#flesh and bone by the killers is. well. a killer. because i have it on my trigun playlist AND my levi playlist 💕

[rithmeres]

[shotmrmiller]

johnny dates your friend and then asks her if she's got any friends (you) for his friend (simon). but simon freaks you out. he can't hold a conversation— or won't, you're not sure; you're lucky if you get monosyllabic grunts out of him as if he were a neanderthal. the only times you've seriously heard him talk is to bark out words at either johnny or the bartender.

he walks around with a poorly concealed weapon on his hip, almost like he is expecting trouble. he wears all black, which is completely fine, but then a skull balaclava that he refuses to take off, even to drink his liquor. you don't try to hide the grimace on your face when you watch him sip through the thick fabric. he's got skeleton gloves on his hands too, like some sort of shit cosplay to match his mask.

and he fucking stares, unashamedly so. it is unblinking, scrutinizing, intense— his dark eyes, pools of midnight, keen. he stares at the people walking in through the door, stares at johnny when he takes your friend to the dance floor, and when you tell him out of courtesy that you're going to go get another drink, you can feel him boring holes into the back of your head as you walk away, piercing flesh and bone.

the phantom fingers of his gaze trace icy paths along your spine, erupting your skin in goosebumps. you find him immensely creepy, and you thank the fucking stars you're only here as a favor for your friend. you don't think you want to do this again. he's either a wanted serial killer or just a goddamn freak.

a heavy arm wraps around your shoulders once you're at the bar, and with a sneer on your lips, you turn to the owner of said offending limb, only to come face to face with johnny. he leans into you, close enough to where you can feel his stubble grazing the shell of your ear. (back up, brother.)

"listen, bonnie!" you wince; it's really not that loud in here for him to be yelling like that. "ah ken, ghos— er, simon, might no' be yer average man. he can be a little off-puttin'—" a little? if he doesn't follow you home and skin you alive, you'd be incredibly fortunate— "but ah promise ye, while he may no' be boyfriend material, he's an incredible fuck."

excuse me? he's got to be positively pissed. "maybe you should slow down, yeah? you might already be three sheets to the wind if you're gassing up your unsettling friend's cock. no offense."

"naw! ah'm tellin' ye. long ago, we had a mission tha' ran everyone tight, 'n so we relieved tension the only way we could— big, strong guy like him had me limpin' for a few days after."

you're about to ask for an angel shot because there is no way in hell that your friend's boyfriend is making casual conversation about him getting absolutely railed by—

"give 'em a try. jus' the once, i swear he don't bite," johnny pauses-- the rosy flush on his nose and cheeks vibrant, "unless ye ask nicely. yer friend said ye needed to get laid, anyways." oh, you're gonna fucking kill her, that long-tongued cretin.

"right!" you drink the remainder of your cocktail in one big gulp, liquid warmth trailing down your throat, before not-so-kindly shrugging him off. "i'm gonna go, you, uh— we didn't have this conversation, for the sake of my friend." you gesture at the bartender. "one more, please. i'm gonna need it."

-

damn. now johnny's got you thinking about getting your back broken by simon. maybe you really are just down horrendously, or maybe it's the alcohol in your system that has decided to toss all self-preservation out the metaphorical window because now you can't stop noticing him.

he's real tall— enough to have him slightly tipping his head to walk through a doorway. his shoulders are mountainous, his hands the size of a bear's paw. his physicality is undoubtedly impressive and well, you've always been weak to burly, commanding men.

you make eye contact with johnny from across the room, his bright blue eyes alive under the dim light of the dingy bar, and the bastard shifts his gaze from simon to you, giving a cheeky wink.

lifting your glass, you drink the last of your liquid courage— the taste of it bittersweet. it has been a long time since you've gotten laid.

double damn.

"hey." you lean slightly toward simon, cupping your hand around your mouth. "you and i both know why we're here. take me home?" the way he looks at you has you shifting restlessly in your seat. did you perhaps make a mistake? oh, fuck. did you just throw yourself cunt-first at someone who is not interested? your face burns with embarrassment, heat licking up your cheeks. maybe the earth will split open, right here ri—

"let's go then." oh thank fucking god. you don't know what you would've done if he'd said no. shrivel up and die, probably. "uber'll be here in 4."

when it arrives, he places his leather jacket around your shoulders, cocooning you in its warmth— the heady scent of nicotine clings to the garment— and leads you outside with a hand on the small of your back.

-

the world outside the car blurs into a hazy painting as the driver navigates the streets. colors blend together, once sharp outlines now dissolved. the rain gently taps on the window, a soothing sound that could easily lull you to sleep until you start when a roughened palm suddenly glides along your thigh— fingers slowly tracing intimate patterns on your skin.

simon's hand is hot, and it only burns hotter the closer it gets to your center under your least favorite skirt. he cannot be serious right now. you place your hand over his, short nails biting into him because there is no way you're about to be fingered in an uber—

his voice is deep, a deliciously thick rumble, right by your ear. "nice kitty." you've never been one for pet names or anything else for that matter, but the pulse of arousal that shoots up your spine has a shaky exhale leaving your lips, a ghostly breath fogging up the window.

the tips of his fingers tease the seam of your knickers, a generic cotton fabric that clings to your dampening cunt like a second skin— desire trickling onto the gusset. your whimper is drowned out by the terrible music the driver is currently playing when his small finger grazes over your slit, featherlight.

"so wet already? i've barely even touched ya, love." again with the cunt-clenching nicknames. he has no business purring them out like that. "i can smell your sweet pussy from here. you really must be achin' for it." of course the time he chooses to be vocal, it's to spew filth. "don't worry, i'll treat ya good."

somehow, you actually manage to choke out a response. "i'm sure. johnny-" you hiss through clenched teeth when he slips under your knickers, a finger brushing along your slick entrance, "said you had him walking side to side once." you buck your hips, seeking the friction you need, but it only makes him pull away a bit; how unsurprisingly cruel.

"only because he was bein' a brat. you're not a brat though, are ya? gonna be good f'me?" your tongue is heavy in your mouth, words lodged in your throat— all you can give him is a slight nod. "i expect verbal answers. i'd hate to spank your arse raw. how would ya sit down after?"

the idea of being bent over his strong thighs, face pressed into his couch as his firm hand takes you into the needy subspace you crave is too much, or maybe not enough because you're tucking your face into the side of his neck in an instant. "please," you warble, unsure of what you're even begging for.

he curls his finger, slipping between your lips, and when he finally brushes your clit— a fleeting, tantalizing touch— your eyes threaten to roll into the back of your head. "needy little thing. i bet there's a damp spot right where you're sittin'. drippin' all over my fingers—" your breath is ripped from your lungs when he abruptly pulls his hand out and away, the sodden material of your knickers snapping against your heated skin. you're about to snarl out a vicious what the fuck, but the once-blurred scenery outside sharpens into focus.

the driver parks and looks at you from the rearview mirror. "we're here." you mumble a muted thank you, stepping out with quivering legs and a drenched cunt. a crisp breeze dances across your skin, a refreshing contrast to the stifling heat from inside the car.

as soon as the car drives off, you're hoisted onto a broad shoulder. the world tilts, and you fist the back of simon's shirt for stability. "highly unnecessary. i can wa—" you let out a squeak when he slaps the back of your thigh, the sharp bite of it sending a jolt straight to your throbbing center.

"hush."

you sputter indignantly as you hold on tighter, breaths coming out in short gasps, syncing with each step. "i beg your pardon?"

you yelp when he gives you another slap, this time closer to your cunt. "then beg." you're rendered speechless.

wow. maybe you've actually bitten off more than you can chew.

the wet cement under you is a blur, the texture lost in the rush of his movements until he comes to a stop, and you hear a familiar jingle of keys. he bursts through the door, the hinges groaning in protest, and you're staggeringly planted on both feet.

"nice place." a lie. it looks unlived in— brand spanking new. you vaguely hear the lock behind you as you take in your surroundings. a perfect, leather couch, not a crease in sight. the rug under it is pristine and bland, a cream color that matches the rest of his flat. impersonal. not an ounce of real personality anywhere. you begin shrugging off his jacket when you're suddenly pressed against the cold door, simon bent at the knees in front of you, his dark eyes— sharp as blades— lock onto yours.

"gonna beg?"

the fire in your lower belly reignites at the sight of his unmasked face. ash-brown hair in a simple crew cut, thick brows with the right one bisected by a pink, gnarled scar. slightly crooked nose, broken one too many times, and thin, pale lips. a countenance to match his rugged personality.

you're pulled out of your thoughts when he licks a hot stripe over your covered slit and you mewl at the sensation. "i asked you a question."

the words rush out of your mouth before you can even think of stopping them. "yes, yes! please, god, i don't- just- please let me come! i-" his thumbs hook into the waistband of your knickers and tug them down slowly, strings of arousal sticking to the gusset, smearing on your inner thighs.

"alrigh', since ya begged so prettily." your vision goes white when he throws one leg over his shoulder, and his slick tongue slides through your folds, the tip flicking your clit lightly. he laps at your cunt like it drips milk and honey— nourishing and sweet. simon groans into you, the sound crawling up your vertebrae and into the base of your skull.

he begins to draw lazy circles around your pearl, every swirl of his tongue has your back bowing as if winding it, inching you closer to the precipice. your toes curl in your shoes, hands finding purchase in his coarse hair, knuckles staining white as you start the feel the familiar tightening in your lower belly.

and then he pushes one thick finger into you, down to the scarred knuckle, and crooks it. the squelching noise your dripping pussy makes when he presses on the tiny patch of rough skin inside is loud and obscene; practically echoing off the dull, ivory walls of his flat.

"gonna come f'me? make a mess all over my hand?" simon adds another finger, a slight burn nipping at the heels of the pleasure coiling under your navel.

"c'mon. give it to me, pet." his lips encircle your clit, giving it a light suckle and it's—

the coil snaps, a sudden release of tension. it is violent and oh, so exquisite. white noise in your head, your ears, coursing through your veins. it prickles, it stings; it's pleasure and pain. your soul sinks back into your body— like a feather returning to its nest— and you blink, momentarily unbalanced.

"ya with me?"

you breathe deep— the taste of salt in the air, the scent of sweat-slick skin, your heart pulsing with life. "yes. i'm here." the man took you to the stars and laid you on them. jesus.

"good." the room spins, and you're weightless, nestled in his arms. it'd seem innocent if it wasn't for the stickiness in between your thighs, or the prominent bulge in his jeans occasionally pressing into your arse.

simon kicks a door open, knob bouncing off the wall with a crack, and quickly places you on the bed before tugging his shirt off. the belt and jeans come off next, and—

"you don't wear pants." why would he let that monstrosity just hang like that?

"good observation. is water still wet?" he asks, tonelessly. you narrow your eyes at him, pushing your tongue against the back of your teeth.

"fuck me for having eyes and using them as intended, i guess," you mumble under your breath. he grabs you by the ankle and tugs the skirt off, then your shoes, "ouch, i like my feet where they are, thank you," and literally rips your shirt in half. "you'll be giving me on of yours before i leave as recompense."

he holds himself up with his arms over you, your thighs burning as they cradle his hips.

his cock is a heavy, hot weight on your stomach— ruddy, leaking tip right under your navel. you're not small by any means, but he's going to tear you in half. there's no surviving such an onslaught. he's not just leaving you with a limp, he's going to turn your two smaller holes into one big one.

he tears into a golden wrapper with his teeth, and expertly rolls the condom on. simon lowers down to his elbows and nudges your jaw with his nose. "i'll stop the moment ya call it. tap on me if you're feelin' overwhelmed."

that's the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to you, and the fact that it comes from a massive creep who stares at people like they owe him money has you a bit dumbstruck.

his stubble grazes the side of your neck as he glides his cock along your slick folds; once, thrice, until the head catches on your swollen entrance. simon pushes in slow, agonizingly slow— you don't know if it's better or worse because you feel every devastating inch of his length as it forcibly wrenches your walls apart.

your senses are solely focused on him: his body enveloping yours completely. his breath, sweetened like malt, wafts gently across your skin. his thick waist that you can't fully wrap your legs around. everything about him is big— his physicality, his presence, his cock.

"take a deep breath for me, pet. feel everythin' i'm givin' you."

your lungs expand as you do, and when you exhale, your muscles slacken. rapturous pleasure begins to bleed through the delicate membrane that separates it from the bite of pain, until boundaries are blurred and—

and he sinks into you like a rock breaking the surface tension of still water, bottoming out in one, smooth stroke. you can't help the mewl that falls from your lips nor the way your walls clamp down around him.

"fuck, there it is. so bloody tight, this greedy cunt is takin' my cock like it was made for me."

there isn't a single coherent thought in your head and you're glad for it. finally, someone to fuck you stupid.

simon gives you an experimental thrust, dragging his length along every single one of your nerves, and then another— desire overflowing from where he stuffs you to the very brim. "good. ready?"

he takes your tiny nod as an answer this time and begins to fuck you in earnest. it takes everything in you to not black out from how perfect it felt.

simon puts his weight behind every thrust, a steady pull out, and a spine-jarring push in. you can feel him deep in your stomach, a delicious pinch of discomfort each time he presses against the plug of your womb.

"so fuckin' wet, your cunt's droolin' all over me." he hooks an arm under your left leg and lifts, the angle he's put you in tittering dangerously on the tightrope of rapture and ache.

it's so good, so fucking good, your slick walls fluttering as he carves himself into you, your soul, your cunt when you feel a tight snap inside.

simon pulls out in an instant, taking your breath with him as he does. you look down at his cock and notice that—

"the condom broke. i've got another in the drawer, gimme a sec."

there is some weird thing that lodges in place somewhere deep in your sternum when you realize that he's been nothing but considerate and attentive to you since he brought you home and hasn't fussed over anything once. it's an extremely low bar, you are aware. rewarding what should be the bare fucking minimum is sad, but you're not completely altruistic in your motives anyway. you want to feel his bare cock inside as he rearranges your insides.

"no!" he quickly turns to look at you, "no. it's okay. i'm clean and i'm also on the pill. if that's okay with you, of course."

a man his stature should not move as fast as he just did, blinking from one side of the room to the other. he quickly throws both of your legs over his shoulders, heels resting on his back when he sinks back in, this time letting out a guttural groan as he does.

you can feel the ridge of his flared head, the warmth of his cock seeping into your tender walls— a new level of intimacy. he fucks you with fervor now, a precise snap of his hips that has your teeth clacking with every thrust.

your climax takes you by complete surprise, crashing into you like waves on a rocky, jagged shore. burst after burst of blinding pleasure threatens to consume you whole, and when your limbs are loose and syrupy— body limp— only then do you realize that he came just as fast. thick white ropes of viscous spend cover your stomach and trail down to your abused cunt.

your hamstrings already hurt with delayed onset muscle soreness. you might actually need a wheelchair to go back home.

(thank god your hips held out, and no, you don't care that it's essentially sacrilegious of you to even think that.)

his breathing comes out in ragged bursts, beads of sweat dripping onto the valley of your breasts.

and he's back to the fucking staring. "simon."

"pet."

"please stop looking at me like that."

he huffs and dips his head to flick your hardened nipple with his tongue, making you hiss with over sensitivity.

"make me."

-

as dawn breaks, the world begins to stir awake. hues of pale pink stain the sky, the first blush of morning. light and shadow begin to blend in the bedroom.

your phone vibrates under the pillow, simon's arm tightening around your soft waist at the buzzing sound. his lips press a light kiss on the sensitive skin by your ear, and his large hand begins to weave its way downward, pads of his fingers gathering the evidence of last night (or early morning) and gently parts your folds, brushing light strokes on your clit.

when he places your leg around his hip and sinks into you from behind, your phone buzzes again-- alone and forgotten.

good morning!!! i expect a full, detailed report by lunch or so help you god.

sent 5:30 am

about time you got laid, you're not you when you're horny.

sent 5:49 am

[hadesrise]

𝐒𝐀𝐅𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐌𝐄.

part one — part two

𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞. the wayne family witness how you handle jason’s trauma.

𝖕𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘. jason todd x addams!male reader

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘. sfw content, foul language, trauma, nightmares, mentions of torture, typical addams behavior (dark, edgy, gothic, disturbing behavior), romantic, death threats, soft addams!reader, mentions of a very dark and gruesome fictional book, dealing with trauma, fluff, lots of fluff, everything’s just soft

𝖆𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗'𝖘 𝖓𝖔𝖙𝖊. can't help it, i really enjoy writing addams!reader content. honestly, it's kinda getting old but i guess this will be the last one??? or one more and then i'll end its endless cycle?? anyway, if y'all have any recommended translation apps it'll be nice to know. don't wanna trust google translate that much.

FEM ALIGNED DNI !!

“Why are you awake so early in the morning?”

Bruce’s slightly raspy morning voice interrupts the silent reading you had indulged yourself in, barely reacting at his sudden presence despite the fact you failed to notice him from how focused you were on your book.

You glanced at him only for a split second before your eyes went back to reading again, “I prefer the quietness of your manor in the morning for a quick read. Although, I must say the bright sun is such a terrible sight. It nearly burned me as soon as my consciousness awakened.” As you replied casually, Bruce took notice of how the curtains are closed completely shut to block the sunlight from entering, as if getting even a little bit of it would burn you like a vampire. Well, you did look like a vampire because of how pale and ghostly your skin is as well as the all black, gothic medieval or victorian outfit.

Bruce still wasn’t used to your unique culture, ancient speech and intimidating presence, but had learned not to be too bothered by it ever since you and Jason began visiting the Manor often. He didn’t want to waste energy by constantly reacting to any unusual traits you displayed, and he’s been successful so far. Even though he still doesn’t agree with your morals, he knew not to argue with you like before, since you’ve been nothing but respectful to him everytime you set foot in the manor.

Raising one of his eyebrows, Bruce tilts his head. “Do you always read?”

“Yes, indeed.” Came your immediate response. “Books are what defines me, Mr. Wayne. My soul is practically attached to it.”

“Is that why you always carry a book with you?” Stephanie suddenly chimes in out of nowhere with Tim behind her, curiosity plastered across her face. You nodded, glancing up to see Damian sit down on the other sofa while playing a brutal game that occasionally makes a blood splattering sound.

Bruce sighs, “And why are you all awake so early?”

