#more words for the slop pit

[vmprgrl-2005]

kill kill-hotline miami-biker x reader x jacket-part one

“i’m in love with a dying man”

part two wattpad link

word count-2.2k

warnings-strong language, blood, drinking, kidnapping

an-more hotline miami slop! this is all my brain can ever produce, hope you like it anyways:)

The sounds of your footsteps echo loudly through the vacant hallway, making your anger obvious. Your urgent pace comes to a halt outside of your (soon to be ex) boyfriend’s apartment. This was becoming a routine, you storming up to his room and banging on his door, hurling insults at the man who may or may not be on the other side. 

It’s been a couple of weeks since you’ve last seen him. The thought of that fuels your anger-sadness as the splintered wood fights back against your knuckles. When you feel your hand get sore from your insistent knocking and your throat goes dry from shouting his name, you begin digging through your bag for the key to his apartment, only to remember you lost it a few weeks ago. You begin stomping away, making sure to shout one last insult before making it too far down the dingy hallway. Descending the stairs to the first floor, you notice a man mopping and staring in your direction. From across the room, you attempt to get his attention, keeping your distance from his condescending gaze. 

“Hey,” you start, “have you seen a tall blond dude wearing a letterman jacket around here recently?” You’re pretty sure this attempt at finding your absent lover is futile, but what do you have to lose? 

“Yeah,” the man replies, peering at you from under the bill of his hat, “I saw him walking around with some chick the other week.” He immediately goes back to his work, returning his dead eyes to the suds covering the vinyl floor. 

Even more resentment and jealousy fills the pit in your stomach, and you huff a quick “thanks” in response. You don’t even care to ask for details before trudging out of the building and to your car. 

The drive back to your apartment is hellish. However, it gives you just enough time to plot your revenge. You pick up your phone as soon as you get to your room, falling onto your bed and kicking your legs in the air. Without hesitation, you dial an old friend’s number, unsure if it's still in service or not. You're relieved when you hear a familiar voice on the other end. 

When you greet him, he replies with “Hey, baby.” He's always been terribly flirtatious, exactly what you need. 

“Are you doing anything tonight?” You waste no time making your intentions clear in a sugary sweet tone. 

“I was gonna head out for a bit,” he replies, the smile on his lips audible. “Why, you wanna come?” He pries teasingly. 

You let him in on your situation and how heartbroken you feel, being sure to keep up your dramatic tone, as if he needed any convincing to take you out. 

Without hesitation he says “I’ll pick you up at eight, wear something I’ll like.” It's as if you can hear him winking at you through the phone. 

“See you then” you giggle before hanging up the phone.

You spend an hour in your closet finding an outfit that looks exceptionally flattering on you, something that you knew would make your “boyfriend” place a protective arm around your waist if he caught anyone else looking at you in it. 

By the time you make it to the lobby of your apartment building your date is already outside. He's standing next to his motorcycle in all of the glory that you remember. Muscular arms unhidden in a sleeveless neon pink vest, shaggy teal dyed hair, dreamy eyes, and an overly flirtatious, ridiculously handsy attitude. 

“Looking like that I wanna keep you all to myself” he purrs as you walk towards him. 

“Save it” you reply as you bat at his arm playfully, a blush overwhelming your face. He laughs cooly, climbing onto his bike. You slide on behind him, nervous to get too close. 

His hands brush the sides of your thighs as he grabs your hips and pulls you closer to him, smirking at you. “Come on, you’re gonna fall off,” he says, pulling you even closer by taking your hands and looping your arms around his waist. 

With that, he revs the bike’s engine loudly and pulls onto the street. As he drives, you notice that he's not wearing his usual teal helmet, and a bit of smudgy black makeup adorns his eyes. You weren’t exactly expecting him to try and impress you. Every time he stops at a red light, he turns to look at you, eyes glistening in the light of the sunset. One of his hands meets your waist, the leather of his fingerless glove is warm against your exposed skin. He winks at you before speeding off again, accelerating even faster than he did at the last stoplight. Butterflies fill your stomach at the sound of the engine and the sight of palm trees rapidly passing your vision. You were used to Jacket driving recklessly, but there was something new about this, something more exciting. He parks outside of a neon-lit building in a spot at the very front, it's obvious that he's a regular here. Dismounting the bike, your knees wobble, dizzy from how fast you were travelling. Luckily, his arm snakes around your waist, hand resting on your hip to keep you steady. 

“Let them stare,” he mutters close to your ear. At first you’re confused, until you turn towards the line into the club. Out of every few people, someone is looking at you, either staring in curiosity or glaring maliciously. 

Panicking, you turn to him, mouthing “What the fuck?” 

“I always come here alone. This is gonna make headlines, baby” he smiles as he immediately goes to the front of the line, walking inside nonchalantly. 

Despite the hand clamped around your waist, the bouncer still stops you, gripping your shoulder tightly. 

“Woah, c’mon, she’s with me” your date exclaims, yanking you out of the bouncer’s hold. Not waiting for permission, he continues pulling you inside. 

The ruthless stares don’t subside as you enter the club. Part of you begins to regret doing this and your mind wanders as you walk through the flashing lights. 

“Here sugar, I got you a drink.” His words bring you back to reality as you take the glass from his hand. It’s your favorite, somehow he remembered. Chemically top-shelf liquor burns the back of your throat as you down a large sip.  

“You really are heartbroken, aren’t you?” He coos, “Did pretty little blondie just up and leave?” 

You nod before elaborating, “Apparently with some other girl, too.” 

He scoffs loudly in response. “Fuck him, don’t even think about him tonight. You're way too pretty for him anyway.” He says, looking you up and down with a suggestive glint in his eyes. 

Secretly you hope that he’s nearby, seeing you with a different guy’s hands on your body, getting more and more jealous by the second knowing that you’re not his anymore. You look around, curious to see if you can spot him in the crowd, but all you notice is a pair of men at a table in the corner staring at you. They look back and forth between you and each other. One of them pulls out his wallet, shows something to the other man, and then pulls out a phone. This concerns you slightly but isn’t surprising, not after the looks you’ve been getting since you walked in. 

Trying to brush it off, you turn the other way. “We should go dance” you exclaim, practically dragging him off of the bar stool. 

“Whatever you want baby,” he replies, catching up with your rushed pace. Other men stare at you but don’t dare to approach you, not when they notice the muscular arms that stay wrapped around you as you dance. His hands never leave you, constantly resting on your shoulders, hips, wrapped around your waist, or attached to your hands. After a while, you end up on a couch somewhere on the much calmer second floor. You’re trashed, just barely able to see straight. 

A familiar presence leans in close and mutters in your ear, sending shivers up your spine. “I’m going to go get you some water for you, stay here ok?” You nod and he kisses your cheek before walking away. 

Even though you’re out of it, you can still recognize the two men from earlier walking past you again. You stare back, sending them an equally dirty look, furrowing your brows in an attempt to deter them. When your date comes back, you tell him about the creepy dudes between sips of water. 

“They’re just jealous that I have the prettiest girl here” he says while putting an arm around you, still as flirtatious as ever. The walk outside is a blur. All you remember is his hands holding your face as you sat on his bike and him carrying your shoes as you walked to an elevator. 

As you slip in and out of reality, your head spins, a mess of neon colors and tender touches race around you and you can’t help but be reminded of who you’ve been looking for this whole time. 

The next time you’re fully conscious you’re in a bed filled with an unfamiliar masculine scent. You can hear someone moving from across the room, and you open your eyes to see your one-night flirt styling his hair in a cracked mirror on his dresser. 

“Hey lightweight” he whispers, “sorry for waking you up.”

You sit up, rubbing your eyes and sleepily replying “It's alright.” 

Once you’re fully awake, you notice he’s not wearing a shirt, to which your eyes widen. He must notice this as he hurries to say “Nothing happened between us last night, I slept on the couch.”

Instead of responding, you hide your now bright red cheeks behind your hands, to which you can hear him giggle. You continue to admire him as he throws a shirt over his head before walking over to where you’re laying. 

“I need to head out, I’ll take you back to your place later. You should get some rest” he mutters as he pets your hair tenderly. 

“Alright, be safe” you reply quietly while staring up at him, doe eyed. 

“Don’t worry doll, I’ll come back to you in one piece” he says, winking in your direction before leaving the room. 

When you hear him leave, you collapse onto the soft pillows behind you, falling into a dreamy haze of memories of your love affair once again. 

—

The endless days and even longer nights were starting to blur together. The blood that's seeping out of his abdomen slowly drying is the only way he’s able to tell time. He misses you, he hasn’t stopped thinking about you. He’s spent hours praying to everything he doesn’t believe in that you’re safe. You’re the only reason he's been able to keep himself alive through the haze of death that's been lingering around his blood soaked body for days now. Clicking echoes off of the walls as the many locks on the door to the room he's in are undone.  Two men saunter in, single file, both grinning maliciously. 

“Look at this.” One of them says bluntly through a thick Russian accent. 

A slightly crumpled picture rests in the man’s hand. It takes a moment before his exhausted, bloodshot eyes can focus, but he eventually gathers that it's a picture of you, alive and unharmed. It takes another moment for him to realize that you’re in someone else's arms. It's nearly impossible for him not to react, but he manages to keep up a stoic appearance in order to avoid even more torture. 

“He’s another one of 50 blessings’s stupid little puppets, and now he’s got his hands on your precious angel,” the man continues. Every word out of his mouth stings worse than the last. 

“They were at a club together all night, he’s awfully handsy.” The second man chimes in, holding up another picture of you with your “friend’s” hands creeping down your waist. 

It seems as though his lack of reaction bores them, and they throw the pictures on the ground in front of him before exiting the room. Moments after the door slams shut, tears begin to fall down his bruised face. He grits his teeth and exhales sharply. He didn’t want to cry, he didn't want to let himself feel the pain of losing you, especially when you didn’t seem to be bothered by his absence. It wasn’t surprising that you were with someone else, he did disappear with no explanation, but he didn’t want to believe that you’d move on from him so quickly. The tears falling onto his clothes mix with the still fresh blood on his face and leave behind diluted red stains on his once white shirt. 

Even though his wrists are rubbed raw, he still tries to pull his hands apart and rip the rope restraining him, even if it's just a small amount. 

He continues holding onto hope that he can get out, it's the only thing that keeps him sane through the blinding anguish he’s been subjected to. There’s still a need deep inside of him to see you again, even if it means putting his life in even more danger to do so.

[irenadel]

And if the devil... 1/10

Making a banner for this finally for the grand finale coming soon. Excuse to rb. Credit for the Aemond screencap goes to the wonderful Liv @barbieaemond Eventual smut, Aemond Targaryen x Maid!Reader

Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10

“And if the devil was to ever see you, he’d kiss your eyes and repent.”

- Farouk Gouida

He’d had nothing but contempt for you the first time he’d seen you: a too tall, mannish girl mopping up baby vomit for Helaena with less tact and grace than a stable boy. He had seen the blotchy red and white of your hands and face and had thought you one of Aegon’s cruel jests for a sister-wife he did not deserve: a freakish chambermaid for a mad princess.

And far too familiar with a lady who was in every way your better.

He told himself it was not jealousy that burnt in the pit of his stomach, brighter and wilder than Vhagar’s fire. No. It was distaste and a healthy amount of distrust, he’d felt when he’d come to visit Helaena and found you rocking her gently in your arms. You’d been in drab servant red, hair escaping your work bonnet, so strangely pale that it had made Aemond squint in immediate suspicion. Whatever it was, you were no noble companion or even one of the prettier handmaidens, just a scullery girl, dress still stained from floor scrubbing, holding a Targaryen princess and gently brushing her hair out of the way.

He’d had to control the urge to snatch her from your arms and snarl at you to leave if you wanted to keep your head… It would not have been becoming. Helaena would no doubt have found it distressing. But most of all, he feared what he would do to you the moment he’d had your pale, sickly hand in his grip. Because you had robbed him of a thing which he had not known belonged to him. His right to his sister’s pain, always so far and yet so close, because he feared the things he could say if his affection were ever to escape him. And here you were, like a thief in the night, snatching his chance before he’d even known it existed.

You’d had the common sense to leave quickly with your bucket of slops, and your eyes fixed determinedly on the floor. As if you’d known your transgression.

Helaena was not half as wise as you. Her tears had been all but gone, not there for a brother to wipe away or avenge. No forthcoming confession about Aegon that he could use as an excuse to stalk his brother’s steps and pick a fight. Just her tongue loosened by the joy of Aemond’s sudden gentleness, brought on by unwarranted competition.

You’d been recently assigned to her quarters, she’d told him and you were very good at putting the children to sleep. You weren’t squeamish like the ladies of the court, would look at Helaena’s insects without problem and think nothing of her muttering under her breath, however strange her words might be. When the children were quiet, when Helaena herself hadn’t known what else to say, you had talked to her about the great locusts of the plains of Essos, told her stories of swarms of them, climbing atop the little babes, eating the grass so thoroughly no horse or cattle could survive on what was left.

But more so, you were kind and strong and willing to put the princess to bed when her head hurt so bad she could barely think. You stayed up with her when her dreams were more a punishment than reprieve from her reality, asleep in her bed besides her or waking up for her to tend to the babies. Not a wet nurse, but you had a good head on your shoulders for fussing and crying. She had come to depend on you really. 

He had not liked it at all.

He’d blamed himself for being too engrossed in weapons training and Vhagar to have noticed your creeping, insidious influence on his sister. He’d questioned his mother and had found only her relief that at least Aegon left you alone, probably less out of kindness than out of distaste. You may have been coarse and rude and perhaps unfit to deal with anything but the lower floors of a castle, but the queen had had enough problems to deal with and at least you had a strong back and a mean glare that kept even princes away.

Not Aemond though.

He’d kept his good eye on you, and a new man-at-arms he trusted always at his sister’s side. Had even thought to corner you and put the fear of the gods in you lest you had thought Helaena alone and vulnerable. Had not even considered replacing your presence with his own, uneasy with how much the prospect thrilled him. 

You’d looked up only once: a lightning quick glare for the One-Eyed Prince before the subservient mask was firmly back in place. And Aemond had been struck strangely silent by your odd red eyes and let you scurry away. Your coarse yellow hair had been escaping its thin bonnet and he’d known immediately.

Not Valyrian blood, not a misplaced bastard, not some political trick as he had suspected…

Albino.

Oh but Helaena did have quite a fondness for broken, repellent things.

He’d been less wary then, but no less watchful. He’d stopped to stare when he saw you carrying the princess’s tray or even one of her children up and down a corridor, infallible technique for getting them to sleep at last. He’d haunted his sister’s rooms, lurking in doorways, listening in to your accent (not Flea Bottom, but not court either, no one had taught you how to speak to your betters or even how to speak well at all, it seemed…) as you told Princess Helaena about having eleven cousins and wrestling them all into bed, about taking in laundry because you couldn’t take in sewing, about a crotchety old uncle who had broken his hip out at sea and needed minding now. An uncle who resented the minding and the niece and wife that kept him and his children fed. An uncle who sounded to Aemond’s hungry, savage loneliness a lot like a father and a king.

He does not hear the other talk, even if allowed to be present for it he would not consider it. He would have dismissed it as women talk, gossip, having seldom let himself dwell on kindness instead of grievance, succor instead of retaliation. He does not hear a beloved sister tell you to stay one step ahead of the dragon, as far away as you can manage, because dragons bring nothing but fire even if they love you, warm enough until it becomes death. She should know.

It does nothing to keep Aemond from following behind you. When you took the children and their mother down to the kitchens for hot milk with honey. When any of them were achy or colicky or cranky and you would put a shawl over them, babies or mother. When you insisted the princess and her children could do with a stroll and some sun, and Aemond found his heart aching with hideous envy because he could hear his sister laughing at your snappish kitchen talk, speaking softly and intimately to you, as hungry to give the attention as to receive it. (Even as his sorry, wicked heart screams out, it was mine, all this was meant for me, how dare you, how dare you take what I didn’t know I needed!) When you sang Helaena’s babies or Helaena herself to sleep and Aemond found he had to cover his  ears against your strange, foreign crooning, that didn’t sound like King’s Landing but sounded treacherously like home. He’d had to flee to the training grounds and take out this all-consuming anger on something, drown out your husky, kind voice with the din of his sword against a shield. Hitting the wood over and over again until he tore it to splinters and Ser Criston had to hold him into stillness, knowing there was no comforting a dragon without getting burned.

“My prince.”

You would say when you fled a staircase he cornered you into.

“My prince.”

When you’d courtesy, clumsily, still too sour-faced and suspicious to do it gracefully, when he managed to catch you on your way out of Helaena’s room.

“My prince.”

The day he had decided that yes, your prince, was exactly what he’d be to you, what you’d say to him, in whatever way he’d manage to tear it from your throat, in spite of Aegon’s taunting and the visceral fear at his own woeful lack of knowledge in matters of the flesh.

Because he had decided if you had no problem taking from him, he would have no problem taking from you.

Because you’d said it to him on your way out of the washing court, bonnet gone and coarse yellow hair sticking out of your pinned braid like a frightful halo, a bright purple bruise already forming on your cheekbone, as you’d glared directly at him, challenge in your head held high, and the water splashed all across your linen apron, sticking to your skin so closely that Aemond should have had you right then and there.

Because you’d said it with a curt nod, like Ser Criston when he approved of a particularly good move Aemond had just learned in the training yard, like a general to a soldier, “My prince.”

Because he’d just seen you swing a chamber pot directly into a stable boy’s face after hearing him call Princess Helaena “daft,” bringing it swinging back to the other side of his face, contents and all, just to take a step back to bring a fist into the stable boy’s friend. Aemond had been too transfixed by the sight of your heaving chest and the splotchy red of your cheeks to intervene after you’d taken a half-hearted punch to the face, returned it in kind and thrown the now empty chamber pot at the whimpering serving boys at your feet.

