#Lawless fanfic

[mlmxreader]

Fire | Forrest Bonduraunt x gn!reader

anonymous asked: Forrest Bondurant Hey 🖤!! May I please ask for a work using the following prompts for Forrest Bondurant X non-binary, male, or gn!Reader: “What? He had it coming”  (Someone talking shit about our mans and reader is like, no you don't??)

summary: he had it coming, you're not to blame and Forrest knows that.

tws: violence, blood, swearing

support your fanfic writers by reblogging what you read & enjoy

Forrest was more than used to people talking about him, insulting him, causing him grief; he was used to it, and he always brushed it off if he knew that it wasn't worth the fight. Most of the time, it wasn't.

Most of the time, it was just someone getting too big for their boots, and that wasn't his fault; so he brushed it off. Usually with little more than a grunt or a growl, followed by him lighting up a cigar or having a shot. But then you came along, and suddenly Forrest had the challenge of keeping your temper in check when someone talked about him or insulted him.

He could be violent when he needed and wanted to be, but you?

You seemed to think that violence was a question, and that the answer you were looking for was yes. Word soon spread that people had to watch their words around Forrest, in case his partner overheard; more than anything, it was the knowledge that if they hurt you, there would be nothing to hold Forrest back.

One person shouting and putting someone in their place wasn't so much scary as much as it was a reminder that common sense still existed. But Forrest's partner?

Nobody would risk that unless they were stupid, refused to believe that Forrest was capable of great brutality, or both. Nobody would dare hurt you - not while Forrest was around. He was scary when he had to be, when he needed to be. When his hand was forced. Forrest's violence was unlike yours; you were uncontrollable and fierce - a red hot fire. Forrest was methodical and cold - a predator lurking in shadows.

You were fire, but Forrest? Forrest was an earthquake.

"I don't get it," the man you were dealing with scoffed, looking over at Forrest. "Why him? He's never gonna give you what you need."

You glared at him, clenching your jaw and balling your fists at your sides. "Because unlike you, Forrest makes me happy."

"How?" He scoffed. "It's not like he can provide you with stability. Or a decent place to live, or-"

You grabbed the back of his head, and smashed it against the table; with his head down, you grabbed a nearby glass, and hammered it against his skull, not caring where the shards went as you sighed heavily and shook your head.

No one was allowed to speak ill of Forrest. He should have known that, and as he sat there, weeping and crying out in agony, you grinned over at Forrest.

He knew immediately what that grin meant, and took his time to come over to you; with his hand on your shoulder, Forrest hummed, and dropped his gaze to your bloodied knuckles.

"What? He had it coming," you shrugged, but Forrest only dropped to his knees, and took your hands in his. "Forrest?"

He was carefully examining them, seeing if the blood belonged to you or to the most recent recipient of your temper; he pulled out the handkerchief from his pocket, gently mopping away the blood as he nodded slowly.

Satisfied that you were not injured. He dropped your hands, and sighed heavily.

"Is he dead?"

"No," you rolled your eyes. "He should be though, the shit he was saying about you."

Forrest cocked a brow, shaking his head. "You need to learn to control your temper."

"I can control it," you told him. "Just not when people talk shit about you."

A sharp growl came from the back of his throat; he was meant to be the one to protect you and to stand up for you. He was meant to be the strong one. Yet you were insistent on protecting him, standing up for him and never backing down. You were as strong as he was.

He liked that, even if he thought that your methods weren't exactly the best way to deal with things. At least you didn't kill him. Licking his lips, Forrest pressed a kiss to your knuckles, and hummed softly as he pulled you up from your chair, leading you away; he let you sit at the kitchen table while he prepared the coffee. He knew how you liked it.

He would have to have been an idiot not to notice that you never drank the full cup when anyone else made it. Even if you were friendly with his brothers, you never finished a cup of coffee made by them. You always left the last three or four swigs.

But when Forrest made it, you always emptied the mug. It made him smile when he was out alone; if he was out chopping wood or doing some other errand. When he was all by himself, he often thought about how you drank coffee.

He thought about how protective you were of him, and how you would always stand up for him, and he would smile then, too. Sure, he wasn't exactly keen on the bloodshed you left behind - but you were definitely a keeper. He knew that.

He put the mug down in front of you and smiled as he sat down beside you. "Hungry?"

You shook your head, taking a swig. "Not yet… I swear, every time you make coffee, it's better than the last time."

Forrest smiled as he nodded slowly. "Hurt?"

You shook your head again. "I don't think so. My hands feel okay… sticky from that cunt's blood, but… okay."

He nodded. "Good."

"I'm sorry," you said quietly. "If I worried you. I just… I don't… I can't stand it when people talk shit about you, and I won't have it."

"You always worry me," Forrest huffed quietly, although the smile on his face was more than evident. Endearment.

You smiled back, wanting to playfully shove him for such a comment but unable to find it in yourself as you brought your legs up to rest on his thighs; you sat back in your seat, sighing contently. "You worry me, too, y'know."

[tiny-pun]

"You know how to clean up a crime scene but not how to wash the fucking dishes ?!?

...

How is that even possible?! "

[maddascanbe-blog]

"Haven't you heard? I'm the head of the Hive!"

Gold Sting "Goldie" here to help his favorite Cat out. Fun fact I actually like this design better than both Mischief and Jackal. Good to finally put Camilo in yellow again.

I didn't realize before but Camilo is the character I most consistently practice drastically changing the camouflaged miraculous' appearance with. I do understand the irony of that.

[impossibleprincess35]

Asphodel | ch 46

[Excerpt:]

Satine took a deep breath and felt the ache in her lungs as she exhaled. Her eyes opened and before her, Obi-Wan stood in iron skin, and her face softened at the sight of him. Auburn locks fell across his forehead, his freckled skin marred with soot and grime, and yet, the light within him was there, pleading quietly with her to hold on; but she needed him to accept what was an inevitability, and feet away from him, her mind was loud and clear:

When the Jedi Order comes to reclaim Mandalore from the Sith, I will be gone. Promise me that you will speak my name into existence. You will let others know that I died as I lived. If the details are too difficult to relay, tell them that I died of a broken heart; when Sundari fell, so did I.

Obi-Wan’s face twisted with outrage and sadness as he recognized what she was doing, and in spite of the commandos who gripped him tightly and forced him to remain still, he began to shake his head and struggle against their holds. “No, no, Satine, no!”

Lounging upon the Sundari throne, Maul leaned forward, fascinated by the exchange, and a grin spread upon his lips. In desperation, the former Duchess of Mandalore was thinking of her final wishes, and the Jedi she loved was cursed to stand witness to it. It was a form of torture the Sith hadn’t considered, and as he soaked in the anguish that resonated from them both, he considered it quite entertaining.

Satine’s mouth, with her downturned corners, appeared to tremble in a frown she could not undo. The lightness she felt upon learning Korkie was alive was gone, weighed down by the knowledge that she was hurting Obi-Wan. Had this been a private moment, she would have touched his face one last time or reached for his hand. She would have stared into his eyes, kebiin like the skies over Kryze Castle and Coruscant, and she would have felt calmer. But the fates had not allowed it to be so, and tears rolled down her face as she pursed her lips and her thoughts were clear once more:

If Kor finds you, please, tell him that my last thought was of how much I loved him and how grateful I was to be his buir. He is the hope for Mandalore if there is ever to be peace again.

The Jedi tried to commit her words to memory so that if worse came to worse in the Grand Salon, he could at least look her son in the face and tell him what she had asked him to. The thought of having to do so pained him, but Obi-Wan stared at her and nodded solemnly, making the quiet promise that he would do as she requested.

--

Chapter 46 is up.

[xenite51]

I’ve started writing Xena fanfic again after YEARS long hiatus. Currently I’m rewriting what I had titled “Return of the Warrior Princess” the title will likely change as I believe there’s another well known fanfic of that title. I’m trying to decide where/how to post them though. If I should create a Patreon and link to them here or just post them here. I’m not an amazing writer but I do enjoy it and I think I have interesting ideas here and there. Anyway, the purpose for this blog is mainly for my fanfic and over all obsession with Xena Warrior Princess. I hope y’all enjoy and I hope to make new friends 😊 Battle On Xenites!