Tim looks at him weirdly, “It’s already eleven o’clock. Almost lunch time, you know.” Deadpanning, he then leans in from behind to get a glimpse of what you were reading, only to cringe slightly after his eyes read a particular sentence; The flesh muscles of his legs were torn off, almost as if it had been ripped open by a lion, exposing bones with blood uncontrollably flooding out. It’s definitely one of those horror books who has unnecessary amount of gore. “What in the hell are you reading?”

“Bloodthirst by Clementine.” You sipped on a black coffee before continuing, “Wherein the main character becomes bloodthirsty for revenge after his lover had been abducted and mutilated by a group of serial killers. The sentence you’ve read is one of his acts of revenge which includes a pack of wolves.” The corner of your mouth twitched up a bit, looking up at him with that glint in your eyes. “It has a pleasantly satisfying plotline.”

Disturbed and quite freaked out, Tim exchanges eye contact with Bruce and pressed his lips together. “That is... uhm, interesting.” Amusement merely crosses your face before it instantly went back to your usual emotionless expression.

They still haven’t gotten used to the extremely calm demeanor you had because of how most of them grew up not having a quiet presence in the manor, even Cassandra wasn’t as silent as you before. You’re the only calm and fully collected person they’ve ever met, coming off as rather intimidating due to your piercing gaze, emotionless face, wiser-than-thou mind, and utmost patience. Especially the patience one, because most of them were either short-tempered or just born enraged. Sometimes, they get intimidated without you even speaking — once, you and Jason reluctantly joined them to a grand event and someone made an utterly horrible decision to insult Jason by comparing him to the “well-behaved” eldest son Dick, which resulted in you shooting them a piercing, dark, cold and harsh glare not even a second after that instantly made them freeze in spot. That look in your eyes alone made their blood run cold and face pale.

Needless to say, they regretted insulting Jason as quick as the wind blows, but that story’s for another time.

“Where’s Dick? Did he sleep at Barbara’s?” Stephanie wondered, realizing the lack of annoying presence.

“Nope!” An all too cheerful voice in the morning pipes up as Dick appeared with a big smile on his face. He quickly noticed you reading a book and approached, “Reading a dark book again? Where’s Jay?”

“There’s only an obvious answer to an already obvious question, Richard.” Retorting without sparing him a glance, you flipped the page and earned a snicker from Damian. “He will be walking down the stairs soon. Sois patient, frère.”

Dick replies an ‘okay’ before jumping on the couch Damian was sitting on, deciding to annoy his youngest brother instead. Shaking your head with the corner of your mouth twitching up only barely, you focused on reading your book again despite the peaceful silence being broken by their chattering, although it didn’t take long before you averted your gaze and stared at the ceiling, as if feeling something wrong.

Damian notices. “What are you doing?”

You didn’t speak right away. Just staring up like something was there, which also made the others look up in attempt to figure out what you were doing.

“Jason is not sleeping well,” You finally stated, not looking away from the ceiling. “Humans often radiate different energy depending on their mental state, which makes it easier to specifically identify what their current emotions or moods are. It can be felt if you concentrate enough. Jason’s energy has been much peaceful ever since I’ve tormented Joker. It is supposed to stay as that.”

“What do you feel now?” Cassandra asked worriedly, her body leaned back against the wall.

“He’s distressed.” You concluded, shutting the book close without bothering to slip a bookmark on the page, which she noticed quickly. She reads with you a lot and had never seen you close a book without bookmarking it; books are absolute treasures for you, but not as much as Jason now.

Confusion took over Tim’s face as you set your book down and drink your black coffee in one go, “How do you know?”

“There is not one thing I don’t know about Jason.” You remarked nonchalantly, like it’s how it should be. You just knew Jason well enough to understand him more than anyone else, even more than himself sometimes.

Before you could stand up from the couch, a footstep erupts from the top of the stairs and comes Jason slowly walking down, wrapped around in a blanket and thick arms hugging his body, making himself as small as possible despite his large frame. “(Y-Y/n)...?” His voice was thick and hoarse, as if he had been crying, as he stuttered and looked for you like a lost child.

You quickly got up from the couch and walked up to him when he stopped in the middle of the stairs. “Come here, darling.” Jason doesn’t hesitate to drop the blanket and wrap his arms around your neck, clinging onto you for dear life. Slipping your hands on the back of his thighs, you lifted him up with ease and returned to the couch, sitting down sideways so Jason could lay on top of you, just how he liked.

“Horrible...” Jason murmured, face buried in your chest. “Horrible, all of ‘em. It hurts. Everything hurts.”

You frown, although your face had the softest look anyone had ever seen as you gently stroke his back, still having him caged in your arms. “Terrifying dream, was it?” You asked, earning a nod.

“ ‘m scared...” Jason breathes shakily, “I’m still there... Still hurts. Too dark. Cold. He’s still laughing. Hurts, it hurts.” He blabbered, words repeating over and over again, and breath increasingly becoming rapid as panic begins to slowly build up inside him. His entire body was trembling, sobs wreck through his body.

Everyone except you was at lost for words.

Jason seemed... weak and fragile. A cracked glass that can easily break with just one touch. Had Jason been suffering like this all this time? It felt as if Bruce was bludgeoned by a brick in the form of realization, opening his eyes to how the events with Joker truly affected Jason. He was obviously and clearly traumatized (who the fuck wouldn’t be?), but this is the first time everyone had actually witnessed the trauma, considering Jason refused to be vulnerable in front of them.

“Shh... Open your eyes, chéri. Look into mine and breathe slowly,” You gently instructed, rubbing his back in a soothing manner and muttering encouragements. Jason does as he’s told and open his eyes, staring into your calm and comforting (e/c) eyes while attempting to slow down his breathing. “Doing so excellent, mon amour. Breathe in and out, slowly. Good boy. You do not have to rush yourself.” The soft tone of your voice bringing him a sense of safety.

Once he’s calmed down, you slowly hold his hand and squeeze to provide warmth, hugging him tighter with one arm. “Can you tell me where you are and who you’re with right now?”

Jason squeezed back, little tears still running down his cheeks. “T-the Wayne Manor... With—with you... A-and Bruce, and Dick... Tim... Damian... C-Cass and Steph...” His gaze focusing on your encouraging eyes, his mind slowly detached from the nightmare it was drowning itself in.

“Good boy, sweetheart.” You kissed his forehead, “Is it still dark?” Jason shakes his head. “What about coldness? Am I succeeding in warming you up?” He nods this time. You smile, running your hand through his hair. “Be not afraid, Jason. Darkness will not consume your mind forever, although it is a part of our lives. You might remain afraid of the excessive trauma for years, but being afraid of it does not mean you will be chained eternally, and neither does it mean you are weak nor easily destructible. You’ve bravely fought a war within yourself. I know you will be able to defeat the nightmare someday.”

Jason sniffles, “Do you think I’m healing?”

“Yes, very slowly, as how healing process should be.” You stroked his cheek, “Trauma comes with nightmares. It especially shows when you are doing well so it could test your strength, whether you’ll be able to overcome. But it can never defeat you; it only knows to cause pain, agony, and fear. You know love, joy, compassion, and empathy. It is what make us humans that defeats the monsters.”

He curled up against you, “Just want it to be over. I feel less like myself.”

“You are not bounded to your trauma for all eternal, chéri. It does not define who and what you are, and it certainly does not make you any less.” You softly replied. “Never doubt yourself, my love. Healing cannot be completed within a day, it takes more than few years and I will be with you every step of the way.”

Biting his lip, Jason rests his chin on your chest. “You’ll get fucking tired dealing with me. Your patience might not be able to handle it.”

“I cannot get tired of you. Not when you hate pastels too.” Jason chuckles at your joke, the mood surely lightening. “And do not speak as if you don’t know me, Jason. There is no such thing as might not be able to handle it in my vocabulary when it is you. I love you too much. If I cannot handle anything that involves you and matters about you, then my love for you will mean nothing but dishonorable. The two of us definitely have knowledge of how I would rather decapitate myself than offer you a half-hearted love.”

Jason’s heart swell as the back of his eyes sting again, tears threatening to come out. He knew how difficult it is to be with someone as much trauma as he has, which made him live in fear of you getting tired and leaving one day, even though you’ve assured him more than a hundred times. He knew he was difficult to be with even without the trauma, yet you willingly giftwrap your heart to offer to him while simultaneously providing him with the understanding he deserved. You accepted him along with his trauma. Nobody knows how special that feels.

Cassandra and Stephanie sat on the carpet near the couch where you two laid, so they could check up on Jason. The others had scooted closer as they watch you comfort him nearly expertly.

“Can still feel it, (Y/n).” Jason snuggles on your chest, “The crowbar. It’s still hitting me.”

You gently pull his hand to see his arm that was littered in autopsy scars, some little and some a bit big. Caressing them, you press a lingering kiss. “It was just a fragrance of your memory, beloved. You are safe now, I will keep you protected for as long as I am here. No crowbars.”

Jason nods and looks up at you, puckering his lips. You immediately kiss him, then pressed a kiss on his forehead. “I know he can’t touch me anymore. You already tortured him enough.” He smiled and wiped off his tears.

You pat his head and hug him closer, “Everything will be alright someday. Would you like a hot chocolate with marshmallows on top? I’ll cook you breakfast as well.”

“Yeah, that would be nice.” Jason whispers.

You slowly slip out from under him, making sure he’s laying down comfortably before fetching the blanket he dropped and wrapping it around him, muttering an i’ll be right back. Watching you disappear into the kitchen, Jason sighs in content and curls up on the couch, still feeling vulnerable but not worse. Stephanie smiles softly at him as Dick walks over to sit beside her, ruffling Jason’s hair.

“You’ll be fine soon, little bird.”

Jason only nodded. The first time he didn’t scoff nor bark, indicating he still can’t forget the nightmare he had.

Soon, his other brothers joined Dick while Bruce sits on the couch beside Jason, looking regretful and apologetic with a frown. Witnessing the amount of trauma Jason has to endure even after many years dropped an equal amount of realization within the family, even though they knew he was traumatized. They just didn’t know the extent to it, and seeing it unfold before them had made them realize they hadn’t been supportive or doing enough for Jason when they should’ve known how much trauma torture and murder would cause. He literally died and came back to life — it’s impossible to not carry a lifelong trauma that greatly affects his personality and attitude; the utmost rage and murderous desires he displayed before might have just been his coping mechanism until meeting you, who quickly became his comfort and calmness.

Nearly most of them had guilt written in their faces due to feeling as if they had been invalidating Jason’s trauma, especially Bruce who did not deal with the entire thing well and had failed to show Jason he cared even though he did more than the son could ever know.

Once again, you beat him to it.

“He cares about you so much, doesn’t he?” Bruce quietly and rhetorically questioned.

Jason nodded happily, “A little too much sometimes. (Y/n)’s always careful and calm, but he gets reckless when it’s about me. Like that Joker thing.” He chuckles, “He said fucker didn’t even have time to laugh.”

The corner of Bruce’s mouth twitched up only to disappear, the guilty look still staying. He breathes in and out slowly, causing Jason to look at him questioningly as Bruce avoided eye contact. “Jason, I... uh — I’m sorry. I’m sorry If you ever felt invalidated or unloved by me. I had been so focused on my morality that I failed to show you I cared for you. I really do, Jason. Just maybe not the way you were expecting me to show it.” He carefully says as to not trigger anything in his son.

Pulsing his lip, Jason shakes his head and reached out to play with Bruce’s hand. Bruce seem surprised, but let him nonetheless. “Mhm,” He hums, “It’s okay. I was just angry and hurt... You didn’t look for me enough, and there’s suddenly a new Robin, so... I thought you forgot about me. I couldn’t accept that you seemed to move on so easily.”

Bruce’s heart clenches. “That’s not true, son.”

“I can see that now. I was too bitter and angry, it made me blind.” The broken boy smiles a bit in an attempt to reassure him. “It’s not your fault I turned out like this and ruin everything, you know.” He sadly says, looking down.

The older Wayne shakes his head, “You don’t ruin everything, Jason. You were coping and still coping with what you went through. (Y/n) was right when he said healing takes time.”

Letting go of his hand, Jason instead fidgeted his own fingers now with a sad pout. A little child-like. “But you gave up on me. I know I’m difficult. It’s why you normally can’t deal with me and we always end up arguing. And I was a failure ‘cause I died easily as a Robin.” His voice was slightly high-pitched and trembling. It reminded Bruce again of a child.

Immediately shaking his head, he grasped Jason’s fidgeting hand and firmly looks at him. “You were never a failure, Jason. I’m sorry I made you feel that way. You did everything you could. What I can’t forgive is that I let you die as Robin and not as Jason Todd. I can’t forgive myself for being too late to save you. It wasn’t your fault. Nothing’s your fault, son.”

He pulls him into a hug, which caused Jason to breakdown as he clings onto Bruce and cries his heart out. Embracing him tightly, Bruce kept stroking his back for comfort. The others watched silently with a sad smile, knowing both of them wanted to reconcile for a long time but was too hesitant to do so. It made them happy yet emotional at the same time, Dick and Stephanie already having tearful eyes.

“It truly feels upsetting to ruin this wonderful moment, but I’ve got to feed Jason. May I?” Your calm voice erupted, just then everyone noticing your presence standing at the side of the couch. Bruce chuckles and pulled away, sitting down on the carpet instead so you could take his place. You nodded appreciatively before taking a seat.

Jason sits up, accepting the hot chocolate from you with both hands and sipping it. You ruffle his hair gently.

“His age mentality regresses when the nightmare’s been too severe,” You explained what Bruce was wondering. “It is one of his responses to trauma. I believe it’s the inner child coming out, attempting to relive again.”

“How long?” Dick asked.

“About an hour.” You take the mug from Jason and set it on the table as you begin to cut a bite sized piece from the pancakes to feed your lover. “He has the desire of being taken cared of and I intend to fulfill it. Mother and father takes care of him once in a while when it happens in our Addams home.”

“Mom and dad takes me shopping. It’s fun.” Jason remarked, grinning.

“Shall we buy you some dead flowers, chéri? And a new gun, perhaps. Would you like that?” You caressed his cheek while feeding him with the other, Jason leaning his face on your palm.

“Yeah, I’d love that. Love you, (Y/n).”

“I adore you too, my love.” You kissed the tip of his nose, which caused him to erupt into a fit of giggles as you feed him again.

After Jason had fallen asleep peacefully on the couch, you pinch the bridge of your nose and sigh deeply in attempt to calm yourself down. Seeing Jason struggle with trauma is not easy, especially when he’s far too scarred mentally that it causes mental age regression. It also probably came from the fact he had never lived a peaceful life even before meeting Bruce, losing his childhood by witnessing the harsh reality at such a young age, and having to stop being a child after becoming Robin.

You had utmost patience, but when something affects Jason greatly like this, you often tend to lose calmness and be overwhelmed with rage and bloodthirst. If you could take all his pain away and those painful memories, you’ve already done it. You would give up anything for Jason to not struggle with the torment of his torture and murder — you will give up everything for him.

“You okay, (Y/n)?” Tim asked worriedly, feeling your atmosphere change.

“I wouldn’t call blood boiling with rage okay.” You muttered murderously as your dark eyes glared daggers at the carpeted floor. “Joker is already encaged and chained down within the cells of Arkham Asylum, but the aftermath of his vile actions still haunts and torments the victims who have gone through survival. Trauma is inescapable, including fear of the perpetrator. Their spirits won’t rest peacefully, alive or dead, while his existence still roam the Earth.”

The way you spat with utmost disgust and anger was now understandable, as well as your nearly inexcusable actions committed before. You witness this side of Jason more often than they do. It’s already unbearable even for them, what more for you who takes precious care of him?

Suddenly, Bruce comes to understand your morals. Why you do what you do, why you believe what you believe.

“May I ask you to take care of him while I’m out, Mr. Wayne?” You asked, voice thick, clearly grounding yourself to your humanity.

Bruce nods, for the first time. “Yes, now go do what you want to do.”

You smiled, immediately standing up and wearing your coat before rushing off the manor.

Cassandra shakes her head with a smile as Damian looked at his father with a smirk, “He might kill him, you know.”

Bruce just shrugged.

“Well,” Stephanie sighs, “Can’t stop (Y/n) from going on a rampage against the Joker. He deserves what’s coming for him anyway.”

Few hours later, Jason wakes up to the news of Arkham Asylum increasing its security due to an unknown attack against Joker that left him barely alive, and you casually reading a book with pleased and prideful look. It doesn’t take him long to figure things out and tackle you in a hug, leaving kisses all over your face.

Joker’s probably going to have nightmares about you, but he deserves what’s coming for him, doesn’t he?

© ᴀʟʟ ʀɪɢʜᴛs ʀᴇsᴇʀᴠᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜᴀᴅᴇsʀɪsᴇ. sᴛᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ, ᴘʟᴀɢɪᴀʀɪᴢɪɴɢ, ᴏʀ ᴜsɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋs ғᴏʀ ᴍᴏɴᴇᴛᴀʀʏ ɢᴀɪɴ ɪs sᴛʀɪᴄᴛʟʏ ᴘʀᴏʜɪʙɪᴛᴇᴅ. ᴀsᴋ ᴘᴇʀᴍɪssɪᴏɴ ʙᴇғᴏʀᴇ ʀᴇᴘᴏsᴛɪɴɢ ᴏʀ ᴛʀᴀɴsʟᴀᴛɪɴɢ.

[glittter-skeleton]

I haven’t seen anyone talk about Alastor’s cannibalism in relation to his relationship with Vox

So with most cannibalistic serial killers the reason they are people wasn’t because they liked the taste. It’s about full control and psycho-sexual desire as consumption.

The want of control is obvious all though Alastor’s character over himself and others. From the way he clearly gets joy out of ordering Husk around and literally owning his soul to his own ever-present smile (if we assume he’s not forsed into it as has not yet been confirmed) as a means of controlling his own character at all times. But with cannibalism it’s more than that, it’s control over your victim ever after they died, the power to not only control their souls but their body

And that’s where the psycho-sexual part of it comes in. In resent years movies like “raw” and “bones and all” we see what has always been a part of cannibalism: desire. Because it’s not only the power, it’s also the feeling of consumption, of becoming one with your victim. I’m a way, that’s not too different from sex in it’s most pure and carnal. In real killers most of the cases of cannibalism are sexual, with sex crimes accompanying. We can assume Alastor wasn’t like that, but the element or the carnal desire that plays such a big part in cannibalism still follows his character.

