#and cinder too for that matter

[lusciiniia]

Petition for Nabu Malikata to be banned from ever having a thought ever again

[aldoodles]

have some super sketchy and pixelly lighting studies because I literally cannot stop thinking about these three or the year they were separated during the war

[clockwayswrites]

City Pigeons Bleed Green

WC: 1329 Masterpost CW: stitches, blood, canon typical violence, history of experimentation, bad (lbh evil) parent Fentons “I need to get to Bruce Wayne.”

“We should be able to arrange a conversation,” Tim said immediately. None of the shock and concern that Tim must have been feeling seeped through into his words. Jason always admired how even keel Tim could seem.

The kid’s eyes snapped to Tim, brow furrowed in confusion.

Tim just shrugged. “He does good in the city, so do we. Besides, his kids are targeted a lot and sometimes we get involved to help out with that. There’s a line of communication that we can use.”

“So what?” They rasped. “You let every kid who wants to talk to Bruce Wayne get to just ‘cause they’re bleeding out?”

“He’d say that was a good enough reason,” Jason said with certainty. He knew how much money and effort Bruce poured into Make a Wish and the children's hospital.

The kid squinted at him before glancing away. “I don’t think I’m ready to talk to him… like this…”

“Then a safe house for right now,” Tim insisted. “Just like the name says, it’s safe. We can get you patched up and you can rest somewhere you don’t have to look over your shoulder. When you’re feeling better, we’ll set up that meeting.”

“You’ll let a stranger stay at your safe house, just like that?”

“Kid,” Jason said with a sigh. “I don’t think you’re getting it. You’re a very hurt kid. You’re exactly the type of person that we’d do that for. We’re the Bats of Gotham and we protect her people.”

There was that ugly laugh again. “I’m not even from Gotham.”

“You’re here now. That’s all that matters in Gotham,” Jason said. He took the risk and held out his hand. Jason didn’t pray anymore, not since his mother died, but he still silently hoped that the kid would take it. Jason felt certain they wouldn’t make it if they didn’t take it.

The fingers braced against the grimy cinder block wall twitched. Then the hand reached out. The kid collapsed forward into the motion and Jason lunged to catch them. He lifted them gently, worried about how light they were.

“It’s okay, we’ve got you. We’ll make sure you’re safe.”

The kid hid their face against Jason’s jacket. Their words were almost too quiet to hear. “I don’t know if you can.”

“Never underestimate what a stubborn Bat can do, Kid.”

-

The kid passed out halfway to the safe house. It was probably for the best. Their injuries were… extensive would be too kind of a word.

Tim laid down a plastic sheet on the bed before Jason deposited the kid down on it. The hoodie, which couldn’t be the kid’s at that size, had to be practically peeled off. The main wound that must have been the blood splatter he noticed was the immediate concern, but it was everything else that worried Tim more.

This was more than signs of abuse, this was torture or experimentation. Those scars and wounds cut into the kid’s arms and torso was far too even and controlled. There were other, messier scars that looked like burns and stab wounds. The inside of their elbows were littered with track marks and their hands bruised from what must have been IV ports. The worst for Tim was seeing the metal collar around the kid’s neck, but he knew that wasn’t what was getting Jason. He didn’t need to see Jason’s eyes to tell they were glued to the track marks.

“Go take five and fill a bowl up with warm water,” Tim said.

“Red—”

“Hood,” Tim snapped, cutting off Jason’s growl. Tim had suffered Jason’s bite, the bark didn’t scare him anymore. Besides, they understood each other these days. They were the Bats will willing blood on their hands. “Go take five. They’re not going anywhere and I need your help to patch them up, so go take five and get your head on, okay?”

The fight drained out of Jason like a string had been cut. He nodded and stalked off to the tiny kitchen that was basically an afterthought to the living room. It was hardly their most glamorous safe house but it was close, had two bedrooms, and was secure, despite it’s shoddy appearance.

Tim had the old bandages and scraps of cloth peeled off by the time Jason came back to start cleaning away the green blood.

“We need to get antibiotics for them from Leslie,” Jason said after the worst was cleaned up.

“Definitely. This new wound is from a knife and some of these were wrapped with what I think was an old hospital scrub.”

“Lends credence to…”

“Yeah.”

Jason nodded stiffly. “This needs stitches.”

“Luckily I think bandages are fine for everything else,” Tim said.

He snapped off the nitrate gloves and put on a fresh pair. He carefully numbed the skin around the wound while he waited for Jason to be in a spot to hold the kid down should they wake up. The first few stitches went fine. Tim took the time to be extra neat. The kid didn’t need any worse scars because of his sloppy work.

Tim had just started on the forth one when the kid started to stir. They twitched and whimpered in their sleep. Jason pressed down carefully to keep them from moving too much.

“No, Mom, please, I’m your son! I’m not— Don’t… not again. I’ll be good…”

Tim looked up at the impassive red helmet.

“I’m good. I have him. Just keep stitching so we can get him tucked in to bed.”

“Okay,” Tim said and got back to work. It was hard to ignore the whimpered words and everything they implied, but Tim needed to focus. There would be time to start looking into everything after.

It was as he was cleaning up that Jason threw a wrench into things.

“Don’t run his DNA.”

“What?” Tim hissed, rounding on Jason. “That is clearly Bruce’s kid in there!”

“Exactly. It’s obviously his kid, there’s no doubt in that with the way he looks. And just as obviously he’s been tortured or experimented on. Don’t you think he’s been stripped of his privacy enough?”

All the fight bled out of Tim an instant. “Fuck. I didn’t think… I just wanted to…”

“I know. You wanted to help by solving this, but that’s not what this kid needs right now. So hold off until he feels safe enough to consent, okay?”

“Okay, no, you’re right, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, Red,” Jason said, ruffling Tim’s hair with a wet hand. “Creepy stalking is just your way of caring, I get it. Just pull back a little this time. You can focus on that collar he’s wearing right now.”

Tim shuddered. “That thing needs to go. Am I staying on watch then?”

“If you’re fine with that. I’ll get Oracle to call the others to the Cave.”

“Sure,” Tim said. He didn’t want to miss that conversation, but someone had to stay with the kid and he was a better choice to get the collar off. “Just make sure I have a comm line in.”

“Of course. Can’t have you missing out on us discussing the old man’s sex life.”

“Ugh, never mind, I don’t need a comm line!”

“Too late!” Jason called out with a laugh as he headed for the door.

Tim flicked him off just to do so.

After double checking that the place was secure, Tim pulled out a tool bag. At least he could start by testing the collar for explosive residue or other traps that would keep Tim from taking it off. The thought of the collar being rigged made him sick to his stomach, but it fit too well with the canvas of scars that the kid bore.

“Who did this to you, Kid?” Tim asked, even though he knew he wouldn’t get a response. “And how soon can Hood put a bullet in their head for you?”

--- AN: So here's a little more of this for Trauma Tuesday! The Reds are very concerned! I'm still having fun writing a Jason and Tim who get along and understand each other in a way the other 'we don't kill' Bat's don't, threats of murder and all.

Sorry if there are lots of mistakes (I don't need them corrected, ty), it's been a bad fatigue spell here. Still hope you enjoyed it and stay delightful, darlings!

(Oh, and there's another continuation to the OG threaded to it by chroma if you want a different take!)

Masterpost you can subscribe to, as I no longer tag people!

[ghostaholics]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐒

➸ PAIRING: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x fem!reader (established relationship) ➸ WARNING(S): [ 18+ ] body shots; oral (receiving); ruined orgasm; basically PWP with slight BDSM (disciplinary action) ➸ SUMMARY: Simon teaches you a very important lesson about holding still – extended version of this. ➸ A/N: Thank you to @mvtthewmurdvck who lets me bitch about anything and everything including this and offered kind words when I certainly lost faith in the whole thing. ➸ WORD COUNT: 2.2k

𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐘 𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐁𝐎𝐍, 𝐒𝐈𝐌𝐎𝐍’𝐒 𝐋𝐈𝐐𝐔𝐎𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐈𝐂𝐄. Pilfered from his not-so-secret stash and running low with about a quarter left; the contents slosh around in their bottle-shaped confinement as he stalks into the room with a heavy hand swallowing around the widest circumference of the glass.

Good memories, usually. Like the first time he’d brandished his titanium pocket flask for you to take a sip. You’d scrunched your nose, feigning disapproval of the drink. And he'd said – cheeky as always – with a low-timbered response:

"Don't worry. The taste of your cunt's still my favourite."

But now, there’s no trace of that Simon anywhere to be seen. His face is entirely devoid of the amusement he already so rarely expressed. Stone-rigid. Unimpressed. Disappointed – seems like – and certainly not in the mood for any games.

❝ 𝐂𝐀𝐍'𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄𝐒 𝐀 𝐑𝐄𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓, 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐇? ❞

It's a red-hot brand searing the edges of your memory (charred, ash-coated, lined by the cinders of a poor attempt on your part that had gone up into flickering embers).

See, the brain remembers it well.

Your cunt, too: the walls hugging his cock, full of his cum – excessively so, nearly bursting with it after he'd buried himself to the hilt and stayed inside just to plug your snug little hole, ensuring that none of it would dribble out after he’d fucked you senseless. He’d given you plenty, more than enough. And it’d been generous of Simon. A gift, really, considering the enormity of the initial request.

Make me yours?

He’d only had one thing to say, just a simple favour in return for doing this, for indulging you. His voice had been hoarse, sandpaper-rough from overuse – your fault entirely – eroded away after being subjected to a whole night's worth of groaning against the shell of your ear and telling you just how fucking good you felt before you'd milked him for everything he was worth with your greedy, pulsing self.

Keep it all in then.

You’d done your best not to clench, but stretched taut around the girth of his cock like that, you'd just wanted to readjust. Not a lot. But the position you'd been in wasn't the most conducive one for this. And you’d shifted – barely, practically inconsequential (or so you’d thought) – to where you wouldn’t have even thought it’d matter except—

It had.

Pushed some of it out, that is. A stream of cum trickling down onto an area of the duvet, staining it – the unfortunate aftermath of your decision to move.

Thas’ a shame. Thought you wanted it. Guess I was wrong.

Simon comes to a stop at the foot of the bed where you're sitting; he towers over you – an intimidating, subduing presence without even having to try. "Had to wash the sheets because you couldn't keep it all in.”

You blink in surprise as your mouth parts slightly in what you're sure must be a dumbfounded expression. Of course, this is nothing new. You were there. Responsible for the incident, apparently. And though it wasn't necessarily your fault, you still feel the need to explain that it was due to factors beyond your control. “There was so much—” (As if it'll help your case.)