“And clean up your bloody mess!” You’d said before washing your hands in the fountain and strolling out of the courtyard, about as triumphant and vicious as Prince Aemond himself had ever felt when defeating knight after knight, telling himself he was better, stronger, a more fit ruler than any of them would ever be.

“My prince,” you’d said with your curt, martial nod, with your ruby-red eyes and the split knuckles of your hand, wounds taken in the defense of Aemond’s sister, wounds that should have by right belonged to him.

He’d taken your wrist in his hand, grip monstrously strong, and watched you realize the mistake you had made in the proud tilt of your head. You had forgotten for a second that pride wasn’t for your class of people, less so when confronted by a prince of the realm. He’d watched you realize your danger and how you didn’t care, that if there was a price to pay for pride you might as well pay it… and had realized himself that he didn’t care much either. Because Aemond had decided in that moment that he liked the defiance and stubborn anger in your ruby-red gaze, just as much as he had liked the ringing din of the chamber pot breaking something in that stable boy’s face. The prince had smiled at you then, his hunting cat smile, the one men all over the Seven Kingdoms would learn to fear, as he let you pass. Your prince, you would call him again, he decided as he let you go. Your prince, he would hear you call him, on your knees, on your back and beneath him, anyway he could get you. Because he wanted it. Because he had known himself to be spoiling for a fight and would be spoiling for a fight his whole life, the moment he had gone looking for Vhagar, the largest living dragon in the world, and won her. As he would win you. On your knees, your back or beneath him, as you called him your prince, because you wanted to, not ripped out of you by fear and hope for profit but because you wanted him. He would teach you that. That there were none like him, Targaryen or otherwise. That he was your prince and more than. He would teach you this, just as he had begun to teach the world.

[thebigqueer]

"dirt in the wounds" - Caitvi - One-Shot

Summary: caitlyn and vi bump into each other after one of vi's pit fighting matches. angst and hate sex ensues (but it's not smut because i don't go into that much detail about the actual sex). inspired by this art by @koifee and this one from twitter! Notes: important CWs: blood & injury, vomiting, alcohol use/abuse, sexual content. Word Count: 9197 Read on AO3

Vi’s not sure how long she’s been on the ground, crumpled in a puddle of her own blood and sweat and drool. All she knows is that all of the audience has petered out and that her rise on the charts was short-lived. 

It’s kind of a blow to her ego, if anything. After everything that had happened the past few months - getting out of prison, finding her sister and losing her again, falling for some stupid Enforcer and being inevitably betrayed - her fists have been the only thing keeping her going. If she couldn’t save the people she loved, she could at least fight the pain of her failures. 

But after the straight losing streak over the past few nights, she supposes even that comfort had to end at some point. It was only a matter of time before she would fail even herself. 

As she’s lying on the ground, watching her blood soak into the dust, head pounding and jaw pulsing and teeth aching, she wonders how many more punches she can take. Maybe she should ask someone to just knock everything out of her in one go. It would speed up the process.

Her hand twitches, and the motion surprises her, as if it wasn’t even her own body. She drags it into her line of vision and stares at her knuckles, bruised and bloodied from her embarrassing attempts tonight. She rolls her hand over in the dim lighting, and as she does, a hazy memory floats the surface of her mind. Her and Vander, sitting in the warm glow of the basement of The Last Drop, his eyes full of regret and disappointment, her chest raging in frustration. 

That path? He’d taken her hand, bloodied even then, so many years ago, and looked at her. This? It’s not gonna solve your problems. Just makes more of ‘em.

She wonders what Vander would say now if he saw her. She wonders what she’d tell him. “You were wrong”? If anything, fighting has been her only path. 

A thudding sound makes her heart jump, and she flicks her eyes around, waiting patiently for whoever it is that wants to bother her now. A foot comes into view in front of her, and when she looks up, she finds the rat-faced referee, holding a bucket of whatever slop he was eating. She narrows her eyes at him. 

“Ey, kid, you can’t just lie here.” He bends down to face her and throws another piece of meat into his mouth. “Show’s over. Go home.” 

Vi just continues staring at him. Her silence seems to make him squirm, and maybe a few weeks ago that would have made Vi feel good, but now she can’t even feel proud of that; it’s such a small win compared to all the losses she’s faced. 

But then his eyebrows lower in what looks like pity, and any sense of pride she gained evaporates immediately. Her teeth grind against each other. 

“Listen, kid,” he says. “We all have bad days. Just go home and get some rest.”

The sound of his remorse scratches against her and lights some sort of match. It’s a small flame, but it does the job - she uses the last of her energy to push herself up into a sitting position. Her muscles throb, her head spins, her abdomen burns, but she pushes herself up even through it. 

She spits out some blood. The referee’s pity doesn’t relent.

Vi’s hand whips out against the bucket, and the meat goes sprawling. 

“Hey!” he exclaims, his eyes now narrowing in rage. Better than the pity. 

She stumbles to her feet and starts wobbling towards the tunnel exit. The referee throws a slew of insults at her, but all she can manage is a weak middle finger as she stalks her way through the darkness, gripping her abdomen, trying to keep herself together. 

The alleys are bustling on the outside, filled with audience-goers talking animatedly about the matches. There’s laughter, groans, shouting, drunkards swaying and talking loudly. Vi clings to the wall to try to keep her balance, and her vision blurs with each step forward as another pulse of pain erupts from her abdomen. Her skin stings with the weight of people’s stares on her, their whispers and jeers. Shame hardens around her with each step forward. 

She needs a drink. She needs a punch. She needs something more painful than whatever this hollowness in her heart is. 

Blinded by her own self-pity, she hardly registers when she shoves into something tall and soft and stumbles to the ground. It takes a second of blinking rapidly before her vision clears, and she looks up, her fists already clenching, her teeth already gritting, preparing for her next fight. A figure in a purple cloak hovers over her, and when Vi blinks again, the figure is bent over her, hands outstretched in surrender. 

“Sorry,” the figure mutters. The blade of the street lights strikes against their features, and Vi’s heart shudders to a stop in her chest. 

The exhaustion and pain that weighed Vi down just seconds ago slide off as a new adrenaline surges in her stomach. She yanks herself to her feet and lunges, hand curved for the throat. But before she can even get her grip on the figure, white hot pain cracks through her arm, and a cry rips out of her. Her gaze whips to her wrist, which is now pinned to the wall by pale, slender fingers, then turns back to the figure. 

And Caitlyn’s eyes stare right back at her. 

“Vi?” she hisses, her eyebrows knitting together, growing more irritated by the second. Her nails dig deeper into Vi’s skin, but when she grunts at the stab of pain, Caitlyn’s gaze whips back to her wrist. A new shock falls over her, and she immediately lets go. Vi falls to her knees, cradling her wrist to her chest, and looks up at Caitlyn, hissing through her teeth. 

There were about a million ways Vi imagined meeting with Caitlyn again. In most scenarios, Vi imagined, maybe selfishly, that she got her turn to leave Caitlyn on the ground, begging for forgiveness. And she’s been training for that moment: after the matches, as her opponents look up at her with pain glazed over their eyes, it’s Caitlyn’s face she sees. When they’re sobbing, pleading for mercy, it’s Caitlyn’s voice she hears. 

But now that they’re facing each other again, only dread hardens in Vi’s stomach. Isn’t this exactly how they left each other? Caitlyn, looking down at her, tall and mighty, and Vi looking up at her, crumpled over in pain. 

All that training, all that imagining - gone to waste. Vi is right back where she started.

She scowls at Caitlyn around her bangs. “Why are you here?” she spits.

Caitlyn’s spine straightens, and her eyes flicker around nervously. Vi almost scoffs. Is there ever a moment she isn’t on guard? 

“Business,” she finally mutters, then turns her gaze back on Vi. For a brief second, Vi catches that familiar cold determination in her eyes, the same one she’d seen down there in the sewers so many months ago. But then it gives way to a softness, something similar to pity, and once again rage surges through Vi.

Maybe Caitlyn spots the rage in Vi’s eyes, because her features shift again. Something more like curiosity. Caitlyn’s eyes roll over her, and Vi can almost hear the thoughts in her head as the frown pulses on her face.

“I saw you in there,” Caitlyn says finally. “Hardly recognized you at first.” Her eyebrow flicks. “New pastime?”

Vi’s mind flickers back to Vander, at his grip on her wrists. She looks back at her wrists now, rolls them over in the streetlight. “No,” she mutters, “not new.”

Before Caitlyn can respond, Vi turns her head away and focuses on gathering her strength. After a brief moment, she presses her hand against the wall and starts to pull herself up, relying solely on the prowess of her own muscles. She manages to lift herself a bit, but then the wound in her abdomen pulses, and she stumbles. 

Just before she falls again, a pair of arms catches her. A strange scent overwhelms her - not the dirty gases of the Undercity, not the trash around her, but something sweet. Violets.  

Caitlyn eases her onto the ground, propping her back to the wall, and as she does this, Vi’s eyes burn with frustrated tears. It’s one thing to be unable to get up on her own; it’s another to have Caitlyn watch her crumble right before her. 

“I don’t need your help,” Vi growls around her shame, hiding her face behind her bangs. It’s bad enough she’s caught her in this state, useless to even herself; she doesn’t need Caitlyn to see the tears in her eyes either.

Caitlyn sighs irritably and lets go. She bends down on her knees to meet Vi’s eyes, and the sight only makes Vi’s rage flame. She feels like a child. 

“How do you plan on getting home?” Caitlyn asks, brows knitting together in the middle. Not in concern, but as if she’s trying to prove a point. 

“Since when do you care?” Vi meets Caitlyn’s eyes again with purpose. “It’s not the first time you’ve left me on the ground.” 

Caitlyn only stares at her, and something unreadable flits through her eyes. Her jaw locks in place, shifts around. Then her eyelids flutter as she rolls her irritation out of her eyes. “I don’t see anyone else around to help you.”

Vi blinks and looks around. For what, exactly, she doesn’t know. Someone to come in and help her? Loris gave up on her. She wants nothing to do with Jinx anymore. None of these stupid audience members is going to come to her aid; if anything, one of them will just try to steal whatever money she has in her back pocket. 

She knows Caitlyn’s only talking about the present. But Vi’s come to the same conclusion a million times since the night at the sewers. 

Vi narrows her eyes at Caitlyn. “I’ve managed just fine every other night. But thanks for your concern.” 

She shifts herself to try to stand up again, but even that movement is too much for her; her abdomen throbs, and this time she cries out. Her vision blurs as tears prickle her eyes, and she grits her teeth.

A flicker of movement catches Vi’s eyes, and she looks down. Through the blurriness of her tears, she can make out the shape of a pale hand. 

Vi glares at it. “You don’t even know where I live.” 

Caitlyn tilts her head to the side. “Then show me the way.” 