All of that to say that the desire that Alastor can feel in his own twisted way towards other demons is… impossible with Vox. He’s not made of flesh and bone (most probably) and we don’t know if he ever was. There is nothing for Alastor to feel attracted towards, not even his body (in the most literal way). We can also play with the idea that Vox is a sort of Ship of Theseus-type cyborg replacing parts of himself with machine one by one until there is none left as we do not know of any other demons in hell who are anywhere like him. So even if Alastor could feel that sort of way towards Vox, it is no more. And on the other side, if Vox was literally re-born as machine (maybe as ironic punishment for trying to be like one on earth like cutting off his emotions, etc) than that Alastor finds most desirable in a person was never there in Vox to begin with.

This parts a bit of stretch but even without the cannibalism Alastor thrives in watching people who are hopeful, souls who try and fail over and over again. Which maybe, as a machine, Vox originally wasn’t. Maybe at the start of their relationship he was calculating and unemotional which pairs well with Alastor’s own mask of detachment and indifference but also makes him completely uninteresting to Alastor as a subject of desire. But on the other hand Vox isn’t just machine, he’s a TV and his character reflects the media’s reactionary and emotional judgment. I just don’t know how Alastor ever worked with Vox if he’s always had the mindset we see in the show. But if that’s the case Alastor does feed on Vox’s desperation but never fully, never truly desiring him the consuming, power-play way that he feels most strongly (aka the want to eat him). I present you with both readings of Vox’s past emotional state as we do not as of now know what their relationship has been before

TLDR: Vox is the pinnacle of un-fuckable to Alastor, as even though he does not feel sexual desire the cannibalistic part of him can feel the psycho-sexual want to consume a body. Which he can’t with Vox who is machine.

I’d love to hear what other have to say about a machine loving a cannibal so please feel free to share your readings in the tags

[thedgeoftheuniverse]

and i believe (because i can see) | post-outbreak!joel x f!reader

prologue — where we find ourselves

He told him how he thought that dog was going to rip her to shreds, and the only thing he could do was stand frozen in place because he’s not the man he used to be, no longer a ruthless killer who could have taken anyone and anything down in his path—he needed Tommy to understand that part. He needed Tommy to know that the only piece left of the man he once knew was the weak, aching flesh and bones sitting in front of him. He was no more capable of taking care of Ellie than he was of Sarah, but he was staring at him as though he were lying.

[ WARNINGS/TAGS ] loss of a child, angst, enemies to friends to lovers, grumpy!joel, angst, eventual smut (minors DNI!!), slow burn, canon-typical violence, cursing, joel miller desperately needs a good therapist and an even better hug, no use of y/n, no physical description of or named reader, shifting pov (see individual parts for warnings per chapter. please let me know if i miss anything. if any of these tags are triggering/upsetting/harmful to your wellbeing in any way, please do NOT interact.)

Winter came suddenly.

The summer had seemed to eternally endure, the heat from the sun leaving you drenched in sweat and with a constant sunburn across the bridge of your nose. The long days of trudging through woods and down back roads left your body hopelessly sapped of all energy and grotesquely deprived of proper hydration. A thin sheen of sweat seemed to permanently coat your body, leaving you feeling sticky and terribly uncomfortable; you had no intentions of concealing your discomfort, opting instead for—as your traveling companion charmingly described—incessant bitching. You've always found peace in the swaying of treetops and the warmth of the sun on your cheeks, but this was extreme, even by your standards. Nevertheless, the everlasting summer faded, as it always does, into an autumn that seemed to only last for a week or two, much to your disappointment.

Fall was stunning; a magnificent sea of yellows, oranges, and reds decorated canopies of trees, eventually falling and littering the ground and making a satisfying crunch underfoot. But then, as it always does, the fleeting autumn gave way to the bitterness of winter. A piece of you thought it came faster this year, as if the Earth was beginning to realize how far back it had fallen and desperately hoped that it could speed along the passage of time to correct some kind of miscalculation—a foolish notion. Nevertheless, you soaked up the fleeting weeks of fall with gratitude before you soured over winter. The harsh weather nestled into your bones, stiffening your joints and drying your skin—your knuckles remained almost permanently cracked and split during winter, regardless of gloves or warm evening fires. Perhaps there was a morbid beauty to the desolation of it all or a metaphor that would bring you some form of understanding for the misery you've endured. 

For the moment, though, you were just freezing.

The small campfire you huddled in front of did little to warm your freezing body; the cold, having seeped well into your skin, stiffened your joints and tinted your fingernails with a purple-ish hue.

“Need to find you a new jacket.” Joel’s voice breaking through the silent night momentarily startled you. You looked at your coat with a huff and recalled the events from that same morning—your once warm, tastefully worn coat now decorated with a large tear down your left arm. Had it not been for the thick material shielding you from the maw of that Clicker, you would likely have already turned or been shot by him.

“Not before you get some new boots, old man.” You lazily motioned towards his shoes, raising an eyebrow as he began his nightly task of taping rubber to leather.

“Funny.” He clearly was not amused. “I’m serious. You're gonna freeze to death.”

“Well, if you can find one out here,” you gestured to the expansive forest surrounding you, “then be my guest.” He rolled his eyes at you, though with less disdain than he used to; if anything, it was affectionate. “You could share some of that whiskey if you don't want me so cold.” He passed the tarnished silver flask to you with another roll of his eyes, and you took a swig of the smokey, bitter liquid. It was far from high quality; in fact, it was hardly drinkable, but it succeeded in filling your gut with a fuzzy warmth that spread through your body after another sip.

You noticed Joel staring at Ellie with a fearful glint in his eyes as she stood atop a rather large boulder, staring at green lights illuminating the sky. He was about to say something; you could only guess it was going to be an attempt to get her back on the ground. “Give her another minute. Who knows when she'll see it again?" He paused, looking as though he still wanted to say something. You could practically feel the anxiety radiating from his body. You knew he would deny it until the bitter end, but he worried for Ellie as if she were his own child; however reluctantly their relationship started, he’s wrapped around her little fingers, even if he hadn’t caught onto the fact. A part of you wished he had developed similar affections for you, but Joel seemed to have come to only tolerate you. Sure, he was not half as surly or aggressive towards you as when you first met—you were shocked he did not kill you on the spot, considering your previous affiliations—and he would engage in lighthearted conversation, but you sensed an underlying disdain.

The longer you traveled with him, the more it made your heart ache.

This was not part of the plan.

A high-pitched whistle broke your thoughts, followed by his gruff command: “Come on down from there. You’re gonna break your neck.” Reluctantly and with a hefty sigh, Ellie made her way from the rock after sparing a final, unobscured glance at the sky.

The rest of the evening passed in mostly amusing conversation. You chose not to participate, though you intently listened. You saw how Joel tensed up when Ellie asked what they—no, he—would do after the cure; it was a question that, until less than a year ago, was wholly absurd and could never be answered. His answer was not surprising. You never expected Joel to be the kind of man with ambitions of settling down with someone, living in a big city, or pursuing anything more than a life of solitude. The sheep, however, made you giggle to yourself, and he shot you an unserious glare in response. You also saw the way Ellie’s face lit up as she talked about space and “Sally Fuckin’ Ride” and the moon and stars, and the sadness (or was that guilt?) in Joel’s eyes when the conversation inevitably shifted to the loss of Henry and Sam, and how Ellie seemed to somehow feel responsible. It wasn’t long after that that she decided it was time for bed. 

“Do you wanna take first watch or second?” 

Joel sighed. “I’ll do both.” 

“No, you won’t. I’ll take second.” You piped up. Something in Joel’s eyes told you he would not be waking you up for the second watch, a debate you would have to settle at a later date.

“Get some sleep. Dream of..." he trailed off for a moment. “Sheep ranches on the moon.”

/ / /

Joel, in fact, did not wake you up for second watch. Not because Joel himself took both first and second, but because he fell asleep less than three hours into the night. He awoke from a fitful sleep with a start, distress seeping into his bones as he realized the sun had risen, he was asleep, and he did not know where Ellie or you were. He shot awake, his eyes glazed over with panic as he looked to you, still asleep on the ground, and then to Ellie, who was standing watch with the rifle that was much too big for her in her hands. An overwhelming feeling of guilt accompanied the anxiety in his gut—try as he might, he never seemed to stop failing. 

“Still mumbling in your sleep.” She observed. “I woke up early. You guys were passed out, so I took second watch.”

Joel’s words were rushed, betraying his normally stoic demeanor. “You gotta wake me up if that happens.” He slowly stood up, the unavoidable ache in his lower back and knees seemingly worse that morning, perhaps from walking the last hundred or so miles, or maybe it was the rock that dug into his back during the night. “You can’t do things like this.” He said, gently nudging his companion’s still sleeping body on the ground with his foot; his poor back would not be tolerating him leaning down to wake you with a gentle grazing of his fingers or nudge of your shoulder. He chose to ignore the fact that he always felt afraid to touch you—not because he thought you were fragile, but rather because you made him feel as though he was. Your skin made his hands feel like he was electrified, on fire, or frozen in place, and sometimes it was all three. Sometimes, he wished he had left you back in Boston, and sometimes he wished he had found you twenty years ago; on more rare occasions, he wished he had met you thirty years ago—when he was still whole and he was still alive, Joel Miller and Sarah were still alive, and he would’ve seen you as you were meant to be. Those thoughts never lasted for long, but they made his stomach turn nonetheless. 

"Uh, I can. I just did.” Joel had grown very familiar with the sarcastic smile she flashed at him.

“I’m responsible for you.” “She is too; don’t see her complaining.” His gaze flitted back down to you, barely awake and wholly confused by the situation at hand.

Joel took the rifle from Ellie, who was attempting to explain her precautions as she stood watch. “You wake me up next time.” “Yes, sir.” She responded.

That day started the same as each one for the last eight—was it closer to ten?—months had: a grueling trek across wooden terrain in what Joel hoped was the right direction, consistent sarcastic quips from Ellie, and your soothing presence at his side. It was a normal day, a normal fucking day, and he was mostly on course again, and everything was normal, normal, normal, and for the life of him, Joel could not fathom how he managed to find himself sitting in a bar drinking whiskey from a glass with his little brother. There were the horses and the dogs, and the all-consuming fear that Ellie was going to die and that you were going to die too; the knowledge that you would be after Ellie, and you would be lucky if the only thing these people did was kill you. Then he was hugging his brother for the first time in years, and everything felt fuzzy, and his stomach ached worse than his knees.

“Thanks for still giving a shit about me.” As if he ever stopped thinking about him. As if he hadn’t spent nearly a year in search of him. As if he were not the last thing of his old life that he had left, and he wouldn’t fight for that until the bitter end. And then he was asking about Tess (she’s good, she's fine), and it felt like a punch to the gut, and he was asking about Ellie (she’s the daughter of some Firefly muckety-muck). (There's a payment.) He could no longer breathe, and then he asked about you, and he was at a loss for words. What could he possibly say to justify you? Sure, your previous affiliations are what initially convinced him to bring you along, but he could have easily gotten what little information you had without trekking across the country with you. He could have left you at Bill and Frank’s or in Kansas City or in a random spot in the woods early in the morning; he did not have to take you with him. There was nothing in it for him; there was nothing to gain except another mouth to feed and the knowledge that you could have killed him in his sleep at any time you pleased. 

And then Joel was seeing red because, how dare he say that? 

How dare Tommy expect him to be happy when he was being handed the very thing that destroyed his life? He was there. He watched his niece scream and cry and bleed out as he pleaded for help; he was there after he tried to follow her into the unknown, and he was the one to clean the wound on his temple. He was there for it all, and then he left. How dare he sit back with his comfortable life, his house, and his family after Joel had lost everything? How could he sit there and judge him after he compromised every moral he thought he held near and dear to keep him alive? Sarah’s blood had not been washed from his hands before he committed what little was left of him to keeping his little brother safe. How dare Tommy find the life that Joel lost?

 He stormed out of the bar with that same goddamn feeling in his heart, and he thought he was going to die there for a moment—he had to have, at least for a second, because Sarah looked so real in that moment. The rest of that day passed in a blur. Joel found himself sitting in an old shed, the smell of wood and tools flooding his senses as he grew frustrated, fruitlessly trying to repair his tattered shoes.

 “The guys said I might find you here.” Somehow, seeing his face again, Joel could not bring himself to continue to stoke his anger towards his little brother, however fixed the scowl on his face was. “Figured you could use these.” An awkward silence filled the room from his lack of response, but what was he supposed to say? How was he supposed to tell Tommy, his brother, that he almost hated him for finding a better life without him in it? “I shouldn’t have said what I said... I don’t even believe it. I know you’re happy for me; it's just—it’s complicated for you. I’m sorry.”

 In that moment, Joel did what he had always done best and ignored it. “This ride to the university—is it a suicide mission?”

 “No. It’s dangerous, but it’s nothin’ you can’t handle. Just prepare and do what you do.” He said it as if he were not a shadow of what he used to be. As if he did not freeze when Ellie was in danger, and he didn’t fall asleep on watch, and his hands were still strong, his back didn’t ache, and he wasn’t holding back a torrent of tears.

 “You’ve had people go that way and come back?”

“All of ‘em.” He has said too much, “What is this?” And god, how was he supposed to hold this any longer? Where was he supposed to sit the last eight months down—or was it nine?—if not with him, that would not leave a path of destruction behind him. Tess, and Ellie, and the Fireflies, and Bill and Frank, and Henry and Sam, and Kansas City, and you? It was swallowing him whole, ripping him open from the inside; it was so heavy and he was so weak, more sorrow than man, and he could no longer bear the weight on his own.

 “She’s immune.”

 “What?” 

“Ellie. She got infected, but she didn’t get sick.” He looked like he was ready to chase the girl down and put a bullet between her eyes. “Tommy. Tommy, I saw her get bit myself. That was months ago. Months. She’s immune.”

 “From the beginning.” And he did. He told Tommy everything—about Tess; about Marlene and the Fireflies and how Tess made him swear to take her; about Kansas City and how Ellie saved his life; and Henry and Sam and how someone else had to save Ellie’s life because he could hardly hear out of his right ear and how desolate Henry’s eyes were after he shot his little brother (he overlooked how Ellie’s scream felt like a knife in his gut). He told him how he thought that dog was going to rip her to shreds, and the only thing he could do was stand frozen in place because he’s not the man he used to be, no longer a ruthless killer who could have taken anyone and anything down in his path—he needed Tommy to understand that part. He needed Tommy to know that the only piece left of the man he once knew was the weak, aching flesh and bones sitting in front of him. He was no more capable of taking care of Ellie than he was of Sarah, but he was staring at him as though he were lying.

“I was so afraid.” Joel could not hear himself speaking anymore. He knew the words were leaving his lips—he could see Tommy react to the syllables as the sound waves traveled through the air and to his ears, but he could not hear them. The ringing in his ears had never been so loud. “You think I can still handle things, but I’m not who I was.” A single crack in his voice. “I’m weak.” And god, he still looked at him like he wanted to argue against the points he so clearly laid out. “Lately, there are these moments when the fear comes up outta nowhere and my heart… feels like it's stopped…

“And I have dreams. Every night." 

“What kinda dreams?" 

“I don’t know. I can’t remember.” Another crack in his voice. Another reminder that he is incapable. “I just know that when I wake up, I’ve lost somethin’.” Tears began to fall down his cheeks. “I’m failin’ in my sleep. That’s all I do. It’s all I’ve ever done is fail them again and again and again.” Them?

“You want me to take her.”

“I’m just gonna get her killed. I know it. I have to leave her.”

“And what about her?” Joel’s heart truly stopped at the mention of you. “You still haven’t said a damn word about her or why she’s with you. Who is she?” He took in a shaky breath. He knew that Tommy would ask about you; he had sent a silent prayer that he would gloss over you. He could not bear to face the truth about you.

“What about her?” Denial was always his closest friend, but it seemed determined to betray him. 

“Joel.” He wanted to seem indifferent; he wanted to lie, but the truth came spilling out of his mouth the same way hot tears streamed down his weathered cheeks. It did not ask for permission—it took whatever it wanted from Joel. The truth wanted everything from him this time; it begged to be free from its shackles. What was he supposed to say about you? How could he justify this? How could he explain that you had completely bewitched him without him having ever known until it was too late? How could he tell Tommy everything without admitting a truth he had tried so desperately to ignore?

“C’mon. From the beginning.”

[a/n: buckle up we're gonna be breaking hearts here]

MASTERLIST // AO3

[a-book-of-creatures]

It’s been nagging at me for a while, so I’m going to try to put together my thoughts on the Quetzalcoatlus sequence in Prehistoric Planet 2. In the grand scheme of things it’s tiny, insignificant, and I loved Prehistoric Planet, but I’m not going to turn down the opportunity to talk at length about scavenging birds.

(Spoilers (?) for Prehistoric Planet 2 ahead. Go watch it!)

I’m talking about the part where a Tyrannosaurus is driven off from an Alamosaurus carcass (presumably carrion and not killed by the tyrannosaur). The tyrannosaur is expressly stated to be concerned about losing an eye to those Whopping Big Beaks. The pterosaurs aggressively fly over it a few times and honk angrily until the tyrannosaur walks away in Shameful Defeat, leaving the carcass to the pterosaurian pterrors.

And that confused me.

Before I go on, I want to point out that this is not a Who Would Win discussion, I’m not going to argue for or against one or another. Not going to discuss if Tyrannosaurus should really have won because of the massive weight advantage and lack of fragile bones/wings, or if the big landlubber had it coming and the numbers and aerial advantage was too much. I’m not arguing about Quetzalcoatlus being scary or not either (it’s scary as all hell).

No, the issue I had was with the beaks.

This is the Quetzalcoatlus as it appears in the show.

Impressive beak, isn’t it?

But it’s not the beak of a flesh tearer.

Let’s back up a bit. Birds that eat meat by tearing it into manageable chunks typically evolve sharp, hooked beaks to make up for the lack of teeth. Like this eagle for instance.

Majestic. They make the cutest sounds too. Look up golden eagle sounds, don’t believe the red-tailed hawk propaganda.