[wiltf]

teeny bit of 🔞 but mostly early dating exploration / light humour / lil bit of love with seven and jen

not even the music blaring from jen’s phone manages to cover up his thoughts. try as he might, as their own voices roll over him, tinny and reminiscent of someone accidentally covering the microphone while trying to record, seven kind of wanted to just sink into the leather of the car seat until there was nothing left. little bit of burning shame and also that floaty feeling he was still getting used to. all culminating in his stomach twisting into knots.

“‘m sorry.”

“sev, i told you it was fine.” the leg jennifer had thrown over his was still bopping along to their song, and as he peeks under his arm, he can see the small twists that suggest she was following the choreography, too. “it happens.”

honestly, even he couldn’t tell what kind of noise left him, but jennifer was moving. leaning over and hand on his thigh to brace herself. hand hitting all parts of the car until she seems to find whatever it was she wanted from under the passenger seat. “drink some water, take a breather, and—”

“jen, you’re sounding like—like a doctor, or something. it’s weird.”

the bottle is a little too warm, pressed into the side of his face that she had access too. enough that it encourages him to finally pull his hands away from his head, and try to not completely pass out at the dishevelled jennifer in front of him. his shirt, far too loose of a neck, letting seven stare all the way down into the way the little pendant around her neck was stuck to the still sweaty skin between her breasts. messy and loose hair. she sits back on her heels, somehow not managing to completely fall off balance, and seven just has to curl away. not think about the rose on her underwear, embroidered and familiar.

“you’re too hot.”

pressing his face into the seat, jennifer’s “thank you?” is accompanied with a light laugh, and she’s digging at him. trying to get him to turn over. sitting on the backs of his legs eventually, even though the angle is all wrong and it’s pulling at his hips. which jennifer likely knew, as her fingers start to massage along his exposed skin, from where his pants were still sitting low and shirt was riding up.

“seven, you’re being stupid. who cares if you like… ‘came early’, or whatever. honestly your refractory period is pretty solid so like—”

seven doesn’t mean to cut her off, but he hits a level of incredulity that manages to overshadow whatever embarrassment was still lingering. “what the fuck have you been looking up online, jen? ‘refractory period’?!”

“i’ve been doing research, butthead.” insult accompanied by sharp pokes in his side. “it’s like, i dunno, the time between an orgasm? and well, you’re young—even if you act like an old man—so generally it’s a few minutes and then—”

seven groans, dragging out the “stopppp…” until her laughter dies down. one long pause, before he rolls over again to look at her. “why were you looking this up?” like yeah, of course he had ended up down some sort of wikipedia spiral at some a.m. time, but seven couldn’t deny his curiosity, enough that he finally relented, rearranging limbs and clothes to sit on the backseat now, opposite jennifer.

a jennifer who grinned in that particularly devilish way she did, when some awful and possibly illegal idea crossed her mind. some people may have called it smug, or smarm, but seven leans in to greet the way she loops her arms loosely around his neck, playing with his hair. “i was doing research… and not just porn, either,” she winks, and seven feels his cheeks colour, “i found some pretty cool, like, forums, journal articles—not just sealed section for us, babe! top shelf research shit.”

oh, he remembered those magazines. the sealed sections. the way jennifer had been huddled over them with anyone else morbidly curious on what might be on display for that particular month. and yeah, of course he had read them too, especially once they had hit puberty running. and even his mother suggested that it might be worth having a look, with those far too know-it-all smiles and eyebrows, which in hindsight. okay. maybe he should’ve thought about it instead of brushing it off then, thinking his mum was being ridiculous about it.

but now they were here, in the backseat of her car, not in completely unfamiliar territory, because seven had definitely had her hands down his pants before. but there were some particularly wild stories that came out of those magazines which seven knew he would never forget, and all the facts just faded away.

“you are weird as shit.”

and she laughs and kisses him and bumps his nose with hers. and they’re still figuring it out, really. teeth clicking and nails that cut a little too far, so seven isn’t that concerned about ‘research’, because hell, he’d even spent some time looking stuff up too. not whatever jen had, using specific terms and telling him to stay hydrated, now, you need it more than i do, because he wasn’t a freakin’ weirdo, and he calls her that all over again, as she giggles about some fact she looked up (something about the cardiovascular system affecting his dick and she recommends getting exercise in).

“wanna try again?”

seven makes a hum, back of his throat, but can’t help the way he feels his whole damn face scrunch up. okay, lawless, you got this, you can ask her this. “are you—are you, like…” hand wave, relatively south, “interested? or wet, or… i don’t know the word, stop looking at me like that!”

“are you asking me if i’m turned on?”

he just wanted to cover his face and roll over. again. “i guess?!”

the feeling only rises as there is a drawn out pause, where jennifer’s face goes through several stages of emotions. eventually, it seems to land on a wonderfully pleased if mollified smile; the kind that played around the corners of her mouth, as if she was trying to fight it. “do you want me to tell you what it’s called or—?”

“jennifer, i swear, can you just—”

“i’m kidding! yes, i am very turned on by you—always, duh.” butterfly kisses, over his cheeks, lips, temples, nose, that punctuate her next question: “did you wanna touch me again and see for yourself?”

“i don’t… know. fuck,” and with that, seven lets his head fall back, hitting the top of the seat. “i don’t know what i’m doing right now, and i don’t wanna fuck it up for you, y’know?”

“‘for me’?” is the echo, followed by a snort. “sev, sex involves both of us. that whole ‘two to tango’ shit, y’know? okay, yeah, sometimes more, and i guess by yourself can count technically as well—”

at his raised brows, she waves her hands in an almost apologetic way. “off topic, sorry, but… babe, we’re both in this, and i do want you to feel good as well, okay? one of the few times this isn’t just about me, i know.”

and she’s trying to get a rise out of him. play it off and rib him. it works, of course it does, when seven can’t help the smile. meets her insistent kisses with his own.

“look, i want to christen vlad,” and with the apparent chosen name of her car, jennifer lovingly pats the back of the driver’s seat headrest, “with you, but we don’t have to. we don’t have to have sex—i would rather, like, not fuck right now, and just wait for sunrise, than have you all wound up, okay?”

one day, she would stop jabbing him in the sides for an answer. “okay?” but it was not that day, not anytime soon. “okaaaaayyyyy?” and jennifer is practically crawling over him, getting in his personal bubble (not like she wasn’t already under his skin constantly), poking and prodding for a response that would satisfy her. the grin doesn’t reach her eyes, as there is that tension in her brows, the worry there, for him.

“i still can’t believe you chose that as a name.”

it’s easier to deflect. to hide the fact that seven caught her hands and kissed the tips of her fingers and yeah, he was okay. more than okay. embarrassed and swallowing his feels all the way down into the soles of his shoes, but okay. because jennifer was all relaxed and giddy and pulling his hair free of the headband, peppering whatever skin she could find with those lips of hers.

“my naming choices are spectacular, and you’re just jealous i got an impala first.”

with a shift, he’s back against the seat proper, jen in his lap. seven keeps his hands on her waist, pulling his shirt up, finding warm skin and freckles he’d memorised since the first day he’d seen them. open mouthed kisses along the top of her breasts, following awkward tan lines from a bikini top that wasn’t sitting straight and that one half moon scar just below her collarbone from where she’d fallen from the monkey-bars as a kid. truthfully, seven could’ve just buried his face right there, between her tits, and just stayed a while. breathing her in, feeling the way her body practically hummed under him.

yet in the only moment she pulls her hand away from him, jennifer accomplishes several things in no particular order. with all the practice dedicated from someone used to dressing and undressing in cramped spaces, she manages to not only remove her own underwear, but encourage seven to raise his ass enough to pull his jeans and boxers down. there was also the stretch to the middle console at the front of the car, which was accompanied a frustrated groan when whatever she had been fishing for not being there.

“hold on,” is the grumble, as she twists completely off his lap to move between the front seats now. passenger side glovebox, seven was sure, but well. he was suddenly and acutely aware of the music playing from her phone (track six, blue blooded beard, not the best but it’s why no more team votes were allowed for names), and her ass swaying to it. possibly annoyed swaying, were that a thing, but,

“jen,” and seven swallows thickly, now, slowly. clenched fist on his thigh, angling enough to brush a knuckle against his definitely hard dick. “your—you—mmm, this is a really good look for you, y’know?”

