sob in her mother's arms while Ymir did everything she could to hold back her own tears. She had to be strong for her daughter. She had to be.

Optimus immediately stood up and turned his attention back to Megatron. "Go get Oshern and Rose and bring them back to the cabin."

Megatron nodded and ran towards the trail that led to the bottom of the mountain. Optimus turned his attention to the sobbing girl and her tearful mother before offering a hand. "Let us go inside and get you something to drink. This is...a conversation long overdue."

Maria nodded. "Okay...,"

(Number 32 has been asked the rest is free game.)