Raptor bills look intimidating, but they’re not there for killing. They’re cutlery. The talons do all the work, and then the beak tears up the meat into delicious gobbets of protein.

Even shrikes get in on the act. They don’t have killer feet, so they use their ripping bills to impale prey and tear at it.

Aw, look at it, it thinks it’s accipitrids.

The Quetzalcoatlus’ bill, though, doesn’t have that hook. It doesn’t look like the bill of a bird that dismembers its food. The closest thing I could think of to compare it with was stork bills. Specifically the marabou.

Ol’ pickaxe-for-a-face. This is the beak of an animal that stabs smaller prey and swallows them whole with minimum processing.

But a bill this long and pointed, turns out, is good for stabbing but not for tearing meat. Marabous are scavengers, but they won’t tear apart a carcass on their own. The “[b]ill [is] not well designed for dismembering carcasses, so [it] normally steals scraps from vultures or snatches up morsels that are dropped” (del Hoyo, Elliott, and Sargatal, 1992).

As you can see, vultures retained the hallmark accipitrid steak knife face, and are much better at Ripping and Tearing. This one (the lappet-faced vulture) generally goes first, being big and strong enough to Rip and Tear tough hide and get to the fleshy interior.

In fact, “[d]espite its huge bill, the [marabou] stork can rarely dominate a carcass and normally stands by the much more numerous vultures and nips in from time to time to snatch morsels which are dropped by others, though Tawny Eagles (Aquila rapax) in turn often steal food from the stork. The bill is not apparently very effective for cutting up meat and dismemberment is normally carried out quite simply by pulling” (del Hoyo, Elliott, and Sargatal, 1992). And if marabous have trouble with the average carcass, I wouldn’t imagine Quetzalcoatlus would fare much better with a titanosaur, which presumably has rather thick skin too.

One big happy family. That’s a much smaller carcass being shared (with the obligatory squabbling) by a whole bunch of dinosaurs. Neither vultures nor marabou are trying to monopolize it.

So... I don’t see why the big stork pterosaurs would chase away a perfectly good meat processor. I know everyone wants to see Big Prehistoric Animals Fighting With Lethal Intent, and everyone wants to see Tyrannosaurus Getting Knocked Down A Peg By The New Hotness, but I think it would have been a more interesting and believable scene - not to mention more in keeping with Prehistoric Planet’s attempt to be as scientifically believable as possible - if the pterosaurs acted like marabous the size of giraffes, both them and the tyrannosaur keeping a respectful distance of each other, and snapping up bits of meat left behind. And maybe the pterosaurs pulling the dinosaur’s tail for good measure, the way ravens bully eagles.

But it would make for a much less exciting scene. Who wants to watch a bunch of scavengers milling around a carcass and honking at each other as they jockey for the best morsels and settling their differences in ways that involve as little risk as possible? I mean, I do, but I don’t assume the average viewer does.

And that concludes my altogether far too long opinion on a single scene from a great series. Of course, I’m not a paleontologist and never will be, I’m only approaching this with what I know about birds, so please feel free to let me know if there’s any details of Quetzalcoatlus anatomy that do in fact suggest it could rip and tear!

References

del Hoyo, J.; Elliott, A.; and Sargatal, J. eds. (1992) Handbook of the Birds of the World, Vol. 1. Lynx Edicions, Barcelona.

[standfucker]

The Break

Characters: Kid, Killer

Reader: GN, they/them

Word Count: 7.5k

CW: Gore, graphic description of injury+pain+first aid, hurt/comfort, confessions, highly oblivious reader

Summary: You knew you were bad with feelings, but the fact that it took a severe injury for this to come to light was maybe a little concerning.

Ao3 Link

There had only been two moments in your entire career as a pirate where you didn’t live up to your “Slippery” epithet. The first time was when Eustass Kid had bested you in combat. Rather than killing you, he offered you a place on his crew, which you had accepted–partially in the hopes of becoming stronger, and maybe also because you kind of found him incredibly attractive. That was three years ago.

The second time was right now. The enemy’s weapons consist of giant, metal crab claws, one of which snaps shut around your forearm with the force of an industrial machine before you can shave away. You’re pretty sure the whole battlefield heard the snap. A few things run through your brain in quick succession:

One–that’s going to hurt really, really badly in a second. You only have a short amount of time to counterattack.

Two–this was karma for that conversation in the mess room a few weeks ago, where you taunted the others over your having never broken a bone.

“I grew up on a dairy farm. My bones are like iron. Don’t compare it to the shortbread you all have for a skeleton.”

“You just haven’t battled enough, Slip.”

“Wrong! It’s because no one can catch me. They call me ‘Slippery Y/n’ because I’m too fast.”

“Yeah, yeah. But not fast enough, since you’re with us now!”

“Fuck off!”

Not fast enough indeed. But at least, now, you’re within striking range of the enemy. He doesn’t block in time; your scimitar opens his throat like a cut purse and sends him to his knees, gurgling. Your arm is released and you collapse on the ground, but before you can get back up, the pain hits with an intensity that immediately rips an agonized scream from deep in your lungs.

It’s like your arm’s been doused in gasoline and set on fire. Burning and sharp, sharp, sharp, so overwhelming you’re nauseous. You make the mistake of looking at your arm, and the flash of white sticking through the skin nearly makes you vomit on the spot. Seeing it for what it is somehow makes the pain worse, leaving you breathlessly curling over yourself on instinct, unable to move. Somewhere next to you the body of your enemy thuds onto the ground, dead.

The battle against the opposing crew is almost over. Though it’s not much longer before the last enemy is slain and someone rushes to your side, it feels like an eternity.

“Slip, are you okay?” You hear Hip’s voice before you, high-pitched with concern. It drops once she notices your injury. “Are you–oh. Oh, fuck. Um, guys! Hey, you guys! Slip is really hurt!”

Footsteps, more voices. One by one, crewmates converge around you.

“Oh, ew.”

“Oh, shit, Slip!”

“Slip!”

“Get out of the way!” 

That last one would be Kid. You look up in time to see him push past a crewmate, face taught in what seems like anger but you’ve since learned to recognize is worry. Most of his deeper emotions are like that, sitting in the shadow of enmity but easily discernible if you knew him well enough.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” he asks, unable to assess your full state with you hunched over. The gruesomeness of your injury doesn’t seem to bother him. You shake your head, and relief softens his expression. “Okay. I know it hurts, but you’re gonna live.”

“I can’t get up,” you gasp, breath coming out short.

“Then I’ll carry you to the ship. Doctor’s on standby.” Kid crouches down next to you, flesh hand resting on your good shoulder. “It’s gonna hurt. Sorry in advance, Y/n.”

He’s the only one who doesn’t call you by your nickname. It makes sense, as he’s the one who caught you in the first place–it doesn’t really apply to him.

“It already hurts,” you reply, stupidly inviting more karma. Kid must think the same thing, because he frowns at you.

“Oh, just wait,” he mutters, and scoops you up as carefully as he can. The movement tears fresh hell through your arm, and you shout before you can even think to hold it in.

At least he doesn’t say ‘I told you so.’ It would only be salt in the wound, and you’re already in so much pain you can barely think. The walk back to the ship is its own trial, every step jolting your arm again, even with Kid’s best efforts to move smoothly. You tell yourself to be tough for about three seconds before it goes out the window. Frankly, you don’t deal with it well at all–you’ve never had a strong pain tolerance, it’s partly why you learned to be quick–but you manage not to scream with every step, so that’s something.

It’s a terrible shame that you’ll only remember this as excruciating–under any other circumstance, you would have cherished being held by Kid like this.

You glimpse your injury again, a wave of queasiness rising in your stomach, and press your face into Kid’s shoulder so as not to look. “I’m gonna throw up,” you say weakly.

“Since when does gore bother you?” Kid says under his breath, but you hear it.

“Since it is coming from MY BODY!!” you snarl. For once, Kid pities you enough not to scold you for talking back.

You’re shaking by the time you get to the infirmary. Most of the crew has come out of the battle unscathed, or with only minor injuries. The ship’s doctor is only concerned with you, and getting your bleeding to stop. But to close the rip…

“I have to reset the bones, first,” he says.

That was obvious to anyone with eyes, but you didn’t really think about it until just then. Your guts turn to stone at the thought, heavy and sinking as your heart starts to race. The lightest movement to your body is already enough to make you want to quit life on the spot; you are not prepared, capable, nor willing to see what it would feel like when the bone itself is directly touched. 

“You can leave it as-is,” you say, not joking in the slightest, not caring if it sounds cowardly, not even caring that half the crew is surrounding the exam table to hear it.

Kid takes one look at the fear in your eyes and turns to the rest of the crew. “Get out,” he commands. Everyone complies without question, only Killer staying behind, the unspoken exception.

Once the last person closes the door behind them, Kid focuses on you. “Y/n–”

“I can’t do it,” you cut him off, eyes welling up with tears. “I–I don’t want to.”

“Tough,” Kid snaps. “This is what you get for getting caught.”

“Kid,” Killer says, a warning to go easy on you.

It’s not necessary. You can see right through Kid’s harsh exterior. He always gets upset when a crewmate is hurt badly. What he’s really saying is ‘this is what you get for making me worry.’

“No time for discussion,” says the doctor. “I’d like to get this done before any more blood is lost. Hold them down, would you?”

Before you can protest, Kid and Killer secure you in place: Kid’s metal hand presses down on your legs while his flesh one wraps tightly around your good arm, and Killer pins your torso to his from behind.

“Wait, wait, wait!” you cry out quickly, but you can’t budge against them both. 

Kid nods at the doctor. “Do it.”

The disinfectant comes first, stealing the breath from your lungs, like acid on your exposed flesh. The doctor gives you no time to process the first action before he moves onto the second–rationally, you know it’s to minimize the amount of time you’ll be in pain, but you are incapable of viewing his actions kindly at the moment. He immediately forces the bones back to where they should be in one firm, expert motion. 

The world goes white. Nothing exists anymore except for the pain in your arm, unimaginable and all-consuming. You don’t perceive anything else, blind and deaf to any stimuli that isn’t sheer agony. Later on, you’ll realize that you must have screamed, if the soreness when you speak is any indication, but you don’t remember it.

The intensity eventually wanes enough to restore your senses, though your head is still swimming from the assault. Your sight returns first. Instead of the cold infirmary, your vision is entirely filled by Kid, his face so close you’d be staring into his eyes if they were open. His forehead is pressed to yours, and he’s saying something, but you don’t process it until your hearing comes back a moment later.

“...did good, Y/n, you did good. You’re okay. Easy, you’re okay.”

Kid… you think dimly, followed by, huh. Have I seen him do this with anyone but Killer?

You don’t question it beyond that thought, hanging onto his every word. The closeness abates the hurt, even if just slightly, and you bask in it, taking any mercy you can get. Kid and ‘comfort’ aren’t things that generally go together, but to you–scared, in pain, and maybe just a little bit hopelessly in love with him–it’s everything.

Killer smooths your hair back. His solid chest against your back is grounding, helping you stay present through the haze of misery. You’re suddenly grateful he’s there, too, his presence equally as soothing as Kid’s, the degree to which triggering a new realization: It’s obvious in hindsight, but you’ve never been great at analyzing your own feelings, and as such, it only just dawns on you that you’re down just as bad for the first mate. The revelation would have been panic-inducing if it wasn’t for the pain currently demanding all of your attention.

“They still with us?” Killer asks behind you.

Kid’s eyes open, meeting yours. You’ve never seen them this close before. The irises are an orange-gold, reminding you of smoldering embers. Your breath leaves you once more, but you’re not sure pain is the cause this time. Though it must have left you delirious, because your mouth moves before your brain can catch up.

“You have pretty eyes,” you mumble.

Said pretty eyes widen, Kid pulling back in surprise. He glances at Killer. “...That answer your question?”

Killer hums, gently rubbing your good arm. You go limp, leaning your full weight back against him without shame, hurting too much to care right then. He doesn’t seem to mind, anyway.

There’s a faint tinge of pink on Kid’s face, and he smirks down at you. “Better be careful there, Y/n. You can’t blame what you say on a head injury.”

“Whatever,” you huff, knowing you can get away with being rude without repercussions for now. “I don’t–” your words break into a gasp as the pain in your arm spikes so intensely that spots dot your vision.

Kid’s smirk instantly falls. You try to look at your burning arm, but he turns your head back so you’re watching him instead.

“Don’t look. He’s stitching it now. Keep your eyes on me, okay?”

Another wave of pain has you fighting back a sob, barely able to keep it down. You instinctively go to look again, but Kid keeps your head from turning with a steady hand cupping the side of your face.

“Look at me, Y/n. There you go. Just hold on a bit longer.”

You try to do as he says, focusing on his eyes rather than the current torture, but it’s impossible. “Hurts so bad,” you whimper.

“I know,” Kid says softly. “We’re right here.”

The curved needle hooking through your skin isn’t the problem, nor is the nauseating sensation of the sutures sliding through the layers of flesh. Both, while admittedly sucking hard, are tolerable. The problem is that even as careful as he is, the doctor is still moving your arm with every stitch.

“Almost done,” Killer says, “almost done. You’re doing great.”

Am I really? you want to ask, but you’re currently unable to form anything more coherent than groans and curses.

The final trial is the splint, more unbearable movement to your arm that has you gripping the edge of the exam table so hard your knuckles turn white. Killer takes notice, peeling your hand from the table to hold in his, instead. Despite his hand being twice the size of yours, you’re pretty sure you crush it with the strength of your grip, but he doesn’t complain.

“I’ll apply a proper cast once the swelling goes down,” the doctor says once he’s finally, finally fucking done. “Rest in one of the patient beds and keep your arm above your heart as much as possible. You’re to sleep here until further notice.”

You’re helped into one of the beds, and once the doctor’s applied ice packs to your injury, Kid dismisses him. The three of you are left alone, Kid and Killer pulling up chairs next to the bed. Lying back, you stare blankly at the ceiling, catching your breath, humbled and terrified at the human body’s ability to feel such all-consuming anguish. Adrenaline still courses through your veins, making you jittery and hyper-aware, and you’re sweating, but at least the pain in your arm has simmered down to a dull, throbbing ache. While it still feels like the bones are screaming at you, you can endure it quietly, though it does make your eyes water. 

With the diminishing of the pain comes just enough clarity for you to feel utterly and totally disgraceful. You don’t think you’ve ever heard anyone on the crew scream like you had, and plenty of them had endured their fair share of awful injuries. So why couldn’t you handle it better? How could you call yourself a pirate after such a display? All of that, and still visibly on the verge of tears now that it was over? You’d be more embarrassed about crying in front of them if you hadn’t just spent the enitre past fifteen minutes acting like a complete bitch.

Kid may have said you couldn’t blame your words on a head injury, but you think the pain alone is enough to make you loopy, because you find yourself laughing shortly at the thought. It’s more of a huff and a grin, really–anything more would jostle your arm.

“Y/n?” Kid asks, concerned.

“It’s just,” you glance at him, then back at the ceiling, smiling ruefully. “I wanted to be tough, if you can believe that. But I couldn’t manage it… Pitiful, right?”

“What are you talking about?” Kid scowls. “That pirate broke your arm and you still killed him.”

“Only because I didn’t feel it right away. It doesn’t count. When push came to shove, I couldn’t handle it at all. I’m a Kid Pirate–I should be tougher. And yet, I…” You blink, and the tears gathered at the corners of your eyes break free, running down your temples. “I didn’t have it in me.”

“Y/n…?”

You look between Kid and Killer. Kid’s worry is evident behind the tension in his face, and while Killer’s expression is hidden, there’s nothing in his body language to suggest he’s upset with you. Your smile wavers, chest getting tight. The next wave of tears has nothing to do with pain.

“Aren’t you ashamed of me?” Your voice cracks, as if you couldn’t be any more pathetic.

“Don’t,” Kid says stiffly. “Don’t do the self-pity thing now. It doesn’t suit you.”

“But I–”

“Look,” Killer says, “everyone’s different, with different tolerances for pain. You don’t need to be unfeeling to be a capable fighter.”

Easy for him to say–Killer had the highest pain tolerance in the crew. Still, you don’t miss the compliment, mentally clinging to it like it could redeem you.

“You think I’m a capable fighter?” you ask, voice small.

“I invited you onto my crew for a reason, okay?” Kid says. “I saw potential. I still see it. You’ve gotten stronger since we first met.” Kid looks away. “...I haven’t once regretted my decision.”

“Oh…” Self-doubt tells you that Kid’s just saying those things to make you feel better, but experience has you discarding the thought. You know him better than that. Kid has always meant what he said, he wouldn’t make such claims lightly. The words are real and sincere, threatening to make you cry harder, but you force it down. He’s never liked dealing with tears.

Kid won’t meet your eye. From your angle on the bed, you can see a blush spread across his cheeks, darker than before. Maybe that’s why he makes to leave, pushing his chair back and getting up, Killer following suit. Or maybe he just means to check on the crew. Regardless, a surge of objection rises in your chest, every bit as selfish and puerile as a child protesting their parents leaving them in daycare.

“You’re going?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

They pause, Kid turning back to you. “Do you want us to stay?”

You don’t look at him when you nod shallowly, ashamed. But you don’t want to hurt alone. Rationally, you know you’re going to be in pain for a long while, and they can’t be at your side the whole time. Still, if they’ll let you, then you’ll be self-centered for just a bit longer.

Kid and Killer sit back down.

“Thanks,” you say quietly. Then, even quieter, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t fucking apologize,” Kid grumbles. “I told you to knock that shit off.”

You swallow a lump in your throat. He could be so rough about it, but there was genuine care behind his refusing to let you wallow in self-pity.

Killer takes your hand. “Is this the first time you’ve been injured like this?” he asks.

You nod.

“Listen... Sometimes, when you’re hurt bad enough physically, it messes with your head, too,” Killer says. “You feel vulnerable and insecure. Helpless, even. So,” he squeezes your hand lightly, “it’s okay if you’re more sensitive than you normally would be. No one's going to hold it against you. You came out of the battle alive. That’s what matters.”

Damn him and his tenderness, you’re trying not to cry. You pull your hand away, lower lip wobbling, and take a shaky breath, holding it down. You glance at Kid. He’s staring hard at your broken arm. Suddenly his ire stops being transparent–just like when you first joined the crew, you’re completely unable to discern what he’s really thinking. All you see is the discontent, so close to disapproval that it makes you uncertain.