“really?” hair flicks back, and she looks over her shoulder. smug, of course, but that high flush on her cheek betrays her. in particular, when she holds up what she was looking for. “i mean, did you wanna do it this way or…?” and jennifer lets that question hang there, right there, definitely making sure there was not a nearly enough oxygen or blood reaching his brain.

“another time, definitely, get over here—fuck!”

seven manhandles her back onto his lap, and he’s grumbling, he knows. touching and mumbling and kissing, whatever he can find, as her wrist is loose now, slack and rolling a condom down over his dick. mindful of sensitivity, as she says, which definitely has him roll his eyes and seven would have said something about her being a know-it-all, thank you, if jennifer hadn’t decided in that moment to touch herself.

he’s sure he says something like she was too hot, but whether it came out as just a sound was something else. all wrapped up in the way he’s acutely aware that he isn’t moving, uncertain hands that don’t leave her hips, jen doing all the hard work. if seven could think, let alone talk, there was a smart-ass comment on the tip of his tongue about this being a better workout for her than her many attempts at a gym membership. but it doesn’t make it out, his head hits the headrest, and jen. oh, god, jen. takes his hands in her own, holding them there, either side of his face.

forehead to forehead, contact only broken by open mouthed kisses and lips that drag and sweet nothings. seven had learned somewhere along the line — of fumbling their way through crossing a dozen lines about dating a band member — that jen talked a lot. breathless, absolutely, but the words that left her were always so painfully sweet. mostly mumblings to herself, he figured the first few times, because her eyes were screwed shut then, just as they were now, while she kept going. maybe he was never supposed to hear it, but seven couldn’t help himself, watching the way her face shifted with each movement of their hips, how her lips just continued to move with each praise.

and jennifer says, i love you i love you i love you, like it was a prayer. like seven was not fully at her beck and call, caged under her, intertwined fingers and every damn nerve ending on fire. almost weird to consider (and that was the best descriptor he had rattling around in his brain, really). few short months, dating and kissing and fucking and jen had said that all before. smiling and bright and it was always a phrase of hers that would echo in him, days on end.

but that was before, this was now, and seven feels the corner of his eyes prickle. a sniff, and fuck, he thought he was quiet, hadn’t gone still, shit, fuck. fuck! squeezes his eyes shut, but jen hits the brakes, hands releasing his, and,

“sev? seven? holy shit, babe, are you crying?”

seven wants to laugh and blow his nose and isn’t sure what to make of the situation right now, because he can only pull the collar of his shirt up, as if it might swallow him whole. holy fucking shit, seven lawless, you actual idiot. can only sit there, while jen gets off him, moves around — and of course there’s hardly any light coming in through the thin fabric of his shirt, so he can only make out a shape, because fuck!

“why are you crying? did i do something?” tentative hands, barely lingering for more than a beat, thigh, forearm, top of his head. “what’s going on, seven? talk to me.”

swallows the will to try to sass his way out of this, because seven knows jen wouldn’t take that shit lying down. when he’s at least eighty percent sure he wasn’t about to start leaking from the optical area once more, seven pulls his shirt down to find the very, very concerned face of lamb, jennifer lamb, his—

oh, god, it just hit him. he’d never referred to her as his girlfriend before. it was always just seven and jennifer, jennifer and seven. but this was—this was insane, right? to worry about this now? getting all limp-dicked over technicalities when she had just been telling him to get some cardio in, and yeah sure, seven was sure jen didn’t have a problem with a label like ‘girlfriend', right? right?!

“sev, babe, i can see you, like, talking all up in there. i’ll accept a noise to let me know you’re… okay? are you okay?” a vague hand wave to his head, because jen knew him better than he knew himself, and seven was all kinds of scared and sad, and honestly a bit horny, and a little more in love with her than it had occurred to him, as everything in him raced, full throttle.

tongue too heavy to form an actual sentence that made sense, but damn if he wouldn’t try — because seven’s eyes start to get pinpricks again. because he was so fucking in love with her, right now, always, forever (he was so damn sure of it).

“look i just wanna say this, and i mean, i don’t know if you wanna hear it—and i’m sorry for ruining it, ruining now, and your plans, and it’s not just like… fuck. i don’t know what i’m saying.”

seven doesn’t watch the way jennifer’s face no doubt went through a wide variety of expressions, before a very gentle, “do you want me to like, touch you anywhere?” comes from her. still not committed to one spot, but her hands were off, now.

“no, no, i mean, yes, no—fuck! i don’t know!” heels of his palms against his eyes, seven keeps the pressure there until he’s seeing stars and whatever tears threatened to spring from him left.

“breathe… you’re really freaking me out here, dude.”

too much drawn out silence, as seven can’t get a word out and jennifer just sits there. waiting. waiting for him to actually say something that doesn’t sound like he was having a meltdown, third degree. what he wouldn’t give to be able to just turn back time, even a few minutes ago, where he didn’t think about the fact that jen had said she loved him, and he hadn’t spiralled, and maybe she just liked having sex with him—that was a fair assumption, right?

just say it, lawless. just fucking say it. he wouldn’t know the reality until he said it.

“i love you.”

deep breath. head first dive. seven opens his eyes, and repeats himself, for each and every time jen had said those words to him. maybe it was too much, too forceful, too idiotic to assume. but it tumbles from him, broken dam and all that poetic wording normally crammed into the hours dedicated to songwriting.

when seven finishes, it’s all too much to wait, really. wet his lips and wait, wait, wait, for the fragile state of this relationship, whatever it was to her, to just. end. tells himself he’d take it gracefully, bow out and all that, but that’s a lie.

biggest one he’d told himself to date.

jen fidgets, then. twisting earrings and rings and necklaces and the hem of her shirt and it’s her turn to tear up. to get all snotty and arms around his neck and she’s apologising, for hugging him, not asking. laughing about this situation they got themselves into and jen’s million miles a minute sentences crash into his ears — worried she’d hurt him, mostly, but he picks up the thoughts of thinking seven wanted to end it, and that. well. she loved him, too.

madly, badly, always, she says, a kiss punctuating each word; signed, sealed, delivered. the laugh that leaves seven is just as much relief as it is in amusement, at the two of them. the two idiots, now, back of her car, half dressed and sun rising.

and a little more in love than what they started the night as.

[babacontainsmultitudes]

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: Dungeons and Daddies (Podcast) Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Glenn Close/Henry Oak, everything else is a secret Characters: Henry Oak, Glenn Close (Dungeons and Daddies), and many more, BUT I THOUGHT IT WOULD BE MORE FUN NOT TO TELL Y'ALL, SO YOU'LL JUST HAVE TO WAIT AND SEE, WE'RE GOING ON A PIRATE ADVENTURE BABEEEYYY Summary:

Prince Hen's life gets turned upside down when he unwillingly finds himself amongst the crew of a frustratingly handsome pirate.

------------------------------------------

ARRRRRRR READ ME STUPID FUCKING GLENNRY PIRATE FIC IF YE KNOW WHAT’S GOOD FOR YE. PREPARE TO SET SAIL ON AN ADVENTURE FILLED WITH GOOFY TROPES AND QUESTIONABLE ROMANCE AS FAR AS THE EYE CAN SEE- and well hopefully you enjoy the plot as well hehe.

Just the first chapter rn but, yup, we’re finally doing this! 💜

[plagued-melodies]

jeje, tsubaki, Lawless and The Mother as they call and nickname their S/O, I don't know how many characters you make, feel free to delete any character and this message if you have any problems :)

AKDJKAKA YESSS I love servamp so so much, I'm still reading it and trying to catch up and it's been a long while since then so it may not be entirely accurate but I hope you like it anon! Also sorry for this being so late :')

An- for the sake of simplicity and not complicating things too much, you, the reader, are their eve be it in the future of the manga or the past <3 except maybe tsubaki (maybe even present seeing their actual names and such but you know^^

Content warnings: slightly OOC, I have no clue how to write tsubaki but im trying :] Tsubaki's is also longer in trying to compensate for both being inhuman and human/his eve

Servamps and how they call and refer to their significant other! <3

Jeje / Doubt Doubt - servamp of envy

He doesn't talk much, and when he does it's quiet, almost like he never spoke to begin with.