Vi scoffs. Then, grudgingly, she grabs her hand. 

~~~

The walk back to Vi’s apartment is charged. The air around them feels denser than anything Vi’s ever felt living in the Undercity, and her lungs burn in Caitlyn’s vicinity.

A hood covers Caitlyn’s face, and each time the streetlight strikes her face, Vi can only see a glimpse of her lips and the bottom half of her face. It’s grown a little thinner, but other than that she looks about the same.

Vi almost wants to laugh. Here, Vi’s been trying to escape her failures by changing every possible thing she can about herself. Then there’s Caitlyn, looking the same as ever, if not even more arrogant. Vi doesn’t know why she’s bothered giving a shit about her; clearly she has more important things to be worrying about. 

As Caitlyn lugs Vi along on her side, one arm around her waist, Vi wonders what kind of business could be bringing her to the Undercity anyway - or what could constitute her coming alone, no less. 

Vi weighs the consequences of whether or not to ask her. But as they’re stumbling through a familiar narrow alleyway - just at the end of this are the stairs to her apartment - her eyes catch on the poster to the left. The commander’s face stares back at them through the dimness of the tunnel, stern and proud as she looks off into the distance, her decorated cloak sharp against her shoulders.

Vi steals a look at the Caitlyn next to her. Her jaw locks in place, eyes steely as she glances at the poster.

Vi grits her teeth and decides she doesn’t want to know the answer. 

After a bit more of limping and grunting, they eventually find themselves stumbling through Vi’s door. Caitlyn helps set Vi down on her bed, and she cries out at the sting that erupts from her abdomen at the motion. Once she’s down, a long sigh drags out of her, and she leans her arms behind her and spreads her legs, trying to breathe out the pain. 

As soon as the stinging clears a little, Vi looks up at Caitlyn, and her shoulders grow heavy as the weight of this moment settles over her. Caitlyn’s face glows green in the sliver of streetlight that bleeds through Vi’s window. Her eyes wander around, catching on every detail of Vi’s apartment, and with each passing second, her disgust only hardens. 

The scene is almost hilarious. Caitlyn, tall and arrogant even in her plain cloak, surrounded only by scum. It almost washes the pride out of her stance. 

Then her eyes land on Vi’s, and she blinks as if she forgot she was even here. With a slight shake of her head, she starts to take her cloak off, and it falls to the ground. The gold of her Enforcer’s uniform gleams in the light.

“Not wearing your special commander’s cloak?” Vi cocks an eyebrow at her. “What’s a villain without her cape?”

Caitlyn lets a beat of silence pass before turning her gaze away, down to one of the empty bottles lying on the floor. A furrow appears between her eyebrows. “I needed to be inconspicuous,” she mutters. Then, in a voice so soft Vi almost doesn’t hear, she adds, “I didn’t ask for it. Ambessa had it made.” 

Vi huffs humorlessly. “Doesn’t matter. You’re the one who wears it.” 

Caitlyn looks back at her, and Vi takes the moment to truly take her in. Her hair’s grown longer, crawling just past her shoulders. An exhaustion lingers in her eyes, and Vi wants to snort. Long nights running martial law on the scum of Piltover? she thinks, but she decides it’s not worth the fight to say it aloud.

Caitlyn’s own eyes rove over Vi, and her brows furrow again as she takes in all the changes. “Your new uniform isn’t much to look at, either.” 

“At least mine isn’t sweeping the floors for war-obsessed tyrants.” 

Caitlyn’s eyes narrow into blue knives, and Vi meets them with the same fervor. But finally, after what feels like hours of staring each other down, Caitlyn sighs in irritation. “Where do you keep your medical supplies?”

Vi keeps her eyes on Caitlyn as she juts her head towards the mirror cabinet above her sink. Caitlyn keeps her eyes locked on Vi for another moment, a cold wariness sizzling in them, before making her way over. She returns with the small box of supplies and places it on the floor. Vi watches as she dabs some alcohol onto a cotton pad, then begins to reach forward, her eyes aimed at something on her face. 

Vi swats her hand away and narrows her eyes. “I can handle myself, Commander.” 

A spark of rage bursts in Caitlyn’s pupils at the title, but her face remains frozen in her usual cold determination. She brings her hand forward again.

Maybe it’s Vi’s exhaustion. Maybe it’s the ache in her bones muddling up any remaining sense of reason she’s been holding on to. Or maybe it’s her body still accustoming to the shock of seeing Caitlyn again. But this time, for whatever reason, Vi doesn’t swat her hand away. 

Caitlyn blinks now, but again, so practiced in keeping her composure, the expression is only fleeting. Her fingers hover over Vi’s forehead, and Vi closes her eyes as she awaits the sting. After another second of hesitation, Caitlyn finally presses her hand against the cuts, and Vi hisses at the touch, trying not to curl away. 

“So,” Caitlyn says, and her voice yanks Vi’s focus onto something other than the pain. “This is what you’ve been up to? Getting yourself beat up at the bottom of a pit?” When she pulls her hand away, Vi meets coldly amused eyes.

Vi huffs in equally cold amusement. “What do you care?” Her head tilts daringly. “Jealous that other people have the balls to hit me with their fists instead of their gun?” 

This time, Caitlyn isn’t as good at hiding her emotions. Shock ripples through her face, and the blue of her eyes pales with regret. She’s frozen momentarily, and pride swells in Vi’s chest; she’s broken through, snapped something in her composure. Then Caitlyn turns her head and rummages through the box again. Her fingers fumble with the bandages, and Vi knows she’s just buying herself time, trying to pull herself together. 

Finally she emerges again, but Vi’s surprised to see the guilt is still apparent in the furrow of her eyebrows. She leans forward with the white bandage and presses it to Vi’s forehead, and through the padding, she can feel the heat of Caitlyn’s fingertips. She almost sighs. 

Caitlyn pulls back to check her work, but then her eyes drift to Vi’s abdomen. The guilt in her brows only deepens. “You’re bleeding.”

Vi looks down. Caitlyn’s right; there’s a tear in her bandages through which a shallow gash bleeds through, and suddenly Vi becomes aware of the stinging in her abdomen again. For some reason, the sight of it sets tears burning against her eyes. She can barely even remember who it came from, but it doesn't matter; it’s all pain in the end, anyway.

When she looks up to meet Caitlyn’s gaze, she realizes just how pathetic this moment is. Of all the times Caitlyn showed up, it was a night Vi had to lose. 

If Caitlyn spots the tears in her eyes, she doesn’t react. A moment of silence passes between them, burdened by the implications of their words, and then Caitlyn leans forward gingerly again. She takes a deep breath and touches her hand to the bandage around Vi’s chest, and when Vi doesn’t do anything, she releases the breath and begins to unravel it.

As she peels the bandage off, all Vi feels is a pervasive shame ringing through her lungs. She closes her eyes, if only to try to stop the tears threatening to spill. 

The bandage falls to the floor, and despite the pain in her abdomen, a pressure falls off Vi’s chest. Her breaths come easier now that she isn’t bound together, and she tilts her head back as she savors her ability to breathe. 

When she straightens her gaze, she’s surprised to find Caitlyn equipped, yet again. A handkerchief dangles from between her fingers, and in the light, Vi catches the Kiramman logo engraved into them. Her vision fizzes in rage, and she meets Caitlyn’s eyes, only to find her looking at Vi solemnly. 

“This is going to sting a little more,” Caitlyn says. 

Vi just huffs out a sigh and closes her eyes, trying to steel herself. Caitlyn puts a hand on her chest, keeping herself balanced, and then presses her other hand to the gash. 

Red bursts across Vi’s vision as a stinging erupts in her stomach. Against her will, new tears burn against her screwed eyes, and a cry pierces out of her chest. As Caitlyn’s cold hands continue cleaning, her mind bursts with images of the flashing lights of the pit, glaring down at her as she throws punch after punch. She can hear the roars of the crowd, booing her with every missed hit. But, most of all, she thinks she can see a pair of blue eyes watching her, glowing even brighter than anything around her. 

The tears start slipping out. 

Then she feels a hand on her face, and she opens her eyes to find Caitlyn looking at her, her eyes hardened in concern. With a start, Vi realizes the stinging has dimmed, just a little; when she looks down at the gash across her abdomen, she’s met with a soft white bandage. 

She brings her eyes back to Caitlyn, whose concern hasn’t relented from her eyes. She searches Vi’s face, soaking in all the pain on her face. Her hand brushes over Vi’s shoulder, coated in thick black paint, and Vi watches as she pulls her fingers away gently. A slight black smudge stares back at Caitlyn. 

Caitlyn looks at it, then meets Vi’s gaze again. They stare at each other for a beat of silence, the weight of unspoken words pressing on both their shoulders. 

Then Caitlyn reaches out again, more hesitantly this time, and brushes her hand against Vi’s chest. Her fingers linger over a smaller gash, one still healing from nights ago. Guilt pulses in her eyes.

When Vi doesn’t react, doesn’t shove her hand away, something hopeful sparks in Caitlyn’s pupils. She blinks, then drags her fingers further down, her touch achingly slow against Vi’s breast. With each inch she dares, her eyes start to feel more and more like a challenge. But Vi doesn’t move her gaze - in fact, only focuses harder on Caitlyn’s eyes. 

It’s another match, and this is one Vi refuses to lose. 

Caitlyn’s fingers finally linger over Vi’s waist. A final test. And when Vi doesn’t take her gaze off Caitlyn’s - when she merely throws a raised eyebrow at her - Caitlyn’s hands grip the back of her neck and she surges forward. 

Vi’s ready, though. As soon as Caitlyn’s mouth crashes into hers, desperate and guilty, her hands grab for Caitlyn’s waist. She opens her legs a little further, tugs Caitlyn closer, and Caitlyn follows. She wraps her arms around Vi’s shoulders and pins one knee against her side, while the other stays planted on the floor. She’s on the barrier between Vi’s bed and the rest of her apartment. 

But Vi won’t have her straddling that barrier. Vi pulls herself further onto the bed, just a few inches from her wall. If Caitlyn really wants her, she’ll follow. 

And she does. Caitlyn brings the other leg forward to straddle the other side of Vi’s waist, and now her full weight is on Vi’s lap. Vi grips at Caitlyn’s jacket, yanks her closer, and Caitlyn’s mouth opens wider, her tongue licking desperately at Vi’s. 

Vi keeps one arm locked around her waist while the other presses down the side of Caitlyn’s leg, and with each inch further, Caitlyn’s breathing gets deeper. Vi digs her fingers into her thigh, and a strangled sigh escapes her. The hands on Vi’s shoulders start drifting around, one now gripping Vi’s neck and the other in her hair, and with each tug of her fingers, heat licks at Vi’s stomach. 

Vi hooks her fingers over the buckle of Caitlyn’s pants. She fumbles with it, but no matter how hard she tries to unbutton it, her pants can’t seem to come undone. Finally Caitlyn has enough; she pulls herself away from Vi and starts tugging it off herself, and in the meantime, Vi pushes away from the wall so that she’s parallel to the rest of her bed.

Vi watches as the paleness of her legs start peeking through, and she curls her lips in disgusted amusement. What is she even doing, fooling around with Caitlyn like this? There’s no good way tonight could end. 

Maybe this is her way of letting go of Caitlyn. She’s not the girl with the sweet, slow smile in her drunken hallucinations; she’s not the girl in the frilly officer’s uniform she met that first night in the prison. She’s a commander now, someone who’s learned to aim that power in her hands as easily as she knows how to shoot.

Maybe tonight will give her a reason to give up her hope in the old Caitlyn. After all, everyone in Vi’s life has changed; she doesn’t know why she ever thought Caitlyn wouldn’t.

Vi leans back on her hands as she watches her. “Do your Enforcer friends know you’re fraternizing with the enemy?” she crows. “I don’t think sleeping with an illegal pitfighter is considered very commander-ly of you.” Then Vi scoffs. “With my luck, you’re going to arrest me after this for aggravated assault of an officer.”

Caitlyn glances at her with an almost comical look of irritation on her face. At one point, maybe this would’ve made Vi laugh, but now it only makes her heart feel heavy in her chest. This moment doesn’t feel real; it feels like she’s getting a glimpse into some alternate universe, where maybe her attempts at being annoying might have come across as more lighthearted plays of flirtation. But instead, in this universe, in this moment, their existences are in complete opposition of each other. Two girls who’ve lost themselves. 

“I came alone,” Caitlyn says as she tugs her other leg out of her pants. “I didn’t want anyone else getting involved with me tonight. It would’ve been too risky.” 

Caitlyn finally throws the pants to the floor, and they fall to the wood with a soft thud. Before Vi can say anything more, Caitlyn crawls onto Vi and straddles her hips, then comes to meet her lips again. Her hands pull at Vi’s neck as she deepens the kiss, and a new wave of desire crashes over Vi when she lets go of a slight moan. Her fingers dig into Caitlyn’s waist, push her down into her, and her desire flames when she feels Caitlyn rocking against her. Vi drags her lips over Caitlyn’s jaw, into the crook of her neck. She runs her hands over Caitlyn’s thighs again, now bare and warm in her grip, and Caitlyn shivers under her touch. 

Vi brings her lips higher again, back into the corner of Caitlyn’s jaw, and Caitlyn stretches her neck a little further. Vi presses her nose against the side of Caitlyn’s hair, then nips at Caitlyn’s ear, and she flinches slightly. 

Vi grits her teeth. “Why are you really here, Commander?”

Caitlyn doesn’t answer immediately. Vi brings her lips down Caitlyn’s neck again, then to the other side. It’s only when Vi stops to meet her eyes that Caitlyn sighs in irritation. “I think you already know,” she mutters.

Vi scoffs and brings her lips back to Caitlyn’s neck, and Caitlyn sighs again, this time in relief.

Vi wants to rip that relief from her throat. She doesn’t deserve it.

“Jinx is gone, Caitlyn. No one’s heard from her.” Vi huffs in humorless amusement. “And this is coming from me.” 

Caitlyn doesn’t answer immediately. She lets Vi drag her lips against her neck, breathes through her touch. But Vi doesn’t want her to have this slow ease into the moment. So she bites against the skin in the crook of Caitlyn’s neck, sinking her teeth further than she really should, and Caitlyn sucks in a breath in surprise. 

“Just because no one’s heard from her doesn’t mean she’s gone.” Caitlyn’s voice burns against Vi’s ears, so low it’s almost a growl, and Vi’s vision turns red. There she goes again, letting her arrogance blind her. “The opposite, actually. She’s a symbol down here now.” Then Caitlyn rears her head back and looks down at Vi. An aggravating cockiness hardens in her eyes. “Or have you been too busy letting people stab you in the stomach to notice?”

Caitlyn’s face blurs as Vi’s rage surges through her. She grabs Caitlyn’s bottom lip between her teeth and bites down. Even when Caitlyn hisses, she doesn’t let go immediately; only when she speaks again does she release her. “You don’t get to mock me,” Vi growls against her lips. “At least I’m getting hit by trained fighters. Are you still trying to fight innocent kids?”

Caitlyn’s brows furrow, and her eyes shine in disgusted shock at Vi’s words. Good, Vi thinks. At least she feels some sort of remorse.

 Vi leans forward and bites at the fabric of Caitlyn’s uniform collar. With a tug, she rips the fabric, and something inside Vi’s chest unfurls with pride at the sound. She brushes her lips against Caitlyn’s unprotected throat now, and at her touch, Caitlyn clutches at Vi’s bare back.

“What brought you to the ring, anyway?” Vi asks into her skin. “Didn’t think filthy trencher entertainment was high-end enough for Topside’s favorite commander.” 

Caitlyn pushes forward to kiss Vi again, and this time she comes in with something even hungrier, more desperate. She forces Vi’s head to tilt to the side as she takes her turn to drag her lips over Vi’s neck, and Vi’s own breath hitches. But her skin starts to burn at the touch; she gets the sense that this is Caitlyn’s way of warning her. 

Caitlyn forces Vi’s chin to tilt up as she drags her lips lower, now just above Vi’s heart. Vi’s hold on Caitlyn tightens, tethering herself for what’s about to come next. 

Then Caitlyn straightens and meets Vi’s eyes. Vi can’t stand the cold remorse in her irises; she wants to force her back to her neck just to stop looking at it. “You won’t like the answer,” she says grimly. 

Vi tugs at Caitlyn’s thighs, forces her closer. “Try me.” 

Vi’s surprised to see the genuine anxiety in Caitlyn’s eyes. But when she takes in the adamance in Vi’s, she sighs. She leans forward to kiss Vi again, and this is more gentle, more elusive, like she’s trying to seal something before letting it go.

“A figure was spotted leaving one of these fights the other night.” Caitlyn pulls back to meet Vi’s gaze again, and now a genuine guilt shines in them, like she’s about to regret the next words out of her mouth. “A girl with long blue hair.”

Caitlyn’s face blurs into a mix of blue and gray as rage overwhelms Vi’s senses. Her fingers reflexively turn towards a fist, and it’s only when Caitlyn lets out a whimper that Vi realizes how hard she’s gripping her thighs. 

Vi’s teeth grind against each other. Whatever Caitlyn thinks, whatever she’s heard, it had to be a false report. Jinx would know better than to even dare show her face anywhere - she’s Piltover’s most wanted now. She wouldn’t take a risk like that. And she would know better than to come anywhere near Vi, not after everything that happened at the sewers. She would know Vi wants nothing to do with her anymore. 

But still, despite it all, Vi can’t help the way her heart stutters. Only one thought screams through her mind: What if she needs help?

Vi’s vision blurs in red. With newfound adrenaline, she shoves Caitlyn over and pins her arms to the bed, and Caitlyn gasps in surprise underneath her. Vi straddles her waist and presses against her, makes sure that she can feel all of her weight on her hips. She digs her fingers underneath Caitlyn’s chin and forces her head to tilt up, and a blade of streetlight falls over her face. She catches Caitlyn’s gasp in her mouth. 

“What is it, Kiramman?” Vi growls against her lips. She pinches her teeth into her neck. “Does it get you off when you lie to me? Is that it?” 

“Vi,” Caitlyn wheezes, and Vi sits up to let her explain for herself. Caitlyn takes a few deep breaths, and Vi watches her chest rise and fall rapidly as she tries to catch her breath. The motion annoys her, so she rips open the buttons of her jacket. Her fingers tug aggressively at the buttons of the cotton blouse underneath, and she rips it off Caitlyn’s shoulders.

Finally she finds herself staring at Caitlyn’s bra. So pretty and lacy. It reeks of expensive. 

Vi digs a thumb under the wire and yanks. She almost smiles at the sight of the threads snapping. 

“I’m not lying,” Caitlyn breathes, and Vi looks up to meet her gaze. There’s genuinity in them, and another wave of rage floods through her. She throws Caitlyn’s clothes to the floor, then runs her bottom lip against Caitlyn’s neck and bites her shoulder, hard. Caitlyn whimpers, shivering in Vi’s hands. 

She has to be lying. Jinx doesn’t get caught; if she does, it’s because she orchestrated it. And showing up to an illegal pit fight hardly seems like her way of making an entrance.

But would Caitlyn be down here if she didn’t trust her sources? 

Vi’s vision narrows, and she comes back to leave another bite against her shoulder. “You’re a bitch,” she seethes. A new wave of desperation washes over her, and tears start burning against her. She tightens her eyes, and when she speaks again, it turns into a whisper. “Do you know that? All you do is fuck me over.”

She flattens herself against Caitlyn, brings her hands to hover between her legs, and a slickness coats her fingers as she starts tugging at her underwear. Caitlyn’s back arches at her touch and her arms tighten around Vi’s shoulders. 

Through the blurriness in Vi’s eyes, she catches the blue of Caitlyn’s again. An ache erupts in her chest at the sight of her own tears, fat and round at the corners of her eyes. Vi gets the underwear to start sliding down her thighs, but before Vi can go further, Caitlyn brushes a thumb against Vi’s lip. The touch is gentle, like a promise before she’s about to leave for war. Like an ending. 

She breathes out a dying breath. “I know.” 

~~~

Vi’s not sure how long she and Caitlyn have been lying here, on Vi’s sorry excuse of a bed, passing this bottle back and forth between them. All she knows is that no matter how many sips she takes, the burn will never be harsh enough to let her forget the taste of Caitlyn on her tongue, soft and sweet, or the feel of her voice on her bare skin, pleading and devastated. 

They’re not even holding each other, which is what makes this moment so harsh. Vi feels like she and Caitlyn are packaged dolls, staring blankly at the ceiling. 

Then Caitlyn shifts, and her hair brushes Vi’s shoulder as she leans over her. “Is it alright if I take a shower?” she asks. 

Vi purses her lips at Caitlyn, then shrugs. “Sure.” She takes another sip from the bottle in her hands. Then she snorts and, under her breath, she adds, “But no amount of water is gonna clean out all that dirt on your hands.” 

Caitlyn starts to peel herself off the bed, but stops midway and rests her head against the wall. She stares blankly at the foot of the bed for a minute, and Vi watches her back expand with each breath she takes, pale and shivering. 

“If you’re gonna puke,” Vi says, “do it in the sink.” 

Caitlyn’s eyes snap back at her, almost surprised at her voice. She releases an irritated breath and continues climbing off the bed. “I’m not going to be sick,” she says. “You’re the one who finished most of the bottle.” 

“And I’m gonna finish the rest of it, too.” 

Caitlyn flashes her with a look of disgust, then gets to her feet, and then she’s standing in front of Vi. Her muscles flash green in the blades of light that seep through the window, and Vi’s eyebrow jumps in appreciation. 

Caitlyn holds her elbows to her body for a moment, and Vi watches her over the bottle against her lips. Her hair falls over her shoulders, messy and tangled, and a question lingers in her eyes. 

Vi raises a brow. “What?”

“Can you… come with me?”

Vi huffs in amusement. “What, you don’t know how to take a shower? Scared of some bug jumping out at you from the drain?”

“No,” Caitlyn says. “I just…” Her eyes flash in the light, and she sighs. But no other explanation comes out. 

Vi watches her for a moment. She’s not sure why, but watching her in this light, looking so frail and confused, so outside of her own body, makes her chest ache with pity.

Vi shouldn’t give in. Caitlyn doesn’t deserve the comfort. 

And yet, because she’s just as pitiful, she sighs and throws her legs over the bed.

It takes a moment for the floor beneath her feet to stop tilting, but when Caitlyn sees her sit upright, surprise flashes in her eyes. Vi tries to push herself into a standing position, but the world’s still tilting, so she cocks her head at Caitlyn and holds a hand out. “You gonna help me out, Cupcake?”

Caitlyn blinks at her, then pulls on Vi’s hand. For a brief second, the walls tilt backwards as Vi’s tugged forward, and then something crashes against her body. She blinks to clear her vision, and she realizes she’s leaning on Caitlyn, her chin fallen against her right shoulder. 

Caitlyn huffs, and a pressure builds on either side of Vi’s shoulders. Then she’s staring upright at Caitlyn’s, whose eyes are narrowed in irritation and something that almost looks like concern.

“Sober as ever,” Caitlyn mutters sarcastically. Her gaze drifts down, and Vi follows it to the bottle in her hand, which, by some miracle, is still in her hand. Caitlyn reaches for it, but Vi yanks it out of her way, and then their gazes meet again. 

Caitlyn’s lip curls in disgusted confusion. “You’re going to drink it in the shower?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Vi says, then pushes herself off Caitlyn. She’s able to stand perfectly fine without her. 

Caitlyn’s brows furrow, and then she looks around the room, eyes all the bottles in it as if really noticing them for the first time. When her gaze turns back to Vi, the concern in them blooms full-force, and rage curls in Vi’s nerves. 

“Seems like punching yourself blind isn’t the only thing keeping you busy,” Caitlyn says, but her voice lacks any fire. Her head tilts and then, to Vi’s surprise, she reaches out and brushes a lock of hair from her face.

Vi swipes her hand away. “I don’t need your pity.” 

Caitlyn’s eyes flinch, and for some reason, seeing the shock ripple through her body, Vi’s heart tumbles. She hesitates, then glances at her bottle. Then she huffs a sigh and throws it on her bed. It’s empty anyway. 

Her eyes trail over the floor now, too, catching on the bottles and papers and stains, over the pile of clothes, both hers and Caitlyn’s, to the cloak lying like a dead body on her floor. Then she meets Caitlyn’s eyes and sighs in disgust. “We all need to deal with our mistakes somehow.” Vi shrugs. “You grieve by putting on a disguise. I grieve by drinking.” 

Caitlyn’s eyebrows furrow, and she looks down at her cloak, too. Her eyes shut at the sight, and another wave of pity washes over Vi, so she takes this chance to pull her towards the bathroom. 