“Are you, um,” you say nervously, “are you mad at me?”

“No,” Kid says, but it comes out a bit stiff. “At least, not for the reason you think. I’m proud of you for taking out that pirate. He was twice your size and faster, but you still won.” He taps his nails against his metal hand. “Y/n… When Hip said you were really hurt, I feared the worst. I thought you’d been fatally injured.”

“Can’t get rid of me that easily,” you joke.

“Shut the fuck up!” Kid snaps, glaring. He’s gritting his teeth, eyes hard and angry, but then there’s a break, a crack in his expression. It’s just a glimpse, but for the first time, you see fear behind the fury. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again. Got it? Or I’ll break your other arm.”

Despite the harsh words, emotion swells in your chest, fuzzy and light. You feel yourself tearing up again. “Yes, captain.”

“You’re a real pain in my ass, you know that?”

You smile slightly. “Yes, captain.”

Kid leans back in his chair, arms crossed, scowl etched deep. You watch as Killer touches Kid’s arm briefly, reassuring. With the worst of the pain behind you comes the presence of mind to start overthinking, and you dive right in: They have each other. It’s clear that they care about you, but it will never be in the way you want. 

The ache in your arm seems fitting, a backdrop of physical pain behind the emotional. Liking Kid is stressful enough, but now that you were aware of your feelings for Killer, it was compounded, growing like a chemical reaction into something huge and overwhelming. As a trusted crewmate, you pretty much have front row seats to the small intimacies those two exchange. How are you supposed to go on watching and not be eaten alive by jealousy? 

Maybe you should leave. Maybe this was your sign that the good times had run out, and it was time to strike it out solo again. You don’t want to go–crushes aside, you were fond of the crew, having come to see them as family–but could you handle living with Kid and Killer now? The unrequited desire was already burrowing under your skin like a grass seed, threatening to travel and lodge deep into your heart. Cutting ties now would spare you more hurt in the long run.

But first you had to heal from this injury, something better done with the security of a crew protecting you.

Then, unprompted, Killer reaches over to wipe the sweat from your forehead, and you start reconsidering even that notion. If they were going to be gentle the entire recovery period, you were really gonna lose it. The compassion was too close to intimacy, a taste of what you couldn’t have. 

"The next few months are gonna blow," you say, the true meaning of the statement masked.

"Just wait until it starts itching under the cast," Killer says lightly.

"Ugh. And I'll hardly be able to move." You grimace. "I'll need help even with basic tasks… You're right, Killer, it does feel helpless."

"It'll be fine," Kid says. "You have us and the crew." 

He's still frowning, but you can read him again. Not that you need to with the frankness of his words.

"At least there's a bright side," you smile impishly, "if you're gonna be soft this whole time."

"Watch it," Kid warns, but his lip curls up just a bit. "Don't get used to it."

Too bad for him, you fully intend to abuse your power. It’ll be interesting to see how much you can get away with, and you might as well have some kind of outlet for these awful feelings in the meantime.

“Nah, I’m gonna enjoy it while I can,” you say, “because it’s not gonna happen another time. I’m gonna get even stronger, so I’ll never go through that again.” You wipe away the gathered tears with the back of your hand. “I’m gonna surpass even the shave technique. I’ll be uncatchable.”

Kid and Killer exchange glances–an impressive feat considering Killer’s mask, but that’s just the kind of wavelength they’re on–and then they look at you, Kid wearing one of his rare serious expressions. “I know the last half hour was rough, Y/n. But you won’t get any better as a fighter if fear is your motivator.”

That makes you pout, mostly because you know he’s right. Arguing that it had worked out for this long was pointless, because it really hadn’t. You only survived the fight with Kid years ago because of his whims, and today’s battle had ended in agony. You wouldn’t be forgetting it anytime soon, but maybe that was better. Maybe a reminder that you weren’t invulnerable was what you needed. So long as you didn’t succumb to fear, like Kid said.

“I guess it wasn’t entirely miserable,” you muse, thinking back to how Kid carried you to the ship. That was a lie–you were hurting far too badly to enjoy the contact–but the thought that it happened still made you kind of happy, in a messed up way. Maybe you were more touch-starved than you thought. “I got to be held. Can’t remember the last time I was that close to someone.”

Kid looks surprised, and then his expression slowly morphs into something smug, an arrogant smirk plastered on his face. “If you wanted to be close to me, Y/n, you could have just asked.”

Your cheeks instantly flare hot, caught so off-guard all you can do is stare in dumb shock before you turn your head away. What the hell was he doing? Why would he say that? Now there was an ache in your chest as well as your arm.

“Is that what this was all about?” Kid continues gleefully. “Did you let yourself get hurt so your captain would come take care of you?”

No, no, no. Don’t do this to me. Regardless of what he meant by the teasing, it felt like a weight was sitting over your sternum. And really, he was such a fucking jerk, taking obvious pleasure in your flustered response. Honestly, why did you even like him?

“We’re right here.”

Your brain plays the memory back like a traitor, impressing the reason. Why did he have to be so damned nice to you? Why couldn’t he have been cold or stern or even harsh, like usual? This would have been so much easier if he just told you off for screaming, or called you a pussy or something, but no. He had to hold you and reassure you and now you didn’t know what to do.

“Stop it,” you say, but it comes out small and feeble. This was all too much, especially now. Killer had a point–you were in a delicate way mentally. The walls weren’t up, you couldn’t buffer any of these feelings. “Talk to me like that and I’ll leave.”

Kid pauses. “What do you mean, you’ll leave?”

“I’ll leave the crew.”

“What?!” Kid grabs the arms of his chair, leaning forward like he didn’t hear you right the first time.

“Slip?” Killer questions.

You avoid their eyes. “I can’t–I can’t do this. I can’t be around you if you’re going to be like… like that.”

“The hell are you talking about?” Kid demands.

“Slip, what’s wrong?” Killer asks. “Was it something we said?”

“No! I mean, yes!” you say, tugging at your hair with your good hand. “I mean… I…”

“Where’s this coming from all of a sudden?” Kid says hotly. “What the hell is your problem?” 

“I’m in love with you!” you shout. “That’s my fucking problem, Kid!”

Oops. Well. It was out now. Might as well go all-in. You cover your face as you add, “Killer, too. I love you both. I’m sorry.”

The shame settles like rot in your stomach, as nauseating as the physical pain was. There was no taking it back now. You expect shocked silence, or even Kid getting angry. 

What you don’t expect is Kid, as casually as if discussing the weather, responding, “Oh. Yeah, I know.”

It takes a minute to process what he said, mentally flipping the words over in an attempt to parse them. Your hand slowly drops from your face, and you fix him with a look that manages to be both pointed and baffled. “...What?”

“I already knew that,” Kid clarifies.

You stare a hole through him. “...What?”

“What exactly are you not getting? I’m telling you I already knew.”

“Fucking excuse me?!” It finally processes, crashing over you like a boiling wave, drenching and searing all at once. “Since when?!”

“Since we met, you idiot.”

Your jaw drops. He had known all this time? For three fucking years? He knew?

“You’re not a subtle person, Y/n,” Kid says, then grins. “You got really, really worked up when I caught you that one time. It wasn’t hard to figure out.”

“You knew?” You look between him and Killer, at a loss. “The entire time?”

“Y/n, the whole crew knows.”

“What?!” You sit up so quickly it jostles your injury, sending a hellish jolt of pain through your arm that makes you hiss.

“Easy,” Killer says, gently pushing your good shoulder to prompt you to lay back.

“Don’t tell me to take it easy!” you snap, but acquiesce, letting him push you back. “What the hell do you mean, you knew… The crew knows… Oh my god…”

“There, there,” Killer says, but you can hear the amusement in his voice.

“Anyway,” Kid says nonchalantly, “you don’t have permission to leave.”

Ordinarily, you would say 'I wasn't aware I needed it,' but you're currently too stunned to reply. All this time. And the crew knows.

What are you to make of that? Kid doesn’t look upset. Killer doesn’t sound upset. They’re fine with your crush? Did such things really not bother them, or did they… No. There was no way. You can't wrap your head around the implications. There was no way. Right? Because if they liked you back, wouldn’t they have said something by now? 

You have to find out. Living on this ship with that hanging over you is beyond what you can handle. And with months of recovery ahead of you, now would be as good a time as any to shoot your shot.

But you only get out "Do you–" before your voice catches, the query dying in your throat. You can't say it, can't bring yourself to ask. Something in your head is as broken as your arm, refusing to form the words. 

Kid and Killer are listening, waiting for you to continue, but you shake your head. “Never mind.” 

The answer to that question would hurt, and you’ve had enough of that for a good, long while. But without it comes the uncertainty, which almost feels worse. Unable to reconcile how you feel and exhausted from the aftermath of the adrenaline, you find you just want to be close to them again. Maybe you’re too much of a coward to ask the crucial question. But you aren’t above taking advantage of your current state to seek out a bit of comfort.

"Back when I was a kid," you say, "and I had to go to the doctor, my guardian would take me to get a treat afterwards. Like ice cream or something."

"Yeah?" Kid says, grinning wide. "Is there something you want from me? What could it possibly be, I wonder?"

Suddenly you're tongue-tied. You didn’t expect him to cotton on so fast, but underestimating Kid was why you had lost to him in the first place three years ago.

When you don't respond, Kid rests his chin on his metal hand, having the gall to look even more smug. "You need to say it out loud, Y/n."

Fucking jerk. Fine. "Um…" you start, fresh heat warming your face, "well, uh… Can I have, uh… A hug…?"

Kid looks surprised at that for some reason, raising a brow. What was he expecting? Still, he rises from his seat, and you sit up in anticipation. This was enough for now. Just to be held, one more time. You could figure out the rest later.

“That’s really all you want?” Kid says, looking at you like he can’t figure you out. He leans over you, towering, your height difference exacerbated with you being seated. “A hug?”

“...Yeah?” you respond hesitantly, unsure of what he means by the question.

Kid regards you for a moment, searching your eyes. Then he smirks. “I’ll do you one better.”

Before you can register the meaning of his words, Kid tilts your chin up, leans in, and presses his lips to yours in a firm and intent kiss.

Suffice to say, your brain promptly short-circuits. For a moment, not a single neuron fires. Then there’s a storm of activity, a thousand different thoughts and feelings screaming all at once. At the same time, a soft sort of tingling spreads throughout your whole body, fluttering and warm, so pleasant that you could cry. And, for just a second, like something out of a fairy tale, you don’t feel any of the pain in your arm. (You can never, ever tell this to Kid–he will hold it over your head for the rest of your life.)

While you’re too shocked to reciprocate, once Kid pulls away, you find yourself leaning forward, chasing the contact. He notices, if his widening smirk is any indication.

“Better than a hug, right?” he says, self-satisfied.

“Um,” you respond cleverly, still bewildered by the action. “Uh… Kid? Do you… Do you like me?”

Kid pinches the bridge of his nose. “Y/n, I literally just kissed you. What the fuck do you think?”

“Wait, shut up. Hold on. Wait.” The fact that Kid doesn’t react to your telling him to shut up is a testament to his going easy on you, and you make a mental note of it for later. “If you liked me back, why didn’t you do anything about it?”

“What are you talking about? I’ve been flirting with you for years!”

Your eyes bug out at him. “You have?”

“For someone who thinks so quickly in battle, it’s amazing how slow you are on the uptake,” Kid says, exasperated. You frown, because rude, but he keeps going. “At first, when you didn’t respond, I thought you weren’t interested. But the way you acted around me and Killer proved otherwise. It was confusing as hell! Then, a few weeks ago, the crew was at a tavern, and you were approached by that bounty hunter–you remember?”

“Yeah… What about him?”

“He started flirting real heavy, and it all went right over your head. It was incredible to watch. I realized then that you weren’t sending me mixed signals on purpose, but that you were really just that fucking oblivious.”

You blink. “He was flirting with me?”

“He bought you a drink!” Kid shouts, throwing his arms out in frustration and nearly knocking over another bed with his metal one. Killer covers his mask over where his mouth would be, as if that would help him suppress a laugh.

“I thought he was trying to sucker me out of information.”

“He was trying to sucker you out of your clothes.”

“Oh… So that’s why you nearly killed him.”

You stare down at your lap as you try to process all the new information. Kid liked you back. Not only that, but he had been attempting to show it pretty much since the beginning. You knew you were bad with feelings, but the fact that it took a severe injury for this to come to light was maybe a little concerning. And what about Killer? He wasn’t nearly as open as Kid, so even if he had been showing similar signs, you would have never picked up on it.

“Does, uh,” you say, looking up at them, “does Killer also…?”

“Yeah,” Kid says, “Killer too, though he never flirted with you over it.”

“I kind of did,” Killer speaks up, “here and there, but I stopped when it seemed like you weren’t into it.”

You think back, trying to recall any times where that might have happened. While Killer seemed outwardly stoic, he was surprisingly affable toward crewmates, so you never thought twice about any lingering touches or supportive words coming from him.

“Um… Wow. I’m sorry,” you say, “I didn’t mean to be confusing. I guess I just never thought it was possible that anyone would like me that way.”

“Why would you think that?” Killer sounds genuinely confused, and you tense, the question dredging up a host of bad memories. That was one traumatic can of worms you didn’t need to open, so you just shrug it off. 

“Uh, no reason…”

“You’ve never been in a relationship?” Kid asks.

“Not really,” you say, rubbing the back of your neck. All of this was new territory, the revelation that they were both interested leaving you stumped. “...What do I even do now?”

“Whatever you want.”

You stare at Kid, then glance away, cheeks growing warm in embarrassment before you even say it. “...I want you to kiss me again.”

“You really think you deserve it after all that you’ve put us through?” Kid grins, but despite what he says, he leans right back in to grant your wish.

The second kiss is softer, even tender. Your eyes close as you cup his cheek, and his hand covers yours. That fluttering sensation returns, prickling across your skin like you’ve sunk into a warm bath, enveloping and soothing.

When Kid breaks free this time, you can’t help but look at Killer afterwards, the longing in your expression making your thoughts evident.

“What, I’m not good enough for you?” Kid accuses, but you can tell he’s teasing.

“No,” you say brightly, safe in the knowledge that he won’t retaliate while you’re injured. Or so you thought–Kid pinches your cheek (with his flesh hand, at least,) harder and harder until you apologize. You rub your sore cheek, pouting. “I swear I’m not complaining or anything, but, uh… You don’t want to, Killer?”

Killer turns his head away, quiet for a moment. “...I will… Once you’ve recovered, and the cast comes off.” He looks your way again. “So you have the motivation to heal quickly.”

Later on, when you’ve gotten to know him more intimately, you’ll look back and realize that the ‘motivation’ line was complete bullshit, and that he was just covering up his shyness. But right then, you accept him at his word, though you’re a bit disappointed.

“Sure. Okay.” You lay back in the bed, a smile slowly stretching your lips. “I can live with that.”

Today was a one-two punch in staggering experiences. First you went through the worst physical pain you’d felt yet, then Kid revealed that he and Killer both liked you back. You were ecstatic, of course–but the fact that you never had to go through breaking your arm to learn of it made you more than a little mad at yourself.

“We can talk about all this later,” Kid says. “You need to rest.”

“Yes, sir.”

Kid looks at you sharply, and you get a funny feeling in your gut. Did… Did he like that? What a stuck-up asshole. God, you love him. Which is why you’re going to use that against him later.

“Try and get some sleep, if you can. The next island we’re stopping at has a pharmacy. Once we raid it and restock our medical supplies, you won’t be hurting so much, so just hang on until then. Okay?” Kid touches your cheek.

“Okay,” you reply, trying not to show how giddy the simple action makes you.

But given that he knew of your attraction all this time, he can probably tell anyway.

“I can’t believe you didn’t say anything!” You glare at the crewmates sitting around your bed. The doctor will only let a few people in to see you at a time, so right now, it’s just Heat, Wire, and Quincy, the latter currently signing your cast. “Some nakama you are! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It would have interfered with the betting pool,” Wire says. 

“Betting pool?!”

“After a while,” Heat adds, “it just became kind of a social experiment.”

“Betting pool?!” you reiterate.

“Relax,” Quincy says, capping the marker. “If you get worked up, the doc will kick us out.”

“Fine.” You scowl, but relent, shoulders drooping.

“So how’d it go down?” Heat asks. “Did you tell Kid first, or did he tell you?”

“I said it first.”

“Damn,” Wire mutters, fishing a thick wad of cash out of his pocket and passing it to Heat.

Your eyes widen at the blatant exchange. “I will fucking strangle you both!”

“With one hand?” Wire asks, and the three of them burst into laughter.

You throw your medicine bottle at his head.

After months of waiting, you’re eager to finally have the cast off, but a part of you will miss looking at everyone’s signatures. Heat even drew the crew’s jolly roger on it.

“Some pain and stiffness afterwards is normal. Your range of motion will be limited. After months of being immobile, the muscles are weakened,” the doctor explains. “You are to wait one week before any exercise or heavy physical activity with that arm. Understand?”

The moment the cast is removed and the doctor releases you, you go find Killer on the ship.

“Hey, Killer!” You wave at him with your newly-healed arm, though you find the action is more difficult than you expected, just like the doctor said. “Cast is off, big guy. Time to pay up.”

When Killer doesn’t respond right away, you think maybe he’s forgotten what he said months ago. He looks around at the other crewmates on deck, then takes your hand and wordlessly leads you elsewhere.

“Killer?” you ask as you follow, but he remains silent.

Killer takes you all the way to the captain’s cabin, closing the door behind the both of you. Kid is currently there, sitting at his desk and looking over a map, head turning to you as soon as you enter.

“Everything okay?” Kid asks, then, noticing your cast is off, he smirks. “Oh, I see. Went for it first thing, huh, Y/n? You must have really been looking forward to it.”

“Shut up, Kid!” you say, face growing hot.

Kid rises from his seat, coming to stand behind you, and rests his flesh hand on your shoulder, squeezing in threat. “Careful, Y/n. You don’t have that injury to protect you anymore.”

Despite the warning, something about the way he says it, voice low and smooth, makes your stomach knot.