This wasn't much of a problem when you were both first bonded, if he didn't or couldn't speak much, what makes you the authority to make him do so?

You were the exact opposite, you were VERY talkative and could fill the void of what his answers could be.

It used to mostly be one sided conversations that you partook in. He would either read or do some building some ship in a bottle while you talked about anything and everything that came to mind.

I like to headcanon that he knows sign language and converses with you that way, or if you're a bit too preoccupied or he needs a bit of space he'll leave you notes.

He doesn't mind verbally speaking to you when you're alone though, you never push to do one thing or the other.

He loves that about you and I would love to say he fell quickly but it's more likely that he fell for you slowly but what he lacked in speed he sure made up for in how he sure did fall the hardest.

He's not huge on pet names, I'm sure he does throw in the occasional "dear" or if he's feeling particularly smitten, "sweetheart"

He knows he doesn't do this much, and he knows the effect it has on you and you can practically hear the teasing in his voice and writing when he does.

Of course he does eventually start using petnames more and more often without realizing it but not in the cute loving kind of way.

He lovingly calls you a leech, not in a mean way and you know that so he doesn't stop but would if you asked him to.

He also loves to compliment you using metaphors instead of actual names like "you are of a fungus, your poison, although deadly, keeps me reeled in." And despite how odd it sounds you keep any notes of these he's left safely tucked away.

Lawless / Hyde - Servamp of Greed

He.doesn't.shut.up

It took forever for him to trust you and for you to trust him, because although he seemed nice and kind, you knew better than to trust the blood that stained his hands.

The blood of his eve's before you.

But that didn't deter you, you just wanted to keep both of you at an okay distance that would keep both of you happy.

That distance is purely metaphorical thought because he is GRABBY.

I feel as though he would call you nicknames before you even got into a relationship but over time you could hear how they went from more of a teasing nature to something more genuine.

These petnames were also few and far between, he finds saying your name (and you saying his given name) to be such an intimate verbal act, but he doesn't mind indulging in petnames, of course there's always that one particular nickname he often switches out for your actual name but it really isn't a nickname) but

When he does call you pet names, he probably calls you the most WEIRDEST things in the form of pet names that make no sense in context and are probably more so jokes than actual pet names

"Gumwad went to the laundry mat and left me here AAAAALLLLL alone" -Hyde talking to the other servamps probably

Gumwad referring to you

Obviously

He's not too fond of being referred to by a nickname unless he trusts you entirely but even then, simply calling him by the name you gave him is enough, doesn't mind the occasional pet name though (:

The Mother / Freya - Servamp of wrath

As you probably know, she is probably the sweetest servamp you can find. Although the others have their own quirks that make them admirable, you find that her unconditional kindness is what drew you two closer.

It almost unnerved you how calm she could be, even during times when you royally screwed up. You expected her to be upset, give you the silent wrath, disappointment even! But when she simply knelt down to you asking if you were okay, you realized you may have misunderstood her, you couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt for assuming.

When you two get closer and closer and eventually become a couple she isn't quick to change how she is

Because she probably already dotes on you let's be real

Like her name suggests, she is motherly and caring so I don't doubt she would call you "dear" or "hun" before, mostly in times of stress where either one of you needed forms of comfort.

She probably calls you her dove or the "apple of her eye" later on though, maybe even "My flame" when cuddling.

She loves the warmth you give, it's a warmth she herself rarely feels but is always ready to give.

Your face always flushes into an unbearable shade of red and you feel the room around you raising in temperature.

She is very casual about it though, only ever reserving them for when you two are private (i.e: not near her nosy siblings, she loves them but they can be quite... Troublesome)

She isn't too outlandish with affection but she isn't too prudent with it either, it's instead a warm healthy middle ground.

She absolutely malfunctions if you call her an endearing pet name though, like I mean she just absolutely dies

She can't take the medicine she dishes out smh 😔

Nicknames are nothing too special In her eyes, it's just another way to refer to the one you love, right?

Tsubaki - Servamp of Melancholy

This guy is a fifty-fifty

It really just depends because from what I can grasp on his character, you're probably not his eve, but his subclass.

If you are his eve, somehow, it would take a LONG LONG time for him to not try and kill you.

As far as I'm aware, he hates humans. So for simplicity, you're a subclass or maybe like.. an inhuman friend turned significant other

The how and why isn't important what is important is that when he cares about you, he - c a r e s (cares)

He uses petnames like sweetheart, darling, etc. The gushy kind that, with his personality, is hard to tell between teasing and seriousness.

He isnt one to show public displays of affection but, similar to his elder sister, is one to show it in a private setting.

A vulnerability that only you and his subclasses get to see

He doesn't have an opinion on petnames for himself, he doesn't mind them, but he certainly prefers to hear you speak his name far more.

If you were human/his eve he'd probably call you a pin cushion or a flesh bag, you know... The usual.

It also takes a long time for him to warm up to you and when he does you are officially given the honorary title of "one of the good ones"

Ones referring to mortal flesh bags such as yourself of course

If you were his eve he'd definitely go "Oh yeah they're my eve-" with an attitude but sooner or later it becomes more sweet and genuine

He'd probably treat you similar to his subclasses if not with a little bit more respect (from what I've read, he holds them dearly)

As the youngest and forgotten sibling of 8 servamps, he'd probably try his best to keep you in mind when coming up with his schemes

----------

I will probably rewrite this or make a part two of it being a modern AU but this has been in my ask box for forever and I need practice with writing the servamp characters. Sorry anon this took so long with very little in return <3

[halfagonyandhope]

when the skies catch fire │ch. 32

first chapter (x); previous chapter (x)

Three days later, Obi-Wan waits in the hangar bay. He feels unsteady, due both to his arms supporting Léa’s weight - leaving his cane to lean against supply crates nearby - and the impending arrival of the Ghost from Stewjon. Chewbacca is piloting, and Ahsoka is on board.

Along with the family he hasn’t seen since he was three standard years old.

The immense hangar doors hiss, opening slowly, and humid Dantooine air rushes inside. Warmth from a different direction appears next to him, and Obi-Wan glances over to see Satine. She offers to take Léa, whom she wraps in a scarf to hold against her chest. Obi-Wan gratefully reaches for his cane. Satine shifts, leaning into him slightly, so that he can feel her arm behind his, always supporting him.

The VCX-100 light freighter comes into view and lands as directed by a Phoenix Base technician. Obi-Wan takes a tentative step forward.

The boarding platform descends.

Ahsoka is the first to disembark. Obi-Wan still hasn’t become accustomed to seeing her with her new sabers - they remind him of how much has changed, and, indeed, Ahsoka walks more like a knight than a padawan.

He realizes that she’s passed her trials. First during the aftermath of the Coruscant Temple bombing, then on Mustafar, and then again on Mandalore. Perhaps they weren’t ordinary trials, but his hadn’t been, either. Nor had Anakin’s. Obi-Wan swallows the heavy emotion that threatens to break loose. So much of the galaxy has moved on without his notice.

As though she’s following his thoughts, Satine places her hand on his shoulder and steps to him. Then they approach the freighter together.

Ahsoka has stepped to the side, head tilted slightly as she speaks with Bo-Katan, who had also appeared to greet the ship. There’s the sound of footsteps echoing from inside the freighter, and then three people appear at the top of the boarding platform.

A tall silver-haired woman, perhaps in her mid-sixties, strides down the ramp. Her cerulean tunic is precisely the same shade as her eyes -

Which are the same shade as Obi-Wan’s.

The Force seems to hum with energy.

Obi-Wan glances behind her, to a man about her same age. His eyes are green, his hair mostly gray but with flecks of blond. He’s shorter than Obi-Wan by perhaps a few centimeters, but Obi-Wan thinks that time is responsible for this because the man’s back curves slightly with age.

He doesn’t have time to examine the third person before his parents are before him. Again, he is lost for words.

“Hello there,” says the man, and Obi-Wan feels more than hears Satine chuckle softly.

This frees him somehow, and says, “Father.” He meets Soléa’s gaze. “Mother.”