But he's never cared much for excuses.

“How ‘m I supposed to finish inside you knowing that you’re just going to waste it?” he asks. It's a rhetorical question, not one that actually requires an answer.

Your chin tips down in a silent apology. There's something heavy sitting in your chest; remorse, you think.

He grips your jaw in his hand, forces you to look at him. “Yeah, love. We’ll fix that. Gonna teach you how to be grateful, how to understand the value in the things I give to you."

𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐀 𝐒𝐋𝐎𝐖 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐒.

He makes you tell him your colors.

You do.

He asks if you know what you’re supposed to get out of this.

You answer that he’s probably going to have to wash the sheets again before you can learn whatever lesson he’s trying to impose on you.

Yeah, that earns you a sharp pinch to the hip.

That massive body of his sinks to the floor, one leg bending down before the other joins it, rough carpet cutting into his knees, undoubtedly. Then, his fingers curl around your legs, blunt digits sinking in – ten identical divots pressed into the flesh. He leaves light indentations with his palms spanning along the sides of your thighs to spread you open while his elbows anchor into the mattress.

Heat blooms across your skin, every surface that he touches and even in the places that he doesn't – white-hot, intentional (and he never does anything without purpose); it sparks a fever that fans out, unfurls. There's no part of you left unaffected. You're growing warmer by a few degrees. Doesn't sound like much, but it's enough to make a noticeable difference if the beads of sweat gathering at the back of your neck are any indication.

And Simon lets out a soft scoff. Cocky. Like he knew what was waiting for him—

You're soaked, absolutely drenched. Cotton panties, sticky –saturated beyond belief. If you looked there yourself, you wouldn't be surprised to find a damp patch on the fabric steadily growing in size.

He's such a sight, too: the contour of his muscles shifting and rippling, all brawn and power – his presence speaking volumes about just who holds the cards right now, undeniably the one in control here; the visual of his stature and build emphasize that. And authority bleeding from the width of his shoulders if not spelled out by his words alone.

"Haven't even touched you, and you're already dripping," he murmurs. "Why?"

Your mouth trips and stutters over your own words the same way your heart trips and stutters over his. "Because you—y-you're..."

His thumbs hook into your panties, slowly peels them away – not an easy feat, damn things are clinging to your cunt – before dragging them down your legs. "Say it, sweetheart. What do you think I'm gonna do to you?"

And your mind is racing, jumping too many steps ahead. "You're going to eat me out?"

Simon stuffs his panties in his back pocket for safekeeping. A souvenir, since there won't be much use for them now. "I'm gonna eat you out," he affirms.

"Mhm, yeah. Want your mouth on me."

"Whether or not you come depends entirely on if I feel like letting you."

"Oh—"

"Spill a single drop, and you don't come tonight," he says, never one to draw out the details. His instructions are concise, uncomplicated. Then, further inquiry. "We clear?"

"Yeah..." you say with a shaky breath before trying to regain some semblance of composure. "Yes."

"Good girl," he purrs low, almost a growl – though you're not quite certain that you deserve the praise yet.

He’s answering to a shrine, beckoned forward by the invitation of a wet cunt and the promise of a taste of your slick. He pauses, takes a brief moment to admire it in his own way, almost reverent as he takes in how your arousal’s smeared everywhere from your folds to your inner thighs (all for him, because of him – isn’t that right?).

But make no mistake, there’s absolutely nothing respectful about the act that comes next. Simon leans, forces his shoulders to hold you open, before he bows his head and he licks; it’s a hungry tongue lapping at the slit, everything terribly hot and wet – the sensation makes you jolt upon first contact because it's too much. So, so much.

And at the same time, not enough.

The feeling spikes along the circuit running from your head to your toes – empty thoughts save for the white static that buzzes in the hollow of your skull, a tingling, prickling paresthesia-sort-of-thing that usually accompanies the high of an orgasm. Except, the irony’s not lost on you in this instance; he’s hardly even begun to wreak havoc on your cunt yet.

Currents zip down your spine, down, further down, everything else collateral damage. No part of you is spared by the overwhelming fervor responsible for it – the initial onslaught of his mouth laying waste at the spread of your entrance.

Every single nerve-ending is on-edge, trigger-sensitive as he sucks, and kisses, and fuck are his groans heavy, bone-deep, the rumble of a thunderstorm gathering in his chest. They radiate from the point of origin where your core’s suffering, reverberating tremors that diffuse out to the rest of you. It makes your skin thrum like a live wire. There’s no hope of staying in a fixed position if he keeps this up. How could you? The odds are zero to none. It isn’t feasible.

You forget your place, can't help but squirm within his iron grip.

Then, Simon; a severe reprimand— "Watch it," he rasps. It’s a lull amidst the incursion, an unplanned interlude. Temporary reprieve (barely) so he can scold you for your inability to follow his instructions.

A low whimper leaves your throat. That's completely out of the question, beyond what you're currently capable of. Easier said than done. "I'm trying—"

"Then try harder."

Despite how weighed down your eyelids feel, you manage to guide your laden gaze south, let it roam over your stomach. The dark, amber liquid in your navel sways; it rocks, sloshes with the tide, a consequence born from the pull and heave of your jarring movements. Exercise caution. This is delicate work – a balancing act. Those thoughts are cloudy.

Your mind is fuzzy, thick, a drunken haze. Buzzed, lightheaded. And everything's off-kilter. But you haven't had a single drop of alcohol. None at all. Couldn’t, because everything's still sitting in your navel right there like it’s supposed to.

Simon dips his head back between your legs, continues to seal his mouth over you, flattening his tongue to lick thick stripes from your entrance to your clit. He doesn't let up, only bringing his face closer, following that same path again and again and again – agonizing – until you're trembling. The noises he’s making, something debauched and bottomless – one wet groan after the other. This isn't for you. It's for him, that much is clear.

You plead anyways, hoping he'll grant you an amnesty that you haven't earned in the least bit, "Need you inside. Anything, just—"

"Sure you can handle it?"

Breathless when you say, "Ah, yeah..."

"We'll see about that," Simon murmurs.

He doesn't believe you.

To be fair, you’re not so sure you do either.

But he's courteous, slips one finger in and lets you clamp around him. And your cunt flutters, welcomes the feeling.

You release a soft moan. “Want more, Si. Feels good."

His face turns to the side, wet nose and chin grazing along your thigh to spread the slick in more places that haven't been drenched yet. Then he bites. Gentle. An admonishment. Nothing serious about it though: scraping, the light pressure of teeth sinking into the skin as he pulls with his mouth.

You jerk suddenly before catching yourself.

"Don't be fuckin' greedy. You'll take what I give you, and you'll thank me for it." He's curt, perfunctory. No delay as he offers up his two fingers to your mouth. The expectation is clear. “Suck.” And he's waiting.

You wrap your lips around them, swallowing him down, not one to squander an opportunity sitting in front of you, right? You understand that now.

“So tell me how good you taste.”

"I-um, taste good—"

"Yeah, you fuckin' do."

"Thank you."

“Mhm.”

You can't see it, but you can hear it: the low clinking of a belt being unbuckled, the sound of a zipper being undone. Clinking metal and rustling denim being tampered with somewhere below your line of sight as he reaches down, almost like he— is he… oh.

Most of his body's obscured by the edge of the bed, but everything from the chest up is still visible. Simon's shoulder is bobbing slightly, arm pumping back and forth in a rhythmic motion and fuck, he's getting himself off to this.

That sends another spark of arousal to your core, makes you gush. It adds to the mess coating his jaw, his chin, his lips. You whimper out something – broken syllables – his name, maybe. You’re not entirely sure.

God, you’re almost there. So close. Wound up tight, hips rolling against his mouth, chasing his tongue—

Until he stops entirely. No contact. Simon pulls away in such a rush that you gasp, startled.

"Look at that." Accusatory.

It's a trail of liquor dribbling over the curve of your stomach, down your side in small rivulets. There are streaks pooling onto the sheets underneath you. Tragic.

(Couldn't help yourself, huh?)

Guilty as charged.

Shit.

"What'd I say – told you to hold still, yeah?"

And even though you had a feeling it would happen, you still have the nerve to act surprised at the result. "Fuck," you whine pathetically. "Was so close—"

"We're starting over. Don't care if it takes us all night, we're gonna keep at this 'til you get it right or you use up the rest of the whiskey," he says, readying himself to deposit another pour of alcohol into your navel. Simon lifts his shoulder in a light shrug like he can't be bothered about the final outcome. "Better pray that it works out before the bottle’s empty. Won't let you finish otherwise, sweetheart. Understand?"

[divine-misfortune]

perhaps 45 with omega/alpha, if that sounds interesting?

A kiss out of anger from this prompt list.

Btw toxic old man yaoi art by @aweisz if you even care (thank you so much)

Bracing himself only did so much. It didn’t stop him from choking on the wave of dry heat that assaulted him when he opened the door. Omega dutifully swallowed a mouthful of scalding cinder and gripped the doorknob a little tighter, eyes tracking the scorched path Alpha had paced along the length of his room. It would take several hours to polish his anger from the floorboards but he knew no amount of waxing and shining would remove the traces of ash from the wood. Just another scar. 

Omega stepped over the threshold. Willingly entered the cage with the spitting, raging demon and closed the door behind him.

Alpha’s eyes were fixed on the floor, hunched over himself. His arms were folded behind his back, clasping his wrist in one hand while the other repeatedly curled in and out of a fist. Omega ran his tongue over the back of his teeth, finding himself subconsciously mimicking his posture with a well trained rigidity. Steel spined, shoulders squared, hands folded neatly. There was a practiced sense of pride that he couldn’t give up, even now, even when he should be curling in on himself in shame. 

“Understand?” He interrupted, sparks sputtering from between his teeth. Restrained anger that Omega didn’t deserve the kindness of. “Where the fuck do you get off taking matters into your own hands like this? You have no right to speak on my behalf, to call me and my capability into question, no fucking right Meg!” 

“Alpha,” Omega began without knowing where he was going. If there was even a point to opening his mouth he had yet to find it. He debated a step forward but his body refused to budge and carry him closer to the fire ghoul.  “You have to understand-”

“I’m not questioning your capability,” he tried to start again, nails digging into his palm behind his back as he tried to gather himself. Beyond scattered, he found himself grasping blindly for the right wording - searching for the sincerity Alpha deserved but his shallow inhale left too much of a pregnant pause that Alpha took as a chance to continue spitting. 