“Alright, alright, fine. Yes, I’ve been looking forward to it, okay? I’ve been thinking about it every day since,” you admit, swallowing. “But, Killer, you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

Killer is silent once more. You scan him anxiously, trying to get a read on his body language. He seems tense, so it takes you by surprise when he quietly says, “I want to.”

“Oh.”

Killer steps closer, right in front of you, so you’re sandwiched between the captain and first mate. Belatedly, you realize he’ll have to take off his mask, which you didn’t think about before. You’re not sure that even Heat or Wire have seen him without it, and you’re suddenly nervous that you’re violating some boundary by asking him to kiss you.

Then, Kid moves his hand from your shoulder to your face, covering your eyes from behind. You hear a faint noise like rustling hair that must be Killer removing his mask. Unable to see, you can only wait, heart pounding. It feels like forever before you feel his breath on your face, not making contact yet–he’s hesitating. And then, finally, after months of patience, he closes the gap, soft lips capturing your own.

Just like that, all your nerves melt away, fading behind the static that seems to spark through your body. You reach out for Killer blindly, hands landing in his hair before they slide down to hold his face, pulling as if you could draw him even closer. He sighs into your mouth in response, making your knees grow weak.

After far too short a time, Killer pulls away, and your grip on his face tightens in reluctance. 

“Wait, wait,” you mumble, “again. Please, I–”

Your protest is muffled by Killer’s mouth closing over yours again, swallowing your words and your sanity all at once. He’s firmer this time, indelicate and needy, large hands grabbing hold of your waist. The little whine that slips out of you is involuntary, and you hear Kid chuckle behind you.

Eventually, Killer breaks away, leaving the both of you stunned and flushed with endorphins.

“You have no idea, Y/n,” Kid whispers into your ear, raising goosebumps on the back of your neck. “How much he’s talked about this.”

“Like you haven’t been talking about them?” Killer says defensively. “The sheer amount of grievances I’ve had to listen to the last few years… Where do I even begin? First, there was–”

“Okay!” Kid cuts him off, uncharacteristically flustered. “I get it.”

You snicker, and Kid immediately wraps his metal hand around your hip, gripping just tightly enough so as not to be painful, but still securely enough so that you’re trapped in place. It’s huge in comparison to you, the pinky sinking into your thigh while the index presses into your stomach. You gasp, going rigid, the position intimately familiar–this was the exact way that Kid had caught you three years ago.

“You know, Y/n,” Kid says, his tone soft with warning, “you’ve been a real piece of work these last few months. Smart-mouthed. Insolent. Talking back to me. Thinking you were so safe because of your injury.” He’s speaking into your ear again, breath hot on your skin, and your heart starts to race. “I hope you enjoyed it while it lasted, Y/n, because I’ve been keeping track. Every comment, every cheeky little quip, I committed to memory, waiting for this moment. I think it’s time I paid it back. Wouldn’t you agree, Killer?”

“Definitely,” Killer responds without hesitation.

Heat courses through your body, collecting at the apex of your thighs. Still blinded by Kid, you can’t see Killer move, but you feel his rough fingers tracing your throat a moment later.

The third time around, you are perfectly okay with not having lived up to your epithet.

[8-dermestid]

Hello, I hope you are well! Recently I read a fanfic of yours on Ao3 about Ticci Toby and I fell in love with your writing!! I loved the way you develop the characters and their feelings!! 🤧💕✨

I would like to know if you write for Creepypasta X Virus, it is one of my favorites but there is almost no content online about it 🥹👉🏻👈🏻

Anyway, I saw your requests are open! If the idea pleases you, I would like to ask for headcanons of X Virus and Toby (or just Toby) with a reader who practices magic and has somewhat "dark" tastes (interest in poisonous animals/plants and the supernatural as a whole, in short, just a scary and adorable nerd at the same time!)

Thanks!! 💚

ahh! hello-hello!! i read x-virus' story and took notes for these, i really enjoyed writing Cody, so thank you very much for the request :-]

i rlly liked this request, and this is actually the first time i've ever done headcanon-ish things, i hope you enjoy these (bc i enjoyed writing them a lot)

x-virus & ticci toby: reader with macabre interests

relationships: ticci toby x reader, x-virus x reader

word count: 1.5k

links: available on ao3

x-virus warnings: animal death (off-screen, animal body shown) animal dissection, taxidermy, canon-typical violence

ticci toby warnings: canon-typical violence

☣︎ X-Virus | Cody _____ ☣︎

You let it slip one day that you wanted to try taxidermy, an embarrassing guilty pleasure you were confident you could keep under wraps, but Cody’s just been so nice about your eccentricities and you couldn’t help yourself.

“They use bugs in the process, lots of museums have them to clean the bones because they’re better than the best person with the best tools—” You pace back and forth as Cody watches you from your bed, “—Because that’s all they do, all they do is eat rotting flesh off the bone. The bones last much longer when cleaned by any Dermes—”

You stop yourself from mentioning the insects by their scientific name, embarrassed that you let your ramblings slip away like that.

Cody leaves the next day and you’re left alone with your thoughts. Maybe there’s another mansion full of serial killers so you can start fresh, your ears burn recalling how excited you got talking about flesh-eating bugs.

A few days later, Cody returns to the mansion with a limp raccoon and some things it stole from the local morgue.

You spend the entire night together trying to preserve this creature’s hide, you take it apart with precise motions, expertly moving the scalpel along the skin and parting flesh and sinew. You soak the skin in salts, rubbing it into the bloody underside until you smell like copper and the salt mines.

The whole room smells like formaldehyde, too.

✸ ☣︎ ​​✸

Cody is so excited to share its books with you, all of them. You spend long evenings together curled over a battery-powered lantern and ten-pound textbooks, occasionally mentioning an interesting tidbit when you come across one. Your books are filled with flattened foliage from the surrounding woods, poisonous plants and flowers, plastic baggies filled with poison ivy leaves, and hand-drawn diagrams of each plant’s internal structures in a ballpoint pen. It flips through each page carefully, examining each specimen, complimenting each note and observation.

“You should open a museum,” It says, running a finger over a pressed Conium maculatum. That snaps you out of your science headspace.

You should, but you can’t. “Besides, who would enjoy a museum like that?” You argue.

“Think about the Mütter Museum,” It quips back, “If people frequent a museum full of pickled people-guts and spines, I’m sure people would go to yours. People like flowers.”

In another universe where violence wasn’t at the forefront of your mind, maybe you’d be the curator of a weird little museum full of oddities.

​​✸ ☣︎ ​​✸

“Toby comes here all the time to burn CDs, don’t worry, the cameras stopped working years ago and they never bothered to fix them,” Cody pushes open a window and climbs into the air-conditioned computer lab of the local library, “Just don’t knock anything over, I guess.” It jokes.

You drop through the window and feel goosebumps form on your arms, you haven’t felt air conditioning in years.

Cody unlocks the door leading to the rest of the facility, you walk side-by-side, dragging your fingers over the spines of dozens of books.

“You know the Dewey Decimal System, right?” Cody asks, there’s a thrill with breaking in, especially for pleasure (rather than worrying about killing every occupant in a house, you both can focus on finding a specific edition of a book you were dying to read).

“By heart.” You joke, guiding it to the 500s: Natural Sciences.

You spend five hours squished up together reading from the same book. It points to a diagram and you explain every minute detail, Cody listens eagerly to your explanations, wanting to ingrain every word that comes out of your brilliant, perfect brain, and memorize the way you describe the venom sacs of the Hydrophis schistosus.

 The way it rolls off your tongue—Hydrophis schistosus—Cody wants that to be the last sound it ever hears, the sound echoing forever in its brain until the heat death of the universe.

You creep down to the 200s and find a few textbooks about niche religious practices. You tell Cody about the rarity of cannibalistic religious practices, and the prevalence of cannibalism in some movies ticks you off.

“Cannibalism isn’t that common,” You scoff, “It’s more than socially taboo, it’s biologically taboo. Ever heard of Kuru?”

“Tell me.” It begs.

✸ ☣︎ ​​✸

⦻ Ticci Toby | Tobias Erin Rogers ⦻

Every word that comes out of you flies over his head. Even though he doesn't know a thing about what you’re telling him about, he’s completely and utterly enamored. Toby never graduated high school, and—for the most part—he’s glad he didn’t have to spend any more time around high-school people. 

He misses learning. Sometimes Toby thinks he’s stupid, Tim and Brian went to university, and they have high school diplomas with their names on them somewhere, Toby has nothing except an honor roll card from the eighth grade. You’re so brilliant, maybe part of him thinks he’s weighing you down by stopping your ramblings to ask for clarification. He’s so deep in thought he hasn't been paying attention to your talks about the Ghent Altarpiece’s connection to ancient practices of animal sacrifice.

“Does it bother you when I do that—when I don’t know things a-and you gotta explain it to me?”

You’re sitting on the porch together looking out over the rolling fog, he sucks in a breath, the tip of a Marlboro lighting up orange-hot.

“I like it, actually.” You say matter-of-factly

Toby’s diaphragm sputters as smoke spills from his nose, and he coughs hard into his elbow. “...Doesn’t it—But I’m interrupting you because I’m too stupid to get it the first time—”

That word gives you pause, and Toby tosses away the cigarette butt and curls into himself, shame burning hot on his face.

“I don’t think—”

“E-Everyone does,” He cries, “I-I can’t help it, I couldn’t even finish high school. Tim and Brian made it to college, at least.”

You push yourself into his personal space, knocking your knee into his as you lean over to share a secret.

“I can teach you if you’d like.”

Toby’s red-hot shame melts into a giddy flush as your warm breath lands on his ear.

✸ ⦻ ​​✸

The next victim that comes Toby’s way—a family of three with a prying-eyed teenager getting too close to discovering the mansion—grants you both access to the internet for a time.

You start with Wikipedia, it’s good practice to get bare-bones information that starts the deep dive. Marine Biology is the starting topic because the random article Wikipedia spat out at you was about the bigfin squid.

Toby mumbles aloud as he scrolls through the article, the picture on the right left the hairs on his arms standing on end. Little is known about it because it dwells so deep, and scientists aren’t entirely sure why its distinct long arms are there.

“Nobody knows how it feeds?”

“We know more about space than our oceans,” You say, “We have pictures of the Big Bang.”

Toby rolls back on the wheeled chair and pushes the keyboard to you.

You open a new tab and open the search bar.

COSMIC MICROWAVE BACKGROUND.

He pulls back in, opening the third link that pops up. You sit quietly as he devours an entire article explaining the picture’s existence, he’s vibrating in his chair. Toby continues the search without your input, googling words and finding plenty of pictures of smattered space dust orbiting tiny, dense stars.

The pictures of the black hole shake him to his core, nebulae give him chills, beautiful planets and star systems and moons and—

Alpha Centauri grabs a hold of Toby’s body and keeps him there. He pushes the monitor towards you and you read along with him, he’s shaking with excitement, free hand flapping excitedly as he scrolls through the academic journal.

He prints out a few pictures before the police show up, the cosmic microwave background bathing the room in greens and blues and smatterings of yellows and reds.

✸ ⦻ ​​✸

He starts stealing books from the library, as do you. You take turns showing and telling. He shows you astronomy books and you show him textbooks about the history of taxonomy; you spend hours sitting across from each other on the floor exchanging knowledge.

“I’m—I’m glad we did this. Thanks for doing all of—of that.” 

You peek over an academic journal you’ve read at least seven times, smiling softly as Toby puts his new collection of literature into a box and pushes it into the closet. He piles a few flannels and shirts over the box to camouflage it amongst his dirt laundry.

“Why’re you doing that?”

Toby turns to you and turns away meekly, “...It’s our special thing, you get it? I don’t want anyone getting into our business. This is our thing. Our special thing.”

A warmth creeps up your neck as Toby holds your gaze. You close your journals.

“Babies have more bones than adults.” You whisper, your hand splayed over his shoulder blades, “About three hundred.”

Toby’s breath hitches as your hands warm the spot where his cervical vertebrae end and the thoracic meet.

“H-How many are—” He covers his mouth to cover a shaky breath, “—i-in the spine?”

“There are thirty-three vertebrae. Seven cervical,” You and trails down his back, “Twelve thoracic,” you creep further, “Five lumbar,” Lower and lower you go, “Five sacral,” You’re getting bold now, “...And four coccygeals.”

You hold your hands there, Toby enjoys the warmth radiating from your fingers, he wants to melt into you like watered-down clay (you would call it slip since you know everything). He wants to read books with you for the rest of his life and not do anything else.

He wants you to count every rib, every tooth in his mouth, every bone in his hands and feet—counting and counting and counting until he's dizzy.

✸ ⦻ ​​✸

[jarofstyles]

Stay Right Here

This is a variation of Alpharry prince and Omega Maid… I hope you enjoy <3 sorry in advance.

Check out our Patreon!

WC: 1.6 k

Warnings: slight angst, ABO dynamics, smut, knotting mention

—————

“No one smells as divine as you do.” His nose buried in the crook of her neck, Y/N laid on his bed with her fingers gently combing through his hair. It was hard to be a prince. Y/N knew just as well as anyone, being on the palace property, that he had a lot of work to do and a lot of appearances to keep. Especially considering she was his chosen confidant.

“Thank you, my prince.” Her breathy voice was soft, a smile lighting her face as she felt him grumble and nibble on her skin.

“Harry or Alpha in this room.”

His pout could be felt when he released her flesh from his skin. “I am not a prince here. I am but a simple Alpha, laying with his dream omega.” The words were bittersweet. So sweet because she loved that out of all th omegas, all the people in the kingdom and the faraway lands he had travelled, she was his dream. Bitter because she could not have him. That one day, he would be betrothed to an omega of nobility. They usually avoided that topic unless it was to praise her.

“I apologize, Alpha.” She sweetened her tone, ignoring the twinge of pain she knew his heart matched. “I know you’ve had a hard day. It saddens me that you are put under such burdens.” Her voice was a vibration against him, making him relax further into her plushy body. Warm, soft, beautiful. Harry adored each and every inch. Every touch made him light up, melt, be in a puddle of the things he had been in need of and no one else could provide.

“No apologies.” He mumbled, puckering his lips on her bare skin, travellling down. “Having you nude in my chambers at the end of the day is enough of a blessing for me to overlook it. My beautiful gift.” His body was also nude, strong and unblemished besides the ink on his skin and the little scars on his knuckles from sparring, and the one on his knee from falling from a tree when he was but a pup. It had been the last time he had done so, as his father had deemed him too old for pup like behaviors- He was only 7 years at that point.

“Of course.” She replied, body arching into his touch. Y/N had felt like his since they’d met. She had begun her work at the palace when he had been on a voyage to a faraway kingdom. It was fine work, they were treated and paid fairly, and it was calm besides the balls and the pre planned dinner parties. It had been 2 months of calm, destroyed by green eyes and a killer smirk when he arrived back home.

Harry had personally requested Y/N to be his maid. His personal one. She had looked so tired at his arrival ball, so beautiful, smelling so sweet.. he felt it to be criminal to let an omega like that be worked to the bone when she could tend to him and his needs. There weren’t too many. She stoked his fire when he lit one, prepared his ritual baths, folded and set out his clothes… and soon enough, warmed his bed.

It was no secret. It could not be. His scent overpowered her own, but the royals did not care so long as she kept up with her duties and harry, his. It wasn’t uncommon for royal men to sample the offerings, and Y/N had been more than willing. They had a lovely connection and she had been able to keep the prince’s temper in control. There was also the fact that she and harry spent so much time around one another that their rut and heat corresponded, making it perfect to keep them together out of convenience. Harry need not take on any omega for his rut that they would need to check the background of, no need to question the motives. She was a benefit to the crown, so long as she knew her place. Y/N didn’t speak out of turn around other royals, aware of the position and blessing it seemed to be. They had made it abundantly clear that Harry was to marry a royal omega and she would go back to her other duties or be moved when that time came.

“You are safe now. This room is for us to relax and enjoy one another.” Harry spoke against warm skin, moving between her breasts and rubbing his face in between them. Scenting her, coating her in the second best claim he could give. “I had a hard day, but it is time for us now, sweet girl.” His lips puckered to kiss right between her breasts, slowly making his way down to her stomach. This was their fantasy world. The lock was bolted, no one could disturb their peace but themselves, and Y/N was not one to interrupt the prince when he began to drift into their dream life.

It was foolish, perhaps, to pretend to be mates in the safety net of this room. Foolish and destined for heartbreak, but when he kissed her stomach and mumbled about giving her a child in there, the rest of the world melted away and she allowed herself to imagine it. To imagine a piece of him inside of her.

When he made his way up and locked their lips, her legs spread open for him, awaiting what she knew they’d both needed after a long day. His lips swallowed her broken moan as he pushed into her, filling her to the brim as he smoothed her hair back from her cheek. The connection between their bodies, the pulsing of his thick cock filling her up comforted her. This was them. Naked and connected, relaxing in the most intimate way possible.

“I need it.” Pleas were soft against his lips, hands smoothing down his muscled back as she wrapped her legs around his hips. “Alpha.. please.” Her swollen lips from his hour of kissing beforehand and her silky skin from their shared bath felt like heaven against the alpha’s body. This was what he always craved. Her honeyed scent and her sweet cunt wrapped around him while she pleaded for him. Someone who adored him and he adored in ways that were unfathomable to him. She had a faith and an adoration for him that he had always dreamt of. No one could ever be better for him than this omega. This dream woman.

“I’ll give you whatever it is you want. My light.” He rasped against her lips, pushing as deep as possible and simply letting them enjoy the connection. The slick around his cock, the need to spill into her, her fluttering around him and trying to keep him in this deep position. “I know you’re craving a knot. I’ll give it to you, little angel of mine.” He rubbed their noses together, pulling out slowly and letting her feel every bump and ridge while he did the same thing. He pressed his lips back against hers to absorb her whine, growling back against her mouth while he repeated his actions and pushed in slow and steady. Her hole adjusted to him, sucking him back in greedily. Like she was made for him, pulling him in with her heels on the curve of his ass.

“So full. You fill me perfectly, Harry.” She looked at him with wet eyes, the stretch and the fullness making her tear up. No one else could ever or would ever make her feel this complete. “I don’t want anything but your cock inside of me. It’s made to fill me and I’m made for your knot. I need it so badly I ache.” She cupped his cheek. “Please, please. Pleasure yourself too. I’ve been dreaming of it all day long.”