Soléa wraps him in her embrace, one arm around his shoulders, the other cradling his head. “My boy,” she whispers. “Thirty-five standard years, eight months, and twenty-seven days,” she says, pulling back and placing her hands on either side of his face. “But your eyes tell me you lived more than that in the time we’ve been apart.”

She’s not Force-sensitive, Obi-Wan knows, but her ability to see through him is unsettling.

Soléa lets her hands fall to her sides, and Obi-Wan steps to his father. Yewan, his memory supplies. His father’s name is Yewan.

Yewan hugs him with the same emotion as Soléa, though more briefly. “My heart is whole again,” Yewan says gruffly, struggling with the words as he steps back. Their accents hint at rural life, and Obi-Wan feels a slight pang when he realizes at one point he, too, must have spoken like they do, before the posh Coruscanti accent replaced his native one.

Yewan and Soléa step to the side, and the third member of their group steps forward.

He could practically be the twin of the Obi-Wan who’d first arrived on Dantooine, albeit slightly taller but with the same intense eyes and muscular build. His hair is lighter, though, and longer - long enough to be pulled back into a small bun.

“Elzar,” he says, somehow understanding that Obi-Wan hadn’t remembered his name.

“Elzar,” repeats Obi-Wan, and the name feels familiar on his lips. Obi-Wan hugs his younger brother, too, noticing his posture and making a note to ask about his military service later. Wherever he’d served in the past, he doesn’t look like he is actively enlisted - hair grows back quickly after a discharge, but the gait of a soldier remains forever.

When they part, Obi-Wan’s free hand immediately reaches for Satine, who steps forward.

“This is my wife, Satine,” he says. “Satine, this is my mother, my father, and my brother.” He pauses, then repeats their names. “Soléa, Yewan, and Elzar.”

Satine unwraps her scarf slightly so the Kenobi family can see the newborn. “And this is Léa, your granddaughter - and niece,” she says, looking from Yewan and Soléa to Elzar.

Soléa sucks in a breath. “Léa?” she repeats.

Obi-Wan nods at the follow-up question she hadn’t asked. “Yes,” he says.

Soléa wipes at the moisture in her eyes, and then she laughs. “I have so many questions that I hardly know where to begin.”

“The feeling is mutual,” says Obi-Wan, and Soléa grabs him for another embrace.

“My dear, you are too thin,” she says. Obi-Wan laughs, suddenly overcome with the normalcy of it all. 

Is this what it’s like? Having proper parents?

He decides that he wants to find out.

“My wife tells me the same,” says Obi-Wan, his tone light, and Soléa gives Satine a nod of approval. Satine beams. 

Obi-Wan shifts slightly to let his cane take a bit more of his weight, and Satine notices. “Come,” she says, gesturing to his family. “Let us move from the hangar. We will debrief in the conference room where we can speak more comfortably.”

She’s trying to get Obi-Wan off his feet, to get him to rest. She hasn’t touched him, but warmth spreads through his body.

He feels love and hope and gratitude, all mixed together and yet the same emotion. Satine catches his eye and nods her understanding.

She feels it, too.

---

Ahsoka stands in the middle of the conference room, just to the side of a holoprojection of Stewjon. She wears the Mandalorian blues given to her by Bo-Katan, her sabers at her hips. It’s still jarring, Obi-Wan realizes, this mix of Mandalorian and Jedi culture. He’d never thought he’d see it in his lifetime. He’d never dared hope to see it in his lifetime.

He looks down at his left hand, gaze caught by the light glancing off his beskar ring.

“We don’t have much intel on the attack,” says Bo-Katan, striding into the room and dimming the lights. “Chatter has been near-silent, but we think that’s because the attack speaks for itself.”

Ahsoka waves a hand and the holoprojection enlarges, focusing on the largest continent’s major mountain range. “Luxora, a relatively small city-town, was completely flattened. Luxora isn’t Stewjon’s capital. It’s not a center for trade; it’s not involved in any significant efforts to produce weaponry or resources that threaten the Empire. As far as we know, it was chosen because it was the birthplace of Master Kenobi.”

Léa squirms and begins to cry softly. Padmé, who has joined them, offers to hold her. “I’ll get her a bottle,” she whispers, taking the baby, and disappears.

Obi-Wan leans forward, resting his elbows on the table and his chin on one hand. He’d momentarily forgotten about his lack of beard, and his fingertips feel strange against the bare skin of his mandible.

“How many dead?” he asks lowly.

Ahsoka takes a deep breath. “Reports indicate most of the town’s 60,000 inhabitants perished.” She glances at Yewan and Soléa. “The Kenobis appeared to have survived because they took an unplanned trip to see Elzar, who is based in the capital.”

“We’ll need to put out words of their deaths,” says Obi-Wan immediately. He looks over at his family. “You’ll be safer if the Empire thinks you are dead,” he explains, an apology wrapping around each letter. “Your last name now makes you a target. If you return to Stewjon, the Empire will know, and you’ll be living on borrowed time.”

Soléa reaches over to put her hand atop her husband’s. She nods, her face pale but steely.

Obi-Wan looks between the three of them. “Did you have additional family in Luxora?” He leans back, wiping his sweating hands on his thighs.

Elzar shakes his head. “Grandparents died long ago, and I have no uncles or aunts.”

Obi-Wan addresses Elzar. “Did you have a partner in the capital? Children? Anyone who needs to be extracted?”

His brother seems to hesitate before picking his words. “No,” Elzar says finally. “My husband was killed years ago in the Clone Wars. We never had children.”

Obi-Wan’s heart falls.

Satine’s hand finds his under the table and squeezes. She doesn’t let go.

“I’m so sorry,” Obi-Wan manages to say around the secondhand grief. He takes an unsteady breath.

Elzar nods sharply.

Satine leans forward, taking the weight of the conversation off the brothers. “You still stay here, for now,” she says. “We are self-sustaining, and we can assign each of you living quarters. If you wish, we can work on finding you refuge on a planet away from where we anticipate fighting between the Empire and the Rebel Alliance to take place. We can build you new lives.”

Soléa and Yewan look at each other, but Elzar speaks up first. “I’d like to stay,” he says. “If you’ll have me. I was a professor in military history before fighting in the Clone Wars. That’s where I met my husband - we were both pilots.” 

“We’re perpetually short on pilots,” Bo-Katan murmurs from across the room, but Satine hushes her, saying, “Even if you did not wish to fight, you would be welcome to remain.”

“Then it’s settled,” says Yewan, and Soléa nods. “We will stay.”

Obi-Wan’s grip on Satine’s hand tightens on instinct, and Satine brushes her thumb against his.

And there it is again suddenly - Obi-Wan doesn’t look for it, doesn’t reach out, but the Force seems to echo around him, a tune he’s not familiar with. The feeling, however…that he does know, and he breathes in its familiarity.

Satine glances at him, curious, and he realizes she must have felt whatever had just happened to him.

He laces their fingers together.

---

Later that evening, Satine commandeers use of the conference room with Ahsoka and Bo-Katan to start a call with two other rebel cells.

Before, she’d pulled him to the side. “Go with your family,” she’d told him gently. “I will brief you later.”

“Is there not something I can do?” Obi-Wan had asked.

Satine had rocked forward onto her toes to give him a soft kiss. “Yes,” she’d said against his lips. “Rest.” She’d pulled back. “You have gone to hells and back in service to this galaxy. Let the rest of us carry that burden for a little while. Go.” And she emphasized the final word with a slight push in the direction of his parents.

So Obi-Wan finds himself offering to show his parents the agricultural fields while Elzar remains with the command group, hoping he’d have some insight regarding local proceedings on Stewjon that would be of use.

Obi-Wan, Soléa, and Yewan trek to the fields through lavender grasses, passing some of the ag workers like Walker and Odessa on their way. Obi-Wan walks slowly so that he doesn’t misstep. He’s not at all sure how to begin conversation, but this doesn’t seem to bother Soléa, who falls into step beside him.

“Is your wife the Satine of Mandalore? The Duchess?” she asks immediately, and it’s clear she’s had the question on her tongue since the moment they’d been introduced in the hangar.

“I take it she’s known on Stewjon, then?” says Obi-Wan, amused.