Vi’s shower is small, just barely a big enough square for even herself, but they manage to fit, somehow. As they get accustomed to this new tight space, their chests breathing against each other, their arms brushing, they meet each other’s gazes, and something about this moment feels almost comical. 

Caitlyn Kiramman, leader of House Kiramman, beloved commander of Piltover’s forces, standing in a dingy shower in front of a trencher. How low she’s buried herself. 

“Why are you laughing?” Caitlyn asks. 

Vi grins and leans back against the wall. She looks Caitlyn up and down, and all she can think about is how unnatural she looks here, with the flickering light barely processing over her features and the scum of her walls a stark contrast to the pureness of Caitlyn’s body, devoid of scars and bruises beyond the ones Vi left on her. 

“You look fucking ridiculous here,” Vi snorts, and she can’t stop the torrent of giggles bubbling out of her. 

Caitlyn doesn’t laugh. The pity in her eyes has somehow managed to grow wider. 

And that pulls the plug on any further laughter. Vi’s eyes narrow at Caitlyn, and she leans forward again, making sure she can feel the sting of Vi’s eyes on her own. “Why are we just standing here, Kiramman?” 

This seems to bring Caitlyn out of her stupor. Her eyes find the handle of the shower, and she flicks it up. The scene slows down as Vi hears the water racketing through the pipes, sees it bubble at the top of the showerhead, watches it glitter as it comes down. 

When it hits Caitlyn’s back, she gasps and lurches away, right into Vi. Vi can feel her shivering as she snaps her arm out again to play with the handle. Through clacking teeth, she hisses, “Why is it so cold?”

“You think hot water is free?” 

Caitlyn whips her gaze to Vi, then turns it back around to the handle. She keeps trying to twist it, but Vi knows there won’t be a change. Caitlyn eventually gives up and turns around, and, with a start, Vi realizes just how close they are. She can feel her stomach pressed against hers, her thigh quivering between her own, trembling as the water soaks her back. 

For some reason, a pang of guilt strikes Vi’s chest. She hesitates, then draws her arms around Caitlyn’s waist. 

Caitlyn looks down at her embrace, then meets Vi’s gaze. Something like remorse shines in her eyes, and Vi tilts her head curiously. After a beat of silence, her eyes harden decidedly, and she steps backwards into the water. As the cold water spills over her, her hair flattens over her face in thick blue ropes and she grits her teeth. But even through the pain of the water, a determination shines in her eyes. 

Vi blinks at her, and a new remorse swells in her chest, watching her shiver.

Caitlyn wasn’t meant for this life. She wasn’t meant for the harshness of the Undercity.

Vi steps forward again, brings her arms out, and her teeth grit as a torrent of cold water hits them. But she persists and finds herself close to Caitlyn again, holding her around the waist. Caitlyn’s still getting most of the hits, but some water bounces off her and coats the front of Vi’s body, too, and Vi’s bangs become heavy against her face. The sting in her abdomen bursts at the chill, along with some of the other cuts on her face and body, and her eyes screw shut at the pain.

They stand there for a moment, shaking in each other’s embrace. But eventually the cold begins to feel like secondhand nature, and the stinging in Vi’s stomach eases. Caitlyn’s eyes drag over her body, and Vi follows her gaze. The paint on her shoulders ribbons down in rivulets of gray water, and the blood from her wounds slither down in a light pink. The colors mix together as they swirl into the drain. Watching them slip away, for a brief moment, Vi feels new. She feels unburdened.

Caitlyn brings her gaze up again. She searches for something in Vi’s eyes, and a tremble appears in her chin. A hand presses against the side of Vi’s face, and it's cold and slick, but Vi leans into it anyway. Caitlyn’s fingers brush against the cuts on the side of her face, and it stings when she touches them, but Vi doesn’t move her hand. She just takes it.

She needs the reminder of how much Caitlyn can hurt.

Caitlyn brings her gaze back to Vi’s shoulders, then starts running her hands in circles against them a few times. The water turns a deeper gray color, and Vi watches it fall off her body. 

But when Caitlyn removes her hands to look at her progress, there's still a light gray overcast on Vi’s shoulders. 

Caitlyn sighs, then brings her gaze to Vi’s abdomen. She brushes a hand over the wound, then looks up at Vi again, her eyes warily pleading. When Vi doesn’t do anything, Caitlyn gently pries the bandage off. She throws it to the side of the bathroom, and now the wound glares back at them both. 

It’s not so bad. It’s shallow, which means it should heal soon enough. But Cait’s gaze lingers over it anyway, and her brows furrow. 

She looks up again and searches the bandages on Vi’s face. Vi knows she should take those off, too, but she can’t bring herself to care. She just wants Caitlyn to watch her, to see all the scars on her body. 

When Caitlyn speaks again, her voice is reedy, chipped by the sound of the water pouring over them. “Did I do this?”

Vi wants to laugh in Caitlyn’s face and say yes, actually, it’s all her fault. But as she looks up into Caitlyn’s eyes, the blue of them now gray in the flickering light, Vi decides that she doesn’t want to give her all the credit. That would be handing her too much power.

“No,” Vi decides, “not all of it.” She presses herself against the wall again as her mind flashes with fractured images: blood dripping down a little girl’s ashened nose; raging violet eyes, piercing her from behind the flicker of candles on an elaborate dining table; broken breaths escaping a broken girl as she choked at Vi’s hand.

“Most of it was me.” Vi’s gaze slips to the bandage on the floor. “Maybe all of it was me.”

And then: a child’s amber eyes, looking up at her in fear.

A scowl yanks on Vi’s face, and she snaps her eyes back to Caitlyn. “But you played your part, too.”

Cait cowers at Vi’s gaze, and she squeezes her eyes shut for a moment. When she opens her eyes again, there's a slight red in them. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, but it comes out like a barely contained sob. Her bottom lip trembles, and Vi’s heart drops at the sight. But that doesn’t make any sense, because isn't this exactly what she’s been hoping for? Caitlyn, begging her for forgiveness? Caitlyn, facing the mistakes she made? 

But the more she looks into her eyes, the more Vi’s chest churns with rage, and angry tears shove against her eyes. Sure, Caitlyn’s crying now about how much of an evil person she’s become - but when she leaves, she’ll be clean and proper again, and she’ll go right back to unraveling the world around her until she fulfills whatever fucked up delusions of justice she has. 

Vi pushes forward, her anger licking at her heart, and she means to push Cait into the opposite wall, but her movements are sluggish and she just ends up in Caitlyn's arms, both of them back in the cold water pouring down on them. She narrows her eyes at Caitlyn, then buries her head into her shoulder. “You should be sorry,” she mutters. “You’re a fucking asshole. You fucked us both over. You fucked the entire Undercity over.” 

Caitlyn straightens Vi, and now the tears in her eyes look angrier as she scowls. “You think I don’t know that?” she seethes. “Every decision I’ve made has been worse than the last.” 

Vi laughs, because she looks fucking ridiculous. What is a councilor’s daughter even doing in her fucking shower? She needs her to just shut up right now. Vi tugs Caitlyn again, brings them both back to the wall, then forces her head to tilt as she drags her lips against her neck. 

Her mouth comes off wet and cold. 

Vi brings an arm around Caitlyn’s waist again and pulls her closer, so close she can feel Caitlyn’s stomach rising with each breath she takes, so close that she can feel her thigh quivering between her legs. “I bet you feel so fucking high and mighty up there,” Vi mutters against her. “I bet you love seeing filthy trencher animals suffer down here all because you can’t seem to just let go of some grudge on a teenage girl.” 

“She killed my mother,” Caitlyn says into Vi’s hair, but her words barely have any fire. She sounds tired, like she’s not sure if she even feels the same conviction. A wick with barely any length left. 

“And your Enforcers killed both of our parents.” Vi tilts her head and meets Caitlyn’s eyes, and laughter bubbles out of her. “You look fucking stupid.”

Caitlyn heaves out a desperate sigh, then leans forward. Her mouth drags down Vi’s throat, down her chest, and one hand tugs at Vi’s waist. Vi’s heart cries out at the touch, and the sound that crawls out of her throat sounds more like a sob than a moan.

A new revolting desire overwhelms Vi, and she pushes off the wall and back into the water. She meets Caitlyn’s mouth with a new fervor, and Caitlyn’s hands tighten around her waist, her nails gripping at her thighs, desperation hot on her fingertips. Her tongue on Vi’s is the warmest thing in this shower right now, which is just so fucking ironic, because Caitlyn is the coldest thing to ever happen to her. Vi’s hands travel up into her hair, grip the back of her neck, and she opens her mouth wider to push Caitlyn in. 

Caitlyn pulls away suddenly, and Vi lurches at the momentum. Cait has to balance both of them, and when she holds Vi against the wall, her eyes burn with fear.

“I don’t know how to fix it,” she breathes.

Vi sneers at Caitlyn. God, she looks fucking ridiculous. “Is that why you came back with me? You thought I’d give you some sort of consolation? Tell you you’re just making silly mistakes that you can just erase? Is that what you want to hear?”

Caitlyn’s jaw locks, and the sight of it is so funny. Now she’s really angry. “I came back with you because you needed help,” she growls. “And I never needed consolation. I just need a reason to wake me up from whatever nightmares I’ve caused.” 

Vi giggles. “Great. You’re welcome for being that reason, then. What do I get now? A pat on the back? A ‘good girl’?”

“What do you want, Vi?” 

Vi just smiles up at her. Suddenly the walls around her are tilting again, and Caitlyn’s eyes are fuzzy blue. Funny - they look almost like Powder’s hair. “Nothing,” Vi says. “Whatever I wanted, it’s all gone. All that’s left is for me to rot a-fucking-way.” She laughs. “Isn’t that what you fucking Topsiders want? Let us trenchers rot?”

Then the wall behind her begins to slip, until it doesn’t, and then she’s floating up. A pressure builds at her lower back, and when she opens her eyes, she finds herself staring at big blue eyes. They look like the moon on Topside. They look so beautiful. They look so fucking dangerous. 

“You’re drunk,” Caitlyn’s voice says. 

“Oh, don't be so modest. You’re tipsy, too.” Vi snorts. “If you weren’t, you wouldn’t even still be here.” Then Vi smiles and puts her hands against Caitlyn’s face. Her thumbs pull at Cait’s bottom lip, and wow, Vi kind of wants to eat her alive. “You know, it’s kinda funny… those few days we spent together at your house, I was always hoping I could do this with you. Drunk fucking showers. But then you turned into a big fucking bitch. And so did I.”

“Vi.” The intensity of Caitlyn’s voice sends shrapnel through Vi’s heart, and she blinks up at her. The light suddenly feels too bright, like she’s staring right at the sun. “Do you need to sit down?”

“No, I don’t need to fucking sit down.” Vi shakes her head, basks in the coldness of the shower, then looks up to meet Caitlyn’s eyes. “I’m not a fucking child.”

“What do you need, then?”

Something burns against Vi’s eyes. She closes them, but the burning keeps going. 

“I just need to forget you.” 

~~~

Vi’s eyes burst open to something white and too bright, and as the blurriness clears, she realizes staring at the bottom of her sink. She's about to lift her head, but then her skin begins to tighten on her and her mouth fills with an acrid, metallic taste, and the next time she blinks, there’s vomit sprayed across the already unclean porcelain. The alcohol burns as it comes back up, and her anger burns and her sadness burns, and she hopes she gags so hard it rips her heart out of her chest. 

 Her fingers clutch at the sides of the sink reflexively as another wave of nausea overwhelms her. A piece of hair falls in front of her face, and she’s about to push it away when it pulls itself, and she feels a hand in her hair and a pressure on her back, but she has no idea how that’s even possible if both her hands are clutching the sink. Maybe she’s finally cracked; maybe she's starting to hallucinate phantom touches, too. 

She tries to breathe, and it momentarily works, so she brings her gaze up to the mirror. Her eyes are watering and the paint’s all washed off, and she feels so fucking naked, so ripped apart. Then something catches her eyes - another face, next to hers. Pale and angelic and intangible. The most beautiful blue eyes she’s ever laid her eyes on. 

Except this Cait looks different. Her hair’s longer, wavier, and her skin isn’t glowing with warmth; it’s pale, almost sickly. Instead of a smile, her eyes glint with concern and her lips are moving, but Vi can’t form the words in her head. She looks anxious. Vi gets the feeling it’s her fault she’s anxious, somehow. 

Vi’s chest cracks with a sob, and the sound echoes around her head. What isn’t her fault? Even with fake Caitlyn, she’s fucking it up somehow. 

“Please,” she begs, leaning towards the mirror. She needs to talk to Cait. She needs Caitlyn to hear her. “Please, Cait, stay. Just this once.” 

Then another wave of nausea shoves her over the sink again, and Caitlyn gets stuck in the reflection.

~~~

The first thing Vi’s aware of is that she feels not freezing for once. She groans and rolls over, trying to hold on to sleep’s consolation. But as the familiar pounding in her head beats louder, she opens her eyes. 

She rolls onto her back to stare at the ceiling, but when she does, she’s surprised to feel a weight on top of her. Something rough brushes against her bare chest, and her gaze snaps down.

The Kiramman flag snarls up at her. 

She stares at it for a moment. Then she throws it over her head and shuts her eyes closed.

[gingervitus]

WIP Wednesday

much like Kelly Clarkson, here I am once again.

thanks for the tag @mythals-whore

tbh this was just going to be a drabble I was just going to post here, but I'm 1000 words in and haven't gotten to the point I wanted to make.

So here's a fluffy little thing I'm working on because real life is a little sad and sucks sometimes, and I just needed to give the illusion that Davrin and Silvia could have a happy ending in some distant timeline.

soft tags to @thatgaymerguyb @thedissonantverses @partially-controlled-chaos @serensama and whoever else wants to play. I was doing this every week long before anyone would have wanted to tag me because I love a WIP.

The appearance in the mirror requires a thorough inspection and a checklist of necessities before deemed appropriate for the day’s events. However, a sea of pale blue fabric leaves the rest of the list moot. Not a single thing matters if the bloody dress slops over slender shoulders like bed sheets. Shifting beneath the material, the figure in the reflection frowns. No moves seem to make a difference. The thing is more like an un-wrangleable beast than any sort of garment. All lopsided and ill-fitting in the morning light, a soft groan leaves lips as the first sound of life in the small room in hours.

“Fucking…” A series of incoherent grunts followed by several movements into different gaps in fabric that might be a sleeve bounce off of the wooden walls. “Putain de robe... pourquoi tu ne peux pas travailler putain?” The garment slides over a lean muscled shoulder, unceremoniously pooling at the pit of an elbow. “Putain!” Birds are chittering outside the window. A squirrel perches itself on the edge of a branch, attempting to pry open a walnut. “I’m going to look like a fucking idiot.” A sigh, defeated and resigned to the fate of a fool leaves a deflated chest. 

Rook hasn’t felt so hopeless since she actually used that name. She’ll owe whatever gods might actually exist some sort of fortune if she just makes it through this day, but it’s feeling less and less certain that she will as the morning marches on. That’s fortunate, she supposes, because despite saving the entirety of Thedas from being consumed by the Blight she has little  material to show for it. Not that she had been doing it for some sort of reward. Well… maybe initially, she had been hoping for some sort of incentive behind taking the reins and fighting elven gods. Crows do have a habit of getting paid for their work. 

She isn’t a Crow anymore, though, nor is she a Rook.

Rolling her neck, she listens to the series of cracks as her spine resets. Eyes closed, the pops resonate in her ears. Grounding her to the moment. Reverberating beneath her skin. Should she maybe be stretching prior to this? There’s no harm in stretching. It never hurts to do so, at least. She isn’t preparing for a target. Isn’t staring down a contract. Just trying to wrestle herself into a dress. This shouldn’t be as difficult as it is. 

“I don’t think anyone will think you’re an idiot.” An added voice isn’t expected and has her eyes shooting open. In the mirror, she finds an amused smile and a relaxed body leaning against the doorframe behind her. “Ridiculous? Absolutely, but not an idiot.” It was that easy smile that had this irritating habit of roping her in without hesitation. The very first time she saw it back at the Lighthouse she was done for. Her heart skipped a beat and she might as well have started getting into this stupid fucking sheet at that very moment. At the very least, she would have been ready by this point.

“Davrin,” she huffs, throwing her arms out at her sides to display the lopsided monstrosity she has been told to wear this day. “This is not a fucking dress.”

He pushes off of the threshold to saunter across the room toward her. “That’s because you’re wearing it wrong.” Laughing, he is laughing. At her misfortune, no less. What an asshole. “Do you want help?”

HAPPY WEDNESDAY!

So Silvia is originally from Orlais and sometimes will slip into some French in moments of frustration. Here's some translating for you.

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT SPEAK FRENCH. (having Lucanis mutter things in Spanish is far easier for me, so please be gentle)

putain de robe - fucking dress

pourquoi tu ne peux pas travailler putain - why can't you fucking work?

putain - fuck

Silvie has a terrible potty mouth.

[bellyyearner]

Feedist Kinktober 2024 Day 8: Plugged In

Word Count: 611

Thank you to @fatguarddog for the theme list!

GN feedee x Femme feeder, feedee POV, restricted movement, large feedee x small feeder, funnel feeding, limited mobility

Another quick one

Groggily you stir awake, unsure of how long you were out but certain your wife wasn't home yet. Your surroundings were so familiar to you by now that it truly felt like home despite the fact that you would appear to be a prisoner in your own home if any other than your wife saw you. But you loved it, it was all that you had ever wanted in life. A massive lard filled middle cascading over your knees, legs spread wide and yet your thighs still touched, ankles swallowed by fat, barely able to lift your arms because of how heavy and useless they've become. That last part could apply to the rest of you as well to be fair.