“Oh but you did, you did the second you breathed a word of retirement to clergy. They’re all looking at me differently, like I’m useless. You seem to think I can’t do my fucking job, so what is it?” The question comes out serrated, sharp and ripping through him. “What’s this really about?” 

Alpha finally looked at him. Crimson eyes gone dull, the raging fire he’d fallen in love with had burned down to low embers and the guilt jabs him in the gut. 

Smoke billowed from the corners of his snarl and Omega found himself grateful for the awful heat filling the room, like the judgmental fires of hell were finally catching up to him. He hoped he burned, at the hands of Alpha or unholy retribution. Perhaps it was a deserved punishment in the end, his unwelcomed overstepping finally leading him to the cliff's edge. 

“I’m worried about you.”

Closer now, Omega noticed the twitch of discomfort in Alpha’s face as he stepped forward again. The way his body moved was jerky for a passing second like he was flinching from his own weight on his right leg. Another stab, higher, a knife between his ribs. Closer now, Alpha had never felt further away from him. Despite being in arms reach, there were miles between them. 

“Worried about me? You're worried about me?”

“You can't expect me to just sit and watch you-” 

“Be honest, this is about Terzo isn't it?”

“Alpha.” 

“No, no. It makes sense, it makes a lot of fucking sense when you think about it.” He's close, close enough Omega can feel the heat of his shaky breathing. “You don't think I'm good enough to stand by him anymore, do you? Do I tarnish your humans shiny appearance? Shouldn't surprise me that his image matters more to you-” 

“For the love of everything unholy. Alpha, no. Would you just listen to me?” 

“Oh yes, yes, of course I should listen. Omega knows best.” He threw his hands up with a laugh of disbelief. Omega couldn't stop his face from screwing up in irritation. “I don't know why I’m wasting my breath here, it’s clear you don’t care about me or a word I say.” 

The accusation knocked the wind from his sails, impeccable posture beginning to sag. First in the shoulders and then his arms fell back to his sides, hands curling into fists to hide the shake to them. Alpha scoffed as the quintessence ghoul opened his mouth to argue but couldn’t seem to find the words. Dismissive. He looked tired, years of being beaten into submission and pushing well past his limits taking their toll. Ice crept into his veins, a chilled numbness spreading from the tips of his fingers to his core - he couldn’t place if it was guilt or his own particular brand of rage. 

Alpha began to stalk past him, floorboards squeaking shrilly under his step like nails on a chalkboard. He grit his teeth, jaw creaking in kind as he turned and grabbed the other ghoul by the arm. There came the beginnings of a growl but Omega knew it was all bark, that there would never have been a real bite behind it, so he pushed. He pushed Alpha the few steps backwards till his back hit the door too hard, and he’d apologize later, but he chased the nerve he’d managed to scrounge up.

His skin was scalding as Omega grabbed his face roughly, surging forward to mold his mouth to Alpha’s before he could bite off another sharp word. The fire ghoul made a choked off sound of surprise, head thumping against the wood. His lips were rough, overly worried raw by well filed fangs, and Omega ached somewhere in his ribs at the familiarity. Months, it had been months since he'd felt Alpha against him and he hadn’t realized how much he missed it. Missed him. 

Tobacco and communion wine. Omega was sure Alpha had stolen it from the chapel and downed the bottle in an attempt to quell his anger but it hardly seemed to do the trick given where they found themselves. 

He braced a hand against Omega’s broad chest, not exactly pushing him away, it felt like another vye for physical contact. A quiet admission of how much Alpha missed this all the same. One kiss hardly felt like enough to convey himself, but as he flicked his tongue over the seam of his lips and Alpha reluctantly let him in, it felt like a start. The best he could do so suddenly. 

Slipping into his mouth, Alpha groaned lowly and leaned fully against the closed door, curling his fingers into the front of the other ghoul’s uniform to drag him all that much closer. Flames seemingly extinguished, the heat beneath his palms began to ebb back to a comfortable warmth and Omega let up a bit, opting to cradle his face instead of grab. Offer him a touch of tenderness, it was the least he could do. 

That clever forked tongue forced past his teeth and sought to lick the soured ash from his mouth. 

It was a moment he wished they could stay suspended in forever, reminiscent of their younger days where every spare moment they could steal together was passion fueled and driven by sparks. Alpha’s warm breath tickled against his cheek with every pleasured sigh, neither of them managing to quiet a single grateful sound. 

He started to pull back, managing an inch before changing his mind. Pressing forward for another far more chaste kiss, hating the idea of it ever truly ending. 

“Alpha…” The quintessence ghoul started, stroking a thumb over the cut of his cheek, eyes flicking from his spit shined lips to his almost glassy eyes. They refocused a bit more with every sluggish blink. “Alpha, love, I’ve never doubted you or your ability to perform for a minute, but I worry about how hard you push yourself.” 

He found himself frowning despite the previous giddy flutter of his heart. 

“You might be immortal, but your vessel is not.” Omega smoothed his hands down Alpha’s front, pausing over his chest to just feel his pulse and the labored breaths he took. “You’re not a young ghoul anymore, and I know you don’t want to admit it…So I admitted it for you. I know it wasn’t my place but I couldn’t sit and watch you work yourself to the bone.” 

“Megs,” Alpha sighed, brow furrowing. “Why didn’t you talk to me?” 

“Because I know you, and I know you’d never go quietly.” He chuckled though there was no real humor there, tinged by something sad. “We only have so much time left on the surface, and the idea of not spending the rest of it with you at my side is agonizing. I just wanted you to come back to me and not worry about you leaving again, always coming back in worse shape than you left in…You’re making me go gray from all the worrying I have to do.” 

It was Alpha’s turn to laugh. A sort of snort, actually amused unlike his previous attempt. Omega tipped his forehead against his, wanting to melt into him and his comforting warmth. 

“I’m sorry, my light. I would never do something like this to slight you, you know that, right?”

“...Yeah, yeah I do.” 

[kooktrash]

romantic dreams | jeon jungkook

drabble: gym and party favors

summary: sometimes he’s so good with you that you forget how unstable he is. other times you can clearly see it and no matter how hard you try to get away, he won’t let you and you’re close to giving up. [2.6k words. no smut cause y’all gotta remember my man a little loco] gym bro jk

The sky was black and you could see it in the reflection of the mirror through the windows of the gym. It was a huge gray cinder block with gym equipment and Jungkook’s favorite place to be. You don’t usually come to the gym but he wanted to come tonight and asked you to come with. You didn’t mind the gym but it wasn’t necessarily your style, especially not when he tried teaching you how to properly weight train.

Jungkook stood behind you as he helped you hold the dumbbell up by your shoulders while placing your hands where they needed to go, “Okay, don’t push your chest forward too much, act like there’s a wall behind you and don’t push back too much.”

“Don’t push back and don’t push forward? What the fuck am I supposed to do then?” You groaned in frustration as he nudged a foot of yours with his to make sure you had them apart the right amount. Thankfully the dumbbell was on a Smith machine so you could easily set it on a notch to rest and you were already feeling tired of holding it.

You looked at your own reflection for a moment, you looked like a complete mess while Jungkookstood there looking perfect in his black shorts, and white middle tee that had deep sleeve cuts on the sides and it showed a bit of his torso. There was a new tattoo on his ribcage, a kiss mark of your lips.

“When you go down make sure your chest doesn’t lean forward, line it up with your knees but don’t angle yourself like you’re looking down,” Jungkook said and you felt his hand slide down your back. He was hyper focused right now on teaching you how to properly lift when you couldn’t care less.

His hand moved down until his palm was against your tailbone and you glared at him through the mirror. You rolled your eyes, “You said you’ll teach me not grope me.”

He just chuckled as he touched your butt, “I am teaching you, watch, try and do one and I’ll show you how your body should move.”

Jungkook helped you with the first one showing you how to keep your butt from sticking out too much and properly lifting the dumbbell. A smile spread across his face, “Alright now do five.”

“Five!?” Your eyes widened as he moved back letting you do it by yourself and with a small groan you tried to do another. Jungkook watched your form through the mirror and he had to move to the side to see you better. He counted them with you in his head and by the third one he found he wasn’t the only one looking.

A couple machines back, a guy held onto a pull up bar like he was ready to work out but his eyes were on you.

Jungkook watched him through the mirror as you took a pause to catch your breath. His jaw was tense, unable to take a breath as he waited for the guy to look away but he didn’t. His eyes were solely trained on your exposed legs in the small pair of gym spandex shorts you wore. Jungkook let his tongue poke against his cheek and he silently moved to stand directly behind you and he held onto the support bar on top, shielding you completely from the guy’s point of view.

“Come on baby, two more and then you can take a break,” Jungkook cleared his throat as he watched you and with a small huff of breath you did as told.

He kept his eyes trained on the guy who seemed to be trying to look around him to get a look at you and… well he couldn’t act unbothered now. A small scoff left his lips as he turned around to look at the guy, letting go of the bar.

“Do you have a problem?” Jungkook asked suddenly and you turned back in surprise trying to do another but he was already walking away. Your brows scrunched together trying to understand what was going on but Jungkook didn’t even look back at you.

“What do you mean?” The guy asked, letting go of the pull up bar. He was about Jungkook’s height but a stockier build compared to his lean one. With an annoyed sigh you put the dumbbell back into it’s notch and turned to your boyfriend.

“I mean you’ve been trying to stare at my girl’s ass this whole time so I wanna know if you have a problem,” Jungkook said as you hurried to gather your things and follow after him so he wouldn’t start another useless fight.

“No, man, I’m just… you’ve got a hot girlfriend,” the guy said and you assume he thought it was some sort of compliment but the look Jungkook gave him told you he didn’t think the same. Before Jungkook could say anything, you wrapped an arm around his stomach and pulled him back.

“Let’s go already, don’t you want to go out later?” You asked him, dragging him away.

You needed to distract him, lately all he’s wanted to do is fight any person who looks at you whether it be nonsexual or sexual. He’s got it in his head that you’re going to leave him still and frankly, you still don’t know what you’ll do.

You’re getting fed up with his mood and his possessiveness but you haven’t left him yet. You don’t care if some guy was checking you out, that just means he’s a creep and you understand Jungkook telling him not to but he does it with everyone who even looks your way. It’s getting tiring.

That’s why you tried to redirect his attention elsewhere and reminded him about the fact that you two were going to a party later.