Harry couldn’t say no to her. Never could tell her no when she made him feel as if he was floating despite the weights on his shoulders. Made him defy gravity when everyone else was trying to keep him buried in the earth. Y/N built him up.

“I’ve dreamt of you all day long. Having your scent on me isn’t enough.” He grumbled, angling his hips a bit further out to give it to her deeper. The reward was instant, tightening up around him and her keening whine as fingers dug into the flesh of his back. “Need you wrapped around my cock all day. Need you in my lap, smell you from the source as I work. I’m going mad. I want to bite your neck and keep you attached to my knot. Perfect omega f’me.”

Y/N keened as she felt the satisfying filling of him. In and out, filling her to the brim each time. Sparks ignited behind her eyes as he pushed her to her limits, reaching spots only he ever could. She had tried to replicate it with her fingers but nothing could compare. No one got her this wet, slicking up the length so much there was a threat to slip out each time he pulled back enough to fully thrust back in. Something Harry moaned about.

“Dripping cunt, so soft for me. I want to stay here.” He melted into her neck, nipping at the skin. His teeth ached, he wanted to bite so badly it made him whine- but he couldn’t. Not without consequences, consequences that would be worse for her than him and he loved her far too much than to make that hell happen for her. “I want to stay right here. My heaven.”

If only he could.

[menciemeer]

Does anyone ever think that like. One of the central ideas of Hannibal is that human beings are delicious.

Not even just in a cannibalism-taboo way, either. Literally everyone who’s gone to one of Hannibal’s dinner parties agrees: The food is good.

(There’s that confusing moment in Trou Normand where it looks like Abigail is realizing what it is she’s eating--confusing because she doesn’t Figure Hannibal Out until later. But what if she isn’t thinking, This tastes just like-- but instead I haven’t had meat this good since--)

It’s not just the taste, either. Human beings in Hannibal seem to make incomparable mushroom fertilizer and instrument strings. Bees love human bodies. And every artist in the entire goddamn world seemingly has this temptation towards human-corpse-as-artistic-medium. Garret Jacob Hobbs uses human hair as pillow stuffing. He holds his pipes together with paste made from human bones.

Also probably worth mentioning is That One Shot in Sorbet (no, That Other One Shot in Sorbet)--the one with the opera singer’s throat, followed by the lingering shot of Hannibal’s ear. It’s the meat again. Meat is singing and more meat is listening. Hannibal is moved to tears--his enjoyment even of music is physical.

It’s probably stretching a bit to try to fit Self-Actualization Via Murder into this paradigm but well. I’m going to try anyway. It’s not just the corpses but the making of corpses that holds this fantastic power in Hannibal Land. We’ve got Randall Tier and Francis Dolarhyde and Will Goddamn Graham all reaching (for) their truest selves via the doing of murder. Hannibal talks about it like this:

We both know the unreality of taking a life. Of people who die when we have no other choice. We know in those moments they are not flesh, but light, and air, and color.

There’s something magical about that. The moment when a person separates from their (useful! valuable! delicious!) body and becomes something else. The moment itself is valuable, if you are one of the Tier-Dolarhyde-Graham classification of killers in Hannibal’s universe.

I feel like I’ve seen a lot of focus on Hannibal disguising what it is he’s cooking with. How his cooking is so good despite. If this post has a thesis, I guess it is that, instead, Hannibal is a good cook because.

[nethhiri]

Marooned: Chapter 3

Kid x FemReader x Killer

Warnings: None I think

Bull-headed

The wild, red hair that sprouted from the man's head unmistakably belonged to Eustass Kid. Orange eyes aflame with rage glared at you as the man snatched the goggles you had discarded from the ground and placed them on his head. It was all coming together in your head. Of course you didn't recognize Killer. His face was normally hidden behind a shield of blue and white. The thing you had initially identified as a stupid looking colander was what remained of Killer's mask. It, along with Kid's goggles, must have been ripped from the two men in the tumultuous sea. 

You took a step back to put some distance between you and he. This wasn't the first time you had met these two particular pirates. The first time had been a very long time ago, when they were just starting out as pirates and you were just a cadet. For a moment you were nervous that he might recognize you, though with the right half of your face being disfigured since then, it was unlikely. In that brief meeting years ago, you had the upper hand. Sizing him up now though... If you were at your best, you still weren't sure you could take him. He was much smaller the last time you saw him. Well, as small as one Eustass Kid could be. Currently though, he was back up on his feet at his full height of 6'9" and he had a murderous aura about him, which snapped you to the present.

"Wait," you had your hands up in the universal gesture for 'I mean no harm' and I'm stalling for time.  "Without me, he'll die," you said, nodding your head in the direction of the Kid Pirates' first mate. It was sort of a lie. The truth was that he would probably be fine as long as he didn't get an infection and someone sewed him up soon. 

Kid looked at his crewmate and looked back to you. He looked like he was contemplating how true that really was. 

You continued, "I was going to get my first-aid kit when you..." There was a dull ache in your neck. "...pretty rudely attacked me for no reason."

Kid's lip curled. "FI-. Fine." He winced as his voice cracked. Kid massaged his Adam's apple and cleared his throat. "But if he dies, then you die." You could tell he kept his voice low to avoid another crack, but his demeanor didn't change. 

Turning, you wondered if he would use this opportunity to attack you again, but he must have believed you because you weren't being tackled or choked out. You could feel his smirk burning into your back, though, as you went to fetch your things. Wish I still had seastone bullets. What use is an emergency gun if the threat is a magnetic son of a bitch? It was your turn to glare. With narrowed eyes, you gave the middle finger in Mini's general direction. "Thanks for helping, you ass," you muttered. Some twigs snapped in response. 

It only took a minute to grab the things you needed and within 15 minutes you were back. The Red Menace was sitting next to Killer, cross-legged, with a jar tipped back into his mouth. Y/C/E flicked to the other empty jars on the ground next to him and your temper flared. "HEY! What in the hell do you think you're doing, helping yourself to my food?" For just a second, he looked like a boy who got caught with his hands in the cookie jar. 

A look of guilt flashed across his face before it was replaced with a scowl. "I was fucking hungry." 

Tossing your things to the ground next to Killer, you flopped down with a huff. "Yeah well. You better get used to it." Orange eyes watched you intently as you took out some sinew and a needle made from a tiny rib bones. Expertly, you threaded your needle and decided to start on the leg wound. It was still nice and clean under the cloth from earlier. You repositioned the flesh to properly plan your stitches. It was a little jagged, but it wouldn't be difficult. Plenty of time had passed on the island, you had your fair share of injuries with only yourself to fix them. Probably good thing he's out because this is gonna hurt a little. With deft hands, you worked at closing the gash. Your eyes flicked between what you were doing and Kid. His knuckles were white and he was craning his neck to watch what you were doing. "Can you do something other than hover? Something productive?" His scowl deepened at that so you were taking it as a "no". He wasn't making you nervous. Actually he was kind of annoying you. You finished stitching Killer's leg within the next few minutes and bit the excess off. Examining the finished product, you nodded, satisfied. 

A deep sigh left the captain across from you. Was he holding his breath? Is he really that worried? That's actually... Not what you expected. Cute even. Cute wasn't the right word. Refreshing, that even the ruthless Captain Kid seemed to care this much over his partner. For the first time, you noticed that along with the empty food jars, Kid had grabbed his first mate's broken mask too.

You shifted over to move behind Killer's head, gently lifting it to be propped up on your crossed legs and trying to sort through the blond mane to map the entirety of the laceration. God there's so much hair. "I think I might have to cut some of it away." You were talking to yourself, but you felt the giant next to you bristle.

"ABSOLUTELY FUCKING NOT." 

"I am right next to you. You don't have to yell." If your hands weren't occupied separating Killer's hair, you might have thrown them. You looked him up and down, with a scowl to match his own. "Seriously, go make yourself useful. Find something to eat, since you ruined my dinner." Naturally, your voice had authority in it. You did used to have a crew of your own after all. 

Kid must have picked up on it. "Oh? You know who I am and you still think you can give me an order?" His head was cocked to the side. 

You got your needle ready again, only briefly considering stabbing him, before starting to mend Killer's head. So he wants to play this game...  You planning on being nice and helping him, helping them both, by showing him what he could and could not eat. You weren't going to waste precious calories arguing. "Sorry... you're right." You sighed. "I'll finish up here and leave you to it." This island was lush, no doubt, but it took you a long time to figure out which things you could eat without shitting yourself silly the next day. It'll build character to let Eustass Kid struggle. You ignored him until you were done with the last stitches. "All set." 

You stood up and brushed yourself off. "I'll find you later so I can check on him. I don't need you hunting me down because his wounds got infected." You gathered your things into the sled that was still waiting from your excursion this morning. "Not to give you an order or anything, but you can put his clothes back on. I cleaned them." The wet clothes that Kid had been in earlier had long since dried with a thin, salty crust. 

"WHATEVER."

________________

Since this story is based on my OC, here she is so you can have an idea of what reader's scars look like.

AO3 link

[henry-fox-biggest-stan]

Just finished rereading the iliad, so thinking about Shauna and Jackie and Achilles and Patroklos, because the similarities are there.

The fight scene where Jackie (Patroklos) tells Shauna (Achilles) to get out because she can’t be around her at the moment, is, to me, similar to the scene where Patroklos is telling Achilles to go out and fight the Trojans.

And then Shauna (Achilles) tells her no, she won’t go out and if Jackie doesn’t feel like she can be around her that sounds like her problem, so maybe she should go out. Similar to Achilles not going out to fight the Trojans and save the Greeks, but instead agreeing to let Patroklos go out with his armor to help them.

Agreeing to go out is what causes both Jackie and Patroklos to die.

Before Jackie dies she has a dream (vision? whatever that was) where Shauna goes out to get her and bring her back inside, apologizing and giving her food. Similar to how Patroklos, before he died, killed many Trojans and believed he might be saving the Greeks after all.

Then it snows, and Jackie freezes to death outside (different to how Patroklos died, killed by Hector) and Shauna realizes what happened when she saw the snow through the window, and she runs outside to find Jackie’s corpse buried under the snow.

My friend is dead, Patroclus, my dearest friend of all. I loved him, And I killed him.

Now where the parallels get good.

Shauna, like Achilles, keeps Jackie/Patroklos’ corpse and visits it daily, talks to it, even does her makeup once. Achilles kept Patroklos’ corpse on their tent, and it wasn’t until Patroklos’ spirit came to him during a dream to tell him to give him a funeral, since otherwise he couldn’t enter the underworld, than Achilles started his funeral. Similar to how Shauna kept Jackie’s body until Tai said they had to get rid of her corpse and than what Shauna was doing wasn’t healthy.

They cremate Jackie, just like they cremated Patroklos.

Do not lay my bones apart from yours, but let them lie together

That’s what Patroklos spirit tells Achilles during that dream, which reminds me of “I don’t even know where you end and I begin”.

When he rejoins the battle, Patroclus does so as Achilles' surrogate, literally impersonating him by wearing his armor, and he represents Achilles' double as well as his opposite.

-Sheila Murnaghan, introduction of the Iliad, Stanley Lombardo’s version (1997)

In the most extreme moments of his grief for his most beloved person, Achilles presents Patroclus not as his child, parent, or wife, but as himself. The ultimate form of love is to see no difference between the self and the beloved. Patroclus' journey into battle wearing the armor of Achilles transforms him into his friend, in the eyes of the Trojans. He becomes Achilles also, tragically, in his violent death before the walls of Troy, killed by Trojans through the help of Apollo, just as Achilles soon will be. Once Patroclus is dead, Achilles tries to transform himself into his dead friend, by rolling in the dust and, like a dead man, abstaining from food, sleep, or sex. He anticipates joining Patroclus again, and becoming indistinguishable from him in death, when their bones are together in one jar."

-Emily Wilson, introduction of her version of the Iliad (2023)

Meanwhile Shauna (and the other girls, but she did it first) eats Jackie, Achilles doesn’t do that with Patroklos, but he does say this line

I wish my stomach would let me / Cut off your flesh in strips and eat it raw / For what you've done to me.

He says that to Hector, Patroklos’ killer, before killing him in revenge. Since Jackie didn’t have a killer (and if she did, it was Shauna, even if she chose to go out), Shauna has no one to kill in revenge, no one to wish to eat for the intense grief, so she turns to Jackie.

Also Jackie was always meant to die, she was doomed by the narrative, she died because she was meant for life outside the woods, for a normal life, the life they had before, she wasn’t meant for a cannibalistic cult, that’s kind of what Jackie’s death represents, she was a symbol of societal norms and hierarchies (being this popular prom queen and Shauna talking about how back home they were probably “missing their perfect little princess” and how Jackie tells her than she’s such a cliché for thinking of her and their relationship like that), whatever, but also Patroklos. He’s constantly described as gentle, kind. Which is weird to see given than he has one of the highest body counts in the book (if not the highest). Also people who are always described by those adjectives, kind, gentle, sweet people don’t usually belong in a war. Smh.

while Achilles is violent, quick to anger, and jealous of his own honor, Patroclus is gentle, concerned for the bonds of friendship between members of the army, and compassionate, and he reenters the war out of pity for the many Greeks who are dying because of Achilles' absence.

-Sheila Murnaghan, introduction of the Iliad, Stanley Lombardo’s version (1997)

Our Patroclus was, gentle and kind to all / When he was alive.

Then they gathered the bones of their gentle comrade

As Hector, who killed your gentle, valiant friend.

I will never stop grieving for you, forever sweet.

You killed his comrade, Gentle and strong,

Also, Achilles is described as having man-slaying hands. Isn’t Shauna the butcher of the yellowjackets?

[d1ssenter-be-damned]

*opens trenchcoat to reveal several pamphlets with fic tropes on them* What kind of nicities might you be interested in Tumblr user error-is-bae? `<•##>3

well hello there anonymous tumblr user that im fairly certain is one of two people.

listen man i know everyone and their dog has written a fic where gabriel atones for the errors of his ways by throwing himself into rebuilding lust w minos. but i cannot get the concept out of my head

every interp ive seen thus far has minos be angry, yes, but i dont think hes been angry enough. i want him to break. i want him to tear into gabriel like a rabid fucking beast. i want him to grab him by the throat and throw him to the floor hard enough shards of concrete get lodged in his lungs. i want gabriel to scramble back instinctively because he knows hes no match for a prime soul, especially not without his Light but he's not fast enough and then Minos grabs him again and he can't breathe--

and i want him to just go limp. to accept his fate. and minos just gets angrier because he wants him to fight, he wants to revel in the feeling of his bones crunching and listening to him scream but it's not satisfying if he doesnt fight back and he did not waste away in that god forsaken prison watching everything he'd worked so hard to achieve (peacefully! he never wanted a fight, he wanted to thrive, he tried to reason--) be torn down by his own withered hands only for gabriel to rob him of what little gratification he could receive as if he hadn't already taken everything from him. i want him to roar "why won't you fight me?!" as he lifts gabriel by his collar. he wants to see the spirit that gabriel had before (when they were colleagues, friends even, when they would spend their time debating philosophy and literature and enjoying being together), wants to watch it break under his fists--

(and he thinks of the way gabriel looked down at him so long ago, the divine light of the spear held to his throat shining across his armor, the way he had pleaded for some of that previous kindness to return only to feel as the head pierced his skin and dug its way through his flesh, blood curling down his neck in rivulets and pooling in his mouth as he gasped for any semblance of breath he could take--)

and for just a second he thinks of how things could have been so much different if gabriel had a heart. if he was allowed to rule his kingdom in peace, allowed to let his people prosper and grow and have a second chance. and he looks at gabriel, sad and limp and broken in his grip, but hes not broken like a warrior after a valiant fight or a killer after a spree, hes broken like a fledgling bird with clipped feathers pecking at fingers for its own survival, like a child tucked away in a damp street corner waiting for it to be safe to move again, like the people he had helped build a new life in death.

and on one hand it infuriates him because gabriel is the reason he never got to see his people thrive, never got to see his kingdom grow and live and by all means he should despise him for everything hes done

but at the same time he remembers the gabriel from before the Council, remembers their late nights together, remembers the intelligence and the wit and the charm and the kindness they had Beaten out of him, sees how hopeless and faithless he has become

and sees that he has the chance to be better.

but he has to think about it. so he drops gabriel to the ground and watches as he scuttles back and coughs for breath and looks up at him and can practically feel the confusion and disbelief radiating off of him and if he's honest hes not sure hes making the right decision either. so he turns around and stalks away before he has the chance to change his mind.

anygays. i spent way too long writing this out cus im just obsessed with the concept of them growing closer Slowly because obviously minos can never truly forgive him and gabriel cant ever be rid of that Guilt but i do think there's something there to work from. they just have to put in some effort.

[sometimesraven]

[slides into your dms] hello i'm coming to you with this because you're the only one of my dash who will have the context to consider this but...

karlach in a dead by daylight crossover where the entity snatches her on the brink of death to become a killer.

thoughts?

Oh, interesting. Dare I say evil? It's an idea I've never even considered but now I'm considerin' it

Functionally as a Barbarian I'm sure her gameplay would be reminiscent of the Oni (honestly realistically she'd probably be a skin for him if she got added to the game) with a rage meter that allows her to instadown a Survivor if she hits them during it. I don't think she'd be as fast as the Oni in a Rage though, but maybe she'd also gain immunity to Blind while she's in it. Maybe it would fill up based on how long she's in Chase for rather than blood, which would be an excellent looping foil but still workable for the survivor.

Visually she'd probably be a lot more scarred up, maybe with some new tattoos styled after the Entity as marks of new ownership. Her engine might beat black or perhaps look a little more orange and ichorous like the Blight.

There's a bit of lore that I can't remember if it's fanon or canon but it says that the Entity fucks up, tortures and/or mutilates its Killers if they defy it, so I reckon Karlach would have a few more scars. Maybe that's what the new tattoos are. Maybe one of her eyes is blackened or her broken horn is.

Of course, then there's the Backstory(tm) which i went mad with as soon as I read this ask. The Entity feeds on the loss of hope, so I had to imagine in what circumstance K would completely lose that spark she has through the game. My thoughts, of course, turned to the possibility of her having to return to Avernus after everything she's been through in-game.