Your 600+ lbs frame was strapped to the custom built couch, ankles chained to the floor, straps going beneath your arm pits and around your shoulders bolted to the wall behind you, allowing you to reach out and massage your ever fattening gut. But the most important part of all was the funnel mask strapped to your face, and the large tank that hung from the ceiling next to you. The best part was that you didn't know when that tank would disperse more of the fattening concoction into you, you weren't even sure what was in it, but anytime your wife got frustrated at work or felt like you would be getting hungry she would pump more into you just by pulling out her phone. It didn't matter if she was only gone for her shift or a few days for a work trip, it wasn't like you'd be able to notice the difference in time passing, she has kept you so well fed and sedated that time felt like a foreign concept to you. You were completely lard locked and trapped in a never ending sleepy haze of gluttony, this arrangement had started in August of 2023 but you weren't even sure if the new year had came and went, frankly you didn't care.

The couch handled everything you needed, the tv remote is tied to your funnel hanging just beneath your chins, a toilet to handle your business built right into the couch, and a reliable steady flow of calories that your wife so diligently ensured always had enough slop and always made sure to fill you multiple times a day with. And you always knew that eventually she would return, arms filled with takeout, eager to take the funnel from your mouth and replace it with greasy concoctions coming from the mind of men with no care for how unhealthy it was. From deep fried Oreos, to chocolate cake shakes, triple stacked burgers dipped in lard, cups of melted cheese, pizzas with ungodly amounts of grease, but you loved it all.

Day after day you would be pumped full with a flavor you can't even register anymore, only to hear the front door open and her walking down the hall towards you, blessing your ears with sweet greetings and promises of food in just a few moments. Every time she came back and laid her gaze upon you you could see the sincerity of her desires to fatten you ever further, a pair of soft eyes filled with adoration getting closer to you before she pounces and unstraps the mask, caressing the red lines across your face before she places more food in your mouth.

Every time she returned home you got to see that you made the best decision for the both of you, you get to serve your wife in the way she desires, while she fulfills your desires as well. A perfect marriage.

[rateaters-sutff]

All FNAF drama is like this:

\> Game dev, "The Slipster" creates a Fnaf fan game "Those 8 Nights at Zopster's Slop Factory."

\> The Slipster gains massive popularity due to their meme-ish and charming personality

\>YouTuber "Slamstest Yah!" covers Zopster's, criticizing gameplay and story while praising modeling and atmosphere

\> Both individuals have suspiciously furry rantsonas

\> Fans of Slamstest yah! go to Slipster's Twitter and threaten to kill and eats Slipster and their family

\> The Slipster @ s Slamstest yah! about the harassment and death threats Slamstest yah! gave them

\> Slamstest Yah! says they did nothing and accuses Slipster of punching down (Slipster has fewer bunger points than Slamstest Yah! but okay??)

\>Meanwhile a discord group of random Fnaf fan creators forms, calling themselves "The Gaggle" with the sole purpose of fucking over Slipster because he was pretty rude and selfish in their past fan game projects.

\> "The Gaggle" leaks all of Zopster's Slop Factory's assets and developer notes, as well as private DMs where Slipster called "B1LLR0xy" creator of FnaF remake "FNAF **-1/12**.", a "small unlovable glop with a trash game" and "ngl I think gungster#37 was right" ("gungster#37" is a controversial figure in the Fnaf community)

\> Slamstest yah! has no clue any of this happend

\>The Slipster starts a 15-page twit longer accusing Slamstest yah! of conspiring against him with "The Gaggle" to take him down.

\>5 minutes later, Slipster starts a live stream on his YT channel "slipZlop LIVE"

\>has a panic attack and begins crying live on stream, revealing a lot of extremely personal trauma to his audience of Slipster and Yah! stans, who all come to eat up the drama.

\>Slamstest Yah! DMs Slipster on stream and says he didn't orchestrate any of this.

\>Slipster goes on a tirade on Slamstest yah! and claims he should be sent to the deepest pit of the inferno, never to breathe anything but ash and fire

\> While this is happening famous offical Fnaf artist "Vensty Yummybunsty" comments "Gungster #37 was a mixed figure tbh" on the Fnaf sub,

\> Vensty gets backlash and apologizes, only for some random Redditor to go into their [timzbus.art](https://timbus.art/) page and it turns out they made infant cannibalism art and a Fnaf fanfic where William Afton eats 15 children.

\> Scott Cawthon materializes out of the black void between voids, grabs Vensty by the neck, and dematerializes with her, leaving swathes of black particle-like mist dispatching outwards in the air where the two figures were once was placed.

\> The Slipster starts a new stream where he comments on the dematerialization of Vensty and claims she was wrongfully dematerialized from our realm.

\>The 800+ FNAF content farms who have embedded themselves in the viscose flesh of discourse, all began to amalgamate videos describing word for word the entire cascading series of events that lead to this spiral point of pain and distress.

\>all 800+ content farms have suspiciously furry rantsonas and are 97% British

\> Slamstest Yah! continues making his Fnaf content and starts a VHS analog horror series called, "The Glerbs Reports"

\> Slamstest Yah! was later revealed to have eaten 15 children 2 years ago, jolting the twitching mess of the YouTube content farms to exsanguinate Slamstest Yah! pulling the veins rich in blood apart from the form, like pulling the thread out of a rigid carpet, weaving them out with so careful yearning, yet with such parched predation, as to leave dark hollow cavities where his circulatory system was once grown, a body now filled with devoided holes, and hollow smooth tunnels instead of veins that fit so snug and warm. All now pulled out and coagulating on the knees of which the creator of this work sucks violently at the wet plastic-like streamers. The corpse placed facing up, beamed by the sun, showing deep dots of drilled flesh. The animals sit and whip more ribbons to their tongues, cramming their mouths with veins palmed up and compressed to fit in between their cocked jaws, day after day they all sit kneed, pulling and balling the wrinkled tubes in their hands, to lastly entomb this dragging crumpled mess into the very back of their head by the gate of their teeth.

\> And when all veins gone, they bend forward their pale shapes, and lumber on.

\> Zopster's Slop Factory is still being developed, though The Glerbs Reports are still postponed

[leviathanlazarus]

Make It Better

Pairing: Danny Wagner x Josh Kiszka

Word Count: ~2900

Warnings: slash & smut, people!! Blowjobs! Also some blood (non-sexual). 18+ only~

Inspired by Danny kissing Josh's hand during the Cleveland show (and what a show that was!) and, of course, Halloween. Hope you enjoy ;)

---

“You sure you wanna start carving them now?” Danny asked Josh, who was gleefully cradling two pumpkins in his arms from the porch. Danny was holding the front door open for him, letting the crisp, cold breeze momentarily waft into the house. 

“Jake and Sam can do theirs whenever,” Josh answered. He heard–and felt–Danny following his steps as he went through the hall and into the dining room. With a little huff, he set the pumpkins down on the ratty old tablecloth they’d both laid out for the event. “It’s not our fault they’re stuck on interview duty today.”

“I don’t know,” Danny remarked, leaning against a chair. “Carving pumpkins seems like just as much work. Maybe more.”

Josh looked up with a little smile. “This is supposed to be fun, Daniel. Come on, where’s your Halloween spirit?”

Danny sat down, spinning one of the pumpkins around in front of himself. “Play ‘Monster Mash’ and I’ll get into it.” 

Josh laughed. “Sure, fine by me.” He started to sing the words, mimicking the silly voice of the original song, as he meandered into the kitchen, phone in hand. Soon enough the real thing was playing from a speaker, hopefully truly getting Danny to perk up–whenever Sam was out of the picture even for a little while, it was like a little of Danny’s energy was gone with him. Josh could relate though. Whenever his twin was absent, he felt a little emptiness in the pit of his stomach. But he was happy to have some one-on-one time with Danny. That didn’t happen very often. Not to mention none of them had actually carved pumpkins since they were literal children–this was going to be fun.

“What’s yours going to be?” he asked as Danny sliced the top off his pumpkin, Josh following suit with an enthusiastic sawing motion. Using knives was always a good time as far as he was concerned. 

“I was thinking of trying to make it look like Sam’s drunk face,” Danny told him with a laugh. “But I don’t know if I have the skills. We’ll see.”

Josh laughed too. “That’s a good idea. Maybe I should make my pumpkin look like Jake’s guitar face.” 

“Put these two pumpkins together and it’s basically Jake’s ass,” Danny said, smirking to himself; Josh cackled in return. He wasn’t exactly wrong. Then Danny stood up and leaned over the table, hand disappearing into the pumpkin. “Ugh, this feels disgusting. Why the fuck are we doing this again?”

Josh did the same and, yeah, it was pretty gross. So cold and slimy, the seeds slippery between his fingers. “We’re bonding,” he reminded Danny, who was still so immersed in the pumpkin guts that Josh wasn’t even sure what he’d said had been registered. He and Danny slopped handfuls of pumpkin guts onto a platter together, as in sync as they all were on stage.

“Sam will probably want the seeds,” Danny said, reaching back in as the Ghostbusters theme started playing. 

“Good. Nothing left to waste,” Josh replied, beginning to feel very focused on the task at hand himself. He really was going to try to carve Jake’s guitar face into the pumpkin. “We can compost the rest.”

Danny was even more quiet than usual, he quickly noticed, and Josh didn’t think it was just because they were immersed in jack-o-lantern carving. He wanted to ask about it–was there something bothering him? Was he just really not into this? Josh’s sudden onslaught of anxious thoughts broke his concentration and as he was bringing the knife down in a steep curve, it slipped and, in the blink of an eye, bright red blood was shining on the blade, down his hand and across the orange pumpkin. 

“Oh shit!” Danny jumped to action, wiping his hands on a towel as he rushed over to Josh, who was so stunned by his mishap that he was just staring at the shockingly grisly wound. “Wait a minute,” Danny instructed, disappearing into the kitchen for a moment. When he returned, he was standing over Josh and wrapping his hand in a clean towel. 

“Oops,” Josh said, then hissed, suddenly conscious of the deep sting from the cut. “Ouch!” What a stupid thing to do, he thought, because not only did he ruin his hand, he ruined the pumpkin.

“Jeez, Josh, this looks bad,” Danny said, holding the dish towel around Josh’s bleeding hand snugly. “Do you think you need stitches?”

Josh waved that idea away with his uninjured hand. “No, no, I’m sure it’s fine. Let me see.”

Danny sighed. “Let’s go to the bathroom. We need to clean this.” 

So Josh let his friend take the lead. He sat down on the edge of the tub while Danny grabbed yet another towel, one of the black ones with little ghosts threaded in white that he and Jake had picked out just for this season, and wet it in the sink. Danny dropped to his knees in front of him and carefully unraveled the bloody towel from his hand, winching even more than Josh did as it happened. 

“See,” Josh began when his wound was revealed–a deep, long slash down the side of his hand, extending from the bottom of his thumb to just above his wrist. “I don’t need stitches.” 

“Okay, maybe not, but this looks bad,” Danny said softly. Josh was enamored with how tender he was. Maybe in another life, Danny would have been a doctor. Josh could see that. He sighed again, dabbing with the warm, wet towel. “Do you have any hydrogen peroxide here?” 

Josh tensed. “That’ll make it hurt more.”

“Just for a second. It’ll disinfect it,” Danny assured him, then took Josh’s other hand and pressed it over the towel. “Hold that.” He swiveled on his knees to open the cabinet beneath the sink–if nothing else, this allowed Josh a nice view of Danny bent over on his knees, ass in the air while he did his best to rescue Josh from a nasty infection. “Got it,” Danny proclaimed, shuffling back with a brown bottle in one hand and a bag of cotton balls in the other. He sat there frowning for a moment before saying, “We need bandages, too. Not the small ones. I gotta wrap it in something.”

“Maybe in the drawer?” Josh suggested, realizing he knew very little about the contents of his own bathroom. 

“Aha,” Danny said victoriously, tossing the roll of gauze at Josh’s feet. He sat right in front of him, opening the hydrogen peroxide and wetting a cotton ball with it. When he looked up, Josh’s heart fluttered at how genuinely apologetic and hurt Danny looked on his behalf. “Alright, yeah, it’s gonna sting. But it’s gonna help.” He took the wet towel away from Josh’s hand and held that bloody hand in his own. “Okay?”

Josh nodded. Danny doing this made it seem less daunting–he didn’t consider himself very afraid of anything, but physical pain was something he, like most people, always wanted to avoid. Causing himself further pain wasn’t something he was ever inclined to do. But Danny was gentle and reassuring, rubbing Josh’s wrist with his thumb as he dabbed the cut with the hydrogen peroxide, and just that small, simple, sweet action diminished some of the angry stinging that came with it. Then, with a dry part of the ghost towel, Danny dabbed some more until Josh’s hand felt dry again. Next came the gauze, which he wrapped carefully and skillfully around the wound, leaving Josh patched up as best either of them could do. Well, Josh thought, he actually didn’t do anything but sit there. 

“Better?” Danny asked, sitting back, resting his hands on Josh’s knees.

Josh thought about that question for a moment. Then he lifted his bandaged hand up to Danny’s face: “A kiss would make it better.” He was confident Danny would do it, and he did, but the way it happened made Josh’s breath catch in his lungs. Danny gingerly held his wrist, held it so delicately like he was made of glass, and the press of his lips was just as gentle and soft but so full of intent. It wasn’t a quick, silly gag to appease Josh. It was an earnest, lingering, passionate little kiss, and Josh felt faint for a moment.

“Now are you better?” Danny asked, still holding Josh’s hand.

“Yes, thank you, Danny,” Josh said, cheeks burning. He was also sure he now looked very flustered and he felt even more out of sorts when Danny straightened up, moving in close, and gave him a kiss on his forehead. 

“You scared me. Maybe you shouldn’t be around knives,” Danny told him, who was still too flabbergasted to laugh at the absurdity of that. Instead, Josh tried something he’d never done before, something that did actually scare him–he brought his good hand to the side of Danny’s face and leaned forward to kiss him right on the lips. Thankfully, Danny reciprocated, humming softly into the kiss and moving in even closer, their chests touching. 

Josh was the one to pull away, giggling with nervous energy. Maybe an excuse wasn’t necessary–in fact, he was still positive it wasn’t–but he said, “I don’t think my insurance covers this, so will that help?”

Danny smiled, his own face a little flushed. “I always wanna kiss you regardless of personal injuries.”

“Really?” Josh squeaked. Was that why he’d been so quiet earlier? Did Danny think about him like that when they were alone?

“Sure do.” In a feat of strength that baffled Josh, Danny began to get up, scooping him into his arms and carrying him out of the bathroom. Josh hooked one arm around Danny’s shoulders on the journey, heart pounding at this revelation. What exactly was happening here? Then Danny set him down on the couch and placed a bag of the candy they’d been sharing earlier in his lap. He sat down next to him, staying close and, with a gesture at the bag, said, “Doctor’s orders.” 

“Whatever you say, Dr. Danny,” Josh replied, popping a Dum Dum in his mouth, though he really wanted to do something else with his mouth. He paused when Danny cuddled up against him, pulling Josh’s legs over his own and looping his arm around his waist. 

“Wanna watch a scary movie?” Danny proposed, but the look in his eyes was saying something else. Josh was sure of it. 

“No, what the fuck!” Josh exclaimed, riled up and excited now that he knew Danny was so agreeable to him. He grabbed Danny’s shirt, drawing him further in, as he tossed the bag of candy to the floor with his other hand. “For fuck’s sake–I wanna make out with you.”

Another smile, but then Danny grabbed Josh’s wrist and slowly brought his bandaged hand down. “Just be careful of that,” he said, and Josh was about to protest, but then Danny was taking the sucker from Josh’s mouth and replacing it with his lips, then a little tongue, then a little teeth. 

Josh had thought about what it would be like to kiss Danny before. He was convinced there weren’t many people who encountered his beloved drummer that hadn’t. But actually doing it exceeded all of those brief fantasies–Danny was simply a good kisser. A great kisser, with a perfect mixture of tenderness and lust, matching Josh’s pace when it was easy and slowing him down when Josh got too hard and fast with it. Josh followed the doctor’s orders and was mindful of his hand, keeping it at his side and using the other to touch all over Danny’s upper body, feeling the heat and muscle beneath the pesky t-shirt while Danny’s own explored Josh’s body in tandem.

When Danny’s hand found his bulge, his cock growing harder with each kiss, a quiet moan slipped from Josh’s lips and over Danny’s. Danny moved back just enough to look down at his own hand cupping Josh’s dick through his pants, fingers gripping his length despite the barrier. Josh looked down too, already breathing hard, and wiggled his hips in encouragement. 

Meeting his gaze, Danny asked, “Can I go down on you?”

“What?” Josh asked, flabbergasted once more. They’d gone from carving pumpkins to sucking dick, apparently. What a world. 

Danny kissed him again before he asked, using the same explicit words Josh had been thinking, “Can I suck your dick?”

After he gave the green light, Josh learned that Danny was not only a good kisser but really good at giving head–a delightful, surreal surprise. Bare from the waist down, he squirmed and whimpered while Danny’s lips wrapped around his cock and his hands squeezed his thighs, spreading his legs wide enough to sink between. He made sure to keep his injured hand resting over his head, but his other was going wild in Danny’s hair, fingers tangling in the curls, brushing over his scalp, urging him to keep doing his magic. 

“Oh wow,” Josh said, eyes widening at the sight of Danny fumbling with his own fly to get his dick out. Josh almost asked to touch it himself, but Danny swallowed hard around him and he forgot that words existed at all. Danny was rocking his hips back and forth while he licked and sucked and jerked him off; Josh lifted his leg up higher to press it between Danny’s own, and then Danny dropped his hand to quite literally begin humping Josh’s leg. 

Wet sounds emanated from Danny’s hand while he stroked him, popping off to breathe. “Shit,” he muttered, resting his cheek on Josh’s stomach. “I thought about this, too.”