There were so many people around and not a single one was you. Jungkook couldn’t even bother saying excuse me as he pushed through crowds of people to find you.

You’ve been stressing him out all night. First at the gym, he knows you’re pretty and everyone can see that but he hates knowing that people can’t keep their eyes off of you. It’s the same at this party, the amount of guys who’ve just been eye fucking you like he’s not even there pisses him off. It would’ve been better if you both just stayed home. On top of that, you’ve been drinking a lot tonight and now you’ve run off on him and he has no idea where to.

“Have you seen Y/n?” Jungkook asked in annoyance as he looked at the guy in front of him. Taehyung looked back at him with a lack of amusement as he shook his head no.

“Maybe she’s in the bathroom,” Taehyung said with a shrug and Jungkook just rolled his eyes and pushed past him.

The party reeked of alcohol and smoke and the music wasn’t even good. You already had a lot to drink but you had wanted another and he was going to get you one but when he got back you were gone. He tried waiting for you but you haven’t come back yet and at this point he’s ready to call it a night.

He entered the narrow hall that was more hidden in the dark and he pushed through to get to the bathroom. He twisted the door handle, smacking his lips when he saw it was locked and resorted to knocking.

Just before his fist could land on the door swung open and a girl stood in front of him. He looked behind her as if he could find you hiding in the bathroom but you weren’t there. Maybe she knew where you were though.

“She’s about this tall,” Jungkook used his hand to measure as he looked down at the girl, “Really pretty… uh, she’s wearing black. Have you seen her?”

The girl stared at him in confusion and that only annoyed him more. With a roll of his eyes he pushed past her and tried every door available.

You sat in a dark bedroom sniffling quietly as your friend gently rubbed your back, “What’s wrong, Y/n?”

“Just stressed,” you mumbled as Hoseok sat down next to you, “I just needed a minute.”

“Have you been drinking?” He asked in a quiet whisper, “You always get a little emotional when you drink.”

“I know,” you pouted, “I’m okay, I pro—“

“Y/n?”

Jungkook swung the door open, eyes hardening as they adjusted to the darkness of the room. There you were sitting on the edge of some stranger’s bed with Hoseok touching you.

“I think she’s drunk,” Hoseok said but Jungkook wouldn’t look at him. He walked up to you, “Baby?”

“Don’t talk to me,” you sniffled and they both looked at you in confusion.

“What? Why?” Jungkook asked as he moved onto his knees, “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

“Well, I’ve been hiding from you so just go,” you said harshly and he couldn’t help but let the tenderness leave his eyes. Hoseok looked between you two, “Is everything good?”

“Yes,” Jungkook said but Hoseok only looked at you.

Now they both stared at you waiting to say something. You took a deep breath, “It’s fine Hobi, can you give us a minute?”

He left reluctantly and shut the door behind him. Jungkook waited for you to talk.

“I need you to stop,” you finally said, watching the way his brows scrunched together in confusion, “You’re too… you’re too possessive and clingy and I tried to stay with you but I can’t take it anymore. I tried ignoring all the weird things you would do because you said you’ll change but you haven’t!”

“What are you talking about?” Jungkook stood up, “I took out the cameras, what else do you want me to do?”

“Oh my god, the bare fucking minimum!” You stood up too, yelling a little, “Don’t you see that this just isn’t working? This isn’t normal Jungkook, we aren’t normal. I shouldn’t have ever stayed with you.”

“Y/n,” Jungkook’s jaw clenched as he watched you open the stranger’s door to the party, “What are you trying to say?”

What are you trying to say? You’re drunk. You do care a lot for him and he really is sweet but you can’t get past the stalking, the possessiveness, the need to control you and who you talk to. You just enable him.

“I’m saying… maybe we should break u—“

“No.”

You walked down the hall that was packed with people trying to get away before he convinced you to stay, “Yes. Jungkook, we're not good for each other. You’re not good for me. You can’t just fight whatever guy looks at me or—“

“Okay so let’s go home and talk about this,” Jungkook reached for your hand but you pulled it away and disappeared between the crowds of people, “Y/n, don’t do this, you’re just drunk baby, you’re getting yourself worked up over nothing. We’ll talk when we get home.”

“I just need time to think,” you confessed to him, “That night when you… y’know… you scared me. I don’t want to be with someone I’m scared of.”

You weren’t listening to him and he was starting to get mad. Jungkook stayed quiet as he followed after you and you didn’t even seem to notice as you said, “I think I’m gonna ask Taehyung to take me home, we can talk about this tomorrow or something but I’m being honest Jungkook, I don’t think I can do it anymore.”

Right before you could leave him, Jungkook was catching up to you, “No you’re not Y/n, if you want to go home then let’s go so we can talk about this but you’re not leaving me for another guy.”

“It’s not like that! I just need space from you right now, you always act crazy and I can’t take it anymore,” you said in a louder voice, “You’re so sweet to me and I’m thankful for that but you’re scary as shit. I don’t want to be scared wondering when the next time you’ll do or say something again. Just leave me alo—Jungkook!”

Jungkook wrapped his arms around your thighs as he lifted you onto his shoulder with ease. You fell face into his back and kicked your feet; “Put me down.”

“You want to leave right? Alright, let’s go,” Jungkook said as he walked right to the door ignoring everyone’s stares as he carried you away, “But you’re not going to try and fucking throw me away at some stupid party just because you’re drunk.”

“Jungkook! This is exactly what I’m talking about!” You hit his back but he didn’t even flinch, he walked right out of the house carrying you all the way to his car and you just cursed at him to put you down.

“Get in the car,” he muttered, not fully listening to you anymore as he opened the passenger seat and set you down, “We’re going home just like you want—“

“No,” you refused, “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Y/n, get in the fucking car!” Jungkook yelled in your face but you didn’t flinch.

“I don’t want to! You’re craz—“ Jungkook helped you in, slamming the door shut in your face and hurrying to his side.

You pulled on the door handle and pushed, checking to see if it was unlocked and tried getting back out. Jungkook was sitting next to you now mumbling some stuff you couldn’t make out and trying to start the car. You began to panic, “Why won’t this door open?”

He moved the car off Park and into Drive as he calmly said, “The child lock is on.”

“What?” Your brows furrowed, “Since when?”

Jungkook always opens your door for you so you never have to do it yourself, did you really never notice? Why was the child lock on? With it in place you couldn’t open the door from the inside, you were essentially locked in, “Jungkook let me out.”

“No,” he said as he began to pull out of his driver’s spot. Your chest tightened as you yanked and yanked on the door handle, “Jungkook—“

“No! You’re not getting out of this fucking car!” He yelled, swerving the car out of the parking space so fast that your body jostled to one side and hit the window.

“Don’t yell at me,” you said, still a little drunk and definitely still emotional.

His face softened as he drove off, “I’m sorry baby, I won’t raise my voice at you again, that was my fault.”

You didn’t say anything as you gave up on opening the door and Jungkook reached over to put a hand on your thigh but you shifted away. He didn’t like that so he tried it again and practically yanked you closer, “I won’t yell at you but you know I don’t like when you say mean things to me.”

You chose to stay silent.

“Y/n?” Jungkook called out to you but you wouldn’t even look at him and he had to grip the steering wheel a little tighter to release some tension, “Y/n, love, I’m sorry but I’m not letting you break up with me. You already know this so get that idea out of your head already. You’re not leaving with Taehyung or Hoseok or any other fucking guy for that matter. You’re leaving with me and only me.”

“Jungkook, this isn’t normal,” you whispered, finally looking at him, “You nee—we need help.”

Jungkook ignored you as he sped up down the street. You had to put on your seatbelt after neglecting it in a fit of rage to leave.

You knew this would happen. You can try and try to leave but he won’t let you. Even if you told your friends, you have no doubt that Jungkook would find a way to take you away.

And you hated that you loved him because it was all just so fucked up.

::.

idk how y’all feel about him, if for some reason y’all want more I’ll give you more 💀but I felt the need to bring up the fact that he is very much so emotionally manipulative and don’t say I didn’t warn ya 🤺

permanent taglist: @notmyfaultbutours @rerefundslocals @fandems @sugaluvmyg @guvgguk @kimyishin @libra04 @kooromiwrld @classycreationcupcake-blog @alwaysdreamingnotsleeping @cherrymonlightt @nikkiordonez12 @asking4-sanity @thvlover @saweetspoiled @uwu2rawr @shaybts-blog @babycandy111 @tearyjjeon @joons-uparupa @jeonninja @yellowcupid08 @02010802faves @knudsenheggedel @skzthinker @unnatae @aurorthi @beautywine @95ene @taekookstata @lilliankoo @shescharlie e @annenakamura a @lesoleile @burnahtsw @babybella337 @kooloveys @ku-ku @chaelvrx @minnie-mouser22 @Imeneghd @whoa-jo @evajeonsworld @marvelbun @sunnikthv @kochycooky y @heyhowyoudoin3 @acielelyseen @giselleswifeee @jeonjk25 @ilikeitlikethatt @bangmechanpls @lvr2seok @badbyeyoongi @jaerisdiction @watermelonjuice15 5 @artmsmaid @xyahrinx @angeleen777 @jooniesxbby y @brillantdarling

[rachetmath]

Pyrrha: Hi you must be Alyx.

Alyx: Yes.

Pyrrha: Well I just want to talk to you about something.

Alyx: I mean sure but what-

Pyrrha: Not what. It’s who. You know Jaune Arc?

Alyx: I mean y-

Pyrrha: You know the Rustud Knight? The one you betrayed? Who you poisoned?

Alyx: Well I can- *attempts to run*

Penny: *blocks her path*Nope. All attempts of escape are at zero right now.

Alyx: You can’t be serious.

Penny: As the current generation would say," Oh yes bitch. Try me."

Alyx: Okay I may have wronged him a little bit.

Lewis: A little? You completely poisoned him.

Alyx: Lewis you are not helping.

Lewis: At least like Jaune I was trying. But you never listen.

Alyx: Look I understand but what’s the big deal? He got back to Remnant.

Pyrrha: Why?! Why did you do it?

Alyx: I mean… well… I… um….

Pyrrha: Alyx, understand, you have two deadly women on both sides of you. If you don’t give us a good explanation well…. I guess we’ll finally see if you can fall from heaven.

Alyx: Well I saw this vision and I didn’t like it.

Penny: Understood, what was the vision?

Alyx: Um… I *whisper* don’t remember.

Penny: You what?!

Alyx: I don’t remember okay?!

Pyrrha: What vision? Who’s vision?