--

The stench of Avernus had almost become comfortable. Familiar. There had been hope, once, that she would return home to Baldur's Gate. To life. But that hope had died somewhere down here and was rotting with the rest of the corpses she had left behind.

Karlach could barely remember who she was before, nor how many eternities had passed in the grip of this endless Blood War. Her skin was no longer her own, marred and marked by claims of ownership and scars alike. Flames licked at her arms, her legs, her breasts, burning fingers never leaving her be. Her chest, hollowed and replaced with infernal machinery, churned and rumbled in time with the ceaseless war drums. The only company she had were her comrades doomed to die, and the devils who owned her every breath and memory.

Her axe plunged into the skull of another lesser demon, feeling the easy crunch as it tore through bone; the weight of the blade as it was dragged down by the corpse before it lifted free with a spurt of blackened blood. She would have been ashamed, once, of the pleasure this brought her. The power. The only control she had down here -- to choose her targets well and kill them swiftly by any means she chose. After everything she'd sacrificed, that control was the only reward she could cling to.

She blinked, and the demon became a person. A young man, broken in the grass, light missing from his glassy eyes as they stared at her, widened and frozen in the terror of his own death. She remembered, then, the tears in her companions' eyes as they sent her back to Avernus after so long trying to find a cure for her failing heart engine.

She remembered the despair coursing through her as she realised she had no other option.

She remembered fighting her way through the hordes again, losing the vigour she had always fought with before. No more rage. No more hope. Just despair and bitterness at the cards she had been dealt.

Perhaps she grew a little sloppy. A little careless. Let in a strike that should have been easy to parry. Allowed the demon's blade to tear through her flesh. Allowed the pain; the only thing left to remind her she had ever been free.

She remembered the panic as blood clogged her throat and choked her breaths. What had she done? Was this really how it would end, alone here in the darkness to be forgotten like every other Gods-damned creature in the ash?

She expected the fires to take her. She remembered the thick, dark fog that blackened the air around her instead, carrying her somewhere unknown.

Her new war. Her new home.

--

oops i posted this on AO3 as well because crossposting is good posting

[sunnydreams17]

Hey so I wanted to publish some of my writtings around! I hope whoever reads it likes it. This is just for fun and I write a lot of stuff from different fan bases like " Hetalia", " Dramatical Murderer" and so on. This one is a fanfic from the show " Hannibal " so I hope you enjoy! Also forgive me for spelling and punctuation mistakes i'm still trying to get better at that ))

" art is my passion...art is my life, my work, my very being.

I turn pigs into art and this animal is now my art. She was disrespectful~ and as I ripped her flesh open and broke her bones to make her into something higher then she once was I can't help but feel still dissatisfied.

When will I get to make my final art work? When will I find myself a beautiful swan hidden among these pigs? When will I get to make this swan my final statement?

My dissatisfaction turns into disguest as I started to become rough with the pig. Making the art work more messy then anything. Yet still it was art and as I cut away her heart and held it gently in my hand I smile. At least this pig will be of good use after all. In art work she is nothing to me because she isn't my swan that I wish for but in food she will be something very useful indeed.

This is my design~ "

" Will..... Will.....WILL "

Will snaps out of his trance fast. His eyes widening a little as he takes in a deep breathe looking up at the stairs to the gruesome crime scene. A woman lays there stomach open as flowers lay in it. Roses, tulips, marigolds, and forget-me-nots. They looked as if they were growing out of the woman. The golden blood that dripped down from the woman falls onto the stairs as bones from her body litter the stairwell making it seem like the bones were trying to lead you to the main attraction. " what Jack? " Will sighs and turns away from the scene in front of him. Usually he wouldn't be effected by any of this but as of lately he felt like it was getting at him.

" what did you see? You were under for a long time that means you saw a enough" Jack, who was Wills boss stood beside the man looking up at the scene on the stairs. Jack was the head of the " Royal FBI Unit" it was a Unit ran by the king to make sure craziness didn't go around in the kingdom to much but there was other reasons for this Unit as well " what's our killer like? What type of crazy? "

" A person of art " Will finally said and turns back to the scene making sure he made room for other agents to start a proper investigation " their smart, educated, and someone that sees society differently"

" so their an educated sociopath that likes art? That narrows it down greatly Will" Jack rolled his eyes and frowns " that won't get us no where!

" their different! " Will shouted " this person knows what they want so badly...they want to find their swan! Their.... their needle in the haystack! They see society as pigs and among those pigs is a beautiful swan and they want it....they want to find it and make it there final artwork...they want their swan...

" and they clearly have not found it then " Jack mumbled as he grabs out his phone " which means there will be another killing soon until they find a swan... what do they think their swan will be like? What do they look for in a swan?

" I don't know " that's what confused Will...what did this person want in a swan? This person was educated and clearly loved art. " maybe someone that is on their level? Maybe someone that can be an equal to them"

" an equal? So they can kill their equal? That doesn't make sense Will " Jack puts his phone away " doesn't matter will talk about this more later. I expect to see you at the kings party tonight. Don't disappoint me Will" Jack turns away shouting orders to get the body taken care of and out of the stairs by dusk

Will felt a surge of annoyance go through him but he held his tongue. He knew talking back to Jack was like poking a already angry lion. Will just nods and walked away from the scene. He hated parties more then anything in the world. Parties ment he had to socialize and that was something Will never wanted to do. He rather be home with his dogs while he ate dinner and watched a fishing show. Though life was never that kind to Will because once he got home he went to get ready for this party.

The party was said to be held by the king every few years. The Kings name was Verger and he was known to be somewhat not fully in the head. Though Will never said anything about it because he knew the kings eyes and ears were everywhere. One word about him and he could be killed and Will rather liked living.

As Will stood near the mirror he looked at himself. He found the only suit he had in his closet which you could tell was a little old but it did the job. He pushed back his hair a little making sure his brown curly hair looked decent " just make it through 4 hours and then I can go home " Will mumbled and felt a rub at his leg. He looked down and smiled softly looking at his beloved dog Winston " sorry boy " he pat Winston gently " I'll be back soon just hang in there " he pulled away and grabbed his phone. He walked out of his home walking off to the castle which was deep in the city. God will already hated this but he walked down the cobble stone road and moved aside when drunks walked about or when a horse was rushing down the road.

The trip was long but when Will got to the castle gates he showed his invitation to the guards

" this is old " one of the guards said

" it's the wrong date as well" another said " you can't come in"

Will frowns and looks at the invitation confused " what do you mean? I got an invitation from the king to be here. I'm part of the " Royal FBI Unit" I have a right to be here " Will would have not fought if he wasn't surrounded by other people dressed far to fancy then he was. He felt like a sore thumb sticking out in a crowd of beautiful well dressed people. Will grumbled as he looked at the invitation and saw that he had brought the wrong one. Of course he did! He was a fool after all! He should have doubled checked! " you have my word that I was invited! If I go home now I'll be back here late and you won't be accepting guest at that time anymore! Please " he said softly and didn't want to hear Jack yelling at him like some stupid fool!

" we can't let you in unless you have the right invitation. You'll have to step out the line now sir. Or will have to force you" the guard said and moved his hand down to his sword. Will felt his heart drop a little at the movement of the guards hand. He was about to say something when he heard galloping. Will turns around just in time for a beautiful black carriage to pull up. Though the carriage when it stopped with a sudden jerk made mud splash onto Wills pants. Wills eyes widen in horror as he stood there looking at his now dirty pants. I mean the suit and pants was already so old but fucking hell that doesn't mean he wanted it to be completely ruined! " damn it! " Will backs up and crumbled the invitation in his hands. His had about enough of this night that was for sure. Will looked up at the carriage seeing the beautiful black and white horses and small statues of angels on the very top of the carriage. Whoever was in there must be some snob and will didn't feel like dealing with them. He turns away but before he could fully leave he heard the door open to the carriage and a voice with a heavy accent speak

" excuse me, I'm terriblely sorry for what happened"

Will stopped dead in his tracks and turns around looking over and seeing a well dressed man. A dark red suit with a small back flower in the suit pocket. The man's blond hair almost looking gray was neatly pushed back and his eyes were so beautiful Will had to do a double take .... i mean he hated looking at eyes so he quickly looked away " ....it's fine... I was just leaving anyway "

" no no no that won't do. You're here for the party yes? And I dirty you suit... let me help you. It would be my way of showing how sorry I am " The man smiled softly " come get inside the carriage and once we're inside the castle you can go to my personal room and look for a suit in there "

Will couldn't believe what he was hearing " suit? ... no no that won't be needed and I don't think we're the same sizes... I'll just head h-"

" I Insist " the man smiled a little more " my ex husband left all his suits in my room and you seem about his sizes so no problem there" the man looked at his pocket watch " we best be going soon or will both be late. The king does hate when people are late to his party " and with that the man sat back down inside his carriage and Will had no other choice but to go into the carriage. What confused him was why weren't the guards stopping him like before? Something was off but Will said nothing as he steps into the carriage. Inside was lavished. The seats were soft to the touch and Will felt a little bad having to be the one to sit on such beautiful things. When the door closed he gulped and smelled the soft scent of perfume. It was lovely to the nose. Now being completely alone with this strange man made Will a little nervous but he didn't show " thank you "

" no need to thank me " the man hums and crossed his legs as he looks right at Will. Will darted his eyes away.

" not a fan of eye contact are you? "

" I don't mean to be rude sir... eyes are distracting to me that's all. It's better not to look into them " that was true but also he always saw something in people's eyes that unsettled him.

" I see eye contact as something beautiful " the man taps his fingers against his knee " you know someone better "

The carriage came to a stop and the door opens " I'll see you soon. My room is to the east wing. " he looks at a servant " lead the man to my room " he turns to Will and takes his hand placing a kiss to the fingers tips " a pleasure to meet you " he whispers " I forgot to give you my name. How rude of me I'm sorry" he moves his lips away from Wills finger tips. Wills whole body shivering at the touch. Dear God this man would be the death of him " i'm Hannibal Lector" the man who is now known as Hannibal said

Will felt his mouth go dry but he moves his hand away from the gloved hands and gave a nervous smile " Will Graham " and with that he gets out the carriage fast leaving Hannibal behind as he followed the servant. Will could feel the eyes of Hannibal on him as he walked away and it gave him goosebumps. Though why did Hannibals name ring a bell in his mind? As if his heard or even seen the name before.

..........

Hannibal's room was beautiful and spacious. Who even was this man after all? To have his own room in the castle. He had to be someone important. Will stood in front of the mirror looking at his new suit. It fit like a glove completely on him. It was a dark blue suit and soft to the touch. It was made of silk " gosh.... someone like me shouldn't have something like this on...whoever was this man's husband must be missing out to leave all this behind " will grumbled and looked around the room. Not much of personal things in it expect a few books and maps. Other then that there was nothing else that caught Wills eyes.

.............

The party was in full swing as Will entered through the doors. He frowns at all the high and mighty people around him. All dressed nicely and even though Will was dressed up nicely he still felt like a sore thumb. Though Will knew better then to state that. Will looked around some more spotting the king sitting at his throne with servents and slaves attending to him. The music that was playing was gentle and soft as people slowed waltzed around him. Will made his way to the wine area and only stopped when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He felt his skin crawl at the touch and he turns around to see Jack " oh its you " Will sighs and steps back a little

" you're late " Jack held his glass of wine in his hand " you're lucky the king didn't see " he added and turns away " I'm glad you're here though...that's a nice suit too Will, where did you get that?

" a... friend of mine " Will said softly and takes a glass of wine off of the table as he stood beside Jack watching everyone. It was a comfortable silence but after a good 20 mins it broke by the loud sounds of trumpets. That could only mean one damn thing.... the king was about to speak. Will mentally prepared himself as he looked over to King Verger.

King Verger had on a dark purple suit as he stood up tall smiling brightly. " welcome all! To our beautiful party! I welcome all and i say thank you all for coming to spend time with me and my fellow family members! This is grand Ole time we all are having and I just wish to say a few things before we enjoy our night! I wish to first thank my family for being here, I want to thank my beautiful subjects for being here too and now I want to thank my soldiers and fellow army men! As we all know war has stricken our kingdom for years now! Because of our dear red brothers who wish to live without us! But we won't allow them. Our red brothers and sisters need a helping hand they need to be taking care of and used to obey all orders. That's what God put them on earth for after all. They can't win against us~ no one can with our golden blood we are blessed by the gods and blessed to have powers " Verger smiled widely as he raised his glass. People all around will lifted their glass smiling back " we are the higher ones after all. But I can't forget to thank one man who makes the reds shake in fear and that is our dear Warlord.... Hannibal Lector"

Will went cold and he almost dropped his glass. He held it tightly fast to make sure it didn't fall. Hannibal Lector? .... that's why the man's name sounded so familiar...that man was the man to lead the Royal army against the reds..... that man was feared.... and Will knew it because he once lived outside the kingdoms walls. He was a red too... a red was someone that had red blood. They were seen as lower beings and the golds were seen as higher then them because they had golden blood. With golden blood came powers and almost all of the golden population had powers. This world...this kingdom and all kingdoms around were ruled by the color of your blood. Society itself was ruled by the color of your blood. That's why will was always carful because he was a red living as a gold to try to make a better life for himself. If he was found out he could be killed... this was dangerous too now that he has spoken to the warlord himself. The warlord that had millions of red bloods lives on his hands. This war was brutal and the golds were winning...

" no need to thank me your majesty" Will was snapped out of his shock and his eyes fall onto Hannibal " I'm only doing what is good for our kingdom and as you said. Our beautiful red brothers and sisters... the war soon will be over and we will all live in peace once again. I have a very old fashion mind set. I think the reds should stay under us like it's been for centuries...I also think we should take care of them " Hannibal lifted his drink up " soon the war will come to an end and after the battles are all faught we will all drink again to a peaceful world " he smiled and slowly lowered the cup as he drinks from it

Everyone else cheered and did the same drinking from the cup except Will. His hand was shaking just a little as he looked down at his glass. He was in the lions den... worse then before because why did he feel like Hannibals eyes were on him and watching him...as if he was the man's next feast

(( here is the description of the story

Will Graham works for the " Royal FBI Unit" and has always had a special mind that thinks further then a normal mind. Wills life has always been 1 dimensional but that all changes when he meets warlord Hannibal Lector. Now Will needs to be carful and in a world run by the color of your blood things start to take a change for the worse.

what will happen? and is Will going to be able to handle the man called Hannibal Lector.

I will also say that this story has modern stuff in it but it also takes place in a Victorian England type setting but I wanted to add in some of our modern day technology. ))

[2af-afterdark]

licking eyeballs for erotic gratification

i dont wear them often but i have contacts and this is horrifying. i demand a fic of him licking your eyeballs only for your contact to fall out

Everyone stand back! I'm going to try writing crack and that can only end poorly (because I do not have a whimsical bone in my body).

Tags: Andrealphus x MC, Badly written crack, eye licking, mentions of spitting in mouths, MC swears

"That sounds absolutely disgusting," you deadpanned when he asked you if he could lick your eyeball. "Do you know how many germs are in a mouth? Do you know how much germs want to get into my body through all my orifices? Why would I make it easy for them? Plus, I don't want a close up view of what you ate for lunch."

"I literally spat in your mouth the other day. You swallowed it."

"Yeah, but that's hot. Especially when you called me a filthy whore."

He sighed. "You really are related to him."

No need to play the pronoun game on that one, because him could only ever refer to one person in that context.

"Yo, leave my grandpa and/or past life out of this. Our kinks are between us," you wagged your finger quickly between him and you, "and there is no faster mood killer than thinking about your (very distantly related) grandparents judging you from beyond the grave." Except Solomon would probably be proud of you for being able to still get it. He was a bigger horndog than even you were.

"I won't force you, so if you don't want to-"

"Oh no. I'll do it. It just sounds disgusting." You emphasized the final word in a way that made it sound more like disgoosting.

You took his hand and pulled it against your cheek so he could feel where you were. You let his thumb brush against your bottom eyelid so he could get a feel for the structure of your face. He used his pointer and middle finger to pull at your eyelids and force them to stay open. Then, he leaned in.

When he was close like this, you could actually smell how much he reeked. Well, it wasn't him so much as it was the dead things littering his clothing. The wing on his back needed to be replaced soon because the muscles and flesh were clearly starting to go bad. Plus, there was just... so much blood that tickled your senses and made you grimace.

But you let him get closer anyway and watched as his tongue lulled out of his mouth like some kind of fat, slimy, pink worm. You instinctually wanted to blink, but only one eye closed while the other was forced to keep watching as the tip of his tongue finally made contact.

You had no idea what a tongue against your eyeball was supposed to feel like, but it reminded you of a sponge scraping against a plastic dish. Honestly, it felt like something was rubbing against your cornea and was really uncomfortable.

"Okay. That's enough," you finally said when you couldn't take it anymore.

He huffed and hummed before drawing back. When he was far enough away, you realized something concerning.

"Oh shit! You're blurry." You looked around the room, taking in the half-crisp, half-fuzzy edges of the furniture. "Scratch that. Everything is blurry."

Andrealphus chewed something in his mouth for a moment, swishing it back and forth before sticking his fingers in his mouth and pulling out a small, clear, circular piece of plastic. He squished the thing between his fingers as he faced forward blankly.

"I have no idea what this is."

"That, my sweet Andrealphus, is called a contact lens and explains why I can't see shit right now." You took the contact from him, staring down at it still glistening with saliva. "I am not putting this back in." In fact, you would probably get a new pair altogether.

"Here." You grabbed his hand, put the contact into his palm, and closed his fingers around it. "You can keep it."

"And what am I supposed to do with it?"

"I dunno, but I don't want it."

"Truly you are the spirit of generosity," he said with no expression on his face or in his voice whatsoever.

"Was that sarcasm?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Even though he was still speaking bluntly, it was clear that he was pouting in his own special way.

"Oh, don't be like that." You grabbed the hand you hadn't put the contact in and put it against your face so he could feel your smile. "I love it when you're having fun. Won't you smile for me? Please? You're so handsome when you smile."

"You're incorrigible." But he chuckled and gave a small smile anyway. Very small. Nearly microscopic.

"There it is." You leaned into him and planted a kiss against the side of his mouth. "Your kink is weird though."

"So is yours."

"Yeeeeah. I know."

But he indulged you anyway, just like you would him... as long as you remembered to take the contacts out first.