Josh gasped, astounded by these dreamy confessions. His hips bucked; he pushed his leg up harder against Danny’s cock. “More, Danny, please,” he pleaded, fitfully fussing with Danny’s hair again. “Suck me off. Let me come in your mouth.”

With brightly flushed cheeks, Danny took another breath and carried on, the hand on Josh’s belly pressing down hard as he sank down. Josh groaned loudly, eyes closed while his head tilted back against the arm of the couch, so close. When his hips bucked again, Danny gagged, Josh yelped and his fingers tightened in those curls as he shot right into the back of Danny’s throat. It left him exhausted but still determined, and Danny hadn’t come yet–before he lost any more energy, he pulled Danny, who was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, up by his shirt. 

“Whoa there!” Danny wiggled as Josh yanked him to his knees beside his own face. It was a bit of a tough angle, Josh had to admit, but he just grabbed Danny’s ass to pull him forward while he wrapped his lips around him. Eyes closed while he centered his focus, Josh then felt Danny’s gentle touch on his wounded hand, bringing it down. “Careful,” his drummer warned, the word soft but the voice delivering it rough. 

Josh nodded, which made the head of Danny’s cock jump to the back of his throat. Stifling his own gag by squeezing Danny’s ass harder, Josh made good use of his mouth, trying to get Danny down as much as he could while those lovely, strong, kind hands messed around with his now equally disheveled curls. 

“Fuck yeah, that feels good,” Danny said breathlessly, ending the sentence with a surprising whine, which made Josh look up. Danny looked down at him and his lips parted like he was surprised, eyes growing bigger and brighter while he stared into Josh’s. “Oh my god, yeah, keep looking at me. So pretty, Josh, holy fuck–” If Danny was going to say anything else, it was lost in a strangled moan as he threw his head back, and Josh grunted with useless surprise as slick warmth coated his tongue.

After a few seconds, Josh freed him, flopping back onto the couch. “Woof.”

Danny did the same, lying halfway on top of the back of the couch, his lower body pressed against Josh’s. “Hell yeah, woof. Wow.” He closed his eyes and sank down further, resting his head on Josh’s stomach with apparently no intention of moving despite Josh’s dick still being out. Oh well, Josh decided, and started to idly play with Danny’s hair. 

He was snapped out of his beautiful daze when he looked over at the clock on the wall. “What time are Jake and Sam supposed to be back?”

“I don’t remember,” Danny said, sounding like he was on his way to unconsciousness. 

“We should finish the pumpkins,” Josh said, very glad they decided to do this. If he hadn’t cut his hand trying to carve his own twin into one, would Danny have ever made a move?

“You can’t, Josh. Your hand,” Danny reminded him.

Josh huffed. “I can do it. I’ll be careful.” He tapped Danny’s temple and added, “Maybe you could help me?”

“Alright, I’ll help,” Danny said, lifting himself up. Before Josh had the chance to outwardly question where all of this was going in a larger sense, Danny captured him in another hot, heartwarming kiss. 

Josh giggled when Danny broke away and just looked at him. “So–should we keep this to ourselves? It might be too scary to share with Jake and Sam.”

Danny stood and extended a hand to help Josh up before he got his jeans back up. “Nah,” he said, smirking, which made Josh smile even wider. “Let’s tell ‘em. I think they can handle it.” 

---

Tagging: @sparrowofrhiannon @clairesjointshurt @starbuggie @bizzielisteningtogreta

If you want to be tagged in any of my fics, you can go here or DM me <3

You can also find my fics on AO3 (theLazarus) or wattpad (BananaJubilee)

[blackhakumen]

Mini Fanfic #1218: Two Dorks Finally Found Love(SSBU X River City Girls X Darkstalkers)

A Couple of Years Earlier........

It was a nice, eventful evening at Smash Town that day as the Smash Family held their very first annual Smash Gala Party located at the mansion's dining hall.

Everyone present were laughing and dancing to the loud music, having a blast of a time, all while Yoshi and Dark Pit were sitting down in one of the tables, chatting among themselves before noticing Dedede walking over and taking a seat in the last available seat left, grumbling.

Yoshi/Dark Pit: Hey, Uncle De.

Dedede: ('Grumbles')

Yoshi: You got struck out by the model tonight?

Dedede: ('Groans in Defeat') Yeah. 'Said she doesn't want to be seen around with a fat slop of an Ex-King. Can y'all believe that hoe?

Yoshi: Welllll.....You're not really a Kong anymore.....

Dark Pit: And you're fat.

Dedede: Yeah, but I didn't work tooth and nail to provide for this family JUST to be called a damn slop! (Crosses his Arms While Pouting) The nerve of that woman.

Dark Pit: I don't even know why you bother getting back on the dating scene to begin with. You're clearly not enjoying getting stood up to the dirt every day and night

Dedede: ('Sigh') Yeah, you're not wrong there. It's tedious, but your old man can't help but to give it another go, you know? Love is nice, beautiful thing to have once you give all the work, commitment, and support it needs to grow from both or more sides involved.

Yoshi: (Turns to Pitto) Yeah, everybody needs a little romance in their lives. You especially.

Dark Pit: (Raises an Eyebrow at Yoshi) Me?

Yoshi: Yes, you! You're the most anti-social out of EVERYONE in this entire family.

Dark Pit: (Glares at Yoahi) Bullcrap! I hang out with people.

Yoshi: Reluctantly.

Dark Pit: Shut it! In all those instances, I still had myself a good time regardless.

Dedede: Eventually.

Dark Pit: (Glares at his Appointed Uncle) De!

Dedede: What? He not completely wrong! You do need to go out and enjoy the outter life some more, boy. It'll do ya wonders

Dark Pit: ('Sighs in a Bit of Annoyance') I will in due time. But I ain't gonna be a lovestruck idiot anytime soon. (Points at Pit Dancing With Viridi on the Dance Floor) Especially like that cupid dork over there

Pit: ('Sigh') Love you, Pitto.

Viridi: (Glares at The Dark Angel) Quit making fun of my angel over there, jerkwad!!

Dark Pit: (Smirks at Viridi) Tell your angel to get better at reading and maybe I'll reconsider.

Dark Pit starts chuckling over his sly remarks before suddenly getting pelted in the face by Viridi's water volley blast, causing him to fall off from his seat.

'Thud'

Dark Pit: ('Ugh') (Gets Back Up From his Seat, Now Soaked and Wet) What the-

Viridi: (Smirks at a Soaking Pitto While Pit Snickers at his Dispense) Hope you enjoy your refreshments over there, Pitto!~ Our one of a kind treat!~

The couple laughs as they continue on with their dance, leaving Pitto to glare and groan at them in pure annoyance..

Dark Pit: (Tries Squeezing the Water Out From his Dress Shirt) Aa what I was saying...... (Turns Back to Dedede) You're better off going solo, Uncle De. (Turns Back to Pit and ViridI... Doing a Cute Eskimo Kiss in the Close to Mid Distance) Less you want you and your partner to end being as obnoxious as those two.....

Viridi gives Pitto the middle finger without so much as looking directly at him, causing the dark angel to sigh.

Dark Pit: Screw it. If you guys need me- (Walks Off) I'll be at the restroom drying off. (Starts Grumbling While Walking)

Yoshi: ('Sigh') Love wins once another. (Takes a Bite Off of a Cookie From his Plate Before Disliking the Taste Of it Shortly After) ('Ugh') Too plain. (Turns to See Dedede Lost in Some Thoughts) Oh come on. Don't tell me you're actually taking Pitto's words to heart here.

Dedede: (Immediately Comes Back to Reality) N-No, I ain't!.....But-

Yoshi: (Raises an Eyebrow) Buuuuuuuuuut?

Dedede: (Sighs Heavily While Looking Down at his Reflection on his Drink) I dunno. Maybe I should take a break from the dating scene for a while. I doubt I'm ever gonna end up with someone in the next few years.......

Yoshi: (Place his Hand Onto De's Shoulder) Don't give up hope just yet, Uncle De. A lot of things could happen during that time, so you never know.

Dedede: Yeah, probably. (Takes a Bite Off of the Cookie Ffrom his Plate Before Splitting Out in the Other Direction) ('POOUAH') The fuck!? These cookie taste bland as hell!

Peach: (In the Other Side of the Room) LANGUAGE!

Dedede: Sorry.

Yoshi: ('Sigh') Yeeeeup.

Fast Forward to the Present.........

The Annual Smash Gala Party has now returned, more lively than ever this year around. The music's loud and bumping and everyone: friends and couples alike, are out on the dance floor, dancing the night away, having a grand ol' time.

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

Owain: (Doing Various of Heroic, Epic, and Goofy Looking Poses In Front of a Giggling Zelda)

Zelda: Owain!~ Whatcha doing over here?~

Owain: Ohh don't mind me, milady~ Just moving along to the beat of this highly advanced music playing. It's incredibly intoxicating.

Zelda: (Casually Shrugs) That's what electric pop music would do to ya. (Smiles Softly While Blushing) Your moves are very nice to look at by the way~

Owain: (Properly Bows at Zelda) Why, thank you!~ (Smirks Proudly) I will be more than happy to teach them to you- (Forms an Annoyed Glare at Two Familiar Faces) Only if two of the most closest people in my life would quit taking pictures of me.

Robin: (Happily Waves at his Son While Taking Pictures of Him Along with His Equally Happy Wife and The Mother of Their Son, Lissa) Your mother's idea by the way.

Lissa: You were doing great, sweetie!~ Don't stop now!~

Owain: MOTHER!

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

Jun: (Sighs a Bit She Sits Next Woth her Husband and The Few Other Members of the League of Villains in the Bar Section) Such a lovely atmosphere tonight. It's a shame my body gotten a lot older these days or else I would've been out there by now.

Sephiroth: (Turns to Jun) You know how to dance?

Jun: (Nodded to Ganondorf) In my younger years, I did. Kazuya and I were quite the dancing couple since then.

Hades: I'm sorry- (Eyes Widened at Kazuya) Mr. Former Devil Boy here used to dance!?

Kazuya: (Rolls his Eyes in Annoyance) Shocking, I kmow. (Points the Fellas To His Wife Next to Him) She was clearly the better dancer of the two if us.

Jun: (Giggles Softly Rest Her Head Onto Her Husband's Shoulder) Lies~ You were just as wonderful as well, my dear.

Kazuya: (Raises an Eyebrow) I really think so?

Jun: I really know so~ (Gives Kazuya a Kiss on the Cheek) Would you like to take a dancing class together one of these days? It could be fun.

Kazuya: (Sighs While Blushing a Little) If it saves me from second hand embarrassment, then sure.

Hades: (Chuckles a Bit) Oh-ho~ Speaking of which~ Looky there! (Points the Gang to Flirty Bowser Talking to an Already Irritated Peach)

Kazuya: ('Ugh') He never quits, does he?

Sephiroth: (Slowly Shakes his Head) That man is as persistent as they come. I'll give him four minutes before it all crashes down upon him.

Hades: (Forms an Evil Smirk) I'll give him a minute and a half tops.

Kazuya: Forty-Five seconds is all he'll need to call it quits.

Jun: (Pouts at the Others) Boys, enough! That's far too long and generous time to give him when it could happen in- (Looks at her Watch as She Counts) Three....Two......One.

Peach: (In the Distance) GO AWAY, YOU CREEP!

'SLAP'

Bowser: (Cries in Pain and Pathetic Misery)

Hades: Ooooh! Right in the face and pride!

Sephiroth: (Genuinely Surprised) And it happened right on time too.

Kazuya: (Forms a Proud, Evil Lime Smirk on his Face) Gentlemen- (Presents Hades and Sephiroth To.....) The love of my life.

Jun: (Giggles Once More While Blushing) Kazu, you sweetheart~

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

Yoshi: (Sitting Alone at the Table, Eating One of the Many Cookies He Got From the Stand) ('Munch Munch') Mmmm~ I gotta say, these are getting a lot more tastier each year around.

????: ('Sighs Heavily') I swear you two are impossible sometimes......

Yoshi turns to see Dark Pit walking over to his table with his two girlfriends, Misako and Kyoko on one side.

Misako: (Forms a Playful Smirk on her Face While Gently Poking Pitto's Cheek) Oh don't be so dramatic, babe. You love every second of this~

Kyoko: (Happily Nodded) Mmhmm~ (Hugs Pitto's Arm) Where would you be without us showering you with our love and affection, hm?~

Dark Pit: (Shrugs) Probably sitting around, hating everything. (Use his Other Free Hand to Rub the Back of his Head Back and Forth) You guys made my life slightly more enjoyable by coming around these days, so......(Gives Both Misako and Kyoko Each a Kiss on Their Cherks Before Smiling a But While Blushing) Thanks...for that.

Kyoto: (Heart Begins to Melt in Pure Happiness Along With Misako) Awwwwww!~ (Starts Snuggling onto DP's Arm) HHonestly!

Misako: I told you we made our angel a big softie these days, babe~ (Starts Kissing On Pitto's Other Cheek)

Dark Pit: (Rolls his Eyes While Sighing) Yeah and I'm still choking over that fact to this day. Among other-

??????: Ohhhhh, Pitto-Kiiiiin!~

Dark Pit shakingly turns around in anger as he sees ViridI giving him the biggest smirk she could Muster while her boyfriend, Pit, snickers.

Virid: Who's the Lovestruck Idiot now!?~

Pit: Yeah!~ And a cupid to boot!~

Dark Pit: STILL THE BOTH OF YOU IDIOTS! (Angrily Flips Them Off).

Kyoko: (Pouts at Dark Pit) Pitto!

Misako: (Gently Slaps Dark Pit's Arm) Ignore them. Come on.

Dark Pit: (Sighs in Defeat as He Turns Away From the Now Laughing Couple) Fine. I'm turning.....

Yoshi chuckles lightly at the dark angel's dispense before hearing two sounds of genuine laughing as he then turns to see his Uncle King Dedede carrying his girlfriend, Morrigan Aensland in his arms, bridal style.

Dedede: Ahahaaa man! (Wiping a Tear From Off his Eyes) Y-Y-You're kiliin' me here, Morg~ Ain't no way!

Morrigan: (Happily Wiggles Her Legs Up and Down) It's true!~ His asre was like- (Uses her Hand to Make a Wide Spread) THIIIIIS big, much bigger than my sister and mines combined in fact, and he goes swinging it around town, grabbing peooooople!~ (Continues Giggling)

Dedede: Ohooo man!~ All this time I thought the princesses use their asses like ticking time bombs in fights were crazy enough, but this DEFINITELY takes the cake!

Morrigan: (Points her Finger Up in a Lecturing Type Fashion) It goes to show how truly terrifying the booty can be used in any kind of combat imaginable, my dear

Dedede: (Nodded in Agreement) Amen to that. (Smiles Brightly at his Girlfriend) You're cute when you get knowledgeable~

Morrigan: (Smiles Back While Snuggling Onto Dedede's Chest) And you're so adorable when you laugh, my dear king~

Dedede: (Chuckles Lightly) You sure you ain't talking about yourself, hon? (Forms a Seductive Smirk on his Face) Cuz that laugh of yours is just like your voice, soothing as honey~

Morrigan: (Let's Out More of her Cute Laugh While Blushing)

Kyoko: (Turns to Dedede Along with her Two Lovers) Oooh~ How romantic~

Dark Pit: Yeah, that was actually pretty smooth of you, Uncle De, not gonna lie.

Misako: (Smirks at DP Some More) You could learn a thing or two about smoothness from your old man, you know?

Dedede: (Smiles Brightly at Dark Pit) Hell yeah! I got pamphlet of smooth picks up lines I can lend ya that could totally be effective.

Dark Pit: ('Heh') I'll pass. I doubt any of them would be nearly as good as the one you just made.

Dedede: (Glares at Dark Pit) Oh you'll be singin' a different tune once you read through every one, I guarantee you that!

Yoshi: (Happily Waves Hello to the Gang Approaching in Front of his Table) Hey, guys!

Ladies: HI, Yoshi!~

Dedede: You got worn out from all that dancing already, boy?

Yoshi: (Casually Shrugs) Eh, kinda. I gotten hungry, so I came here, eating and sitting for a while now. It's nice to see you guys enjoying yourselves out there though. (Smirks at Dark Pit While Doing a Mocking Sound Voice) Especially Mr. I Ain't Gonna Be a Lovestruck Idiot Anytime Soon over here~

Dark Pit: (Sighs While Facepalming Himself') Don't even go there, man. I got enough crap over it already.........

Kyoko: (Smiles Brightly) He's starting to come to terms with his softness~

Dark Pit: (Scoffs While Crossing his Arms and Turning Away) As if. Still feel the sake as I've ever been.

Misako: True. (Smirks at Pitto Again) But it's only a matter of time before you get soft like that rest of us here~

Kyoko/Misako: (Starts Chanting) One of Us~ One of Us~

Dark Pit: Your chanting won't work on- Huh? (Starts Hearing More Chanting From the Rest of the Gang)

Yoshi/Dedede/Morrigan: One of us. One of us.

Dark Pit: (Turns to the Trio) Hey, why are you joining in- (Eyes Begins to Widened Once He Now Suddenly Hears Almost Everyone in the Entire Room Starts Chanting the Same Thing)

Everyone: One of Us! One of Us! One of Us!

Pit: No use fighting, bro!~

Viridi: You'll get there in the due time. (Starts Giggling Along with Pit)

Everyone continues on with the chant long enough for Dark Pit'to starts twitching his eyes in annoyance and...and..

Dark Pit: OH KNOCK IT OFF AND GO BACK TO PARTYING ALREADY, PEOPLE!!

Everyone cease their chanting and giggles before resuming back to their partying activities for the night.

Dark Pit: (Groans While Pinching the Bridge of his Nose) I swear, this entire family is a pain in all body areas......

Yoshi: Oh come on. You know you still love us.