Alyx: I don’t know. The writers didn’t give me anything. I saved him though. That counts, right?

Pyrrha: No. He just survived.

Penny: Plus your ‘help’ could give him problems down the road.

Alyx: Like what?

Me: I mean the fan base speaks for itself. I mean the guy hasn’t been in Remnant for years it’s going to be kind of hard for him to readjust. Not only that he has to recover from years of isolation, PTSD, trauma, and because of you he might as well also be having trust issues. Not only that he had to leave another friend behind. You and the Ever After might as have shattered him

Alyx: Oh Oum.

Pyrrha: Yeah. Oum can’t save you. Penny.

Penny: Way ahead of you.

Alyx: Wait you wouldn’t hurt an innocent black child right?

Pyrrha and Penny: ………..

Me: Alyx you heard the saying, “Equal rights equal fights.”

Alyx: Let’s say I don’t.

Me: No matter your race. No matter your sexuality. No more matter your gender or age. You made a choice to do what you do. And as a result of said choice you must face said consequences. Weither they be good or bad. Basically you may be a kid but you were grown enough commit murder. And as such-

Pyrrha: You have this coming.

Alyx: *crying* I’m sorry. I just wanted to home. Jaune had no idea how. So I did what ever took. And then the Cat betrayed me and I died. Please? Don’t hurt me!

Summer: Come now ladies. I know you’re both upset but-

Pyrrha: Ms. Rose! Shut up!

Summer: I’m sorry? Who are you talking to?

Pyrrha: You are a nobody. You have been irrelevant for a while now. You left your daughters and died. Your daughter ain’t shit. Your team is still disbanded even after you died. You might as well be an afterthought at this point.

Summer: Said the girl who’s only job was to run away.

Pyrrha: I went out in a blaze of glory. I proved myself. What the fuck have you done?

Summer: Um.

Penny: Friend Pyrrha I know I have no rights to talk.

Pyrrha: Damn straight. You suffered more than myself. All you had to do was live. Instead, you traumatized my man. He just got over me too. Why would you do that?

Penny: Okay, I’m sorry. But, he’s going to be fine now. Let’s just let her go. And we pray he gets better.

Pyrrha: Fine. You're lucky Alyx.

Alyx: Thank you. But I am sorry.

Pyrrha: Shut up. Oum damn. If this story continues he better get stronger and kill Cinder. Because this is stupid. I mean how much trauma does one guy need? How he is not a villain? I mean, come on, he can’t be like Yuji, he doesn’t have skills like that.

Penny: Well friend W-

Pyrrha: If you say her name I will end you.

Summer: Okay woah, it’s been nine volumes why are you mad about this?

Pyrrha: One; he deserves better. Two; I prefer your daughter or anyone else than her. Three; she’s fucking useless. And four; it took him being an old man for her to start liking him. Fuck that bitch.

Summer: Well like said, if you stayed alive then-

Pyrrha: If you stayed alive maybe Qrow would have stopped drinking. If you stayed alive maybe your baby daddy wouldn’t be in a state of depression. Maybe if you stayed alive you could help your daughter learn how to control her eyes and be less useless in fighting the Queen of Grimm.

Summer: That was uncalled for.

Pyrrha: Move along side character.

[iamafanofcartoons]

Curate your YouTube search and recommendations

Tell me if you've had this problem before. You click on some video, any video, looking at something positive. And all of a sudden, you're spammed with dozens of negative videos in your recommendations. And no matter how many “Not interested” or “Don't recommend channel” that you click, YouTube still forces them on you. Or maybe you're looking for something in YouTube search, but you get too much clickbait videos, or hate-watch videos? And you have to scroll through everything?

Or maybe people have used different tags to force them into your search options, giving you tons of options that aren't related to what you are searching for. Wouldn't it be nice if you could block these channels and videos the same way you block people on social media?

Unfortunately, YouTube's existence relies on Ad revenue exclusively, hence why their channel blockers won't work, and reporting channels or videos won't accomplish anything if those channels and videos don't harm YouTube's reputation or ad revenue.

The larger a channel gets, the less chance of YouTube taking action against them. Hence why very large hate-channels and videos will swarm into searches.

Fortunately, there are tools called Browser Extensions or Add-Ons that allow you to have your browsers be able to add that specific block button option.

But...wouldn't it be nice if we didn't have to look for those tools? Why do we need such an option? Why can't YouTube give us that option in the first place?

In any case, the resources DO exist. You just have to look for them on Google Search. Blocktube is one such tool, and you can look it up on Google Search to confirm what I have shown here.

I know that for Phones you’ll need something called Youtube Vanced, also researchable on Google.

Credit goes to https://www.tumblr.com/rwby-cinder-blog/620199907993714688 

I’m just sick and tired of YouTube not doing a thing about a glaring problem on its increasingly problematic platform.

Edit: Dear people who are upset with hogwarts legacy? These tools are for you.

[mockerycrow]

okkk since my last ask went so Amazingly well (I have read it at least 7 to 20 times)

could you do reader with like almost constantly cold hands? like not extremely cold hands, but enough that it's noticeable? I'm just imagining reader (you could use the Cinder callsign again or whatever you feel works best) maybe patching up a wound and whoever (x gaz again??? again, whoever you feel like is best) is surprised by the sudden coldness

anyway no pressure to answer this, I can't wait for whatever you write next <33333 (also this is totally me projecting my cold hands if this feels super random)

Sweater Weather (Gaz x GN!Reader)

gaz masterlist - crow’s mega masterlist

So now, let me hold both your hands in the holes of my sweater.

A/N: YET ANOTHER BANGER PROMPT FROM YOU!!! AND ITS FOR GAZ I LOVE HIM SO MUCH!! I hope you get my song reference hehe. i’m also happy you enjoyed the last fic you requested <3 feel free to send in more requests! This is also lowkey a part 2 to your previous request, but it could be a standalone. Cinder is your callsign.

[WARNINGS: minor descriptions of minor injuries, medical inaccuracies, humor, fluff!]

By this point in time, you and Gaz were two peas in a pod. You were the latest person to join the task force, the last for now, but surely not the least. Everyone had their own set of gear and clothing, their own ways of getting into the right headspaces for missions, and everyone had their own things that they had with them at all times. Price always had his cigars, Ghost always had his mask, Soap always had his sketchbook, and Gaz always had a baseball cap with him. You? You always had gloves on. Not on your person, but always on your hands. The only times the team likely saw you without them is when you were exiting the bathroom, but then again, you were slipping them back on after you had washed your hands.

It perplexed Gaz. He understood everyone else’s reasons and items—Price is admittedly addicted to cigars, Ghost is just.. Ghost, Soap’s sketchbook helps him calm down and document things, his own hat was a comfort for him in the field.. But your gloves made no sense. To be fair, he didn’t notice right away. Many people wear gloves in the field to protect their hands, even on the hottest days, they’ll wear gloves and sweat in them until their fingertips prune from the moisture. You? You always, always wore them inside. On base. In your room… While eating— The point is, you always wore them. No matter the situation. It has him—and likely the others-wondering why exactly you do this. The few times they’ve seen your hands without gloves, none of them were close enough to see if you were, for some reason, hiding scars, perhaps hand tattoos, just something that would make sense.

Gaz ended up sporting himself a nasty split lip after an enemy managed to bash his head into a door frame, a wound that definitely needed stitches. It was the lower lip, off-center to the right with blood dribbling down his chin. Everyone was split up on the mission— You and Gaz were paired together, while Soap and Price were also paired. Ghost was operating alone for some stealth work. He’s sitting down on an old wooden chair in a house you two have held up in for the night. You open your duffel bag by the south wall, which is front of Gaz. You rummage around for the medical kit you began to bring everywhere after you fell through the floor a few months ago. “I don’t think we have too much further to go.” Gaz commented, glancing at the boarded up window to his left. There was a small sliver between the boards, allowing him to see that the sun is setting.

“Stop talking, you’ll agitate your lip.” You scold softly, grabbing the handle of the medical kit and you pull it out of the stuffed duffel bag. You glance over at him to see him quietly—yet playfully—mocking you under his breath. Sometimes you’re convinced he spends too much time with Soap, but then you always remember in the back of your mind, he’s more-so playful around you than anyone else. You walk over and place it on the table next to Gaz, opening the latches and pushing the top open. You look into the box and blink rapidly when you don’t see any disposable gloves. You then pick up packages of gauze, the small plastic container holding the medical thread, you practically rearrange everything and yet, it seems they were not packed. “Fuck.” You curse under your breath. You let out a sigh as Gaz asks you, “Cinder? What’s wrong?”

You tear the velcro off of the wrist part of your glove and slip it off, repeating the process with your other glove. “Whoever packaged this medical kit didn’t add disposable gloves, and my gloves are dirty as hell.” You mumble, even slightly pouting about it. Gaz raises an eyebrow at your attitude, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. You grab a bottle of antiseptic and you put your finger up as without looking at him, you already know he’s about to say something snarky. “Open your mouth again and I’ll use this tourniquet on your damn neck.”

Gaz bursts out laughing, causing you to roll your eyes and smile yourself. You pop open and cap and pour the antiseptic onto your hands, the extra liquid splattering against the floor and onto your boots. You set the bottle down and grab a needle and take out some thread. Despite the calm mood between you two, Gaz is still on high alert. You can tell by his posture, the way his eyes flicker towards the boarded up windows, the barricaded door.. On one hand, you wish you could reassure him but you’re also still on high alert, especially after witnessing Gaz get his face bashed. You quietly thread the string through the needles hole, turning to Gaz completely. You grab his jaw to turn his head and this man physically flinches, muttering, “Bloody hell, your hands are cold.”

You laugh as you position his head for the best angle that you need, bringing the needle close to his lips. “Why do you think I’m wearing gloves all the time, Gaz?” Your eyebrows furrow inward slightly as you begin to concentrate, hoping to distract him from the pain of the needle piercing his skin. “Even in the hotter areas our missions were in, my hands would be sweating, yet they were cold.”

Gaz blinks in surprise, completely forgetting about the needle that is about to enter his skin. That’s why you wore gloves all the time? It wasn’t because of a big secret you were hiding? No scars? No tattoos?

You were cold?

Gaz stares at your scrunched face he begins to feel a bit stupid, as he never considered that as a possibility.

[malyce19]

Hi.

I’m working on coming back to the world of fic writing after a very long hiatus. TLDR I got sober and had a baby and my perspective on the whole world changed, as it does. So if you’ve liked my fics in the past, I’m sorry I’ve been MIA for so long. Here’s a teaser of what I’m working on right now. It’s called State Lines.