“Very,” says Yewan from Obi-Wan’s other side. “Half the planet wanted to join the Council of Neutral Systems.”

“Just less than half,” corrects Soléa. “The referendum failed, and we remained in the Republic, as I’m sure you know.”

Obi-Wan nods. “I followed the referendum, but I didn’t realize the results were that close,” he admits. “Which did you vote for?”

Soléa smirks. “Our votes were split. I voted to join, and your father here voted to stay. So we canceled each other out.”

Yewan adds, “Seems not unlike the views you and your wife hold.”

They’ve reached the ag fields, and Obi-Wan rests against one of the large boulders that had been moved out of the fertile soil. He’s not quick enough to hide the way he winces, though, and his parents share a look.

Obi-Wan sighs, knowing he’ll need to tell them sooner or later. And if he tells them sooner, he won’t have to worry about their reactions any longer. “How much did Ahsoka tell you about my…condition?”

Soléa sits next to him. “She said you were gravely injured on a mission and in the process of healing. And that you probably didn’t want to be asked about it.”

Obi-Wan laughs. “Ahsoka is very wise, and that is due to no influence of my own.” He waits for his father to sit on his other side before continuing. “The mission Ahsoka mentioned was successful, with the rather large exception being that I got myself captured. I was held captive on Mandalore for many months, and I missed the birth of my daughter. But however long I was there, I’m beginning to understand that healing will take longer.”

Eager to move on, Obi-Wan searches for something else - anything else - to say. 

“Ahsoka is…was…” he hesitates, not sure if the present tense applies here or not. He decides eventually it does. “Ahsoka is my grandpadawan. That means the boy I taught as an apprentice grew up to train her. And she is better than either of us.”

“You’re a teacher?” asks Soléa.

“From a certain point of view,” concedes Obi-Wan. “My effectiveness at said teaching is…well, let us just say I don’t have the best track record.”

That was putting it mildly, but Obi-Wan wasn’t about to give further details to people who were, for all intents and purposes, relative strangers to him - even if more emphasis was on the relative than strangers.

“In fairness, teaching isn’t for everyone,” says Yewan. “I was rubbish at it, for example. Now, your mother, on the other hand…”

Obi-Wan meets Soléa’s eyes. “You were a teacher? On Stewjon?”

She nods. “Mostly music, but a little bit of everything as it was needed. You know,” she says, “the story from my side of the family was that we descended from a woman who could hear each living thing’s song. Somewhere in our line there was a professional opera singer, too.”

She stands and steps toward the field, where wheat is thriving. Then she kneels and grabs a handful of soil. She brings it to Yewan.

“It’s good soil, Yewan,” Soléa says, and he reaches out as she drops it in his fingers.

Yewan glances at Obi-Wan’s raised eyebrow. “We had a small farm, enough to grow what we needed to get by.” He lets the dirt fall to the ground and brushes off his hands.

“Your father is being modest,” says Soléa. “We had everything we needed and more. He grew various types of starflowers because he knew I liked them.” She smiles. “I wish you could see - could have seen,” she says, correcting herself. “I imagine the fields are gone now. But before the attack, the starflowers were a couple heads taller than you, perhaps. And growing season hadn’t finished yet.”

Obi-Wan, too, wishes he could have seen the fields.

“When I was thirteen, I left the Jedi,” Obi-Wan blurts out before he realizes what he’s saying. “I joined AgriCorps.”

His father looks delighted. “I’d love to hear more about it,” he says. “Though I take it your time there was short?”

Obi-Wan nods. “I ended up returning to the Jedi after a very brief stint with the Corps. If you have a green thumb, I certainly did not inherit it.”

Soléa’s laugh sounds like music, Yewan’s chuckle the harmony.

An idea occurs to Obi-Wan.

“Do you think you could grow lilies here?” he asks his father. 

“My boy, give me a challenge,” Yewan says. “No wonder AgriCorps didn’t fight for you to stay.”

Obi-Wan has to laugh at this, but Soléa eyes him seriously. “Lilies are symbolic to Mandalorians, I assume?”

Obi-Wan nods stiffly. “Satine used to wear them in her hair all the time. It’s been over a standard year since she’s had access to any.”

Soléa rests her hand on Yewan’s shoulder as he promises, “I’ll see what I can do.”

Obi-Wan nods his thanks.

Soléa steps toward Obi-Wan and then kneels in front of him. Slowly, cautiously, she wraps her hands around his. 

“Whatever you’ve lost to get here, Obi-Wan,” she says, “I’m so grateful you still have your strong heart.”

Obi-Wan looks into eyes that mirror his own. “I think I lost that, too, for a while,” he says, not quite able to stop the way his voice shakes at the beginning.

He looks at his father, and then back at the Temple.

Back to Satine. To Léa. To Ahsoka.

Obi-Wan’s voice is steady. “But I think I’m close to finding it again.”

[mlmxreader]

Even If I Could | Forrest Bondurant x gn!reader

anonymous asked: Forrest Bondurant Hey 🖤!! May I please ask for a work using the following prompts for Forrest Bondurant X non-binary, male, or gn!Reader: “It’s raining”

summary: Forrest has a difficult night trying to sleep.

tws: swearing, mentions of violence

support your fanfic writers by reblogging what you read & enjoy

Absent-mindedly, Forrest stared out of the window and watched as the transparent droplets coursed down the glass and left little streak marks behind them; he pulled his cardigan a little tighter and sighed. He was so tired.

Another sleepless night thanks to the memories of what happened. He brought his hand up, gently stroking the itching scar on his neck; his gaze became unfocused, hazy as he stared out the window. Past the glass and the droplets, past the trees and the grass, past the harsh rain that hammered against the ground.

Staring into nothing as he stroked the scar without thinking. His head felt like it was going to start spinning, light and fuzzy. He wasn't sure what the time was anymore, he couldn't be sure of it anyway. The clock had stopped. He just wanted to sleep. That's all.

But he was haunted by that terrible event, he was haunted by the scar; he couldn't ignore it. It kept him up. His only grace, the only good thing, was that you were still sound asleep in the bed he shared with you; you were still wrapped up in his cardigan and sound asleep, slowly inching towards his side of the bed as usual.

As always. The only good thing in the night. But then there was a crash outside and a flash of white light, and Forrest grumbled when he heard the bed squeak; he tensed up, thinking it was his fault.

He clenched his jaw, swallowing thickly as he sighed heavily and closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the footsteps. Forrest could recognise them in any building, he knew the way you walked well enough to identify it anywhere; when he felt a hand on his shoulder, and soft lips against his temple, he didn't think much of it.

Even when you sat on his lap, he didn't think; running on instinct, he put his arm around you to keep you steady against him and make sure you wouldn't fall off.

"Thunder?"

You nodded as you cleared your throat, pressing your head against his shoulder and sighing, your breath warm and harsh against his neck. "Fucking thought the house was gonna come down."

Forrest hummed, nodding a little as he stretched his legs out slightly and leaned back. Gently, he hiked up your sleep shirt so he could hold your thigh, the feeling of warm flesh against the palm of his hand slowly bringing him back down a little.

The feeling of your breathing against his skin, the weight of you on his lap. He couldn't deny that it was more than calming, that it certainly did the trick and then some.

But even still, Forrest knew that he wouldn't be able to go back to bed with you; he didn't want to risk waking you up the next time he saw, heard, tasted, smelled and felt things in his dreams that he was convinced he could also sense when he was awake.

He didn't want to trouble you; he knew that you worried more than enough as it was, and he hated to see you so hurt because of him. The very last thing that Forrest ever wanted was to hurt you, but he was more than aware that you were worried when you looked at his face and into his eyes.

He could see that there was no escaping your worry, even if he wanted to erase it. Even though he wished he could.

"I'm alright."

You scoffed, shaking your head in disbelief as you sighed. "No, you're not. I know you too well to think that you're anything but a wreck."

Forrest sighed, knowing that he had been caught but hoping that he never would be; he frowned, grumbling softly as he hoped to put on a braver face to show you that he was alright. He was fine. He wanted to convince you that everything was fine, he was just having a sleepless night.