Dark Pit: Reluctantly........And.....(Starts Blushing a Bit) Most definitely.

Hearts starts to melt as the gang group together to give their dark angel the group hug of the lifetime, causing him to blush even more than usual before sighing in defeat.

@bestpony666

@decibelcoatl

@caleb13frede

@albion-93

[dlinyenkiwrites]

Fantasy Project

Well, it's been years and this place is a desert. No better time to post than now, I guess. I'm working on a new project, my first fantasy, about angry dead gods, imperialism, the loss of identity in a culture that demands assimilation, and lots of queer relationships. An excerpt below

***

Tjaden spent the last hour of her shift hosing a dead Ironclad pilot out of his cockpit.

She hadn’t bothered to learn his name, so she called him every foul word she could think of as she cleaned the bits of him out of the cockpit. The leather pilot’s chair had been made for quick and easy cleaning, though it always held close a stink of old sweat and unwashed uniforms. But there were pieces stuck in the floor treads, in the instrument panel, in the nooks and crannies of the gun ports. She found a part of his face pasted to the runneled floor, and dug at it savagely with her brush. That should be saved for cremation: Tjaden dumped it instead into her slop bucket.

Sodden and stinking, she squeezed herself into the space beneath the chair to scrub out the pedals. It would take hours to get him out entirely. The Ironclad, Ishierza, was already grumbling, the heat growing ever more oppressive as her displeasure increased. Ironclad were always temperamental after a battle, even more so when their pilots were killed.

Stupid boy, Tjaden thought, fraying her brush on the pedals. Barely past his first pimples and already dreaming of the devastation he’d wreak in Aesarii’s name. Drummed up in the recruiting drives, no doubt after the last batch of recruits made room for him. Likely he’d dropped too low, the youngblood’s favorite mistake, and flew nearly face-first into a barrage of Khanbakul’s dreaded sky-breakers. Or, like so many stupid young bastards before him, he’d thought to try the Rift, and no matter no one had ever passed through that wall. It had stood for five thousand years free of interlopers, guarding the flanks of Khanbakul from ground invasion and eating the troops Lishar sent into it. Maybe he’d just thought to skim the surface of it, to brag he’d touched the Rift and walked away.

Whatever the case, he had broken formation and got himself killed for it. Ishierza, veteran of a dozen conflicts, fought him all the way. She’d won control for just long enough to flare her wings and bank hard, to take the shell in her armored flank instead of her chest. The shell had missed the engine of her heart and turned her pilot to mush. Then she’d sounded distress and limped for home.

Four others died on the way back. They had fallen to the ocean, a sea of ice floes and black water so deep that bodies sank in slow decay. All that touched the sands at the bottom of the world were bones and rusted remnants of the Ironclad.

They, at least, had been too far for Tjaden to feel their deaths. But three more had never made it back across the Pit: the skeletal claws of the Pit’s great tree ripped them from the sky and dashed them all to pieces on its immense limbs. Tjaden had heard them all fall screaming into the abyss below, and they had made the shreds of her god’s soul howl.

The entire foray into Khanbakul had been an utter disaster. At this rate, she thought, mopping at her face and spitting suds, Lishar would lose half of its favored sons and daughters within the year. She couldn’t help the savage satisfaction in that thought.

Ishierza’s grumblings and shiftings pitched towards real malice. Any moment now she might slam the cockpit door shut and trap Tjaden in the dank dark.

“Don’t you dare, old bitch,” Tjaden muttered, slapping the floor in remonstration. “I want to get out of you too, but I can’t leave his bits in here to rot. Now hold still and I’ll be quicker.”

There were no other irongests who’d dare the Ironclad innards except the children, but Tjaden had already sent her little crew of day-shift urchins back to creche for dinner and a wash. The night-shift hadn’t arrived yet. And she did not fear the Ironclad as the rest of the mechanists did. It fell to her to worm her way inside and clean their cockpits, though she was too big and broad-shouldered by far for such nonsense.

[noisycandytrash]

Beneath the Mask - Chapter two

What if Leonardo fell in love with a zaunite rebellion leader?

Hey, this is the second chapter, still just set up for the OC meeting Leonardo

CW: major character deaths, trauma, abuse mentioned

The rest of the walk goes slower when they lose the enforcers, lost in the crowd of Zaunites. “That was close, too close” Azal speaks up after a little bit of silence “we need to be more careful next time, no bragging about stealing shit”

Ira scoffs “nah, Azal, those enforcer chumps are rookies to this, these are our streets, we should show them”.

Azal looks slightly more serious as his sister “no, really, Ira, that was sloppy, I can’t let anything happen to you, in all those scraps we get in, I’m always just worried about you, kiddo” to which Ira just responds with a murmur.

In hopes to lighten the mood Ira picks up a handful of the sludge that covers the ground of the Pits “I’ll show you sloppy” and proceeds to chuck the slop at his facing, making full contact.

“Ugh, gross, you little shit, come here” and proceeds to chase her back to their home, while they scream and laugh, but not before they wrestle in the mud a few times, some people from inside their homes tell the two to rather crudely shut the fuck up. They reach the doors to the shack they call home, and they make a weak attempt to wipe off all the mud before going in.

Their mother, Rishi, and Nemia look up at them from their piles of papers on financial, rent and medical information to look at Ira and Azal with shocked expressions. Azal and Ira just look at them with big shit eating grins, until Azal speaks “what’s up fam” pretending to not notice the fact that they are bloody, bruised and covered in mud.

“Where the hell have you guys been?” their mother speaks up, concern sewed through every single words, “they’ve been getting into trouble again” Rishi sighs heavily and rubs his fingers into his forehead, “you guys have to start being more smart and” before she can finish her sentence Azal drops the bag of money they received selling the items they stole onto the table, it’s not a grand amount of money, but it will make life easier for a little bit, some of it spilling out of the bag onto the table, stopping, resting, over the financial documents.

While Azal was being scolded, Ira made her way over to Zerro , who was on his mattress, a makeshift IV drip standing next to him. She takes his hand wordlessly and runs her hand through his hair, he makes attempts to give her a weak smile. Ira thinks to herself that he gets skinnier everytime she sees him, as if whatever illness he received from the toxic fumes that have taken over their streets and is invading their home is slowly sucking all the light from him.

Ira goes to cook a dinner of onions and boiled slump rat that Rishi and Nemia had caught earlier, and discussions go back to normal until their father comes in and grabs a plate, sitting down at the head of the table. Things turn tense and nobody wants to look at their father, or breathe too loudly. A few times, when Vander has noticed bruising on Azal and Ira not from streetfights, he has come over and threatened their father. The last time resulted in a pretty nasty beat down on their father, which has stopped things for a while, but family dinners are still tense, not wanting to tick him off again.

The rest of the evening goes somewhat smoothly, reverting to the same topics of money and financial stress, their father drunkenly yelling but no more than that. They go to bed soon after, Ira takes some time to read before bed, reading a book that she took from their recent heist, Wuthering Heights by Charlotte Bronte. Recently, Ira taught her family how to read, after learning herself, as they never were given the opportunity before. After reading a portion of it, the candles were burnt out and they went to sleep, all hundling up on the grimy mattress that took up a lot of the space in their small shack.

The next day started out like any other, everyone woke up out of their bed early in the morning and went to work hungry. Nemia came up to Ira and Azal where they meekly sat with Zerro, who was struggling to breath, making raspy sounds with every breath. Nemia sat down beside them both and quietly placed a supportive hand on Ira's shoulder, smiling slightly at Azal. Rishi stood, hovering over the three of them, but smiling supportively, as they both knew that Zerro’s sickness had been the hardest on them.

“Are you two gonna be alright?, Rishi, mom and I need to head to work” Azal slimed widely, still petting Zerro on the head, and Ira leaned into Nemia's supportive hand and smiled up at her big sister.

“Yeah, just gonna take Ira to Benzo’s, and then go to Vanders, see if he has any work for me, he usually just pays me to be there, I guess my charm lures the customers in” Azal tried to flex his muscles as he said this, but it just caused everyone to laugh, even Zerro tried to produce a weak chuckle.

Nemia and Rishi stood up, still chuckling, and joined their mother at the door. “Alright we’re off then. You two little shits don’t get into any more trouble with enforcers or anyone else. What are the rules?”

Ira and Azal sigh and roll their eyes as they repeat “don’t look at anyone, don’t touch anything and don’t get into fights, even if they start it”

The three of them wave goodbye and promptly leave the humble abode, with a thud as they hit the sludge of the outside, the door quickly shuts.

“Alright, Ira, we should leave before dad wakes up to get to work. He’s more irritable in the morning” they both agree and rush out the house, making small talk on the way to Benzo’s.

The rest of the day went without injury, Ira spending the day fixing items that people had brought in, playing around with Ekko, and cleaning up messes that she and Ekko had most likely caused. Vander came in towards the end of her shift, and Ira was told to leave.

As she was skipping out the house, Vander placed a hand on her shoulder and got down to her level. “Just so you know, kiddo, there's always space in my home for you and your brother and family if you so choose” to which Ira just nodded and left. It wasn’t the first time Vander had proposed something like this, but Ira always just nodded silently. As much as she would love to live with her friends and Vander, Zerro could barely breathe, let alone move. Vander has always been there, always been there for her family, Ira didn’t understand why, but she appreciated the father figure role being filled by someone other than an alcoholic asshole.

She quickly made herself scarce, but listening into their conversation, she found out that topsiders are looking for the kids responsible for the Piltover heist. Outside, she finds Claggor and Mylo and quickly runs to them, to which they both pat her on the head.

“Hey guys, thank god you came, I was dying of boredom in there” Ira throws her head back in dramatics

“You’re being dramatic, at least you don’t have to listen to Powder’s whining all day.” Ira smacks Mylo for his comment, Claggor quickly changes the subject “how’s your brother doing?”

Ira face falls and her shoulder slump “oh you know, he's holding out.”

Vander comes out after seemingly a heated conversation, Mylo and Claggor put a hand on her shoulder and walk off, waving goodbye.

Vander takes longer to part from the young Ira, Ira has always thought that whenever he looks at her, there are so many things he can’t bring himself to say, but she doesn’t know what. He parts from her wordlessly, seeming to have a battle in his head that one side seems to win everything single time.

It wasn’t long before Azal picks her up from Benzo’s shop and they walk home together, avoiding enforcers and deciding to run across the roof way instead. They get home and open the doors, expecting a warm welcome from their family, only to find the house empty. There’s confusion and fear so suffocating it could be cut with a knife.

A few more hours pass without anyone returning from the factory, and the house is hauntingly empty, nobody wanting to speak up their fears. Until finally, Ira decides to break the silence.

“They should’ve been back by now” she speaks up, barely even a whisper.

“Yeah. I’ll go check at their work” Azal tries to give her a supportive smile, but nothing can be said to console their worst fears. The pressure in the air is suffocating, Azal and Ira go outside, Ira leans against the wall as Azal disappears into the green mist. She tries to breathe in whatever fresh air she can salvage, only to end up bent over, in a coughing fit from breathing too deeply. A depressingly long time goes by with Azal being gone, only for him to return.

Ira’s eyes desperately searched for her four family members that went to the factory, only to just see Azal standing there, looking down at the ground. He was swallowing back tears, and his eyes were glassy.

After standing there for a few minutes, his sister's desperate eyes searching him for an answer, he eventually managed to choke out “there was an explosion in the factory”.

He quickly retreats back into their home, leaving Ira outside, Azal cries inside as Ira cries outside. They both pretend they can’t hear the other, but the truth is, the sounds of their siblings' heartbreak make them each cry harder. Eventually, Ira comes into the house and whispers “we have to keep up everything, the payments and stuff, we can go on more heists, and we’ll look for more work”

“Yeah, yeah, we’ll be okay, we have to be okay” Azal puts a supportive hand on Ira as they both retreat to their empty, still house, laying on the mattress. They both closed their eyes and tried to sleep, finding little luck. They just spent the rest of the night both staring up at the ceiling.

[noblehcart]

❗❗❗ (( me sending this in for rook waaaaay late ))

Send " ❗❗❗ " for your muse to suddenly and unexpectedly kiss mine. @paramounticebound

Rookheeya Khademi basked in the scent of burning greek tents.

It wasn't many, but enough to be an inconvenience. Another escape attempt, another sabotage, and another capture. Perhaps history might whisper of how sure and ready her arrows engulfed in flames hit their targets. How many Spartans lay dead and injured at her feet. How the blood ran coating a soldier's features as he grabbed her from behind and her head slammed into him to break free. How these slain men were felled with Spartan blade and by Persian hands till their general intervened, at last arriving on the scene.

She was determined it was to be a final stand.

Exhausted, fury driven energy pushed her forward to drive him into doing what was necessary. She would not be collared, nor would she be kept. No Persian general could live with honor after that and as sister of a king she refused to be bartered. The spartan blade slick with blood, both hers and spartan, was swung to the side in the universal language between warriors. The smirk on his face drew the snarl from hers as she lunged at him swinging. At this point she didn't care if she died (an honor) but she would certainly relish if he was the one who took their place in hades. The advantage of his camp, his soldiers, and his weapons were utterly against her- along with the fact that her refusal to eat most of the spartan slop left her weaker than she cared for.

Still the metal rang for what felt like hours though it was more likely a matter of minutes. Dark eyes cherished the cuts her blade made into his burnished skin. A shame for spartans to be scarred as it showed their weakness in battle. Let him live in weakness while she died in strength. Her family would know. Even as he forced her weapon out of her hands, pinning them in one of his as he pulled her close and she cursed him with every word and in every tongue she knew. She attempted to headbutt him, but were it not for the fingers tangled in her loosened hair she would've hit him that instead drew her against him in a kiss to silence the curses on him and his descendants. Sudden, raw and intense as the kiss continued and she froze in shock and mild horror before sense got the best of her and she bit hard. The iron taste sharp in her mouth as he pulled away with victory in his eyes and his hands loosening ever so slightly.

Frames shifting slightly away before the ire rose fast again with the wind as she tried to hit him again wanting to see him bleed out. "Spartan dog- I hope Ahura Mazda casts you into the darkest pits of oblivion. Not even your Hades will find you; nor will your country mourn you."

[angelic-and-terrific]

I think a lot of authors are afraid to write because of how superficial the writing discourse is oftentimes. You'll have an author use "said" a bunch, and there'll be TikToks with someone giving writing advice bashing them for this being the wrong writing move and that any up and coming author should consider flagellation before using said. That's how we get new iterations of the fantastic core memory of:

Advice for writers: -Use the word you want to use

Then there's stuff like being mean about using adverbs, yes there are different ways to say the same thing, and honestly? They are kinda all equally valid for use in prose, ya goofs!

Advice for writers: -Use the word you want to use There's also how discourse on media evolved into this weird pit of negativity. It often feels like you can either feel like things will not be good, or you are a good polite sheeple who enjoys things (I can't abide how much I saw the word slop recently). The negativity feels like a weird defense mechanism, no expectations means no dissapointment. But this approach also means that the audience does not engage with what they're reading, instead they're looking for reasons to not like it. Allowing yourself to feel something because of a piece of art is vulnerable, you're open to something scary. But that's the best part. Sometimes it won't be the Dutch Master painting or that Top 10 Goodreads book that makes you cry, sometimes you cry because of Baldurs Gate 3 cutscenes, sometimes you cry to Attack of the Killer Tomatoes, I don't know your life.

Being a sheeple who enjoys their corporate made slop tho? This idea is just darn-tooting annoying to me. It absolutely ruffles my feathers. It grinds my gears. Yes, there is a lot of low effort content made on every platform right now, every single one. Does that mean that all of it is trash? No. Enjoyment of art is relative, it's subjective. The thing we call art is the sum-total of experiences and emotions a thing made by someone, made for the purpose of making us feel, has made us feel in the end. There's no good or bad art and that kind of discourse is ultimately kinda rotting people's brains online. Did you enjoy something that many people didn't? Hell yeah, good for you! Criticism of art should not be about *JUST* saying what didn't work, but also examining why it worked on someone but not you sometimes. But most importantly, you can enjoy parts of something! You don't have to enjoy over 50.1% of a thing to say you liked it. You like that one Chapter because of how it developed the character? Hell yeah! You liked that one scene of that one show because of the landscape CGI being cool? Hell yeah. You can enjoy parts of a thing and not others, and that doesn't negate your enjoyment. Advice for audiences: -Let yourself enjoy things, believe it or not, you'll enjoy more things if you do

please i love you i'm begging you bring back suspension of disbelief bring back trusting the audience like. i cannot handle any more dialogue that sounds like a legal document. "hello, i am here to talk to you about the incident from a few minutes ago, because i feel you might be unwell, and i am invested in your personal wellbeing." "thank you, i am unwell because the incident was hurtful to me due to my childhood, which was bad." I CANT!!!!

do you know how many people are mad that authors use "growled" as a word for "said"? it's just poetics! they do not literally mean "growled," it's just a common replacement for "said with force but in a low tone." it's normal! do you hear me!! help me i love you please let me out of here!!!

[girltomboy]

The Torturous Tortured Poets Department - a 2/10 album

I finally listened to this slop knowing full well it would be beyond excruciating to try and sit through all the 31 "songs" on it, and all my expectations were confirmed. That lady can't do anything!

So I want to mention that only the first 10-ish songs are actually listenable, the rest of it is the same repetitive monotone slop that's ever present on her past ~4 releases (not including the re-recorded greedleases).

Fortnight (feat. Post Malone) - flat song, Post Malone fits well on it, but it doesn't have a peak, just goes straight into nowhere. I kind of forgot most of it because it feels like I've been trying to get through this tar pit of an album for a whole day. Forgettable is a good description for it.

The Tortured Poets Department - fake deep, heavily influenced by pretentious clichees, we can tell she had a fling with the racist from The 1975 because it made her even more annoying. Also forgettable.