“there’s no such thing as a clean break when your heart starts bleeding out.” - chance peña

Day 1

She sold her penthouse and bought the car. A gray sedan, plenty of room for all of the belongings she cared enough to travel with. Nothing flashy, something reliable and low maintenance that wouldn’t call too much attention to her presence as she made her escape. All that mattered to her was that the car’s suspension wasn’t impacted by all of the emotional weight she was bringing with her on this journey to nowhere. She should have said something, she knows that. But what do you say when you’re leaving everything and everyone behind?

She didn’t know where she was going, not that it really mattered. She’d been driving for two days, only stopping for gas and compulsory restroom and food breaks. The more distance she could place between herself and blonde haired blue eyed loves of her life, the better. So she drove, vaguely eastbound with stinging eyes and an aching heart.

Miles passed and the road lines started to feel like metaphors, lines in the proverbial sand. Endless expanses of pavement and exit signs beckoned her forward, the promise of anonymity and rebirth lingering somewhere on the horizon as she drove. As her old life burned to cinders behind her, she felt less like a phoenix and more like a nondescript speck of ash, floating aimlessly on the wind. And maybe that’s all she was now, without her.

Day 3

By day three, Lena had to stop to sleep. She’d pushed herself as far as she could, coffee and disgustingly sweet energy drinks sustaining her only to the point of blurred vision and shaking hands. So she found a slightly innocuous looking hotel a few miles off the highway in northern Texas, pulling her borrowed (now stolen) NCU baseball cap down as far as it would go to obscure her features as she checked in. It helped, she supposed, that the kid behind the counter couldn’t drag his eyes away from the football game he was watching long enough to look her in the eye, so being recognized wasn’t an issue. She paid for the room in cash, as she had with everything else on this trip, and she tipped the boy an extra $100 bill to ensure housekeeping left the room alone until she’d checked out. Leaving a paper trail would defeat the purpose of a clean break, and she couldn’t risk being recognized by a well-meaning staffer trying to offer more towels.

In the safety of a locked hotel room, Lena took her hair down and tossed the duffle bag on the bed. It was getting dark out, and she closed the heavy curtains to keep her eyes from searching the clear sky for familiar streaks of red and blue. It was only a matter of time, she knew, before her absence would become obvious. She’d left LCorp on sabbatical, leaving Sam at the helm for the time being, vaguely committing to take the reins again sometime in the future. Her new phone was blissfully quiet, Sam and Jess the only two she trusted with the number. News alerts about superheroes and aliens and secret government agencies were disabled, and all that graced her lock screen was a stock photo of some rainy trees.

As she sat down on the bed, exhaustion starting to settle into every nerve, she couldn’t help but wonder how the hell she got here. Not physically, that was obvious. She bought a car and drove for three straight days until she realized she was endangering the other drivers (though there’d been very few) by continuing on like this. She just didn’t trust herself to keep going without rest, so here she was, in a Hilton hotel in fucking Lubbock, of all places. Trust. That’s what this all boiled down to, wasn’t it? Misplaced trust, betrayal of trust, lack of trust where it was dutifully earned with literal blood, sweat and tears. Trust, broken and shattered and disintegrated in one fell swoop with her former favorite person’s too-little-too-late confession.

[rist-ix]

alright the s3 finale has many problems, but the one im currently hyperfocusing one is how Valtor used the four element spells. Leaving aside the fact that they were by far the most boring and uncreative spells in his arsenal, WHY did the writers pick his targets like that???

Alfea is fine, I guess, its in a forest, fire does do decent damage here. But "Water to Cloud Tower"???? What for???? It's on a mountaintop, water is so out of place here and every shot they show from that attack just feels silly to me. Alfea is currently burning to cinders, and Cloud Tower has a plumbing problem I guess. How dramatic. And no matter how much you suspend your disbelief, dont tell me a part of u didnt think "They could... just go outside..." everytime they showed a witch getting flushed down the corridors.

The cherry on the top is that they already HAD the perfect target for the water spell: Red Fountain is RIGHT THERE!!! It's called Red FOUNTAIN, you could have finally done something with that! There are waterfalls running down from all cardinal directions, what if all that overflowed and weighed the floating construct down, threatening to crash into the forest below! And without their bikes and ships, the specialists cant fly, meaning theres no easy way for them to evacuate once the hangars are underwater. Instead they get tornados, which they combat by throwing bombs at them. What in the Sharknado Logic are you DOING, boys?!

Earth in Magix works alright too, fire and earth could have been used pretty much interchangeably here if u wanna cause mass damage. So just switch water and air around and it everything makes sense again! Cloud Tower is already surrounded by an eternal storm, there could have been so much cool stuff if the weather just went absolutely CRAZY up there, especially with the many branching towers Cloud Tower has.

[rocknroll7575]

Happy Mother's Day!

KnightsCrown:

Jeanette: *Holding her mom's bow* Happy Mother's Day, Mom!

Gillian: *Smiles* Thank you, Jeanette, but why are you giving me my bow?

Jeanette: I thought we could go out for a hunt today, ya know like we used to!

Gillian: *smiles brightly* I would love that!

XXX

RougeKnight:

Solana: *Holding an envelope* Happy Mother's Day!

Vernal: *smirking* What'cha get me kiddo?

Solana: *Smirking back* See for yourself~!

*Vernal took the envelope and opened it only to see tickets for a movie*

Vernal: Are these... Tickets to Grimmzilla: Minus one!?

Solana: *Nods* Yep! It's to the black and white screen too~!

Vernal: I ever tell you your the best kid I had?

Solana: I'm the only kid you had!

XXX

KnightFall

Cinder: ...

Apollonia: ... So... What would you like for Mother's day?

Cinder: I... I don't know... *Sigh* I-I'm sorry, I never should have dragged you with me today...

Apollonia: No! No! No! I-It's my fault! I-I know you're trying and all and I should have just asked Dad what you liked but-

Cinder: *Chuckles*

Apollonia: ?

Cinder: Sorry... it just... you remind me of your father when I first met him, always awkward and overthinking, afraid that he had done or said something that upset me, always apologizing even though I told him he had no reason to apologize...

Apollonia: *smiles* Huh? Dad was like that back then?

Cinder: *Nods* Indeed

Apollonia: *chuckles* What were you like... you and him? Back then?

Cinder: *Smiles* Well, I think I should start with how I fell in love with him, which was when we were just kids...

XXX

Topaz

Jade: Hey ma! look what I got you! *holding a large jeweled necklace*

Emerald: Sweetie... where'd you get this?

Jade: ... does it matter?

Emerald: *Smirks and shrugs* Guess not, after all, it is Mother's Day~!

Jaune: *From the other room* We're returning it!

Jade/Emerald: Never let me have any fun!

[natysmalls]

The rampion crew asking their s.o if they would still love them if they were a worm:

Kaider

kai: if i was...idk...a worm. would you still love me?

cinder: why would i do that?

kai: CINDER

cinder: would i know you? would you be able to speak? because i wouldn't love a worm that makes snarky remarks all the time, the only thing keeping this relationship alive is this beautiful face of yours!

kai: *stares at her*

cinder: i'm kidding.

Wolflet

wolf: would you still love me if i was a worm?

scarlet: yeah, why?

wolf: just asking

Cresswell

cress: you would love me even if i was a worm, right?

throne: i mean, it depends...? someone turned you into one, or were you always a worm?

cress: *offended* it shouldn't matter!

thorne: this doesn't make sense to me

Jacinter

winter: would you still love me if i was a worm?

jacin: would i be a worm too?

winter: only if you wanted to

jacin: i would like to be a worm with you

winter: *smiles*

[katsukikitten]

A zombie apocalypse au for @medusashima collab! Find the collab master list HERE! Be sure to give the others a read too!

Warning: graphic, violent, and sexual content intended for adults 18 or older.

Synopsis: Shelter isn't hard to come by in the End but good, untouched, shelter is. When you find paradise in the middle of a dead field in the shape of a 900 square foot home you start to break a few of your important rules. Always keep moving and don't help anyone. Especially if that anyone is a hot headed blonde bounty hunter sent to settle score you'd rather forget.

Peachy Keen Master List

Chapter One - Never overstay your welcome, keep moving

Winter

It scares you at first, the mummified body facing the door in the cramped living room of the home you found tucked away in a field of corn long past it's harvest. 

Petrified you, like the farmers that sat facing one another. In wooden rocking chairs, gnarled fingers slack around the handles. Coming closer to inspect and seeing no signs of teeth marks or infection. Letting loose the held breath you kept as deft eyes looked over every liver spot and wrinkle in the leathery skin. No fluid on the hardwood floors beneath their rocking chair or in the blankets around their shoulders. 

And by some miracle, the cold, the house didn't smell like rot. 

You figure they must have died earlier this winter, it lasted damn near since October as the Earth naturally cooled in the fall of the human race. 

With critical climate change hitting irreversible levels and long lasting damaging effects in just a few short decades, Mother Nature took matters into her own hands. Doing what she does best. 

She evolves, she changes and grows, makes a deadly cocktail of pathogens and fungi that rids her realm of blight. 

Humans. 

You were just surprised a nuclear war didn't wipe humanity off the map first. 

You hadn't meant to live this long, six whole years in the apocalypse, honestly you were one of the many who'd rather take their own lives. Least then you had a say in how and when you went. 

But the body has a funny way of forcing you to survive. To dissociate in some feeble attempt to keep the body going for an organ that tortured itself daily with endless, grueling tasks and for what? 

So you could experience your first kill? Watch your friends and family die when the Feds bombed cities instead of trying to quarantine sections? Of you walking until your feet bled, fleeing the city just to live in the outskirts to hear the screaming and wails as the undead met the living? Tied to a tree limb with your worn belt to sleep or maybe it was so you could loot the dead man for his tent but not without putting a bullet between his eyes as a parting gift first. 

No longer does Grim accept the coins laid upon the eyes of the dead. Now payment for a safe travel down the river Styx is paid with the bullet lodged into the third eye of the deceased.

A tradition sure to be passed down to the generations to come.

Despite the rage you've aimed at yourself for still living, the home was a welcoming sight. The old farm house made of gray cinder block, stout in the field of the tall stalks that you yearned to see each sweltering summer when you were stuck in the city before the world went to shit.

Now the sight of the dried crop makes the nostalgia coat your tongue thickly, like the bitterant of a large pill.  

You think you choke when you swallow. 