Just a sleepless night, they happened sometimes. But you knew too well, you knew him too much and too intimately to think anything except for the fact that he was a fucking wreck. You chewed at your bottom lip while he stayed silent; you wished he wouldn't force himself to suffer in such an awful way.

Such a terrible way. You put your hand on his, and sighed heavily as you licked your lips.

"Please tell me," you whispered. "Just tell me why. You don't have to give me any details or anything. Please, Forrest."

He grumbled, glaring at you for a split second before he sighed and dared to open his mouth. "It's the scar. The memories."

You nodded slowly, leaning against him. "Anything I can do?"

He shook his head. "No."

"Not even help you feel better?" You asked quietly. "Make you smile a little?"

Forrest shrugged. "What'd you have in mind?"

"Anything," you told him. "I could read to you. I could get you up on your feet and dancing. I could tell you shit jokes that make you roll your eyes."

He dared to smile a little bit. "Reading sounds good."

"What would you like?" You asked, humming softly. "We got plenty on the shelf."

"Just today's newspaper," he mumbled, holding onto you as you reached over to grab the paper from beside his chair.

You let it lay on your lap as you gave your eyes a moment to adjust to the low light so you could actually read.

"Where do you want me to start?" You asked. "Headlines?"

"Anywhere," Forrest hummed.

You started to read from the first page, and slowly, Forrest found himself starting to come down fully; his muscles lost their tension, and his breathing evened out as he closed his eyes and listened closely. He loved hearing you read out loud to him, and it always managed to calm him down enough that he could relax.

He was thankful that he had you, someone who didn't force him to talk too much, someone who understood that what he wanted at the time was the best thing for him; he was thankful that he had you.

[areyoureadytofumble]

just finished writing a 5k mlm dom/sub smut fic starring this giant teddy bear as sub of the year and ofc ao3 is down

pride has truly left us

[sy1r4h]

PLSPLSPLSPLSPLS SOMEONE GIVE ME A LAWLICHT FIC OR A SERVAMP X GENSHIN FIC OR I'M GONNA LOSE IT AND MAKE THEM MYSELF

[maddascanbe-blog]

Hellion and Phantasma Indigo. Letting Bruno lean into the drama kid roots I gave him

[impossibleprincess35]

Asphodel | ch 42

[Excerpt:]

A signal was issued from Pre Vizsla to his Death Watch allies, and Satine felt her stomach churn with fear as they drew their blasters and ran towards her. She had long ago made her peace with the possibility of dying for her cause, but she had not imagined it happening like this: Dying with Mandalore, instead of for it.

Cynicism told her all was lost.

Optimism - delusion, maybe - told her to cling to hope.

But her stubborn nature told her not to go without a fight.

As the Death Watch members climbed the dais, the Duchess of Mandalore lifted her chin defiantly and refused to move.

One of the helmeted figures angrily stated through the vocoder on their helmet, “Get up.”

“I will not surrender to terrorists and a traitor like Pre Vizsla! If you want me to move, you’re going to have to make me,” Satine sneered at his followers who continued to come closer.

Another member raised their fist in a brutal threat, but they were discouraged by the laughter of their leader, as Pre leaned his head back and let out a howl that echoed in the Grand Salon. No sooner had the sound had begun to dissipate than it was replaced by his boots as he stormed over in anger. He climbed the dais until he was standing before her on a level surface, and as she raised her eyes to glare at him, Pre spat in her face as he murmured, “That can be arranged, you bitch.”

--

Chapter 42 (the first part of the "Shades of Reason"/"The Lawless" arc) is up.

[shamrockqueen]

Wasteland paradise

Chapter 1

Pairing : Boyka X Reader (Post Apocalyptic AU/ inspired by but not in the universe of Fallout new Vegas)

Warnings : R18, human trafficking, purchased reader, eventual Smut, rough smut, eroticism (not every chapter has smut), death of minor characters.

Word count : 1498

Scott Adkins Masterlist

They say that the decay was gradual, overtaking humanity like a spiderweb of cancer and bleeding into the very bones of modern society. The elite sat comfortably on their pedestals as the earth below them crumbled—that is, until the rot reached them too. They say that when the tallest tower finally fell, it was already too late.

The underbelly was all that survived, becoming this new aristocracy within what once were major cities. Those who fled were left with the scorched landscape they had left barren. Some founded small communes; others formed almost farel gangs that roamed further out into the wasteland. Some settlements fizzled easily; some were attacked and picked clean by invaders; but a few seemed to live long enough to spawn other generations.

You’d never know what that modern world was truly like, and sometimes you’d find yourself wondering how your life would have been if the older generations had ensured a better future. It wasn’t worth thinking about anymore. No, living through the week has greatly outweighed depressive fantasies.

You found yourself alone—finally and horribly alone.

You tried your best to wash the blood stain out, but no amount of scrubbing could make the dress clean again. It felt low, repurposing the very clothes your mother died in while she lay naked in a shallow grave, but you couldn’t afford to waste the fabric. The dress would never come clean, but the pattern was a beautiful yet slightly faded floral blue, so the cleanest part of the fabric had to have been worth something. Anything to put some food on that empty table now that you’d be the only one left to provide for it.

Almost all of your time had been spent taking care of your mother until her slow demise, which had her coughing up most of her own blood. It was always hard to look at her while she was in that state, and the only hope now was that she would be at peace.

You looked at the once-beautiful dress you had bundled in your hands. It had been her favorite, but it was too late to bury her with it now. You pulled the small switchblade from your pocket and began cutting off the stained portion of the fabric. You didn’t bother to cut the seams, as whoever bought it off of the trader once it left your hands would just do it themselves.

You bundled the dress under your arm and left your little home. You had shared this poorly constructed, one-room shanty house with what was left of your family. The small shanty village wasn’t very big and didn’t yield very much production, but the few traders that came through were often a godsend as they brought in many much-needed supplies. A tiny smudge on their map, and they still remembered to visit all of you.

You hoped to get there early so as not to be stuck in the hot sun for most of your day. The caravan was normally parked over by the moonshiners shack, an old man who made a pretty good hootch and would sell a lot to the passing traders.

It was the main reason the caravan came at all and often a great reprieve from everyday life since he’d let the townsfolk get drunk at a hefty discount.

He was nice enough for an old coot, and more often than not, he could be seen sitting in front of his home with his dog Trixie, waiting for the traders to show up.

Old Trixie was sweet and would wonder over and nuzzle up to passersby in search of extra affection and maybe a bit of food. She usually rushed the hill when anyone got close, but when you rounded towards the shack, she wasn’t anywhere in sight.

You crested over the hill and looked down at the lonely little shack at the bottom. There were vehicles all around the house, alongside the trader’s trucks, but you didn’t see any people. You used your hand as a visor to shield your vision from the bright sun overhead to get a better look at the scene before you.

A mound of fluff lay motionless next to the door. Trixie’s telltale brown and white spots were stained in a deep, terrifying red splattered along her small body.

More bodies, larger and human, came into view, all of which lay slain by the side of the caravan. You stopped walking, shaking in your boots at the prospect of getting caught by whatever had caused this entire scene. You nearly pissed your pants off when the mirador walked out of the shack with a jug of hooch in each hand. He wore a torn armored vest doused in a fair amount of blood that most likely wasn’t his.

He turns back towards the house as if to talk to someone behind him, and you take this chance to turn tail and run back the way you came. The fabric was let loose from where you’d clutched it under your arm, kicked away by the dusty wind in exchange for your meager life. The desecration, the sacrifice, the loss—none of it was worth anything now, and all was forgotten in the wake of a possible bullet to the teeth.

The only sound you could hear was the crunch of dirt under your boots as the blood rushed to your ears. You sprint off as fast as you can, propelling yourself down the hill almost faster than your legs can keep up with.

You barely caught the sound of someone shouting after you with a jovial “Woah, where’s the fire?”

All were silenced after a loud bang of gunshots went off not far behind you. Everyone scattered like ants as more shots rang through the air.

You make the mistake of turning back to look at the whirring of a spiked vehicle as it rounds over the hill. You tried to run as fast and as far as your feet could carry you until you could find ample cover from the impending doom.

The flicker of the blue plastic tarp as it got caught up in the breeze stole your sight as you switched your direction towards possible safety. Your boots nearly slid out from under you as you dove towards the tarp. It proved to be a small, unused alcove between two shanty houses, with the plastic cover leftover from a collapsed partial roof.