My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys - this one was better, has a bit of personality to it, some rhythm too, one of the only decent songs if you pay little attention to the lyrics.

Down Bad - the swearing makes it funny, lackluster production, quite flat, verbose & empty. I don't think she understands what "down bad" means.

So Long, London - the same as the previous one, empty production, verbose, flat singing, filler song.

But Daddy I Love Him - I feel compelled to point out she used a comma for the previous title, but not here. This one sounds a little bit like her older stuff, probably because of the lyrics. Still too wordy, and the production is too boring in contrast with her voice and the lyrics, a problem that's prevalent on most of her recent releases.

Fresh Out The Slammer - another song loaded with flat singing and lackluster production. A lot of these songs have long periods of silence, not drops or rests like in most other songs where it sounds nice, just straight up long silences.

Florida!!! (feat. Florence + The Machine) - stripped back production here and there very unnecessarily. Florence held back a lot, there's barely any singing, of course, to match her little song companion. It's barely a song, really, incohesive and peakless. The build-up, if you can call it that, is sudden and short and leads nowhere. Their voices also don't complement each other well at all.

Guilty as Sin? - this sounds a lot like many of her other songs with boring and empty productions. No peak or anything to make it stand out, just percussion and plain vocals with thesaurus lyrics.

Who's Afraid of Little Old Me - silence again; this one is at least richer in sounds. The lyrics are too edgy, reminiscent of Karma. There's a rhythm, but the random pauses kill all the momentum. Corny, high school lyrics.

I Can Fix Him (No Really I Can) - these long, cheesy titles are tiring me out. Production copied + pasted from the other songs. No peak, no singing, no music. It could have been an interlude with fewer words. Too many dog allegories for her boyfriends on this album.

loml - another empty ballad with many words and nothing said. Lullaby song, really boring, repetitive, bad lyrics.

I Can Do It With A Broken Heart - some build up only to sound like a monkey with cymbals song. Really corny lyrics and the same lackluster production.

The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived - this is where the album, already pretty bad so far, takes a down turn and becomes the most unbearable collection of slop I've ever sat through since her Folklore/Evermore days. Those were peak unbearable, this was just disappointing and exhausting. One piano note for each syllable, bland production again, nothing song. Verbose and sleepy.

The Alchemy - I have already listened to this song 10 times on this album so far. It sounds like Halsey and would have probably been better with a trap instrumental rather than this silent 2014 nonsense.

Clara Bow - the same boring slop over and over. She's talking too much, not singing enough, and the elevator music just makes it exhausting. Nothing new, just recycled lyrics over the same bland production.

The Black Dog - here I was kinda starting to get pissed off. Not music. She really made the same song 20 times and said "yeah, it's an album. Release it." Wow my ears hurt.

imgonnagetyouback - Repetitive, heard it before, zero production. Some rhythm, but the backing vocals and empty melody kill it. Silence again.

The Albatross - a little more interesting, something to hear finally. But unfortunately it's just a mellow guitar song, so the novelty doesn't last long into it, since it's just as bland as her previous ones, it just puts you to sleep with different instruments.

Chloe or Sam or Sophia or Marcus - no intro whatsoever, just a plain piano like the practice of a beginner child, repetitive singing, lullaby song. Nothing distinctive, the same stripped back production, drags on forever.

How Did It End? - piano ballad, boring, sleepy, thesaurus lyrics, repetitive, and yet it's not the worst one so far. But we're probably past that point.

So High School - is that... an instrument? Oh, because she "feels high school" (we know, we've heard the lyrics) she made a pop rock sounding song. She barely sings on it, though, so all the momentum is once again suffocated. A breath of fresh air to hear something a little bit different from the dead slime I've been wading through, and this is hardly a compliment for this song. Also, she CANNOT sing.

I Hate It Here - slow guitar song again stuffed with repetitive verbosity to the point where you can't tell what's going on with the production. But it's okay, because nothing is ever going on. Skipped through 2/3 of it.

thanK you aIMee - boring, repetitive nothing. Barely any singing again, every song sounds like she wanted an excuse to speak into a microphone in a monotone semblance of a melody that goes nowhere.

I Look In People's Windows - a song filled with silence again, absolutely zero production, skipped over 2/3 again.

The Prophecy - nothing song, too much singing - sorry, monotone speaking. Zero melody, skipping through it I land on the same plain low note every time.

Cassandra - silence song again, nonexistent production, verbose, stands out with nothing.

Peter - another ballad I can't get through. At least this one has some structure, but again too much aimless verbosity. Skipped the last minute.

The Bolter - how is this not the same auditory sludge I've been listening to for the last 2 hours? Lazy guitars, and boring production. Bland melody, monotone singing.

Robin - sounds the same as 20 other songs, the slow singing makes it even more painful. This song has NOTHING to redeem it. There's silence again and extremely monotone melody with barely any singing. Should have been an interlude, skipped half of it.

The Manuscript - another nothing song, I actually couldn't sit through more than 10 seconds. The only redeeming quality of it is that there's no more songs coming after it.

Overall this album is incohesive, full of incoherent monotone yapping. Her vocals are atrocious, I don't even want to go into that, the excruciatingly boring production was bad enough on its own. Luckily she barely tried to sing at all, every song was almost the same recycled flat note over an aimless elevator melody. However, the best part of it is that it's finally over. Special thanks to the people who provided the piracy link and made this unnecessarily long post possible. 🙏 Without you the world would be nothing.

[divinegrey]

𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 & 𝐚 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬 / 𝐯𝐢𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐟!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

delivering on some downright tooth-rotting fluff! have a good day everybody!

prompt: May i please request femreader x viper wherein viper constantly gets flustered by femreader's sweet gestures? sabine needs a lot of love!! Thank you so much! [requested by anon]

words: 1400

warnings: tooth-rotting fluff

“Hurry up, eat your slop, kiddos!” You say, flipping pancakes on the griddle. “You’ve all got training in two hours and you gotta let yourself digest before working! Looking at you, Neon!” 

“I threw up one time!” Neon’s cry comes back as you transfer the golden pancakes onto a stack; you’ve made a lineup so far of different types! Cinnamon, chocolate chip, strawberry… there’s enough pancakes to choke Breach, and the man can eat a lot before tapping out. You chuckle, pouring some new batter onto the pan and watching it sizzle away. 

God, you love pancake Mondays. 

Looking over your shoulder, you look just in time to see Sabine walk in, bypassing all of the conversation and heading straight for the coffee maker. You drop your spatula down, whistling to catch the woman’s attention. 

“Hey! I got your breakfast, right here,” you say, waving your hand. Sabine raises her brow, but a flush sinks over her face when you produce a bowl of her usual morning meal, only amped up to the extreme; greek yogurt, sprinkled with granola, sliced strawberries, and a few kiwis too because you know she secretly likes them. You produce a protein smoothie as well. “Fuel up! Made your favorites.” 

Sabine blinks, then reaches out, accepting both of them. She looks up at you, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. You beam at her, retrieving your spatula to flip the pancakes and make a new batch for the people grabbing seconds. 

She passes by you, leaning down to whisper, “Thank you.” 

“Course! I know you’re gonna be hunched over your desk all day— want you to be eating well!” You lean in, a gossipy tone in your words, “I’ll save some pancakes for you later, don’t worry!” 

The pink on her cheeks is a nice look on her. Maybe if you were a little more bold, you’d say it out loud. Instead, you watch Sabine go with a smile on your cheeks. 

— — —

“Afternoon, Sarge!” You say, saluting to Brimstone as you walk past him in the hallway. You hear his chuckle, pleased to put a smile on his face as you go about your day. It’s an off-day for you, one you take gladly by staying active and checking up on your fellow Agents. Which is the reason why you’re carrying a thermos of tea toward what the others like to call the Viper’s Pit.

Sabine’s lab. 

You poke your head through the door first, scanning the premises. Then, you walk over to Sabine, who sits at her desk with her shoulders pinched back and her head hunched forward, the light of her screen illuminated across her face. She hasn’t even looked up; entrenched in her work. 

You spot the food you’d made her earlier, the bowl empty and the smoothie cup with hardly any left. Good timing!

“Hey, Bean,” you say, placing the cup onto Sabine’s desk. She jumps ever so slightly, flicking over to the thermos before glancing up to your gaze. You wave. “Brought you some tea.” 

Sabine lets out a small exhale. “Thank you, I appreciate that.” 

Walking around, you put your hands on the back of the chair. “You look tense, when was the last time you stretched? Got up and walked around a little bit? Here, stay still.” 

You lean, placing your palms on Sabine’s shoulders. You wait for any sign of discontent as you begin kneading your fingers into the muscle, but you find none. Instead, Sabine leans back into your hands, gripping the side of her desk chair as you seek out the small knots holding her shoulders taut like a bowstring. A soft groan of relief slips out of her mouth and you feel your neck start to burn. 

Yet, when you look at Sabine, her face is flushed with embarrassment. 

Clearing your throat, you say, “Feels that good, huh?” 

Sabine hums. “You’re got talented fingers.” 

“A lot of people say that,” you reply, wiggling your brows mostly to yourself. Sabine laughs, the sound soft, but it’s there, and your heart bursts in your chest. She’s so fucking cute and doesn’t even realize it. 

You work the knots out of her shoulders to the best of your ability before stepping away. 

“I’ll take these, and whenever you get peckish, there’s a plate in the fridge behind Sova’s goat milk that has your name on it. I will be watching if it’s gone, so go eat it soon, ‘kay? Great!” You sweep up the old plates before heading toward the door of the lab. “Bye!” 

Sabine has no time to say anything before you’re out the door, grinning to yourself like a kid who just got a bucket of candy from the store. 

— — —

“Hey,” you lean down to Cypher, sitting at his chess board amidst a game with Fade, sitting across from him with a prowler in her lap. “Did either of you see Viper during dinner? I was so busy I couldn’t catch whether she came in or not.” 

Cypher looks up. “She did not. The last time she came out of her lab was around four seventeen.” 

“Came in and grabbed a plate from the fridge, then went back to her lab,” Fade says, the tail of her cat-shaped prowler thwaps against her leg. “I think.” 

“She’s correct,” Cypher concurs. 

You straighten up, a frown on your face. “Thanks, guys. I’m gonna go find her.”

Walking away from the two, you head back down to the hall, pulling the sleeves of your jacket further down your arms. There’s a chill in the halls tonight, and it’s late. Nearly midnight, and you knew Cypher and Fade would be playing chess in the lounge room because they always play chess on Mondays. 

Heading back to Sabine’s lab, you’re cautious when entering the room. You hear the centrifuge going around, and the desk is empty. Your brows pinch together, but relax when you spot Sabine hunched over the work table, head resting on the metal. 

Is she… sleeping?

Shit, how long has she been working? Pulling off your zipper hoodie, you walk over to Sabine and throw it over her shoulders. You’re worried, but more importantly, Sabine hasn’t eaten since four. Has she even stepped out of this office for anything?

Damn it. 

You make a mad dash back to the kitchen, gathering a plate of the meal that was cooked for tonight, heating it up quickly in the fridge. When it dings, you grab the plate along with a fork and head back, entirely unaware of the watching (and smiling) gazes of the two chess players observing. 

Upon your arrival back to the lab, Sabine has stirred. 

“Good evening, sleepy head,” you say, ambling in. “You missed dinner, I got worried about you. Came lookin’ and found you sleeping.” Placing the plate down, you slide it toward her. ��Please eat. You’ve gone too long without a break.” 

“I was taking a break,” Sabine grumbles, pushing herself upright. She looks down at the jacket around her shoulders, perplexed at its sudden appearance. When she sees the smile on your face, she sighs. “This is yours?” 

“Looked cold. You keep this place icy.” 

Sabine pulls the plate closer to herself, letting out a soft sound that you dare call curiosity. Then, she twists her body to you. “You do all these nice things… why?” 

“Because I…” you lick your lips, finding that they’ve gone dry. “I care a lot about you, Sabine, and I know how hard you work. You deserve to be taken care of too.” 

Sabine sizes you up, and the moment she stands up is the moment you remember how tall she is. Though, you’ve got little room to complain because Sabine effortlessly takes all of your attention by leaning down to steal a kiss. You’re breathless, a little shocked, but all too happy to press back into her mouth and hold her by her hips. 

“Is it weird to say that I’ve thought about that before?” You whisper, staring into her eyes with a stupid grin on your face. 

“No. Because I have too,” Sabine replies, then wraps her arm around your neck to coil you back in. 

Much like how a snake would, but you don’t mind. You smile into the kiss, your heart blooming. 

~~~~~ A/N: thank you to the anon that requested this! hope it's everything you wanted <3

[eightfoldblessings]

☀ : Admittedly, there is a part of her curious. More than appearances, to unravel the mystery that other constantly shrouded them self with. What did they conceal so strongly they didn't wish to share? A secret would be putting other's words lightly, as other's air has been nothing but turbulent. Ever, on guard. Ever, defensive. It quite frustrating, actually. Especially when a fox was as hospitable as she was! Sharing her food with a stranger? Unheard stuff, really. But entertainment comes to an end, as patience thinned. The time to stand was now, as eyes lock on.

"Sweetie, what part of you has been trustworthy at all? You play coy at every opportunity. You haphazardly greeted yourself with that same grin you carry now, turning wider and wider as you bury yourself into this pit you made." She's said already. She didn't trust him. Now more than ever, she never trusted him. Just amused herself with his antics. But like all things, eventually the tall tale has an end.

So grab her snacks, and push in her seat getting ready to leave. She's no slop, and retains her image. Even as buttons are pushed. "Date? Don't flatter yourself. You're far from my type. Frauds like you will get what they deserve soon enough. But don't worry! I'll keep my eye on you♡" If just from concern for master, who foolishly recruited this fox. "Oh.. and one more thing. Maybe don't eat food from someone you don't know. You never know what it might have, you know?~" Like say a curse. Or a hex. Ah but nothing to concern himself with. Divinity should protect~

So she isn't convinced by Divinity itself? Wow, tough crowd. "What, isn't yours roughly the same? Or is there something you wish to hide as well? Everyone has their secrets, after all. But perhaps asking this would make it simpler: how do I convince you I'm actually being rather forthcoming? And no, allowing you to read my file is not a valid answer~" A game, should she be willing to play it. It's been quite some time since he's met someone as crafty and fun as her, so he wishes to make the most of it.

He bursts out laughing at her remark. "Imperial Privilege? You mean 'Unreliable: The Skill'? You're expecting something so inclined to fail from the god of fortune himself? Oh, how you wound me, my dear! Divinity is just one of many skills I possess, and nobody but Inari would have all of them at the same time."

He's not fully against having a more honest discussion about himself, but for someone so willing to use coercion to get her way, there's no proof that she won't abuse the truth for her own ends. "I will say, though, it's nice to have you so invested in who I am. Perhaps if you were more inclined to get to know me as a person, instead of making such idle threats, I would be more likely to have an earnest discussion with you~" He's not completely sure she's bluffing--foxes could be quite devious, after all--but either way, he's going to call it.

"Hmph, that requires at least a second or third date, and you're but on your first~"

[whirlybirbs]

❛ this is a good look for you. ❜ + din !

[ blurb ] —— din djarin / gn!reader ; sarlacc spit

a/n: i need to be better about showing everyone little pieces and not pouring out an entire 3k fic each time i get a request — anyways, exactly what it says on the tin :-)

pairing: din djarin / gn!reader, set mid-season 1 of tbobf

You're laughing.

He's covered in Sarlacc spit, and you're laughing.

Not even the sweet, chaste little snicker you usually muster up at something funny — no, this is a full blown howl. Tears, even, gather in the corners of your eyes as you split your sides in the sand.

The thick material of your mechanic gloves claps deeply as you double over, rooting your hands to your knees as you bark out a genre of laughter that's enough to get Fennec going.. of all people.

Boba — beneath his helmet — starts not long after.

This sort of laugh is one Din hasn't heard out of you since that time the kid tried to eat the gearshift back on the Razor Crest. Damn womp rat tried to down in one whole bite. Din knocked over half the cargo in the main hold diving for him.

"Really?" he says, voice tight with manufactured annoyance — it doesn't land, though. It only seems to act as a further catalyst to not only your laughter, but to Boba and Fennec's as well.

Din raises both arms. His cape, slick with mucus-like spit, clings to him. When he drops his arms, it makes a wet slop sound.

Someone raised concerns about a baby Sarlacc having been unearthed somewhere along the trade line between Mos Eisley and Mos Espa. Boba, ever the kind Daimyo, agreed to handle it. Din, with his persuasive sense of heroics, agreed to help.

Sure, when Din had been snatched by the waist and flung around like a rag-doll by the small, two foot wide Sarlacc, you'd been the first to swing your rifle from your back and take aim. But, the truth was that this Sarlacc was a youngling — barely a decade old — and seemed more intent on playing with its food. Hell, when Din was sucked in waist deep and prodded with it's still blunt baby incisors, you still worried.

Except, Din was simply shouting 'Please, cut it out' and 'That hurts, stop it' the entire time, like a man minorly inconvenienced by the creature that had in fact swallowed a local villager's dog whole just a day prior.

In the end, Din handled it — one boot lost to the snapping beak that was only interested enough to get a taste. He hauled himself out of the little pit in the sand after successfully setting not only the Sarlacc on fire, but himself.

So, here he is. Down a boot, covered in spit, and singed.

"Th-This," you bark, "This is a really good look for you—"

"You're being childish."

Even Din can't hide the smile in his words.

"No, no, really, really, I mean it, Din," you can hardly get the sentence out, your breathless laughs punctuated by the wave of your hand, "Seriously, you handled that phenomenally—"

Din's own laugh surprises him.

But, then it rolls on like a thunder storm.

And so, the four of you stand in the dunes, laughing.

He's covered in Sarlacc spit, and you're all laughing.