Still even with the two harmless corpses it was an amazing find. The shingles of the roof are all in tack and the old wood stove holds the reminiscence of a charred log and ashes. 

Logs lining either side that would last through the winter and then more still kept under an open awning out back. Plenty of birch wood to burn white smoke making you sigh in relief. 

First things first and with the few hours of sun you had left you needed to get to work burying the couple. Half debating over taking their rings that were about to fall off before thinking better of it. 

Grabbing the shovel from the makeshift shed and going to the edge of the corn field out back. Only you were stubborn, stupid enough to fight the frozen ground as you shoved the sharp spade into the Earth. Moving it to your will as sweat collects on the inside of your thermal undershirt making it stick to your back and the nape of your neck uncomfortably. 

Your calloused hands protect you from the biting wood as you spend the better part of your day light going six feet down. Using the height of the shovel as a measuring stick.

I wonder if their kids and grandkids will visit. I'll have to make a good marker so they won't miss it. 

And then it hits you. The realization of what you're thinking. Fat droplets blurring your vision as you chide yourself over wasting quickly dwindling time. 

You hadn't even cried when you watched your friends being torn apart from the force of the bomb but here you were crying over two strangers and their imaginary family.

Except they weren't imaginary were they? They were hung neatly throughout the home. 

Ya know the multi generational home that you planned to squat in. The one with the warped photos in warm senpia of when the family first arrived and built the modest country home to the vibrant color photo of the grandparents smiling ear to ear as their kids and their kids' kids stood on the still sturdy porch with corn cobs in their small hands. 

Another sob racks through your body forcing you to take a break from carving out your last foot hold so you could climb out of the grave you'd just dug.  

Should you start digging your own now too? 

Since no one else was going to be around to do it. 

Once you're back in the house you try to think of the logistics of bringing the pair out. You start with the wife, taking her delicately preserved body with the blanket around her shoulders. 

"’Xcuse me." You murmur to her as you lift her up, surprisingly light compared to the other corpses you've carried or moved. Careful to avoid banging her up against the door jamb accidentally before you make it out the few yards to the edge of their little property. 

Easing her down into the hole using the long and strong quilt that she must have made until you could slip it from beneath her to bring the fabric back up. 

"Sorry." Another involuntary pleasantry as you scoop the husband and his quilt up. Repeating the same action until he rested beside her as much as he could be. Dropping the first and second quilt over them as if tucking them in. You just hoped they wanted their holy matrimony to be reflected in the after life as well. 

Rooting around in your pocket for the few spare ammo you've got left. 

"For the toll." You murmur dropping a bullet each before tackling the grueling task of shoveling dirt back into the hole you half killed yourself to dig. Returning to the house only to place their wooden rocking chairs at the foot of their grave before heading inside for the night. 

Telling yourself not to look for their names, refusing to and that the wooden rocking chairs would have been enough. 

But it gnaws at you as you move around their furniture to better suit you, as the old wood stove fills the home with a warmth, with a luxury, you've long since forgotten.

Knowing full well she would have been the type of woman to have a farmer's log. 

A handwritten one or a more accurate family log written in the old bible that sat on her night stand. 

You left it alone, thankful they hadn't died in their queen sized bed as you moved it into the living room frame and all. 

The moon shining bright over head, peering in through the kitchen window over the sink as if to check on you. To see if you were still awake. 

And of course you were, when was the last time you've ever had a restful sleep? 

Your mind back to the "holy book" specifically the one with the worn leather and cracked spine. Even to the end the wife was a woman of faith, a bible open on the coffee table that you quickly used for kindling. 

Because what has God ever done for you?

He sure as fuck wasn't as merciless as he claimed to be.

Although he'd given her and her husband an easy enough death hadn't he? 

You were sure the rest of her family didn't meet the same gentle fate. 

In the end there was only one true God and that was Death. 

Ever waiting and watching, coming to steal you away before you could even blink with nothing to show you ever existed at all save for your own headstone, least til that crumbled away.

You jolt out of bed, rushing towards the book as if it whispered your name all this time and now it was shouting. 

Screaming, demanding your undivided attention until you flip open the front cover. Old cursive greets you as the pages sigh, rolling over birth and death dates until you're forced to flip to the back, finding the first two names without death dates but plausible birth dates that would line up to their age and the End. Slamming the generations old book as you rise. 

Finding yourself outside, bare foot. Knife in your hand and your breaths coming out in ragged puffs. 

Scrapping along the tops of the wooden rocking chairs like a woman possessed, carefully carving the letters into the headrest of the rocking chairs.

Stepping back in a fever to admire your work, feet numb from the biting cold ground before you turn on your heel. 

They echo back to you as if you'd carved each curving letter into your psyche instead of the smooth stained grain. Unsure if the haunting was that of thanks or scorn and you were sure a poltergeist was the least of your concern.

Even as you drift the names burn your retinas as if to remind you whose home you spent the night in. 

ASTRID     EMROY 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The next morning you find yourself trapped in the house by deep snow so you poke around the home. Rearranging some things here and there but not to disturb the personal belongings just yet. 

Even though you know you won't stay long, never breaking one of your many rules that lead you to survive this long. But why not disturbing their belongs matters to you, you aren't sure. 

Maybe it's the way that this home is untouched. Truly loved and lived in, while the other houses you've squatted in were long since looted. Ransacked and trashed, taken back by the unforgiving weather and those desperate enough to defile what was once someone's home.

For others, their Hell within four walls and maybe the big End meant nothing to them anyway. Besides, it wasn't like you weren't one of the many who rooted through homes and hissed when you found nothing of use, just fading photographs and old DVDs and CDs. Shit that didn't matter now.

Right now you were mostly looking for a good pen with a plan to roughly guess the year so you could add the rough date beside their names and put their bible up somewhere. As if compelled to end their chapter properly so that they may live on despite, their bloodline most likely having died long before them. 

The couple really didn't have much and you were sure if you tried you could dedicate one small wall and bookshelf to their personal belongings to honor them. The thought makes you suck your teeth, so easily you cling to sentimental bullshit, out of spite now their things would be lucky to be stored away in a box. 

On the dusty coffee table are two sets of coasters, tops well worn from sweating drinks, a black leather book and a copy of The Great Gatsby with a broken spine. 

The book peaks your interest, hadn't read it since highschool and even then that felt like a foreign memory. Of harsh fluorescent lights that buzzed loud enough you were sure you'd go deaf to them after having lived in silence for so long. Tossing the tattered paperback onto the old wood top before your fingers grab for the worn leather spine, flipping the pages to see dozens and dozens of entries.

You settle into the old couch, the fire in the wood stove keeping the place warm as the sun lazily bleeds in through the windows to provide you with just enough light to read as you flip it open you're met with a threat.

If ya settle here ya better watch over our goddamn farm. 

The cover page makes you snort, flipping the thick page to consume what you could, hoping there would be some hints on where they stashed their canned goods and supplies. Even if it didn't provide you with anything, at least it helped past the time.

Jan 31 20XX  Six years after the "Rapture" 

It's ain't all fucking peachy keen as I'm sure ya can see and I'm comin to realize that I ain't built to live forever.

And if I was, I couldn't imagine a worse hell than this. 

If ya settled here in our little house I've got some rules. 

No drinks on my damn coffee table without a coaster. I got plenty of 'em. The ones from my birthday (they got cats on em but the paint'll be rubbed off by now I'm sure) or the ones Emroy made outta small trees. Hell use a book if ya gotta. 

Two, you best sweep this home. I don't care where ya came from or who ya came from, what god you do or don't worship but there is one thing for certain, house as old as this has a spirit and ya best keep it happy. Open the front and back door (good cross breeze in the sweltering summer) and you sweep my damn house. 

Or I just might be the spirit that haunts ya. 

Reckon that's it. So I'll quit my belly achin and step down from my soapbox to learn ya a thing or two.  

Now if you're a country folk and from 'round these parts y'all'll know two things. When snows a coming, or rain, y'all can smell it real easy in the air. Can't tell ya the smell but if you know ya know. And the second being it always snows heavier in the next coming weeks before spring than it will in the dead of winter. 

Now if you're from the city or just can't smell like ya used to, Bets the cow will be able to tell ya. She won't come out, simple as that and by the next day snow'll be up to your knees and Bets will look at you like she told you so.  

Hopefully she'll live that long, seems this disease ain't affecting the animals like it is us folks. Reckon we didn't pray hard enough or some preachy shit Gran would've said. Now if the cow ain't there to tell ya, the farm log will. Use yer head, you'll see the pattern even with the blasted greed fueled heat spikes. It's best to prepare for the worst. We've enough canned rations to last us a lifetime in the cellar but Emory and I are old as dirt, it won't last forever but as long as these hands can can, they'll can what he grows. 

Emory, my husband, says hello. Wants me to tell the "stranger" that's you I reckon, that the Great Gatsby is worth the read and that if ya find yourself with nothing to do, which ya will eventually, you should read it. 

Go on now, get back to surviving and be sure to dust my damn picture frames too. 

Yours truly,

Astrid & Emory. 

Pushy. You think to yourself but relish in the fact that old folks like to ramble, even in written form. Quick to explore the home to find the cellar doors in the fading short lived light of winter before realizing the age of the home. 

Shit, it's probably buried under a whole foot and a half of snow, you could exhume it now but you and twilight always seemed to have bad luck. 

It's when you've been raided most and almost bitten more times than you can count and after finding this place you don't wish to push your luck. Even if the undead were few and far between in bumfuck nowhere. 

Flipping open the cabinets in the kitchen you find a few manufactured canned meats. Fingers smoothing out the old label for any sign of denting or damage that could lead to botulism. Finding none makes you pop open the can to sit atop the old black wood stove, glass casting the room in a soft orange that rivals the sunset. It makes you pull the blinds closed in caution, not wanting any light to attract unwanted guests and when the wind howls you wrap tighter in one of the many blankets lying around. 

Three days pass and there is only so many times you can study the farm logs and widdle wood into pitiful shapes with your dull knife before you drive yourself mad. Still avoiding the books for now in some sort of spite or rebellion to God knows who before you're outside and bundled up. Shovel in hand as you scrape the metal spade all along the foundation of the house until you hear a satisfying tink. 

Your luck would be to start in the wrong direction and have to walk all the way back around the house just for the damn thing to be on the left side of the back porch instead of the right. Shoveling away the icy snow before coming across the wooden cellar doors. You wonder if you'll have to replace them soon but your curiosity of the future dies when you spy a combination padlock. Sucking your teeth pull a bobby pin from your hair, straightening it out and wiggling it between the rusting dials, scraping it around before feeling the soft give of the locking mechanism. You jab roughly and the lock pops open making you smile as if you hadn't picked anything ten times as hard. 