You kick yourself underneath it and fling the tarp back over your body. You had to squeeze in among the long-forgotten junk as you tried to steady your heart.

You watched as the shadows flickered from the outside of your small cover; many were from those running away just as you had, but others were larger with more sharp edges. Your stomach ached as the shrill and broken voices of your neighbors disappeared into the distance, but it would be the first crack of gunfire that made your guts drop entirely. The cries of the fallen were quickly devoured by the roar of scrap metal against the rough terrain vehicles that rolled by.

You held your breath to keep from hyperventilating, digging your teeth into your bottom lip as tears dribbled tracks down your dirtied cheeks.

You hear heavier, slower footsteps that clinked as they hit the dirt. The sound of it was horribly clear as they got closer and closer to you, hidden only by a tattered blue tarp. When the cracked leather of the side of a boot came into view, you had to choke down every ounce of fear that wanted to burst forth, practically forcing it back down into your lungs as it twisted your face in horror.

You wait just as they wait. The boots don’t move for however long it takes to make your heart nearly beat out of your chest. Then they started to turn towards you.

The next sound is deafening as bits of rusted metal go flying as the blue sheet is ripped right off of it. Old car parts clunk and scrape together, and you have to cover your head with your hands as the small avalanche of junk falls over you.

As the hot sun hit your body once again, there was no use in staying quiet, and a scream finally forced its way out of your body.

To your dismay, you weren’t shot; you were only dragged out by the roots of your hair as the raider dug his fingers into your scalp. You're barely kicking as your legs fight, only to wiggle out from under the junk pile.

He pulls you out onto the road before giving you a kick and a quick order of “get up, off the fuckin ground.”

You scramble up, hands over your head, his rusted gun pointed to your face. He barked out “walk” through his broken teeth, pointing ahead of you with his weapon before kicking the back of your knee when you didn’t already turn and start moving. Your leg buckled but kept you upright as you limped ahead of him towards the chaos they had created.

Shanty houses were lit on fire after being looted and knocked over. A few children were being pulled away from the corpses of their parents left laying in the street; some were caught in the crossfire and laid not far from their fallen family.

“There’s almost nothing here aside from the hooch and the cargo from the caravan!” One man shouted out to the one following not far behind you, his gun still pointed to your back.

“Grab some survivors and load'em into one of the empty wagons. We can sell them off at the trade center for good money.” The voice behind you called back. “If they try to fight you, just shoot’um.”

When your knees shook, it slowed your pace, and you heard him yell at you, “Move, damn it.” And you picked your feet up as quickly as you could towards the caravan.

True to their word, anyone who fought back was shot immediately. They would say that they could still get plenty of money for a few of you, so losing 1, 2, or maybe 5 wouldn’t be an issue.

When everyone was loaded into the wagon, it pulled off with a kick of dust. You watched your old town smolder and smoke in the distance until it disappeared into the wasteland. You’d never see the shanty town again, not that there would ever be anything left to look for.

Chapter 2

Tags : @annwoods91 @jasminrt1

[wiltf]

in hindsight, you should’ve seen this one coming.

stupid of you to deny the feeling of pressure all around you, popping in your ears finally just like they did on the plane for the very first time. you know that it was so ridiculous to have ignored this for so long, because whispers and looks always followed.

so when seven shouts as the drinks hit your heads, your ears pop. reality comes slamming in down your back, smelling vaguely of cherry liqueur and beer. it fucking stinks. but it has you jump up, hands trying to catch the ice that had managed to make it under your shirt, blinking through the alcohol and hair. knee hitting the edge of the table and you’re swearing louder than seven, now. stumbling over furniture and instruments and sheets of paper, trying to get a hand on the responsible person.

he beats you to grabbing the front of jesse’s shirt, though. seven’s bandana had slipped out of his hair with the movement of his fist, collecting with jesse’s cheek. these are the little snapshots of thought, of course, that pass through your mind. accompanied, when you are getting a handle on what might just be happening, by a resounding slap. your cheek stings and for some reason you can taste iron on your back teeth.

sense is knocked into you like an etch-a-sketch with a french tip. hard enough to throw your cheek in the other direction, to the now horrified look of iris, jazzy, rowan. seven. if only because the first person to jump into action was devyn, arms around your middle, pulling you back and away from the table. surely no one could blame you for the way you struggled against devyn, nor the way you could feel the rage rise up and curl your lips, when you see who was responsible.

return of the gem. return of the gem and the trail of other two-month relationships that had peppered the last few years of seven’s love life. and well, yours, as someone had wisely decided to pull seven off of jesse. a very bloody jesse, who did little more than glare at you through a slowly swelling eye.

“are you fucking kidding me?”

honestly, your question was more aimed at devyn, who summoned an infinite amount of strength that left you to miserably wiggle, trying to. well. you’re not sure what. flail now, at the very least.

your first instinct was to throw down, but that might’ve just been the cocktail of a bad hookup sticking to your hair and clothes. the second one was to just scream and well. the physical violence was just that much more appealing, despite the appearance of bouncers and the bar manager, and how seven’s league of evil exes just loomed.

devyn finally gives up in holding you completely, settling more for keeping a solid arm across your front. fine, that was fine, because fuck trying to consider anything else right now as you had to try to breathe. focus, and not lose this gig, or your nerve, or well.

fuck the relationship. “limp-dick fucker, the shit was this for?!”

when jesse looks at you, you were surprised by how alarmed they were. as if they didn’t expect you to shout. and well, jesse should’ve been quite familiar with your vocal chords by now, but sheer force of will kept them from greeting the heel of your boot. and not in the way they normally liked.

“you’re cheating on me, you… you bitch!”

the face you pull probably looked much like the one rowan did, at how the attempt at an insult petered out. jesse didn’t know what to say. that made it worse.

“this is about cheating?!”

“so you admit it!”

“you are the biggest shithead i’ve met in my life, and i’ve seen my share of assholes. i’m not cheating—and, who, am i cheating with?!”

gem is the one who shouts and points. at seven, because of course. you wanna snap her perfect little manicure just for the absolute insanity of the situation. also, partially because you think it did actually cut your skin after the slap.

instead, she’s saved by the laugh that leaves you, and continues to do so. the way you have to cover your face, and devyn looks embarrassed for them. “change the fucking record, jesus fucking christ. aren’t you all tired of this yet?

“bill, i’m so sorry about all this. i’ll agree to the share you suggested for this gig. fuck’s sake.”

you shove past gem, and the geminites, because what the fuck. was there a group chat out there? you know you weren’t the most popular with a specific demographic (mainly being the series of relationships that had ended when seven got fed up with the jealousy), but this? this right here? it convinced you that this was a conspiracy. you were in fact an alternate universe of scott pilgrim, but there was no pixie manic dream girl you were willing to risk it all for.

instead, you roll your eyes at jesse, and have to say see you never to the last six months. somehow you hadn’t picked it up, like your sensor hadn’t gone off this time around. convinced you that everything was fine and dandy, and jesse didn’t suddenly realise their idiotic mistake of publicly airing dirty laundry that wasn’t even dirty, just boring. boring and stupid jealous behaviour, that has gem try to reach for you again.

this time you don’t hesitate. solid punch, to the gut. knock the wind out of her, because this had to stop. it had to.

because seven couldn’t meet your eye, as the bouncer finally lets him go. as he shakes whatever alcohol still remained on your set list away — the list specifically put together to celebrate your six months, too. as seven hid behind his fringe, like he did when you were much younger. it was a look many a fan had given a swoon over, when done purposely on stage.

now, however, that was almost a look of shame. shame and something you couldn’t quite place, for the first time in your life. never enough time to unpack that, as you’re getting a warning from the bouncer for the punch, and well.

slapping cash down on the bar, having to walk out, that was just the cherry on the goddamn beer, wasn’t it? so have to make sure you one up it all, with the way you rip the necklace off — a happy three months present — sending it sailing into the middle of a still gaping crowd.

“happy six months, babe. delete my number, and if i see you,” a finger, pointed through the crowd, as your doppelgänger, “again, i’ll fucking kill you.”