Taking the steps into the deep cellar where the air was cool yes but warmer than outside. As if it were deep enough in the Earth to stay a balmy fifty degrees even in summer heat. Flash light paints the darkness in harsh white when you spy a candle and a box of matches into an enclave built right into the old cobblestone. 

Once the fire flickers to life you switch your flashlight off, pocketing it as the candle washes the old glass jars and few metal cans aglow. 

Jarred jerky catches your eye first as you snatch for that, then a small jar of syrupy looking strawberries, as bright red as when they were first picked, making your mouth salivate. The place neatly organized and labeled, the metal cans of all of those beef stews that were upstairs despite there only being enough of those left to last through this winter. Even if you stretched them out with water. Finger following the shelf lining to try to find more sweet fruit coming across the word peaches under a layer of dust. 

Delight you look up, just to find the shelf empty and the sight of it makes you snarl. 

But at least you had your strawberries. 

They taste like late spring, like your childhood when you'd pick the berries at the local farm. How the sun beating down on your back made them taste that much sweeter in the field. A little reward paid by the sweat on your brow and the money your mother would toll out for the fresh fruit. 

Well, well worth the price. 

Spring is coming like her book says and you sweep and dust her house.

[comfortless]

syl you can not casually mention blacksmith König and leave it at that!

sighing… ok, yes, i will talk about blacksmith! König more..! ^^

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. violence, physical/emotional abuse, descriptions of injury, death, angst, marriage on the gallows au.

Before König, there was his father, his father’s father and so on. Hardened men who were left to rot on the outskirts of the little village: sharpen blades, birth something from slabs of iron and silver. The work was tedious, but never dull. Scrape, burn, turn and roll- over and over until the smoke rose from the pit to sting at his eyes. Birth by fire wasn’t only in myths of dragons and phoenixes; he witnessed it each time he held pure malice in his hands as his hammer struck. Nothing became something, deadly and cruel. Day and night his life and lungs were filled to brimming with hellfire.

Accidents happen, naturally. No matter how careful he’s been, there’s nothing to keep the flame from entirely taking back after giving so much.

König’s father lost a finger while mentoring him.

His blue eyes were fixed on the man’s callused hand as the freshly smithed blade sliced through the digit like it was little more than a dollop of honey, no blood. There had been nothing but the crack of bone carved cleanly through, then the wet sizzle of meat cooking as it fell into the pit.

His father had screeched like a starved demon then, a barrage of insults tossed his son’s way like little more than passing pleasantries: oaf, useless cur, bitch.

König hadn’t been concerned, he sat on the stone bench looking up at his father and told him so, that he was fine: it had been cauterized, cleansed by the fire.

König lost the same finger that day.

His mother had fallen ill sometime last winter. The last memory he had of her was the look of frailty on her face, how her skin felt so cold and yet she lie dampened with sweat.

The dogs and buzzards had gotten to her grave, but it wasn’t them he felt any of the fire’s malice for.

Just his father.

The villagers didn’t know what became of the blacksmith, but König could recall it every night; how even with his dying breath he had only thought to curse his only son.

So, he wears the hood of the last executioner now, and the people shy away. They don’t like the look of death unless they can participate in it as a divined audience.

The dogs are never hungry, there’s illness all throughout the valley, and sometimes it only shines through in shimmering eyes while the villagers stare and giggle at the next withering soul led to the gallows.

König knows he should be there; like mother and father, his bones should be shared between panting mouths and blood-stained beaks. Sometimes the boars come sniffing too, and he’s always hated them, maybe even more than the birds. They’re ugly and sturdy, squealing and snarling like his father.

The villagers looked at the boars, though, because they were useful. Their eyes were hungry and happy each night the men set out on a hunt, unaware that their sons and daughters lurked in the bellies of the very beasts they starved for.

It’s cold even during the summer months in his shack.

There are blankets, a kitchen, a hearth, but it’s empty. The winter makes its wastelands each coming year, envious of how he can accomplish such with fire instead of ice. He doesn’t need to clean. The ash blackens the wood, cleanses all. One day, maybe, it would scrub him too.

The fire is a womb, but it’s never birthed anything truly alive. Not until her. A wildfire swept the field where travelers had gathered. With their supplies reduced to the very cinders König had come to adore, the surviving members sweep right into this cursed place like it’s a holy temple.

And the fire gave her to him.

König doesn’t know where this woman came to settle from; she isn’t like the other villagers, not even the travelers with their items and skills for selling. There’s still life in her eyes. He watches her as she wanders down the street with a smile on her face, one that speaks of a kindness that not a single one of these people deserves.

She introduces herself to them too, without a title to her name, and all at once any interest fades as the ghosts wander away from her.

His mother used to force him into the church when she was still alive.

She would take him by the hand as he lumbered after her, sticking out amongst the crowd of parishioners who would sing their hymns and stare at him with contempt behind their eyes. He hated going, but he did it for his mother; father was much too busy to spend his time with her and her fantasies. But König learned of angels there, fragile feathered things, all eyes and wings that wouldn’t stand a chance against a blade.

He didn’t think delicate things could be holy until her sweet, gentle smile is cast upon him.

This lady walks right up to him, doesn’t bat an eye at his hood when her lips curl up as she introduces herself. She doesn’t mind the sack of weapons thrown over his shoulder to take to the marketplace— the swords, the daggers, none of it. Her eyes don’t even glance their way; she looks only to him.

Women like this don’t want their homes and beds covered in ash, cinder in place of incense, fire instead of honey. But still she smiles while he says nothing.

König isn’t the only man who’s heart she steals, either.

The village is all gray, smoke and rot except where she walks. Flowers spring up for the coming spring, the deer and foxes are calling out for mates, and it’s all because of her— everyone must know it.

The farmer’s son brings her fresh fruit and whispers into her ear while they pass by his shack on a stroll. The man’s arm curls around her waist so naturally that König can only be reminded of the way that dagger sank between his fathers fingers, tore off a bit of him to feed back to hungry flame. If there were any god above he knew right then that it wouldn’t want him to allow that to happen to her. Not to an angel.

When the rest of the men, dogs and seraphim sleep, König tears the farmer’s boy in two— split down chest to abdomen and left as food for the pigs, right there in the middle of the field.

He doesn’t pray, he hasn’t since the last time he knelt by his mother’s sickbed, but he closes his eyes and breathes out a wish when he leaves that bloodied dagger at her doorstep.

He doesn’t pray, but he weeps when he rallies the villagers to apprehend her. She cries and fusses, face puffy from sleep and hair a mess. There isn’t a speck of blood on her, but the vultures take her anyway. König didn’t want to see her hurt; when her eyes find his, he turns away.

The day of her execution arrives like a festival ceremony. It’s been some time since the last, the scavengers are hungry, so famished he thinks he can almost hear them lick their teeth. There would be no death today, it’s already been decided. In distant places, a single act of devotion is all it takes to save a life, one that the beasts didn’t have the right to take.

The hunger wasn’t always just for death, but for something… a turn and change like steel in fire.

When the angel is taken to her death, rope dangling from her neck like a lead meant for cattle, he steps forward, parting the crowd with an ease. He’s practiced this a time or two in the smoke already, a lonesome and loathing god in the fog. The others scurry from him, looking up at him with pinched brows and bared teeth as if to goad he take her life instead.

Instead, he only catches her eye, smiles and lowers himself on one knee.

[pilot-boi]

Oddly enough, I'd wanna know what it's like when Blake or Emerald fuses with Oscar.

Oooo good choices. Fair warning, this kind of got away from me

For Blake, what really gets her is that through the fusion she can feel his fear of losing himself. His fear that through the merge he won’t be Oscar anymore

And this really sticks with Blake, because she kind of knows exactly what that’s like. To a lesser extent of course. She’s learned by this point not to compare traumas, but objectively abuse and the loss of self from that is NOT the same as getting your soul magically consumed by a person wizard

She talks to him afterward about that. Similar to the talk she had with Nora about her and Ren. It’s different, and she wishes it wasn’t, but she still tries to remind Oscar that Oz is just a part of him. Don’t forget about the rest

Now it’s time for Emerald City Siblings, my beloveds. Love these kids

Emerald is DEEPLY mistrusting of the whole fusion thing. Even Salem related trauma aside, she uses her masks as a shield. No way is she letting one of these idiots in her freaking mind

It’s only after they stop Penny from leaving and come up with the plan to break into the Academy that she finally accepts Jaune’s offer to fuse (which allows her to fuse with other people Jaune has fused with)

They do so, and it’s weird as hell, but she realizes that she’s not the only one being made vulnerable in this. So is the other person. It’s more trust and openness than Cinder ever gave her, and that stings

After RWBYJ falls, Emerald is left as one of the only good guys. And it’s still weird to think of herself as one of the good guys. Ren is trying to hold everyone together, Nora is hiding behind a wall of strength, and Emerald is left as somehow the most put together one of the bunch

Oscar, meanwhile, is deeply suffering. Without anyone to fuse with to stave it off, the merge is catching up to him with a vengeance. He feels less like Oscar every day, every hour. It’s terrifying

Emerald is a good guy now, and it sucks, because it means she actually wants to help Oscar. She wants to be there for him the way his other friends were. So SHE is the one to offer to fuse with him, after seeing him fight off a merge attack

Salem is a monster, and maybe Ozpin is too, she still isn’t sure. But no matter what, this kid doesn’t deserve to be saddled with the cost of their mistakes. Oscar accepts

It’s still deeply weird, feeling your personality vanish and become someone else. A wave of nausea hits her as neural pathways are formed and two souls try to become one.

She can feel the vibrant green magic leeching away at Oscar’s soul. Fused, it feels like it’s in HER soul. She can feel his terror, his pain, but worst of all his resignation. Emerald can feel that he’s given up and accepted that in a few weeks time, he’s going to be all but dead

She wonders what he can feel from her

But she can also feel, just for a moment, that OTHER soul that’s piggybacking on Oscar. Ancient beyond comprehension, and full of so much pain that she instinctively turns away from it

And it’s strange, but it almost feels like the longer they’re fused, the less that green magic is covering the kid’s soul

And then the moment ends, and they’re left dazed. But Oscar looks more like himself than he has since the others fell. So maybe Emerald did something right, for once